Sorry for the delay, explained on the appropriate userpage. Work now impinges on what was my library hour, but I scoop ice-cream for $12/hour so it's not too bad. Take pity on my poor writing skills.
Part 6 – Dear EstherWe all lost count of how many hours we spent in OR, how many bodies we sewed up. Normally, we'd lose count of how many jokes the Captain Cretins served between them, like tennis. Today, I could count them on one blood-stained hand.
I knew it was futile to make conversation between them. Besides, they seemed perfectly capable of arguing all by themselves. They didn't need me to get them going. I only wanted to be safely out of the way when they did start.
It didn't take long.
Passing my tent on my way from the latrine, I could hear them at it like irritated schoolgirls. Why couldn't they sort out their problems properly, man-to-man? The enlisted creeps never seemed to have that problem. Only the other day, there was a great brawl in the Officer's Club. None of this verbal rubbish.
"Hawk, how could you?! We had one chance to give Frank the boot and you screw with it! Why are you keeping him here?"
"Look, Trap, I know it looks bad-"
"Damn right it looks bad!"
"-but think about it. Remember the last time we tried to get rid of Ferret Face? We'd be doing double duty! We barely manage with single duty; think about how permanently hungover we'd be doing his work!"
"He doesn't do his work either! His patients should be lining up to sue him!"
"Ah, but dead men tell no tales, Trap."
Their drivel continued for some time.
I circled the tent a few times, neither Captain noticing my presence. I suddenly wanted to write a letter, but entering my tent would place me right in the firing line, so to speak. I'd have to attend to things somewhere else.
It didn't occur to me until I'd barged into the Officer's Club and drunk something peculiar that I'd set the whole camp against each other. Pierce and McIntyre, best friends until today, were in the Swamp tearing each other's heads off. No one in the camp had ever liked me: that was painfully clear. Before long, everyone would be taking sides.
"Bar-bartender?" I called. Private Straminsky waddled over to me, spinning like a ballerina in his ugly Hawaiian shirt.
"Yes, sir?"
"I'd like a piece of paper and a pen. And another… whatever this was," I mumbled, motioning to my drink, which seemed to move three inches closer to the edge of the table of its own accord.
"Gin martini, sir."
"Gin martini?!" I shrieked. "This is an officer's club, barman! You don't have anything else? This tastes like the Still."
"The officer's club is supposed to be closed, sir. Captains Pierce and McIntyre drank everything at last night's party. This is Still gin, brewed sixteen hours ago. Apparently it's a top vintage." The Private motioned to the bottle, crudely marked "Ferret Juice: In Honour of Frank Burns. All Others Drink At Their Own Risk."
"Get me the paper and pen!"
"Yes, sir." Private Straminsky waltzed strangely to the bar and tangoed back with a notepad and pen. I took it from him and began to write.
…oooOOOooo…
"Ah, Ferret Face. Enjoy your O-Club drink? We concocted it just for you."
So spouted a blurry, obnoxious face as I woke from my inebriated slumber. The sun burned harder than usual.
"We found a letter you wrote last night, or more accurately, scribbled."
"Yeah, we couldn't read a word of it. Boy, you must have been wasted!"
Two voices? Through my hangover, I recognised the voices of Captains Pierce and McIntyre. Together. Smirking.
"Are… are you guys speaking again?"
"No. He decided to wake you up right when I got to the punchline of my argument!"
"Your argument? May I remind you most of your lines were directly copied from me!"
"I did not copy from you! You copied from me!"
The words could have come from either Captain, such was my incomprehension and the similarity of their voices.
"Let's continue this outside. I'm sick of Frank's face."
They banged their way outside, their loud voices trailing off into the ether, leaving behind a storm of confusion. My leaden brain was determined to keep its incomprehension intact. For some reason, I trusted Pierce. He'd come through for me when he had no reason to. I could understand why McIntyre was so unhappy, but it seemed as if they'd never stop fighting.
Swerving my attention somewhere else, my eyes landed on the letter I'd scrawled the previous night. Squinting and holding the paper at odd angles, it was possible to make out a word or two, but most of the letter looked as if I'd written it in Korean. I couldn't have. I don't speak heathen language.
I took the letter to my desk and began to copy it out into a legible form.
Dear Esther,
Firstly, I'm sorry for the lateness of this letter. It's October here, so you should get this around Christmas. Wish everyone a merry Christmas from me. I hope you and your sisters are safe and well.
I've heard by way of your mother that she wants a divorce. I don't know what she's told you about me and Patrick and Alaska, but I want you to know that I'm not a bad person. Your mother and I are just having some temporary problems, that's all. I'm sure Patrick isn't really so great that your mother would want to marry him. I believe that at fifteen, you're old enough to know both sides of the story. Please make sure your sisters don't get the wrong impression.
The war's going great over here. We're treating hundreds of American soldiers every month, brave men fighting against the Red Menace. But I know you're probably not interested in the war. I can understand that. War's not really that interesting.
I really hope your piano recital went well and your mother saw it. It might help her remember her priorities.
Please send my love and best wishes to Ruth and Sarah, plus your mother if she'll take it. Whatever Patrick bribes you with, it's not worth it. Don't go to Alaska, sweetheart.
Much love,
Dad
"Frank?" called His voice. Not the big Him, of course, the prickly black-haired degenerate who doesn't deserve a name. He'd just come storming in after a nice little argument with McIntyre.
"Pierce, what do you want from me? One minute you say you'll help me, the next you'll end up helping McIntyre. Am I just the butt of another joke?" I spat bitterly. Pierce wasn't too sure what to make of that, a long pause ensuing before he replied.
"Frank, I am trying very hard to keep two idiots happy. Obviously, McIntyre's being a pain in the fanny, but he'll come around," drawled Pierce.
"But Pierce," I began, whining just a little, "how do I know what you'll do?"
"You don't," replied Pierce through a martini glass. "You have to trust me."
Somehow, I didn't warm to this idea. Hard to imagine, really, after everything Pierce's pulled on me.
"Trust you? You pull every prank you know on me, laugh it off, then tell me to trust you? You must think I'm a fool."
"I do, but that's beside the point. Look, I am probably going to get my rear kicked for getting you let off. This camp hates me. If that's not trustworthy behaviour, then tell me something that is."
"But why?! You keep talking about how you saved me from the stockade but you never told me why you did it!"
"I shouldn't have to. The fact I did should be reason enough for you. I'm sure you know by now, anyway." He stood in all his insubordinate glory, red-robed and subdued, and waltzed out of the tent.
I looked back to the divorce papers, somehow filled out neatly, and the letter to Esther, almost scrawling. A tear fell from my eye –
Don't say that Frank, you soft fool. Do you want them to think you're weak and pathetic? Do you?!
- as I gathered the papers and enveloped them, ready to send stateside. No turning back after this. No more Louise. Fine, I can handle that. She's not good enough for me anyway. No more house. That's okay, I never liked the curtains or the paint job.
No more children.
No more kids. No more Esther. No more Ruth. No more Sarah.
I turned to the pictures of Louise and the kids next to my cot, looking at them tenderly one last time. On impulse, I grabbed Louise and threw it to the floor, shattering the glass and attracting vague attention from outside the Swamp. Her face looked nicer with glass fragments all over it, I thought to myself. The kids' photograph stayed where it was as I walked, dignified, towards O'Reilly's office intending to post the letters.