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[takenhawkeye.livejournal.com]

Once again, yet another short story for your enjoyment. Any pointing out of grammatical errors, or the such, is welcomed.

Summary: After the dishonorable discharge of Private Schubert, Hawkeye and BJ realize they don't always see eye-to-eye.

***


"Sergeant Zale, just the man we wanted to see." Falling down beside the startled man, gesturing at BJ to do the same, Hawkeye claps an arm around Zale's shoulders, ignoring the blatant discomfort that is shown. "We seem to be having a tiny problem with the still --"

"Miniscule, really."

"-- And many a disgruntled Company Clerk told us --"

"Many a time."

"-- That you are the only one who can help us." Hawkeye pauses, searching the Sergeant's face. "Just a minute of your time --"

"No." Zale flatly breaks in. Lifting his fork, he gently prods at what is suspected to either be potatoes and gravy or recycled jeep oil.

"A tiny problem," BJ insists. "Hardly a problem at all. A few minutes and --"

Zale sets down his fork, leaning to look the other two men in the eye. "Captains, I'd love to help you out, but I just ain't got the time. That boy that worked with me --"

"For you, you mean." Hawkeye picks up the discarded fork, skewering a slab of something green, and brings it to his nose. Making a face, he pushes the tray away. "You ran that kid ragged. Last I saw, you had him spit-shinning your boots in between announcing you with triumphant fanfare."

"Like I said, with me." BJ and Hawkeye exchange a glance. "Kid just up and got discharged, left me --"

Suddenly, as is often the case when the word 'discharge' is uttered, Klinger appears at Hawkeye's shoulder, evening gown and all. "What's this I hear about a discharge?"

BJ motioned for Klinger to take a seat. "Private Schubert's out."

"What? That kid? He's only been here four months!" Sliding onto the bench, Klinger pauses, adjusting his stockings. Leaning in, interest evident, he whispers, "What's his secret?"

Zale let out a barking laugh, motioning the others closer. Glancing around at the crowded Mess Tent, he mutters, "Damn kid's one of them fairies, you know." He makes an effeminate gesture with his hand. "One of them."

"Christ." Hawkeye leans back, suppressing the urge to roll his eyes. "They sent him home for that?"

"Sent him on his way, blue discharge and all."

Klinger's eyes widen slightly. "Dishonorable discharge?"

"Wasn't no congratulatory slip." Satisfied, Zale reaches for his tray once more, shoveling gray peas into his mouth.

"There you go, Klinger. Your ticket home." BJ smirks, oblivious to the glare Hawkeye shoots him.

Klinger lifts a hand as if surrendering. "Oh no you don't. I may be crazy, and I may be worthy of a Section 8, but I'm not one of them. Keep your blue discharge, thank you." Standing on unsteady heels, he turns toward the Mess Tent door, bumping into a few innocent bystanders along the way.

Watching the peculiar Corporal walk away, BJ merely shakes his head. Looking back at Zale, he tries again. "About the still --"

"No."

Mind elsewhere, Hawkeye cuts in. "Who -- who said all this? About Schubert." He pauses for a moment, collecting the thoughts racing through his mind. "Who said he was -- well, you know."

Mildly surprised that they are still on the subject, Zale drains his coffee mug. "Radar." The dark-haired man feels his eyes widen as Zale begins to pile his lunch remains on his tray. "Didn't know he was. Bet the kid wouldn't have said a thing if he knew what he was doing -- funny like that, too softhearted for his own good. Personally, I'm glad he did. Wouldn't want one of those types working with me. Just isn't normal. Anyway, Radar heard that Schubert telling some patient a story. Some story about an unusual trip to Tokyo -- very unusual, if you catch my drift. Radar mentioned it in passing to Potter, and next thing I knew I was working alone." Zale pulls himself up to his feet, tray balancing in his left hand. "Got to get back to it, if I'm going make that poker game at Rosie's tonight. Hear there's a marine that thinks he can beat me." Without even a murmur of goodbye, he leaves the tent, pausing only to return his lunch from where it came -- the garbage can.

"Damn." BJ watches as the Supply Sergeant disappears across the compound. "There goes our only hope for any revival of the still. Officer's Club and Rosie's for us, just like all those other --" He sighs, looking at Hawkeye. "You sure you don't know how to fix it? You built the blasted thing with Trapper John, you can't --"

He stops once more, noticing the blank stare in Hawkeye's eyes. "Hawk? Hey, Hawk?"

Stirring himself from his thoughts, Hawkeye glances over at BJ. "I can't believe they sent him home." Nervously, he taps on the table before him. "Probably wasn't even true, but the army doesn't care about truth, does it?"

BJ blinks. "You're not still on that? Hawk, he's home. He escaped this hell with all his mind and limbs, we should be jealous. We should be in the Swamp, drinking lighter fluid, so jealous of the kid that we can't see straight. Missing home while hating Schubert for not having to."

Hawkeye stares at the other man, stunned. "A dishonorable isn't exactly the same as your points adding up or a Section 8. Kid's probably going to be facing hell when he gets home, all for something that isn't true."

"A discharge is a discharge. He's alive, and he's safe and --" BJ can't understand why something so trivial in evoking such a reaction in his tent mate.

"He's alive? He's safe?" Hawkeye turns, incredulous. "Beej, something like this -- this is going to end up on his record for the rest of -- god, you think anyone will hire him after this? Think his family will bring him back with open arms?" Making a wild gesture with his hand, he adds, "All for something Radar heard wrong." Quieter this time. "All for something that's not even true."

BJ darts his eyes away, feigning interest in a heated argument taking place between Igor and a dissatisfied Corpsman. Muttering, he moves to stand up.

"What was that?" Hawkeye shoots an arm out, stopping BJ.

Angry, he stares down, carefully enunciating each word so that his meaning can't be lost. "You don't even know that wasn't true. For all you know, Radar heard exactly what's what."

Now Hawkeye's at his feet, eyes flashing. "And if it is? If it is all true? Schubert's life still deserves to be ruined, that it?" He turns away, stepping carefully to the door. Pausing at the door, he calls over his shoulder, "You want that damn still fixed, do it yourself."

The tent falls silent, as the door slams shut. Sighing, BJ sinks back down, wondering what just happened.

***

"It's just an address, Radar." Hawkeye leans against the desk, elbows propping him up. "All I want is a lousy address, where's the harm in that?"

"Well, I --" Radar hesitates, folder clutched tightly in his grasp. "If it's just an address --"

Urgently, Hawkeye darts a hand out, making a grab for the folder. "Thank you, I'll just look --"

"Oh no." Radar starts, taking a step back. "These folders are confidentially secretive for my looking at only. I-Corps knew I let you see 'em, they'd have me on latrine duty for the rest of this war and the next!"

"Radar --" His patience wearing thin, Hawkeye forces his temper back. He gives the young Corporal a condecending smile, starting again. "I have a letter to write. I can't write it if I don't know where to send it, can I?"

"No, I guess you --" Radar glances over at the closed door to the Colonel's office, brow wrinkled in thought. "Why are you -- why are you writing to Schubert anyway? I heard they sent him home because --"

"I've heard." Hawkeye takes a deep breath, letting his eyes close briefly. "Just get me the address, will you?"

Looking away, Radar's head spins in wonderment. "I'll -- I'll ask the Colonel."

"Then I'll --" Hawkeye steps across the small office, landing on the cot with a soft thud, and spreads out, "-- wait here."

The Company Clerk chances a glance, stepping through the swinging doors to the adjoining office. There are some things, he decides, that must be for officers only.

Across the room another door swings open, emitting a stooped figure. "Hawk. Uh -- hey."

Blearily opening an eye, Hawkeye pulls himself up. "Scratch that, Radar, I'll be waiting in my tent." He's halfway to the door before BJ's outstretch arm stops him.

"Hawk, just listen for a second, will you?"

"I've heard enough. Radar was right, the army was right, who's Schubert to deserve a life that isn't hell, anyway?"

In the back of his mind, BJ slowly counts to ten. "Hawk, what the hell's the matter with you?"

Bitterly, Hawkeye loosens his wrist, a crude imitation of Zale from only minutes before. "Well, he's one of them fairies; you know how it is." He shoots BJ a disgusted look. "Somehow, I don't think it's me that has the matter with."

BJ hesitates. "He was -- god, that was a joke, Hawk. A joke! You of all people should understand a joke when you --"

"It wasn't funny." Hawkeye stares down at his shoes, briefly wondering when he last had them shined. Meeting the perplexed eyes watching him intently, he adds, "Do you even understand?"

"Under -- no, I -- I guess --"

"A blue discharge, Beej! I -- he --" Hawkeye waved a hand, defeated. "No, no, just forget it. I don't even know why I -- forget it."

BJ's quiet now, struggling to keep up. "Hawk, I just -- I don't understand."

"No, I don't suppose you would." Turning on his heels, the dark haired man pushes his way from the room and out into the crisp Korean night.

Slipping into the room, almost appearing at BJ's side, Radar calls out. "Captain Pierce? I have your -- I got the address you --"

Gently, BJ lowers a hand onto his shoulder. "I'll -- I'll take it." Without waiting for a reply, he grabs for the scrap of paper, moving to follow the shadowy figure halfway across the compound. Checking the door is securely closed behind him, he pauses only a minute to tear the paper into strips, letting them fall to the ground, before continuing on.


***

Farewell.