Thanks for tuning in, folks. Note: I do tend to recycle good lines I see elsewhere. If you recognise a sentence or two, take it as a large compliment. It's meant that way, anyhow. A large thankyou is also in order to people who have reviewed this story. Logging on at the library every weekend and reading all your kind reviews really makes it. (My weekend, that is.)

At the risk of sounding like a broken PA system, all I own is the idea and two characters: Captain McCulloch and Sergeant Rodriguez. That's it. Everything else is Fox's.

Chapter 14

Major Sidney Freedman, first-class shrink and the 4077th's saviour, absently poked his tray of mystery lunch. To his mild bemusement, the greyish lump grandly referred to as 'steak' wobbled for quite a while before coming to a stop. Though he was quite sure any steak with more than about five percent meat content didn't wobble so, Sidney didn't preoccupy himself with the matter. He had, so to speak, bigger steaks to poke.

A rumour had muttered itself across the Mess Tent all through breakfast that morning. With no clear indication of who had started the scuttlebutt, everyone took it upon themselves to suddenly become experts on the situation. The nurses demurely discussed what might happen next, while Sergeant Zale and minions eagerly laid bets on who would be the first to go.

Through the simple door marked "Kitchen," Luther Rizzo, Igor Straminsky and Fernando Rodriguez had stood in a lazy circle, speaking in low, soft voices. Since Rodriguez had dragged in the sentry the previous night only to be told of Frank's shout of "Yes! It was! It was!" the trio had been up all night racking their collective brain (for they only really had one between them) as to what Frank was talking about. Everyone, including the sentry, had assumed that the KP men had gone to bed, or in Rizzo's case to jeep. Aside from Henry's offhand "you boys are early this morning; the food's on time" and Rizzo's hurried "er, yessir, we, uh, couldn't sleep, sir," no one had suspected a thing.

Not that Sidney knew any of that, to be sure. He was preoccupied with cornering Trapper and convincing him to talk. Ever since Sidney had arrived just a few days ago (though it seemed like weeks to the weary Major) the Captain had managed to evade him through the timely arrival of wounded, in addition to choice visits to the Officer's Club and the other side of insanity.

Sidney added it all up in his head as the Mess Tent filled and emptied around him. His lunch remained uneaten.

…oooOOOooo…

"How ya going, Hawk?"

Trapper looked down at his best friend as he stirred from an uneasy slumber. His eyes were puffy and blue around the edges, cracked open at the feeling of sunlight. Though his skin was pale and his face had lost its usual jovial lustre, Trapper could still see some of the old life in Hawkeye. He could only hope the old life wouldn't stay old.

"By plane, boat, jeep and chopper to Crabapple Cove. How do you think I'm going?"

"I meant how are you feeling, jackass. And don't tell me 'with your hands,' " said Trapper, with an unusual hint of severity.

Hawk's eyes narrowed. "Are you all right, Trap?"

"Yep. Fine. Are you?"

"Trap, I don't much care about me at the moment. You look terrible!"

"I feel terrible. I'm a matching set. But you're the patient, not me. Now be a good little boy and say ah."

Trap took Hawk's temperature, pulse and blood pressure. His temp was still a little high and blood pressure a bit low for Trapper's liking, but his pulse was OK.

"Bad news, son. You're gonna make it," declared Trapper in a fatherly tone, placing one hand on Hawkeye's shoulder.

"Oh, so you know what I've got?" asked Hawkeye hopefully.

"Well, no, but you seem to be recovering all right. All we did was stuff you full of penicillin, morphine and sedatives. Between 'em, they've fixed you up."

At the mention of "sedatives," Hawkeye's face softened and took on a concerned impression. "Sedatives? You mean… you had to sedate me?"

"A couple of times. Once you were about to stab Frank with a scalpel."

"Really?" Hawkeye's face lit up, reminiscent of a small boy at Christmas time. "Why did you stop me?" he asked, incredulously.

"Too much paperwork. Army wants stuff in triplicate times ten when an officer's murdered by another officer."

Hawkeye didn't answer, instead staring at the needle-bruises on his arm. His bad veins had caused Trapper's choice injecting spots to bruise nastily.

"…sedated?" Hawk mumbled, while admiring his paintwork.

Trap took the opportunity to sit on the adjacent cot. "Look, Hawk… Ben," began Trapper, jerking his best friend's attention from his marble-painted arm. "There's no reason to get worked up because you went bananas a few times. The point is you're recovering nicely, and you should be up and causing trouble in a few days."

Hawkeye would not give Trapper the ego-inflating satisfaction of knowing how indebted he was to his curly-haired friend. Instead, he settled for a cheeky smile and a pinch of the cheek.

"Thanks for everything, Trap. You realise you'll have this on your conscience for the rest of your life?"

"I think I can handle it." Trapper flashed his not-too-pearly-white grin, one rarely seen in recent days. He got up, sent a brusque wave in Hawk's direction, and kept walking until he found himself alone in the Swamp.

As if on cue, he suddenly remembered a very important point left out of the preceding conversation.

"Damn!" Trapper mumbled, resisting a very strong temptation to kick the stove. "I forgot about the damn arsenic."

…oooOOOooo…

"Well, Major, let's get this over and done with."

As might be expected, Sidney's mood had not overly improved with the prospect of talking to Frank Burns. Henry had ordered Frank to pay Sidney a visit, fed up with the surgeon's continuous tirade of complaint. Sidney had outwardly assured Henry he was happy to talk to Frank, but underneath the visiting mind-doctor was very cranky.

So there they were: two Majors, neither of whom wished to be there, sitting in the VIP tent. Frank had avoided speaking or making eye contact with Sidney for the best part of half an hour.

"You do realise, Major, that sitting and staring at the roof of your eyeballs won't help you?"

"Who says I needed help?" yelped Frank defensively. Sidney sighed. He'd met many paranoid people in his time, the leader of whom was undoubtedly Colonel Flagg, but Frank was right up there with the CIA man.

"You're a sick man, Frank. You're going to need some help in order to recover." In answer, Frank proceeded to stare intently at his lap.

"Frank, are you sure there's nothing you want to get off your chest? If you like, you can consider this a confessional. Whatever you say will not leave this room," offered Sidney, in a last-ditch attempt at conversation.

A long, tedious silence, then, "I've been a very bad man, Major."

"You don't say," remarked Sidney, with all the dryness of a Swamp martini.

"I mean, I've done some terrible things during my tenure here. I've gambled, I've become inebriated, I've performed shoddy surgery… but now, I've done something much worse." At this, Frank began to whimper pathetically and put his face in his hands.

"Are you willing to talk about it?" Sidney asked, in a slightly softer tone.

"Oh, Sidney… I think I've killed someone."

The last time Frank had (consciously) seen Hawkeye, he'd been carried into Post-Op by stretcher, muttering inanities to himself about Koreans, arsenic and a Sergeant somebody. His eyes had been out of focus, his skin clammy, his mind muddled. So had Hawkeye's, come to think of it.

"Really, Frank?" Sidney's left eyebrow raised itself.

"I don't mean in surgery-wise. I mean… person-wise."

Sidney listened wordlessly as Frank continued. "I… I just wanted some friends, you know? I mean, no one here likes me. Except Margaret, sometimes. And the Captains, but only when it suits them. So I got talking to some enlisted men, the ones always on kitchen duty. And they talked back! Not just saluting and saying 'sir' every three words. So I got… kind of, well, I buddied up to these guys. I know it's against regulations – Page 37 of The Army Officer's Guide specifically prohibits friendliness between officers and enlisted men. But none of the officers wanna be friends with me."

Before Frank could get any further, Radar's hoarse cry of "Choppers!" emanated across camp. Three seconds later, a faint whirring of helicopter blades met the Majors' ears. As Sidney stood up to leave, Frank looked at him forlornly, oddly reminding Sidney of dogs at the pound, clawing at cages in their desperation to go home.

"You've got to help me, Sidney!"

…oooOOOooo…

Trapper was having difficulty remembering a tougher OR session than that one. He was also having difficulty concentrating on his work after eighteen hours of surgery. With only three surgeons, and one inexperienced at that, Sidney had again been roped in to help. Even so, the casualties kept trucking in, as if the hospital were over a conveyor belt. Each of the surgeons had something different on his mind.

Henry Blake, though he was only performing an appendectomy (he figured as long as he was there, it would make sense to remove the troublesome little thing), couldn't concentrate. His five-thumbed hands, as Pierce would refer to them, were at it again. Thrice he'd dropped his instruments, twice he'd nearly left a sponge inside a patient.

All he wanted was for the outfit to behave itself. For the most part, he got his wish; the 4077th wasn't the most efficient military hospital this side of the 38th parallel for nothing. But he knew he wasn't cut out for command. Being in Korea allowed him to do so much more in terms of helping people in true need. Sure, teaching Bloomington, Illinois to say "ah" had its merits, but he felt Korea was better for him medically. It was just the command bit he didn't need. Especially when things started acting up. I-Corps knew you couldn't run a MASH unit on three doctors, but they refused to send any more replacements. Pierce and Burns had been sick for a week, they oughta get back on their feet.

But another part of Henry tapped him on the shoulder: that's not fair, Henry. It's not Pierce's fault he fell sick, nor was it Frank's. He knew Hawkeye hated being sick, and though Frank lapped up all the attention he could get while being ill, Henry doubted he'd volunteer for it in the first place.

Yet one thing still made no sense to Henry, above a lot of other things that didn't either: why on earth did Frank volunteer for KP duty?

James McCulloch was quietly concentrating on removing small fragments from a Marine's lung. Though he'd done this sort of thing too many times since his arrival in Korea, and the MASH unit in particular, he simply couldn't get into the swing of things. The 4077th was unlike any other military establishment he'd ever seen. Fort Dix was efficient, trained, and GI to within an inch of its brass. The 121st Evac Hospital, though with less of the Army sheen about it, was also efficient and orderly. But this place? The bugler didn't know the difference between Reveille and Assembly, and admittedly couldn't play either with any semblance of tune. No one saluted anybody. There were no snap inspections, no callisthenics, no nothing… and James loved every bit of it.

Despite his instant taking to the place, he still wasn't quite comfortable. The whole camp had been on edge ever since everyone's favourite surgeon, Captain Hawkeye Pierce, had fallen mysteriously ill. Captain McIntyre had been too busy to talk to him, Major Burns didn't want to talk to him, and Colonel Blake seemed forever too intoxicated to talk to him. James felt very much in the dark.

Trapper John McIntyre had his hands full of abdominal muscle, punctuated with shrapnel. Damned shrapnel. Even after all the months he'd spent taking it out of kids, the North Koreans and the Chinese insisted on returning the stuff. It never changed. A part of him insisted it never would change, that the Korean War would outlast them all.

What had changed, however, was how quickly the camp had been turned on its tush. Suddenly, Hawkeye had fallen ill after dining at the Mess Tent. Not too unusual, given the KP staff's fondness for flu, but Hawk's nightmares and sleepwalking were definitely unusual. Now he, Trapper, was hearing whispers of a conspiracy between the enlisted and a certain officer. Trap wasn't inclined to take much in the way of latrine-o-grams seriously, but much of what he'd heard fitted. The arsenic, the Sergeant, the potato… Trapper was so absorbed in silently muttered plots he failed to concentrate as much as he otherwise would have on the patient in front of him. Yet everyone else had their heads wrapped so tightly in thought they failed to jolt him back to reality.

Sidney Freedman, at the far end of the OR, had his mind on many other things besides the deep laceration he was fixing up. He remained deeply troubled by what he'd managed to tease out of Frank before the choppers arrived. Frank? Friends with enlisted men? He hates enlisted men, Sidney told himself. He enjoys nothing more than giving a few Corporals and the like a good kick! Why the sudden change in attitude? It was true, he mused, that none of the other officers wanted to be friends with him. Henry had no time for him, Margaret was apparently staying well clear of him, and the Captains… well, Hawkeye and Trapper would never befriend Frank, regardless of how much they'd drunk. But so much else didn't add up…

His assisting nurse handed him the suture scissors a moment before he asked for them. It was a welcome snap, in the literal and figurative sense, to his distracted, idealised mind.

…oooOOOooo…

The Mess Tent was experiencing a definite downturn in business of late. Everyone who could was subsisting on stateside mail of the edible variety or making excessive visits to Rosie's Bar and Grill. Those who had no choice but to frequent the hotbed of food poisoning, flu and false eatables were steering well clear of the mashed potatoes. It was understandable, but hurtful to the kitchen staff.

"It's as if they don't even trust us anymore," mumbled Rodriguez, the morning after the latest batch of wounded which had kept most of the medical staff up all night. Igor, as night sentry, was fairly sure he'd heard Trapper and James head back to the Swamp at roughly 3am, but his memory was hazy: he'd been snoozing nearly the whole time.

"Of course they don't trust us, you damned fool. You see what we've done to this camp? We have triple-handedly ruined this Mess Tent's reputation," proclaimed Rizzo in a moment of big-headedness.

"Stop talkin' outta your arse, Rizzo," called Rodriguez from across the kitchen, his forearms caked in flour. "We never had no reputation to start with."

"You-! 'My arse' my arse! We had a great reputation! We could be relied upon for simple, wholesome fare! Right, Igor?" Rodriguez, in the middle of peeling his umpteenth potato, turned to the Private for support.

"R-Right," nodded Igor, who secretly thought they were both talking out of their rear ends, but would never say so. Both Rizzo and Rodriguez were bigger than he was, and both Sergeants. It was forever being made clear to Igor that everyone outranked him. The enlisted men didn't worry about salutes too much, but Frank was crazy about it. Correction: used to be crazy about it, mused Igor. He was too sick now to complain about military discipline, but as for the recent past…

"Next!"

With no officers to help out this week, Rodriguez was back wearing the ill-fitting chef's hat Frank adored so much. Thinking of Frank attracted most of the Sergeant's limited attention, and had to be startled back awake after the Private he was serving ended up with three helpings of mystery stew.

"Thanks for nothin', fella. I hate this crap you call food!" The Private stomped away in disgust, taking huge gulps from a hip-flask as he did so. Rodriguez attempted to smile at the next person in line, the next person being Sidney Freedman. Four hours' sleep had done little to improve the Major's overall disposition: he was not eagerly awaiting his next game of "mystery mess tent."

Sidney's eye roved over the selection of "vegetables" on offer that day.

"I'll take some of that," he said to Rodriguez, pointing at the mound of mashed potatoes. Rodriguez's jaw hung loosely from his skull as much of the eating audience stared at him. Another doctor? Eating the potatoes? Surely they were becoming candidates for the funny farm, their gossip hinted, and Sidney could feel another latrine-o-gram in its infancy. "And hurry up about it, will you?"

Rodriguez continued to stare fixatedly at the potato, then at Sidney, as if trying to send him some sort of message. "Sir, just quietly, I really wouldn't eat those if I were you," he drawled. Sidney frowned, his eyebrows furrowed. Rodriguez hastily averted his eyes, trying to avoid Sidney's piercing gaze. The Sergeant dumped a spoonful of potato onto Sidney's tray, before his attention turned to Radar, the next in line, staring open-mouthed at the mashed potato.

Sidney found an unoccupied corner of the Mess Tent and sat down. He was about halfway through the marble-peas and thanking his lucky stars for his good teeth when he was joined by Trapper and James. The latter looked strangely refreshed, as if four hours' sleep had done him some good, whereas the former looked around half-blindly and reached for his hip-flask.

"Trapper, is it safe to be drinking that stuff this early in the morning?" enquired Sidney.

"Is this stuff ever safe?" Trapper replied, taking a swig. "Mmm. Tomorrow was a very good year. Remind me to add Frank's underwear more often."

"You used Frank's underwear in that?" Sidney spluttered.

"Just as a filter. Mine were getting a bit frayed. I also needed a pair," said Trapper, in a laid-back fashion.

"It's safer than the potato on your tray, Sid," offered James. Sidney had been about to take a bite when he stopped and lowered his spoon.

"You think it's all right to eat this junk again?" he whispered to the two surgeons. "The serving man over there whispered quite frenetically that it wasn't."

James replied, "Well, Trap here took a bite a few days back, and nothing much happened to him. Yet." Trapper looked at James and nodded drunkenly. Sidney leant over and plucked the hip-flask out of Trapper's hands. "That's quite enough for now," the Major said sternly as Trap began to whimper.

"As I was saying," James continued, "our inebriated friend here munched on them and he's still on his feet, thankfully. So I see no reason why you should suddenly fall sick. Then again, he might know better than us."

"He might," smiled Sidney as he took a munch, "but I have a general distrust of Sergeants." He stared as the second mound of potato fell off his spoon. "Disgusting. This, not the Sergeant."

The three continued to converse as occasionally enlisted men or squeamish nurses would steal a glance at Sidney and the potato caught in his moustache.

As Sidney finished his lunch and Trap woke sufficiently to participate in conversation, the three stood up, intending to retire to the Swamp for a game of poker. James walked out the door first and was about to look back to see if the others were following him when an unmistakeably loud splutter caught his attention.

He whirled around to see Sidney clutching at his throat, coughing violently. Trapper, his surgeon's instincts kicking in, rushed around the other side of the table and whacked Sidney twice between the shoulder blades. Sid kept coughing and spluttering: his face was slowly becoming a dangerous shade of blue. Trap looked at James urgently, who mouthed the words "I don't know!" with a frightened expression to match. The Mess Tent was abruptly, eerily silent, save for Sidney, who had now begun to froth at the mouth. Trapper held the Major still with one hand and slapped him hard, one last time. Sidney leant over the wooden trestle seat and retched, his cheeks now turning red with embarrassment.

James and Trapper exchanged dark looks. James helped a shaking Sidney up and out of the Mess Tent. The bubbling chatter slowly resumed, though with hushed undertones and sneaked looks at the door, Trapper and the servery. Rodriguez was nowhere in sight.

Trapper pursed his lips. Though shaken, he was certain Sidney's diaphragm had not partaken in a coughing fit just of the hell of it. He stomped to the servery at the back of the Mess Tent, as whispered conspiracy theory pulled at his heels. He, Trapper John Francis Xavier McIntyre (silently he cursed his parents for bestowing upon him such a mouthful of a name), was not going to let this series of hazardous deeds go unpunished. His fist smacked his palm of its own accord in a visible sign of over-exertion and good-hearted determination.

As he pulled open the door to the kitchen, he was greeted by pots, pans and potato peelings strewn everywhere, evidence of a job half-finished. A silvery vial, half-empty, stood next to the biggest pot, the only piece of crockery still on the table. Multiple sets of floury footprints led to the outside door.

Trapper was just about to leave when his ears caught a small, distinctly human noise. His senses on high alert, Trapper crept to the kitchen corner not visible from the door. Upon reaching it, he stopped, eyes disbelieving. Sitting on a crate covered in flour and potato peelings sat Sergeant Fernando Rodriguez, weeping into the hazy silence.

Please review. Sorry for the bad chapter ending.