Chapter 2 – Welcome to the mess
I know it's historically inaccurate to have a female surgeon in the Korean War, but I really like the idea of how a female doctor would cope in a place like the 4077th. Consider it a supposition :P
After a rather dull breakfast that was only saved by Colonel Potters fatherly company, Agnes showered, napped, and started unpacking. She had a feeling the sudden stagnation in wounded was nothing but the eye of the storm and she wanted to be ready when it passed – or as ready as she could be. If she had learned anything from the last two weeks in Korea, it was that one could never be completely prepared to face what arrived in the choppers and the war-beaten ambulances. There was always a case grimmer than the day before.
The vilest ones were the soldiers that arrived too late. Not because the doctors had to give up on young men before they even left the compound. No, the worst by far was that it was expected. It was everyday life here. Agnes had never in her medical career given up on a patient back in the States, unless the family had told her to. Here she had no choice. It was like a morbid kind of juggling: a bit too much attention on the wrong ball and you ended up dropping the whole lot.
'It'll get easier' was the catchphrase of every doctor she had talked to so far. She knew they were right. It would always get easier. That was probably what scared her the most.
Agnes took a deep breath and bent over her luggage. She needed music. Next to reading and cross-stitching it was the only thing that kept her mind from wondering off to dark places. She retrieved her travel gramophone from the dark depth of her suitcase, found her collection of records and placed the needle on just the right spot on the vinyl.
There was something about Schubert that gave her the feeling of slowly sliding into a hot bath after a tiresome day. Her sister had always teased her, calling her an old lady, when Ave Maria and Serenade had played in the background when she studied. She didn't mind. Some people inherited their grandfather's stern look or their grandmother's spindly frame. She had inherited their taste in music.
With the violins gently weaving through the tent like a sorrowful breeze, Agnes filled the wardrobe with her clothes and the shelves and footlocker with the rest of her belongings. She was about to hid the empty suitcase under the bed when she realized she had forgotten something in its corner.
The picture.
She hadn't looked at it since she got here. It was easier that way.
Why did you bring it in the first place if you can't even bear to have it on display? That's silly!
It was silly. Nevertheless, when she picked it up, she couldn't face it. She stared at the silvery backside, waiting for courage to show up…
Three sharp knocks on the door startled her, making the frame nearly slide from her hands. She put it down on the table, turned off the music and went for the door.
She had, for some reason, been expecting Colonel Potter, so she had to move her gaze a good size up before she was met with the pretentious smile that belonged to Major Winchester. In contrast to the first time she encountered him, he was now well rested, clean-shaven and sporting olive, bloodless drab from top to bottom.
"Good afternoon, Captain," he said, his tone a charming – and deliberate, no doubt – mix of nonchalance and warm formality. Agnes smiled in spite of herself.
"Major," she said, copying his sober tone. "Revived, I see. How's your patient?"
"Alive and well, thank you, Captain – and please," he added, his blue eyes finding hers, "call me Charles."
She answered his subtle flirting with a cordial smile and shook his hand for the second time that day.
"Agnes."
Without losing the grip on her hand, Charles retrieved a bottle from behind his back and held it out towards her. Even with her scanty knowledge of wine, Agnes recalled the name Châteauneuf-du-Pape to be anything but a cheap lap of grape juice.
"A compensation for my detestable appearance this morning," Charles said. "And the poor welcome."
"Oh! Thank you, Charles. You really shouldn't have." Agnes smiled penitently up at him. "Especially since I can't enjoy it. I'm allergic to wine. It gives me hives. Sorry."
"Allergic," Charles repeated slowly, retrieving the bottle. "That must be the greatest tragedy I have ever heard."
Agnes let out a wan laugh. "Tell me about it."
"Well, in that case, all I can offer you is a…" Charles paused, clearly searching for the right word but seemed to give up, "ah… lunch in the Mess Tent."
"That I can do. Just let me put my shoes on."
The numerous hooks on her combat boots offered Charles the perfect opportunity to get a closer look at her personal belongings. He found it rather intriguing how much a couple of inanimate objects could tell about a person. He spotted a record player and a large number of books, some new and others with frayed edges and battered spines – the result of being read and re-read multiple times. She had a peculiar and charmingly innocent taste in literature – A Christmas Carol, Moby Dick, Cranford, The Hobbit, Alice in Wonderland and a massive book containing fairytales of H. C. Andersen.
There was also a picture in a silver frame. It showed Agnes and a dark haired man in a close embrace in front of a crooked old apple tree. The passionate way the two looked at each other could only mean one thing.
"Your husband?" Charles asked.
Agnes looked up at him. "Sorry?"
"The man in the picture – is he your husband?"
"No." The shoelaces slipped between her fingers; she tied a hard knot and got to her feet. "Fiancé," she clarified.
"Congratulations," he remarked, only just now aware of the discreet, stone less ring on her left hand.
"Thank you," Agnes responded a bit hurriedly. "Shall we go?"
It was warmer now and the compound was full of life. Enlisted men and nurses – some of which Agnes had already met in the shower – came and went to the mess tent. Charles strolled past them by her side, politely ignoring them. For some reason not even clear to herself, Agnes found his appearance amusing. And maybe a little worrying. He behaved like a swan who had been forced to share his lake with a group of mallards, which gave Agnes a feeling that he couldn't have many friends in this camp.
"Tell me, Captain. Was that Schubert I heard, sweetening this festered place, just before I interrupted?"
"It was."
"I had no idea you possessed an interest in classical music."
Agnes smiled. "It is the soundtrack of my childhood. I spent a great deal of my younger years at my grandparents' house and they shared a deep passion for both classical music as well as operas. In fact, until I was four, I couldn't fall asleep unless Mozart spun in the background, or so I've been told."
"Where words fail, music speaks," Charles said in a soft tone.
Agnes looked up at him in surprise.
"Hans Christian Andersen?" she said.
"Indeed. Quite accurate, is it not?"
"Certainly. He had a great mind. Have you read his work?"
Charles cleared his throat and quoted in a theatrical voice: "'He felt glad at having suffered sorrow and trouble, because it enabled him to enjoy so much better all the pleasure and happiness around him'."
Agnes smirked. "The Ugly Duckling. Not bad. I have always like: 'Just living is not enough – one must have sunshine, freedom, and a little flower'."
"Would cold coffee, despair disguised as yesterday's meatloaf and a little mold do?" Charles said, opening the mess door for her.
"Do I sense a bit of an aversion towards the proud army kitchen there, Major?"
"Aversion is a meager substitute for my feelings in this case, Captain."
"Well, I survived breakfast, so I'm still in good spirits."
"I can't decide whether your courage is inspiring or perturbing."
Agnes laughed, realizing why she couldn't dislike the pompous Major. He was too damn quick-witted – a trait she had always admired.
The lunch looked better than the breakfast. It even smelled eatable too. Agnes filled her tray with creamed vegetables along with some meat and potatoes. Then as she turned to leave the queue, she nearly collided, head-to-chest, with a tall, rangy man in a red robe.
"Hi!" he said enthusiastically, sporting cheeky blue eyes and a beam that could charm the birds from the trees.
"Uh – hi," Agnes responded, slightly baffled.
Another guy, taller yet, and with light brown hair and a mustache to match, appeared behind the man. He smiled apologetically.
"I'm sorry, miss. I knew I shouldn't have taken the leash off him. I just can't take him anywhere."
"Don't listen to him," Red Robe said, running a hand through his oil black, slightly greying hair with a boyish grin. "He's just jealous because I'm twice as adorable as he is." He grabbed her hand. "Captain Benjamin Franklin Pierce, head surgeon, but my dream girls call me Hawkeye. I bet you're the wonderful doctor from Tokyo we've been waiting for?"
"I… suppose I am, yes."
"We have a table with your name on it. If you will just walk this way, Madame."
"I-" Agnes began, but then came a familiar dry voice above her head, when Charles intervened:
"We already have a table, Pierce. I didn't want to ruin the poor woman's appetite with your cheap fawning from the very first day."
"So, you decided to bore her to death first?" Hawkeye said and stepped closer to Charles, trapping Agnes between the two towering surgeons. "How nice of you, Shharles."
"Oh I see you have finally rediscovered your stock of cliché retaliations, I'm so happy for you, Pierce."
Agnes caught eyes with the mustached man next to Hawkeye and got a resigned smile in return.
"I'm BJ," he said, offering her his hand. "Welcome to the 4077th pre-school. Let's get out of here before those two start to throw creamed peas at each other."
Agnes followed him to a vacant table at the other end of the mess tent.
"Sorry about that," BJ said and sat down. "We don't get a lot of visitors here."
"That's quite all right," Agnes said, gazing over at Hawkeye and Charles, who had just discovered they were fighting without an audience. "Was it BJ you said? What does that stand for?"
"Anything you want."
Agnes pondered for a second and declared soberly: "Balthazar Jiggumbob it is then."
BJ let out an unrestrained guffaw just as Hawkeye and Charles reached their table.
"What's so funny?" Hawkeye said, sliding in on the bench next to Agnes before Charles could claim the seat.
"Oh, not much," BJ said in an innocent tone as Charles sat down. "I just told her my name, that's all."
Hawkeye gaped at him across the table.
"What! You told the newcomer but you won't tell me, your best friend? I don't believe you!"
BJ waved his hand with a casual smile. "I guess it just slipped."
Hawkeye eyed him suspiciously.
"You didn't!" He turned towards Agnes. "Did he?"
"There's really no need to lose sleep over it," Agnes said with a shrug, encouraged by BJ's smirk, and tried the creamed vegetables. "It wasn't even that funny now that I think about it."
Hawkeye's expression of utter distrust made Charles snort and Agnes' straight face crumpled completely.
"Funny, very funny, you bonehead," Hawkeye said tartly when BJ grinned at him. "I'm gonna be all brushes when I'm done slapping my thighs."
"Oh, come on, Hawk. It was just a joke," BJ said in a mitigating tone. "But you gotta admit: Captain Clearwater played along quite well, don't you think?"
Hawkeye scowled at him. "Nnngh…"
"Sorry, Captain, I had no idea how much it bothered you," Agnes said, biting back her smile. "If I ever find out what BJ truly stands for, I'll tell you." She reached for her glass to try and wash down the dry meat but realized she hadn't brought one to the table. "Oh, shoot, I forgot my water."
"Allow me, Captain," Charles said, already beginning to rise.
"You really don't have to, Major–"
"Please, it would be my pleasure," Charles said, gesturing to Agnes to stay seated. "Consider it an inadequate oblation for the orange juice this morning."
"The orange juice?" Hawkeye repeated in bewilderment. "What orange juice?"
"Oh, nothing you should worry your vacuous mind about, Pierce," Charles said, a devious smile curving his lips.
"What is this – mock-Pierce-day, or what?" Hawkeye said with a pout and pretended to leave the table. "I think I'll move seats."
"Oh don't, Captain," Agnes said, putting a hand on his arm. "We'll behave, I promise."
"Well, maybe I'll forgive you," Hawkeye said lightly, his resentful tone suddenly gone like dew before the sun. He smiled at her. "But it'll cost you a dance in the Officers Club tonight."
"You don't wanna dance with me, Captain – I have two left feet."
"You're in luck. I got two rights ones. Together we'll make two perfect people."
Agnes didn't have time to think of a quick response. The P.A. system crackled and a voice said:
"ATTENTION, all personnel! Sorry to interrupt what the army insists on calling lunch, folks, but we've got wounded on the way. All medical personnel must report to duty ASAP as possible."
BJ sighed and put his knife and fork down. "Recess's over."
"This is the life here," Hawkeye said, getting up. "Moving from one mess to another. Welcome to the 4077th, Captain."