Hey kids. I read over my reviews (my ego-inflating exercise :D) and someone mentioned how they really liked the dreams and hallucinations. Well, I figured I'd put one in, just for kicks. Don't forget, no reviews no ego no story! (A special hello to Vandevere, who is pleased I restarted this story. Also the ubiquitous Sporky, whom I'm never sure is reading this or not.)
Chapter 13 (spooky)Frank Burns didn't like to think of himself as a superstitious person. He'd never gone in for astrology and palm-reading, none of that rubbish. Not like Louise did, checking her horoscopes every day. Ridiculous. But he'd heard Hawkeye's strangled cries the night before. Granted, Frank had been rather preoccupied with emptying his stomach into the nearest bedpan, and had no intention of displaying sympathy or anything of the sort. It didn't make sense to Frank. Nothing made sense these days. Pierce was the only one falling off the deep end. Frank absently wondered whether Pierce wanted R&R again, and whether his latest scheme would work. He chuckled to himself, irrationally thinking how jealous Klinger was going to be.
Frank turned back to the issue of Reader's Digest he'd pored over for the past week. In a couple of days he'd be on his feet again, showing that Captain McCulloch how things ought to be done. But in the meantime, he settled for being powerfully interested in the Grand Canyon.
"Frank, we need words."
"Go soak your head," Frank retorted, though with less force than he'd hoped. Was he really that much of a weakling?
"I'll soak yours in alcohol and set it alight if you aren't co-operative."
Frank realised it was useless to argue with McIntyre, even if he was an inferior officer. He settled for being as unhelpful as possible. That'd really piss him off.
"What do you want, McIntyre?"
"I want to talk with you. About the mess tent food."
"What do you want from me? We both know it's crap."
"Indeed, but why the sudden bout of sickness? Why are two surgeons suddenly busted up in Post-Op?"
There it was again, that niggling feeling in Frank's unconscious. No, he told it, you niggle back to where you came from and don't bother me.
"Well, when I volunteered for KP duty everyone commented on how nice the potatoes were."
"And Hawkeye fell sick shortly afterward. No one else, just Hawkeye. And you."
"Well, er, I wasn't feeling too good that particular day. Maybe it was something I picked up during triage. You know what Canadians are like. Do they even wash north of the 49th parallel?"
Trapper chose to ignore this last remark and ploughed on. "It happened when you were on KP. Not Klinger, not Igor, not Rodriguez, not anybody. You. Do you see where I'm going?"
"Hopefully back… back to the Swamp, scumbag." Frank was secretly quite peeved Trapper hadn't quite given up yet.
"Tough luck, Ferret Face. I'm not finished. How did you do it? I keep getting asked by the nursing staff how and why we had potatoes that actually tasted like potatoes! Y'know how ridiculous that is?"
"…Yeah, it is a bit silly, eh?" Frank let out a small giggle, which he hadn't meant to do, but those compliments were so very amusing…
Trapper surveyed this from above, his brain cells plodding along as usual. He hoped Frank would be of some help: it bothered Trapper intensely that he had to take charge and find out what was going on. Usually he'd leave that to Hawkeye.
"Seriously, Frank. What's your secret?"
"Well, I… er… really got it from the other KP staff, Private Straminsky and Sergeant Rodriguez. The Private especially, he obtained the secret ingredient." Frank smiled, very pleased with himself.
"That secret ingredient wouldn't happen to be arsenic, would it?"
Frank – the conscious part – began to feel very uneasy about the whole situation. Arsenic? Was that it? True, Rodriguez had dropped by a few days ago to boast about his new haggling technique and… now Frank thought about it, that nice, shiny bottle glinting from his pocket was probably…
For the first time in their collective memory, Trapper and Frank each saw their own expression on the other's face.
…oooOOOooo…
Later that evening, while sirens blared and a stream of choppers beared down on the hospital, Frank had a dream.
The haze cleared before him to reveal the inside of the Mess Tent, with the chairs organised as if for church. From his vantage point high above, Frank's ghost looked down upon the proceedings. It seemed unusual for so many people to be going to church: normally it was just him, Margaret and Father Mulcahy, plus whatever enlisted men Frank could round up. Today, it was actually standing-room-only near the back. Frank's heart jarred from within his translucent chest as he realised what was happening. He was watching his own memorial service.
Margaret sat rigid in the silence, wrapping her emotions tightly around her thin frame. Henry's eyes were wide, his hand clenched around a non-existent beer bottle he'd downed hours ago. Klinger and Radar were muttering to each other, the latter torn between tears and a joyous whoop. Trapper John stared intently at the tarpaulin ceiling, the pulpit, the collar around the good Father's neck, anything except the small memorial to Frank that stood at the front. It featured a picture of the Major smiling in his dress uniform, a bunch of wildflowers carelessly strewn, his ratty, over-loved Bible and his dog tags, glinting in the noontime sun.
Yet Frank's psyche didn't remember dying: it only knew of a service in its honour. One minute he had been lying in post-op, pondering his surely approaching demise, the next he had skipped said demise entirely and stayed on to watch.
"Father, no due respect or anything, but are we going to get on with this? I have patients I would love to stare at for the next few hours."
"Of course. We'll start right away."
Klinger called for quiet and everyone settled into their seats, or shoes for those standing at the back.
"Ladies and gentlemen, I am sorry to have had to assemble you all at such short notice. For those unaware of recent events, we are here today to celebrate the death of… oh dear…"
As it became clear to all Father Mulcahy had inadvertently verbalised the feelings of everyone present, the mood in the Mess Tent lightened dramatically. After a tactless demi-silence punctuated by sniggers and whisperings, Radar began to play a jaunty tune on the piano. People rose to sing different songs simultaneously, all of which somehow contained the words "Ferret Face" and a few curse words best left to the imagination.
Father Mulcahy rustled his papers, attempting to gain the attention of the now jovial crowd. However, he soon saw resurrecting the service – so to speak – would be no use and soon joined the fun.
Trapper made his way to the pulpit. "Ladies and gentlemen! I would like to propose a toast to Major Franklin Marion Burns."
Sniggers erupted from a bunch of enlisted men. "Haha! Marion!"
Trapper waited for the chortling to die down. "A toast to Frank, who was a rubbish surgeon, a rubbish person, but a great excuse to throw a party." He raised his glass of punch. "Goodbye, Ferret Face!"
"Goodbye, Ferret Face!" shouted the congregation, as shouts and cheers reverberated around the tent.
Alone and unseen, Frank's ghost began to sniffle in a corner. It's only a dream, he sternly told himself. You'll wake up in the morning and everything will be as it was. They don't really hate you this much.
His unconscious bothered him, even in his self-created alternate universe.
The scene changed…
Frank found himself wandering through the compound. It was mid-morning, judging by the heat which hadn't yet arrived. A few of the prisoners hissed at him and made faces as he walked by.
Prisoners?
He snapped awake, so to speak: his mind shifted into higher gear. The compound was swarming with North Korean soldiers. They must have overrun the place! Commies! Commies, attacking a US Army hospital! How dare they! Couldn't they see the red cross, the OR, wounded in Post-Op?
Frank reached for his gun. It was sitting conveniently in its holster, which in turn was attached conveniently to his pants. His eyes darted from left to right and back again, figuring out what he was going to do. Frank felt as if someone had plugged his brain into the electricity supply.
"Do not worry, Major Burns. You are on our side."
The voice vanished as soon as it appeared, right behind Frank's head. Being a little lacking in the carriage department, he whizzed around, lost his balance and fell flat on his tush. Frank's head whizzed around, taking in the sights.
Instead of the compound full of officers and enlisted personnel wandering around, it was chockers with North Koreans, who had everyone bundled up in groups of three or four, tied together tightly with pieces of rope Frank recognised as belonging to the 4077th. He'd barely begun to wonder how the Commies had come by this rope when he spotted none other than Hawkeye Pierce, sitting by himself outside the Mess Tent. A grin spread all by itself over Frank's face. He drummed his fingers against his gun, still sitting in its holster. Still grinning, he walked over to where Pierce was sitting.
"So, who's the bigshot now, eh?"
Frank stared down at Pierce as the Captain's head snapped up, so the two were eye-to-eye. Frank saw Pierce's eyes narrow as he stared at the Major's joyous visage.
"Frank!" whispered Pierce, looking scared. "What the hell are you doing? Those are North Koreans!"
Frank smiled his trademark sinister smile. "I am well aware of that, Pierce."
Pierce's expression turned to one of utter bewilderment. "Then why are you wandering around? You hate North Koreans! Why haven't you shot them to bits by now?"
"Pierce, compatriot, you mustn't have heard the latest news. The peace treaty has been signed!"
Frank wasn't quite sure where that came from, but evidently Pierce wasn't buying it either. "Peace treaty? What peace treaty? Between the North Koreans and Frank Burns?" Pierce laughed softly, as if such a thing was ridiculous. Frank couldn't possibly be this off the rails.
"That's exactly right."
Frank cackled to himself as he wandered to the back of the Mess Tent. As if on cue, two of those Commies had arrived with a huge mound of mush, that potato which haunted Frank even in his waking hours. Frank couldn't help but smile contentedly as they threw the pounds of crap at Pierce. From the sounds of things, Hawkeye wasn't enjoying it.
"Rodriguez!" he whispered urgently to the door-flap.
"Yes, sir?"
"What are you doing? Those Commies are wasting-"
Rodriguez came to the flap, his ruddy, weather-beaten face and Sergeant's fatigues covered with potato.
"Firstly, sir, they're not Commies, they are North Koreans. There's a difference. Secondly, they are not wasting, they are effectively using. Again, a difference. Thirdly, I don't see what this has to do with you, since you only joined at the last minute anyway! Get lost, sir!"
"But Sergeant," began Frank in his whiny voice the camp would know anywhere, "the ground is covered with potato mash! Why are these Com-Koreans here anyway? Who let them here?"
Rodriguez grinned his toothless grin. "I did. Now shoo, sir. You're attracting attention. That wouldn't help our plans, would it now?"
"Er, no, Rodri-" Frank was cut off by the whoosh of the door-flap closing in his face. He walked back around to find Igor watching the happenings and quite enjoying himself. Pierce looked decidedly pale and sick, his eyes were out of focus and his mouth hung open, full of potato.
"Well, well, well."
Pierce snapped back to reality: there was Frank, still smirking, and Igor, still laughing. Frank stared down at his favourite enemy, lying, defeated, on the wall of the Mess Tent.
"No biting, smart-alec remarks now, eh, Pierce!"
Frank was overjoyed to witness Pierce's eyes began to drift out of focus: he was beginning to obviously lose his mind.
Who's losing their mind now, Frank?
Pierce's eyes darted back and forth, looking for something. There they were. Still grinning. Still laughing. Frank stood, confused, as his prisoner (not the Commies' prisoner, Major Burns' prisoner) looked more and more anxious and scared. With the man Pierce evidently sought nowhere in his sight, he yelled furiously –
"TRAPPER!"
…oooOOOooo…
And at this point Frank's long-suffering unconscious conscience burst free from its shackles. It pulled Frank out of his silvery pool of slumber, knocking on the back door of his mind as it did so. Frank hadn't the strength to push his conscience back under, so it bubbled, menacingly, to the surface.
"Yes! It was! It was!" Frank's face crumpled as he began to sob piteously, his cries heard only by the unsympathetic darkness.
Or so he thought.
Sidling along the Post-Op door leading to the night outside stood an enlisted man, technically on guard duty. His gun barrel reflected the light hanging above the door as the man examined his weapon. A strangled howl caught his attention: he turned to look inside. The Major continued to weep into his bedclothes and mutter soothing half-words to himself, not expecting anyone to be watching him at his lowest ebb.
The enlisted man turned away, not wishing to intrude on the Major's privacy. He leant against the corrugated iron walls of Post-Op, swearing under his breath as he fumbled with an unlit cigar. His hands were cold and clammy, carrying his gun in the moonlight.
It took several seconds for the man to fully grasp what he'd seen. With the weight of his realisation suddenly upon him, he scurried across the compound to the back of the Mess Tent. The man mumbled a harried whisper to the tent flap. At once, a muscled forearm sprang out of the doorway and pulled him inside.
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