Father Mulcahy had spent most of the evening in his quarters in deep thought. There was a religious holiday coming up that was of great importance to a number of his unit's patients, but he had next to no idea how to celebrate it properly. He sighed in frustration and decided that a short walk over to the mess tent and a cup of hot coffee might clear his mind.

At first, Mulcahy thought that the mess tent was deserted, but then he noticed Captain John Watson and his friend, Major Sherlock Holmes, deep in conversation in a dark corner of the room. The priest tried to be as unobtrusive as possible as he went in search of the coffee. Mulcahy knew that Watson was an intensely private man who undoubtedly missed his RAMC colleagues while being on temporary loan to the 4077 MASH and enjoyed the rare visits made by the more senior British officer. He had no wish to intrude.

He found the coffee, a fairly fresh pot, too, judging by weight, and was mulling over a small selection of doughnuts left from dinner when he heard Major Holmes exclaim, "Bored!" Mulcahy looked up in surprise and immediately noted Watson's tired eyes and the expression of long suffering on his face. Well, if the major were bored and his attitude was distressing to Captain Watson, then perhaps asking them to help with his problem wouldn't be such a bad thing after all.

Mulcahy approached their table and offered a pleasant, "Good evening, gentlemen."

"Please join us, Father." Watson had already stood and offered his seat as he pulled another chair over from a nearby table.

"I'm not interrupting?"

"Not at all, Father. Please," Watson said, perhaps a bit too quickly, as he motioned toward the empty seat. Holmes, Mulcahy noted, didn't say a word.

"I find myself with a bit of a problem that I don't quite know how to solve. I was looking for inspiration." The priest held up a chocolate-covered doughnut before taking a bite out of it.

"We'd love to help, wouldn't we, Sherlock?"

Holmes remained silent but surveyed Mulcahy with the calculating look that Watson knew so well. In a few moments, the floodgates opened. "It's a professional problem, but not one you'd take immediately to Colonel Potter, so, therefore, a religious problem. It doesn't have to do with death and dying as you deal with that on a regular basis. It doesn't have to do with Christianity. You're a Catholic priest. You have that covered. Even the Protestants. They're not that different. The unit involved in taking Hill 359 had a large proportion of Jewish troops. The casualties would be brought here. It's autumn, so too early for Hanukkah, and you'd know about that – the menorah, the dreidel, the foil-wrapped chocolate gelt – many Christians do, but Rosh Hashanah, Jewish New Year, that might be a bit more foreign to you."

Mulcahy's eyes were wide with surprise. "That's amazing!"

Holmes shrugged. "Elementary."

Watson chuckled. "Yes, Father, he's always like that."

"But he's got it exactly. I know kaddish. I've sat shiva. And, yes, I do understand Hanukkah, but I don't know how to make Rosh Hashanah something special for our patients. Something . . ."

"Life affirming?" Watson asked gently.

"Indeed."

Holmes had gone silent again, his fingers steepled and pressed to his lips, his gaze dropped to the tabletop. As the silence stretched on, Mulcahy began to feel uncomfortable and made to rise from his seat, but Watson lightly placed a hand on the priest's arm. "Wait, he's thinking," Watson whispered.

A minute or so later, Holmes' head snapped up. "Does anyone here play the accordion?"

"The accordion?" Mulcahy asked in surprise. Where had that come from? And how could an accordion recital be a life-affirming celebration of the Jewish New Year?

"Yes, accordion. Musical instrument, like a concertina but bigger, buttons on one side, keys on the other, bellows in the middle. Accordion."

"John, didn't you tell him that I hate to repeat myself?"

"No, I didn't. For some reason, that's never come up in casual conversation, Sherlock.

"I believe Radar mentioned playing the accordion in some sort of pick-up band back home. They played Irish music – or maybe German when they went to Oktoberfest over in Des Moines – for beer and tips. Well, Radar played for Cokes . . ."

"Excellent, Father! Then we have what we need."

"What we need for what, Sherlock?" As usual, Watson felt himself struggling to catch up with his friend's thought process.

"My violin, your clarinet and Corporal O'Reilly's accordion. We'll form a klezmer band. Now, must dash. I have a lot to do." Holmes was up and headed for the door, his trench coat billowing out behind him.

"Hold on. Radar doesn't have an accordion. I don't have a clarinet, and I haven't played in years."

Holmes paused at the door. "All the more reason for me to get cracking isn't it?" With a wink and a click of his tongue, he was gone. In a few moments, the engine of a Jeep roared to life. Mulcahy and Watson just stared at each other in stunned silence.

Two days later, the regular supply run from I Corps included a few items that were not on Radar's carefully typed (in triplicate) requisition. A large, battered, black instrument case held an accordion that Radar swore was better than any he had had the opportunity to play before. Another, smaller, antique-looking case held a fine rosewood clarinet and several packets of reeds. Despite the fact that Watson hadn't played in years, the instrument produced a fine, warm, mellow tone. Finally, there was a large, soft packet containing what seemed to be a ream of carefully hand-copied music.

That evening, after dinner, snatches of music could be heard emanating from Colonel Potter's office in the operations hut as Watson and Radar sight read through the music. Once again, Holmes had been right. He'd slipped a note into the clarinet case advising Watson, "Don't worry, John. It's like riding a bicycle. Once you learn, you never forget." Muscle memory, indeed, seemed to extend to the fingering of notes on a clarinet.

"I can't say I've ever heard this kind of music before. Seems kind of sad for a party. What's it called again?"

"Klezmer music. It's Eastern European Jewish folk music," Watson explained. "Just wait until you hear the violin, Radar. It won't seem so sad then, trust me."

"How'd you learn about it, Captain?"

"My first posting was in Palestine."

"Where Israel is now? Did you get to see Bethlehem, Nazareth or Jerusalem?"

"No."

Radar was surprised by Watson's cold, hard, flat tone and wondered why his innocent, quite natural question would upset the normally friendly, easy-going man who was nothing like the strict, by-the-book, British officers Radar had seen in the movies. The only time Radar could remember Watson sounding like that was when a new nurse had, out of laziness, made a serious error that had threatened a patient's life. Watson's reprimand had started out quiet and controlled and then he'd erupted like that volcano in Italy. Radar found himself holding his breath, waiting for an explosion that never came.

"Why don't we try this one, Radar." Watson had been looking through the pile of music. His voice had regained its normal warmth.

They'd played only a few measures into the piece when Radar exclaimed, "I know this one! Well at least I've heard it before. What's it called?"

"Hava Nagila. It's often used as the music for a round dance called the hora."

"Now that sounds like a party, sir, like the square dances we have back home."

Over the next week, the quality of the music floating out of the operations hut whenever the door was opened after dinner improved substantially, but on the day of the planned performance, Watson was afraid that it wouldn't be enough. After all, he knew Holmes. He found soon enough that his fear was justified.

"Stop, stop, stop! Your entrance was late, Corporal. Can't you count, you idiot? Let's take it again from the top."

"No." Watson's voice was quiet yet firm. "Radar, take 5, please. Help yourself to a glass of the milk I have saved for my tea. If the cook has an issue with that, then tell him to see me. I need to have a word with the major."

"Yes, sir. Thank you, sir." Radar knew he'd been making mistakes, maybe more than usual, but musically he wasn't in Major Holmes' league and never would be. At least Captain Watson wasn't angry and had given him temporary leave. It wasn't good for a corporal to be in hearing range when officers had words.

"John, we have a performance in 3 hours. We need all the rehearsal time we can get or it will be a bloody disaster."

"Sherlock, it's not about perfection. The 4077 MASH has no doubt that you're an accomplished violinist. Major Houlihan thinks you could play with the LSO. Colonel Potter thinks you should try the Grand Ole Opry." Just as Watson had hoped, his praise of Holmes had calmed the man down. Holmes might quirk an eyebrow at Colonel Potter's suggestion that he go country, but he understood that it was meant as a compliment.

"Sometimes an officer has to do the best he can with what he has. What you have are two very amateur musicians. That's not going to change appreciably in 3 hours. What you also have are two very motivated personnel. If not handled correctly, however, that will change in 3 hours." Watson saw Holmes' eyes narrow, so he knew he had his attention but that at the speed Sherlock's mind worked, he might have already drawn the wrong conclusion.

"Look, Sherlock, I know what you're about. You know you can always count on me to have your back. Radar's not used to how you work. He doesn't understand . . ." Watson could tell, now that Holmes was reassured of his support, that Holmes was losing interest in the conversation.

"Sod it! Sherlock, sometimes it really is the thought that counts. Don't make Radar sorry that he volunteered to do a good turn for someone else."

At this point, Radar returned with a tray bearing 2 mugs of tea, a small container of Watson's precious milk and several packets of sugar. "I thought perhaps you gentleman could use some refreshment, too?"

Watson noted the worried tone in the clerk's voice. If Sherlock bollixes this up . . .

"Thank you, Corporal. You're too kind," Holmes said as he took one of the mugs and most of the sugar. After a few sips of tea, he went on, "I apologize for my earlier outburst. It was uncalled for. My only excuse is that I become quite nervous before performances. Captain Watson reminded me that I need to keep my diva-like tendencies under better control."

The words had been stilted and somewhat halting, but Watson was surprised by the genuineness of Holmes' apology. In fact, he was surprised that Holmes had bothered to apologize at all. That wasn't normally his way. Watson then noticed the questioning look that Holmes was giving him. He responded with a quick smile and a small nod of his head.

"That's OK, sir. You're an officer." Radar smiled as well and seemed to be back at ease. "I get stage fright, too, even back home and when I know the music real good," he added in an almost conspiratorial tone.

After dinner, the mess tent had been hastily reconfigured to serve as a concert venue. Most off-duty personnel of the 4077 MASH and many of their more ambulatory patients filled the room. Colonel Potter, as CO of the unit, made the opening remarks and was about to introduce the band when he realized he had a major problem.

"Say, wait a minute. Nobody ever told me the name of this outfit. How is Bob Hope going to recruit you for his next USO show if you don't have a name?"

Holmes, Watson and Radar looked from one to another in panic. With everything they'd had to worry about, it hadn't occurred to any of them that the band needed a name. The audience, though, was laughing. They thought the exchange was part of a comedy routine.

Suddenly, Radar piped up, "Sorry, sir. BK1. That's our name, sir."

"BK1?"

"Yes, sir. Band, klezmer, one. That's how Mr. Hope would have to fill out the requisition for us, sir."

With that, Potter joined in the increased laughter and shook his head. "Well, there you have it folks. Just sit on back and enjoy the musical stylings of BK1. You all can tell your kids you knew them way back when, before they got famous."

Some entrances may not have been as crisp as desired. Now and again a clarinet squeak might have been heard. There may even have been a wrong note or two, but the violin cadenzas and arpeggios were spectacular, just as Watson had promised Radar they would be. In no time at all, the audience was clapping or toe-tapping in time to the music and a few patients even got to join in by playing on tambourines that seemed to have materialized out of nowhere. As an encore, Hava Nagila was played again and many in the audience spilled outside to dance. All in all, the evening was a smashing success.

In his prayers that night, Father Mulcahy added a special request: "Lord, please bestow extra blessings on the boys in the band."