Chapter Notes: This chapter features an unnamed special mystery guest - see if you can't guess who it is. :)
San Francisco - September, 1951
Travis Air Force Base was a bustle of activity. Uniformed personnel from every branch of the forces seemed to be passing through. It was warm, and Hawkeye loosened his tie and stripped off his jacket, bundling it under his arm as he hauled his bag across the tarmac and into the gleaming white terminal building.
He paused by the largest of the windows for a while, looking out across the runway.
For the first time, he smiled. America seemed quite, quite beautiful.
He was home! There was a blue sky overhead, criss-crossed with the vapour trails of various aircraft coming and going from this tiny little hub of activity. And then, just as suddenly, he was struck by the thought of how many of those planes could be carrying bombs and shells over the very country he had just left; of how many lives were destined to be blown apart by the contents of those aircraft.
His stomach churned, his thoughts assaulted with memories of broken bones and torn flesh. That sky didn't seem so pretty any more.
He turned away, regarding the comings and goings of numerous soldiers and officers. A proud sign on the wall declared Travis to be 'the gateway to the Pacific' and Hawkeye could see why. The procession of uniformed bodies was endless: so many faces passed him by, he couldn't begin to pick out one from the other. How many wouldn't make it back? On some level, perhaps, he thought he should be grateful, but as The Star Spangled Banner continued to pump out via the PA system in a continuous, tinny litany, his hand closed angrily around the discharge in his pocket. 'Land of the free, my ass…'
There was a queue snaking across towards the M.A.T.S. desk, and Hawkeye tacked himself on the end of it. Progress was slow. His duffel bag seemed to weigh a ton. He dropped it onto the carpet and shunted it along with his feet.
The middle-aged officer in front of him turned and glowered at him, his accusing eyes travelling up from the grubby bag at Hawkeye's feet, then to the rumpled jacket under his arm, his loose tie, and finally to his unshaven face. "Would it kill you to treat that uniform with a little respect?"
Hawkeye shrugged. "I'm only treating it with the same respect the army treated me." A smirk crept across his face as the officer turned beet red and steam came out of his ears.
"Snotty upstarts like you don't deserve to serve in this man's army!"
"Oh – if only you'd been at my draft board!"
The officer sniffed in disgust, and turned away. Hawkeye stuck his tongue out at the back of his head, feeling delightfully rebellious, feeling something like his old self.
At last, Hawkeye found himself slumped at the desk in front of a stern-looking senior clerk. She glared at him from behind her horn-rimmed glasses. "Yes?"
"Uh…" Hawkeye pushed his papers gingerly across the desk. "Pierce, Benjamin Franklin. I need to get to Maine."
The clerk regarded his papers with the contempt he'd expected. "Oh, you do, huh?" she drawled at him.
"Yes, I do. Where do I need to go?"
"That would be San Francisco Municipal Airport." The clerk shoved his papers back across the desk with her fingertips. "Good day, Mister Pierce."
Hawkeye's heart somehow sank and pounded all at once. "Wait – what?"
Leaning over her desk, the clerk fixed him with a steely glare and pointed to the main doors with a fountain pen. "Out the double doors, take a hike up to the north gate, hang a left, and get on a bus. Next, please."
"Oh no no no, wait a minute!" Hawkeye waved his papers at her, his hackles rising. " Ten months ago, I flew out from Maine! Maine – that's the other end of the country, in case you're unaware! I need to get home!"
Rolling her eyes, the clerk glowered at him. "Sir, what you are holding in your hand there is an undesirable discharge, the conditions of which specify only so much as your removal to U.S. soil, or, to put it plainly, military transportation only as far as the nearest American port, which, in case you haven't figured out, is here." She jabbed a finger in the direction of the floor. "In case you're unaware."
Hawkeye's blood ran cold. The distance between himself and his father was suddenly frighteningly vast. He was in the middle of nowhere, in a State where he didn't know a soul, and he didn't have a scrap of cash on him. His hands started to shake and his eyes widened in panic. "You can't… you can't just kick me off the plane and leave me here!"
"Actually, we can. Army policy dictates…"
"I spent a year in a warzone, goddamn it! ! I didn't ask to be there – I didn't ask to be drafted! I did what you wanted, goddamn it, and this is how you repay me?!"
The clerk waved her pen and continued to gaze airily down her nose at him. "I already told you: make your way to a civilian airport and make your own arrangements. Next!"
Hawkeye swallowed. He glanced across the crowded terminal to the glass doors. The morning sun was glinting outside, the hot concrete glowing like a desert. He glanced back up at the woman, and then, frantically, tugged open his duffel bag. The next person in line was already trying to push him out of the way. Hawkeye pushed back. "Now wait just a minute!"
The clerk huffed angrily through her nostrils. "Mister Pierce, I'm going to have to ask you to step aside!"
"Doctor!" Hawkeye's voice was muffled as he rummaged through his belongings. At last, he emerged triumphant, clutching a checkbook. "It's Doctor Pierce, M.D. – military dischargee – and surgeon, Boston General Hospital!"
The clerk rolled her eyes. "Are you finished, Doctor?"
"One more thing!" Hawkeye smiled winningly. "Would you mind cashing a check for me?"
She did mind. Hawkeye retreated back to his seat by the window and tried to work out what to do. Maybe if he could walk as far as Fairfield, he could find a bank and get some cash? Then he could catch a bus to San Francisco and work things out from there. He glared sullenly at his duffel bag – lugging that thing across town wouldn't be easy.
Oh, Christ! That was another problem: his footlocker! How was he supposed to…?
The memory hit him like a moment of divine inspiration. How could he had forgotten! He always used to keep a supply of cash rolled up in one of Trapper's old cigar tins for poker games. Forget a bank! Forget the bus! He could ride to San Francisco in a goddamned limousine! The army could go swivel! He'd be on a plane home in no time!
But where was the damned thing?
Hawkeye's heart leapt into his throat when he realised he'd abandoned it somewhere, expecting it to be transferred onto another flight. Somewhere down by the gate was his salvation! He had to get it back!
With some difficulty, he hauled his bag up onto his shoulder again and turned sharply back in the direction of the gates. Pushing past several disgruntled personnel, he broke into a run. His bag banged painfully against his leg, the strap digging into his shoulder.
At last, he reached the gate. Two crewmen were packing a luggage cart to go out to another plane, and Hawkeye practically collided with them as he staggered to a halt.
The smaller of the two glanced up, eyeing up curiously. "Can we help you with somethin'? You look like you're about to pop an artery."
"Uh… yeah! I think I left my–" Then, he saw it, shunted over to the far side, out of the way. He snapped his fingers. "That!"
"Oh. This yours?"
"Yes! It has to be… oh, please, God it has to be… thank you!"
"Okay, buddy. Calm down! Jeez!"
The crewman shoved the footlocker in Hawkeye's direction, and the other helped him manoeuvre it onto a trolley. He practically wept with joy as they checked his name and waved him off. Eagerly, he wheeled the heavy trolley back to the main concourse, ducking into a corner so he could pop it open and retrieve his poker winnings. And to think of all the people who told him gambling never paid off! He could kiss every single one of his buddies who had put into that pot! He was going home!
The locker was a mess. It was more than apparent that his belongings had been packed with no real care. Some of his things were broken, and Hawkeye concluded that it was Frank, not Henry, who had taken it upon himself to get Hawkeye all packed up to ship out. At last, he found it: the cigar tin. His heart quickening, he prised at the lid with shaking fingers. It gave way with a loud clang.
It was empty.
Hawkeye wanted to throw up. "No… no!" He searched frantically through the rest of the locker, but he knew it was futile. The money was here! He knew it was! Somebody must have…
He threw the empty tin against the wall.
"Frank Burns, you son of a bitch!"
Several heads turned, and Hawkeye threw the tin back into his footlocker with a loud crash. His head was pounding. He wanted nothing more than to curl up and sleep for the next twenty-four hours, but at this point he didn't even have a clue where he was going to be sleeping, or any means to procure himself a bed for the night, or even to get himself to one. He leaned heavily against a wall, gazing out across the airfield.
A distant figure caught his attention.
"Stanley!"
The familiar sight of the man in his air force blues was like a beacon from heaven! His one friend in the whole of California! Stanley would help him! Stanley wouldn't leave him to languish in the streets!
Again, Hawkeye set off at a run, abandoning his footlocker, still open with its contents spilled out. His duffel bag weighed him down, and he flung it to one side in the corridor as he raced back to the gate once more. Out on the tarmac, he could see Stanley ushering a new flight load of passengers onto another plane. Hawkeye tried desperately to get his attention through the window, but he couldn't see.
"Stanley!" Hawkeye yelled again, racing up to the doors, where the same crewmen who had furnished him with his luggage were now closing up.
One of them grabbed him. Winded, Hawkeye nearly fell. The other grappled him as he tried to get free. "Hey, you can't go out there!"
Twisting frantically, Hawkeye fought to get loose. "What are you doing?!"
"This is a restricted area!"
"I need to speak to my friend!"
"Nobody goes out on that runway without papers or a permit!"
"He's right there! Just let me– Stanley! Look, this is really important! Please! STANLEY!" Hawkeye screamed and bellowed until he was hoarse, but it was no use. Stanley couldn't hear him over the drone of the engines, and, after a few seconds of futile struggling, Hawkeye watched as the distant figure turned and disappeared up the steps into the aircraft, closing the door behind him, and Hawkeye was 'escorted' back inside the terminal.
He returned to his luggage in time to watch the plane take off from the main runway, taking with it the one person on this side of the country who might have been willing to help him.
Exhausted, he sank to the bench next to his footlocker and stared into the metal box, fingering his worthless possessions. His dirty magazines; his scruffy navy cardigan; his collection of ridiculous hats. He pulled his burgundy army-issue robe out of the mess, noting the torn sleeve from his scuffle with Burns. The memory made him sick to his stomach, and he shoved the garment away, shuddering.
Beneath it, he found the photo frame where he kept the picture of himself and his father, taken several years ago at Permaquid Point. The frame was now broken, and the glass cracked. Saddened, Hawkeye fished it out. The shattered glass came out easily, and the wooden frame came apart in his hands, leaving him cradling the photograph and the backing.
Only it wasn't one photograph, but two: behind the picture of the family holiday, there was a snap he'd taken in Tokyo a couple of months ago. He'd almost forgotten about it. He'd stashed it there for safekeeping, in a place where nobody might find it and get suspicious as to why he might want such a thing.
They'd been on leave, staying in a real hotel room with a real bed. The sheets were clean, and the drinks were many, and they'd fallen asleep naked on a crisp, white mattress. Hawkeye had taken the picture the next morning, just as Trapper was waking up. He had sheet across his lap and a smile on his face, and a look in his eyes that was half adoration and half hilarity.
Side by side, the two photographs seemed to paint a perfect picture of two very different sides of Hawkeye's life. On his right, the father who he adored and tried desperately to please, and on his left, the lover he had lost everything for. He realised with a heavy heart that the time would come when he could have to face his father and explain what had happened… possibly later today. It all depended on whether he was able to get himself out of this pickle he'd landed in without having to call his father for help.
It seemed impossible. But, as Hawkeye's gaze drifted back to the picture of Trapper, and his mind to simpler, happier times, Stanley's words echoed in his head. "He was worth it," Hawkeye murmured to himself.
Somehow, the thought spurred him on. He had been told to get himself to San Francisco, so, somehow, he would do just that. One way or another.
And, tucking the photographs into his empty wallet, and his belongings back into his footlocker, he gathered himself up and headed for the door, and out into the world, leaving behind on the bench a broken photo frame and one torn army medic's robe in burgundy corduroy.
The walk as long, and the morning was sticky. Hawkeye swiped the luggage trolley and didn't even feel remotely guilty about it. Eventually, he found a stand where there were buses heading into town. What there weren't were bus drivers willing to take a penniless former draftee for no charge.
Hawkeye slumped on his footlocker in the bus stand, wilting in the sun as the day continued to heat up. He was starting to sweat, tugging at the collar of his shirt.
Time for plan B.
A taxi cab rolled past, and Hawkeye flagged it down. The driver peered through the window at the bedraggled ex-officer in his sweat-stained shirt. "Can I help you, pal?"
Hawkeye forced himself to smile. "I guess that depends. Is there any chance you'd be willing to drive me to San Francisco Municipal Airport in exchange for a crisp, hand-written check?"
Again, the driver eyed Hawkeye's apparel. "I don't know. Frisco is a long way to go."
"Fine. Just take me into Fairfield. You can wait outside the bank while I get the cash, and if I welch on you, I swear to God I'll personally hold myself down so you can pummel me senseless. How does that sound?"
"A bank? In Fairfield? On a Saturday?"
"Oh. Is it Saturday? Sorry, I've been on a plane so long, my body clock's all wound down. Look – are you sure there's nowhere I can some cash? A post office?"
"Fairfield's a small town – nothing's open Saturdays."
Hawkeye smiled a little. The only things open on Saturdays in Crabapple Cove were the restaurant and the bait store. "Okay, fine. Forget Fairfield. Get me to San Francisco. I swear the check is good, and I'll tip you fifty percent! A hundred! Name it!"
The driver shook his head. "I'm sorry, buddy. No offence, but we see a lot of army rejects round this way, and I know a lot of guys who've had bad checks and fare-jumpers."
"Oh, come on!"
"It's nothing personal – I just can't."
"But I'm a doctor! I can pay! I'll get you the money! I'll… I'll give you a free nose job! I'll… I'll appendectomize you and all you children! Just help me out – please!"
But it was no use. The cab driver pulled away, leaving Hawkeye in the dust to retreat back to his footlocker. The next cab driver had the same story, as did the next, and Hawkeye's hopes began to vanish.
When the next bus pulled up, he didn't even bother to fight through the exodus in an attempt to talk to the driver – he knew what the answer would be anyway – so he just sat there, slumped on his footlocker.
Several men filed past, all in army uniforms, and all ignoring the bedraggled man sitting at the bus stand. Only the last in line paid him any mind.
"You okay there?"
Hawkeye looked up, right into the eyes of a tall young man in Class As, with kind eyes and a concerned smile. "I've been better."
"Anything I can do to help?"
The offer took Hawkeye by surprise. After having so many doors slammed in his face, he wasn't expecting sympathy from a perfect stranger. He glanced at the man's uniform, adorned with caduceus on the collar but no railroad tracks just yet. "You're a doctor."
"A surgeon – as of three months ago. You?"
"Ditto – up until two days ago. Just spent a year in a MASH unit, trying to knit soldiers out of entrails and sutures. Now I'm trying to get home."
"And where is home, exactly?"
"Maine."
The younger doctor whistled. "That's an awful long way to hitch hike. Surely the army ought to–"
Hawkeye gave a bitter bark of a laugh. "They ought to, but they won't. You see, me and General MacArthur had something of a difference of opinion, and he won't let me fly in his little airplanes anymore."
"I… see." Hawkeye immediately wondered if he'd given away too much – if the man was a local, as he seemed to be, he might figure it out for himself. But if he did, it didn't seem to affect his kindly nature. "If you can get to San Francisco, they have plenty of flights headed East. I should know – I live on the flight path."
"So I hear, but it's a twenty dollar cab ride to 'Frisco, Fairfield's all closed up for the weekend, and my cash reserves've been pickpocketed by a ferret with gold clusters."
The surgeon laughed, shaking his head. "Sounds awfully weasely of him!" Then, to Hawkeye's surprise, the man put his hand in the pocket of his new Class A uniform and took out his wallet. "Twenty bucks – that's quite a fare." Regardless, he extracted four crisp five-dollar bills and proffered them in Hawkeye's direction. "Still, lucky for you I made a trip to the bank yesterday."
Hawkeye gawped at the money. "What? No, I couldn't…"
"Well, you're in a tight spot…" He waved a hand dismissively, in a 'oh, it's nothing' gesture.
"But you don't know me!"
Shrugging, the surgeon gave him a warm smile. "Hey, I like to make it my prerogative to help people out when I can, and it seems to me that you're in a bit of a pickle."
"Yeah, but –"
"Go on – take it! Look, I'm having a terrible day and it'd make me feel better to do a good deed for somebody."
Hawkeye hesitated. "You're shipping out?"
"Not quite – headed for basic training in Fort Sam Houston."
"Oh, that's not so bad – take it from a guy who already did the training and the job."
The young man's face fell ever so slightly. "And… my wife's about to have a baby."
"Oh…" Hawkeye felt a pang of sympathy. "Well, that's not a problem I had. There's no way you'll be back for…"
"Only if Peg crosses her legs for two weeks."
"Damn. That's harsh." Shaking his head, Hawkeye stared at the sidewalk. He didn't have the heart to take money from this unfortunate, sweet-natured human being. Standing, he folded the man's fingers gently around the offered bills and pushed his hand away. "Look, do yourself a favour – spend that twenty bucks on something nice for your kid when you get back."
"Hey, come on! Just let me–"
"No, no! I couldn't!"
"It's nothing, really!" He held the money out again. "Take it!"
Eyeing the cash in his hand, Hawkeye stared at him. "You're really not taking 'no' for an answer, are you?"
Smiling, the young man in the Class As tucked the bills triumphantly into Hawkeye's hand. "No, I'm really not."
Hawkeye stared at him, quite overwhelmed. "Thank you… I don't know what to… Thank you!" It didn't quite seem to cut it, so he gave the man a warm, firm handshake. "And do me a favour: when you get back from Fort Sam Houston, be sure to make the most of your last few months of freedom in case they ship you off to Korea."
The young man's eyes glistened slightly, and he nodded. "I don't think it's a question of 'if' but 'when'. But… I'll take your advice, I guarantee it. And you – take care of yourself, you hear?" He made a move towards the air base, but paused, shooting Hawkeye one last glance. "Good luck, Doctor."
"Thanks – I need it."
Luck, it turned out, was on his side: a taxi cab rounded the corner, and Hawkeye waved frantically. This time, the driver accepted the job, and helped Hawkeye with his footlocker, too. As they slammed the trunk, Hawkeye turned, calling up the street to the mysterious stranger was who had been so generous. "Hey – wait! I didn't catch your…"
But he was already out of sight.
The trip went smoothly and quickly. The freeways and even the city were mercifully quiet. Staring out of the window, Hawkeye stared at the gleaming white skyscrapers and the rolling hills. San Francisco was really a fantastic city, and the airport was right off the freeway. The road curved around in a gigantic loop, circling around an enormous parking lot packed full of vehicles glistening in the sunlight, and butting up alongside a gleaming, modern terminal building. Soon, Hawkeye found himself standing on the concrete outside, his footlocker deposited beside him. He was one step closer to home. Now, all he had to do…
"Hey, buddy!"
Hawkeye spun around. "Huh?"
The cab driver was leaning out of the window scowling at him. "When we said twenty bucks, I figured you'd be adding a tip!"
Hawkeye cringed a little. "I'm sorry – I meant including. I don't have anything else."
"Are you kidding me?"
Grimacing, Hawkeye felt his hackles rising. "Believe me, there's nothing funny about the situation I'm in right now…"
The argument deteriorated quickly into a slanging match, until, eventually, the cab pulled away with a squeal of tyres, leaving Hawkeye cradling his aching head. He was exhausted – his last nerve was shot, and one emotional jolt would probably be enough to tear it clean apart. If he could just get through the rest of the trip…
"I leave you alone for five minutes, an' you're already causin' trouble with the locals."
Hawkeye's heart leapt into his mouth, and he stared over his shoulder. No… surely, not even with the best luck in the universe, he couldn't have… "Trapper!"
Hawkeye turned, his legs trembling. He couldn't believe what he was seeing.
As a smile rose on Trapper's face, he dashed forward, as if compelled by some irresistible force, tossed his bag aside, and enveloped Hawkeye in an almost painfully tight bear hug. Hawkeye wanted to cry – perhaps the only reason he didn't was because Trapper had squeezed all the air out of him. When he finally let him go, he could practically feel himself welling up. "I never thought I'd see you again."
"Yeah, me neither!" Trapper's eyes were glistening and he was smiling from ear to ear.
"I figured you'd be long gone!"
"I got in late last night – had to spend the night in some lousy hotel downtown." He paused for a moment, then lowered his voice. "I missed you."
They hugged again, and this time when they parted, Trapper cast a glance up and down the street. Finding it empty – most of the passengers were using the doors furthest away near the crossing – his eyes flickered to Hawkeye's lips. "Aw, to hell with it!" The next thing he knew, Hawkeye found himself pinned against a pillar outside the terminal, being passionately kissed, and there, in the shadows between the concrete columns, they had they own secret reunion.
Hawkeye welcomed him with open arms. Suddenly, all those wonderful times he'd recounted to Stanley on the plane rushed through his head in a beautiful montage. The nights in the supply tent, the weekends in Tokyo, the evenings in Seoul. It was all he could do to avoid sighing into Trapper's mouth.
At last they pulled apart, lingering inches away from one another, unable to let go. "I shouldn't oughta've done that…" Trapper frowned, licking his lips a little.
Hawkeye beamed at him. A warm feeling blossomed in Hawkeye's belly. Trapper really was a sight for sore eyes – still in his class As, jacket unbuttoned, his cap slightly askew and his tie loosened – it was a look Hawkeye associated with weekend-long sex marathons in Tokyo hotels, and he couldn't wipe the delighted grin off his face if he tried. "It's okay, nobody's watching."
He tried to kiss him again, but Trapper's momentary recklessness clearly had a shelf life of about thirty seconds. He pulled back, moving away and scooping up his bag from where he'd dropped it. "What with you bein' here an' everythin', I'm guessin' the army dropped you in Frisco too?"
"You'd be right there, soldier. A charming lady in the M.A.T.S office very kindly informed me that the only way this fairy would be flying out of Travis was if he sprouted wings!"
Trapper shoved his hands in his pockets. "Don't talk like that."
"And to top it all off, the army took my pay and Frank stole all my poker winnings!"
"You're kiddin' me?!"
"Why does everybody keep asking me that? What's to kid about? The only reason I've got this far is because some freshly-drafted army doctor took pity on me and gave me twenty bucks for a cab!"
Trapper raised his eyebrows. "Takin' money off strange doctors? I warned you about that." Smirking, Trapper wagged his finger.
"I tried to catch his name, but he'd gone!" Hawkeye smiled a little to himself. "You're not jealous, are you?" he asked playfully.
He got no reply. Trapper's smile vanished, and he occupied himself with fishing in his pockets for his smokes.
Hawkeye changed the subject. "How was your flight?"
Trapper scowled into the middle distance and lit himself a cigarette. "Terrible. Between you an' me, I think they were so desperate not to stick us on the same flight, they put me in some old cargo plane that ain't even designed for passengers! Just me an' two crew members, an' not an ounce of conversation between 'em! You?"
"Wasn't so bad. I sat in the mail hold with the flight officer and slept on the mailbags."
Trapper's eyes widened.
"Not with the flight officer! You think I want to ruin two peoples' careers in a single weekend?!"
The look on Trapper's face told Hawkeye that he'd made a joke in rather poor taste.
"Sorry."
"Forget it." Trapper waved his hand and glanced up at the terminal. "Look, we got ourselves into this situation, so I figure we gotta deal with it. What d'ya say we grab ourselves a couple'a pre-flight Martinis an' then get our butts on a plane?"
Hawkeye's heart skipped a beat. "I think that's a great idea."
Trapper tossed his smoke into the gutter, and they picked up their luggage, hauling it, with some difficulty, into the terminal.
It wasn't easy. The carpet was clingy, and the terminal was a flurry of activity. Trapper, fortunately, seemed to have acquired himself a suitcase and downsized somewhere along his journey. The pair of them drew a few glances walking through in uniform, lugging Hawkeye's footlocker. Hawkeye couldn't care less about the attention. He was high as a kite, anticipating a long flight made bearable by having Trapper at his side.
But Trapper had other things on his mind. He was edgy and twitchy, but set on his mission for a pre-flight drink, and Hawkeye was happy to go along with whatever he had in mind. Soon, they were parked up outside the little airport bar, Trapper's case sat neatly atop Hawkeye's footlocker, each of them clutching a genuine, perfectly mixed, dry Martini.
Hawkeye couldn't stop smiling. It felt like a date – a real date – the kind they'd never really had. Maybe it was the heady rush of excitement he'd got from seeing Trapper again, but he felt giddy as a schoolboy. The airport was bright and loud, but their little table felt cosy and romantic. Hawkeye beamed over his glass. "Isn't this incredible?"
Trapper took a sip and sighed with satisfaction. "Damned straight. This is the first taste of decent gin I've had in a year!"
"I mean us!" Hawkeye practically reached across the table and grabbed his hand before he could stop himself. "You and me, finding each other in a city this big! Meeting up again after travelling thousands of miles across the Pacific! And now here we are, drinking genuine American cocktails in a genuine American bar! I mean, what are the odds?"
He knew he was gushing, but he couldn't help himself. After the misery of the past twenty-four hours, Trapper's presence was like a beacon of hope at the end of a long, dark tunnel. He couldn't wait to tell him about the jerks on the plane and the surly woman at Travis – and about Stanley, and the kindly doctor who took pity on him and got him as far as San Francisco.
And yet, by that same token, he didn't want to sound self-absorbed. "How did your court martial go?" He swirled his Martini in his glass, hoping to contain his delight for long enough to be the sensitive, caring pillar of support Trapper so obviously needed right now.
Trapper shuddered and scowled into his drink. "I don't wanna talk about it."
"Okay." Hawkeye shifted uncomfortably and sought for another topic. "What do you wanna talk about?"
Chuckling, Trapper looked up at him, a bittersweet smile on his face. "I really don't know, Hawk. I never imagined even seein' you again, let alone sittin' in a bar with you, makin' conversation. It's all a little bit too much to take in, you know?"
Hawkeye smiled warmly. "Yeah, I know what you mean. I feel the same way…" He lowered his voice and leaned a little closer. "I also feel like I want to kiss you again."
Trapper gave another embarrassed little laugh. "Steady, Hawk."
"Don't worry, I'm not going to."
Trapper merely nodded and fiddled with his glass. "Look, I got a plane leavin' for Boston in about a half hour, but I ain't about to leave you high an' dry on the other side of the country. You know where you're goin' from here, right?"
"That's a good question…" Hawkeye gave a melancholy little laugh.
"I just wanna know that you can get home safe. Are you okay bookin' yourself a flight? Because if there's anythin' you need, just name it. Anythin' I can do…"
Hawkeye smiled. Something about that concerned, earnest look on Trapper's face just made him melt. "As long as they take check, I'll be fine."
Trapper nodded and gave him a tense smile. "That's great." He downed his drink, and Hawkeye followed suit. "C'mon, let's get you booked in."
As they made their way to the booking office, it became apparent that the gods were feeling merciful: a sign above the booking office informed him that they took checks. They joined the queue for tickets, propping their luggage up as they had done before. The queue was short, but Trapper was twitchy and uncomfortable, staring at the crowds like a rabbit in headlights. He swayed from foot to foot, tugging at his cuffs. Hawkeye asked his repeatedly what the matter was. On the third attempt, he told him: "Do you think they know?"
Hawkeye suddenly understood, and shrugged casually. "Not unless you're planning on kissing me again."
Trapper hissed at him. "No, I mean… we're obviously a couple'a discharges! People might figure it out."
"Does it matter?"
Glancing about the room again, Trapper bit his lip. "I guess not…"
He stood for a while, and Hawkeye had to admit, his mere presence was a welcoming comfort. He wasn't alone in the world anymore. Smiling to himself, he leaned a little closer, just feeling the solid weight of Trapper's body at his back. Then the businessman in front of them moved away and headed up to the desk, and he had to shift his luggage again.
Trapper groaned as he hauled Hawkeye's footlocker along the carpeted floor.
"You okay?"
"Yeah, it's just this thing's heavy is all."
"I'd offer you a backrub but this is hardly the place or the time."
Hawkeye saw Trapper flinch at his suggestion, and wished he could bite back his words. Now, he remained quiet, waiting patiently in silence.
Until Trapper broke it: "They tried to get me to name people."
It took Hawkeye a second or two to realise that he was talking about the court martial. They were now at the front of the queue with nobody in the immediate vicinity, their words drowned out by the dull drone of conversation. "What? Other guys you'd slept with? That's gonna be one heck of a short list."
Trapper shook his head. "Nah. Other guys I thought you might've… Turns out your name's cropped up on a couple'a lists an' somebody in Congress picked up your case an' asked the panel to do some diggin'." He sniffed disdainfully. "I told 'em I didn't know anybody. I mean I don't know, an' don't wanna know, I don't think." He laughed bitterly. "I mean, if they wanted to know about queers in the military, I was the worst guy to ask! The only name I could think of was Weston, an' I ain't about to drop him in it to keep them happy! An' now I'm thinkin'… maybe they'd'a gone easy on me if I'd…"
"You did the right thing, Trap." Hawkeye spoke in a hushed whisper but with unshakeable certainty.
But Trapper barely heard him. He was gazing into the middle distance, across the crowded terminal, his brow creased in worry. "I spoke to the defence lawyer the military set me up with. He said I should… if I told 'em you'd… talked me into it or somethin', an' agreed to see an army shrink about my 'problem', they might let me off."
Hawkeye shuddered. He'd too had been forced to sit through a half hour session with an army psychiatrist, and he couldn't imagine Trapper faring well. "Well, that sounds like a barrel of laughs."
"I couldn't do it, Hawk. Not with you sat there in the stockade. I mean, who knows what they'd do to you if they thought…"
Hawkeye's blood ran cold. He felt physically winded by the sudden knowledge that, at Trapper's word, he could have been labelled a sexual predator; probably sentenced to the full six months, if not more. But Trapper had stood his ground. What could Hawkeye possibly say that could do his gratitude justice? Gently, he grasped Trapper's arm, angling himself so as to conceal the gesture from the prying eyes of the world.
"Is it bad," Trapper continued, his voice cracking, "that I keep thinkin', 'I had a way out'!? An' I didn't take it – because I couldn't do that to you. An' now I gotta go home an' face my wife, my parents… Christ, my kids..." At that, Trapper's voice cracked completely, and he pulled away from Hawkeye, dumping his jacket on their luggage. "I gotta go to the john."
This, of course, was code for Trapper needing to take five to dry his eyes and compose himself. He took off, leaving Hawkeye alone to contemplate the vast implications of his words, and to twiddle his thumbs alone for a few minutes while he waited, and suddenly he was struck by a bizarre sinking feeling that he didn't much care for.
"Next, please!"
The voice of the booking agent snapped him out of it, and he stepped up to the desk.
"Where to, Sir?"
"Uh… I uh…" His eyes wandered over to the departures board, where Trapper's Boston flight, announced clearly in bold, unmoveable black and white, loomed ever closer. He hesitated, not quite able to imagine tearing himself away from the man in as little as thirty minutes. "Tell me, if I get a flight to Maine does that go via Boston?"
The clerk checked her departures timetable. "It usually does."
"Oh?" Hawkeye's pulse quickened a little.
"Oh – not on Saturdays. The Portland flight changes at Chicago on Saturdays. Is that a problem?"
Hawkeye winced. He had two options – he could say goodbye to Trapper right here and now, in the airport, and go home to face his father, or he could go to Boston with his lover and best friend, maybe salvage his civilian job in Boston General, or at least find another… and he'd have Trapper with him…
Suddenly, for the first time in months, Crabapple Cove was no longer the most attractive option.
"Got yourself on a flight yet?" It was Trapper who asked the question, sidling up beside Hawkeye, largely refreshed and cheerful, save for the red circles around his eyes.
"Looks like I've got a choice – my father's house in Maine, or my job in Boston General."
Trapper's eyes widened. "You comin' to Boston?"
Hawkeye looked up at him. There was a hopeful look on his face, and an almost pleading look in his eyes. They couldn't have the conversation he so desperately wanted to have – not in front of the booking clerk – and he didn't have long to decide. "You want me to?"
"You're askin' me?"
"Who else am I gonna ask? What should I do? Give up on the civilian job I have waiting for me and go cry on my father's couch for six months? Or… do I…?"
Trapper sighed, shaking his head. "Aw, hell! Hawk, it's your life. I don't..." He paused, glanced up at him once more, mulled it over for a short while, and then glanced at his watch. The Boston plane would be boarding soon. "Well… you gotta talk to your boss sooner or later."
Hawkeye took a deep breath, and took out his check-book. "I'll have a one-way ticket to Boston, hold the beans."
It was night-time when they touched down. Theirs was the last plane in, and Boston airport was quiet, which came as something of a relief, as the curious stares directed at them were now fewer and further between. Their fellow passengers on the flight from San Francisco had been more than marginally intrigued by the presence of the two men in formal military garb. Trapper was still convinced that they somehow knew the exact details of their discharge from a single glance, but Hawkeye was assured it was simply because they stood out a mile in their Class As – and were so ruggedly handsome to boot. Nonetheless, Trapper had ordered three double Scotches throughout the flight, growing increasingly quiet and morose as Hawkeye pointed out landmarks through the window, and flinching every time he touched him.
But Hawkeye understood: he'd been a little twitchy himself after that dealings with the court martial. "I'll sit on my hands from now on," he whispered with a smile after Trapper had shaken his hand from his arm for the third time. And so he did.
But whatever fear was gripping him didn't stop Trapper from falling asleep on his shoulder somewhere over Pennsylvania. Hawkeye resisted the urge to take his hand as he slept, and instead, he just sat there, watching him as the setting sun cast a warm orange glow over his face, and then faded. By the time Trapper stirred, the sun was long gone, and he awoke to the sight of shining stars, and Hawkeye's pale blue eyes.
They he held back a little at the gate upon landing, letting other passengers go on ahead, and Hawkeye grinned shamelessly at the realisation that they could now have a few minutes alone. With fewer people around, a feeling of excitement bubbled up within him. Maybe it was irrational; maybe with everything he had been through and everything he now faced, he shouldn't feel this way, but here he was, with Trapper – the man who had turned down a potential promise of exoneration in order to keep him out of prison – it was all he could do not to wrap his arms around him right there on the tarmac and hold him tightly and never let go.
Walking through the near-deserted airport, each pushing their luggage on squeaky trollies, Hawkeye marvelled at the strange mix of emotion swirling within him. They were out! The circumstances had been dire, and the consequences yet to be seen, but they were free of the army, free from the disapproving gaze of Frank Burns and the judgemental barbs shot at them by former friends! For the first time since he had left for Korea almost a year ago, Hawkeye felt free. In spite of everything, his heart ached from the relief of it all!
He glanced over to Trapper, unsure of whether to share his thoughts or not.
He decided against it: Trapper was still quiet and tense, speaking only to mutter directions to Hawkeye as they navigated their way past all the gates. Hawkeye didn't pay much attention to where they were going – he just followed as Trapper pointed at signs and indicated which way to the terminal building. They walked and walked, pacing along the wide, curving corridor, and eventually they reached the desired exit. Trapper held the door for him, and Hawkeye tipped his hat and declared "thank you, my darling!" in a manner that Trapper might have taken issue with, had anybody overheard. The air hit him as soon as he stepped outside, unpleasantly cool, but a reassuringly familiar New England Fall.
There was a shuttle bus that ferried passengers from the gates to the terminals, but Trapper held back again and caught Hawkeye's arm. "Let's uh… let's wait awhile, huh? Take a walk, just the two of us?"
Hawkeye smiled, the ache inside him fading to a warm, pleasant glow. "That's a good idea…" The other passengers boarded the bus, and it rumbled off ahead. They were alone together. He wondered briefly if Trapper was going to kiss him again, but, despite giving him a long, lingering look, there was no such luck.
Hawkeye didn't mind – the quiet solitude was pleasant enough.
They walked, Hawkeye beaming all the way, delighted by everything that reminded him of home: the weather, the smells, the sounds. They passed through the terminal building, waved on by customs with little more than a glance, and, at last, out into the street.
Here, at the side of the road, surrounded by bus stands and transit maps, Hawkeye came to a halt. The city lay before them, but there was no plan laid out for them from here on out. From here on out, they were on their own.
Rubbing his hands a little in the cold, Hawkeye turned to face Trapper. "So… where do we go from here?"
Looking back, he would agonise numerous times over how stupid he must have sounded; how blithely optimistic and deluded his question must have seemed. Even as he said it, he felt a cold stab of dread; he sensed the voice of reason in the back of his mind screaming at him to stop.
But Hawkeye didn't stop. Hawkeye smiled nervously and continued to blather. "All I know is the one-twenty-two bus takes us right to my apartment, but I don't think the guy who's renting it right now would be too happy if we roll up now! We could get a hotel? How about that? A nice hotel with clean sheets, no lice, and a bar. I'd kill for a decent Martini right now!"
One look at Trapper, and the cold, anxious feeling rose a little more. Trapper was staring miserably into the middle distance, his face drawn with worry.
"Trapper?" Hawkeye took his hand gently – there was nobody looking – and stepped close. "Aw, Trap, c'mon! It'll be okay. Look on the bright side – we're home! Stateside! You and me, together! In all kinds of weather!"
Trapper looked up at him. "It's been one hell of a storm these past few days."
"Then we'll weather this one, too." Hawkeye gave a theatrical shrug, waxing poetic as he always did. But Trapper still looked glum. "Come on! We got this far! We can do this!" He squeezed Trapper's hands, brimming with adrenaline, willing him to perk up.
But Trapper didn't. He frowned, worrying at his lower lip, and he shook his head. "Hawkeye, sit down…"
"What's the matter?" He didn't know why he was asking. He already knew. He knew but he didn't want to know. He had to hear it, but he didn't want to believe it.
Sinking onto a bench, Trapper clasped his hands together, shaking a little. "We ain't gonna do this, Hawk. No buses, no hotels. This is… it's the end of the line."
Hawkeye just stared. His blood ran cold. There was a ringing in his ears, as if Trapper's words were shells dropping around him. His tone was gentle, apologetic even, but his meaning was brutal. Hawkeye stammered, his voice and his body shaking in unison. "I… uh… b-but…? Here? Now?"
Trapper stared at the sidewalk. "My wife's pickin' me up any minute now, an' I'm goin' home."
Hawkeye continued to stare at him. "Your wife…?" His voice came out like a frightened squeak, his throat tightening. "You mean we're not even gonna…"
"It's not an option, Hawk!" Trapper snapped at him, tension giving way to anger.
"Not an option? What are you saying?"
"I'm sayin' I gotta go home to Louise an' my girls an'… an' make things right!"
Hawkeye crumbled, his whole body shaking, his stomach clenching into a tight ball of nausea. "Not… not now. One more night… We can have one more night!" His shaking fingers grasped desperately at Trapper's shoulders and lapels. "Louise doesn't have to know."
"Goddamnit, I called her from 'Frisco last night!" Trapper's anger was more at himself than anyone else, but Hawkeye backed off nonetheless. Wincing, Trapper ran a hand through his curls and beat his knee with his fist, shaking his head. "She already knows. I told her. Told her everythin'… Well, I didn't know I was gonna see you again! I figured we were done! Finito! I said my goodbyes in that stockade in Seoul!"
Hawkeye blinked. "But… the court martial… You protected me! I thought… You told me to come to Boston with you, goddamn it!"
"Yeah, because you live here!" Rising, Trapper gestured to the city on the horizon. "Because you said you had a job waitin' at Boston General an' I didn't want to see you screw that up along with everythin' else!"
Trapper's words cut deep. His eyes stinging, Hawkeye curled in on himself, lowering himself none-too-steadily onto his footlocker. He should have prepared himself for this. He hadn't even noticed how badly he'd wanted Trapper by his side until he'd thought he would be there. And now, to find out he was leaving, just as he'd managed to come to terms with how he felt… it was like somebody had pushed him to the edge of some mountainous precipice just for the sake of throwing him off. He curled in on himself, burying his face in his hands.
Trapper couldn't look at him. "Cut that out, Hawk…" He turned away, his voice cracking. "Come on! Don't make this harder than it already is. I got two kids; I got a wife I ain't seen in a year. I never said anythin' about leavin' my family for you, an' I'm sorry if that's what you thought, but when I got you on that flight with me, I wasn't lookin' to do anythin' 'cept make sure you were safe an' try an' get you back on your feet. This ain't gonna carry on. I don't know why in the heck you figured it was, but…"
'Because I love you. And I thought you loved me.' Had Hawkeye looked up, he would have seen the tears in Trapper's eyes, but he didn't. He saw nothing but darkness, heard nothing but silence as the impact of Trapper's words hit him. Once again, he was alone – not because the army had cast him out and abandoned him, but because Trapper had. The hope he had felt when he had scooped him up in his arms in broad daylight outside San Francisco airport terminal now felt like a lie, and he realised with sickening clarity that he'd been kidding himself that there was even the tiniest possibility that they might wind up together. His over-optimistic dreams of taking on the world together had been nothing but the manic glee of a deluded madman, high on his own elaborate, impossible fantasy.
The crunch of tyres on asphalt, and the blinding beams of a pair of oncoming headlights, snapped him out of his miserable trance. He stood, and Trapper whipped around like he'd been caught with his hand in the cookie jar. A gleaming white Chevrolet pulled up, and, a moment later, Louise McIntyre stepped out onto the tarmac.
She didn't say a word. Her eyes passed briefly over her husband, and then locked with Hawkeye's, her expression making it clear that she knew damned well who he was. Hawkeye shuddered under her gaze. He knew what she was thinking. He could tell because he was thinking it too: 'That's my competition…' The only difference was that he'd lost.
She wasn't what he'd imagined. He knew Trapper's taste in women well enough – or so he'd thought – and Louise didn't fit that at all. She was tall, almost formidable-looking, with dramatic make-up, angular features, and a modest, old-fashioned dress. Aside from her dark hair, pulled back into a bun, she reminded Hawkeye more of Margaret Houlihan than any of the nurses Trapper had dated in Korea.
Without a word, Louise walked round to the back of the car, and popped the trunk. She stood, unmoving and in silence, waiting for Trapper to load his things.
For one last time, Trapper turned to face Hawkeye. Even now, Hawkeye's heart leapt, like he was waiting for Trapper to change his mind. In his mind's eye, he begged him not to leave. Instead, he glanced in Louise's direction, and a bitter joke tripped off his tongue: "Don't keep the lady waiting…"
Trapper didn't laugh. "Listen, Hawk…"
There was that feeling of hope again. "Trapper…"
Trapper's eyes were sorrowful, glistening with unshed tears. In the space of mere seconds, Hawkeye's mind played out a vision in which Trapper grasped his hand, kissed him, and told him he would always love him. And then another where he declared that couldn't bring himself to leave…
But there was no change of heart. There was no sudden declaration of love. There was no tender goodbye. Instead, Trapper opened his wallet, fished out a small bundle of notes, and pressed them into Hawkeye's hand, and decided on the last words he would ever say to him. "Go get yourself a motel."
Hawkeye's hand closed around Trapper's fingers on reflex, but a moment later, his hand slipped free, leaving Hawkeye holding nothing but a handful of cold, hard cash. He watched helplessly, rooted to the spot, as, for the second time, Trapper John McIntyre walked out of his life – this time, not pulled away by a Military Policeman, or forcibly removed by order of the US Army, but of his own free will, walking back to his wife. Again, there had been no goodbye; again, Hawkeye was bereft of words. Just as he had done with Carlye, he'd never realised the depth of his feelings until it was too late, and he'd never said a word – just watched his love walk away out of his life.
Trapper loaded his belongings into the car, and Louise slammed the trunk. He didn't even look at Hawkeye as he slipped into the passenger side, but Louise shot him another long, hard glare. Her car door slammed, the engine started, and the shiny white Chevrolet vanished into the night. Hawkeye sank onto the kerb, numb, nauseous, and trembling. He couldn't move, couldn't speak, couldn't think. Meanwhile, in the distance, the city of Boston rumbled on, its lights shining, its people living out their lives. 'Welcome home…'