Major Margaret Houlihan sat on her own, guzzling a cup of cold coffee in
between scratching out slots on the new duty roster. The nurses had been
trading around shifts so often that the original schedule had become
completely useless in trying to figure out where any given nurse was at any
given time of day. The problem had only recently been brought to her
attention by a politely confused Colonel Potter, who had told her to write
up a new one so he'd have some idea of "what the hell was going on in his
own damned camp."
Hawkeye and Trapper, of course, had always known where the nurses were at all times. And as to that incompetent bungler Colonel Blake---
Margaret stopped short. It was the first time she'd thought of him all day. And it wasn't a particularly complimentary reaction. Now she blushed as she remembered with humiliation how she'd been yearning to comfort him, singing his praises, and all in front of that Pierce, who'd never let her hear the end of it.
Margaret quickly downed the rest of her coffee and was standing up to fetch more when Frank stepped into the Mess tent. 'Oh, God,' the head nurse winced, 'Please let Hawkeye not have gotten to Frank, yet. Let him tell the whole camp, but not--"
She smiled and sat back down, her prayer answered by the little devilish smirk that Frank shot her way. He'd obviously heard nothing of her little episode. Frank picked up some supper and came to sit down across from her.
"Margaret," he said lowly, stifling a lipless grin.
"Yes, Frank?" she leaned forward toward him invitingly.
"It's after dark!"
"Oh, Frank... I know, but you need to be patient."
"Not that, Margaret... I mean, well, that, too, if you want," Frank tittered, "But I mean /him/."
"Him, Frank?"
"Colonel Blake! He's up! I saw Hunnicutt and Freedman take him out of the VIP tent."
Margaret leaned back again, flustered, "So, Frank?"
"So... I think that you ought to stick by me for protection! You know that /their/ sort can't help but go after pretty women."
Margaret tilted her head to one side, her hair falling over her left shoulder. "But Frank, he bit Hawkeye, remember?"
"Oh, yeah," Frank mused. "I always thought there was something a little odd about that guy..." he snorted in disdain. "But Margaret, I'm worried about you! While he's out, I'm going to go over to the VIP tent and set up those garlic cloves I stowed in your tent. You stay here where there are other people around, you'll be safe until I get back."
Margaret smiled, thinking it sweet, despite her common sense telling her that Henry hasn't shown any signs of allergy to garlic so far, that Frank was so concerned for her well-being. As Frank was leaving, she called, "Oh, but Frank! I need to get these---" But he was gone. "New schedules to Colonel Potter," she finished to herself. "Oh, well." she smiled a bit, and went up to get another cup of coffee and wait.
As she sat down again, a few noncoms who were in the middle of gulping down supper jumped up to attention, spoons and knives clattering to trays in a peppering of clanks that echoed through the tent. Margaret turned around, and her heart leapt up into her throat. It was Henry. He was still in the process of entering, half bent over to miss the doorframe, his eyes serious and scanning the tent intently, his features somber and steady and unutterably irresistible. She dropped her coffee cup. Second one in two days.
Henry didn't notice. His attention was undiverted from the fellow for whom he'd come looking. "Mulcahy," he muttered, striding forward.
The chaplain looked up from the tear-soaked pages of his bible; his eyes narrowed. "Blake," he stood up.
Henry reached the opposite side of the table and rested his hands on it, leaning forward. Mulcahy made a similar gesture, until their faces were a matter of five or six inches apart.
"What the hell did you do to Radar?!" they shouted.
Henry: "If you think you've got the right to bully the rest of us around just because you've got some kind of "green light" from the wild blue yonder, father, you've got another think coming; now I've seen what it is you can do, and I've felt the effects, and, goddammit (sorry, father), I AM the best diagnostician in Bloomington, Illinois, and I don't know if that means anything to you, but to me it means that if it quacks like a duck and looks like a duck, you've probably got something to do with those pains Radar's been complaining about in his hands and arms, and all because of a few little practical jokes! Now, really, Father, if you've got something against me, I can take it, but leave the kid out of this, huh?"
Father Mulcahy (at the same time): "I don't know what you've done to that boy, Henry, and I don't even know if you're aware you've done it, but some monster has emerged in him; these pranks are far less innocuous than they seem! It's some sort of feeding, some draining of life; I don't suppose you'd understand anything about that, would you? You can't keep denying what's happening to you, what's happening to him! You have to face the facts: we have to stop it before it spreads any further! If you've seen the things I've seen, heard the things I've heard, you wouldn't be giving me such trouble; I've always tries to leave the doctoring to the doctors of this unit-- leave to me the tasks that I've been selected to perform!"
"Guys, /guys/, GUYS!" Margaret, who had come to stand at the head of the table, screamed, calling an end to the shouting match between the two. When her desired result had been obtained, she turned toward Father Mulcahy with an accusing look, "What's the problem, here?" she demanded.
The chaplain, speechless after his rant, gestured vaguely toward the vampire in front of him, as if to say that the entirely of the problem could be summed up in two words: Henry Blake.
She turned to look, her face shifting from accusing and angry to worried and caring. "What's wrong, Henry?" she asked, her voice softened considerably.
Henry was almost as taken aback as Father Mulcahy was in respect to the informal -- and even close -- manner that Margaret took with him. But he wasn't going to let it get in the way of having someone to rant to who'd actually listen.
"There's something wrong with Radar, and I think Father Mulcahy might be responsible." He managed to get out as calmly as possible.
Margaret paused, considering her words. "Henry--" she spoke slowly, "Radar's fine-- see?" she pointed, "Eating like a horse, as usual." She smiled, no harshness toward the friend of their gallant ex-commander in her voice.
"Huh?" Henry wittily replied.
Looking back across the mess tent, there, indeed, sat Radar, half hiding behind a mountain of mashed potatoes, chewing intently.
Henry, mightily puzzled, called out, "Um, Radar? You okay?"
"I'm feeling a little better than I was, sir." Radar
~
Hawkeye and Trapper, of course, had always known where the nurses were at all times. And as to that incompetent bungler Colonel Blake---
Margaret stopped short. It was the first time she'd thought of him all day. And it wasn't a particularly complimentary reaction. Now she blushed as she remembered with humiliation how she'd been yearning to comfort him, singing his praises, and all in front of that Pierce, who'd never let her hear the end of it.
Margaret quickly downed the rest of her coffee and was standing up to fetch more when Frank stepped into the Mess tent. 'Oh, God,' the head nurse winced, 'Please let Hawkeye not have gotten to Frank, yet. Let him tell the whole camp, but not--"
She smiled and sat back down, her prayer answered by the little devilish smirk that Frank shot her way. He'd obviously heard nothing of her little episode. Frank picked up some supper and came to sit down across from her.
"Margaret," he said lowly, stifling a lipless grin.
"Yes, Frank?" she leaned forward toward him invitingly.
"It's after dark!"
"Oh, Frank... I know, but you need to be patient."
"Not that, Margaret... I mean, well, that, too, if you want," Frank tittered, "But I mean /him/."
"Him, Frank?"
"Colonel Blake! He's up! I saw Hunnicutt and Freedman take him out of the VIP tent."
Margaret leaned back again, flustered, "So, Frank?"
"So... I think that you ought to stick by me for protection! You know that /their/ sort can't help but go after pretty women."
Margaret tilted her head to one side, her hair falling over her left shoulder. "But Frank, he bit Hawkeye, remember?"
"Oh, yeah," Frank mused. "I always thought there was something a little odd about that guy..." he snorted in disdain. "But Margaret, I'm worried about you! While he's out, I'm going to go over to the VIP tent and set up those garlic cloves I stowed in your tent. You stay here where there are other people around, you'll be safe until I get back."
Margaret smiled, thinking it sweet, despite her common sense telling her that Henry hasn't shown any signs of allergy to garlic so far, that Frank was so concerned for her well-being. As Frank was leaving, she called, "Oh, but Frank! I need to get these---" But he was gone. "New schedules to Colonel Potter," she finished to herself. "Oh, well." she smiled a bit, and went up to get another cup of coffee and wait.
As she sat down again, a few noncoms who were in the middle of gulping down supper jumped up to attention, spoons and knives clattering to trays in a peppering of clanks that echoed through the tent. Margaret turned around, and her heart leapt up into her throat. It was Henry. He was still in the process of entering, half bent over to miss the doorframe, his eyes serious and scanning the tent intently, his features somber and steady and unutterably irresistible. She dropped her coffee cup. Second one in two days.
Henry didn't notice. His attention was undiverted from the fellow for whom he'd come looking. "Mulcahy," he muttered, striding forward.
The chaplain looked up from the tear-soaked pages of his bible; his eyes narrowed. "Blake," he stood up.
Henry reached the opposite side of the table and rested his hands on it, leaning forward. Mulcahy made a similar gesture, until their faces were a matter of five or six inches apart.
"What the hell did you do to Radar?!" they shouted.
Henry: "If you think you've got the right to bully the rest of us around just because you've got some kind of "green light" from the wild blue yonder, father, you've got another think coming; now I've seen what it is you can do, and I've felt the effects, and, goddammit (sorry, father), I AM the best diagnostician in Bloomington, Illinois, and I don't know if that means anything to you, but to me it means that if it quacks like a duck and looks like a duck, you've probably got something to do with those pains Radar's been complaining about in his hands and arms, and all because of a few little practical jokes! Now, really, Father, if you've got something against me, I can take it, but leave the kid out of this, huh?"
Father Mulcahy (at the same time): "I don't know what you've done to that boy, Henry, and I don't even know if you're aware you've done it, but some monster has emerged in him; these pranks are far less innocuous than they seem! It's some sort of feeding, some draining of life; I don't suppose you'd understand anything about that, would you? You can't keep denying what's happening to you, what's happening to him! You have to face the facts: we have to stop it before it spreads any further! If you've seen the things I've seen, heard the things I've heard, you wouldn't be giving me such trouble; I've always tries to leave the doctoring to the doctors of this unit-- leave to me the tasks that I've been selected to perform!"
"Guys, /guys/, GUYS!" Margaret, who had come to stand at the head of the table, screamed, calling an end to the shouting match between the two. When her desired result had been obtained, she turned toward Father Mulcahy with an accusing look, "What's the problem, here?" she demanded.
The chaplain, speechless after his rant, gestured vaguely toward the vampire in front of him, as if to say that the entirely of the problem could be summed up in two words: Henry Blake.
She turned to look, her face shifting from accusing and angry to worried and caring. "What's wrong, Henry?" she asked, her voice softened considerably.
Henry was almost as taken aback as Father Mulcahy was in respect to the informal -- and even close -- manner that Margaret took with him. But he wasn't going to let it get in the way of having someone to rant to who'd actually listen.
"There's something wrong with Radar, and I think Father Mulcahy might be responsible." He managed to get out as calmly as possible.
Margaret paused, considering her words. "Henry--" she spoke slowly, "Radar's fine-- see?" she pointed, "Eating like a horse, as usual." She smiled, no harshness toward the friend of their gallant ex-commander in her voice.
"Huh?" Henry wittily replied.
Looking back across the mess tent, there, indeed, sat Radar, half hiding behind a mountain of mashed potatoes, chewing intently.
Henry, mightily puzzled, called out, "Um, Radar? You okay?"
"I'm feeling a little better than I was, sir." Radar
~