Disclaimer: Seeing as M*A*S*H started running 17 years before I was born, I think it's safe to say that I do not own it. 0:-)
Part I
15 December 1952
The phone rang at 3:30 in the morning, jolting a dozing Father Mulcahy from a fitful slumber in the hard and uncomfortable clerk's chair; across the room, Corporal Max Klinger sat bolt upright in his cot. The two exchanged the briefest of fearful glances.
"I'll get it, Klinger," Father Mulcahy muttered, sleep and worry depriving him of his usual buoyant and reassuring tone. He gingerly picked up the headset. "Four-oh-seven-seventh MASH," he spoke clearly but with a mild tremor.
Klinger watched with bated breath, already fastening the laces on his boots, readying himself to relay news, good or bad, to Colonel Potter. It was a short conversation though.
"Yes, of… of course, Major," Father Mulcahy stammered, putting down the headset. He turned to Klinger, eyes wide. "He wants to speak with Colonel Potter. No one else, he says." Again, they exchanged loaded glances, before Klinger tore from the office and dashed across the compound to their commanding officer's tent. Father Mulcahy crossed himself and sent a fast and silent prayer upwards.
Seconds later, the colonel charged into the room with Klinger fast on his heels. Not bothering with the private connection in his own office, he snatched the headset from Klinger's desk, waving off the priest as he made to vacate the chair.
"Colonel Sherman Potter here… yes, that's right. You found-? Oh. Mm-hm. Yes. Yes, I see, Major. And the building itself…? Alright. Thank you, Major, I know you're busy. I appreciate you getting back to us so soon. Please let us know if you find…" He paused for a long time, and closed his eyes. "Yes, I understand. Of course. Thank you, Major."
He put the set down and clicked off the connection. The silence in the office was thicker than ever before as Father Mulcahy and Klinger waited for him to say something.
"Klinger," Colonel Potter finally said, sounding subdued, "Assemble the officers- Hunnicut, Winchester, Houlihan. Don't bother the rest of the nurses at this hour."
"Yes, sir," he dashed out the door, and Father Mulcahy looked with trepidation up at the colonel.
"Bad news, Colonel?"
Colonel Potter sighed. "It ain't good news, Padre."
Scene. Scene. Scene. Scene. Scene.
"What do you mean, they've done all they can?"
"Hunnicut…"
"No, Colonel! I don't believe that. It's dark outside, it'd be near impossible to search everywhere and everything…"
"If he was wounded…" Charles broke in hesitantly. B.J. cut him off.
"He said the aid station was intact!"
"B.J.!" Colonel Potter looked hopelessly at the distraught head nurse, the deflated Winchester, and the defiant young surgeon who refused to believe what he was hearing. Klinger and Father Mulcahy sat with vacant and disbelieving expressions. "Listen to me. The battalion has done what it can. They beat the North Koreans back beyond their prior position, but the enemy advanced through our original line. The entire area was overrun for at least an hour. If Pierce didn't make it out on a vehicle of some sort, he'd have been forced to make it on foot, and the likelihood of that…"
"Don't say it!" B.J.'s words sounded harsh even in his own ears, but he was not about to hear that his best friend was likely dead.
"Son," his voice lowered a bit, and he gripped B.J.'s shoulder tightly. "They found his dog tags in the aid station."
Silence reigned supreme at that proclamation. Finally, Father Mulcahy ventured to speak. "Just his dog tags, sir?" he asked and winced.
B.J. looked around. Margaret looked stricken at that knowledge, and she and Colonel Potter shared a look of despair. "What?" he demanded. "So what? They could have fallen, a wounded soldier could have grabbed 'em and torn 'em off when Hawkeye was working on him…"
"Hunnicut," Margaret started slowly. "That's true. That could be it. But there's something… sometimes when they… when they take prisoners, they'll try to get you to talk by threatening family members, even if they're just empty words… so oftentimes, soldiers will throw away photographs and other identifying information if they think they're about to be captured…"
"Oh."
"B.J…"
"No!" he said, looking around wildly. "I just… I can't accept that. Colonel… give it to me straight. What's happened to Hawkeye?"
Colonel Potter looked hopelessly around at them. "I don't know, son. But if he's alive, the chances are now very high that he is in the hands of the North Korean army."
There were tears glistening in the eyes of Margaret, Klinger, and Father Mulcahy. Charles continued to look completely deflated from his usual pompous self, and B.J. looked shocked and stoic. "Thank you," he muttered, turning for the door.
"Wait, B.J…" He paid no heed and continued out the door of the colonel's office. Before anyone else could say anything, they heard a thump, and Margaret and Father Mulcahy rushed out to Klinger's office. B.J. had collapsed in a heap and his body was wracked with dry sobs. They sat carefully on either side of him and each wrapped an arm around his narrow shoulders, knowing that no amount of physical comfort would fix the problems inside B.J.- or inside the rest of them, for that matter.
Scene. Scene. Scene. Scene. Scene.
25 December 1952
Ten days, and nothing. Ten days, no news, no sign, no body… nothing. Everyone had to admit, that nothing was worse than knowing something bad; knowing nothing, they weren't even sure if they should be out looking for him. There were indications that some prisoners had been taken by the other side that fateful night, but even that couldn't give them any small measure of hope- it just meant that, if Hawkeye was still alive, he was likely worse off than miserable.
Knowing that in all likelihood, a living Hawkeye was an imprisoned one, Margaret Houlihan couldn't decide if she'd rather hear he was dead than captured. And then she immediately felt guilty for thinking it at all. But for someone so… insane, so free-spirited- it seemed a far worse crime to lock him up (and heaven forbid torture him) than to think that he could have died instantaneously, not even knowing the bullet, or mortar shell, had his name on it.
Christmas was a subdued affair at the 4077th. Margaret attended Father Mulcahy's Christmas Mass, though she was not Catholic. The attendance was higher than she ever recalled on prior holidays, but Father Mulcahy had lost much of the spirit with which he usually conducted these services.
She sought out B.J. that night, and they got drunk quickly off the abhorrent concoction in the still in the Swamp. Charles was on post-op duty that night, so they spoke freely, and drank even more so, not worrying about bothering the self-absorbed Bostonian. She tried to broach the subject of Hawkeye, but B.J. shut down quickly, becoming upset and drinking faster to avoid talking to her.
Charles found them the next morning, both asleep in Hawkeye's cot- Margaret was propped against a tent beam, and B.J. lay across the long way with his head in Margaret's lap. His tall frame didn't fully fit on the bed in this position, and his feet rested on the floor.
Later that day, B.J. disconnected the still.
Scene. Scene. Scene. Scene. Scene.
1 January, 1953
Sidney Freedman pulled into the compound on a grey and frosty morning. Even given the chill, he couldn't quite recall ever seeing the camp look so depressive. He parked his jeep in front of the VIP tent and made his way to Colonel Potter's office as indicated by the uncharacteristically properly dressed Corporal Klinger. Even more uncharacteristic, Klinger didn't once make a joke about a Section Eight.
"Sidney," Colonel Potter stood and took his hand. "So glad you could come and spend some time out here."
"My favorite MASH unit in the theater," Sidney quipped quietly. The two men looked one another over as Colonel Potter indicated Sidney should sit. "Any news…?"
"No," he replied heavily. "None. Zilch. A big, fat goose egg." He carefully removed his glasses and wiped a weary hand across his brow. "I think that's the hardest thing about it all… if we only knew something- anything. It'd be better than sitting here, waiting, and maybe waiting for nothing."
"Have you spoken with Hawkeye's father?"
The colonel sighed heavily. "Hardest phone call of my life. The man has to be sick with worry."
"Aren't you?"
He huffed. "Touché, Sidney."
"Where's Hawkeye's father? New Hampshire, is it?"
He shook his head. "Crabapple Cove, Maine," he declared. "Hawkeye still lived with him when he was drafted. Very close, those two. They were all each other had left."
"You're using the past tense, Sherman," Sidney pointed out mildly.
Colonel Potter looked stricken. He put his head in his hands and hunched exhaustedly over his desk. "Gosh, Sidney…" he took a deep, shuddering breath. "It's so hard. Hawkeye was- is, dammit, Hawkeye's my son. Just as B.J. is, and Margaret's my daughter… I need to know what's happened to him, for good or bad. We all need it. How can we ever cope if we don't know if we have to worry about a prisoner, or pray for the deceased…?"
"That's why I'm here," Sidney reached across the desk and gripped his friend's hand.
Scene. Scene. Scene. Scene. Scene.
3 January 1953
There was a tap on the door of the VIP tent. Sidney glanced up from the book he was reading. "Come in," he called amiably. "Ah," he exclaimed in surprised welcome, "Father. Do come in, take a seat."
"Thank you, Major," Father Mulcahy shuffled in, looking a tad awkward as he removed his hat and ducked under the low tent clearance.
"Sidney, please," the psychiatrist directed patiently. "How are you, Father?"
The priest smiled tightly. "Oh, you know- well as can be expected, I suppose. Yourself, Sidney?"
He shrugged. "I'm stressed, depressed, and feeling rather lost, to be quite frank with you," Sidney said wearily. "But I'm trying to put those thoughts away in order to actually do the job I came here to do but… well, you know I care as much about Hawkeye as anyone."
"Yes," Father Mulcahy jumped on his words, taking Sidney back a bit. "I mean," the younger man looked bashful, "I'm having the same problem. Hawkeye's presence in this camp did wonders for morale; a compassionate doctor, top-rate surgeon, true friend to anyone- and now that he's gone, and the entire camp is worried about him, I've found my own task harder and harder to do. How can I guide others emotionally and spiritually when… well…" he trailed off and looked ashamed.
"What is it, Padre?" Sidney leaned forward, concerned. "You know you can say whatever you like in here."
Father Mulcahy nodded. "Yes, well… it's just that, when others come to me, upset and trying to find a spiritual answer, I don't know what to say to them when I'm… well, when I'm starting to question my own faith."
Sidney sat back heavily, stunned at this admission.
"I know, it's a horrible thing to even think about," the priest shoved ahead, eager to get this off of his chest as soon as possible. "I mean, what would people think- what would you think- knowing that the priest of this outfit, the man responsible for the spiritual well-being of these fine men and women in trying times, was questioning, well… everything… in light of difficult circumstances?"
"You're only human, Father," Sidney finally managed. "You're entitled to the same doubts-"
"But I'm not!" he was becoming more and more agitated. "I mean- the clergy sometimes leave the church, decide the lifetime commitment is too much, but that's not the same… I took vows, and oaths, to guide these people in a manner befitting a man of the cloth, and how can I look someone in the eye, when they come to me, upset and confused, when I'm feeling the same pain and confusion?"
"Have you considered taking some time to yourself? Or finding your own counsel with some fellow clergy-people?"
"And leave this unit during its time of greatest need? Sidney…" He took a deep breath. "Hawkeye is a remarkably unselfish person and his antics… well, while perhaps he and B.J., and Trapper back in the day can be a bit immature with some of their pranks… they've always kept this unit cohesive and happy. That something so terrible could happen to such an extraordinary person… and the thought of being so selfish as to neglect my own crucial role, when Hawkeye is…" he trailed off and he had tears running freely down his cheeks. Sidney noticed suddenly that his own eyes were wet.
Scene. Scene. Scene. Scene. Scene.
5 January 1953
"You come here often, stranger?"
B.J. Hunnicut glanced wryly at the visiting psychiatrist. "I was wondering when you were going to corner me."
"I leave tomorrow, B.J.," Sidney pointed out. "You're just about the only person in this camp who hasn't come to see me in the last four days."
"Not much to say."
"But you thought I'd look for you."
B.J.'s mouth opened and closed, and then repeated the actions before he laughed mirthlessly. "You're good."
"That's why I make the big bucks." He watched B.J. take a sip of his drink, looking defiantly anywhere but at the major sitting next to him. "What are you drinking."
"Ginger ale."
Sidney did a glancing double-take before summoning Rosie. "Two ginger ales, Rosie." He turned back to B.J. "Give up alcohol?"
The captain shrugged. "We're down a surgeon, we're all on-call all the time." It sounded distant to both of them.
"Is that the real reason?"
"No." But B.J. wasn't offering anything further.
"How's the still holding up?"
B.J. shot a quizzical glance at Sidney. "You haven't gone in the Swamp since you've been here?" He shook his head. "Rosie," he called, "we'll take those to go."
The walk across the road and to the camp was mostly quiet. Finally, as they walked in the cluttered tent, B.J. broke the silence. "It seemed weird and wrong to keep it going."
"When was it last used?" The table on which the still rested was covered in papers, but Sidney couldn't tell what they were yet.
"Christmas night. Margaret and I sat up late in here, and then the next day after I woke up, I yanked the plug. Since then…" he gestured Sidney forward. "Well, it's sort of become a place for well-wishers." And indeed, Sidney saw that notes of love and encouragement and hope had been strewn about. Some were open for all to read, some sealed, some anonymous, but they were all positive and caring. "Why haven't you been in here yet, Sidney?"
"I thought I was supposed to ask the questions," Sidney replied good-humoredly.
"Ah!" B.J. pointed an accusing finger. "Avoiding the question."
"Caught me red-handed."
They sat in silence for a bit after that. Sidney took some time to compose his own letter to leave behind for Hawkeye.
"Colonel Potter is putting in for another surgeon next week," B.J. finally said quietly. "He can't keep operating understaffed."
Scene. Scene. Scene. Scene. Scene.
15 February 1953
Dear Peg,
It's been two months today since anyone last saw or heard of Hawkeye. Maybe you already realized that, but I just can't shake the thought that it's been eight long weeks. I don't know if I've ever wanted to be back in your arms more than at this very moment.
We have a replacement surgeon- people talk like it's a temporary thing, but I'm losing hope, Peg. Damn it, it hurts to even write that. Two months. Even if Hawkeye is alive, God knows what condition he's in. Even if he's alive, and even if we ever get him back, he won't be coming back here- he'll be going home. Two months in a Korean prison camp…
I'm sorry, honey. I hate to be so unpleasant, so negative, but there's this big hole in me. The hole began to grow when I had to leave you and Erin, so soon after she came into this world, and then- it's already been more than a year, can you believe that?- Hawkeye helped fill some of the void. He's the best friend I've ever had, sweetie. Now that he's gone too, the hole is gaping wider than ever, and I don't know how to fix it, at least not until I return to you and our beautiful daughter.
The new cutter is a man named Nathan Lyle- nice enough guy, still learning the ropes of MASH surgery, but he's bright. I think he feels awkward though, like he knows how everyone has a hard time considering him a true member of the outfit. He's been understanding, but for the most part has kept to himself.
Charles has had quite the turnaround of character. I've never seen the man more subdued over such a long stretch of time.
To be honest honey, I'd take Charles at his worst and an entire camp full of Frank Burns, if it only meant I could have Hawkeye back.
Take care, sweetheart, and give little Erin a big kiss for me. Tell her that her daddy will be home soon with any luck, and he loves her immensely. You of course know how much I love, adore, cherish you…
Your loving husband
Scene. Scene. Scene. Scene. Scene.
26 February 1953
Dear John 'Trapper' McIntyre,
I hope this finds you- the records in our files are so old, but Klinger found your last known address, so hopefully if you aren't there anymore, it'll be properly forwarded.
You don't know me, so I suppose I should introduce myself- B.J. Hunnicut. Captain, if you want to know. I was your replacement all those months ago. Arrived in Kimpo airport less than ten minutes after you took off- I know this because I met Radar O'Reilly and Hawkeye Pierce at the airport, and Hawkeye came against strict orders to try to catch you before you left. He obsessed over those ten minutes for some time, but eventually my inauguration to the Korean way of life forced him to worry about other things- like Radar running into a mine field after an injured girl, and a guerilla attack on our jeep while a tire was flat- and half a platoon injured during a mid-march mortar attack as we drove by. Puked my guts out that day, but I've been here over a year now and it got a little easier to numb the pain of everything as time went by; Hawkeye was the best teacher in that regard.
It's actually about Hawkeye that I'm writing you, a complete stranger about whom I've heard so much. I woke in the middle of the night and had this inexplicable urge to contact you- maybe because you're the only person I can envision who shared a similar relationship with Hawkeye as I've had with him since I arrived in Korea.
Trapper- I hope you don't mind me calling you that- Hawkeye has been missing for just over two months now. He drew aid station duty, and our line was pushed back- Hawkeye wasn't in the ambulances or the bus. They regained the line several hours later, but all they found of him were his dog tags in the aid station. The building survived though, and so might've Hawkeye, but… well, I think you can figure it out. It's been two months. If he's alive, he's been a North Korean POW for ten grueling weeks. There's been no word though, one way or another.
As I write this, I again question whether to send it… as far as I'm aware, you haven't been in touch with Hawkeye since you left. Maybe this will only serve to drag the war back into your home life. If I've trudged up traumatic memories, my sincerest apologies; I only thought you might want to know (somewhat) firsthand, then to hear later.
Since I'm already in this deep, I guess you might be interested in how the 4077th has done since you left; if not, I'm sure you've stopped reading by now.
Frank Burns went round the bend about ten months ago, after Margaret Houlihan got married to a Lt. Col. she met in Tokyo. He was submitted for psychiatric evaluation… and then promoted and stationed state-side. I hate that little weasel of a man. I'd give anything to be close at all to my wife and my little girl.
Margaret has since been divorced- her husband was a rotten scoundrel. She's lightened up though, and Hawkeye and I have actually become quite good friends with the formerly terrifying head nurse.
A week after I arrived, Frank was replaced as C.O. (thank God). The man is Colonel Sherman Potter, regular army- a swell guy who knows the perfect balance between military efficiency and just plain old not giving a damn.
Radar was sent home about… oh, six months ago now, I guess. His uncle died and he was discharged for family hardship reasons. He keeps up with Col. Potter though and seems to be doing okay in Ottumwa. Klinger took his place as clerk and, believe it or not, rarely touches dresses anymore.
Frank's replacement is a pompous old Bostonian named Charles Emerson Winchester (the third, as he always points out), but he has cooled off a bit given he finally accepted that boasting and whining alternately would not get him returned to Tokyo… or Boston Mercy.
As for me- I'm from Mill Valley, California, right near San Francisco. I have a gorgeous wife named Peg, and a beautiful baby girl named Erin- though I suppose Erin isn't much of a baby anymore. She was all but three months when I was called up- that was fifteen months ago now, I guess.
This place is miserable- much more so given recent events- but I downright envy you, Trapper John, for going home before I even got there. What I wouldn't give to hold my baby girl, to sleep next to my wife again… And especially what I wouldn't give to see Hawkeye Pierce again, alive and in one piece.
I hope I did the right thing in writing this letter- feel free to reply, or not. I'll be here, undoubtedly.
B.J. Hunnicut
Scene. Scene. Scene. Scene. Scene.
1 March 1953
"Dear mother, father, and Honoria; my sincerest apologies that you've waited so long since my last message. Things have been difficult indeed around camp." Charles clicked off the voice recorder and took a long sip of tea. "Unfortunately, the work has not eased one bit and in light of… recent events…" He paused again and sighed a heavy sigh.
"As much as I may have complained about Pierce upon my initial arrival, I daresay we grew to be something of friends in recent months. His disappearance- there has been no change, he continues to be listed as 'missing in action'- has deeply wounded the hearts of the entire unit. Morale has never been so bleak- not even my own, upon my arrival.
"Our chaplain continues to conduct a moment of silent prayer for Pierce every morning at breakfast; that man is a rock. I must admit, I feared for his own state of mind around the New Year, but he has overcome whatever existential crisis plagued his priesthood and remains steadfastly determined to see things through to the best of his abilities."
Here, Charles stopped and dabbed his eyes once. "As for myself, I find hope dwindling quickly. Had Pierce been taken as a prisoner of war… well, those northern savages have little use for prisoners except to bargain for something else, and the duration since his disappearance…" his voice broke and he paused the recording in order to compose himself.
"Hunnicut and our head nurse, Margaret, are slowly emerging from their isolation from the topic; perhaps the most grief-stricken, the two have found a strange camaraderie in light of events. Hunnicut was closest to Pierce, but Margaret has served here with him the longest. I believe only Corporal Klinger and Father Mulcahy have been here for the same duration that they have withstood.
"Enough of this topic; I only wish I had more to say, but this matter has taken over the camp's thoughts and hearts at all times since December the fifteenth. Indeed, my tent has become something of a memorial sight…" he turned the recording off and tossed the contraption on his cot, overcome with an emotion he refused to acknowledge.
He took a sip of tea, raising his mug with trembling hands.
Scene. Scene. Scene. Scene. Scene.
8 March 1953
"Pierce Residence." Several seconds passed with no acknowledgement from the other end of the line. "Hello?"
"He- hi. Doctor Pierce? Daniel?"
He frowned. "Yes?"
Another silence filled ten seconds or so. "I'm sorry to call so suddenly like this, I don't know… my name is John McIntyre."
Recognition of the name sparked in the older man's mind. "Ah- Trapper John."
Scene. Scene. Scene. Scene. Scene.
11 March 1953
Dear Dr. Pierce,
Sherman Potter here again. First things first, since I know it's the first thought on your mind, there's been no news since we last exchanged words. You know, of course, that we'd get a call through to you the second we knew anything at all.
Secondly, I'm instructed to send you the well-wishes of my entire camp- I'd try to name them all, but you'd probably be confused, but some names you surely already know: B.J. Hunnicut, Margaret Houlihan, Father Mulcahy, Charles Winchester, and Max Klinger all send their love. Radar O'Reilly also sends his best from Iowa (though it's traveled a long way to Korea and back through our own correspondence) as well as from his folks.
In your last letter, you mentioned the seasonal flu outbreak in Crabapple Cove- by the time you get this, I imagine it'll be a summer hay fever, but nevertheless, I hope your patients are doing well.
Hawkeye always spoke a lot about you, of course, and your work as a doctor; the way his face would light up whenever he was reminded about you and Crabapple Cove, and the thought of returning to a boring life of 'getting Crabapple Cove to say ah' was inspiring. Also made me wish I didn't join the service at fifteen during the First World War! The dedication your son has towards his hometown is endearing, and I wish I had the same experience to think back on.
Then again, my missus has been settled down in Hannibal, Missouri for some twenty years now, and when I can make it home next, I'm not sure I'll ever leave again. It's my third war, and I think three just might be all I can handle. Don't tell anyone though- I'd hate for them to think I'm actually getting old!
My best again to you, Daniel- I hope the next time we talk, it'll be with something encouraging to report.
Yours, respectfully and affectionately,
Sherman T. Potter
Scene. Scene. Scene. Scene. Scene.
15 March 1953
The three month mark seemed to approach and pass slowly. Every time Klinger signed and dated a form- daily reports, requisitions- he thought about Hawkeye Pierce with a heavy heart.
Scene. Scene. Scene. Scene. Scene.
18 March 1953
Dear B.J.,
What does B.J. stand for?
I'm glad you wrote me, so stop worrying. I must admit though, you've elicited enough reactions out of me through your letter, I'm afraid my wife is about to have me committed.
You're right, Hawkeye and I never kept in touch- I never knew how to write to him. It sounds like you and him have developed a close friendship- do you know how you would write a farewell note to someone like him, if you were going home and knew he was stuck in that hell hole?
I feel so guilty, knowing that, not only has he been in Korea more than twice as long than I was, but now it may have claimed his life… I try not to think that way, but you gave me very little to go off of in your letter. I take it there's been no further news?
The thoughts of myself, my wife, and my two little girls (all of whom have heard countless tales of Hawkeye, and hope to meet him one day) go out to all of you and to Hawkeye, wherever he is.
Give Hot-Lips Houlihan a big kiss on the cheek from me.
Sincerely yours,
Trapper
B.J. felt his eyes dampen slightly as he read the note from the man he had heard so much about but never had the pleasure of meeting. He tucked the envelope in his pocket and, when he returned to the Swamp, placed the letter on the top of the pile of well-wishes, prayers, and thoughts.
Then he sat on his own cot, found a note pad and tore out a piece of paper. Locating a pen, he scribbled something hurriedly, folded it lightly, and wrote Hawkeye on the front of the paper. He tucked the small page under a corner of the still and got up again, off to find Margaret.
Scene. Scene. Scene. Scene. Scene.
11 April 1953
Colonel Potter looked up as Klinger stuck his head in the office.
"Father Mulcahy here to see you, sir." The priest ambled in and Klinger disappeared once more into his cluttered office.
"What can I do you for, Padre?"
Father Mulcahy shuffled his hat back and forth in his hands as he sometimes did when anxious or nervous. "I wanted to ask you, Colonel… well, sometimes it seems wrong to consider it, but I think this camp could use a spirit-booster. Anyway, the weather is warming up again, and Sister Theresa and the other nuns are looking for something fun to do with the orphans soon. I thought maybe, next weekend, if we're still not receiving casualties, we could bring them over for a day and organize some games…"
"I think that's a splendid idea, Father," Colonel Potter said seriously. "And you're absolutely correct, we could all use a fun day to forget our heavy thoughts. Can I trust you to organize things? Maybe Margaret will help…"
"Oh, absolutely, sir! Thank you. I'll head to the orphanage tomorrow morning to let them know. Oh, and say, Colonel," he added as an afterthought, "is there any news on when the communication lines might be restored…?"
The colonel shook his head in frustration. "No idea. There's a major offensive some miles west of here, and it's completely cut us off from just about anyone and anything else in Korea. I think we'll just have to sit it out until those numbskulls with the guns decide to let up and they can reestablish supply and comm lines. Fortunately we're well-stocked as it is."
Scene. Scene. Scene. Scene. Scene.
18 April 1953
They received their first mail call in about two weeks. The entire camp cheered for the restored supply chain, and Klinger tested out the phone, if only to call I-corps and ask if they could expect the fix to be long-term.
Morale was therefore surprisingly high as the orphans arrived and most of the camp piled into vehicles and headed a quarter mile down the road to an open pasture where they could run around and play games with the Korean children.
Klinger was about to head out when the phone in the office rang. He waved to Father Mulcahy to go on ahead without him, and ducked back in the office.
"MASH four-oh-seven-seven, Corporal Klinger here." He held the receiver closer to his ear and frowned. "Yeah- the three-oh-ninth Evac? Uh huh… you have… what? Hello?" The line went dead and Klinger cursed. "Damn comm lines," he muttered. Knocking once on Colonel Potter's office door, he waited patiently while the colonel finished what he was doing. "Sir?" he asked.
"What is it, son?" he asked distractedly. "Telephone?"
"No, sir- line got cut off again. But, Colonel… did we ask for a new surgeon?"
Colonel Potter looked up in surprise. "I didn't- did you?" he asked sardonically.
"No," Klinger chuckled. "But that was the three-oh-ninth Evac, and I think they said they were sending us a surgeon we asked for."
The colonel sighed. "Probably still sitting on our papers from when we asked for Captain Lyle… Klinger, see if you can get them back on the phone." Klinger was almost out the door when he reconsidered. "Actually, hold on a minute, son- why don't you head down with the others and have a good time. I'll try the three-oh-ninth."
"Are you sure, Colonel?"
"Absolutely. I can hold things down here for a bit."
"Will you come down and see the orphans, sir?"
He smiled. "You bet. I just want to finish this letter to Mildred first. I'll try to get the Evac hospital on the horn afterwards, and then I'll head that way and get the nurse on post-op duty to cover the phones."
"Yes, sir."
Scene. Scene. Scene. Scene. Scene.
An hour later, Colonel Potter was preparing to take Sophie out for a stroll down to the open pasture down the road, when he heard a jeep pull up. He frowned, not expecting casualties or any other visitors. Heading out to investigate, he ran into Sidney Freedman in the door of Klinger's office.
"Sidney!" he exclaimed. "How are you?"
"Just fine, Colonel," he replied in a measured voice. "Where is everyone?"
"Oh," the colonel smiled, "Sister Theresa brought the orphans over for the day." He pointed out over the field where they could see the little children running around with nurses, corpsmen, and doctors alike. "It's warm, we've had a long stretch without casualties, and let's face it- we can all use the morale booster. I was just about to meander down that way myself with Sophie, she hasn't had the chance to stretch her legs in some weeks!"
Sidney frowned. "Colonel, did the three-oh-ninth Evac call you today?"
"Ah!" Colonel Potter exclaimed. "Those dolts- they said they were sending a surgeon, not a psychiatrist. Certainly confused Klinger. Granted, we didn't ask for either, but I can't complain about seeing you, Sidney. What can I do for you?"
"Well," Sidney now looked confused, "I wanted to talk to you- and the others- about Hawkeye."
A shadow passed over the colonel's face. "Seems just yesterday… hard to believe that it's been four months since… well." He took a deep breath. "I don't know if that's such a great idea, Sid. I mean, people are finally starting to make their peace with things, I think. Hunnicut is still struggling, but otherwise…" he shrugged sadly. "We were hoping today could help take people's minds off of things."
"Colonel," Sidney was pale. "You said the three-oh-ninth called…?"
"They did," Colonel Potter replied slowly, "but the call was cut off. Tried to get them back on the horn several times now, but the lines must be tied, jammed, or cut again."
"So… you don't know? You haven't heard…?"
The color rushed from the colonel's face. He gripped the edge of Klinger's desk tightly, knuckles going white. "What, Sidney? Heard what?"
A/N: This story is written, just undergoing some fine-tuning, so you can expect updates every day or two. :-)
*~Lexi~*