Hair of the Dog

Try as he might, Hawkeye couldn’t remember much about the previous night. He had been on R&R and had spent the night in or around Tokyo, of that he was relatively certain. And he drank. A lot. Of that he could also be relatively certain.

And at some point, he had been bitten on his left leg by a dog. He didn’t recall it happening, but the bite was there, underneath some bandages he also didn’t remember getting. So, that was one thing he knew had happened, but only because he had evidence.
Beyond that, he didn’t have a clue, and he could only hope that he had had enough fun to warrant this massive hangover.

The jeep pulled into the 4077th, and he dismounted, wincing slightly as he placed weight on his injured limb. He grabbed his things from the back of the vehicle, and once unloaded, it took off.

Shortly afterwards, BJ approached him. “Hey, Hawkeye,” he greeted, just a bit too loudly for Hawkeye’s currently delicate senses, “How was Tokyo?”

“That’s a good question,” Hawkeye responded, “I’ll get back to you on that if I remember anything about it.”

“Are you telling me you don’t remember anything?” BJ asked. He paused. “And you’re serious?”

Hawkeye nodded. “I’m hoping it was the best night I’ve ever forgotten, although I have my doubts.”

Noticing the slight limp in his gait, BJ asked him, “What happened to your leg?” After a second’s pause, he added, “I’m assuming you can at least tell me that.”

“Well, I don’t know the story behind it, but I must’ve been bitten by a dog,” Hawkeye answered.

“But you don’t remember it happening, or I’m guessing anything afterward,” BJ responded. He studied Hawkeye with some concern.

“It’ll be fine, Beej,” Hawkeye said dismissively, “And if I become rabid, I promise not to bite you.”

“Very funny, but somehow I’m not comforted by that promise,” BJ said, “for all we know you becoming rabid is a distinct possibility. Do you know if you were given a vaccine?”

“I don’t know. I don’t know anything, except I was bitten, and someone bandaged it. For all I know, I could’ve done it myself,” Hawkeye answered, trying to recall any relevant details but failing.

“Well, c’mon, let’s get your stuff back to the Swamp, and then we need to take a look at that bite and see about getting you a shot,” BJ said.

“Alright, but who’s buying?” Hawkeye replied, as he followed his friend back to their tent.

It was oddly comforting to be back in the Swamp. It might have been a hellhole within a larger, more hellish hellhole, but it was the closest thing to a home he had in this place. Even if Charles insisted on playing those damned records of his at such an objectionable volume.

The music seemed louder than usual, but maybe it just seemed that way because every note pounded into Hawkeye’s sore head. Charles gave him a brief cursory glance and an equally brief greeting, “Pierce.”

“Charles,” Hawkeye said, returning the acknowledgement in kind. In a way, he appreciated Charles’s detached air at the moment. It saved him the trouble of having to come up with answers he didn’t have. Charles didn’t care what he’d been up to or if he was potentially rabid, and Hawkeye was strangely grateful for his disinterest.

As much as Hawkeye would’ve prefered to stay in the Swamp for a while and attempt to recover from whatever debauchery he’d done the previous night, BJ was insistent that they go tend to his injury and he was admittedly probably right to be, so they headed in the direction of the medical facilities. On their way, they ran into Radar.

“Hey, BJ. Hey, Hawkeye,” the company clerk greeted them. To Hawkeye, he asked, “How was Tokyo?”

“How should I know?” Hawkeye responded flippantly.

“Isn’t that where you just came back from?” Radar asked, slightly confused.

“Yeah, but that doesn’t mean I know how it was,” Hawkeye answered.

“He says he can’t remember anything from last night,” BJ explained.

“Aw geez,” Radar responded, “Well, did you at least have a good time?”

Rather than point out the obvious flaw in the question, Hawkeye simply said, “I sure hope so.”

As they began to go their separate ways, Radar stopped them again, “Gee, Hawkeye, what happened to your leg?”

“Oh, this? It’s nothing. You should see the other guy.”

Strangely enough, Radar seemed satisfied with this non-explanation. Either that or he figured he didn’t have the time for a real one. He went on his way and left Hawkeye and BJ to return to their business.

“Either someone else bandaged this or the quality of my drunken handiwork is slipping,” Hawkeye noted as he removed the covering of his wound, wincing as he came into contact with certain areas.

“Maybe the dog did it,” BJ replied, “it was really the least he could do after biting you.”

“I think the least he could’ve done was not biting me in the first place,” Hawkeye said, inspecting the bite, “Jesus! What kind of dog was it?”

It was a big, nasty bite. Whatever variety of canine had attacked him was evidently very large and vicious. Really, it probably could have been a lot worse; if it hadn’t apparently stopped when and where it did, Hawkeye might not have had to worry about becoming rabid or anything else for that matter.

“Well, whatever it was it must not have been very memorable,” BJ said mildly. He paused briefly and then continued, “This looks fairly clean but we should probably go ahead and clean it again, and it looks like you’ll need stitches there. First things first though we need to vaccinate you.”

“Hey, who said anything about vaccination? I thought we were getting shots.” It was admittedly a weak joke, probably deserving of the complete lack of attention BJ paid it as he left to go get all the necessary supplies.

After hopefully preventing the development of rabies and cleaning, stitching, and re-bandaging Hawkeye’s wound, the two of them headed back to the Swamp. With any luck, the rest of the afternoon and the following evening would be uneventful.

The weird hypersensitivity he had been experiencing didn’t end when the hangover ended, as Hawkeye found out early the next morning. It was barely sunrise when he awoke to the sound of choppers approaching. He looked around to find Charles and BJ were still sound asleep.

“Guys, wake up! Don’t you hear that?” He shook them both awake. “C’mon, we’ve got incoming wounded. Don’t you hear those choppers?”

“Hawk, you’re dreaming,” BJ said, still groggy, “Go back to sleep.”

“No, I’m serious! Listen!” Hawkeye argued.

The three of them were quiet for a moment. Finally, Charles said, “Hunnicutt, I believe he may be right. I believe I, too, can hear them, distant though they may be.”

“Distant? C’mon, they may not be right on us, but they’re close,” Hawkeye responded, incredulously, “I’m surprised they haven’t said anything over—”

Before he could continue, a voice over the PA cut him off, “Attention, all personnel! Incoming wounded!”

Any doubts the three doctors might have had were immediately cast away by that voice and they sprang immediately into action, heading towards the OR.

Once the wounded arrived, things got even weirder. Namely, the smells were much stronger than usual, to such an extent that Hawkeye could smell things he never even realized had scents before. He wasn’t sure why he’d notice the scents now and never before, nor was he sure why they’d be so much more overwhelmingly intense at the moment, but he didn’t have time to contemplate why. All he knew was that it was happening, and he’d have to work in spite of it.

It made it hard to concentrate though, like the worst kind of sensory overload. Still, he tried his best to shake it off and work through it because he had to.

The smell of sweat hung in the air of the OR, the sweat of patients, the sweat of nurses, the sweat of doctors. Hawkeye was surprised to find that at times he could tell the smell of one person from another, although for the most part they all just blended together.

The scent of the blood was nearly overwhelming, and he hated that he was so intensely aware of it. The smell of it had never been so strong before, even though it was routinely all over him and everyone around him. He hoped he could forget it; he wished he could get it out of his head.

But that wasn’t actually the worst one. There was something else, something Hawkeye couldn’t quite place. It had a sour note to it, and it caused an anxious feeling in his guts when he breathed it in. He could feel it, too, in some indescribable and intangible way. It was like it came with its own energy. It hung in the air of the place, as though everyone in the room and surrounding area was breathing it in and out just as he was.

It was… fear. The realization froze him for a second. He could smell fear, and he could feel it, not just his own fear—no this was different; it was everyone’s. He felt the fear of everyone else in the room, maybe not to the extent they felt it, but he still could feel it.

What was going on? Was he losing his mind? Was this some sort of delusion?

Some sort of bizarre olfactory hallucination?

He couldn’t crack up now; there were lives on the line. He’d just have to deal with whatever this was later. He shook it off as best as he could, and he kept working.

Later that day, long after the nightmare that was triage and the OR, the strangeness continued. Everywhere Hawkeye went there were so many smells, much like when the wounded came in only these were more mundane, less hellish scents. He was even getting pretty good at matching certain scents to certain people as the afternoon progressed. The fact that this was a very odd (and not to mention very dog-like) thing to do was not lost on him, but he really didn’t know what to make of it, nor was it something he knew how to stop. It wasn’t really anything that he did consciously or that he could control. That he should be experiencing any of this after apparently being bitten by a dog was either an extreme coincidence or perhaps something psychosomatic in nature. It was hard to say which.

He thought about all of this as he changed the bandaging on his wound. He inspected the injury, flinching as he touched certain areas. It still looked pretty grisly, but the wound seemed to be healing fine. There were no signs of infection so far. It still hurt, but it wasn’t at all unbearable. Really aside from the probably unrelated other weird stuff he’d been experiencing, he felt perfectly fine.

Someone was approaching him from behind, and judging by the scent, it was BJ. “So, how’s the leg?” he asked. Hawkeye wasn’t sure what to make of the fact that he’d just correctly identified his best friend by smell alone, but apparently that was a thing he could do now regardless of what he thought of it.

“It’s okay,” Hawkeye replied, somewhat distracted. He could practically feel his friend studying him.

“What about you?” BJ asked.

“What about me?” Hawkeye countered in a mild but uneasy tone, feeling strangely defensive under the probably well-intentioned scrutiny.

“Are you okay? You’ve been uncharacteristically quiet all day,” BJ responded.

He supposed he was okay; whatever this was that was going on with him didn’t seem at all harmful. Unless this was the symptom of some larger health concern, probably one that was psychological in nature. “‘Uncharacteristically quiet’? I can be quiet when I want to be.” He seldom wanted to be, but that went without saying.

BJ still said it, of course. “I’ve never known you to want to,” he quipped.

“Well, there’s a first time for everything,” Hawkeye said. After a beat, he added, “I’m alright though, really.”

“Alright,” BJ said, “If you say so. I’m thinking about grabbing a few drinks. Do you wanna join me?”

He should probably have said no, given the criminal amount he had recently consumed, but he found the opportunity to dull his senses even more appealing than usual and that was truly saying something. “Yeah, sure. I think I’ve given my liver enough time to recover from whatever happened in Tokyo.”

Alcohol had gotten him into whatever this mess was, so the least it could do was get him out of it, even if only temporarily or partially.