This wasn't supposed to happen. Death is a constant companion here, we lose wounded all the time, but this story was supposed to have a happy ending. I hated him sometimes. Everything was so easy for him, everyone loved him, he was one of the gang without even trying. I try so hard but I'm nothing but a joke. It feels surreal, like an evil fairy tale. If you had met him, you would see how things like this isn't supposed to happen to people like him. He was supposed to be protected, somehow.
Henry Blake is dead.
Ever since the news, the camp had been shrouded in silence. A heavy blanket, covering everything. The day before, when a small group of wounded arrived, there had been running and shouting, everything hectic and urgent as usual. But the OR had been quiet. No laughing, no performance, no monologues, no witty remarks, no flirting. Margaret had pleaded for some professionalism many times before, for some focus, but when she had it, it was just eerie.
People moved over the compound with their heads down. Sat in groups in the mess tent and talked with hushed voices. The image of a man in a brand-new suit, heading home only to never make it even halfway, had overtaken everybody's mind. Made them all cover. Write their loved ones a few extra letters, perhaps.
The O-Club was quiet too. Two nurses, Donoghue and Peters, at one table, their heads close together, their voices barely audible. Private Giddings over at another table, focused on a game of solitaire while a beer grew stale beside him.
And Pierce over at the bar. Hunched over, but when wasn't he? A martini and a pile of shredded napkins in front of him. Over and over, he tore off a strip and proceeded to tear the strip into tiny little pieces. Like snowflakes all over the bar. The bartender didn't even seem to notice.
Margaret stared at her glass, ran a finger around the rim. Frank's drink stood abandoned, he hadn't had a chance to take more than two sips before O'Reilly had come in and alerted him about a phone call. He walked hunched over too, O'Reilly, forehead wrinkled, like every move was carried out with great effort, painful even. Poor kid, it had hit him the hardest. It was easy to forget how heartbreakingly young he was.
Frank had been gone a good twenty minutes now, maybe she should go check if he needed her help. His organizational skills were not quite in tune. Yet.
Margaret picked the maraschino cherry from his glass and ate it, the sweetness almost shocking, and it made her grimace a little. She had loved them as a child, when had that stopped? When was the last time she ate one and enjoyed it? She still ate them, though, when she had a chance, just another thing she did but didn't really think about. A routine. Routines were safe. She forced the sticky lump down with the last drops of her drink, wasn't that a lovely way for her child-self and adult-self to merge, got up and walked towards the door.
"Have a pleasant evening, Major", Pierce said without looking up.
"You too, Captain."
"Off to see our brand new, very important leader, in his brand new, very important quarters, to celebrate his brand new, very important position in whatever position it is you two prefer?"
Private Giddings snorted a laugh into his cards, and Margaret shot him a look, felt her posture grow rigid. He leaned in over his game, but she could see his shoulder move a little as he laughed to himself.
"There is no need to be crude, Captain," she said and turned to Pierce. "What happened is nothing to celebrate, and neither Major Burns nor I am unaffected by it."
He scoffed.
"Yeah, sure."
He ripped another strip from the napkin and proceeded to tear the strip into tiny pieces, letting them snow down over the bar. It looked like a tiny winter storm had hit a tiny corner of Korea.
Margaret took a step closer.
"Major Burns is simply doing what is asked of him and believe me when I say it's done with a heavy heart. Mine is too. What happened to Henry Blake is nothing short of a tragedy."
Pierce snorted a laugh, filled with disdain, making a couple of flakes drift off the bar, and glared up at her.
"Oh, come on, Margaret." His eyes were dark. Furious. A storm brewing in there too.
"You didn't even know him, didn't even like him."
She took another step closer, lowered her voice a little.
"You're right. I didn't know him, and I certainly didn't like him. Henry Blake was a horrible commanding officer. He didn't have an ounce of discipline, couldn't make a decision if his life – or anyone else's – depended on it. All he cared about was spending his days with you and McIntyre, getting drunk and watching those filthy movies. Good lord, the way he clung to the two of you, he was like a nerdy kid who finally got a chance to sit at the cool kid's table. I didn't like how he chased after my nurses, some of them were young enough to be his daughters. He didn't have an ounce of respect for me, and the feeling was very mutual, but believe it or not, Captain, I didn't want him to die. I wanted him to go home and be with his family, to meet his son, and be the good doctor I know he was. I wanted us to get a new Commanding Officer, but I didn't want it to happen like this. He shouldn't even have been here. What a waste."
She leaned a hand against the bar, suddenly a bit out of breath. Pierce stared at her, then reached for his glass and raised it.
"You said it, Major. What a waste."
He downed his drink and gestured to the bartender for a refill.
"One more for me, and one for the Major."
She shook her head.
"No, I should get going."
"Come on, humor me, have a drink. Let's have a toast." He nodded to the bartender again.
Margaret debated with herself for a second. Spending time in Pierce's company was always a risk, he was like a wild animal, unpredictable, unsafe. Friendly, kind of, one second only to snap at you the next.
"I promise, I won't try anything. Hands over the blanket, just like last time." He waved his hands in the air.
She snorted a little and lowered her voice even more.
"You did not keep your hands over the blanket last time."
She sat down on the bar stool next to him. Half sat, one foot still on the floor. She was not staying for long.
"That's because my hands are smart, Margaret, they went to school."
They got their drinks, and Pierce raised his glass.
"To Henry Blake, who should never have been here. What a waste."
Margaret raised her glass.
"To Henry Blake. What a waste."
They drank. Margaret kept her glass in her hand, swirled her drink around while Pierce picked at the shredded napkins, making the pieces fall through his fingers in a little snowfall.
"You know," he said, "he was a fisherman too."
"I know, I saw the hat."
"One time," Pierce said and turned to her, "he was out digging for worms, and for some reason, because he was Henry Blake I guess, he wandered into this pen, and this enormous bull came charging."
"Really?"
"Yeah, this huge, angry beast, the way Henry told the story, it was practically breathing fire, its horns touching the sky. Anyway, our brave fisherman managed to climb a tree, and sat there for a good couple of hours as the bull paced down below."
Margaret smiled a little, she could imagine the scene.
"And not only that, up in the tree, he managed to piss off a bird too, I guess it had a nest up there, so he had to endure these dive bombings from the bird as well. Then, I guess the bull got bored and walked away, and Henry could climb down. You should have heard him tell that story, Margaret, Trap and I howled, it was the funniest thing. He came storming into The Swamp, poured a drink, plopped himself down on a chair, bird poop on his shoulder and on his hat, and he looked so surprised the whole time. Like he couldn't believe it had happened to him. I keep thinking about that. If he looked like that when he… When he knew."
He looked down at the pieces of napkin again, ran his fingers through them. Margaret felt her throat close up. She tried to take another sip but found she could only hold the glass against her lips. The silence was pressing, the only sound was the nurses whispering and the soft clinging from glasses being arranged.
What had he looked like in those last seconds? There was an eternity between the sky and the ocean. A lifetime. Had he known he was falling, that there was no going home after all?
She tried, really tried, to think of something to say. 'It was probably over in a second.' 'I bet he didn't feel a thing.' Those words would make absolutely nothing better.
"He did respect you, you know," Pierce said suddenly. "He hated how you handled the nurses, and every time your name was mentioned it was usually accompanied by angry pacing, heavy drinking, and – I'm not gonna lie – a lot of cursing, but as a nurse, in the OR, he did respect you."
Margaret felt a flame of anger ignite, they were her nurses, and everyone just needed to back off, but she stopped herself from biting back. It was not the time.
"And I respected him," she said instead. "As a doctor. And you too. I mean, he respected you too. As a doctor. And you were his friend."
That sounded pathetic, but Pierce nodded slowly.
"Yeah."
His voice was barely audible. He reached for another stack of napkins and started to tear a new one up. Then he paused and pushed one over to her.
"Here. It doesn't help, but it gives you something to do."
Margaret hesitated, she should get going, see if Frank needed her. Then she grabbed the napkin and slowly tore a strip off. For just a little while, she could sit next to Pierce at the bar, making it snow. In her mind was the image of a man who shouldn't have been there at all. She tried to see a happy version of him, laughing, or drunk out of his mind even, anything. But all she could see was him spinning, falling.
His face full of surprise.