Potter made a quick stop by his office before heading home to sign whatever
Radar had presented as necessary since the night before.
On one corner of the desk was a certificate of death, marked with a little question mark on the top left corner, and typed out with Lt. Col. Henry Blake's information. Looking closely, Potter could spot where a few tears had been hastily wiped away before they could make too much of a mess of the form. Potter shook his head, and slipped the piece of paper into his desk drawer. He would have thrown it away, but he somehow couldn't. The heart and soul that Radar had put into doing the only thing he readily knew how for the Colonel, though the product was rather morbid, was touching.
In any event, the Colonel didn't think the form was necessary. After all, the Army already thought that Blake was dead. If anything, they needed to figure out how to correct this assumption.
Potter stacked the piles of papers at cross-angles and lifted them, too tired to think of the proper military route of reporting a reportedly dead officer to have returned and reported himself to be dead, as well, though alive to all tests except specifically medical ones. Potter sighed and shuffled out of his office, setting the stacks of papers on Radar's desk.
He looked up and smiled at the Company clerk. Radar slept with his teddy bear clutched in a firm hug, his eyes red and a little bit swollen, and his glasses hanging from a peg above the bed, almost seeming to look down at him.
Potter made a concerted effort to be quiet as he passed out of the tent. In the now bright and cheery morning he saw some corpsmen bearing a closed coffin out of the post-op, as ordered. They set it down, and Potter shook his head in disbelief.
Military efficiency. Couldn't get a group of guys to do a simple thing like put a man in a coffin and carry him from post-op to the VIP tent in one trip. Potter bet that the resourceful individuals of the 4077th had found a group of people to get the coffin from the supply tent and take it to the door of post-op, another to bring it inside, another to put the Colonel in it, another to bring the coffin back outside here, and now a fifth was going to come by and actually bear the coffin to the assigned location.
Potter never ceased to be amazed by these processes.
He was about to turn to head to his tent when he saw Father Mulcahy slip out of post-op and edge over to the coffin. His face grew stern, and he stopped to watch.
Father Mulcahy, for his part, felt drawn toward the coffin's edge. He was used to being able to do something for the blessed dead. But Henry fell, sadly, into neither of these categories. The priest fidgeted, and turned to face the coffin, lowering himself into a crouch that was, perhaps unconsciously, also a genuflection. Out of habit, he settled his elbows on the flat surface before him, laced his fingers, and fell into murmuring a formulaic prayer as he let his thoughts wander.
The full sunlight warmed and soothed his black-clad, sore, and aching back. A section of the paternoster became highly aspirated as the padre relaxed a bit and exhaled heavily through the prayers.
It would be quite simple, of course, to open the lid of the coffin. In no less than a few minutes, from what he could tell of the creature's reaction in the O.R., the demon would be dead, and Henry's body would be able to fall to its rightful rest.
But, for crying out loud, it certainly seemed to be Henry Blake, and no other! The beast seemed to rear up from time to time, but in between, it was hard to deny that Blake had indeed been spared from death. And if that was so, wouldn't it be the right thing to do to allow him to hold on to life while he can?
Even if it meant giving a home to a creature of pure evil intent?
The question became, more or less, did Father Mulcahy believe that Henry Blake had the power to resist evil, to be stalwart and steadfast, and to hold power over the beast within him?
Mulcahy shook his head in an inward answer to this very question. Since when was Henry Blake, after all, in control of anything, least of all himself? In Chaplain school he'd been told to expect a higher threshold of tolerance for sins and transgressions than in a peaceful, non-threatening situation, but, given all in all, Pierce, McIntyre, and Blake had had it pretty good compared to most of the poor souls thrown into this mess, yet seemed to do enough sinning for an entire squadron! No. Mulcahy wouldn't trust a foul demon to the care of any of them.
Once Blake develops a taste for blood, Mulcahy thought dourly, he'll indulge in it as ever he indulged in booze and women.
He set his jaw and gripped nervously at the coffin lid's edge with his fingers. He tilted his head back to look up at the bright blue heavens. In his mind's eye, he recalled watching Henry Blake's helicopter bear him off. Yes. Henry was gone.
"Padre," called a familiar voice, and Mulcahy twitched slightly, lowering his head and then slowly turning around, feeling slightly guilty despite all his reasoning.
Potter stood before him, frowning slightly. "We told him to get out of there. He wouldn't, not until he was sure that that boy was going to be alright. It was doubtful whether the kid was going to live or die. According to what I've heard, I don't know if I'd have been able to save him. I don't know if Pierce and Hunnicutt together could have done it, especially with all the other casualties coming in. Henry Blake risked his life to save that boy."
His voice conveyed no sense of admonition, and was soft and gentle. "I just thought you'd want to know."
Mulcahy nodded, and Potter nodded in reply before turning and heading to his tent.
After a few minutes, Mulcahy stood and wandered back to his own quarters.
~
On one corner of the desk was a certificate of death, marked with a little question mark on the top left corner, and typed out with Lt. Col. Henry Blake's information. Looking closely, Potter could spot where a few tears had been hastily wiped away before they could make too much of a mess of the form. Potter shook his head, and slipped the piece of paper into his desk drawer. He would have thrown it away, but he somehow couldn't. The heart and soul that Radar had put into doing the only thing he readily knew how for the Colonel, though the product was rather morbid, was touching.
In any event, the Colonel didn't think the form was necessary. After all, the Army already thought that Blake was dead. If anything, they needed to figure out how to correct this assumption.
Potter stacked the piles of papers at cross-angles and lifted them, too tired to think of the proper military route of reporting a reportedly dead officer to have returned and reported himself to be dead, as well, though alive to all tests except specifically medical ones. Potter sighed and shuffled out of his office, setting the stacks of papers on Radar's desk.
He looked up and smiled at the Company clerk. Radar slept with his teddy bear clutched in a firm hug, his eyes red and a little bit swollen, and his glasses hanging from a peg above the bed, almost seeming to look down at him.
Potter made a concerted effort to be quiet as he passed out of the tent. In the now bright and cheery morning he saw some corpsmen bearing a closed coffin out of the post-op, as ordered. They set it down, and Potter shook his head in disbelief.
Military efficiency. Couldn't get a group of guys to do a simple thing like put a man in a coffin and carry him from post-op to the VIP tent in one trip. Potter bet that the resourceful individuals of the 4077th had found a group of people to get the coffin from the supply tent and take it to the door of post-op, another to bring it inside, another to put the Colonel in it, another to bring the coffin back outside here, and now a fifth was going to come by and actually bear the coffin to the assigned location.
Potter never ceased to be amazed by these processes.
He was about to turn to head to his tent when he saw Father Mulcahy slip out of post-op and edge over to the coffin. His face grew stern, and he stopped to watch.
Father Mulcahy, for his part, felt drawn toward the coffin's edge. He was used to being able to do something for the blessed dead. But Henry fell, sadly, into neither of these categories. The priest fidgeted, and turned to face the coffin, lowering himself into a crouch that was, perhaps unconsciously, also a genuflection. Out of habit, he settled his elbows on the flat surface before him, laced his fingers, and fell into murmuring a formulaic prayer as he let his thoughts wander.
The full sunlight warmed and soothed his black-clad, sore, and aching back. A section of the paternoster became highly aspirated as the padre relaxed a bit and exhaled heavily through the prayers.
It would be quite simple, of course, to open the lid of the coffin. In no less than a few minutes, from what he could tell of the creature's reaction in the O.R., the demon would be dead, and Henry's body would be able to fall to its rightful rest.
But, for crying out loud, it certainly seemed to be Henry Blake, and no other! The beast seemed to rear up from time to time, but in between, it was hard to deny that Blake had indeed been spared from death. And if that was so, wouldn't it be the right thing to do to allow him to hold on to life while he can?
Even if it meant giving a home to a creature of pure evil intent?
The question became, more or less, did Father Mulcahy believe that Henry Blake had the power to resist evil, to be stalwart and steadfast, and to hold power over the beast within him?
Mulcahy shook his head in an inward answer to this very question. Since when was Henry Blake, after all, in control of anything, least of all himself? In Chaplain school he'd been told to expect a higher threshold of tolerance for sins and transgressions than in a peaceful, non-threatening situation, but, given all in all, Pierce, McIntyre, and Blake had had it pretty good compared to most of the poor souls thrown into this mess, yet seemed to do enough sinning for an entire squadron! No. Mulcahy wouldn't trust a foul demon to the care of any of them.
Once Blake develops a taste for blood, Mulcahy thought dourly, he'll indulge in it as ever he indulged in booze and women.
He set his jaw and gripped nervously at the coffin lid's edge with his fingers. He tilted his head back to look up at the bright blue heavens. In his mind's eye, he recalled watching Henry Blake's helicopter bear him off. Yes. Henry was gone.
"Padre," called a familiar voice, and Mulcahy twitched slightly, lowering his head and then slowly turning around, feeling slightly guilty despite all his reasoning.
Potter stood before him, frowning slightly. "We told him to get out of there. He wouldn't, not until he was sure that that boy was going to be alright. It was doubtful whether the kid was going to live or die. According to what I've heard, I don't know if I'd have been able to save him. I don't know if Pierce and Hunnicutt together could have done it, especially with all the other casualties coming in. Henry Blake risked his life to save that boy."
His voice conveyed no sense of admonition, and was soft and gentle. "I just thought you'd want to know."
Mulcahy nodded, and Potter nodded in reply before turning and heading to his tent.
After a few minutes, Mulcahy stood and wandered back to his own quarters.
~