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What a gruesome OR session. The clock hit its 15th hour when they all got out of the OR and the amount of terribly wounded people was a lot more than usual.
He was starving. He had sustained on sips of powdered orange juice in the OR and hasn’t had any food in hours. There was not enough time for him to even snag a break for five minutes to eat whatever surplus they were serving that day.
Most importantly though, he lost patients today. Three on his tables. He never lost that many in one OR session. The dead kept whirling at him, slapping him in the face. He could barely process what had happened when one orderly carried the dead away and another brought another man barely surviving. Dirt and blood stained their bodies. He stood there for a few seconds, his hands covered in blood. He saw them die. He couldn’t process what the hell just happened. The boy died. He died. He could have gone in there on time and they would have been saved…
“Doctor? Doctor! We need to move on to the next patient.”
Nurse Kellye was next to him, with new fresh gloves in her hand for him to put on. She looked concerned. He could only sigh before putting them on and moving on to the next patient. He doesn’t want another person to die because of him. As he finished his fifth or seventh or seventeenth operation, he remained silent. It was unlike him to do so.
He was sitting on the bench in the OR scrub room, still in his tainted scrubs. The rest of the surgeons had left the scrub room, either to pass out in bed or get food. He sat there, trying to comprehend what had just happened, now having the time to do so.
Three patients died. Soldiers. Men. Boys . Partly because of him.
He wanted to cry. Cry and let it all out and he'll be alright. He used to cry when he lost one, but he’s become so numb from it all that he physically can’t. So, he just sits and rocks himself when it happens.
He thought about what had happened to those three boys and the causes of their death. How he could have fixed them all up. How he could have fixed it better. How he could have avoided the trauma of grief for their families. How their families could avoid the grief he felt from their relative’s death and everything related to this god forsaken war. He hated everything about it. Everything about him has changed because of it. Everything from his brain to his hair. He was only 31 and was graying like someone nearly 50.
He took off the scrubs off of his body as fast as possible and threw them on the ground. He stomped on his blood tainted shirt. The dirt from his boots made the shirt even dirtier.
He suddenly felt cold in his army mandated pants and short sleeve shirt. He missed wearing normal clothes. He wasn’t necessarily the best dresser back home, but he’d do anything to be able to wear sweaters, flannels or jeans. He started to hug himself to regain some warmth.
“Hawkeye? Hawkeye?”
He could have sworn someone was calling his name, but he thinks he’s going crazy and just put his head on his lap. He didn’t want to see anything or hear anything.
He heard quick steps and felt someone sit next to him on the bench. Their hand touched his shoulder and then wrapped their arm around his shoulder.
They rested their head on his shoulder. Maybe it was their way of saying, I’m sorry, It’s ok, I’m here for you. He at least felt a little less cold.
He decided to lift his head from his lap. He looked up in surprise. It was Margaret.
“Margaret? What are you doing here?”
“To put stuff away, of course,” she said. Her head was still on his shoulder and her arms were embracing him. He knew that had to be some bullshit.
He sighed and got up from the bench. He paced a little. He focused on her for the first time since she walked in. She herself looked extremely tired but also concerned for him too. She started to have dark circles underneath her eyes. She was only in her army pants and her tight black turtleneck that shaped her oh so magnificently. Even with her exhaustion, she still looked gorgeous. He felt a sudden urge to get out of the scrub room. It smelled so chemical and reminded him of what had just happened, like he wasn’t already thinking about it.
“I need to get out of here, Margaret. I need to get out of here.”
He was still hugging himself.
“Then, let me take you out.”
He grabbed his jacket and left.
—-
They arrived at her tent and she immediately took her boots off and sat on the edge of her bed. He sat on a stool for her small vanity and desk. He started to feel soothed by the soft, vanilla smell of her tent.
“How the hell can you make your tent smell so damn nice? It’s like an escape from Korea here.”
“You say that because The Swamp smells like sweat and homemade alcohol,” she said teasingly. Compared to how she would have said it a year or two ago, she said it with no mal intent and was trying to make things feel light. She could see it worked as he let out a small chuckle.
“I think the main thing is this perfume I use,” she said and got up and grabbed it. It was in a small, purple, glass bottle. She sprayed it towards the air and he waffed it.
“It does smell really nice,” he said and let out a sigh. She distracted him for a few seconds but his mind went back to his exhausting shift. He started to gaze off again, looking absentmindedly at some of her tent decor.
He doesn’t even know why he’s in here, smelling her perfume and sitting on her stool. It wasn’t like he and Margaret were a thing. They were just friends.
“Hawkeye. It’s not your fault,” she said and kneeled beside him. “I know it doesn’t feel like that, but you have to know it isn’t. They were too irreparable when they came by the table.”
“It is, though. It feels like there’s always something for me to do for them.”
“Sometimes, you can’t fix it, I hate to say. Especially with where we do medicine, Hawkeye,” she said. He still was looking away from her. She turned his face towards him. Her face had compassion and she had a warm smile on her face. “It is not your fault, Hawkeye.”
“I still feel like I can make it better. I don’t want their families to feel the grief. I feel like shit when they die, how would they feel when their relatives die? These people dying are just boys.”
She sighed. He thought that would be the end of it all and they would remain in an awkward stuffy silence.
“Is it the Colonel’s fault when a patient of his dies? BJ’s? Charles’?”
He paused. He could get her point, which was a little infuriating, but the guilt in the bottom of his stomach still sat.
“No, it isn’t-”
“So, you shouldn’t blame yourself, Hawkeye,” she said.
“I know I probably shouldn’t. But, I can’t help it. I never lost that many patients in one day, Margaret. And I’ve been here for two years!”
“I get that, I do. I was there with you when two of them died,” she said and they sat in silence for a few minutes, recollecting when two of their patient’s died. She sat on the ground and leaned her head on his leg.
“Is that why you were quiet in the OR?”
“Yep,” he said.
He started to get up.
“I’m starving, I should probably go find something to eat-”
She got up and picked up a paper box and opened it. It was a full box of chocolate chip cookies. She sat back down on the edge of her bed. He missed their closeness.
“I’d rather not eat anything from the mess tent right now. You can have some,” she shrugged and picked up a cookie and ate it. He said thanks and ate a cookie. It tasted like shortbread and it was the best thing he’s eaten since the camp got ice cream three months back. Good food doesn’t come often in Korea.
“Did you get this from your family back home?” he asked.
“No, I got it in Tokyo. I don’t think I’ve gotten food sent here from the states before,” she said.
“I’m getting these the next time I go to Tokyo. This is so good. Or maybe I just haven’t had good food in a while,” he said and grabbed a few more.
“Wait, didn’t you go to Tokyo nearly three months ago? Why did you wait to save these cookies?” he asked.
“Because there’s some times where I can’t even bear to have food from the mess tent. So, I try to have some food to sustain myself when all I want to do is vomit when I see them serving up something despicable. It doesn’t last long, but it makes me feel a little better. Today is one of those days,” she said and took more cookies.
“What are they serving up to us after our torturous OR session?” he asked and scoffed.
“Oh, I don’t know. I know you were probably starving and didn’t want to eat food from the mess tent, so I brought out the cookies. You can have the rest of the box, I have another one,” she said.
That made him smile for the first time that day. There was still a decent amount of cookies left. He was grateful for her, at that moment because a soothing tent? Cookies from Tokyo? Lovely company? It made it feel a little more tolerable.
“Thank you. So much. You have no idea how much this means to me, right now,” he said.
She smiled.
“It’s no problem. This is what I want someone to do for me when I feel this way,” she said and gave a shrug.
Another pit dropped in his stomach. How could he have forgotten?
“I feel bad for not asking you earlier, but are you ok?” he asked. “Today was tough. Really tough.”
“I’m ok as I can be after I lose multiple patients. Which is not great. But, what can you do?”
He sits next to her, cookies in hand.
“I can’t even cry about the patients I’ve lost anymore. I physically can’t cry. I have to feel hollow about what had just happened and deal with it. I fucking hate it. I wish I could just cry and forget about it. But, I can’t,” he says.
“I cry myself to sleep when it all feels like too much for me. They haunt me. In my dreams-”
He’s never heard her be so vulnerable about the war, the wounded, and the dead.
“What haunts you?” he asked.
“Everything. The dead, the wounded. It started to happen while I’m still here. You can’t cry about it, and have to sit and contemplate, while I have to cry about it to try to forget it. But then, I won’t. I wake up and then remember it all over again,” she says. She laid down on top of her covers.
“I try to drink myself away from the grief and make myself so drunk. It distracts you, for a bit. If you didn’t bring me over here, I would have drunk half the still and passed out in exhaustion. I’d wake up not only with a hangover but knowing the reasons why I have the hangover to begin with.
He started to take his boots off. They were getting a little uncomfortable, after all. He decided, fuck it, and laid down next to her. Being with her felt soothing.
“I’m sorry you cry yourself to sleep by yourself about this stupid war. If it makes you feel better, you aren’t the only person starting to get nightmares,” he said and started to play with her hair. She ran her hand down his face, feeling his stubble. He hasn’t shaved in five days and he was starting to look overgrown. The physical touch was comforting. He took her hand that was tracing him and kissed it. She gave a small smile and continued her caressing.
“I suppose it makes me feel a little better that I’m not the only one,” she said.
She yawned.
“I’m exhausted,” she said.
“Really? That surprises me.”
They both laughed. He knew it was time for him to go, to his dismay. It would be far too complicated to sleep over. He tried to get up and she grabbed his arm.
“Where are you going?” she asked.
“Back to my tent. You should get some sleep-”
“Stay. Please. I think it’ll make us feel a little better,” she pleaded. Her eyes were desperate and her grasp on his arm told him that she was more worried than she may have let on. He didn’t have a problem being in her tent, laying beside her, eating cookies and playing with her hair. In fact, it made him feel better about what had just happened.
Maybe that was the charm of Margaret Houlihan on him. He wanted to crack some joke about how his charms finally wore off on her, but he couldn’t bear to use a wisecrack.
He took his jacket off and tossed it on the ground. He got underneath her covers and opened his arms. She got under, put her head on his chest and wrapped her arms around him. He didn’t realize how touch starved he was, hell, he craved physical affection. There couldn’t be a better time for it: when both him and her are miserable because of the war. He wrapped his arms around her and sunk his head back on her pillow. The covers were soft and comforting, just like her. They felt different from his thinner, rougher sheets. He could sleep here for the rest of his life.
He kissed the top of her head and they both passed out immediately.
—-
She woke up at 08:30, with the sun on her face. She typically doesn’t wake up that late but because of the long OR session, she slept in more, it seems. She looked down and saw Hawkeye hugging her tightly in his sleep.
Wait. Hawkeye?!
The memories from last night started to come back to her. She remembered him wrapping his skinny arms around her and how comforting it felt, but not him sleeping on her.
Did something happen to make that happen? She had to assume something did because why else would he be holding onto her? Maybe he had a nightmare?
She assumed he had a nightmare, he’s had them before, afterall. Maybe he didn’t want to wake her up, but felt scared still and changed their position. He clearly did a good job because she didn't even notice until she woke up.
He started to stir and rolled onto his stomach, away from her. She frowned at the disappearance of his comforting touch. She wrapped her arms around his torso, admiring his sleeping self. He really did look cute while sleeping.
“Mhm, what time is it?” he mumbled.
“08:35.”
“You want to get up for breakfast?”
“Unfortunately.”
He chuckled and opened his eyes. He moved onto his back and looked at Margaret. His hair was tousled and hers was probably so unkept. But, for once, she didn’t even care about how she looked.
He took her hand and kissed the top of it. Once again. She could get used to it if he didn’t stop.
“Thank you for everything last night. I don't think I could have gone through it in a healthy manner without you,” he said.
“I don’t think I could have either. Thanks for making me feel less sad about it all.”