Told you this wasn't discontinued. Combo of laziness, writer's block and no internet led to the delay. Somewhere during the interlude, I realised this story was indeed crapola and focussed my energies elsewhere. A look on the stats page made me realise how many people liked this story, which spurred me to continue it.
Sorry also for the disappointing length of this chapter. I figured it was better to at least get something down.
Chapter 11A new day greeted the MASH personnel, in much the same fashion as it greeted them every other day; with piercing rays and glare off jeep windscreens to blind the toughest of eyes and wake the deepest of sleepers. Moans and groans uttered from every occupied tent, so much so that it seemed as if the entire camp was having one large, simultaneous groan.
James McCulloch looked over at his tent buddy, Trapper John McIntyre. Though James had been at the 4077th less than a week, he felt as if he'd been a part of it for years. It was, he mused, merely unfortunate timing that he had arrived during one of its most turbulent periods.
Two beds within the Swamp were empty. One belonged to Hawkeye Pierce, Korean wonder-surgeon and womaniser. The other belonged to Frank Burns, 'regular army' ferret-face. James himself had been sleeping on a fourth cot that had once belonged to someone called Spearchucker Jones.
Trapper began to stir, mumbling. "Mmmm… c'mon honey…"
"Wow, he sure loves that blanket…" James muttered, addressing the Still.
"Is there anyone at this unit who isn't slightly insane?"
"Dunno…" replied Trapper, still half-asleep. "Nuts might be a better way of describing it, but don't tell Klinger that."
As always, the Mess Tent loomed as Trapper and James, half-awake but surprisingly fully-dressed, waddled towards it.
"Don't tell me. Some lunatic will be dishing up something nasty for breakfast," said James, in an attempt to make conversation.
"Captain McIntyre!"
The two turned to see Nurse Ginger Bayliss running towards them. "What is it, Ginger?" called Trapper.
"I did the tests on those potatoes like you asked me to, Doctor."
"And?"
"And I found traces of arsenic."
James looked up at Trapper, who appeared lost in thought. Noting how unlikely this situation was, James made for Post-Op, but Trapper stopped him.
"No, no, no. I have a better idea. Let's ask our friends on kitchen detail their secrets, shall we?"
James shrugged and followed his friend into the Mess Tent.
Igor Straminsky eyed the surgeons with as much disdain as he could muster. Why did they have to keep following him? After all, he was a Private. It wasn't as if they had much to fear from him.
"Hey, Igor. We've come to sample your handiwork."
The two surgeons each took a tray and lined up. "Let's see… we have creamed corn, creamed potatoes, creamed meatloaf, creamed coffee… is there anything here that isn't creamed?"
"Er, we have boiled spinach, sirs."
"Oh, what a privilege! Boiled spinach! Delicacy, indeed!" proclaimed James.
"Ah, shuddup. I'll take a bit of everything. I'll take a bit of your time, too."
"We want to see how you do it."
"What, cream corn? You guys know how to do that… yes sirs." Igor saluted and hurried off to the back of the Mess Tent.
"Rodriguez!"
"Yo?"
"Clear out!"
"Igor, you're a Private! You can't tell me what to do!"
"The surgeons are coming!"
"Shit…" Rodriguez scurried out, as did the majority of the men on kitchen duty.
"I just meant Rodri… oh, thanks guys! Leave me to do all the explaining!"
"What explaining?"
Igor spun around, his eyes wide as Trapper John McIntyre stood in front of him. Trap was in no mood to play games.
"Er, the explaining of how to cream corn, sirs. See, firstly, you get the corn, then…"
While Igor carried on sharing his corn-creaming recipe to the wall, Trapper's eye wandered to a sack sitting in the corner of the kitchen. Below the Korean characters the sack read "Potato: Eat at your own risk."
"Igor?"
"…the corn will – yessir?"
"Look, you know as well as I do the potatoes aren't meant to be eaten, but why does the Army have to tell us that?" Trapper asked, motioning to the sack.
"Well, they're not Army potatoes, sir. They're, er…" Igor suddenly wished he hadn't asked Rodriguez to clear out. "We got 'em from a group of Korean farmers down the road."
"Which Korean farmers?"
"Er… I dunno, sir. Rodriguez was the guy who brought 'em up. Ask him." James caught Trapper's eye and ran outside, calling "Rodriguez!"
"Sir?"
Called the man in question, a stocky Sergeant with tousled, mangy hair and a few missing teeth. James had seen him once or twice, usually playing poker or craps with Zale and Rizzo's gang.
"Ah, you're the new man in town. Captain McCulloch, innit?"
"Sure am." James plastered the cheesiest grin he could muster all over his face. Thankfully for him, Rodriguez seemed to buy it. "Say, I was just wondering where you got those potatoes from. You could actually tell they were vegetables!"
Rodriguez beamed. "Ah, I obtained 'em from a Korean friend of mine, who gets 'em for, aha, very good prices, if you catch my drift."
"I see. Just wondering. Thanks, Rodriguez!"
"Anytime, sir!"
James trundled back to the Mess Tent, where Igor's dulcet tedium continued to stream out the door. He had a lot to think about.
Sorry it took so long, but there you go! A semblance of plot! Promise the next lot will be up quicker than this one. Thanks for reading!