Greetings, brethren. Welcome to Chapter 9. Things take a turn for the surreal in this chapter; I thought I'd try something a little different. Please tell me what you thought.

Note: If I get details wrong or messed-up, medical, Greek mythological or otherwise, don't shoot me. Also the usual bad words warning.

The Ethereal Chapter 9

Late that night, or early that morning, Trapper had a dream.

His dreams carried him back to his schooldays, listening to tales of the Greek gods. He remembered thinking those damn gods could do anything; cast lightning and thunder on the world, withhold the sun and make the crops fail, or go on epic journeys, filled with adventure and heroism.

The book lay open in little John's hands. Tales of Greek Mythology. Almost by themselves, the pages flipped to a particular spot in the book. The Tale of Prometheus. John had always admired Prometheus, how he rode to Mount Olympus and stole fire for humans to use, though he wondered how he had managed to steal the fire without burning his hands.

John began to read, immersed as always…

The scene changed…

He felt different; John looked down at himself and saw he was bigger, stronger, now a man, known to his friends and colleagues as Trapper John. The sun was new, the sky a deep pink, with wisps of blue from the night left behind. Ahead of him, he set eyes on the boulder. It wasn't merely a boulder, it was the boulder and he had no idea why, except… except that it was supposed to be at the top of the mountain. Again, he didn't know why; he merely felt it was so. Feeling more confused than ever, Trapper began to push.

The day grew old, the sun rose and fell. When once again the sky blushed and ribbons of blue floated above, the boulder was near the summit of the mountain. Again, not a mountain, the mountain; something told him he should recognise this place. Trapper slumped against the boulder. He felt a sense of achievement; he'd pushed that damned boulder up the mountain. His conscience was satisfied…

Hang on! The boulder's at the bottom! I thought the boulder was at the top!

Trapper looked around. Sadly for him, the boulder was indeed still at the bottom, yet that something told him it needed to be at the top; how it got to the bottom again remained a mystery to him. Once again, Trapper began to push.

Yet again, the day aged before his eyes as that damned boulder was once again pushed up the mountain. It took him longer this time; by the time he was finished the heavens were awash with a deeper shade of red, scattered between widened navy ribbons of night. Relief overcame him; at last, the job was done. Trapper's eyes wandered among his surroundings; the mountain range far away, the dusty plains before him, the scattered greenery, with a large clump in a clearing. He focussed on the large clump. It was different to the surrounding vegetation, and one silvery square bush-like thing had a red cross on the top.

Trapper's eyes widened; he definitely recognised this place…

The scene changed…

"Clamp."

Trapper found himself in O.R. Heaven knew how long he'd been there. He looked down on his patient; thankfully, it was nothing too serious, just the same-old fragments of shrapnel.

"Suction, I can't see a damn thing."

After fifteen minutes of work, he noticed the O.R. was conspicuously silent. From what he remembered, it was usually filled with chatter and the occasional chastisement. Looking up, he saw Hawkeye and Frank were missing; it was only he, Henry and a new doctor he vaguely recognised as Captain James McCulloch. He knew why Hawkeye and Frank weren't there – it was because they were sick, but with what? Trapper tried to concentrate on his work while all the while racking his brain. What the hell happened to them! He should know what was wrong!

The casualties seemed to be never-ending. After what felt like days of work, Trapper was still operating. He kept his ears open for the call of "No more casualties, sir!" - it never eventuated. He couldn't remember having as long a session as this. Through the window, he saw out of the corner of his eye the rays of day and garlands of night in a never-ending cycle.

"Attention all personnel. Incoming wounded. Choppers and ambulances loaded."

Hang on… there were already incoming wounded… what the?

"Trapper, get up, we've got more wounded!" Trapper shook his head… that was definitely not the PA's voice…

"Trapper! Wounded! Up! Now!"

Trapper opened his eyes. Once again, sunlight shafted in through the windows… of the Swamp. He was awake, thank God… His body gave an involuntary shudder.

"Hey, Trapper… up or not?"

"Yeah, I'm getting up, James… that was a shit-scary dream…"

"You had a dream? Ooh, do tell."

Trapper hauled himself out of bed. "I might leave it for now, if that's all right."

"Hey, that's fine. Let's greet the new arrivals, shall we?"

Trapper didn't bother replying as the two trudged outside.

……ooooooOOOOOOoooooo……

Thankfully for everyone, the wounded weren't all that, er, wounded, and operating finished up quickly.

"So, Trapper," asked James, as the two took the scenic route to the Mess Tent, "what's the food like here?"

Again, James recognised he'd asked a wrong question, as Trapper froze in his tracks. "The food… I swear that's what it is…of course!" He ran into the tent, leaving a befuddled James standing in the middle of the compound.

Bang! The door to the Mess Tent was flung open. Heads simultaneously turned as Trapper noisily joined the end of the line. Looking up, he saw that once again Igor was serving up his pitiful excuse for food. He snorted; everyone had given up on anything better in terms of army fare long ago.

"Keep a civil tongue in your head, Trapper, if there was ever one there," he sternly told himself. "The last thing you want is for everyone to catch onto what you're doing."

When it was his turn at the counter, he declared, a little too loudly, "I'll take a heap of the potatoes, thanks Igor."

A collective gasp issued from those seated around the tent. Only the foolhardy had dared touch the potatoes since Frank and Hawkeye's illness became known around the camp. Now Trapper, the camp's third-in-line-chief surgeon and Hawkeye's best mate, was willingly eating them? Even Igor's jaw had dropped.

"I hope you don't mind if I eat privately, do you all?" He grinned, noting the shocked looks on everyone's faces. "Don't worry, I'm not committing suicide, you can all relax." Trapper chuckled to himself as he stole away with his tray of "mashed potatoes" to the Swamp. Once inside, he set the tray down on his cot and studied it closely.

James walked in. "Erm, Trapper, may I ask what the hell are you doing?"

"I can't stop you, mate."

James rolled his eyes. "Seriously."

Trapper returned to studying the potatoes. "I'm thinking of collecting samples of this and putting them in the incubator, to see if there's anything in them." He stopped, remembering fondly his and Hawkeye's efforts to get the incubator in the first place.

"Apart from potato?"

"Well, to be quite honest I'd be surprised if we found any of that, but you know what I mean." Trapper couldn't help grinning.

"Er… call me stupid, but I don't suppose I do. What exactly are you looking for?"

Trapper looked at him, his grin faded in an instant, eyes ice-cold. Though James, at first glance, mightn't be the sharpest tool in the shed, Trapper knew he'd be invaluable in the days to come.

"What do you think I'm looking for, discharge papers?" He paused. A thought struck him, then disappeared almost instantly; how brilliant would it be if he actually did find discharge papers…

"No, of course not! I'm only trying to help! Just like I said I would!" James responded angrily. Trapper snapped out of his semi-daydream and once again furiously inspected the lump of potatoes on his tray.

"Poisons, James. I never imagined doing this and I hope I never have to do it again. Someone's messed with these, I'm quite sure… and I won't rest until I find who it is."

……ooooooOOOOOOoooooo……

Henry Blake stood at his cupboard, lamenting.

"Dammit, my scotch levels are running low… I think I've drunk more of that scotch in the past five days than I have all month!" he cried. "I was sure there were four bottles a week ago, and now there's only two and a half…eh, must have drunk it at one point or another." He glanced at the half-empty bottle on his desk, and at the completely empty bottle next to it. "I must have been really out of it to not notice drinking an entire bottle… damn, that was good stuff too…"
Nevertheless, he had more important matters to contend with, such as his surgeons' illnesses and all this damned paperwork he didn't have a hope of understanding. But first, he needed a chat with someone.

"Major Freedman's on the line, sir."

Radar, with his infallible way of appearing before he was called for, seemed to have anticipated Henry exactly.

"Dammit, Radar, you know me too well… thanks."

"No problem, sir."

Henry picked up the phone, slightly apprehensive.

"Hello?"

"Hello Col. Blake, it's Sidney Freedman here."

"Sidney! How are you?" Henry replied with enthusiasm belying his current sorrowful state.

"Not too bad, not too bad. What can I do for you?"

Henry paused. He'd already had to tell Daniel Pierce about Hawkeye and had failed on that occasion. Trapper wasn't here to save him now…

"Sidney, Frank has severe gastroenteritis and, er, Hawkeye has… well, um, we don't know what Hawkeye's got, but he's been fainting and hallucinating all over the place. We've only got three surgeons, meaning… er, myself, Tra-McIntyre and a new guy by the name of Captain McCulloch. Morale at this place has uh, gone down the latrine." Henry went on to describe, briefly, what had happened as far as he knew.

The only word that immediately came to Sidney's lips was "Shit!"

"Shit is what we're in, Major, and I don't mean the literal kind. McIntyre and McCulloch can't have gotten much sleep between them… and I'm personally worried about McIntyre and what this is doing to him."

"Henry, you don't even need to ask. I'm on my way."

"Sidney, thankyou so much, you're a lifesaver. Should I let them know you're coming?"

"I wouldn't, that'll give them time to come up with stories. Let my visit be a surprise. I'll be there as soon as I can."

"Thanks a bunch, Sidney."

"Anytime, Henry." The phone went dead.

Sidney set the phone down. Though they'd spoken for barely ten minutes, he already had a picture forming in his mind of what sort of shape the 4077th would be in. Shaking his head, he gathered his things together. They'd need him all right.

Henry set the phone down. Thank God for Sidney Freedman, he thought, because we'd all be stuffed otherwise. By his calculations, Sidney should arrive at the 4077th late that night (it was roughly 1pm by his reckoning); he'd be an early-morning present for the people under his command.

Henry sighed. Why the hell they gave him a command job, he'd never know…

……ooooooOOOOOOoooooo……

"You want to put what in the incubator?"

"Please, Ginger… it'll help James and Radar and I determine if the potatoes were messed with."

"You three turned detectives now? Well, if you think it will help…"

Shaking her head, Ginger reluctantly placed the two plates of potato into the incubator. Trapper's theory was that if there was something in them (apart from potato and the obligatory pseudo-potato crap) they'd grow on the potato. He wasn't sure what that something could be, but knowing that army potatoes didn't bear that much of a resemblance to proper potatoes, anything that turned up could reasonably be counted as suspicious.

"There you go, it's in. You'll have to wait about six hours or thereabouts, so don't hang around," warned Ginger.

"Oh, don't worry about that, we won't be waiting around," assured James. The three rushed outside, in a manner reminiscent of cheeky schoolboys. Ginger simply shook her head before returning to her work.

"All right, now what?" asked James, in his most excited state since arriving at the 4077th the previous day.

"Now, we need to talk to the following people," declared Trapper, tapping his finger on a list in his hands. Radar had drawn up the list, but Trapper had, er, "edited" it a bit. The list read as follows:

Hawkeye (when he's not mental)

Frank (if he can talk and not vomit)

Igor (very shifty, rubbish cook)

Henry (free scotch)

Hot Lips (see if she knows anything)

"Let's start with Igor, just because we can," proclaimed James. The other two nodded their heads, not having anything against this move, and headed to the Mess Tent.

Igor Straminsky saw the threesome coming. From their excited talking and jabbing their fingers on a list it was made clear that they were on a mission, and that his name was on that list. He knew, like everyone else, about the potatoes in the incubator (news spread like the 'flu in that place). He knew that he wasn't exactly in everyone's good books at that moment, what with being the rubbishy camp cook and one of the prime suspects. He also knew, unlike everyone else, a little secret about these potatoes. If Trapper, Radar and James wanted to get to the bottom of this mystery, the incubator would only go so far…

……ooooooOOOOOOoooooo……

Mwahahaha! I don't know about you, but I do like that cliffy… he's right you know! Incubators only go so far… but that's all I'm telling you, so you'll just have to wait and see! Please, please review! Don't forget, you gotta write 'em to get 'em. I plan on practising what I preach… and reviewing your stories! Post their names along with your comments if you'd like reviews courtesy of yours truly!