Title: Between You, Me, and the Stove

Author: Nemo the Everbeing

Rating: PG for semi-honest conversations about a lot of hard topics.

Disclaimer: Though they've passed through multiple hands, 'M*A*S*H' and its characters currently belong to Twentieth Century Fox. I don't own anything, and make no money off this piece.

Historian's Note: Takes place during 'War of Nerves,' and includes a transcription of one scene.

oOo oOo 5: There is No Flaw in You oOo oOo

Dear Sis,

I think, considering all my letters, that I've given you—well, the stove—the impression that I only talk to the senior staff, or maybe that I only care about them. This isn't true at all. I really do care about everyone who passes through our camp. It's just easier to advise people I don't spend every day with. It's easier to be seen as a spiritual leader and, well, someone who knows what he's talking about by young men who don't see me playing poker decently and playing the piano badly. I find it extraordinarily difficult to be a priest and a person, so counseling people who don't think I'm a person comes somewhat naturally to me.

But there are some people outside of our unit who see right through to the person, no matter what I do. That's the problem with trying to help a psychiatrist.

Sidney Freedman stops by the 4077th every now and then, usually when we have a case we'd like him to look at. I've always admired his ability to project such a calm, knowledgeable exterior. I suppose I view him as my opposite number: a sort of secular priest, there to put minds back together while I work on souls.

This time he came in thanks to his own injury. Apparently he was treating a young man up at the front, and he got caught in the crossfire along with his patient. His patient's hysterical paralysis was cured, but he blames Sidney for the additional wound he incurred while at the front. I don't know the whole story, but somehow poor Sidney went from the butt of that young man's misplaced fury to playing psychiatrist for the entire camp.

The longer he stayed, Sis, the more I thought I should go to him for his own sake. He was so busy treating everyone in the camp that no one was seeing to him, and he was the patient. So I got up my gumption and went to see him in the VIP tent.

I wanted to offer him assistance instead of another burden, but I couldn't help feeling, when I knocked at his door, that I would fail in the attempt. There are so few people over here who do what I do, Kathy, and Sidney is one of the closest. The temptation to talk to him about my own concerns was so strong I could see why everyone else had given in.

I nearly turned and left, rather than risk doing more harm than good, but he called out, "Come in!"

I opened the door and took off my hat. Some respect was in order, you know.

Sidney stood up and said, "Oh, hi, Father. I wasn't expecting to see you here."

I tried to think of something witty to say, or at least a segue to asking him how he was that didn't feel stilted and terrible. Sidney took pity on my floundering attempts to speak, and invited me to sit. Once in a chair, I looked up at him to maybe draw on a little of his own tranquility, and if not to get my bearings about his own state. Sis, he looked beat. His eyes were tired, the lines on his face were deeper than I remembered, and the white bandage at his forehead was a reminder of what could have happened to him if a Korean bullet had been aimed two inches to the right. There but for the grace of God went our sanity.

"I've come about a friend," I said.

Sidney slipped so easily into the role of the confessor—I mean, psychiatrist. "I see," he said. "What's his problem?" He looked so neutral, so knowing. I'll be lucky if I ever manage to look like that. Mostly, I think I tend to look scared and desperate.

"Things aren't going so well for him, and he's feeling a little low," I said.

He smiled and asked, "Who's your friend, Father?"

Now, I'd had enough 'friend' confessions to know what he meant. He thought I was there to talk about myself. "You," I said.

It made him laugh. The turnaround, and all that.

I couldn't muster the same good humor. I really was worried. I'd never seen him so exhausted, even when he'd taken a break at the 4077th to regain himself after the suicide of a patient. It could have been the injury, but it had been minor, and Sidney was a hardy man. Which left me convinced that it was his newest patient. The young man who had recently been shipped off to a hospital in Tokyo. I'd heard about the confrontation from several different sources, Kathy, and it sounded ugly. The young man refused Sidney any sort of forgiveness, blamed him for everything. If Sidney was anything like me, questions about the attack, and Sidney's own treatment plan, would be crowding one another out of his head, leaving no room for anything other than doubt. Of course, I've never cured that particular problem for myself, so offering advice felt like a losing proposition, but it was one that I owed him regardless. He deserved to be reminded of the good he's done so many young men.

I said, "I wonder if a good antidote would be to think about all the successes you've had. I would think you've had a few, no?"

His smile faded. He faded, Kathy, like a punctured balloon leaking out all its air. He's so good with the façade of cheer and professionalism it was like looking at a new man to see him momentarily without it. "Sure," he said. I was taken aback by the bitterness creeping into his tone. "I've sent dozens of kids back to the front and they're fine now."

"It hurts to think you might lose even one, doesn't it?" I asked. I knew. We both knew.

He looked at me then, and maybe my moment of mutual understanding really was mutual. He said, "See, when Pierce or Hunnicutt lose one, he's out of his misery. But when I lose one, I've lost a mind."

"When I lose one, I've lost a soul." And then, of course, I remembered that he wasn't a priest, and I wasn't a psychiatrist. And he might well view my job as some perversion of his profession—making gestures at saving people's souls when all we really do is make them feel poorly for not believing in our particular god when darkness closes around them. I know he's Jewish, and I try to be respectful of all religions, but other chaplains I've met have been less … open about such things. I've heard the comments, Sis, about the Rabbis and the occasional Imam who's been drafted. They say the same things about us Catholics. I wanted to say I wasn't like that—I didn't care what he believed so long as he found it to be right in his heart. But it would sound hollow, I thought, so I looked at my hands and said, "Well, I guess it's all in how you look at it."

I glanced up at him, and I really couldn't tell you what he was thinking. Sidney has always been particularly unreadable to me. Thankfully any more fumbling attempts at advising him were interrupted by a cheer from outside.

The bonfire was beginning. I guess I should have told you that some members of the camp were supposed to burn some lice-infested Chinese uniforms last night, and took it upon themselves to heap the pyre with old crates, ladders, and other flammable objects until a massive pile of wood had been constructed in the middle of camp. The Colonel—and I'm guessing Sidney—thought it would be good stress relief to allow everyone a little constrained arson, and I have to say I agreed. I never would have thought of something so destructive as being helpful in a war, but people's spirits seemed to lift the higher the stack was piled.

"Sounds like they're having a good time," Sidney said.

I stood up to go to the door. "And they're following your prescription. You've certainly done an admirable job here." I opened the door. The pile was so tall people were climbing on it to fit in the last few pieces. "Why don't you come on out and take a little of your own medicine?"

"You know, this wasn't my idea, it was theirs. They have an uncanny knack for healthcare, not to mention antic lunacy."

We joined the others as Klinger threw on the army cookbook. I saw a lawn chair get thrown in, and Radar's trumpet. Klinger lit the fire, and the whole thing caught light just in time for Colonel Potter himself to bring out his desk and toss it on. I was laughing so hard, Kathy, I almost didn't notice when Sidney shucked his jacket and tossed it on. I did see him drop his pants and burn them, but that felt in keeping with the spirit of the event. It was a sort of cleansing, if you will: burning the symbol of his job in this army. I hoped it did him some good, and that he didn't singe any of his hair once he was in his t-shirt and shorts.

We were all laughing until we stopped, and suddenly the burning mess seemed to take on serious overtones. Colonel Potter started singing "Till the Boys Come Home", and we all joined in, watching our work and our misery go up.

We watched until the stack had been reduced to ash and some twisted pieces of metal that might once have been bed-frames. The crowd drifted away one by one, until Sidney stood watching the last embers go out, and I stood watching Sidney.

He turned to look at me. "You didn't have to stay, you know."

I shrugged. He knew why I'd stayed, I was certain, better than I knew myself.

His voice was soft, and far away when he said, "You know, with the fire out …"

"Yes?" I asked.

"It's really cold out here."

I laughed and we returned to his tent. It smelled like smoke. "Care to step inside, Father?" he offered.

I took him up on it. "You do have another uniform here, right?" I asked. "I'd offer you mine, but it would be hard to explain your ordination to your colleagues."

"I have a spare. Don't worry, I'm not going to horn in on your act."

"You'd be good at it, you know."

Sidney turned to me then. "Father, I've got a confession to make. Think you can fit a Jew into that tight schedule of yours?"

I smiled at him. "Ech efshar la'azor lach, my son?"

Sidney stared at me for a few moments, and I will confess to a bit of pride on my part. Then he threw his head back and laughed. "Oh, Father, you are priceless. Where did you pick up Hebrew?"

"A very friendly Rabbi at the last chaplain's conference in Tokyo, as a matter of fact. He traded me some basic Hebrew for some basic Latin."

"And a good time was had by all." He clapped me on the shoulder. "You're good, Father."

"Good?"

"Well, you would have been perfect if you hadn't just called me a woman."

"What?"

"Gender-specific pronouns, Father. They'll trip you up every time."

"Oh, dear. You're going to have to teach me the male alternative. I can't even think how many unsuspecting young men I've accidentally called women. Thank God none of them knew Hebrew. Or maybe they were just too polite to correct me. Oh, my."

"No harm done, and I'm more than willing to lend you whatever rusty phrases I can drag up from the old Hebrew School days. But in answer to your question, you can help me by listening to what I have to say."

"Oh, um, yes." I sat up straighter and tried to emulate his calm serenity. And then I fidgeted and ruined the effect. "For lack of non-feminine Hebrew: how can I help you, my son?"

"I'm worried about a friend of mine."

I knew where this was going, but he wanted me to listen, and he had already listened to me. "Oh?"

"You see, he took these vows of humility, but I think he got them confused with a crushing lack of self-esteem."

I gripped my hands together and realized I had instinctively gone into a posture of prayer. "Sidney," I said.

"Come on, hear me out. He's got one of the hardest jobs in camp. He has to look out for the parts of people they forget about. It's easy to notice when you get your leg blown off, but he has to mend the invisible damage, and the rulebook he was initially working out of doesn't cover half of what he has to do. So he picks up Hebrew, and he does Protestant services, and he still doesn't think he's done enough."

I really couldn't look at him, Kathy. I could barely listen.

"So he became one of the most gifted secular counselors it's ever been my privilege to see. He's helped hundreds of young men out of the worst despair a person could be expected to endure, but all he remembers are the failures."

"I'm not allowed to fail," I whispered before I could stop myself. "Not when the stakes are so high."

He placed his hand over my hands, still held tight. I looked up at him, and he held my gaze with little effort. "We all fail, Francis. Every single one of us. God knows I have."

"And what do you do when you fail?"

"I just keep putting one foot in front of the other until I'm sure of the steps again."

His other hand touched the side of my head, and it felt like forgiveness. I couldn't understand how this confession had gotten itself so turned around, but in the end I needed it, I think. Maybe he needed it as well. Helping me seemed to lift something from him that had begun to come loose during the fire, and what I had thought would be a burden was apparently what he needed to hear. So a Catholic priest received benediction from a Jewish psychiatrist, and I hope they might both be better for it.

Putting one foot in front of the other,

Francis