Aha! Chapter 5! I do hope you enjoyed the cliffy at the end of the last chapter. I know I did. Thankyou to the wonderful people who review this story; you fill my inbox with something other than junk and chain letters.
The Mega-Enormous Three-for-the-Price-of-One Chapter 5 (now with Intermission:D)Notes:
1) Please keep in mind that I am not a doctor and if I get some medical details wrong it is inadvertently. I actually looked up a book for this. :P
2) All temperatures are in Fahrenheit, because that's what they would have used.
3) Warning: low- to medium-level mush. It's annoying, but necessary.
And just in case you've forgotten, I own the idea. Nothing else. It all belongs to Fox, lucky buggers.
As the harsh sun rose over the Korean mountains, the Swamp was disturbingly silent. Trapper John McIntyre woke at eight a.m. that morning, after having had sporadic bouts of sleep the previous night, to a blinding sun and an eerily quiet tent. Hawkeye Pierce was sleeping away in the exact same position Trapper had laid him four hours before. Frank Burns was nowhere in sight. Since Frank rising before the troublesome two was a regular occurrence, Trapper paid no attention to his absence.
Until, that is, a cry erupted from the compound.
"Frank Burns is lying unconscious on the ground, with vomit all over him!"
In a small office not so far away, Radar O'Reilly sat in bed, fearful. He hadn't gotten a wink of sleep the night before, which was unheard of as Radar was known to be a very deep sleeper. He was all but terrified of what he had seen the previous night. He'd been just about to head back to bed when he'd noticed Frank slip out, and knowing that he'd be verbally abused to within an inch of his life if Frank noticed him wisely decided to stay where he was, just behind the latrine door and out of sight.
"He looked like he was drunk, but I figured he wasn't because he doesn't drink that much," mused Radar, hugging his teddy bear tight. "But then his legs collapsed and he started vomiting all over the compound. When his back was turned, I ran back to my office. I didn't dare help him." He felt very confused at all the goings-on around him. First Hawkeye starts talking to the latrine wall, then Frank vomits in the compound? Something was up, but Radar didn't know what it was.
It was all too much to handle. Shaking his head, Radar got up and headed out the door, hoping to find something to eat at the mess tent. He was greeted by the sight of Frank Burns lying side-on, vomit spattered all over his army jacket and the surrounding ground.
"Oh my goodness…!" Radar put his hands to his mouth. His head swam. "I-I-I don't know what's going on! I don't understand it! Wha-wha-what's Frank doing lying on the ground!"
He rushed out of his office to join the gawking crowd near where Frank lay.
Trapper could hear the shouts from the Swamp. These shouts were varied, ranging from "Haha! Frank Burns is an idiot!" to "Doesn't he look silly?" to "GET A DOCTOR, NOW!" There was no doubt the last one could only be Margaret Houlihan. Knowing the shouts were only going to get worse, Trapper hauled himself out of bed, resisting the temptation to tickle Hawkeye awake, and headed out.
The sight that greeted him was one he never thought he'd see. A small crowd of people hovered near Frank; they couldn't get any closer because of the vile stench. Margaret was yelling at anyone who got near to fetch a doctor. Two nurses spotted Trapper just coming out of the Swamp, eyes blinking like a mole.
"Hey Trapper, we need your help. Major Houlihan keeps screaming for a doctor because Frank's unconscious with vomit all down his front," they pleaded with Trapper.
"All right, all right, I'll see to it." He brushed off the two nurses and headed towards Frank, who looked in a very bad way.
Once Trapper reached the Major (after banishing serious thoughts of going back for a gas mask) he called for a large bucket of water, which was quickly fetched by the two nurses. Trapper took the bucket from them in one swift motion and splash! emptied its contents on Frank in one go. This had a double-sided effect; it woke Frank and cleaned off some of the remaining dried vomit.
Frank spluttered and shook his head. "Bleargh! What the…" He trailed off when he noticed the puddle of vomit near his feet; in that moment it all came flooding back, as his stomach again threatened to burst. Instinctively, he put his hands to his abdomen as the pain worsened. He almost wished he was still unconscious; at least he wouldn't have to deal with this.
He looked up to find himself eye-to-eye with Trapper, who was wearing something approaching a worried look.
"Hey, Frank. You feeling alright?"
"Do I look…ergh…alright to you?" Frank hadn't meant it to come out so harshly, but the man was a doctor and should be able to tell…
"To be honest, Frank, you look like crap, and that's from a medical perspective. Now tell me. What's wrong?" Trapper tried to sound as kind as he could, considering he was speaking to Frank, and it seemed to work. Frank's face softened a tad and whispered, "It's my stomach. It… it… feels like it's going to explode."
Trapper turned around and whistled for one of the nurses to bring him a thermometer. He looked to Frank with as kindly an expression as he could manage. Frank's face softened even further, not being in much of a position to criticise.
Trapper took the thermometer from the nurse. Frank automatically opened his mouth, in an apparent effort to behave, and didn't say a word when Trapper stuck it in. When he took the thermometer out, he stared at it for a few seconds, not believing what he saw, and then…
"Nurse! Nurse! Get me a stretcher now!" Trapper yelled furiously to anyone who would listen. Radar and another nurse ran to Post-Op and returned two minutes later with a stretcher.
"What's going on, McIntyre?" Frank asked weakly.
"You're very sick, Frank, but we're-" Trapper stopped.
"You're what, McIntyre? Tell me."
Frank was by now very weak, barely able to speak. He reminded Trapper of a small child, sickly, afraid and powerless. It was a far cry from the strong, domineering yet whiny man they all knew too well. As Trapper and Radar (in a show of strength rarely seen from him) lifted Frank onto the stretcher, heading to Post-Op, Trapper whispered,
"We're gonna take care of you, Frank."
Since I'd normally have a chapter break here, we'll call this Intermission. Have a break from reading, if you want to.
Hawkeye Pierce woke four hours past this incident, also to an eerily quiet (and empty) tent. He assumed that everyone else had already started work and that he had been left to sleep.
As he had no intention of getting up unless he was required to, Hawkeye pondered the events of the previous day. He was still certain there had been shrapnel in that poor man's body, but the way he had been hauled out of the O.R. and apparently sedated implied to him that this had not been so. If anything else had happened since then, he wasn't aware of it – though he did remember having a peculiar dream the previous night about talking to Trapper in a latrine…
Hawkeye lay in his cot, at peace. Unfortunately for him, the peace didn't last.
"Hawkeye! Rise and shine, sleepyhead." Trapper came banging into the tent, looking a right mess.
"I'm busy. Come back when the war's over."
"Hawkeye, you have to get up now. It's lunchtime." Trapper attempted to roll Hawkeye over, with limited success.
"Trapper, I'm not eating that crap. It's disgusting."
"You've been saying that since we got here. You don't have a choice. Now get up."
Realising that argument was pointless, Hawkeye reluctantly got up out of bed.
As the two walked into the Mess Tent, they noticed Henry Blake in the same position Frank had been in the previous day, sporting the same chef's hat. Looking around, Trapper spotted Radar, with a frightened look on his face. Trapper made a mental note to talk to Radar later on.
"Hey hey!" Henry noticed the two walking in. "How are you today, fellas?"
Hawkeye replied, "I feel fine, very refreshed. And you?"
"Yeah, not bad, not bad, considering I'm doing this crummy job."
Trapper asked, "Then why are you doing it?"
Henry looked at them sheepishly and said, "Igor and the kitchen hands bullied me into it. Seems they'd gotten used to an extra pair of hands."
"As long as the 'mashed potato' tastes better than it did yesterday we're fine with it."
The two joined the end of the line. Henry didn't seem to be quite as beaming as Frank was, but then again, Frank had volunteered.
When Henry had served them "Enjoy your food, but I don't blame you if you don't" the twosome sat down at the end of a long trestle table. Trapper ended up next to Radar, still wearing the frightened expression.
Hawkeye noticed. "Hey Radar, what's wriggling in your food?"
Radar jumped and started probing through his food looking for something. "Er, nothing, sir. Is there, er, supposed to be?"
"No, no, don't worry. I meant to ask: what's wrong?"
Radar glanced at Trapper, who was ever-so-gently shaking his head. If Radar told Hawkeye about his 3 a.m. exploits he would protest strongly that such an occurrence ever took place.
"Oh, er, nothing sir. Just, er, a little tired, that's all."
Hawkeye brought his head down to be eye level with Radar. "Look Radar, you're not telling me the truth. There's something bugging you. What is it?"
Once again Radar looked to Trapper, still shaking his head, enough for Radar to get the message but softly enough so Hawkeye wouldn't suspect anything.
"I'm telling you Hawkeye, sir, it's nothing. I didn't get a great sleep," he added on the end, which was true; he'd barely slept a wink.
Appreciating that he wasn't going to get anything out of Radar, Hawkeye resigned himself to being kept in the dark and continued eating, occasionally stopping to grimace at the 'taste.'
"Attention, all personnel. There are no incoming wounded expected for at least 12 hours. Colonel Blake would like to remind you all that this is a great opportunity to catch up on some tent-cleaning. That's all, folks."
The two Captains looked over to Henry, who upon catching sight of their sharp eyes suddenly busied himself with scrubbing dishes.
"Well, I'd love to stay and chat for a little longer," Trapper said, standing up as he spoke, "but there are patients to attend to. Radar, I need a hand with something," he added, motioning his head in the direction of Post-Op. Radar nodded slowly, careful not to attract Hawkeye's eye. "See you there, Hawk."
"What? Oh, right, see you there." Hawkeye hadn't really been listening; he'd been too busy contemplating whether he'd "see" more shrapnel in kids' bodies before too long. He stood up and waited until Trapper and Radar had left before heading to work.
The two continued to Post-Op. Radar looked to the Captain.
"Er, Trapper?"
"That's my name, don't wear it out."
"Is Hawkeye going to operate today? I mean, he was kinda whacked-out last night…"
"Well, Radar, with Frank as sick as he is we don't have much choice. I mean, Frank was a rubbish surgeon anyway, but he was an extra pair of hands."
"Do you know what's wrong with him?" Radar seemed concerned, an image he didn't want to portray.
"I've got a shrewd idea. Don't trouble yourself, Radar. Just stay out of Margaret's way, that's all."
Trapper opened the Post-Op door and the two went inside.
When Trapper walked in, he found Margaret already by Frank's bedside, muttering soothing words to a clearly agitated Frank. Margaret looked up, looking almost relieved.
"McIntyre, thank god you're here. Frank has a terrible fever, it's nearly 108 degrees! You must do something!"
Trapper rushed to Frank's bed, thermometer in hand. How the thermometer got there or why he had it (Margaret had just told him Frank's temperature) was anyone's guess.
"Now, open your mouth Frank."
"Ahh." Frank, so far, had been co-operating very well. He hadn't complained or made a pain of himself, something Trapper greatly appreciated.
"All right, now how's your stomach feeling?" Trapper gently prodded Frank's stomach area.
"OWWWWWWWWWWWWWW!" Frank howled with pain. Margaret rushed to comfort him.
"There, there, Frank, you'll be all right," she cooed.
Trapper stood up and looked down on Frank. "Well, Frank, I think I know what you've got."
Frank looked up at Trapper, eyes wide and fearful. "What is it, McIntyre? Is it serious?"
Trapper was sorely tempted to make something up and scare Frank into thinking he was sicker than he was, but he decided against it. This was more serious than just playing games.
"You've got gastroenteritis, Frank. Normally it's a mild illness-" here he saw Frank slump slightly in relief – "but you've got a very serious case."
Frank's face crumpled, just like that of the small child he now so greatly resembled. Trapper could have sworn he saw a glimmer of tear in the corner of Frank's eye.
"How… how long will it take for me to get better?" Frank quietly asked, his eyes huge, looking in fear at the man who could save him.
Now it was Trapper's turn to look wistful. He had no sympathy for Frank – hell, the only person who did was Margaret – but only he really understood how sick the man really was.
"I don't know, Frank. I honestly don't know. The best thing for you now is rest. Try to relax. And Margaret?" added Trapper, looking at the nurse. "Make sure he doesn't get too agitated."
"Yes, doctor," replied Margaret respectfully. Though she wasn't a doctor, she had enough experience to realise her love was very, very ill.
The Captain and the nurse both filed out the door, having other patients to attend to. Frank, partially sitting up in the bed, felt his eyes fill with tears…
Aw. Mush city. Bleargh. So that brings us to the end of the Mega-Huge Twice-as-Big-as-the-Last-Chapter Chapter 5! I hope you enjoyed reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it! Please review! Don't forget, you gotta write 'em to get 'em.