Dear Dad,
Still doing fine here at the 4077. Thank you for your letter, which I received just yesterday. I'm glad to hear Mrs. O'Grady's seventh labor went okay. I'm sure the kid'll grow up to be a wonderful young lady, just like her mother.
Things are alright here right now, if a little slow. Not that that's a bad thing. The weather's taken a turn for the better too; I can finally bring my wonderful long-johns out of hiding without being mobbed by eleven Typhoid Marys with frostbite. The good weather also brought us a new friend. If you don't mind, I'll tell you a little about him…
"Trapper, for the last time, show me what's hidden under your coat! You took half an hour at the latrines, and frankly that makes me worried about where exactly it came from."
"So?" demanded the Bostonian surgeon, continuing to keep his right side furthest from Hawkeye in the dim lamplight. His hand rested protectively on the outside of his overcoat, as if checking for a heartbeat apart from his own.
"Well in that case, unless it's a present for Frank's socks – preferably while being worn – I want no association with it."
"It's not that, alright?" Frank gave a loud snore from behind them, and both men stiffened, watching their tentmate anxiously. When no movement followed, Trapper beckoned Hawkeye closer. "I'll show ya. Just – just don't make a sound. You'll frighten the little guy. And no, it's not Radar in there."
Gently, he peeled back his coat. Inside he'd made a sort of hollow nest of toilet paper, and inside that was…
"A pigeon," observed Hawkeye, looking at it. "Pretty bird, Trap, but it looks like it's three-quarters feathers. And the other quarter is fleas." The thing was pretty grubby, and slightly starved-looking. Like all pigeons, it had a constant look of harassment, mixed with a little outrage. It reminded him a bit of Father Mulcahy on a bad day.
"Don't be stupid. Pigeons can't get fleas." Trapper used a gloved finger to stroke the blueish-grey feathers on the top of the bird's head. Surprisingly, it didn't even attempt to nip him. "I'll feed him up, you'll see. Then he'll be beautiful. You can tell by the looks of him."
"Great, wonderful." Hawkeye straightened back up, heading back to his bunk. "And while you're at it, find something for us to eat. That rice at dinner could've been thrown at my parents' nuptials in a previous life." He buried himself in his blankets and rolled over to face the inside of the tent covering.
Trapper rolled his eyes in his pal's direction, and slowly eased the pigeon out of his coat. Placing the nest against the stove, he too went to bed.
Unexpectedly, the pigeon was still there by morning. Honestly Dad, I think it's crazy. After all, nothing in its right mind would stay within proximity of Trapper's feet for a minute, never mind for a night. Or maybe birds can't pass out from lack of oxygen.
Trapper's convinced the thing's special for reasons I don't understand. Apparently it's domesticated, something called a "homing pigeon." He told me these tales about pigeons in the first world war. Taking notes and codes between stations, always knowing where to go. Frank thinks it's special too – he's convinced it's a trick by the Communists to send propaganda and brainwash us into submission. I pointed out that there was no slip of paper saying "Peace, Bread, Land" strapped to Shermy's leg when we found him, but you know how Frank is.
Oh, I ought to explain that last sentence, Dad. "Shermy" is the bird. Trap named it. I honestly think he's getting too attached to it for his own good. But who am I to tell him so? I have to admit it's grown on me.
"So what I don't get is this," Hawkeye said, as he and Trapper worked together on a patient in the OR. There was no massive rush - it was just three kids in that afternoon, caught by sniper fire on the road to Seoul. "If that pigeon is a homing one, what's he homing into?"
Trapper shrugged. "Doesn't look like he's homin' into anything. He mostly just stands and looks pretty."
"Lazy bastard. Just what we need around here to boost morale – another depressed creature regretting its career and lying around all day. Give him a martini glass, and we've got ourselves a human being."
"Can you two talk about anything else but that filthy pigeon?!" exploded Major Houlihan from the other side of the room, where she was working with Major Burns. "It's bad enough that Colonel Blake let an unsanitary bird stay in a medical unit, without it distracting you from surgery!"
"Speak up, Major, I don't think they can hear you in Vietnam."
Frank spoke up. "Well I think it's disgraceful! Letting a foreign animal under our defences and into our tents. It oughta be shot!"
"But mommy, Radar gets to bring his pets to school," whined Hawkeye, pouting behind the white mask. Trapper quickly caught on to the joke.
"Hey, remember that time he brought Henry in? One funny-lookin' guinea pig."
"Yeah, ate up paperwork like nobody's business."
"Will you two jokers shut up? Nurse Bayliss, tell me if they bring up that foul, uh… fowl again." Frank flounced through to the storeroom, presumably to punch a wall.
Ginger Bayliss gave them an apologetic look through her eyelashes. "My grandpa used to race pigeons when I was little," she told them in a hushed voice, so Houlihan wouldn't overhear. "Talk about yours all you want."
"Race them?" Trapper was intrigued. "You can do that?"
"Sure! You take them a distance away from a base, then time their way back. Properly trained ones can home in from miles around. My grandpa loved it."
"Huh, really." Hawkeye sewed up the wound, having removed the bullet. Trapper, with little else to do, looked on boredly, as if he was watching someone pack a suitcase. "So how d'you do it?"
"I'm sorry, I don't know. I was very young."
"Well, it's worth a try."
Sorry Dad, I had to go away for a while. I knew the quiet was too much to last. A lovely Valentine's day gift for us, I gotta say. Tell Mr. MacArthur it's a sweet gesture, but I just don't feel the same way.
Whatever time Trapper has, he spends training Shermy for the "race" I mentioned earlier. He really is set on getting it right, even if he can't untie him until the big day because of a stupid rule Frank pushed through. I told you before that he's too attached to Shermy, but it's hard to say no to those puppy-dog eyes. I haven't seen him so absorbed in something like this for a long time, not even a nurse.
Of course, I'd help a little more with the training if I wasn't suffering for his stupid sport…
"How do you explain this?" Hawkeye held up his red robe. The main thing which stuck out was the long slash down the middle, which exposed the wearer's behind and lower back to the elements. Something he'd learned the hard way, when he left the Swamp for breakfast. Admittedly it didn't make much to make the Father blush, but Hawkeye was still slightly embarrassed. "I thought it was getting a little breezy lately. Your pigeon has been vandalizing my stuff!"
"Gee, I'm sorry," said Trapper, not sounding very sorry at all. "It's just that I'm trying to teach him to go for anything red."
"What the hell for?"
"I kinda changed the rules. It'll be a sorta… have you ever heard of Capture the Flag?"
"Yeah."
"Well, I'm gonna climb to the top of the tallest tree, way on the other side of camp – y'know, where I've been training him – and I'll wave a big red flag. That way he's sure to come, even from the other side. He's resting there right now. It's his base, like Ginger said."
Hawkeye looked at him curiously. Then he said, "Trap, what is it?"
"Oh, it's cut from one of Klinger's dresses. He offered it, 'cause it doesn't really go with any of his heels-"
"No, I mean, what is it you're doing this for? I dunno why you're taking this so damn seriously. We save lives, you've got a wife and two girls at home, and you're putting everything into one solitary pigeon?"
"Just for fun. What's the problem with that?" Trapper paused. "Also, I like birds."
"Well, yeah. Anyone who's watched you for the past two weeks can tell you like birds. You keep the thing on a leash like a dog." Hawkeye poured himself a martini. "Want one?"
"Nah." The Bostonian flopped down on his bunk, and gazed up at the sunlight filtering through the gauzy tent. Hawkeye watched silently, waiting for the signal. Trapper always answered a question, even if he went the long way round doing it.
"There was this smaller kid," Trapper finally said, "who I knew, who kept two little ducklings in the pockets of his coat. Massive coat it was; twice as big as the kid himself. He'd have taken up two lanes on the freeway. Anyway, easily enough room in there for a whole tree of birds. He'd fill them with every bit of insulation and comfort he could. Packed dirt; rubber; bits of rotting wood chip… Smelt like the back of Rosie's bar, none of us would touch him with a ten-foot pole, but the ducklings stayed warm in there all through winter. Maybe they got lost on purpose." He paused, then gave a crooked smile. "They made a beautiful sound, those ducks. If nothing else, they wanted the maggots we found in the food now and again."
Hawkeye made an agreeing noise, as he made another martini. It was the only sound he dared to make. It wasn't often Trapper talked about his childhood, and he knew he had a tendency to open his mouth too wide and cause him to clam up again.
"When they grew up too big and couldn't hide in the pockets anymore, the Sister took them away. I don't know what she did with 'em. Stupid kid cried his eyes out for a month after. Waste of time anyway; no one ever got to taste one crummy duck egg."
"Bottoms up." Trapper absent-mindedly took the glass.
"First thing I'm gonna do when I get home," he announced to no one in particular, "is eat a soft-boiled egg with soldiers for breakfast. Y'know, bits of toasted bread."
"Right." Trapper downed the drink, grimaced, then fell silent. It was a very quiet brunch that day.
"Hey Father; care to bet on Capture the Flag? Closest wins."
"Oh, is this the pigeon race I've been hearing about?" Father Mulcahy smiled, putting down his book. "How is the champion?"
"If it's possible to get fat on spam, he'll manage it. How about it, Father? Ten dollars?"
"I'd better not, if it's all the same to you, Hawkeye. It's a Sunday, y'know." Hawkeye noticed Father Mulcahy's eyes flicker despite himself. Their chaplain had a well-known weakness for gambling. "No, no, not for me."
"Suit yourself. Although most people think Sherm'll just fly off the second he's let go. So I think the orphans would benefit greatly from odds of, say… fifteen to one?"
"You really think he'll make it?"
"I'm absolutely certain that he might." Father Mulcahy struggled with himself for a good fifteen seconds before he finally relented.
"Fifteen dollars, for God's work," he said firmly. "I'll bet forty seconds. And if he doesn't make a time at all, you owe me thirty for the new stove for the orphanage."
"Deal."
Our chaplain's a good guy, Dad. You always said it's good to have someone with friends in high places in a war, and his best friend's in as high a place as anyone can hope to be. Despite this, he's never projected himself as superior to us, which I'm thankful for.
The only people who've put down money for a time at all are Father Mulcahy and two of the nurses. Klinger bet ten dollars that he'd fly in the opposite direction or drop dead. I'll get my robe fixed tomorrow, though I'm not really that torn up about it (see what I did there?). I mean, it's not like there's no one here who knows how to sew.
Speaking of which, how's Miss Hayes doing? Tell her I said hello…
It was the day of the race, and the sun was out against all odds. Those who could be bothered to show up for the event shivered, having been tricked into wearing lighter clothing by the weak sunlight.
"Not really the American Derby, is it?" Henry said doubtfully, as he and Hawkeye tied Shermy to the signpost near the Swamp.
"No one expects it to be, Henry," replied the surgeon, giving the pigeon a self-conscious pat on the head. "It's just a little fun. Still not interested in a bet?"
"No thanks – New Year's resolution. How's Trapper doing?"
"Not bad for a guy standing up a tree."
"The man's ridiculous!" Frank butted into the conversation. "He's a sitting duck for the Commies. We may as well tie him to our entrance sign, with the words "NOT A DOCTOR – PLEASE KILL" written across his chest in Korean."
"Hey, great idea Frank! Why don't we try it right now?"
"Pierce…" said Henry warningly. Frank gave a peculiar huffing noise, and retreated to his tent to sulk.
"Hey!" came a distant shout. "You started yet? My feet are going numb!"
"Be right there, Trap!" Hawkeye yelled back. "Okay, any of you guys got a watch?"
"Yessir," said a tiny corporal, popping up next to his elbow. Hawkeye jumped, biting back a curse word.
"F – Geez, Radar, you almost gave me a heart attack."
"Sorry, sir." Radar peered down at his wristwatch, adjusting his spectacles. "We're coming up to 10:14 in ten… nine… eight…"
"Okay Sherm, don't let your papa down," whispered Hawkeye, slowly untying the rope. "I've got ten dollars riding on this."
"…four… three… two… one!" With one last good luck he dropped the rope which still hung around Shermy's neck, stepping well back.
The pigeon stood stock-still. Its gaze flickered to the severed rope, and up at the humans.
"Five seconds, sir," mumbled Radar.
"I knew it. The thing's dumb as a doorstop," said a disgusted voice in the crowd.
"Ten seconds."
"This is easy money!" exclaimed Klinger, rubbing his hands with glee. "When can we do this again?"
"I hope we're not frightening him," Father Mulcahy said worriedly. "Maybe we'd all better stand- " At that exact moment, without warning, Shermy took to the air. One minute he was there, the next he had disappeared in a whirl of light grey feathers.
"Woah!"
"Okay, I wasn't expecting- "
"I wasn't even sure that thing could fly at all!"
Hawkeye just laughed and laughed. He knew there were far more graceful birds in flight – eagles, condors, and so on – but after months of missing the sound of birdsong, and only seeing the occasional tiny sparrow, even the sight of a slightly underweight and drab pigeon flying two feet above the dusty ground was enough to make his heart soar.
"He's headed in the right direction at least," said Radar happily, ignoring Klinger's curse of dismay. "Oh boy, he's gaining height like an airplane!"
"Like a champion!" Hawkeye added, still grinning like an idiot.
The crowd ran through the camp to keep up with the bird, and there were shouts of disbelief as they realized Shermy was in fact making a beeline for Trapper's perch. The man himself was waving a large red flag like his life depended on it, and grinning from ear to ear.
Shermy was slowing down, but still getting higher. He was going to make it. A few people were chanting the pigeon's name. He was going to make it. Hawkeye heard Trapper give a loud, full laugh, and then –
CRACK!
And just like that, they were back in a war. Several people ducked instinctively at the sound of a gunshot, Hawkeye amongst them, and when they finally remembered what they'd been doing beforehand, it was too late.
And the grey lifeless bag of feathers and bones which had been known as Shermy was wheeling helplessly towards the ground. It hid the muddy ground with a sickening thud.
"No!"
"Oh, dear…" Father Mulcahy sighed.
Hawkeye walked over to the bird. Its feathers, previously a beautiful pearly grey, were turning a horrible orangey-pink color. He knelt down and touched it.
"Right in the heart," he muttered in disbelief. "How- "
"Damn you," murmured Trapper, barely audible from twenty feet up. "Damn you, damn everything…"
"Trap!" Hawkeye shouted urgently. "There's a sniper in the brush, you've gotta get down- "
"DAMN YOU, FRANK!" Everyone froze. "There's no sniper, can't ya see? It was him, the rat!" The crowd turned to look back towards the tents.
Hawkeye hadn't exactly expected Frank to be standing there with a still smoking gun in his hand, but somehow it didn't surprise him in the least. That was what sickened him - that way back in his head, he'd always be expecting it from this man.
"Why the hell did you do that?!" Radar demanded furiously. "You can't j-just shoot him!" The corporal was an animal lover, Hawkeye remembered vaguely.
"Oh, c-can't I, Corporal?" Frank mocked. "It was a non-American object flying over South Korean territory, not bearing any official insignia. I'm pretty sure I can do whatever I want in that situation."
"Why, you- " Father Mulcahy hastily grabbed Radar's arm to prevent any violence, although he looked as though he was within an inch of walloping Frank himself.
"Frank, come to my office please," said Colonel Blake tiredly. "The rest of you, get back to whatever you do whenever hell isn't breaking loose." He trudged off, with Frank muttering to him all the way.
In the silence that followed, you could hear a pin drop.
"Congratulations, Klinger," said Hawkeye, digging around in his pocket. "You're now fifty dollars richer. Take it." He handed over the bills. Klinger looked stricken.
"But…" he stammered, "Look, this wasn't what I- "
"I know, I'm sorry. But you did win. It was just a race." He took off his jacket, and wrapped up the dead pigeon. "Father Mulcahy, I'll have thirty dollars for you by Monday. Now leave us alone." Nobody needed any persuasion.
Dear Dad,
We buried Shermy last night. Me, Klinger and Radar were in attendance, and Father Mulcahy did his thing. Trapper didn't want to join in – he's always a little strange about goodbyes. Klinger helped because he's guilty about what happened, as though he somehow wished Shermy would die just by betting on it happening. I told him that's ridiculous, but I'm still calling him Cassandra for the rest of the month. We painted a marker for him out of some wood. Trapper left the flag up in the tree, too.
I'm sorry, Dad, that I keep boring your ears off with the trivial hobbies we get up to here- you must get sick and tired of it – but often it feels like our whole world, a means to distract ourselves from everything else. It was Trapper's whole world, at least for a couple weeks.
Do you think that birds are actually smart? Trapper used to believe that like the ducklings in that kid's warm pockets, they always know where to go, in the hope of finding something better. But as he pointed out last night, if Shermy was so smart, why'd he come to this place? I don't know. True, he was loved for a while, but it didn't do him a whole lot of good in the long-term. Or the ducks.
And human beings have a similar thing, don't they? A sort of sixth sense, an inkling, a hunch, whatever you want to call it, telling us "this is right, this is wrong". How can I trust it now? What if that sense is just taking us from meal to meal, love to love, until ultimately short term pleasures don't matter anymore?
I probably won't post this one. I'll write you a nice new one when I'm less drunk, saying that he just flew away the second he was untied. Even so, it might make it home someday, although I hope not. It's funny, Dad – here I am, telling you these things about a bloody war, and the first letter I can't bring myself to send you is a silly story about a pigeon race.
Love to you, and to everyone at home, from their good friend and son
Hawkeye x