Sidney Freedman ran into the swamp, slightly sweaty from having run from
the vicinity of the VIP tent, to post-op, to Radar's office, back to the
VIP tent, then finally to the infamous home of the swamprats.
He ran in, looked around, and was halfway back out the door before he noticed Hawkeye sitting on the edge of his bunk, his bathrobe draped taut across his knees, his hands resting still on top of them, not shuffling a deck of cards, not cradling a martini, not blowing up rubber-glove balloons for later. He wasn't smiling, wasn't smirking, wasn't frowning, wasn't scowling, wasn't humming, wasn't whistling, wasn't even looking at anything in particular. He was just sitting there.
Sidney skidded to a halt on his way out the door. "Hawkeye? You seen Henry come past here? B.J. and I kind of... lost... track of him."
"Hawkeye?"
Meanwhile, B.J. had hit upon better luck. He jogged into the mess tent.
"I'm feeling a little better than I was, sir." Radar piped meekly.
"Radar!" yelled B.J., surprised to see him there, as he'd seen him in post- op in some discomfort not very long ago. "Henry!" he continued, relieved. "There you are. You had me worried."
B.J. finally took a second to take in the scene: a handful of young men standing rigidly at attention, most of the others silently looking on over their suppers, Father Mulcahy and Margaret looking agitated, Henry looking-- befuddled, and Radar trying to hide in his dinner. "Did I have... reason to be worried?"
Henry shook his head, "No, Beej, it's fine, y'see-- gaah!" he shouted, having finally noticed the people standing at attention in the mess tent. He saluted wildly and turned around this way and that, wondering what General had snuck in while he wasn't paying attention.
"Oh." He finally realized, as all their eyes were trained on him. "Um. At ease." He watched in wonder as they all smiled and sat down, returning to their interrupted conversations. Henry pulled his hat a little down on his his head. "Why didn't they ever do that when I was actually in charge?" he wondered, as he went and slid onto a seat next to Radar.
"I think that the, uh, newest version of the Rules of Military Etiquette and Protocol might have been updated as to the necessity of standing at attention when in the actual physical process of using the Mess. I'm pretty sure some distinction was made between personages below the rank of lieutenant in the middle of the act of chewing and those personages above said rank in the contrary act of swallowing." Radar mumbled through a mouthful of mashed potatoes, hardly taking his eyes off of his plate.
Henry nodded affably as he let the string of military mumbo-jumbo float in one ear and out the other. "I see. Well, they obviously didn't make any regulation about attempting to talk during said acts, hm, Radar?" He patted the Corporal on the back, and Radar snorked powdered milk out his nose from the case of the giggles he'd gotten.
Henry passed him a napkin. "Lovely, kid."
The two looked up to see Father Mulcahy sit down across from Henry. "You don't think it might be because they're afraid of you?"
Henry smirked, "That's ridiculous, Father." He shook his head slowly, looking at the table, then slowly lifted his gaze to meet the priest's. "Isn't it?"
The father replied with a generous amount of serious silence, interrupted by Margaret Houlihan as she swept down to sit at Mulcahy's side, her clipboard scraping along the wooden boards of the table as she sat down. She graced the chaplain with a scalding grimace and reached across to rest her hand on Henry's, "Of course it is, Colonel. I'm sure nobody here's afraid of you. Except maybe for Father Mulcahy." She added, leaning back in disapproval of their chaplain's behavior.
Henry resisted the urge to pull back at the unwonted show of affection from the Major, and merely made curious note of it, smiling goofily and warmly at the sulky Father Mulcahy. "Oh, come on, Father... I'm certainly nothing to be afraid of," he insisted.
Mulcahy sighed. "I beg to differ."
Radar blinked, "Oh, don't do that, Father," he warbled, "Your knees get enough wear and tear as is and--" he trailed off, a consternated look washing over him as he turned around to watch the door of the mess tent.
Henry turned similarly, and Margaret and Father Mulcahy tilted to one side to see what it was that had been caught on Radar's radar.
And so it was that Sidney Freedman entered the Mess tent and found four sets of eyes trained on him. He startled backward an inch or two, bringing an arm up in a frightened gesture and looking swiftly from side to side. Calming down, he smiled and spoke. "Are you all trying to--" his speech cut off and he looked around again, more slowly. "One second," he interrupted himself, and walked back outside.
He re-entered with a blasé-looking Hawkeye Pierce in tow. He let the doctor settle on a backless chair at the head of the table, and Henry and Radar scooted down to give him room to sit. "Thanks. Least you can do for ruining a perfectly good pair of pants. But on to more important matters-- "
"Hey, Hawk," B.J. came to sit down on the other side of Margaret from Father Mulcahy, bearing a tray of the usual Mess tent slop. "Done with your rounds already?"
An unaccustomed silence settled over the table. "Um, yeah." Hawkeye finally replied, his eyes not quite focusing on B.J.
Sidney rested a hand on Hawkeye's shoulder, "Want me to pick you up some dinner, Hawk?" he asked gently.
Hawkeye turned at the contact. "Sure," he answered after a moment.
Sidney stood, shrugged awkwardly at the gathered individuals, and went to make up a tray for the oddly-behaving captain.
While all the others sat in quiet contemplation of Hawkeye, Mulcahy turned his head to look down the table at Radar, who was trying to dig a hole in his mashed potatoes to crawl into.
~
He ran in, looked around, and was halfway back out the door before he noticed Hawkeye sitting on the edge of his bunk, his bathrobe draped taut across his knees, his hands resting still on top of them, not shuffling a deck of cards, not cradling a martini, not blowing up rubber-glove balloons for later. He wasn't smiling, wasn't smirking, wasn't frowning, wasn't scowling, wasn't humming, wasn't whistling, wasn't even looking at anything in particular. He was just sitting there.
Sidney skidded to a halt on his way out the door. "Hawkeye? You seen Henry come past here? B.J. and I kind of... lost... track of him."
"Hawkeye?"
Meanwhile, B.J. had hit upon better luck. He jogged into the mess tent.
"I'm feeling a little better than I was, sir." Radar piped meekly.
"Radar!" yelled B.J., surprised to see him there, as he'd seen him in post- op in some discomfort not very long ago. "Henry!" he continued, relieved. "There you are. You had me worried."
B.J. finally took a second to take in the scene: a handful of young men standing rigidly at attention, most of the others silently looking on over their suppers, Father Mulcahy and Margaret looking agitated, Henry looking-- befuddled, and Radar trying to hide in his dinner. "Did I have... reason to be worried?"
Henry shook his head, "No, Beej, it's fine, y'see-- gaah!" he shouted, having finally noticed the people standing at attention in the mess tent. He saluted wildly and turned around this way and that, wondering what General had snuck in while he wasn't paying attention.
"Oh." He finally realized, as all their eyes were trained on him. "Um. At ease." He watched in wonder as they all smiled and sat down, returning to their interrupted conversations. Henry pulled his hat a little down on his his head. "Why didn't they ever do that when I was actually in charge?" he wondered, as he went and slid onto a seat next to Radar.
"I think that the, uh, newest version of the Rules of Military Etiquette and Protocol might have been updated as to the necessity of standing at attention when in the actual physical process of using the Mess. I'm pretty sure some distinction was made between personages below the rank of lieutenant in the middle of the act of chewing and those personages above said rank in the contrary act of swallowing." Radar mumbled through a mouthful of mashed potatoes, hardly taking his eyes off of his plate.
Henry nodded affably as he let the string of military mumbo-jumbo float in one ear and out the other. "I see. Well, they obviously didn't make any regulation about attempting to talk during said acts, hm, Radar?" He patted the Corporal on the back, and Radar snorked powdered milk out his nose from the case of the giggles he'd gotten.
Henry passed him a napkin. "Lovely, kid."
The two looked up to see Father Mulcahy sit down across from Henry. "You don't think it might be because they're afraid of you?"
Henry smirked, "That's ridiculous, Father." He shook his head slowly, looking at the table, then slowly lifted his gaze to meet the priest's. "Isn't it?"
The father replied with a generous amount of serious silence, interrupted by Margaret Houlihan as she swept down to sit at Mulcahy's side, her clipboard scraping along the wooden boards of the table as she sat down. She graced the chaplain with a scalding grimace and reached across to rest her hand on Henry's, "Of course it is, Colonel. I'm sure nobody here's afraid of you. Except maybe for Father Mulcahy." She added, leaning back in disapproval of their chaplain's behavior.
Henry resisted the urge to pull back at the unwonted show of affection from the Major, and merely made curious note of it, smiling goofily and warmly at the sulky Father Mulcahy. "Oh, come on, Father... I'm certainly nothing to be afraid of," he insisted.
Mulcahy sighed. "I beg to differ."
Radar blinked, "Oh, don't do that, Father," he warbled, "Your knees get enough wear and tear as is and--" he trailed off, a consternated look washing over him as he turned around to watch the door of the mess tent.
Henry turned similarly, and Margaret and Father Mulcahy tilted to one side to see what it was that had been caught on Radar's radar.
And so it was that Sidney Freedman entered the Mess tent and found four sets of eyes trained on him. He startled backward an inch or two, bringing an arm up in a frightened gesture and looking swiftly from side to side. Calming down, he smiled and spoke. "Are you all trying to--" his speech cut off and he looked around again, more slowly. "One second," he interrupted himself, and walked back outside.
He re-entered with a blasé-looking Hawkeye Pierce in tow. He let the doctor settle on a backless chair at the head of the table, and Henry and Radar scooted down to give him room to sit. "Thanks. Least you can do for ruining a perfectly good pair of pants. But on to more important matters-- "
"Hey, Hawk," B.J. came to sit down on the other side of Margaret from Father Mulcahy, bearing a tray of the usual Mess tent slop. "Done with your rounds already?"
An unaccustomed silence settled over the table. "Um, yeah." Hawkeye finally replied, his eyes not quite focusing on B.J.
Sidney rested a hand on Hawkeye's shoulder, "Want me to pick you up some dinner, Hawk?" he asked gently.
Hawkeye turned at the contact. "Sure," he answered after a moment.
Sidney stood, shrugged awkwardly at the gathered individuals, and went to make up a tray for the oddly-behaving captain.
While all the others sat in quiet contemplation of Hawkeye, Mulcahy turned his head to look down the table at Radar, who was trying to dig a hole in his mashed potatoes to crawl into.
~