Chapter Notes: The aim of this chapter was to provide an accurate and varied cross-section of societal views towards homosexuality in the 1950s. We have tried, to the best of our ability, to tackle both individual and institutional homophobia, and present both in a realistic and nuanced fashion. Prejudice takes many forms, and often comes from unexpected sources, as we have tried to demonstrate. As a result, this story will contain content which some readers may find distressing.

Korea - September, 1951

Trapper's hands were shaking. His stomach churned. Bile rose in his throat, and he felt as if he might throw up, were it not for the fact that he hadn't eaten a thing since the night before. It was well into the morning now, and he stared at the door of the Swamp, trying to will himself to stand up, cross the tiny space, and step through into the outside world.

Hawkeye had been waiting patiently for fifteen minutes as Trapper had stalled; searching for clean socks, his boots, his smokes, a fresh shirt. He'd shaved, brushed, flossed, preened and polished, and now he was at a loss for any further excuses.

"I can't do it, Hawk."

"I'll hold your hand, if it'll help." The joke was poorly timed, and the miserable look on his face did little to help it on its way.

"That ain't funny." He couldn't put it into words; couldn't explain why the judgemental glares and harsh words of their colleagues terrified him more than all the bombs, shells and mortars the enemy could fling at them. And there would be glares, and harsh words, and maybe worse, of that he was certain.

Hawkeye crouched on the floor in front of him, grasping his hands and stroking them tenderly as he tried to find the words to calm his fears. "Hey, maybe it won't turn out so bad. Henry's a good egg – maybe he talked Frank out of it."

Trapper looked up at him a snorted. "This is Henry Blake we're talkin' about! A guy with all the persuasive powers of soggy army-issue toilet paper! An' you think he talked Frank outta reportin' us?"

"Okay, maybe not! In which case, we have to go do it ourselves!"

Trapper stared into Hawkeye's earnest, hopeful eyes. What kind of ridiculous fairy story was he living in? – No pun intended. He looked away, glanced at the door, then back to Hawkeye again. "I can't."

"You've got to." Hawkeye's words were insistent, but his tone gentle. "Come on. Henry said he wanted us in his office, so we can sit there and play 'Frank's word against ours. If we don't show, the only word he'll get is Frank's. Is that what you want? You want us to be found guilty in our absence? 'Cause I sure as hell don't! If someone's going to condemn me then they can damned well look me in the eye when they do it! And then they can stand and listen when I tell 'em exactly what I think of it!"

Trapper's eyes watered a little. What he wouldn't give for Hawkeye's spirit sometimes! "That's fightin' talk…" His voice was a pained whisper.

Hawkeye grinned. "That's us. That's what we do. Us versus them, remember?" He squeezed Trapper's hand, then rose from the floor, and successfully coaxed Trapper slowly to his feet.

As they made their way slowly to the door, Trapper sighed and declared, "Why are you always able to twist my arm?"

"What can I say? I'm a man of irresistible persuasiveness."

Trapper snorted, but there was a bitter edge to his laughter. "That's what got us in this mess in the first place!"

"Thanks for reminding me…" Hawkeye's face fell, but he turned away as if to hide his hurt as he led Trapper out the door.

The compound was warm, but the atmosphere was not. Trapper could feel eyes on him from every direction, so he kept his gaze fixed on the ground. Hawkeye strode along beside him, his head high, his hands in his pockets. There was even a bounce in his step, although Trapper couldn't begin to fathom how. Hawkeye was, he had long concluded, irrepressible. He walked too casually, and too close, and Trapper moved away a little when he felt Hawkeye's elbow graze his own.

The hospital was a welcome sanctuary. Radar was absent from his desk, and so they made their way through to Henry's office without announcement. Hawkeye pushed the door open, while Trapper hung back a short distance behind. For the first time, the sight of Henry Blake sat behind his desk reminded Trapper not of a slightly befuddled middle-management administrator, but of the disillusioned long-suffering principal at his school: a glum, bespectacled priest who kept wondering why a bright, popular student like young Johnathan McIntyre insisted on ruining his school record by getting into fights.

And Frank, perched on the chair by the window, reminded him of a vulture, eagerly anticipating the opportunity to start pecking at the carcass of a rival's reputation. His nose wrinkled in distaste. "Nice of you two to finally show up."

Trapper shuddered under Frank's gaze, and gently pulled the door closed behind him.

Henry, as if desperate for something to do, fumbled with the papers on his desk. "Um… I hope you don't mind, boys, but we kinda… started without ya. Have a seat." He gestured to a chair with his pen. "Or rather… uh… two seats… there being… uh…" He gestured to the two of them, and his pen escaped his fingers and skittered across the desk, landing on the floor and rolling off somewhere, never to be seen again.

"I figured, Henry. I'm not about to sit on Trapper's knee, despite what Frank would probably have you believe."

Henry laughed a little too loudly and tried to pretend this wasn't awkward. Trapper scowled at the floor. Frank snorted.

"Okey-dokey," Henry declared with his usual degree of formality as the pair of them seated themselves opposite his desk. "Um… so, I-I took Frank's statement before you got here."

Hawkeye grimaced. "I'm sure it's a wonderfully elaborate piece of creative fiction, packed with scandal and hyperbole, sure to be a best-seller."

"And he was just laying down his demands with regards to how to proceed from here." Henry's tone, and the way his eyes rolled up towards the ceiling, were a fair indication that Frank's demands were already starting to get on Henry's nerves.

"Oh, it's not what I demand!" Frank announced stiffly, slipping from his perch to stand to attention. "US Army disciplinary procedure states that Pierce and McIntyre should be formally charged under Article 125 of the Uniform Code of Military Justice, detained, and court martialled with immediate effect. I read all the relevant paragraphs this morning before reveille."

Hawkeye smiled a little too broadly. "Very good, Frank. Did you remember all that by yourself, or did you get Hot Lips to hold up flash cards?"

"You'll be wisecracking behind bars after this report goes through!" Frank rapped a fingernail onto Henry's desk for emphasis. "This isn't like that over-decorated powder-puff Weston – I'm making sure the General hears about this! I've told the Colonel – he has no choice but to file my report! You're under his command, and you're his responsibility!" His voice rising to an angry shout, he shot Henry a pointed look, which the Colonel squirmed under.

Clearing his throat, Henry tried, and failed, to retain some semblance of order. "Frank's also requested that… uh…" Here, he read from Frank's statement, squinting at his own handwriting. "'Captains Pierce and McIntyre be separated–'"

"–'And isolated immediately!' That's right!"

"Right where we reach an impasse, because we don't have enough tents for that!" Henry slammed the report onto his desk with a weary sigh.

"Well, I'm not sharing with one of those degenerates!"

Hawkeye shrugged. "That's fine, Frank. Go sleep in the VIP tent. Leave us to degenerate in peace."

Frank turned puce. "Would you listen to that?! Colonel, you can't leave them alone together! They'll corrupt everyone around them! The entire camp will become a den of debauchery, perversion and sin!"

"Has he seen this camp lately?" Hawkeye directed his question at Trapper, who seemed to be silently inspecting his fingernails for grit.

"Frank!" Henry rubbed at his forehead in exasperation. "We have one free tent in this camp. Either you go sleep in it, or Pierce or McIntyre will! I can't separate all three of you!"

"But you can't leave them alone - they're criminals!"

"Not until they've had a fair trial they're not!"

"But… Article 125–"

Hawkeye aimed a kick at Henry's desk. "Oh, shove Article 125 up your ass, Frank!"

Frank's nostrils flared. "Don't you dare direct that kind of filthy talk at me!"

"Fine. I'll shove it up my ass. Then I can say I've been screwed by Harry Truman – which wouldn't be far from the truth."

This outburst had the desired effect: Frank made an aggravated spluttering noise and headed for the door. "I don't have to listen to this! I've made my report – and I'll be noting all of this down in an appendix!"

"You'll find one in the scraps bucket next to the tonsils." As Frank stormed out, Hawkeye propped his feet up on the desk.

Henry stared at him. "Pierce, you know I don't usually like to cramp your style, but your smart mouth sure isn't doin' you any favours right now!"

"It got rid of him, didn't it?"

Henry conceded on that and put Frank's report aside. "Alright. Let's get down to brass tacks here. I ain't gonna lie to you – Frank's right. This isn't like Weston; this is my unit, and what does on here is my responsibility… You are my responsibility."

"Well, I'm glad I'm somebody's – I'd hate to be responsible for me." Hawkeye gave a slightly elaborate shrug, and cast another glance at the silent Trapper, hoping to coax some life out of him.

Frowning, Henry flicked through the papers on his desk again. "I can't bend the rules for you here, and I can't cover this one up. However, I can make this less damaging, but only if you're honest with me."

"We were!"

Hawkeye's head whipped round. This was the first time Trapper had spoken since they had walked into the office. Even now, he sat with his head bowed, his fingers twisting anxiously into tight, uncomfortable knots.

"We came clean last night, Henry! Why ya gotta give us the third degree?" Trapper fidgeted awkwardly and stared at his boots again.

"I need to know," Henry explained sternly, "what did Frank… uh, walk in on last night? This report of his is all… well, you read it."

Henry passed the report over, and Hawkeye scanned through it. "'Uncompromising dare-I-say unpatriotic position? Bed-sharing in a state unnatural and unbecoming of an American, let alone an officer?' Who talks like this?"

"Frank," Trapper replied, going back to torturing his fingers by chewing on a hangnail.

"Someone at J-CORP is gonna have to decipher this garbage." Henry retrieved the offending report and gave it a dismissive backhand. "So you tell me straight: Does Burns have any grounds for a case here? Don't toss innuendos at me, and don't get all flustered like a couple'a schoolgirls, just tell me: What were you doing?"

"Nothing!" Hawkeye's protest was genuinely indignant, and even took Trapper by surprise. "We were… we were sleeping!"

"In the same cot?"

"We've all bed-shared in this unit, Henry. You know that."

"Right…" Henry shot him a dubious look. "Please tell me you kept your clothes on while you were… ahem… 'bed-sharing'."

Now it was Hawkeye's turn to look nervous. He laughed a little. "Do you keep yours on when you… ahem… bed-share?"

"Oh, jeez…" Henry nursed his aching head again, heaved himself up from his desk and took a stroll to the liquor cabinet.

"But we had a blanket! There was no way he could have seen anything! And we weren't doing anything!" Even as he said it, he knew the defence was as flimsy as the army issue blanket that had preserved their dignity. "For all he knew, we were just keeping warm!"

"In September?"

"Right!"

"And with no clothes on?"

Frustrated, Hawkeye kicked his heels up onto the desk and slumped miserably in his seat. "What the hell was Frank doing back at that time in the morning anyway!" he demanded as Henry rose from his desk and poured three large Scotches.

Henry gave an elaborate shrug that started around his knees, travelled all the way up and made the fishing flies in his hat jingle. "Beats me! He was on leave with Major Houlihan! For all I know, they had a lover's tiff and he stormed off and flew back to Korea hiding in the back of a B-19 bomber! You know Frank."

Hawkeye snorted and slammed his fist down on the desk. "Perfect. Frank strikes out and we get outed."

"Maybe it's not that bad – well, I mean… as bad as it could be." Henry passed Hawkeye a drink, placed a second on the desk in front of Trapper, and took a sip of his own. "Look, you got caught with your pants down, but without any evidence of…" He gestured, cleared his throat nervously, and turned slightly pink. "I mean, just going off what you've told me here, there's a fair chance they'll spare you a prison sentence."

Trapper blanched, and looked up from the hand he was hiding behind. "Prison?"

Hawkeye nodded mutely. He hadn't expected prison to enter into the equation at all. "Right… I mean, great."

"But," Henry continued, "you're probably looking at an undesirable discharge."

"You mean dishonourable?"

"Uh… no. It's sorta… one step in the direction of 'honourable' but still not altogether honourable." Henry gestured with his glass.

Another nod. "That's… not so bad."

"It ain't good." Trapper addressed the floorboards, barely looking up as Henry nudged a drink across the desk in his direction.

"No, McIntyre, it's not. You'll lose your V.A. benefits, your pension, and it'll go on you permanent records. I won't lie to you, boys – it won't do you any favours."

Laughing bitterly, Hawkeye stared into the warm, amber liquid as he swirled it in the bottom of his glass. "Another shining example of American democracy. They send you to war you don't want to go to, then send you back again and punish you when they find out they never even wanted the likes of you in the first place! Maybe I should've made a pass at the doctor at my draft board and saved us all a lot of trouble."

Hawkeye downed his drink in one gulp, but Trapper didn't touch his. Now, as the room fell silent, he looked up, his eyes red and glistening. He swallowed, wetted his lips, and locked Henry with a desperate, imploring gaze. "Henry? I got two kids. My wife…"

Henry practically winced. "I know. That's why you gotta get your story straight before any of this hits the fan - because there's gonna be a fallout from this one!"

Trapper nodded, wiping his eyes. "Right."

Hawkeye couldn't bear to see him cry. Something unpleasant clawed at his gut, and he turned away, staring at the floor. Suddenly, all his anger was forgotten, his wisecracking abandoned. "I'm sorry."

Trapper turned and glanced at him, shooting him a weak, tearful smile. The words 'it's okay, Hawk' and 'it ain't your fault' flickered across his mind. They never made it as far as his mouth. Instead, he turned away again, picked up his glass, and took a much-needed belt of whiskey.

If living in a warzone had felt hostile before, it was about to get a whole lot worse.

For the rest of the day, they hid. Neither one of them could face the outside world, and so, they squirreled themselves away from the rest of civilisation. Frank came in and gathered up his things, and then they were left alone. Normally, this would have been the cue for Hawkeye to adhere himself to Trapper, or crawl into his bed, but they stuck to their separate cots.

By the second day, it occurred to them that the need for food might become a problem. Hawkeye declared that he had a solution, and emptied his footlocker onto Frank's abandoned cot. Inside, there were three Hershey's bars and a half-eaten packet of liquorice. "I'll admit it: I thought there was more in there."

On the third day, Trapper dreamt about eating a cheese shop, and woke up to find himself gnawing on one of Hawkeye's old socks. That, Hawkeye decided, was possibly a sign he'd gone too long without food.

"I'll go grab you something from the mess tent."

Trapper reacted as though he'd actually said 'I'll go grab you a takeout from North Korea' and insisted he wasn't hungry anyway.

"It'll be fine! I swear to you! Look, I'll prove it…"

It turned out his words sounded a lot braver than he felt. Venturing outside was daunting, but he refused to let fear get the better of him. He kept his head high, and his eyes front, barely even seeing the people around him, and strolled casually through the compound, into the mess tent. He was lucky – the mess tent was almost empty. Within minutes, he had acquired a cup of coffee and a plate of… something – possibly meatloaf, although without any meat and not a lot of loaf – before returning to the Swamp.

Their tent was unpleasantly stuffy, partly because they had kept the canvas sides lowered in spite of the heat, and partly because neither one of them had spent much time outside of it in the past few days. Hawkeye laid his trophies down on a crate beside his tent-mate and stood back triumphantly. "See? I didn't get beaten up or anything! It's absolutely fine out there; you'll be fine; we'll be fine."

Trapper scowled at him. "If I hear you use the word 'fine' one more time, I'm gonna beat you to death with the dictionary."

"I'm just trying to reassure your paranoid little noggin!" Hawkeye gave a smile that was as broad as it was forced, and tapped Trapper playfully on the skull.

Trapper pushed his hand away. "Yeah, well you can shove off with your reassurances, an' take your meatloaf with you. I'd rather eat your socks."

But, despite his protestations, Hawkeye was disinclined to leave the tent for the rest of the day, something which did not go unnoticed by Trapper. By the time dinner came around, Trapper declined his invitation, making excuses about not wanting salmonella to interfere with his court martial. Hawkeye took his joking to mean everything was OK. "I'm not hungry, either," he offered weakly. He crept closer, taking Trapper's hand in his own. Trapper pulled away.

On the fourth day, Trapper was awoken before sunrise by a sharp, stabbing pain in his stomach. Groaning, he crawled out of bed, clutching his belly. Hawkeye was still sleeping, and Trapper crept over to his cot, gently shaking him awake.

Hawkeye made a disgruntled sound and slapped at him. "Go 'way."

"Don't be like that. I'm starvin' here! I think my guts are startin' to digest themselves."

Hawkeye opened one eye and glared at him. "You asking me out on a breakfast date? After you turned me down for dinner last night?"

Trapper winced. "Come on, Hawk. We can't go on like this. If we go now we can get in an' get gone 'fore anyone else shows up. Not to mention before the mess tent gets so hot it starts to incubate its own germ cultures in the powdered milk."

"But the botulism is my only source of protein!" His voice was sleepy and his limbs heavy, but he allowed himself to be dragged out of bed, regardless.

Unfortunately, the rest of the camp had the same idea, and the mess tent was packed. Trapper tensed as they crossed the compound. He could see the crowds through the mosquito netting, and his pace slowed to a crawl as they drew closer. Soon, he was sweating, digging his heels in, hanging back. By the time Hawkeye reached the door, he'd ground to a halt altogether. "Hawk, I can't do this. Let's just go back."

"Don't be such a lug!" Hawkeye grabbed his arm, and opened the door. A hush descended upon the entire tent. "We're the same people we were last week, you know!" This, he addressed to the tent at large, which overwhelmingly ignored him.

Finding themselves greeted with a prickly, unwelcoming silence, and they ventured forth into the hostile but familiar territory. Trapper shuddered. "Everybody's starin' at us."

"No, they're not." Hawkeye scanned the crowd. Sure, enough a few heads had turned. Some people were glaring, others were almost theatrically engrossed in their breakfast. What was going through each individual's mind, he couldn't fathom, but, unlike Trapper, he didn't care too much. He prodded Trapper in the ribs. "You don't have to look at the floor."

Trapper hadn't even realised.

There was a scatter of whispered comments across the tent as they took their place in the line. Much of the words were far too quiet for Trapper to make out, but the one that was spat at them from the back of the tent was unmistakeable: "Homos."

You wouldn't recognise Hawkeye flinching unless you knew him inside out, but Trapper did. It was the way his spine snapped a little bit straighter and the hairs on the back of his neck curled upwards, as if trying to escape. Aside from this, he didn't move.

They retrieved their serving of porridge from Igor – which he helpfully splashed mainly into their trays, and a little down their shirts as well – and looked around for an empty table, which were conspicuous by their absence. Trapper hesitated, and the nurse behind him pushed them forward. "Get a move on! The rest of us want to eat!"

Hawkeye, meanwhile was already making his way through the tables, venturing further into the crowds. Trapper watched the ripple of glances he drew, and winced on his behalf. At last, he reached his intended destination. The table was unoccupied but for a single breakfaster: Radar.

"Is it OK if we sit here?" Hawkeye's request wasn't particularly loud, but in the quiet of the tent, there wasn't a single person who wouldn't have heard. Radar shrugged, and Hawkeye took that for a yes. He set his tray down and nodded to Trapper. "Trap, c'mon."

Trapper walked across the tent to join him. Every footstep seemed to take an age. Everybody looked at him. Staring. Whispering. All thinking the same thing. Well, he knew rationally that they weren't, but he suspected not a single person was about to speak up in their defence, and he wouldn't ask them to.

Trapper had barely sat down when a pair of the enlisted men rose from the table in the far corner. His heart started pounding. This was no casual stroll out of the breakfast tent: they had abandoned their trays at the table, their food half eaten, and, with an instinct he was wearily beginning to recognise as fight or flight, Trapper found himself sizing them up. By the time he had concluded that he could probably take them if necessary, they were right opposite him, looming over Radar.

The smaller of the pair leaned on the table beside the motionless Radar, glowering at them across the table. "Well, what have we here?"

Hawkeye opened his mouth and Trapper stamped on his foot; something he immediately found himself regretting, because it only seemed to anger him further. Hawkeye shot him a furious look, clearly gearing up for one of his rants. Trapper wasn't sure if he could face that. Not now – not with two big guys squaring up to them.

"Hey, Radar," the taller of the two said. "Are these fairies bothering you?"

Trapper prayed for Hawkeye to keep his mouth shut, but Hawkeye was on a roll. He let out a mock-hysterical squeal of a laugh. "Personally," he drawled, grimacing, "I always saw myself as more of a mischievous imp."

"Hawk…"

"What do you want, fella? I'm just trying to enjoy my caffeinated grit in peace!"

The big fellow also leant down towards the table, casting a shadow over them and damned near blocking out the sun. "I wanna know, what do a couple of queers like you think you're doin', hangin' around a nice kid like O'Reilly?"

Hawkeye stared. His jaw twitched, and Trapper knew he was about to go off, and there was nothing he could do or say to stop him.

"Not much." Hawkeye's voice was smooth as silk, and his expression one of wide-eyed innocence. "I'm just sitting here, eating my queer breakfast. Then, later on, I'll be washing my queer hair, doing my queer laundry, sitting around my queer tent being all queer."

Then he fell silent, not so much because of the quiet threat of violence hanging over his head, but because, suddenly, he had spotted Radar squirming in his seat.

"Is something the matter?" Hawkeye's voice was icy.

Radar fidgeted some more, poked at his hash, and stared resolutely at the table. "Nothin', guys, but look, no offence but if you wouldn't mind I'd just like to eat in peace I gotta lot to do today." The words were a jumbled mess, but Hawkeye heard them well enough, and so did everyone else.

"You heard him! Get up!" Before he could even think of getting to his feet, one of the guys grabbed Hawkeye by the arm, damned near wrenching it out of the socket.

"Hey!" Trapper's protest was lost in the kerfuffle, as he, too, was dragged to his feet. He shrugged the offending hands off, turned, and, without thinking, landed a punch clean across the guy's nose.

His assailant staggered back, and Trapper felt a surge of adrenaline, but a second later, Hawkeye yelped in pain as his arm was pulled up behind his back. Trapper flew to his aid on instinct, but before he could reach him, the soldier attacking him was struck by a flying size 12, baby-pink, three-inch heeled pump. Hawkeye was released, but rather than bolt, he froze like a rabbit in headlights. Both their attackers were getting their bearings again – they had to get out, and fast. Trapper grabbed Hawkeye around the waist, pulling him away. A moment later, a second, identical shoe hit the attacker across the back of the head.

The pair turned and stared, and Hawkeye and Trapper stared, too: Klinger was standing barefoot on one of the tables, his hat askew. He gestured to Trapper frantically with lace-gloved hands: "Don't just stand there – I'm all outta pumps! Go, go!"

"Thanks, Klinger!"

Bundling Hawkeye out of the door, Trapper fled, dragging him back to the Swamp, as chaos descended upon the mess tent.

"Well, I couldn't exactly just let 'em pummel ya, could I?" Klinger protested later when he stopped by the Swamp.

Hawkeye sat back in his chair and propped his boots up on Frank's empty bunk. "You're our knight in shining taffeta. We appreciate it."

On the other side of the Swamp, Trapper scowled. "I could'a taken 'em."

"My shoulder begs to differ. I say again, Klinger – you're a hero!"

"Hey, that was our fight! I don't want my buddies takin' a beatin' for me! Klinger, you keep your beak outta this in future – we ain't worth it."

Even Hawkeye was stunned by that, but Klinger shook his head, and stood to attention, pulling himself up to his full height. "Nonsense, Sir! Those were a brand new pair of $13.99 department store pumps, fresh out of the box, and it was a privilege to sacrifice them, an' I'd do it again in a heartbeat!"

Trapper snorted, dropping onto his cot. "To hell with your pumps, Klinger! I'm talkin' about those meatheads goin' after you because you decided to defend a couple'a…" He gestured angrily, but words failed him. "The phrase 'damned by association' ringin' any bells? Hell, you shouldn't even be in here."

Substituting bluster and bravado for sincerity, Klinger rolled his eyes at Trapper. "Hey, in case you haven't noticed, I've been turning up to breakfast in tea dresses for the past nine months! I've had a lot of things spat at me in my time here - things that can open a man's eyes - so don't go thinking I don't know how to handle myself! Besides – just look at me! I'm so over the top, I'm beyond suspicion."

"Maybe that was our mistake," Hawkeye commented to Trapper. "We're just too damned butch."

Another derisive snort from the corner. How could Hawkeye be making jokes at a time like this? Didn't he realise how serious this was? Without responding, Trapper tried – with limited success – to focus on the letter he was attempting to write to his wife. 'Dear Louise, Turns out I'll be home earlier than I thought…'

His concentration was shattered even more when the Swamp door creaked open.

Hawkeye's voice made the announcement before Trapper could even ask the question: "Radar!" A shiver ran up Trapper's spine, but Hawkeye continued to exclaim with a breezy, conversational tone: "Nice of you to stop by! Are you here of your own free will, or did a talking cricket twist your arm with promises that one day you'll be a real boy?"

"Knock it off – this isn't a social call." Radar stared at the floor and fumbled with a piece of paper. At last, Trapper glanced up from his letter. Hawkeye met his gaze over the top of his notepad, and he did not look happy. Paper unfolded, Radar proceeded to read aloud in an official, but almost petulant tone. "By official order of Lt. Col. Henry Blake, Commanding Officer of the US Army 4077th MASH, Captains Pierce and McIntyre are to be confined to quarters indefinitely, in the interests of their own safety, until such time as a court martial can be convened, or they are removed to American soil."

Klinger whistled. "Nice!"

"Additionally," Radar went on, "said quarters are off limits to all other personnel, with the exception of those on medical or military business."

Sighing, Klinger picked up his purse. "I do believe the army is showing me the door."

Trapper registered his words and his sombre tone somewhere through his depressive haze, but he couldn't bring himself to move. Instead, he offered up a casual "See ya, Klinger," and returned to his letter. Through the corner of his eye, he watched Hawkeye move to the door to bid Klinger farewell and express, once again, his heartfelt gratitude. Why couldn't he stand and join him? They could get hauled out to Seoul for a court martial any day now. This may be his only chance to say goodbye to one of the few friends he still had in this rotten place?

But whatever force was responsible for his sudden paralysis kept him firmly adhered to his bed, and his eyes firmly on his letter. 'Dear Louise, You'll be thrilled to know I found a convenient way out of the army…'

"You know, doc…" Klinger hesitated in the doorway. "Not so long ago I would'a been jealous of you guys goin' home – no matter what the circumstances."

Hawkeye managed a tight smile and shook his head. "I really wouldn't, Klinger. And before you run off to find yourself a handsome chopper pilot–"

"Yeah, yeah, I know." Klinger chuckled a little. "Truth is, Dr. Freedman offered me a way out a few months back. All I had to do was sign some papers, but… let's just say I didn't much like the knock-on effects, if you catch my drift? So no, I don't envy you." He held out a hand. "You take care of yourselves, both of ya."

Hawkeye shook the proffered hand and smiled. "You too. And thank you."

Grinning, Klinger saluted. "It's been a pleasure, Sir."

And, for once in his life, Hawkeye saluted back.

The door crashed closed behind Klinger's skirts, and Hawkeye turned to where Radar was still standing in the space by the stove, staring at the floor. As Trapper watched over the top of his notepad, he saw Hawkeye's smile vanish. Hurt flickered across his face, and he blinked a few times before addressing the diminutive clerk. "Any chance I could have a word with you? If it's not too much trouble."

"Uh… you heard the Colonel's orders, Sir. You're off limits to all personnel. That includes me too – me bein' a person an' all." Radar addressed the floorboards with a tone of wavering authority.

"Except for official business! That's official business in your hand right now, officially signed in Henry Blake's favourite crayon!"

"But I'm all done now, Sir."

Hawkeye's voice slipped up a notch. "Radar! Since when was I a 'Sir' to you? Did somebody slip a knighthood into my service record behind my back?"

"No…"

"So, knock it off!" Hawkeye's voice was loud, and Trapper could see Radar flinch. But he could also see that Hawkeye's ranting hid the shaking in his voice and the look of hurt on his face. He composed himself – with some difficulty. "Would you care to sit down?"

"Oh, I'd rather stand, Sir."

Hawkeye recoiled at the title as if he'd been punched, but hid the reaction with a roll of his eyes and a despairing look at Trapper. "Fine. I'll sit. Maybe you'll look me in the eye if I come down to your level." He perched himself on his cot, hands clasped in front of him.

Trapper saw Radar's gaze flicker upwards for a moment – just long enough to glare at Hawkeye. It was the kind of joke that would have been little more than a playful jibe at one point, but suddenly there was an edge of something in Hawkeye's words, and a distinct unease in Radar's disposition. Radar now lowered himself into a chair, as if in protest.

Trapper shuddered and went back to his letter. 'Dear Louise, I've screwed everything up. I fucked my bunkie and ruined my life and his and now all our friends think we're the scum of the earth. Please can I come home?'

Hawkeye pulled up a chair. "What the hell happened in there, huh?"

"Uh… I don't know what you're talking about, Sir."

"I'm talking about you sitting there in the mess tent and not saying a word while me and Trapper nearly got our asses kicked! I'm talking about you treating us like lepers when we've done nothing to you! One little word from you, and they'd have backed off! I didn't have you pegged as a silent bystander!"

Trapper frowned and looked up from his letter. "Hawk? Lay off the kid, would you?"

"I'm not a kid!"

"See? He's not a kid! He's old enough to have an adult conversation, which is exactly what we're doing! Why don't you make yourself useful and fix him a drink?"

Trapper gave up on his letter and tossed his pad and pen aside, standing and approaching the still.

"I'm fine, really, Cap'n McIntyre, Sir. I really don't want a drink."

Trapper also shuddered at the formality, but declined to comment. "He doesn't want a drink…"

"Fine! Then fix me a drink!"

Trapper sighed and picked up a Martini glass.

As Trapper played bartender, Hawkeye leaned closer to Radar, trying to keep calm. He only half succeeded. "What gives, huh? I never expected this kind of attitude from you. When Frank was giving Henry grief over George Weston, you were on our side! I thought you were better than this!"

Trapper drained the still, and came up with half a glass of three-day-old gin. "Sorry, Hawk. We're all out."

"Refill it then!"

Trapper set about filling the still – silently. He'd never seen Hawkeye like this before. He'd grown used to his ranting and his righteous indignation, but never before had he seen it directed at someone close to them.

Hawkeye turned his attention back to Radar. "Come on, Radar. I thought we were friends!"

Radar shuffled his feet. "So did I, Sir."

Hawkeye looked like he'd been slapped in the face. "What the hell's that supposed to mean?"

Radar looked up, just long enough to fix Hawkeye with a scowl of a look that Hawkeye had never seen on his face ever before. "Well, Sir, the way I see it is that friends don't lie to one another, an' what with you keepin' secrets an' everything, I just don't feel all that friendly t'wards you anymore." He glanced towards Trapper. "No offence, Sirs."

Hawkeye looked over to him as well, expecting some backup. When none was forthcoming, he forged on alone: "Keeping secrets?! In case you haven't noticed, this being out in the open hasn't exactly won us any popularity contests! So, forgive me if I didn't choose to share everything with you, but even a man under house arrest has a right to remain silent!"

"Well, I think I had a right to know!" For the first time, Radar raised his voice, and Hawkeye was actually stunned into silence. Trapper's hands shook, glass rattling between his fingers. "I spent a lot of time 'round here, an' we were real close an' everything! I thought you were just horsin' around, you know – the way you're always… touchin' everybody an'… callin' yourself my Aunt Hawkeye! I figured you were kidding! I took my clothes off in front'a you and everything!"

Radar's outburst somehow seemed to calm Hawkeye's temper – as if being met halfway came as a relief. He actually laughed. "Radar, I'm a doctor. Everyone's taken their clothes off in front of me. Did I ever say anything? Do anything?"

Hawkeye's jovial manner may have returned, but Radar's had not. Shrugging, Radar glanced towards the door. "Well, it just gives me the willies is all."

Hawkeye laughed again, louder this time. He slapped his knee and rocked back in his seat. Trapper stared at him, perplexed. "Okay, okay…" Hawkeye said at last. "Great disguise, Frank. Now what did you do with Radar?"

"That's not funny."

Hawkeye's expression darkened. "No, what's funny is that you get uncomfortable undressing in front of your teddy bear – and now you've decided it had something to do with me!"

Abandoning the still, Trapper turned to intervene. "Alright, Hawk. Enough! You're getting' personal!"

Rising to his feet, Hawkeye glared at him, his fury finding a new target. "I am not! I'm defending my character and my professional integrity!"

"What the hell for?! Radar ain't the one filin' the report on us!"

"Well, he sure as hell isn't helping us out!"

"It ain't his job to help us out! No more than it was Klinger's. So just drop it!"

Hawkeye scowled, his eyes glistening. "Fine." There was a moment's pause, and then he turned to Radar and added: "But just for the record, I'd just like to make it clear, at no point did I ever have my eye on you! Not ever! And no matter what your opinion of it might be, I'm entitled to a personal life!"

"Ha! No kiddin'!" Now it was Radar's turn to rise to his feet, his eyes wide behind his grubby spectacles. "You got more of a personal life than the rest of the whole camp put together!"

"So what? You're offended by my popularity now?"

"So, some guys can't even get one date! Some guys get scared talkin' to girls an' stuff, an' then there's you, seein' a different girl every week an' then droppin' 'em! An' then to top it all off, in spite of havin' all those nurses, it turns out you an' Cap'n McIntyre are…"

Radar trailed off. Trapper was grateful. Hawkeye, less so. "We're what, Radar?"

Trapper shuddered. "C'mon, Hawk. This ain't worth it."

"No! I want to hear him say it! If he's gonna hate us for it, he should at least be able to say the words!" There was nothing but silence. "Fucking!? Is that what you're trying to spit out?"

Trapper cringed. "Jeez, Hawk…"

"I don't hate anybody." Radar addressed this comment to the floor. "I'm not like Major Burns! I remember that George Weston guy, and he was nice! Only he didn't make dirty jokes all the time, an' he didn't go around throwing himself at everything that moves!"

"Is that what you think I do?!"

"I just think… it's kinda seedy is all. An' maybe you've got some kinda problem or something. I wouldn't know – I'm not a doctor. But… it makes me uncomfortable bein' around you."

Hawkeye's lip trembled. "Fine. But just so you know, I am not some kind of sex-crazed maniac, despite your assumptions! And furthermore, my interest in any one gender does not prohibit me from having a healthy, enjoyable encounter with any other!"

"That's not what Nurse Mitchell thinks, Sir."

Suddenly, Hawkeye fell silent. His face fell, and he squirmed a little. Trapper glanced over at him, an unpleasant surge of jealousy rising in his gut like bile. He swallowed it.

"What did she say?" Hawkeye's voice cracked.

Silence.

"What did Mitchell say, Radar?!" It was Trapper who spoke this time.

Radar hesitated for a moment, glancing nervously at Hawkeye. "She said uh… she said that… if she'd known you were a fag, she never would'a gone out with you."

Hawkeye was speechless. Trapper wasn't. Shuddering, he squared up. "I hear ya say that word again, an' I'll get on my knees an' punch you right in the nose!"

Looking genuinely confused, Radar glanced about himself. "I'm just tellin' ya what she said like you told me to!"

"Trapper, come on…" Hawkeye laid a hand on his arm. Now it was his turn to play peacekeeper. Maybe they should have a blue hat to pass around…

Trapper flinched at his touch, hyper-aware of even the slightest hint of intimacy in front of anyone else. Rather than calming him, it just threw gasoline on the fire. He saw Radar's eyes dart over to where Hawkeye's hand was wrapped around his wrist – it was the closest the kid had got to looking at him all day. He wrenched his arm free from Hawkeye's grip. "Get outta here," he snapped at Radar, too wound up to even contemplate salvaging this conversation. Or anything else for that matter.

"Huh?"

"You just said you didn't wanna be around us – so get out! Go on – scram!"

"No! Radar, wait!"

Radar didn't wait. Radar bolted. Trapper couldn't bring himself to watch the Swamp door close behind him.

"What the hell was that?!" Hawkeye stared at him, wide eyed and in shock.

"I ain't standin' by an' lettin' anybody call you that!"

"He doesn't mean it! He doesn't even know what he's saying! Mitchell was the one who… Christ, Trapper – he's just a kid! He's confused, he's scared! Goddamn it, I was making progress!"

"Progress? You weren't makin' progress – you were makin' 'im quake in his little boots!"

"I wasn't the one threatening to punch him!"

Ashamed, Trapper sighed, stepping close and lowering his voice. "Face it, Hawk. There ain't no progress to be made here! These people've made up their minds about us already. I say, to hell with the lot of 'em!"

"But 'these people' are our friends! This is Radar we're talking about! Radar!" Hawkeye's face cracked, and the tears he hadn't dare shed in front of Radar suddenly crept to the surface. "I can't believe this."

"I know." His anger fading, Trapper took Hawkeye in his arms for the first time since they'd got caught. It felt good to hold him – too good – and Trapper felt suddenly guilty for finding pleasure in something so innocent. Hawkeye's hair brushed against his cheek as he nestled his head into his shoulder the way he always did. "It's like you said, back when you first told me – sometimes people think different when it's a stranger. Then when it's one'a their buddies they just…" He gave a weak, vague gesture in Radar's direction. "Just put it all behind ya, Hawk. In a few days' time we're gonna go home, an' we're never seein' a single one of these people ever again."

"I just… I don't understand. He's a good kid!"

Hawkeye tapered off, and Trapper didn't say anything else. What was the use? The damage was almost unfathomable. He knew Radar's awkwardness was little more than a taster of what was to come. Trapper's words of comfort came with a bitter pill concealed within: they would be going home, and once that happened, it was unlikely they would ever see one another again either. They had destroyed their careers and their friendships for the sake of what – a hasty fumble under an itchy khaki blanket? There was nothing to show for this relationship save for the damning verdict of the court martial that loomed on the horizon. What comfort could he offer in the face of that?

Suddenly, this embrace felt like a lie.

Trapper pushed Hawkeye away gently. Wordlessly, he turned away to finish sealing the still, more for something to do than any practical purpose, leaving Hawkeye standing in the middle of the Swamp, tear streaked and trembling.

Hawkeye dried his eyes. The glass rattled and the rubber seals squeaked, and the liquid began to drip. Suddenly, the sound was unbearable, and Hawkeye flinched. "Trapper, just leave it."

"I'm almost done." Trapper didn't turn around.

Hawkeye's hands shook as he wiped his eyes. What was the point? What was the point in any of it? Fixing the still, fixing their friendships… it was all moot. In a few days, it was all be over. Everything would be over. More than anything, he just wanted Trapper to hold him – to hold him right up until the army tore them apart, and then tore their lives apart as an encore – but he didn't. He didn't move from the still. There was another squeak, another rattle of glass on glass...

"Goddamn it, Trapper, would you just leave the damned thing alone?"

His outburst took Trapper by surprise. He spun around, just in time to see Hawkeye stride over to the still and land a violent kick to the underside of the table. The whole contraption rose a clear foot into the air. Several parts dropped out of their settings and smashed. A second later, as if in slow motion, momentum took hold, and the table tipped backwards. It fell, taking with it not just the still, but ten foot of canvas and the mosquito netting that hung behind it. Trapper stared through the resulting hole into the compound, and several personnel stared back, too, as the table landed with a crash, scattering the broken remains of the still across the Korean mud.

Footnote: Once again, I find myself feeling a little nervous posting this chapter. The creative choices that were made here were not easy, and I am anticipating some varied reactions from readers. If anybody has any questions or is curious as to why we ultimately chose to go in the direction we did, please feel free to post in the reviews section and we will be happy to expand upon our thinking process.