"Lieutenant Colonel Henry Blake's plane was shot down over the Sea of Japan… It spun in… There were no survivors."
Hawkeye's spine makes a terrifying crunching sound, the foot of his geisha girl on his wonky L2 vertebrae. Right at the base of his spinal cord, where a terrifying, delicate mass of spinal nerves erupts as the cauda equina. He doesn't care about any possible loss of sensation; he's already comfortably numb.
He tries to remember why he was angry when he arrived in Tokyo, but his mind is clouded with far too much booze. Right—why did Trapper stay behind? They could be lying side by side right now in this dark musty room, wearing only white towels as their geishas worked their magic.
She's getting a bit too close to his tailbone now; he winces but says nothing.
Surely Trapper should get away from it all, just as he needed to, the reality that Henry Blake is not walking into his house right now, dancing with his missus in a dyed suit, hugging Jane, Molly, and Andrew as he walks into the house. Why the hell did Trap stay behind?
When his geisha is finished, Hawkeye has her money crumpled in a ball in his hand. It falls to the floor as he falls apart.
"Discipline!" Frank states, pacing in the C.O.'s office of the 4077th. "There will be discipline from now on, beginning with the surgeons and ending with the nurses!"
"Right, Frank," Margaret replies, all starry-eyed, sitting behind Henry's empty desk. "What'll you do first?"
"Well, being as the Swamp is currently free of anyone who can stop me, I should think some housekeeping is in order. Top down works best."
"But here? Now?" Margaret asks, clutching her shirt with wide eyes, scanning the office. "But what if Radar—?"
Frank isn't paying attention, pacing back and forth, hands clasped behind his back.
"First, I'm gonna toss out Pierce's non-army issue clothing. Starting with his bathrobe."
Margaret almost swallows her tongue.
"His bathrobe? But Frank…"
"Of course, his bathrobe!" he cuts in. "No place for red in this man's army," he says with a smile, "except of course, on our scrubs."
"Is there such thing as an army-issue bathrobe? We certainly don't want him streaking out of the shower!"
"True. Shucks. I guess he gets to keep that damn bathrobe."
"It's a shame we can't force him to wear army green at all times," Margaret states, "but you are certainly trying to make the situation more—military, Frank."
"There are certainly things we can't rid ourselves of, it seems," Frank says, stopping in front of the desk and turning to Margaret with a grin, "but at least McIntyre is one of them."
Margaret's smile in reply is less than enthused.
"Right."
A small breakout group have been passing the time this evening enjoying the odd cigar, expensive liquor, and hors d'ouvres, the medical conference at the hotel quickly coming to a close. Major Charles Emerson Winchester III smiles as he thinks about how well the conference went today, how he'd certainly impressed the audience with his advanced techniques in thoracic surgery. And now he's beaten his commanding officer at his own game. In the next day or so, he will be headed back to Massachusetts General Hospital and his cushy existence there several hundred dollars richer, at that, though Tokyo has certainly been a charming place. Perhaps he shall return one day, but not as an officer of the U.S. Army or a thoracic surgeon, but simply as a tourist. He leans back, the cribbage game over.
"Ah, it would seem that I have won again," Major Winchester says to the man across from him, Colonel Horace Baldwin.
"Ugh, what's the damage?"
"Let's see," Charles says with a little toothy grin. "You owe me six hundred and seventy-two dollars and… eleven cents."
Baldwin rolls his eyes. Charles is elated and cannot hide his enthusiasm.
"I must thank you for teaching me this game, Colonel. It's an engaging little diversion."
Now Colonel Baldwin is getting a phone call. He strides over to the phone in the room and answers it, his face deep in thought. Charles crosses his legs, gloating a bit. He certainly deserves to gloat. Life cannot be any better. Today has been a resounding success in more ways than one.
"Oh really," Baldwin mutters, less interested than he sounds. "Down three surgeons?"
The voice on the other end replies.
"The Sea of Japan? Wow, hell of a time to deliver orders to a second guy—from the same M.A.S.H. unit too! Where's the third guy?"
A pause.
"Huh. He's here in Tokyo? Really? Maybe I know him. What's his name?"
Another pause.
"Nope, I don't know him. What do they want? Another man to fill in?"
His eyebrows are furrowed as he shakes his head.
"That's impossible…"
Charles speaks up during the pause, his little smug grin remaining.
"Colonel—I apologize, but you, in fact, owe me six hundred and seventy-two dollars and seventeen cents. My mistake."
Baldwin turns away from Winchester, a little grin now playing on his lips.
"… at this very moment. I can ship a surgeon to you some time this evening. He's top-notch. Will that work?"
The call ends and Baldwin is now smiling.
"Want to give it another go?" Winchester asks, shuffling the deck. "I won't expect payment for another day or two, you realize. Perhaps in the meantime, you can recoup some of—"
"I'd love to win some of that back, but you won't have enough time."
"Why not?"
"A M.A.S.H. unit in Korea is down three surgeons. They need someone to fill in until the third man gets back. In fact, he's in Tokyo this very moment."
"So you're saying, this Benjamin Franklin Pierce fellow is here in Tokyo?" Major Winchester exclaims, now anxiously pacing back and forth across the room. Gone is the smugness that had appeared when he'd beaten Baldwin soundly in cribbage. "If I am, ah, able to find him, might I avoid being sent to that hellscape?"
Baldwin glances down at his wristwatch.
"You have exactly five hours to find him. I've confirmed that the plane takes off at 2000 hours from the base here in Tokyo. Either you or this Benjamin Pierce has gotta be on that plane, or you'll both be declared AWOL."
"AWOL?!" Charles roars. "I'm not even on active duty!"
"Are you not a Major, Major? An order is an order."
"This is patently unfair," Charles mutters. "Might I inquire as to the appearance of this Pierce fellow? Otherwise, this is akin to finding the proverbial needle in the haystack!"
Baldwin can only shrug.
"What are you looking at me for? I've never met the man!"
"Call the damn M.A.S.H. unit if you must!" Charles says, pounding his fist on a nearby desk, his face ever-reddening. Baldwin looks at him with surprise—how dare he speak to him in this manner. Charles continues, his ire growing. "If I'm to find this Pierce in Tokyo, I should at least know what I'm looking for!"
"Geez—does every surgeon hail from Boston, or what?"
Margaret looks at Frank as he clutches his forehead.
"I mean, McIntyre was from Boston, and this Major Winchester fellow is as well. Strange, right? Do you think they know each other?"
"Boston is a big city," Margaret replies soothingly.
"Speaking of big cities, do you think that guy has a chance in hell at finding Pierce? Tokyo is huge!"
Margaret shakes her head, smiling now.
"If he has any sense of dignity, he won't."
"Oh, you always say the right things, Margaret!" Frank says, moving to Margaret and leaning down to hug her. "Can you imagine, a man with dignity at the 4077th?"
She smiles toothily, the words ringing from her mouth.
"Nope!"
Tall and skinny, in his mid-thirties. Black hair with streaks of silver. He is an alcoholic, sick in his own disease, a man liable to quench his insatiable lust on anyone interested. A pervert through and through.
Apparently, the new commanding officer of the 4077th isn't a big fan of the missing man. Colonel Baldwin attempts to scribble down the description that Major Frank Burns provides, handing Winchester the sloppily-written note.
"A promiscuous drunk. Well, that certainly simplifies matters," Charles groans sarcastically, rolling his eyes. "I suppose I'll start by visiting hotel bars, and go from there. No shortage of those in Tokyo."
"Good man," Baldwin replies, looking amused as he stands alongside Winchester, giving him a patronizing pat on the back. Now Charles turns his head to glare openly at the side of Baldwin's face, his fists clenched at his sides.
"In the, ah, case of taxi fare, not to mention possible cover charges, might I receive an advance on that six hundred and seventy—"
"You're kidding, right?" Baldwin interrupts, gesturing dismissively and stepping away. "Do you really think I keep that kind of cash on me?" He looks back at Winchester, attempting to appear concerned in spite of his relief. "You have exactly four hours and forty minutes to find this Pierce fellow. Good luck, Major."