To you, the reader: if you have previously read over this story and not left a comment, I urge you to leave one today. Even a simple "Your story stinks!" would be appreciated, if only to gauge the relative popularity of this tale. Seriously. Bad reviews are, in a way, better than good ones because it helps me to improve. I have so far met no one who truly enjoyed reading bad fanfiction.
Note: I also stole one line from "Never Have Your Dog Stuffed." Sorry, I couldn't help myself.
Chapter 15
"Sergeant?"
Trapper had been expecting quite a lot of things as he opened the kitchen door. He was prepared for a brawl, a heated argument, even an innocent conversation with the kitchen staff, whom he'd been quietly hoping to yell at. Opening the door to find the kitchen a floury mess and Rodriguez sobbing into his boots had startled the usually unflappable Trapper John.
The Captain stepped towards Rodriguez, who looked up at the sound of Trapper's boots on the wooden floor. His tanned and weather-beaten face was red and tear-stained, his dark brown eyes a picture of despondency. It seemed almost disjointed to the rest of his built, muscled body.
"Sergeant, are you all right?"
Rodriguez's chin began to wobble, and could only manage to shake his head before beginning a fresh round of crying. Trapper couldn't help but notice sardonically the resemblance between Rodriguez's shirt and Frank's underwear, now used as a filter in the still. "Come on. Let's get you outta here," he muttered, hauling Rodriguez up off the crate and towards the door leading outside.
Since everyone else was still munching unhappily in the Mess Tent, Trapper and Rodriguez were able to slip through the compound unnoticed on their way to the Swamp. Once inside, Trapper led Rodriguez to the chair next to Hawkeye's bunk and passed him a drink, which the Sergeant accepted gratefully. Trap plonked himself onto the bunk itself. The covers lay unmade, just as they had for the past three days.
It was hard for Trapper to believe all this had happened within a week. Time had journeyed ahead of the Captain: he was in danger of losing sight of it altogether. Just days ago Hawkeye was joking, flirting and working as always, but his sudden, mysterious illness had turned the camp on its tush.
"Cap'n McIntyre?"
Rodriguez's sandpapered voice startled Trapper out of his reverie. The Sergeant had downed his martini entirely, though the tears continued to drip down his face.
"I'm so sorry, Captain. I-I shouldn't have done it…"
"Done what?" Trapper was beginning to feel a little edgy – Rodriguez must have done something terrible in order to choke up this bad…
"It's all my fault Major Freedman's dead!"
"What?" Trapper took the martini glass out of the Sergeant's hands and held him by the shoulders. "Look, don't be stupid. Sidney's not dead-"
"But I-I tried to warn him! I told him 'don't eat those taters' and he ate 'em anyway and now look what's happened!" Rodriguez tried to turn away in shame but found he could not, as Trapper was still holding onto his shoulders. "I did all I could." He began to sob into his shirt as Trapper rolled his eyes and rooted around unsuccessfully for a clean hanky.
"Rodriguez?"
"Yes, s-s-sir?" he muttered, through choked tears.
"You warned Sidney about those potatoes?" asked Trapper, confused and trying to be stern.
"I did, sir."
"So you must have known what was in them."
A nod of the head. "It was my idea at first. Just a simple flavour-booster, those potatoes barely qualify for such a name." Trapper's left eyebrow shot up at the mention of 'flavour-booster' but kept his mouth shut. "Something to mask the taste. Rizzo, in his very finite wisdom, had the idea of arsenic. Now I'm a simple man, y'see. I'm just a simple man from Yuma, Arizona who took three goes to graduate high school. So when Rizzo brought up arsenic I had no idea it was a poison."
Trapper's mind was trying to work overtime in order to think ahead of Rizzo but found its radiator tended to overheat.
"Rizzo said he knew a Korean merchant out of town who sold it," continued Rodriguez, dragging Trapper's mind back to reality. "He said he wanted me to get it, I dunno why."
"Because he didn't want to be seen buying poison?" offered the Captain.
"Yeah, that'd work," nodded Rodriguez thoughtfully. "So I went to purchase this arsenic, using Rizzo's cash. The merchant was more than happy to give us what we were after. I went back to the kitchen and Rizzo took it from me, saying that he'd, er, now what'd he say?... He'd 'put it to good use,' but I didn't know what that would be.
"Now here's where Frank comes in."
The mention of 'Frank' shot Trapper's attention-o-meter sky high. His whole body seemed to jolt as if someone had succeeded in hotwiring his engine.
"Frank? As in Frank I'm-only-in-it-for-the-money Burns?"
"The very same," grinned Rodriguez through his rainy face. "For some reason, no one knows why, Major Burns came into the kitchen asking if we wanted any help. Now you know that Major Burns hates us enlisted men like cockroaches, so we were all really suspicious. We did everything three times to make sure we didn't mess up and he'd put us on report. But he was real laid back and everything, like we was all pals. He even wanted to serve up that crap! We let him; we figured it would help us get a start on that backlog of pots and pans we've had since the bugout."
"The bugout was three-and-a-half months ago!"
"I know that. It's a sign of how slow we are. Even with Rizzo dragged over from the motor pool we're still understaffed." Rodriguez threw his hands in the air, almost as in surrender.
"What could we say? People want their food served in clean pans. Can't see it makes a hell of a difference, but anyway… Rizzo did whatever it was he did and bingo, Captain Pierce goes haywire. I saw Rizzo do it the night before Captain Pierce went sleeptalkin'. Rizzo just winked at me and Igor, like he was saying 'we did it, fellas.' Frank – I mean Major Burns-"
"You mean Ferret Face," interjected Trapper with a wry smile.
"…Yeah, I suppose I mean him…" said Rodriguez absent-mindedly. "Anyhow, Major Burns came in the next day and said nothin'. As in nothin' at all. We was all expecting him to whoop and shout and make a fuss, but he came in and served his food and kept his mouth shut.
"But that night, when Igor and I heard what went on out there, apparently Major Burns got sick too, because you found him the next day with puke all over his front," stated Rodriguez, pointing at Trapper at the appropriate moment. "So we – that being Rizzo, Igor and my bad self – figured maybe Major Burns had eaten the wrong potato, 'cos we made two batches, one for Captain Pierce and whoever else owed Rizzo money and one for everyone else. Maybe he forgot which one was which. He could have been tryin' to commit suicide for all I know," said Rodriguez, startling Trapper, who hadn't for once considered that possibility.
Continued Rodriguez, in a clearer voice, "I dunno. But Major Burns ended up with gastro, Captain Pierce ended up with what we reckon was arsenic poisoning and all, but we ain't doctors, so he might have dysentery and whooping cough for all we know. The Colonel came in to help for whatever reason, so we had to hide the you-know-what while we convinced him he had better things to do with his time.
"When we ran outta the arsenic – I don't know how much we used each time, Rizzo took care o' that – he sent me again to Mr. Korean Merchant Man to fetch some more."
"Wait – you kept putting it in?!" cried Trapper.
"Yeah, so as to 'prolong his symptoms,' or somethin' like that, as Rizzo so grandly put it. Why else d'ya think Captain Pierce was screaming every night? We cook Post-Op's food too, don't forget."
Trapper made a mental note to never let the kitchen staff near patients again, his overactive head skipping the practicalities of the idea.
"Anyhow, I got sent to buy it. I saw something out of the corner of my eye that looked like Captain Pierce's bathrobe, but I figured he wasn't supposed to be out walkin'. There's enough dried blood out these parts to dye a bathrobe that colour."
Trapped nodded in subdued agreement.
"So I thought nothing of it; I got the stuff and walked back and gave it to Rizzo. But I was getting pretty scared by this point, 'cos you and Captain McCulloch were rootin' around trying to find out why Captain Pierce went crazy. Now today, for example, I knew Rizzo prepped two batches of 'taters. I think he was tryin' to get rid of Major Freedman, your mind doctor friend. But, y'see, I like Major Freedman. He's a good man. And though I've gotten on the wrong side of Captain Pierce plenty, I have a bit more respect for Major Freedman than most officers on this base."
"So you thought it was all right to poison Hawkeye but not Sidney?!" Trapper thundered, stormclouds gathering over his head.
"I didn't say that," replied Rodriguez innocently. "I just like Major Freedman, is all. So I went out front and served my stuff. When the Major came along, I whispered to him 'I wouldn't eat those if I were you,' and tried to look serious, but he glared at me as if I didn't know what came outta my mouth and pointed to the 'taters. The bad batch. And what with him bein' a Major and me bein' a Sergeant and all, I had no choice! I couldn't bear to look at him when he… started… pukin' and all…" Rodriguez's words dissolved into tears as his shirt was soaked.
Trapper looked away, partly out of respect for privacy and partly out of disgust at Rodriguez's words. He needed to talk to Rizzo, fast.
It was in situations such as these Trapper would normally sit somewhere waiting for a brainwave that never came. This was not a normal situation. (Then again, he mused, what was considered "normal" around here?) He'd punt Rodriguez out of the way, have a sleep before his Post-Op duty at six (in four hours, he noted), then go after Rizzo. It was more fun arguing with enlisted men when they thought they could win.
…oooOOOooo…
"You owe me seventeen dollars and thirty-two cents, Private."
After another midnight enlisted men's poker game, Sergeant Luther Rizzo was feeling quite full of himself. Lacking the motivation to teach a half-dozen new subordinates how to shoot craps, they'd settled for a more conventional game of poker. Not much else in camp beat, for Rizzo, the satisfaction of cleaning out new men's pockets.
"Er-er-er yessir, I will pay you as soon as I can sir." The degree to which the Private was shaking equalled his substantial advantage in height.
"I don't want it as soon as you can. I want it now," snarled Rizzo, unable to keep the corners of his mouth turning upwards and thus ruining his fearsome image.
"But sir, I can't pay you back now. I promise you'll get it by payday."
"Sergeant Rizzo?"
Rizzo looked over his shoulder, only to meet the eye of Captain McIntyre. The Sergeant turned around, put on his best "I'm tough" face and growled, "Whaddya want?"
Trapper stepped forward decisively, with the serenity of a blond soldier who never saw the bullet. He replied, "I'd like a few words with you, Sergeant."
"Now?"
"Now. Follow me to my office, now doubling as bedroom, saloon and bar." Trapper motioned to the Swamp.
After muttering a few curses he'd once learnt from a drunk Marine, Rizzo grumpily followed his superior to said office. The Private stood where he was, wondering when or if the Captain was going to dismiss him. It took several minutes for him to realise Captain McIntyre wasn't coming back.
…oooOOOooo…
Five thousand light-years away on planet morphine, Hawkeye Pierce was exhibiting all the signs of a patient held in bed against his will. On advice from Radar, Henry Blake had gone into "I am your commanding officer" mode and ordered a 24-hour watch on everyone's favourite surgeon. Unfortunately, Radar's influence had not extended to talking Henry out of demolishing a bottle of twelve-year-old Scotch. This had resulted in an amusing attempt by Henry to sing, out of key, "My Blue Heaven" to the tune of "The Star-Spangled Banner." Truth be told, it could just as easily have been the other way around. Henry wasn't renowned for his singing prowess.
"Henry, shut up!" called Hawkeye from his Post-Op bed, where Henry's murder of America's national anthem wafted by them like a bad smell.
"When will-poor-whips call, by dawn's early light…"
"Shh, Hawkeye, you've got to stay and rest," cooed the nurse on duty. She was new, Hawkeye noted, a pretty young thing, on the short side with strawberry-blonde hair and dark brown eyes. She also didn't seem the slightest bit interested in him, he realised, disappointed. Since his loss of half a deck roughly a week ago, his heavy-breathing opportunities had been drying up noticeably.
"Can I have a look at my chart?" he asked, gleefully.
"No, you know you're not allowed. How could you possibly ask such a thing?" she snapped. The halo disappeared. All of a sudden, she wasn't so attractive anymore.
"You new nurses are no fun," he fumed, pouting like a five-year-old.
"We're not supposed to be," Blonde Cranky Nurse replied briskly, waving her wedding ring in Hawkeye's sulking face as she walked by.
"Could you at least get Henry to stick another Scotch bottle in his mouth? It'd drown out that racket he's making."
"…a li-ttle nest that's… that the flag was still there…"
Hawkeye grimaced and tried to cover his ears with his pillow.
"Just Molly and me, the Spang-Startled Banner makes three…" warbled Henry, mixing up tunes as he stumbled through Post-Op. "Oh, Pierce, care to join me for a walk?"
"Sir, I don't think that's a good idea," chirped Blonde Cranky Nurse, as she appeared to goosestep over from her paperwork.
"No, it's fine, he's with me, Lieu… Lieut… Nurse. Come on, Pierce," called the inebriated one as he waved Hawk over.
"Co-coming, sir," replied Hawkeye as he stumbled past Blonde Cranky Nurse and followed Henry out of Post-Op, together whistling an off-key round of "Mississippi Mud" as they went.
Once they were both in the compound, Henry abruptly veered on an off-course for the latrine. Hawkeye kept wandering, the after-effects of the morphine wearing off. His stomach was only just starting to bother him again when he chanced by the Swamp.
"Don't lie to me, Sergeant Rizzo, unless you want to try on something lower for size!"
At first Hawkeye couldn't recognise the author of these harshly-sprayed words. His attention scrambled as he listened more closely, hidden in a bush and out of sight.
"I'm tellin' ya, I dunno nothin' about this whole scam! Rodriguez's talkin' shit to ya!"
"You try talking filthy with me, you'll be getting filthy at Leavenworth! Don't make it worse for yourself!"
Trapper?! Hawkeye couldn't believe his ears. It just wasn't in his character to be getting so angry! Trapper was supposed to be the docile one. Yet here he was, ripping off Rizzo's ears! What was this scam he was talking about?
" 'Nando's only been here three weeks! You gonna doubt me, your loyal kitchen-and-motor-man for five months?" Rizzo pleaded, cheese dripping.
"Yes, I am gonna doubt you! Now, if you don't start talking straight, I will personally pull your hangman's noose! I am holding you and Rodriguez – mostly you – fully responsible for my best friend lying in Post-Op, sick to his stomach. If you co-operate, you might keep your life. Might," said Trapper, his voice a growled whisper.
As the morphine's effects wore off, the pain in Hawkeye's stomach increased exponentially. It wouldn't have occurred to the robed rascal to use a word of that length, however. His mind was fixed firmly on Trapper's words.
"Well, now ya put it that way… Nup. Not tellin' ya nothin'." Rizzo was very smug.
"You know, you're acting pretty shiftily for a guy who swears on his mama's Bible he's got nothing to hide," whispered Trapper threateningly, mimicking Rizzo's Louisiana accent.
"I'm-I'm not… hidin'… nothin'," stuttered Rizzo.
Hawkeye peeped up from his bushy hiding-place just as Trapper grabbed Rizzo by the throat -
He grabbed him by the throat?!
- and pushed him down onto Frank's (empty) cot, in lieu of tent-walls. Rizzo spluttered and fought furiously to free himself, but was held down at the neck and abdomen by Trapper's hands of steel.
"You feel that, Sergeant Rizzo? You choking nicely there?"
Hawk winced as Rizzo attempted to scream through his pain: it came out as a sort of half-silenced shout from someone with a sore throat. No one came running.
"You're feeling just a bit of what Hawk's had to feel. Not fun now, is it? IS IT?!"
Hawkeye had to talk every obedient muscle he owned into staying still. Everything inside Hawk was screaming at him to save Rizzo's neck from Trapper and Trapper from himself. He still couldn't believe how his best friend was reacting. This was completely out of his character.
"I…I…" the Sergeant managed to get out through his iron neck brace.
"You what?" hissed Trapper, releasing his grip.
"I did it," mumbled Rizzo through a coughing fit. "You got me."
Neither meek Sergeant nor irate Captain noticed a loud rustle in the bushes outside the Swamp. They did, however, have no choice but to notice the abrupt entry of an unexpected visitor. He was draped in a red bathrobe, eyes wide and disbelieving, balance out of kilter. His name was Hawkeye Pierce, and he'd heard every word they'd said.