Some days Father Mulcahy hated his job. Tonight was a particularly difficult night, perhaps the worst one of his career as a priest. He'd spent 14 hours comforting the members of the 4077 over the death of Henry Blake. Father Mulcahy was getting accustomed to war and the sadness it brought, but tonight a wave of another kind of emotion had taken over the camp- hopelessness. Never before had he seen so many men and women alike cry, yell, shout out in frustration, or share their own fears of their demise. It seemed as if Henry had touched one too many lives at the 4077.
He didn't know if he had the strength to go on. Who could comfort the comforter? In his head he knew the answer- there was one Great Comforter- but tonight he had a few doubts in his mind. Henry was a wonderful, kind, gracious man, but he had his faults. To be honest, his morality around the camp left the Father with a few doubts of his own about his place in Heaven. And he hated himself for even thinking that.
If good heartedness was the key to heaven, then Henry would be joining the front of the pack. But he was a bit of a drinker, and worst of all, adultery was something seriously frowned upon in the Good Book. How could Henry not go to heaven? The thought troubled him to no end, and he stared at a bottle of scotch someone left behind, seriously wanting to partake in some non-communion communion.
The thought was tempting. How easy would it be for him to drown his sorrows, like most of the camp had? It was so tempting. After all, Father Mulcahy was only human. He couldn't be strong all of the time. But if he couldn't be the strength of the camp, the voice of humanity, who could?
Oh how his calling could be a curse and a blessing. He just wanted to forget, forget all of the sorrow he'd seen during the past day. Nothing made sense to him anymore. The loss of a good man- his soul in question, the failing morale of the camp...it was just a beast of a burden, almost too much for one man to take.
Oh he knew what he should do. He should turn his sorrows over to the Lord, but how could he, when the Lord had apparently let down the camp on this terrible day? The very idea that he could think that thought troubled him, but he had reached his breaking point. All he wanted to do was drown that last bottle of scotch, to drink to forget, to live to forget. But with people still in demand of his service, how could he let down the camp like that?
Finally, after pouring himself a drink and ready to participate in, one final knock on his tent occurred. Grateful for this newfound savior, he quickly put away the drink and called for the knocker to come in.
Not much by surprise, it was Hawkeye who was the persistent caller. Father Mulcahy had been expecting this, if only that he was a sounding board. He was well aware of Hawkeye's believes in the afterlife, but a person could only hold so much in. He understood the feeling well.
"Hawkeye...how can I help you?"
Hawkeye tried to hold it in, tried to be strong, but a little too much alcohol, a lot too many hours in surgery, and of course, the death of one of his best friends had apparently gotten to him too.
Hawkeye quickly observed the scotch and poured himself one. He grabbed the glass that Mulcahy hid and offered it to him.
"Come on. Who's going to think less of you right now?" Hawkeye encouraged. "I sure as hell won't, pardon my french."
"Thank you, but I really shouldn't."
"Why not? You've probably had the worst day of us all here in camp. If anyone deserves a drink, it's you. I won't tell. Pinky promise."
Father Mulcahy mulled the offer. "I can't. But how may I help you, Hawkeye?"
"I just wanted to...I wanted to see how you're doing."
"Me?" It was the first time all day anyone had asked him that question.
"I know you've seen a thousand men and women today, but I know it can't be easy for you. So come on, Padre, spill it. How's your head holding up?"
Father Mulcahy sighed. "To tell you the truth, not so well. I have a headache and my throat is raw from talking and my ears even hurt. I shouldn't...I shouldn't be telling you this."
"Why not? Confidentiality goes both ways you know!"
Father Mulcahy's eyes started to well up, and he looked up towards the sky. "To tell you the truth nothing makes sense anymore. The things I once knew, I don't. The things I once was so sure of...now I'm not sure what to make of them. I am beginning to think I'm in the wrong profession."
"War is hell, ain't it Padre?"
He looked at Hawkeye, breathed a deep sigh again, and nodded his head. "I think you said it best for both of us."
"I wish I knew what to tell you. I wish I had an explanation. And if I'm doing some serious soul searching than I can't imagine how you must be feeling."
"why...why aren't you here? Why aren't you with..."
"Trapper? He passed out a long time ago. I didn't want to be alone, and somehow I suspected that you might not want to be either."
Father Mulcahy smiled for the first time all day. He'd almost forgotten how sensitive his friend could be, when he wanted to be.
Hawkeye handed the priest the drink, and looked at him and said," Pray for forgiveness tomorrow. Tonight this may be your only friend."
Father Mulcahy nodded, and took a long drink then sat the glass down. He felt bad, but not as badly as he did for all of his comrades who had lost their leader, a great friend.
"You know something, Hawkeye?"
"What's that? I'm all ears."
"I might hate myself tomorrow for that, but for tonight, I really don't care. The hell with today, I say."
"I'll drink to that," They both lifted their glasses in one final salute to their fallen leader. Father Mulcahy knew that Hawkeye could be trusted to keep his secret. And he knew in the big scheme of things he would be forgiven. After all, he was only human after all, right?
The end
