Don't own MASH. End of.

This is a pointless little piece. Might be a one shot but if I get enough good reviews I'll do more. I don't particularly like Frank, but he was a good character to have do what he does. I just wish I had more time to fit in a bit more Hawkeye torture. Oh, I love him but he's just so good for that.

Frank had noted Colonel's Flagg's entrance to the compound with on real enthusiasm – mostly because Margaret had been breathing down his neck at the time – and then promptly forgot about him. Obviously someone else had not because Frank heard Pierce complaining loudly and vehemently to Colonel Blake about the CIA man as loudly and vehemently as only Pierce could manage.

The little information Frank was able to glean from that conversation, and it was little since Frank had never been much of an eavesdropper because it was wrong, was that Colonel Flagg was staying for a bit. In the VIP tent. Which Pierce wasn't happy about either because as a punishment for running Frank's boxers up a temporary flag pole he had been made to clean the place up.

It was pathetic, Frank knew. Pierce had clearly destroyed a superior officer's authority and all he had to do was clean a tent that was never used. (Frank knew what he would do if he was in charge. Ho-ho that would be fun…)

But now he was walking across the compound, attempting to keep his boots out of the mud and dirt as much as possible, which was, in fact, impossible because that was what the ground was – mud and dirt. (Lay concrete slabs or something, there was another thing. So it would be difficult to move! Get those lazy men to do a day's work – wouldn't hurt them at all).

A loud crash caught his attention. It came from the VIP tent. Frank tiptoed towards it and leant against the door. This promptly swung inwards, dumping the bemused Major on the floor… right beside a battered and bloody Benjamin Franklin Hawkeye Pierce, who was staring glassily at the ceiling.

He still managed a sarcastic greeting but it was so wheezy and Frank's blood was pounding so loud in his ears, it was inaudible.

A boot thudded into view, raising a cloud of dust. (Hawkeye Pierce slacking off again, where there's a surprise.)

"Major Burns, get off the floor." Flagg. Frank sprang to his feet and saluted. As Hawkeye had once said Frank Burns was an idiot to the point of being suicidal, but there was a part of Frank's brain that was still retaining some common sense and it had no wish to be kicked in by an Army boot, no matter how shiny it was.

Flagg dragged Hawkeye off the ground and dumped him on the bed, face down into the pillow. The doctor was already half-unconscious but it still took all Flagg's strength to hold him down. He managed to turn his face away from the cushion.

"Damn it Frank!" he gasped, "Get help!"

Frank didn't move.

"Frank!"

"Shut up, you!" Flagg caught Hawkeye a glancing blow across the back of the head and the doctor lay still for a moment. The Colonel looked up at Frank, "If you tell a soul about this, I'll kill you understand?"

Frank nodded, painfully slowly.

"Now, I want you to go and get a sedative. Nothing too strong, just enough to immobilise him. Go!"

So Frank ran, and came back minutes later with the syringe. He plunged it into Hawkeye's shoulder without a word.

"Son of a bitch," snarled Hawkeye.

Frank leant down slightly, pretending to check on the Captain's pulse and whispered, "I mixed in something to dull the pain. I'm sorry."

He saw Pierce's eyes widen in horror and shock at the betrayal and the realisation of what Flagg was probably going to do. He hadn't realised it was going to hurt, but Frank had. Frank had talked to Flagg about torture before, oh yes, and Flagg knew a lot.

Frank turned and walked out without a glance back. He walked into the Swamp without a word and opened his Bible without a second thought of what he had just done. There was no second thought because the first hadn't finished. He had betrayed a colleague. Not necessarily one he had liked, but nonetheless…

(Would I do those things? Really? I think them and I say them, but I wouldn't do them. No. Maybe.)

Frank's jaw set in a determined line.

(Yes.)

Frank Burns wasn't a naughty little boy, caught with his hand in the cookie jar or leaning against the kitchen door to hear his parents arguing anymore. He was a soldier and these were the fortunes of war.