Author's Note:

This isn't a new story. In fact, this was the first MASH fic I ever wrote, way back in, hell, 2003, I guess. I'm not sure why it never got posted here before. Maybe just because I figured the audience for Mulcahy/Klinger would be pretty minimal, which I'm sure it is. But I posted the story on a LiveJournal community a couple of years ago, and the folks there seemed to like it, so I figure I may as well give it a shot here as well...

Knots and Crosses
by Grayswandir

The sun had just set on the 4077th MASH, and in the receding twilight Father Mulcahy made his way across the camp with a shirt tucked under one arm, whistling off-key fragments of an old hymn. He removed his hat almost before arriving at Klinger's tent, and he rapped three times at the door, then stepped back and waited with the brim against his chest. There was a moment's pause before Klinger was heard to call back in a dry tone: "Yeah. Come in."

At first, Mulcahy started to excuse himself; the invitation sounded decidedly forced. But on second thought, he straightened his shoulders, and opened the door.

Inside, he found Klinger slumped at the edge of his bunk, smoking a cigar and looking up with half-lidded eyes in an expression of profound exhaustion. He was dressed casually in a low-cut sundress, and had apparently just come in, for he was still wearing his stilettos. His straw bonnet lay beside him on the sheets, spilling twisted lavender ribbons down to the floor.

"Oh, it's you," Klinger said. "Evening, father."

"Good evening," Mulcahy returned, looking around uncertainly. "I... hope I haven't come at a bad time."

"Has there been a good time since the war started?" asked Klinger. He stubbed out his cigar on the post beside the bed, then nodded toward the shirt in Mulcahy's arms. "Alterations?"

"Oh. No," muttered the priest, glancing down in brief confusion, and recalling his purpose. "No, I... I seem to have torn the sleeve, you see." He set down his hat in order to more easily display the shirt's broken seam. "I'm running out of shirts, and I thought you might be able to help me."

Klinger flashed a wry smile. "I'm all out of black blouses, father."

"Yes, well..." Mulcahy cleared his throat. "I don't think it's beyond mending. It should only take a few stitches. I'll be happy to pay you for your time."

He started to reach for his pocket, but Klinger rose and stayed his hand. "Taking money from a shirtless priest!" he said, sweeping the torn garment over his arm. "What do I look like to you?"

"I'd rather not say," Mulcahy murmured, blinking a little behind his glasses as Klinger crossed the room on pointed heels, his long skirts swirling lightly around his ankles. Klinger returned with a needle and a spool of black thread, and retook his place at the edge of the bunk.

"Some people tell me I'm crazy to work for free. I say they're right." Klinger removed the needle from between his teeth to quote, "Render unto Caesar the things which are Caesar's, and unto Klinger, a Section Eight. That's what I say." After making a few stitches he looked up again, and seemed surprised to find the priest still standing there. "Sit down, father. Crazy isn't contagious."

Mulcahy looked back at the door, then nodded reluctantly and sat down beside Klinger on his bunk.

"And unto God?" he asked, taking up the quote.

Klinger shrugged. "He can have a Section Eight too, if he wants it. He has to be crazy to let the war keep going on like this."

"I see."

Father Mulcahy removed his glasses and rubbed them against his jacket, squinting blearily around the tent at Klinger's wardrobe. Bright hats and dresses hung from every beam, and the canvas walls were dappled with swatches of cloth, untidy splashes of color against the monochrome of olive drab. The ground was strewn with triangular snippings and bits of frayed thread, and even the dusty footlocker in the corner seemed discordantly cheerful, ringed by a heap of polished ladies' dress shoes. It was quite a spectacle, Mulcahy thought.

Klinger himself, however, presented no accessory to all this superficial cheer. Despite the floral-patterned brightness of his attire, he seemed unusually grave, hunched wearily over his work like an old soldier, with one mechlin-edged sleeve falling off of his shoulder. He stitched evenly and without pause, and his gold hoop earrings glittered faintly with the tired motions of his sewing.

The priest finished cleaning his glasses, and had straightened them on his nose just in time to see Klinger jerk back, hissing and shaking his hand. Apparently he had jabbed himself with the needle, for he sucked his finger a moment before taking up the shirt again. Mulcahy found this clumsiness surprising, and looked down at Klinger's hands. They were shaking.

"Are you all right, Klinger?" he asked.

Klinger didn't look up. "Really, father. Even I wouldn't try to get out on a sewing injury."

"I... didn't mean your finger," said Mulcahy, readjusting his glasses. "You seem troubled, my son."

"You guessed it. Troubled is my middle name, along with Deranged, Disturbed, Demented—Loony as a Bird. My birth certificate is six pages long." Klinger raised his eyes briefly. "Was it the crinoline that tipped you off?"

"You're beginning to sound like Hawkeye. You aren't usually this... well, bitter, if you'll forgive the word."

Klinger's shoulders dropped a little. "Sorry, father," he said. He took a breath. "I've had a long day."

The priest nodded, turning his eyes to the floor. After a moment, he stood up. "Well. Why don't I come back tomorrow—when you're rested." He added, with a sympathetic smile, "I'm sure I have enough shirts to get me through the night."

"No, no—stay, father, I'm almost finished. Unless you want me to take in the waist." Klinger held up the shirt. "And I just got in some wonderful lace trim. Black, too. What do you think?"

Mulcahy hesitantly reseated himself. "I think I'd better stick with the basic cotton. I wouldn't want the other chaplains to get jealous, you know."

"Whatever you say, father."

They were quiet for a while, and Klinger continued his stitching. "I couldn't sleep anyway," he said at length. "You should have seen some of the bodies we patched up while you were in Seoul. It was a real nightmare in there."

"Yes. I heard we lost three soldiers," said Father Mulcahy, crossing himself.

"Four. Another guy checked out in post-op."

Klinger pricked himself again and cursed quietly, then turned away and sat a moment without moving. Mulcahy touched his shoulder.

"You know, you can talk to me, my son. That's what I'm here for."

"I can't talk to you." Klinger made a few more stitches and a knot, then snipped the thread. He tried to smile. "You'll exorcise all my crazy-demons, and then I'll never get out."

"The war is hard on all of us. It may help you to talk about it."

Having set the shirt aside, Klinger turned to regard the priest for a long moment with a serious look. At last he dropped his eyes. "Talk about it," he repeated. The bitterness had crept back into his voice. "Why should I talk about it? I'm not even involved; all I do is carry in the bodies and talk chiffon ribbons with the nurses. I don't have anything to talk about."

He stood abruptly, and his dress twirled a little as he started to pace. "I mean, what do I have to talk about? The doctors spent sixteen hours today sewing up America's youth, and you don't hear them screaming into their sham-fur pelisses. Do you? The worst casualties I'm ever asked stitch up and send back into service began their khaki lives on a loom, and the worst news I ever have to break to a woman is that her nylons have taken their last run, or her mink stole is going to have to be put down." He turned back to Mulcahy with his palms up. "Look at me! I'm in here straightening dislocated zippers, reattaching severed trims and buttons that went AWOL. I have nothing to complain about." He turned around. "I have nothing to complain about."

"The doctors appreciate your help, Klinger," said Mulcahy gently. "They know you weren't made for this kind of work."

"You're telling me! I almost blacked out in pre-op this morning—they brought in this kid, looked like he'd been blown clear in half. I couldn't see much through all the blood, but it looked like his spine was the only thing left holding him together. And he was still breathing!" Klinger pulled his sagging sleeves back up urgently. "The kid was still breathing, father. And the way Hawkeye looked at me when he saw that mess... right through the mask I could see it; he looked like somebody'd stabbed him. But what did he do? He called Goldman over, and his voice didn't even break. 'We can't save this one,' he says; 'get him out of here.'

"I couldn't even look at him. Here's this kid under a sheet with half his organs splashed across Korea, and here's me in this goddamned floral summer skirt keeled over against the wall, and there's Hawkeye as white as my pearl-bead necklace, bent over the next guy whose bones are coming out where there ought to be skin, and he's still making cracks about Frank to the nurse. If there's somebody in this picture that needs a priest, I ain't him. And if there's somebody that needs to know how much his work's appreciated, I ain't him either." He turned back furiously, fixing his sleeves again. "What am I complaining about?"

"If you'll forgive my interruption, Klinger, I haven't heard you complain yet. Not for yourself, anyway."

"Yeah, well, I'm trying to tone that part down. But I'm miserable, father. I can't tell you how miserable I am."

"We all are, my son," said Mulcahy. "It's a miserable war."

"But that's the thing, father. I don't have any right to be miserable. There are kids going through hell over here, and I'm just going through catalogues. I can't be in a war!" Klinger sat down on the little table that supported his sewing machine, and looked at the priest with raised eyebrows. "If I don't get that Section Eight pretty soon, I may just go crazy."

Father Mulcahy rose. "Try to calm down," he said, moving to take Klinger by the shoulders. He steered him back to the bed, and Klinger slumped down beside him.

"Look at me," said Klinger, spreading his hands. "I'm starting to think I am crazy. They're going to give me the insanity instead of the discharge—I'll wind up in Toledo with a closet full of dresses, and a battalion of dead soldiers in my head that all shoulda been me. And Hawkeye looking at me like— What's this?"

The priest had slipped a crucifix into his hand.

"I want you to have it."

"I can't take this," said Klinger. "In silver? It clashes with my atheism."

"Please, take it. It might help you, to believe in something."

"No offense, father, but if I believed in something, I'd have Someone to blame for sending me over here." Klinger turned his eyes up toward the roof of the tent to forestall any confusion over the object of his theoretical blame.

"All things have their reasons, my son. God works, you know, in mysterious ways."

"So does Colonel Flagg, but I don't think I approve." After a pause, Klinger handed the cross back to Mulcahy. "I'm sorry, father. But I've read some of that Book of yours, and I'm not sure I approve of that either. You remember how God told Moses to wipe out everybody in Canaan? Nice gesture, right? Civilians, women. Even little kids. That, after picking off all the firstborn of Egypt, which was a kinda shady selection process, if you ask me. The way I see it, God's a lot like the army, always talking peace and making war. Let not the left hand know..." He rubbed his eyes. "However it goes."

"Well..." The priest faltered a little. "We can't be expected to understand all the workings of the Lord. I'm sure He has His reasons."

"Sure, right," said Klinger quietly.

After a pause, he added, "You know, Lebanon was part of the Promised Land. I don't mean to second guess the ineffable, but you'd think He could've at least promised a land that wasn't already spoken for. Don't get me wrong, father," he put in quickly; "I got nothing against you. You're a good guy. I like you." He cocked his thumb toward the sky. "This is between me and the big man upstairs who won't send me back to Toledo. First he requisitions my people's camels at swordpoint, and now he sends me to Korea." Klinger threw up his hands wearily. "I can't help it. God had it in for me before I ever didn't have a religion."

Frowning a little, the priest returned the crucifix to his pocket. "I suppose I understand your objection. The Bible is a very contradictory book. It... can be hard to make out. Even I have my questions sometimes. Well— Not questions, you know... I could never— But all the same, there are passages that might be considered... well..."

Klinger raised an eyebrow. "You'd better stop, father. I may be crazy, but a priest giving confessions to a man in silk stockings is crazy out of my league. I don't think the army has a Section for that."

"I'm sorry, my son," said Mulcahy with a resigned smile. "I just hate to see a man struggling with his faith. I suppose I thought it might help you, to know that we all struggle."

"Who's struggling with faith?" said Klinger. "Faith hasn't got a chance with me. My atheism is bigger than my nose." He pulled off his earrings and tossed them into an upturned helmet on the floor, where they clinked against necklaces and beads. "It's everything else I'm struggling with. Blood, explosions, guys screaming. It starts to gets to you, you know?"

For several moments, he stared down at the sheets; then suddenly he resumed: "I saw a guy slaughter a cow once, when I was a kid. Slit it right down the middle—zzzzzt—like that. And everything just sloshed out, blood and intestines everywhere. Smelled horrible." He shuddered a little and shook his head. "I never thought I'd see a kid on a stretcher look like that."

He swallowed, then bent to take off his stiletto heels, which he chucked one after the other into the corner of the tent. One of them fell short, and he stood up to retrieve it; but as soon as he was on his feet, he swayed and grabbed hold of the priest's shoulder, then collapsed back onto his bunk. Father Mulcahy took his shoulders from behind to steady him.

"Klinger, are you all right?"

"That depends. Is the room really spinning in circles?"

The priest twitched his eyebrows and looked around a little. "I'm afraid not."

"Then no," said Klinger. He slumped back into Father Mulcahy and closed his eyes, groaning theatrically. "Oh, God."

"I'm only a representative, really," Mulcahy murmured. "But I do my best."

He eased Klinger down onto the pillow and lifted his legs onto the low bunk, discreetly fixing the edges of his skirt as he did so.

"You're shaking," he said, sitting down again and checking Klinger for temperature. "Maybe I should get one of the doctors."

"No. I'll be okay in a minute." After a pause, Klinger said, "You could get me a nurse."

"A nurse? What for?"

"For company, of course."

He looked up at Mulcahy. "It's a joke, father."

"I see."

"...mostly a joke."

The priest glanced back at his hat on the table, then reached out and took Klinger's hand. "Well," he said, half smiling, "of course, I can't perform all of the... functions of a nurse. But I'll be happy to keep you company."

Klinger smiled back a little, more indulgent than grateful, it seemed to Mulcahy; but he squeezed the priest's hand and said, "Thanks, father. I'd appreciate that."

He patted the other side of the bunk with his hand. "You want to lay down?"

"Oh, I don't know if that would be appropriate."

"You married me, didn't you?"

The priest blinked a bit, then laughed. "Oh. Yes. I suppose I did, didn't I?"

"You'll hurt your back sitting like that all night."

Mulcahy moved to the other side of the bunk, switched off the light, and slipped his glasses into the pocket of his army jacket as he lay down. Klinger took his hand again and closed his eyes.

"If Sidney Freedman could see us now," he chuckled.

The thought made Father Mulcahy a little uncomfortable, but he didn't move. He stared up into the darkness of the tent, and for a long while, both men were silent. At length, Klinger disengaged his hand, and the priest, pulling his arm back to his side, felt something cold against his fingers, and picked it up. It was the little silver cross: it had fallen from his pocket.

He looked at it for a moment, a dim, blurry shape against the dark; he rubbed it between his fingers and felt the metal grow warm. He tucked it into his jacket again.

He said quietly: "Klinger... Do you ever wonder—what if you're mistaken? What if there is a heaven?"

"Don't worry, father," murmured Klinger. "They'll let me in. I'll just wear my best evening dress and tell them I'm with you."

The priest was thoughtful.

"That reminds me of a correspondence—I believe it was between H. G. Wells and G. K. Chesterton. Yes, Wells sent a letter... let me see if I remember..."

But Klinger turned over, his long skirts rustling in the dark.

"Remember in the morning, okay?"

"Oh. Yes," said Mulcahy. "Of course."

-- -- --

In the morning, Klinger woke up alone. This didn't surprise him; he had been waking up alone for the better part of two years, even during his marriage—in fact, especially during his marriage. It was just getting light outside, and Klinger supposed he had kitchen duty in half an hour or so; but the prospect only depressed him, and for a long while he lay on his bunk and didn't move. When he finally sat up, he looked down at his dress and muttered, aiming for a bit of solitary levity: "What was I thinking? I just ironed this thing."

He caught a flash of silver out of the corner of his eye, and looked back at the pillow. The silver cross was lying there, and underneath it was a note. Klinger picked it up, and switched the light on.

Klinger,

In a letter to G.K. Chesterton, H.G. Wells wrote:

"If after all my Atheology turns out wrong and your Theology right, I feel I shall always be able to pass into Heaven (if I want to) as a friend of G.K.C.'s."

Chesterton replied:

"If I turn out to be right, you will triumph, not by being a friend of mine, but a friend of Man."

You are a blessing to this unit and to all of us, Klinger. Never let yourself think otherwise.

–F.M.

Klinger stared at the paper for a long moment, then crumpled it in his hand and threw it aside, lying down again. He cursed to himself, shutting his eyes again against the growing daylight.

But he slipped the silver cross into his pocket.