ATTENTION, ALL PERSONNEL: This is a redo of a M*A*S*H fanfiction story I wrote (for another website) many, many years ago… it may have been as far back as 2012 or 2013, I don't quite remember. I decided to do a complete re-write of it, and publish it here on FFN, since I have gotten more involved with this site again within the past year. This was my first attempt at M*A*S*H fanfiction, though I've been a very big fan of the series for a long, long time.
This story idea was based on an observation I have had of something that seems to have been a low-key running gag on the series, in that somebody in camp will wake up Radar in the middle of the night to make an, "Emergency phone-call." I call it a running gag, because at one point, Radar actually groans, "Why can't anybody ever use this darn phone during the daytime?!" And all but chews B.J. out for waking him up for such a phone-call, adding, "If I had an hour of sleep for every time somebody ever said [I owe you one] to me!"
As noted in the summary, this takes place during the sixth season of the show, so there were be a few Easter eggs referencing certain episodes from that season, including but not limited to "Fade Out, Fade In," "Last Laugh," "The Light That Failed," and "Mail Call Three." Also a few fleeting references to other episodes from previous seasons that I'm sure some of you may recognize.
This stillness and quietness of a typical night in Korea could either be comforting, or frightening… Sometimes, it brought back pleasant memories of a quiet night's sleep back stateside; but for nights where you have trouble sleeping, the stillness and quietness can make a person justifiably paranoid. Could someone be out there? Could someone be planning something? Could an enemy attack strike at any moment? None of those things seemed to phase B.J. Hunnicutt, however; he grunted as she tossed and turned, and rolled around and stirred about in his cot, having a million thoughts racing through his mind. He rose up, turned on the lamp dangling above his cot, and re-read the letter he had received from his wife, Peggy, that day; shaking his head, and mouthing, 'Damn,' as he read along. A soft glow through the darkness of closed eyelids told Hawkeye Pierce that morning was approaching, but when he opened his eyes, he saw that dawn was not the party guilty for interrupting the darkness, but his best friend, up and reading.
"Havin' a good read, Beej?" Hawkeye asked, while still nearly half-asleep.
"I didn't wake you, did I Hawk?" B.J. asked, without looking up from his letter.
"Not at all, I always open my eyes and talk to people at…" the black-haired surgeon trailed off, reaching over for his alarm clock to take a look at the time, "a quarter to three in the morning…"
"Hmm. Sorry." Was B.J.'s simple response.
Hawkeye sighed, as she sat up in his cot, rubbing his eyes, "What is it this time?"
B.J. still never looked up from his letter, but the contents of which continued to bother him, "Sometimes I just can't get over being stuck over here, and not being able to be the provider for the family, like any man should."
"Well, look; you get $300 a month, that's a start…" Hawkeye was usually the master of spontaneous one-liners… however, at nearly 3:00 in the morning, spontaneity was not in his favor at the moment.
"Peggy's thinking of getting a job to help support her and Erin while I'm over here…" B.J. explained to his friend.
Hawkeye repressed as sigh, as he tried to impart some perspective on the absentee husband and father bunking in the corner adjacent to him, "Look Beej, there's a lot of loved ones back home who are having to step up to the plate because of the Army and it's, 'Infinite wisdom' to randomly select us from our practices so we can run around playing soldier…"
"But she shouldn't have to!" B.J. barked.
Hawkeye was in no mood for another one of B.J.'s homesick episodes, as he laid back down onto his cot, while covering his face with his canvas pillow, "Life's unfair, Beej," he mumbled from underneath.
B.J. was still upset over the idea of Peggy taking on a job for herself to supplement their family income while he is stuck serving overseas in this damn police action. He did not like it one bit; and knowing how slow the mail is, she would more than likely already find a job somewhere before his response will actually reach her in the San Franciscan neighborhood of Mill Valley, California. He felt a desperate urge to make contact with his beloved as quickly as possible, and stormed out of the Swamp to do just that.
Meanwhile, nestled into a cot inside the main hospital's outer office, Radar was sound asleep, snuggling his teddy bear closely, and dreaming of home… milking cows, gathering eggs from chickens, and playing fetch with his dog, Ranger. Visions of his idyllic life on the old O'Reilly family farm made him feel like he was home again, without a care in the world, and certainly without a war disrupting said idyllic life. As he slumbered peacefully, B.J. stepped into his office, over to his cot, where he knelt down beside it, and began shaking the young Corporal's shoulder.
"Radar? Hey Radar?" B.J. softly called out to the slumbering boy.
Radar was so soundly asleep, that he was convinced that somebody else was trying to get his attention, as he mumbled, "In… a minute, Uncle Ed…"
B.J. shook Radar's shoulder a little harder, "Come on Radar, wake up!"
Radar did, indeed, wake up, as he saw Captain Hunnicutt was the one trying to grab his attention, "Huh?! What is it, sir?"
"Radar, can you get me San Francisco?" B.J. asked.
"Now?!" Radar groaned with displeasure at being awoken in the middle of the night for another such request.
"Please, it's really important!" B.J. pleaded.
Radar groaned once again, "Can't it wait till morning, sir?"
"No, now, please…" insisted B.J.
Reluctantly, Radar arose from his cot, grabbing his glasses, and making his way over to the communications center; B.J. followed. After Corporal O'Reilly placed the headset onto its respective place, and began cranking to ring up Headquarters in Seoul, he knew he was going to be receiving an earful from the operator on the other end when he began speaking into the microphone.
"Sparky? Hello? Sparky? Oh, yeah, hey, Spark, it's Radar. Listen…" Radar could barely get a word in edgewise, as his colleague operating the switchboard in Seoul did, indeed, begin chewing him out for disturbing his sleep. "Hey! Look Sparky, I know it's almost three in the morning, I'm not happy about it either, but I gotta place a call to San Francisco… yeah… what? Uh… well, how about some, 'Magazines'?"
B.J. crouched down next to Radar to point out the disapproval from the party who would be asked to part with said magazines. "Hawkeye's not gonna like that," he shout-whispered to Radar.
Radar covered the mouthpiece so Sparky would not have to hear their side conversation, "Listen, at this hour, Sparky's gonna want somethin' good…" he explained, before removing his hand from over the microphone to resume his original conversation, "Yeah? Okay, I'll stand by…" With that, Radar removed the headset from his head, and handed it and the microphone over to the Captain, "He's patchin' a call to San Francisco now."
"Thanks, Radar!" B.J. said in gratitude, as he took what was handed to him, and took a seat in Radar's chair after the Corporal stepped aside.
"Is it alright if I go back to bed now, sir?" A groggy Radar asked.
"Huh?" B.J. responded, looking up at the sleepy young company clerk. "Yeah, go ahead."
"Thank you, sir…" Radar shuffled back to his cot, where he flopped himself back down, and quickly went back to sleep, all the while B.J. was finally forwarded to his wife, and was able to have a heart-to-heart discussion with her about what was eating away at him in regards to her most recent letter.
The following morning in the mess tent, Radar was leaving the chow line with yet another tray over-flowing with a spread of the 4077th's infamously disgusting excuse for foodstuff, including powdered scrambled eggs, surplus sausage, flavorless oatmeal, and vintage toast. He walked over to a table that was already being occupied by other personnel, including the unit's commanding officer, Colonel Sherman Potter, with whom Radar usually ate his meals. As the young Corporal was taking his seat, his elderly Colonel could tell by the bags under his dull eyes, and his general appearance being even more slovenly and un-kempt than usual, that Radar was not his usual self.
"You alright, son?" Potter asked. "You look like three days of bad weather."
Radar slowly looked up at the Colonel, the look on his face speaking louder volume than his words needed to, "I'm fine, Colonel… just sleepy."
B.J. knew this was about waking him in the middle of the night to make his phone-call to Peggy in Mill Valley, but it was something that he was still grateful to the company clerk for, "Thanks again, Radar."
"Welcome, sir…" mumbled Radar, as he fought to keep his eyes from slamming shut… until suddenly, he was as alert as he could be, and his head began looking upward… those sitting around him knew exactly what that meant, as they all soon began to hear the sounds of incoming choppers flying overhead.
ATTENTION, ALL PERSONNEL! INCOMING CHOPPERS ARRIVING ON THE UPPERPAD! INCOMING JEEPS IN THE LOWER COMPOUND! ALL AVAILABLE SHIFTS REPORT TO TRIAGE, IMMEDIATELY!
Everyone in the mess tent dropped what they were doing, and rushed out into the compound, as they saw pair of choppers landing up on the helipad, and a few litter jeeps pulling into the main compound – all bearing wounded casualties. Triage was soon underway, as the surgeons and nurses looked over the casualties that were brought in to assess and evaluate the severity of their wounds, and determine which cases needed higher priority over others.
It turned out to be a long session in the O.R., partly due to the fact that Major Charles Emerson Winchester, III had still not adjusted to the hustle and bustle of so-called, 'Meatball Surgery,' as he spent more time than necessary on whatever cases were brought to his surgical table. Because of this, conditions in the operating room were becoming increasingly restless: more patients were waiting for surgery in pre-op than there were patients being sent to recuperate in post-op.
"We're startin' to fall behind here, boys…" said Potter, addressing his underlings.
"Well, I'm on the rebound, Colonel," said B.J., as he finished tying off a suture on his most recent patient.
Hawkeye, true to his form, began to bring a little levity into the room by cracking wise, "So am I. Just before I put this kid under, he told me all about his Dear John letter from home… I think we could fast be becoming an item."
"I'm afraid the difference in your ages could be a problem," said B.J., joining in on the jocularity that his best friend had instigated.
Realizing B.J. had a point, Hawkeye, instead, decided to divert his attention to the nurse who was assisting him. "Well, how about you? What are you doing later this evening?" He asked her.
"Sleeping," was the nurse's quick, simple, and blunt response.
Hawkeye sighed, "Ah… sleeping is one of my favorite pastimes."
"Really," the nurse responded – already knowing where her surgeon was going with this conversation.
"Oh yeah, I could've been on the Olympic Sleeping Team…" boasted Hawkeye. "What say I pop over to your tent around nine-ish, and let me give you a demonstration?"
"Save your energy, doctor," said the nurse, the stern tone in her voice un-wavering.
The tall, balding, and somewhat portly surgeon on the opposite end of the O.R. was growing rather annoyed with the way his fellow surgeon was propositioning his assistant, "Pierce, can't we have an end to these sleazy conversations while some of us do some actual work around here?"
Upon hearing that stuffy Boston-accented voice mentioning doing some actual work, Potter turned his attention to Charles, "What ARE you doing, Major?"
Charles began to offer the commanding officer, with whom he was holding a grudge for having him permanently transferred to the 4077th, thus disrupting his original tour of duty at Tokyo General, commentary on his current operation, "Colonel, this poor man has a mess of shrapnel in his colon…"
Potter was quickly becoming fed up with Charles still treating each of his patients like he would if he were in a more ideal hospital setting, "Dammit, Winchester! How many times must I tell you – neatness don't count in meatball surgery!"
"As I have asked you before, sir," Charles continued, "do you want it done, 'Good,' or do you want it done fast?"
"Good AND fast!" Potter barked. "We're fallin' behind, Winchester!"
"Colonel, I refuse to rush through this procedure!" Charles exclaimed. "I could very well overlook a hole or two in this man's colon; he will have internal bleeding in post-op!"
"I'm not rushing you, Major…" insisted Potter.
"THANK you, sir," responded Charles, with a certain amount of snootiness in his voice.
"I'M TELLIN' YOU TO PICK UP THE DAMN PACE!" Potter yelled, his demeanor suddenly changing like the flip of a switch.
"COLONEL!" Charles began.
The Colonel resumed his verbal tongue-lashing, "WE GOT MORE BOYS WAITIN' TO BE OPERATED ON IN PRE-OP! WE CAN'T SPEND ALL DAY REMOVING SHRAPNEL FROM ONE KID'S COLON! THIS AIN'T TOKYO GENERAL, IT'S A MASH UNIT! PATCH 'EM UP, AND MOVE 'EM OUT!"
"BUT, SIR…" Charles yelled back.
"MOVE IT!" Potter snapped.
Wanting to diffuse the situation, Hawkeye volunteered to resume the surgery on Charles's current patient, "I'll take him, Colonel…"
Winchester was absolutely livid at the gratuitous verbal abuse he was receiving from his commanding officer, as he offered up the same ultimatum he had with the Colonel many times before since being transferred to this travelling medicine show, "Colonel… as I have said before… if I am such a hindrance to your surgical staff, then why not transfer me somewhere where I may be of more use, such as Tokyo, or even the States?
"Because we need every surgeon we can get," explained Potter, "and, with time, you WILL get used to routine around here, and that's an ORDER!
After Nurse Kellye had helped Hawkeye change into a pair of clean rubber gloves, he approached Charles's table, where he began nudging his balding colleague out of the way with his elbow, "Okay, step aside, Charlie. Let a pro handle this."
Charles, however, was having none of this, "Now see here…"
"MOVE!" Hawkeye bellowed.
"Very well. I am going to take a brief break, while you, 'Children,' play God!" With that, Charles ripped the bloodied gloves from his hand, and the mask from his face, as he stormed out of the O.R., while still fuming over the way he was constantly being rushed through his procedures.
"Maybe it still isn't too late to bring ol' Ferret Face back," suggested Hawkeye in regards to the recently-transferred Major Frank Burns.
"Please. Winchester may be slow, but at least he's competent!" B.J. said, while looking at the one silver lining about Charles's surgical skills.
"Hear! Hear!" Potter agreed.
As evening fell, Charles was still furious over the events that had unfolded in the O.R. earlier that day, as he stormed into the Swamp, and sat down on his bunk, where he proceeded to play one of his favorite Beethoven records to help calm his nerves… for a little while, it seemed to do the trick, as he gradually began to relax. Unfortunately for him, his moment of peace and tranquility was detonated when his bunkies walked into the tent.
"Good news, Charles; your patient's gonna survive after all," said Hawkeye, with every bit of smarminess he could muster up.
This interruption only brought Winchester right back to misery, "Pierce… you have the most impeccable sense of timing… I was FINALLY getting over that escapade in the O.R. this afternoon, and then you had to come in and ruin the moment for me, once again."
"How about me, Charles?" B.J. asked.
"You, I can tolerate," admitted Charles.
"Really?" B.J. responded, sounding a little dis-heartened over this revelation, "I was trying to ruin the moment for you, too!"
Charles merely sneered at the immaturity of his tent mates; like everyone else in camp, he could not wait for this war to be over – though, in his case, the sooner he can rid his life of these cretins, especially the ones he shares quarters with, the better.
The friendly old sun shone his friendly hot face over the mountains of purple majesty, as the occupants of the tent known as the Swamp had arisen from their slumber, and were straightening up their respective bunks for the day, and a certain Lebanese looney entered the tent – wearing a new lavender summer dress, with a pair of purple high-heeled shoes, and a wide-brimmed white hat. Corporal Klinger was making the rounds in camp for mail call, as he announced with his playful flair upon entering the tent.
"Mail!" Klinger exclaimed.
"Oh, goodie!" Hawkeye said in delight, holding out his empty hands towards the big-nosed Corporal. "Anything from a Sheila, Joyce, or Gloria, addressed to a certain "Foreign Co-respondent"?"
"Nah, just a letter from your dad," said Klinger, has he handed Hawkeye the only piece of mail he had received today.
Hawkeye shrugged it off, as he took the letter that was handed to him, "'Bout as good as it gets."
B.J. took notice of the corpsman's ensemble, "New dress, Klinger?"
Klinger was always thrilled whenever his wardrobe garnered attention from others in camp, "Just finished it last night! A new original addition to the ever-growing Klinger Kollection!" Klinger had been formulating another one of his little get-rich-quick schemes, "I figured it all out - when this war's over, I'm going to be the most successful fashion designer in the south side of Toledo!"
Charles scoffed, "As if you'd be successful anywhere else?"
"Just you wait, Major!" Klinger said, as he handed Charles that of which he had received, "And, here's your mail for the month as well."
Charles revealed yet another one of his little sneers at the enlisted man delivering the mail, as he made his way back through the same door he previously entered. "And, with that, I bid you fellas a hasty adieu!"
Klinger continued on his appointed rounds, while the Swamp Rats began reading through the mail they had just received; Charles flipped through the envelopes in his hands until one addressed to him from his father struck him curious, so it was the first he chose to open and read. The more he read, however, the more his face soured. At the same time, Hawkeye was also reading his own letter from his father with intrigue…
"Hmm… my old Alma Mater's constructing a new campus closer to downtown Crabapple Cove…" Hawkeye shared with his bunkies.
"Outrageous… simply outrageous!" Charles exclaimed.
"Oh, I don't know Charles, the old campus has a statue out front…" Hawkeye pointed out. "If they move it, just think of all the little pigeons who'll be happy to see a fresh face in the neighborhood."
Neither the campus, nor its statue were what was bothering Charles in the moment, as he continued reading over his letter, "My stocks have plummeted nearly fifty percent in the last month! This damn war!"
"Aw, don't worry, Charles," Hawkeye mocked, while faking an overly-exaggerated Boston accent to further poke at his snobby tent mate. "With your independent wealth, you can buy them out in the next quarter!"
Sneering seemed to be Charles's default today, as he repeated the facial expression once again at Hawkeye's remark. His face softened, however, as he further read his letter, "Hold the phone…" Not only did his face gradually soften, but he was also slowly revealing a smile as well – much to the marvel of his bunkies.
"Do mine eyes deceive me?" B.J. quipped.
"I do believe ol' Doc Winchester is finally breaking in a new face," Hawkeye also quipped.
"Of course, of course! What an inspired idea, father!" Charles exclaimed in satisfaction over what he was reading.
"Care to share?" B.J. asked; not that he was really interested, just rather, it would be preferable over Charles consistently sneering and groveling.
"My father, who is very influential with stocks back home, has suggested I move all of my shares to Pericles Diapers…" explained Charles.
This just provided Hawkeye with even more bait to further give Charles a hard time, "You mean to tell me you're not even house-broken?!"
Charles shot an irritated glare at Hawkeye, "For your information, diapers happen to be a VERY booming business…"
"Especially whenever there's a baby boom," quipped B.J.
Charles chose to ignore B.J.'s facetiousness, as he continued with his explanation, "Pericles was a start-up company, but it was one my family had invested in… their numbers have shot up nearly three times, and are looking steady in the months to come…" As Charles finished reading his letter, he came to realize something, "Wait a moment… what is today's date?"
"What difference does that make?" Hawkeye shrugged. "Every day's the same day in Korea."
"Father has informed me that I should move my shares by noon, local time, on November the 10th…" Charles explained.
"And let's see…" B.J. began calculating the difference in time zones in his head. "That would be… around 2:00 tomorrow morning here…"
"You're right… we are over the dateline here…" Charles realized.
"If only we could all share the same time zone…" quipped Hawkeye once more.
"Then that's when we'll do it…" said Charles, as he happily slapped his letter onto the surface of the small desk set up beside his bunk, "before 2:00 tomorrow morning!
All of this talk of the stock market brought an amusing memory back to Hawkeye's mind, as he decided to further push Charles's buttons, "I have a wonderful little tip for you, Charles…" he said, with a sneer of his own.
Charles scoffed once more, as he erupted with a loud chuckle from the back of his throat, "I highly doubt that."
Hawkeye continued smiling a cheeky grin towards Charles, as he offered up his so-called advice anyway, "You should try moving all your shares to Pioneer Aviation!"
"'Pioneer Aviation'?" Charles asked, while furrowing his brow. "Never heard of it. Besides, Pierce, my father has far more wisdom than you ever will by the time you reach his age."