The canvas walls of the Swamp had a way of shrinking when the rest of the world felt too big.

Outside, the Korean wind was biting, tearing at the tent stakes and whispering of things that were better left unsaid. Inside, however, the air smelled faintly of damp wool, too much aftershave, and the distinct, sharp tang of B.J.’s illicit gin still—a perfume that defined the 4077th better than any official report.

Hawkeye lay on his bunk, his knees pulled up just enough to balance an apple on his chest. With a casual, almost rhythmic flick of his wrist, he sent the fruit into the air, watching it spin against the muted light of the kerosene lantern.

He didn’t really want the apple. He just needed the distraction.

Across the small, scarred wooden table, B.J. sat hunched over, his spectacles catching the dim light. He was reading a letter, the thin paper trembling ever so slightly between his fingers.

B.J. hadn’t spoken in twenty minutes. His expression wasn’t the usual easygoing grin that acted as a balm for the chaos of the OR. Instead, his brow was furrowed, his eyes scanning lines of ink as if they contained a secret map back to California.

Hawkeye caught the apple, his thumb tracing a bruise on its skin. He watched B.J.’s throat tighten, a sudden, sharp swallow that spoke volumes.

The playfulness left the room, replaced by the heavy, suffocating weight of being thousands of miles from the people who mattered most. Hawkeye sat up, his feet hitting the floor, the apple forgotten in his palm.

“Beej?” he asked, his voice low, shedding the sarcasm like a coat that had grown too heavy. “Is it Peg? Is Erin okay?”

B.J. didn’t look up immediately. He just stared at the page, his knuckles turning white, and for the first time, the silence didn’t feel peaceful—it felt like it was about to shatter.

—

B.J. took a slow, shuddering breath, the kind that starts deep in the chest and takes a long time to travel out. He finally looked up, his eyes glassy, though he offered a weak, lopsided smile that didn’t quite reach his ears.

“She’s fine, Hawk. They’re both fine,” B.J. said, his voice raspy. He folded the letter with a careful, almost reverent precision. “It’s just… she mentioned the smell of the jasmine bushes in the backyard. She said they’re starting to bloom.”

He looked around the tent—at the mud-caked boots, the spare cots, and the “The Swamp” sign hanging crookedly over the entrance.

“I was just sitting here trying to remember what that smells like,” he confessed, leaning back as the tension in his shoulders finally began to ebb. “But all I can conjure up is the smell of ether and burnt toast.”

Hawkeye tossed the apple across the small gap between them. B.J. caught it reflexively, the mundane weight of the fruit grounding him back in the reality of the present.

“Jasmine, huh?” Hawkeye muttered, leaning forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “Well, I can’t offer you a garden, but I do have a mostly clean apple and a half-bottle of gin that’s currently aging to perfection in the corner.”

B.J. let out a soft, genuine chuckle, the tightness in his face finally relaxing into that familiar, steady warmth. He took a bite of the apple, the crunch loud in the quiet tent. It wasn’t a gourmet meal, and it certainly wasn’t home, but it was enough.

“You’re a terrible friend, Hawkeye,” B.J. teased, though his eyes remained soft.

“I’m a miracle worker, Beej. There’s a difference,” Hawkeye countered, picking up his own mug.

They didn’t talk about the war. They didn’t talk about the stretchers or the faces they had seen that morning. They sat in the dim, flickering light, sharing the simple, quiet intimacy of two men who had learned how to keep each other anchored in a storm.

Eventually, the wind outside seemed to lose its ferocity. The world hadn’t changed, and the war was still waiting right outside the canvas flaps, but for tonight, they were just two friends holding onto the small pieces of peace they could manufacture for themselves.

It was a small, fragile thing, this life they had carved out together, but it was theirs. And in the 4077th, that was more than enough to get through until morning.

—
Some wounds don’t heal, but they certainly hurt less when you have someone to sit with in the dark.