A Day in the Life
"I'm sorry to say your timing isn't optimal, Captain," Sherman Potter said to his guest as he wore an apologetic smile. "We've been having ourselves quite a lull the past few days. I'm afraid today isn't going to be any different, from what I hear. You'll have access to all my people, any time you want to talk to them, but I can't say you'll be seeing them in action. At least, not the action you'd like to see."
Captain Richard O'Brien tapped his pen against his notepad absently as he assured Potter, "I understand, Colonel. I think I should be able to get plenty of material for the article anyway."
Potter's smile turned wider, more genuine, as he said, "Well, we're certainly pleased as punch to be featured in Stars and Stripes. Quite an honor to be the subject of an in-depth piece like this. You need anything at all today, just let me know, y'hear, Captain?"
"Thank you, Colonel. I'll do that. I'll just make my way around the camp and interview your people, and if by some chance they should get busy after all, I'll be sure to stay out of their way."
"Good enough, Captain. Mi camp is su camp." He spread his hands. "Feel free to interview away."
O'Brien knocked on the door that had the word "Swamp" painted across it, and, upon hearing "Entrez-vous!" he let himself in. "Are you two Hawkeye Pierce and B.J. Hunnicutt? Or—wait—maybe Frank Burns?"
"Frank isn't here right now. He's off breaking a commandment. You got me—Hawkeye—and this guy with the size 14 shoes is Hunnicutt." Hawkeye extended a hand and O'Brien shook it. "You're the reporter we were warned about, right?"
"That's right, Richard O'Brien, from Stars and Stripes. I'm writing an article about a day in the life of the 4077th." He looked down at the board game that was perched between the two men. "What's this? Chess?"
"Double Kranko," B.J. Hunnicutt answered cryptically. "Wanna learn how to play?"
O'Brien took note of the playing cards, the chess and checker pieces, and the various other tokens, and decided that learning this game would take up too much of his precious time. "Uh, no thanks."
"Well," B.J. continued, standing and turning to some crazy contraption on his left, "at least let me fix you a drink. Is gin all right? Because if not, we always have gin."
"Sounds fine," O'Brien said, though he had a feeling this was not going to be a particularly tasty drink. He looked at Hawkeye and opened up his notebook, jumping right in. "How about you guys tell me about a typical day here at the 4077th. I mean, when you're working, when there are casualties to tend to."
Hawkeye gave a small shrug and waved his hand dismissively. "The choppers drop off the wounded, Frank botches up triage, we stand in the OR in blood up to our ankles for 30 straight hours, everyone pitches in until the last man's been patched up, and then we all get drunk. That's pretty much it."
"And if we're lucky, we get a couple hours of sleep before it starts all over again," B.J. added as he handed O'Brien his drink. The glass looked filthy and the gin tasted every bit as awful as he'd expected. He looked at his notepad, where he'd written down a sum total of… nothing.
Hawkeye leaned forward and held up the deck of playing cards, a sly smile on his face. "Seriously, O'Brien. You've gotta try Double Kranko. It's addictive."
When he left the Swamp an hour later, he still had nothing written in his notepad, and his wallet was 65 dollars lighter.
"Coming!" called the frantic voice within Margaret Houlihan's tent after he'd knocked. "Just a minute!"
He heard scurrying inside, hushed voices, and a chair being knocked over. He smirked but waited patiently. Eventually the head nurse opened the door and beamed at him. "Yes? Oh, you're that reporter, I'll bet."
"That's right. Richard O'Brien."
"Come on in, Captain. By all means."
He stepped inside and wasn't at all surprised to see a man—another major—standing behind Houlihan.
"This," she said as she indicated the major, "is Frank Burns. We were just, uh, discussing tomorrow's duty roster."
"That's right!" Burns said a little too forcefully. "Duty roster. For tomorrow. Gotta keep on top of everyone's… uh… duty." He clearly realized the unfortunate choice of words too late, and he looked around nervously.
Houlihan shot an irritated look at Frank, then said, "Captain, please have a seat. What can we do for you?"
O'Brien sat in the offered chair and poised his pen over his notepad. "I'm just interviewing everyone about their jobs here. The article, as you know, is about a typical day at this hospital—the most successful hospital in Korea."
The two majors sat on the bed simultaneously and exchanged glances. "Well, that's certainly flattering," said Margaret, "and no doubt about it, we have some truly dedicated people here. But I feel I must go on the record and say this camp is far from disciplined, far from the shining example it ought to be. Wouldn't you agree, Major?"
"Absotively," Burns nodded. "If we had more order around here and less goofing off, then I could understand being the subject of an article—"
"Goofing off?" O'Brien wondered. "What exactly do you mean?"
"Oh well, you know," Burns began, apparently hesitant to elaborate at first but then gaining steam as he spoke, "their toenail clippings in my coffee mug. Their dirty underwear under my pillow. Sewing my pants legs together while I slept. Flying my athletic supporter up the flagpole."
He undoubtedly would have kept on rambling if O'Brien hadn't interrupted. "By 'them,' I assume you mean Pierce and Hunnicutt?"
"That would be them."
"They're outstanding surgeons, Major. There's no disputing their talent."
Burns huffed. "Talent," he murmured. "As if that matters."
O'Brien bid a hasty farewell a short time later, certain he wouldn't be gleaning anything of particular interest from the two gung-ho majors. So far he was striking out, and time was a-wasting.
He ambled into post-op, where all but two of the beds were empty, and those two patients were Korean locals being treated for pneumonia, the on-duty nurse told him. There were no heroic medical stories to be found here.
"Captain O'Brien?" came a voice from behind, and he turned around.
The man—or was it a woman?—no, it was definitely a man, with hair everywhere. The man was wearing a stunning red evening gown and a pearl necklace, and he held a dainty pink purse in his right hand. O'Brien was momentarily too stunned to say anything.
"You're the reporter, right? From Stars and Stripes?" The man held his arms out to his sides and did a twirl, showing off his dress. "I'm the nutcase! Corporal Max Klinger, at your service. Boy, have I got a story for your paper…" He approached O'Brien, who was still speechless, and hooked an arm around his shoulders. "Come with me to the O Club and let me tell you all about it. Better yet, let's go to my tent—that way you can see the entire Klinger Collection. I make all of it myself, you know."
When he was finally able to tear himself away from Klinger's clutches—a full two hours later, for crying out loud—he checked his notepad (still precious little written there; how could he possibly include the story of the hairy guy from Toledo who wanted out of the Army so badly that he wore women's clothing?) and then headed to the mess tent to regroup and get a cup of coffee. As he sat at one of the tables contemplating his next move, the camp's priest approached him and asked if he'd mind some company.
"By all means, Father," he said, and Mulcahy removed his hat and took a seat across the table. "I was just trying to figure out who to talk to next, and here you are, answering my prayers… so to speak."
Mulcahy's smile was boyish and sweet. "Oh my, you really don't want to hear my story, I'm sure. The doctors are the ones to talk to. They're the ones who do the heavy lifting around here, as it were."
"But I'm still interested in your take on why this hospital operates so efficiently and successfully. I'm sure you have your theories…"
"Ah, well," Mulcahy said with a tilt of his head, "there's always plenty of jocularity around here and I'm sure that has something to do with it. After all, 'there is little success where there is little laughter.'"
"The Good Book?"
"Andrew Carnegie, actually. But he makes a good point. If these people didn't have their fun, their highly unorthodox ways of relieving stress, the work would most certainly suffer."
O'Brien opened his notebook and uncapped his pen. "Unorthodox, huh? Like what, for example?"
"Well now, just last week, Hawkeye and B.J.—" Mulcahy stopped abruptly. "Oh dear. I'd better not tell you about that. This is for a newspaper article, after all." He absently toyed with his hat as his expression turned thoughtful. "Well, there was the time… Oh my, I'd best not tell you that one either." He gave a small, nervous chuckle. "Well! You can just take my word for it, Captain, there's rarely a dull moment around here. If these people actually believed in confessing their sins, I would be one busy priest. In any event, I can see I'm being no help to you at all, and I still have a sermon to write, so if you'll excuse me?" The good Father stood up and tipped his hat.
"Of course, Father," O'Brien said as he snapped shut his notepad. "Nice talking with you."
Yeah, if only it'd been fruitful, he thought with a frustrated sigh.
After he left the mess tent, he found himself wandering aimlessly around camp, just a little bewildered. Where was the day going? He needed material, for God's sake. Material he could actually use.
When in doubt, he thought, go back to the beginning. So he headed to the C.O.'s office, where he found the diminutive company clerk known as Radar.
"Say, Corporal?" he began, and then he saw exactly what the youngster was doing there at his desk. He was reading a comic book to a… a teddy bear? Yes, it was definitely a teddy bear.
Radar whipped his head around, clearly startled, his face reddening. "Sir?"
"I was uh, just wondering if I could speak with the colonel." He was doing his best not to stare at the unusual scene, so as not to embarrass the lad even further.
"Uh, I'm sorry, sir, the colonel is out with his horse right now."
"His horse?" Just when O'Brien thought things couldn't get any more bizarre…
"Yes, sir, he keeps a horse, and he's out riding her right now. No telling how long he'll be. Sometimes he loses all track of time." Radar's voice dropped to a near whisper as he added, "He used to be cavalry, y'know," as if that was somehow more peculiar than reading to a stuffed toy.
O'Brien's eyes flicked from the corporal to the teddy bear and back. "Right. Well, maybe I can interview you, then? I'm doing an article—"
"Oh right. A day in the life," Radar interrupted. He gave a shrug. "I'm just the company clerk, I don't save lives or anything like that. Although," he said, looking around his office and starting to get more animated, "I could show you our filing system, and our requisition forms, and all the paperwork that needs to get done for every patient that comes through here, and how I make sure the weekly reports get done, and like that. Would that help you with your article?"
O'Brien's eyes had glazed over right around the time Radar had said "filing system." He blinked and smiled weakly, "That's all right, Corporal. I, um… I probably have enough information, actually… come to think of it. Thanks, though. It's about time for me to shove off anyway. Could you tell Colonel Potter that I appreciate everyone's cooperation, and I hope you all enjoy the article."
He backed out of the office as Radar shrugged and said, "Sure, sir," then turned back to his bear.
O'Brien sighed. He had virtually nothing written down after hours spent in this camp, but oh well, no matter. He could probably write the article from his impressions and observations anyway. Sometimes the best stories came when you just focused on absorbing the atmosphere of a place, and the personalities of the people, as opposed to writing everything down and sweating the details. He nodded confidently. Yeah, that ought to work.
He got in his jeep and looked around the camp one last time, bemused by the colorful cast of characters he'd spent the day with. Oddballs, yes, but miracle workers. How do they do it?
He watched as the Swamp door opened and out bolted Hawkeye and B.J., laughing raucously, nearly running over one another in their haste to escape. From inside came the whiny voice of Frank Burns calling after them, "Hey! Come back here! Bring that back here! That's mine!"
O'Brien laughed, shook his head, started the jeep, and drove off.
Stars and Stripes, October 12, 1951 issue
A Day in the Life of M*A*S*H 4077th
by Richard O'Brien
One looks at the exemplary record of the Mobile Army Surgical Hospital 4077th, with its 97 percent efficiency rating, and wonders how on earth they do it. How they handle the sheer volume of wounded, the daily grind and the unbelievable stress of working under such pressure and up to such high standards. How they manage to keep their sanity as their jobs and the conditions they live in push them to their very limits.
I recently spent a day with these folks, and frankly, I still couldn't tell you…