***
Stellian, Georgia was the sort of city that occasionally seemed to wake up, look at itself in the mirror and shriek. Like most moderate-sized Southern cities in 1866, it had its fair share of plantations and beautiful white houses with wealthy and well-behaved inhabitants. But, interspersed amongst the civil circles were several shady establishments and shacks much like the M*A*S*H 4077th. Saloons were common meeting places, even for those rich old coots who'd made a fortune with cotton, and classes seemed to dissolve in the taverns of Stellian. Men were men, and nothing separated them except an ability to play cards and hold liquor.
It had been like that for as long as the two former army medics who sat at the table next to the bar could recall. The saloon was called "The Officers Club" and out of all the dives in town, it was the least likely one to ring with rifle fire at all hours of the night. Someone almost always stepped in and told the gun-toting drunkards to go home before they woke up the man who owned the place.
From the outside, The Officers' Club was deceptive. It looked rather fancy, and while it was the most civilized saloon in town, it was still no place for someone of high society or a delicate constitution.
Unfortunately, no one thought to mention this fact to Winchester as he stoically passed through the doors into the smoky air.
It had been his intention to step out of his disgusting living quarters and partake of what little culture the town had, and possibly dull the ringing in his ears from the sounds of his bunkmates' poor excuse for singing. If only he hadn't professed his love for opera, he might not have this headache.
***
Imagine, he thought, being driven from a soggy, putrid tent with hardly a shred of dignity. The short man named Radar had, just hours ago, escorted him to a mucky section of land with a barely-standing structure stuck carelessly into the ground. Immediately, Winchester had a strong urge to turn around and run into the woods, fashion a raft out of fallen logs and paddle back to Boston. Of course, it would have made much more sense to get back in the carriage and drive like hell, but he'd sooner die than appear subservient in any way.
As he followed the short man into the tent, he felt his throat close up at the sight. Not a moment had gone by before the two men who'd been engaged in an animated conversation stopped dead and looked Winchester up and down.
"Hmm, Beej, looks like someone sent you a present. That Sears catalog has everything, doesn't it?" The man seated closest to the door remarked, his eyes glittering with interest.
"Sorry, Radar, it isn't my size." The other man replied, shrugging. "Send it back."
Radar looked flustered and he stepped aside, urging Winchester to step forward and identify himself. When it became apparent that that wasn't going to happen, he shook his head and smiled.
"Um... Captains Pierce and Hunnicutt, may I present.. um... oh boy, I've gone and forgotten your name."
Winchester glared at him and then turned ceremoniously to the men who'd been identified as Pierce and Hunnicutt. "Charles Emerson Winchester III. How do you do, gentlemen."
"Well, to what do we owe the pleasure of your company? City never found any rats here last time, but you're welcome to look." Pierce said.
"Oh, no, sirs. He isn't with the city. He's our new doctor."
"New doctor?!" The two cried at once.
Radar sighed. "You'd better get used to this, sir. No one was expecting you."
"I see." Winchester muttered. "Yes, gentlemen, it's a pleasure to make your acquaintance. I regret that I shall have to infringe on your personal space for the next week. However, you needn't worry about me indulging in any variation of your sophomoric camaraderie."
"Oh, yes, sirs. He'll only be here a week." Radar said, nodding vigorously.
"Exactly what is he doing here in the first place? And why the hell didn't he show up when the war was still going on? We could have used him to put the patients to sleep and saved some of the whisky for ourselves." Pierce shook his head.
"I'll have you know I had absolutely no part of the 'war' you so casually described. I was the most celebrated physician in Boston and had absolutely no intention of dignifying that laughable conflict with my presence."
"Oh, a Yankee. Great, I've been looking for another reason to jump into the mud and drown myself."
"Sir, that might be sort of pointless. He's only going to be here a week."
"But what's he doing here in the first place?"
"He's Army Man Burns' replacement."
"Radar, we don't need any more doctors. I mean, this is a small town, there aren't that many catastrophes around here to warrant a 4-doctor practice." Hunnicutt said reasonably.
"Gentlemen, while I'm still being referred to in the third person, allow me briefly to enlighten your fragile minds to the world beyond Stellian, Georgia. Multiple-doctor practices are truly the way of the future. One doctor has only one opinion and that can limit his performance. Multiple doctors have multiple opinions and thus their abilities are only as limitless as their collective brainpower. Thank you, Mr. O'Reilly, I believe I can manage from here."
Radar frowned, nodded and left. As the door closed, Winchester and his roommates met eyes.
The black-haired one, Benjamin Franklin Pierce (but always referred to as Hawkeye), was a striking man with an air of apathy that surrounded him. He spoke often, rarely was serious and although he'd angrily come into the service and secretly wished he'd just moved to Maine when the whim struck him, he had happily remained in Stellian after the war and worked at the 4077th now that the war was over and the worst problems anyone had these days were birthing babies and barroom injuries. It was good money. He imagined that even though he complained rather often, he could easily do this in the next two lifetimes and not grow weary of it.
His companion, BJ Hunnicutt, was the more sensible and sober one of the two, but he still enjoyed humor as much as Hawkeye. He was married, so it turned out, and his wife lived at the other end of Stellian. It would have been hardly an hour's journey to her house but for some odd reason they insisted on staying in contact through the mail. It was a sort of tragically romantic scenario; being joined together by nothing but love, harmony and the United States Postal Service. He had a rather nice plantation and came from a bit more money than Hawkeye, but their friendship was obviously very strong, and built on very solid blocks.
Very solid.
"Well, BJ, my friend. It appears that we've got a new comrade for the time being." Hawkeye said speculatively as Winchester sat down on a surprisingly firm bed.
"Think he'd mind if we go through his stuff?" BJ wondered.
"I'm not sure. He might have some really character-degrading things in there. It could crush his social standing were he to be found out."
Winchester heaved a deep sigh and plastered a patient smile on his face. It was difficult but he credited his exquisite genetic makeup.
"Gentlemen, since we're only going to be together for a week, I would much prefer that this not be a time of hostility and aggression."
"We'll be your friend if you'll be ours." Hawkeye said earnestly.
"Scout's honor." BJ added.
"Bosom buddies for life, we'll be."
"Let us not confuse civility with friendship. We can be civil to one another without devoting any emotion." Winchester's stone-cold voice temporarily crushed their bubbly banter.
"Charles, there's no need to hide your feelings. We have busy schedules, but we won't be so cruel as to deprive you of our company. Tomorrow night we can all go on a hayride together and learn each others' most intimate secrets." BJ said in a mock-cheerful tone.
"I'll wear my pink bonnet!" Hawkeye exclaimed.
"I'd better work on my curtsy." BJ mused.
"Please, gentlemen. I find your brand of humor to be in atrocious taste."
"You hear that, BJ? He thinks we were kidding."
"Things can get pretty lonely around here, Charles. Sometimes you have to take what you can get." BJ said somberly, winking.
***
It all seemed to go downhill from there, Winchester realized, cutting his reverie short as, in shock, he realized that he was staring across the saloon at Hawkeye and BJ, seated at the table next to the bar.
"Why if it isn't Chaaahles Emahson Winchestah the Thuhrd!" Hawkeye exclaimed rather drunkenly, and Winchester felt his face turn green at the sight.
To hell with civility, he thought as he turned to leave. Quite a ruckus ensued in response to his attempted departure and the next thing he knew he was seated at the disgusting table with thoughts of taming a wild boar in his mind.
"Good... evening.." He said pointlessly, because Hawkeye and BJ had already gone onto another subject, laughing uproariously. It was very possible that he could slip away, perhaps to the bar, without either of them noticing for a time.
He quickly got to his feet and inconspicuously strode to the bar, seating himself atop a wooden stool toward the middle. It was only after he'd already felt his heart soar at being freed from the burdenous company of Pierce and Hunnicutt that he noticed the man he'd seated himself next to. His angry eyes were nearly buried under a faded and muddy confederate army cap, his skin was an atrocious red and he had a long brown beard. A snort escaped from his nose and he took in the view of Winchester seated uncomfortably next to him.
"Seat's taken. Waitin' fer a frenna mine." He snarled.
"I beg your pardon?"
"Said seat's taken. So move yer keister."
"You'd better do what he says, mister. He's expecting..." The bartender began, but Winchester waved him away, facing the angry drunken man.
"You are most certainly the most uncouth person I have ever met, second only to my atrocious employer. If you expect ever to effectively communicate, I would encourage you first to decrease your alcoholic intake and secondly, spend a moment determining whether you would prefer to win your battles through perseverence and determination or through your malodorous drunken looming. Good day!"
As he walked back to the table, Winchester realized that the familiar sound of an offended gasp was noticeably absent from the aftermath of his sparring. He must have missed it in all the ruckus.
***
Stellian, Georgia was the sort of city that occasionally seemed to wake up, look at itself in the mirror and shriek. Like most moderate-sized Southern cities in 1866, it had its fair share of plantations and beautiful white houses with wealthy and well-behaved inhabitants. But, interspersed amongst the civil circles were several shady establishments and shacks much like the M*A*S*H 4077th. Saloons were common meeting places, even for those rich old coots who'd made a fortune with cotton, and classes seemed to dissolve in the taverns of Stellian. Men were men, and nothing separated them except an ability to play cards and hold liquor.
It had been like that for as long as the two former army medics who sat at the table next to the bar could recall. The saloon was called "The Officers Club" and out of all the dives in town, it was the least likely one to ring with rifle fire at all hours of the night. Someone almost always stepped in and told the gun-toting drunkards to go home before they woke up the man who owned the place.
From the outside, The Officers' Club was deceptive. It looked rather fancy, and while it was the most civilized saloon in town, it was still no place for someone of high society or a delicate constitution.
Unfortunately, no one thought to mention this fact to Winchester as he stoically passed through the doors into the smoky air.
It had been his intention to step out of his disgusting living quarters and partake of what little culture the town had, and possibly dull the ringing in his ears from the sounds of his bunkmates' poor excuse for singing. If only he hadn't professed his love for opera, he might not have this headache.
***
Imagine, he thought, being driven from a soggy, putrid tent with hardly a shred of dignity. The short man named Radar had, just hours ago, escorted him to a mucky section of land with a barely-standing structure stuck carelessly into the ground. Immediately, Winchester had a strong urge to turn around and run into the woods, fashion a raft out of fallen logs and paddle back to Boston. Of course, it would have made much more sense to get back in the carriage and drive like hell, but he'd sooner die than appear subservient in any way.
As he followed the short man into the tent, he felt his throat close up at the sight. Not a moment had gone by before the two men who'd been engaged in an animated conversation stopped dead and looked Winchester up and down.
"Hmm, Beej, looks like someone sent you a present. That Sears catalog has everything, doesn't it?" The man seated closest to the door remarked, his eyes glittering with interest.
"Sorry, Radar, it isn't my size." The other man replied, shrugging. "Send it back."
Radar looked flustered and he stepped aside, urging Winchester to step forward and identify himself. When it became apparent that that wasn't going to happen, he shook his head and smiled.
"Um... Captains Pierce and Hunnicutt, may I present.. um... oh boy, I've gone and forgotten your name."
Winchester glared at him and then turned ceremoniously to the men who'd been identified as Pierce and Hunnicutt. "Charles Emerson Winchester III. How do you do, gentlemen."
"Well, to what do we owe the pleasure of your company? City never found any rats here last time, but you're welcome to look." Pierce said.
"Oh, no, sirs. He isn't with the city. He's our new doctor."
"New doctor?!" The two cried at once.
Radar sighed. "You'd better get used to this, sir. No one was expecting you."
"I see." Winchester muttered. "Yes, gentlemen, it's a pleasure to make your acquaintance. I regret that I shall have to infringe on your personal space for the next week. However, you needn't worry about me indulging in any variation of your sophomoric camaraderie."
"Oh, yes, sirs. He'll only be here a week." Radar said, nodding vigorously.
"Exactly what is he doing here in the first place? And why the hell didn't he show up when the war was still going on? We could have used him to put the patients to sleep and saved some of the whisky for ourselves." Pierce shook his head.
"I'll have you know I had absolutely no part of the 'war' you so casually described. I was the most celebrated physician in Boston and had absolutely no intention of dignifying that laughable conflict with my presence."
"Oh, a Yankee. Great, I've been looking for another reason to jump into the mud and drown myself."
"Sir, that might be sort of pointless. He's only going to be here a week."
"But what's he doing here in the first place?"
"He's Army Man Burns' replacement."
"Radar, we don't need any more doctors. I mean, this is a small town, there aren't that many catastrophes around here to warrant a 4-doctor practice." Hunnicutt said reasonably.
"Gentlemen, while I'm still being referred to in the third person, allow me briefly to enlighten your fragile minds to the world beyond Stellian, Georgia. Multiple-doctor practices are truly the way of the future. One doctor has only one opinion and that can limit his performance. Multiple doctors have multiple opinions and thus their abilities are only as limitless as their collective brainpower. Thank you, Mr. O'Reilly, I believe I can manage from here."
Radar frowned, nodded and left. As the door closed, Winchester and his roommates met eyes.
The black-haired one, Benjamin Franklin Pierce (but always referred to as Hawkeye), was a striking man with an air of apathy that surrounded him. He spoke often, rarely was serious and although he'd angrily come into the service and secretly wished he'd just moved to Maine when the whim struck him, he had happily remained in Stellian after the war and worked at the 4077th now that the war was over and the worst problems anyone had these days were birthing babies and barroom injuries. It was good money. He imagined that even though he complained rather often, he could easily do this in the next two lifetimes and not grow weary of it.
His companion, BJ Hunnicutt, was the more sensible and sober one of the two, but he still enjoyed humor as much as Hawkeye. He was married, so it turned out, and his wife lived at the other end of Stellian. It would have been hardly an hour's journey to her house but for some odd reason they insisted on staying in contact through the mail. It was a sort of tragically romantic scenario; being joined together by nothing but love, harmony and the United States Postal Service. He had a rather nice plantation and came from a bit more money than Hawkeye, but their friendship was obviously very strong, and built on very solid blocks.
Very solid.
"Well, BJ, my friend. It appears that we've got a new comrade for the time being." Hawkeye said speculatively as Winchester sat down on a surprisingly firm bed.
"Think he'd mind if we go through his stuff?" BJ wondered.
"I'm not sure. He might have some really character-degrading things in there. It could crush his social standing were he to be found out."
Winchester heaved a deep sigh and plastered a patient smile on his face. It was difficult but he credited his exquisite genetic makeup.
"Gentlemen, since we're only going to be together for a week, I would much prefer that this not be a time of hostility and aggression."
"We'll be your friend if you'll be ours." Hawkeye said earnestly.
"Scout's honor." BJ added.
"Bosom buddies for life, we'll be."
"Let us not confuse civility with friendship. We can be civil to one another without devoting any emotion." Winchester's stone-cold voice temporarily crushed their bubbly banter.
"Charles, there's no need to hide your feelings. We have busy schedules, but we won't be so cruel as to deprive you of our company. Tomorrow night we can all go on a hayride together and learn each others' most intimate secrets." BJ said in a mock-cheerful tone.
"I'll wear my pink bonnet!" Hawkeye exclaimed.
"I'd better work on my curtsy." BJ mused.
"Please, gentlemen. I find your brand of humor to be in atrocious taste."
"You hear that, BJ? He thinks we were kidding."
"Things can get pretty lonely around here, Charles. Sometimes you have to take what you can get." BJ said somberly, winking.
***
It all seemed to go downhill from there, Winchester realized, cutting his reverie short as, in shock, he realized that he was staring across the saloon at Hawkeye and BJ, seated at the table next to the bar.
"Why if it isn't Chaaahles Emahson Winchestah the Thuhrd!" Hawkeye exclaimed rather drunkenly, and Winchester felt his face turn green at the sight.
To hell with civility, he thought as he turned to leave. Quite a ruckus ensued in response to his attempted departure and the next thing he knew he was seated at the disgusting table with thoughts of taming a wild boar in his mind.
"Good... evening.." He said pointlessly, because Hawkeye and BJ had already gone onto another subject, laughing uproariously. It was very possible that he could slip away, perhaps to the bar, without either of them noticing for a time.
He quickly got to his feet and inconspicuously strode to the bar, seating himself atop a wooden stool toward the middle. It was only after he'd already felt his heart soar at being freed from the burdenous company of Pierce and Hunnicutt that he noticed the man he'd seated himself next to. His angry eyes were nearly buried under a faded and muddy confederate army cap, his skin was an atrocious red and he had a long brown beard. A snort escaped from his nose and he took in the view of Winchester seated uncomfortably next to him.
"Seat's taken. Waitin' fer a frenna mine." He snarled.
"I beg your pardon?"
"Said seat's taken. So move yer keister."
"You'd better do what he says, mister. He's expecting..." The bartender began, but Winchester waved him away, facing the angry drunken man.
"You are most certainly the most uncouth person I have ever met, second only to my atrocious employer. If you expect ever to effectively communicate, I would encourage you first to decrease your alcoholic intake and secondly, spend a moment determining whether you would prefer to win your battles through perseverence and determination or through your malodorous drunken looming. Good day!"
As he walked back to the table, Winchester realized that the familiar sound of an offended gasp was noticeably absent from the aftermath of his sparring. He must have missed it in all the ruckus.
***