Hawkeye scribbled a final note on the patient file, then tossed it onto the desk at the duty nurse's station. He yawned and cast an eye over post-op. The patients, all three of them, were asleep -- not unusual behavior for three-thirty in the morning. At the far end of the room, working in the glow of a single lamp, Bigelow quietly restocked the supply cabinet. Hawkeye tucked his hands into his lab coat pockets, then sauntered down the aisle toward her.

Coming up behind her, he clasped his arms loosely around her waist. He nuzzled her hair playfully. "Can I help with anything?"

Bigelow tipped her head back to give him a sardonic smile. "Ask me that again tomorrow."

Hawkeye grinned. There were many things that he appreciated about his relationship with Bigelow, not least of which was that she didn't back away from the physical, when it suited her. He nibbled her ear. "What's wrong with tonight?"

Bigelow leaned back against him, accepting his attention even while loosely placing her hands over his own -- no doubt to keep them from roaming. "Tonight, Doctor," she said quietly, "you and I are on duty for another two hours."

"What could happen in two hours? All we have are a couple of compound fractures and one perforated chest, all of whom are resting comfortably in bed." He left a trail of kisses down the side of her neck. "We should take the hint."

Bigelow lifted her chin so he could kiss her throat. "You'll be able to add a couple of broken jaws to that list if Major Houlihan comes in here, and finds that we've deserted our post."

"Uh uh." Hawkeye obligingly ran his lips over her soft skin. "She won't stir for another hour at least."

Bigelow turned within his arms to face him. "And how do you know that?"

"Because it's Thursday. Every Thursday night, she and Frank give each other their twenty-thousand mile checkup." He left a trail of kisses along her jawline. "Frank always traipses in around four-thirty, so that none of the first-shift personnel who eat breakfast at five will suspect anything."

"Twenty thousand miles." She moved her head to catch his lips. "I can never seem to make it past fifteen."

Hawkeye murmured against her mouth, "You'd better pull into a service station promptly."

"Mmm. I'd love to. But isn't your other roomie there?"

"He's asleep." Hawkeye planted kisses on her between words. "BJ always sleeps until he wakes up. Every night. Consistently."

Bigelow returned the kiss, then gently disengaged. "Much as I'd love to witness that first hand, you and I have got to work."

"I thought we worked pretty well together last night."

"Last night we were both off duty. Tonight --"

The chest case in bed two moaned. Hawkeye cast a glance his way. "I guess duty calls. Or in this case, groans."

Hurriedly he walked toward the bed. The corporal's wounds had penetrated the pleura, and the knife responsible hadn't been particularly clean. Hawkeye rechecked his patient's vital signs. The penicillin IV was supposed to handle the infection, but Hawkeye cleaned the wounds again, and Bigelow applied ice packs against the fever. At length the man seemed calmer, but his face was strained and gray.

"He's still not comfortable," Bigelow said. "Shall I give him another shot?"

Hawkeye tipped his head toward the patient record, hanging suspended on a clipboard at the end of the bed. "When's he next due for morphine?"

Bigelow checked the chart. "Not for another half hour."

"Better wait a few minutes, then."

Hawkeye heard a footstep, and glanced toward the door. A tall, blond soldier stood just within the white sheet hung to block the draft from the door. His fatigues were dirty, and he had more smudges on his face. He looked expressionlessly toward the man Hawkeye and Bigelow were working on.

Hawkeye stood in surprise. "Can I help you?"

The man took a tentative step forward. For a big guy, he seemed awfully hesitant. He nodded towards the patient. "How's he doing?"

Hawkeye approached so they could talk quietly. "I'm Dr. Pierce. And you are?"

"Sergeant High," the man replied, or some name to that effect. He tried to lean around Hawkeye to better see the man in the bed.

Hawkeye asked, "I take it that Corporal Randall is a buddy of yours -- unless you make it a standing practice to visit hospitals in the middle of the night."

The sergeant gave up trying to see past Hawkeye, and focused his blue eyes on the doctor. He would have been a good looking man, but something, perhaps his anxiety, gave Hawkeye an uneasy feeling. "Can you tell me how bad he is?" the man asked.

"He's holding his own," Hawkeye assured him. "But if you're waiting for him to wake up, you could be here a while. We're going to give him a shot in a few minutes. I expect he'll sleep most of the day."

High nodded solemnly. "Has he said anything?"

"Not since they brought him in. But that's not uncommon when a person's unconscious."

"I see." The sergeant sighed and looked at his boots.

Hawkeye put a hand to his shoulder. "Come on, Sergeant. I'll buy you a cup of coffee. Breakfast isn't for another hour yet."

Sergeant High backed away. "No, thanks. I've got to get back to my unit."

The man's edginess triggered Hawkeye's suspicion. He narrowed his eyes. "Does your CO know you're here?"

High shuffled his feet, then met Hawkeye's gaze with a lopsided grin. "Not exactly."

"All right, Sergeant, I won't hold you up. But don't worry. Randall is going to be okay."

High met Hawkeye's eyes. "You're sure?"

"Positive," Hawkeye said, with all the confidence he could convey. "He's had a rough time, and he's not out of the woods. But he's coming into the clear."

High nodded. "Thanks, Doc."

"My pleasure. Now get back to where you belong, before we both get in trouble."

The man nodded, then stepped behind the curtain. It fluttered a little as the door behind it invisibly opened and shut. Hawkeye stretched, then turned back wearily. Bigelow was still hovering over Randall. He crossed over to her. His amorous thoughts were losing the battle to the bulletins his overall fatigue was issuing to his eyelids. OR duty, immediately followed by his turn at night shift, had made the day a little too long.

"How's he doing?" he asked.

"Better."

"Good." Hawkeye stood a moment tiredly. "Lieutenant," he said, "could you use a cup of coffee?"

"Not unless I want to stay awake."

Hawkeye smiled. "I'll take that as a yes." He turned toward the door.

"Cream, no sugar," Bigelow called after him.

Hawkeye threw her a smile over his shoulder. "Yes, Lieutenant."

He recrossed post-op, pushed back the white sheet, and stepped out into the darkened compound. He released the door gently behind him, looking around the slumbering complex. A faint clanging of pots sounded from within the mess tent, but the only smell in the air was the stale odor of last night's congealed gravy a la carte. The scent of this morning's latest offense to the taste buds had yet to rise in a nauseating plume over the compound.

A soft shuffle sounded behind him. Hawkeye turned, but saw nothing but the door of post-op settling shut. He stared at it a moment, wondering if Bigelow had for some reason started to follow him out. The door didn't budge. Hawkeye shrugged, and crossed to the mess tent.

The coffee in the big urn had been sitting all night -- or possibly longer, judging from its consistency. Hawkeye curled a lip as he filled his mug. Cautiously he sniffed the contents, then took an experimental sip. He screwed his eyes shut as the bitter taste hit him. To make matters worse, it wasn't even hot. Letting his tongue hang out of his mouth, Hawkeye pushed through the side door and tossed the contents into the bushes. If he tried dumping this into the garbage can, it would probably eat a hole through the metal.

He had just set his empty mug in the dish bin when Goldman rushed up to him. A rifle was slung across his back; clearly he'd been standing sentry duty. The private pulled up breathlessly. "Doc, you gotta come. There's trouble in post-op."

Adrenalin brought Hawkeye back to full alert. "What happened?"

"One of the patients is in trouble. The lieutenant said to get you right away."

Hawkeye sprinted for the door, Goldman at his heels. He pushed his way past the white sheet to see Bigelow bending over Randall. She turned a desperate look in his direction. "Doctor, I just gave him a shot of morphine. Now he's barely breathing."

Hawkeye ran for the side of the bed. Rapidly he checked Randall's vital signs. He murmured his findings to Bigelow. "Respiration depressed, skin clammy, lips blue. Pupils --" Hawkeye peeled back the man's eyelid. The pupil had shrunk to a pinpoint. "Nurse, bring me a syringe of Naline, stat."

Bigelow ran for the supply cabinet at the far end of the room. By now the bustle in the room had awakened the other two patients. They stirred and began to look around.

Goldman hovered near Hawkeye anxiously. "What is it?"

Hawkeye swiftly donned his stethoscope and checked Randall's heartbeat. Irregular. He removed the stethoscope from his ears and started to apply a pressure cuff. "It looks like an overdose. I've just never seen anything this severe before." He glanced up at Goldman. "Will you bring Dr. Hunnicutt?"

"Right away, sir!" Goldman bolted from the room.

Bigelow hurried back with a prepared syringe. Hawkeye injected it into the IV line already inserted into Randall's wrist. "Monitor his pressure," Hawkeye told her.

While Bigelow worked the sphygmomanometer, Hawkeye rechecked the vitals. The pupils were still shrunken to pinpoints, and the heart palpitations had gotten worse. Suddenly Randall's breathing failed.

"Ambu bag," Hawkeye ordered.

Bigelow fetched one from the code tray. "Here, Doctor."

Hawkeye positioned it over Randall's face. He squeezed the bag to pump air into Randall's lungs. "What's his pressure?"

"Seventy over forty."

Hawkeye shook his head at the low numbers. "The Naline should be working by now." He deliberated, pumping the bag again. "Bring me another dose."

"Yes, sir." Bigelow dashed back to the supply cabinet.

At that moment, BJ entered the ward. He was fully dressed, to Hawkeye's surprise. Goldman had been gone barely long enough to wake him.

BJ held back as Bigelow scurried into the aisle in front of him, then followed her to Randall's bed. "What happened?"

"Overdose, I think," Hawkeye said.

"How could that be?" Bigelow asked. "I gave him the usual amount."

"Check the bottle?" BJ asked.

Hawkeye mentally kicked himself. He should have done that first. "Yeah, take a look."

"Here it is." Bigelow snatched it up from where it was sitting at the duty nurse's station.

BJ examined the label, while Bigelow got back on the pressure cuff.

"Well?" said Hawkeye. "Are you going to keep me in suspense?"

BJ shrugged. "It's morphine, all right. Standard dosage."

"Well, he's not responding," Hawkeye said. "Bigelow, you have that Naline?"

She removed the syringe from her coat pocket. "Here, Doctor."

BJ intercepted the syringe. "I've got it." He injected it into the tube.

Randall's body bucked. Muscles twitched and his face grimaced. "Convulsion," Hawkeye said.

"I'm on it," BJ said. He pinioned Randall's arms, holding him down. Hawkeye removed the Ambu bag while Bigelow handed him a tongue depressor. Hawkeye struggled to force it between Randall's teeth.

"Phenobarb?" BJ asked.

"I'd rather not give him another sedative," Hawkeye answered. "He's barely breathing as it is."

The convulsions intensified, then suddenly stopped. Hawkeye put his stethoscope back on and listened. "He's seized." He ripped open the corporal's shirt. "Adrenalin, stat."

Bigelow raced for the code tray.

"Start compressions?" BJ asked.

"Not if I can help it. His chest wounds won't take the pressure."

Bigelow handed Hawkeye a syringe, which he injected directly into the chest. He listened again. Nothing. "More adrenalin."

Bigelow had a second syringe ready. "Prepared."

Hawkeye injected another dose. Still nothing. He removed the stethoscope. "Bigelow, get the back board. BJ, want to bag him?"

While Hawkeye lifted Randall's limp body so Bigelow could place the back board behind him, BJ retrieved the Ambu bag which Hawkeye had set aside. When Hawkeye lay Randall back down, he positioned the cup over the patient's face. "Ready."

Hawkeye began compressions, cringing at the idea of what his actions were doing to Randall's wounds. He was aware of the other patients watching him from across the room. This was the thing he hated most about post-op, the public display of a possible death.

Blood welled up against Hawkeye's palms, driven out of the corporal's body by the force of his exertions. Hawkeye risked a glance at Bigelow, who was back on the cuff. "Anything?" he asked.

Solemnly she shook her head.

BJ looked grim. "Are we doing any good?" he asked quietly.

Hawkeye did a few more compressions, then stopped. He leaned over Randall's body, breathing heavily. "No." He sank back. "It's useless. He's gone." He wiped his palms against a clean area of Randall's bandages. Those in the center of his chest were stained vividly red. Hawkeye was certain he'd cracked a couple of ribs as well -- not that those wounds would complicate matters now.

Bigelow's lovely brown eyes grew moist with her distress. "Doctor, I only gave him his prescribed medication."

"You were stocking the cabinet," said Hawkeye. "Was this bottle from the new batch?"

Her eyes flashed. "Yes, it was."

Hawkeye slowly rose. He kept his voice low. "It's possible that we've got a bad batch of morphine here. Remove every bottle that might be from the same batch as this. Empty the supply cabinet if you have to. I want all new drugs in there, until we clear this up."

"Right away, Doctor." Bigelow blinked her eyes, turning away. Hawkeye knew that she was upset over the possibility of being the unwitting agent of a man's death. However, he hoped that his words would help to shift some of the responsibility from her to the dispensary. If the morphine suspension had been badly prepared, that's where the blame really lay.

BJ had drawn the blanket over the dead man. The other two patients looked over with anxious eyes. BJ came up just behind Hawkeye. "Do you want me to get a couple of stretcher bearers?"

"I'll do it." Hawkeye indicated his blood-smeared hands. "I need to wash this off. Will you reassure our other patients that this isn't spreading?"

BJ looked uncertain. "You're positive that it's the morphine?"

"It's the most likely cause. I'll have the lab check it out. In the meantime, make sure our patients get only drugs that have already been safely used or tested."

"I'll update their charts."

"Thanks."

Hawkeye stepped into the compound. He had barely time to look around before Goldman approached him. He must have been hanging around the door.

"Captain, what happened?"

Hawkeye felt the bitterness of defeat, worse than the stale mouthful of coffee that still coated his tongue. "We couldn't save him. Can you get a couple of corpsmen to move the body out of post-op?"

Goldman nodded, subdued. "Yes, sir."

Wearily Hawkeye turned. It wasn't as if they never lost patients, but fortunately the event was rare enough to make it unusual. Hawkeye rounded the outside of the building, heading for the scrub room. He'd be damned if he'd walk back through post-op with his bloodstained hands.

The mess tent exuded its familiar reek. A few first-shift personnel drifted toward it, or toward the showers. Hawkeye noticed Frank Burns, dressed in his robe with his shaving kit in hand, walking toward the showers. Hawkeye checked his watch. It was a quarter to five. If nothing else, the man was consistent.

Hawkeye completed his circuit to the scrub room. He flipped on one of the faucets and doused his hands. Randall's blood tinged the water, swirling around the sink in reddish circles until it eventually disappeared. How quickly we move on from death, Hawkeye thought, soaping his hands. A little scrub, a little rinse, and the remainder of a man's existence just disappears down the drain.

He flipped the water off with an elbow, holding up his hands out of habit. He was getting morbid. Time to get some sleep.

He dried his hands and rolled down his sleeves. This time he walked through the center of the building to reach post-op. He still had another half hour to endure before he went off shift. At the very least, he had to give BJ a chance to eat breakfast before his shift started, if he cared to.

When he re-entered the room, he saw that Randall's body had been removed. The final evidence of death was now eliminated -- not that that had made their remaining patients any less skittish. Any soldier expects death on the battlefield, but sudden death in a quiet hospital room was a little too unfair. Hawkeye remembered Randall's injuries well. Knife wounds, received up close and personal. How cruel Fate could be, to spare a man from hand-to-hand combat, only to take him in the end with the prick of a needle.

Kellye was busy restocking the supply cabinet. BJ was updating the patients' charts. Hawkeye moved toward him, when the white sheet over the door twitched back, and Margaret Houlihan, dressed in her fatigues, entered the room.

Her icy blue eyes found him instantly. She strode quickly toward him.

"I've just seen Bigelow," she said in a low voice. "What's this I hear about a bad batch of morphine?"

"That's our best guess for now," said Hawkeye. "We ought to do ourselves a favor and check every bottle. Who have you got in dispensary?"

"Lieutenant Carlyle."

"Carlyle." Hawkeye brought her to mind. Blonde hair, green eyes, a little on the thin side. She seemed too meek for his usual tastes. "She's new, isn't she?"

"She's fully qualified in pharmaceuticals," Margaret said snippily. "You can rest assured that she didn't have anything to do with this foul-up."

Hawkeye sighed inwardly. He tried to appreciate the good things about Margaret -- her dedication to medicine, her competence and concern for her patients. But he could never warm up to her as long as her self-defensiveness and blind endorsement of the military kept interfering. It even managed to get in the way of him appreciating her physical attributes, which ordinarily would be hard to overlook.

"I'm not accusing anybody," Hawkeye said. "I just want to get to the bottom of this. So will Colonel Potter. I think you'd better put a couple of people in the lab and have them double-check each other's results, just to make sure."

Margaret wasn't so hidebound that she couldn't recognize good sense -- unlike her lover Frank Burns. What she ever saw in him was beyond Hawkeye's comprehension.

"All right. I'll get Wilson to assist her."

"Thank you, Major."

"You're welcome, Captain." She turned away to join Kellye at the supply cabinet. The two of them held a muted conference.

Hawkeye approached BJ. "Why don't you take off, Beej?" he said. "Another half hour, and you're on shift."

BJ shook his head. "I couldn't sleep now."

"I was thinking of eating."

"Surely things aren't that bad." BJ shot him a weak grin.

Hawkeye smiled back. "Not me, you. Don't you want breakfast?"

"I'd love some." BJ made another notation on the chart. "Unfortunately, I have no idea where to find any."

Hawkeye shook his head, too tired to chuckle aloud. He rubbed his eyes.

Beej touched his arm. "Hey, Hawk. You've had a rough shift. Why don't you call it a night?"

Hawkeye straightened, then nodded gratefully. "Thanks, Beej."

"Don't trip over your own feet on the way out."

"No promises."

Hawkeye let himself out the side door again. What a difference fifteen minutes made. Already half a dozen people were in the mess tent, with more crossing the compound. The sky had lightened to gray, but the sun was still behind the mountains. Hawkeye turned toward the Swamp.

A feminine scream pierced the air. Hawkeye whirled, his heart in his throat. The cry had come from somewhere behind the central building. The woman screamed again, her voice reverberating with horror.

Hawkeye dashed toward the sound. Behind him, people began to pour out of the mess tent. Hawkeye rounded the hospital's metal side, then pulled up short.

There was nothing behind the main building except a couple of lone trees, standing sentinel before the rocky feet of the foothills. Directly before the largest of these was a nurse -- Gwen Wilson, it looked like, in the uncertain light. A man stood next to her, the narrow spike of a rifle barrel poking up behind his back. Goldman. Gwen appeared to be huddled next to him, shielding her eyes from the tree.

No, from what was in the tree. Hawkeye felt his mouth go dry. Hesitantly he stepped forward, flanked by his campmates who had come up around him while he'd paused. Slowly he approached, while the murmuring grew all around him.

A woman's body was suspended from one of the branches. She was dressed in fatigues, making her hard to spot against the foliage in the dim light. As Hawkeye drew near, he could see that she was hanging by a rope around her neck. Her eyes were opened in seeming astonishment, her limp blonde hair awry.

It was Lieutenant Carlyle. Hawkeye reached up a hand to touch her ankle. The skin was cool. She must have been hanging for a while.

Hawkeye's voice was husky. "Goldman," he asked. "Do you have a knife?"

Goldman held a shuddering Gwen against him with one arm. With his free hand he unsnapped the all-purpose knife from his belt that many of the men wore on duty.

Hawkeye took it, then looked over his shoulder. Two dozen stricken faces looked back at him in the pre-dawn gloom. "Carter, Elroy," he said, "will you give me a hand?"

Two of the corpsmen stepped forward. Hawkeye stuck the knife in his belt, and began to climb the tree.