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 shortly after "Goodbye, Radar".

oOo oOo 7: Evidence of Things We Cannot Yet See oOo oOo

Dear Sis,

Another letter between you, me and the stove, if you have the time. I know it's been a few days, and I was even hoping to push it to a week without needing to confess about confession, but things didn't work out that way.

It all started when Radar left. No, that doesn't look right, now that I've written it. It started when we all came to Korea; we just noticed it when Radar left. He brought so much happiness to the camp, with his innocence and his animals. He reminded us all of home, in a way, because he seemed to bring his own home with him wherever he went. Even after Colonel Blake was killed, Radar didn't lose what made him so naturally child-like.

Losing him has been bittersweet. On the one hand, I'm so relieved he's safe and back in a place where I don't constantly worry that he will see something or experience something that will damage him beyond all hope of repair. But we miss the joy that existed around him, an island war couldn't touch.

I didn't expect to be the one people talked to about Radar. After all, it isn't a sin to miss him. There's nothing to confess. By and large, people don't talk to me unless they've done something they feel guilty about.

So I prayed for Radar, and for the 4077th. I made certain his animals were taken in by Sister Theresa for the children at the orphanage to care for. I delivered a crackerjack sermon on Isaiah 40, paying particular attention to young men who, after stumbling in weariness, are made to fly on wings like eagles. The three people who heard it all got a bit misty-eyed.

It came as something of a surprise, then, when I had my head under the shower that night and I heard the words, "Bless me, Father, for I have sinned."

A perfect case of 'right words, wrong time' if ever there was one.

I almost choked on water when I gasped, and I let go of the shower chain. The flow cut off, and I scrubbed the suds from my face and blinked across the wooden plank separating my stall from the other. I couldn't see more than a blur of brown, pink and gray, but the voice was enough.

Colonel Potter had come in while I was busy lathering, had slipped into the adjoining stall and even set his glasses down on the shelf next to mine, and I only noticed him when he spoke. I suppose we should be grateful I chose the priesthood rather than espionage.

As I tried and failed to focus on him, I realized that neither of us could see the other too well. Despite less than ideal circumstances and a certain amount of nudity, it was actually a better approximation of the confessional than most of my flock got. One of these days, Sis, when the war is over and we've all gone home, I'm going to have a church that isn't a mess tent and a congregation that actually shows up to my services, and a confession booth that is both a booth and hosts confessions. And I'm not going to know what to do with any of it.

But back to the shower confessional and my perpetual struggle to think of something useful to say. The Colonel was waiting for me to come up with some response. When I didn't say anything soon enough, he asked, "I got it right, didn't I, Padre?"

"Um, yes. That's correct, my son." It still strikes me as strange to address a man old enough to be my father as 'my son'.

"Good. Glad to see the old memory hasn't gotten too many rust holes in it."

I was hoping that confirmation would encourage the Colonel to express whatever it was that had brought him there, aside from a need to scrub, but no further words were forthcoming. I finally decided that statement had been to confirm a piece of knowledge rather than to actually confess, and it was safe to turn the water on again and wash my hair.

I had my hair soaped when Colonel Potter spoke again. "Bless me, Father, for I have sinned." He sounded very serious. I really wished he wouldn't choose the moments when I was covered in suds as his openers, but it isn't for me to complain. Christ suffered on the cross. I just had to put up with an itchy scalp.

"Oh!" I said and I felt the soap slide down the side of my face. "Very well, how long has it been since your last confession?" I knew this part, Sis, I really did, but the Colonel is a very intimidating presence even in the shower, and it left me scrambling for rituals I had thought second-nature.

"I'm Methodist, Padre. Confession isn't our bailiwick. Really, I just wanted to get something off my chest, and that sounded like confession to me. I would have talked to Radar, but, well ..."

"Yes," I said. "Not . . . I mean … of course I'll hear your confession." When he didn't say anything right away I snatched a second to rinse off my hair.

Colonel Potter, who usually comes off like he could fight the Battle of the Bulge single-handedly and then spend the rest of the day riding a horse through the Badlands, sounded like an old man when he spoke. I don't know which frightened me more: the frailty in that tone, or the words "I think I've lost my faith."

"Oh," I said, with a sinking feeling. It's a very usual confession to hear over here. War makes zealots of atheists of many, but those trapped on the cusp of faith and despair are perhaps the most difficult. They could be helped, I think, but I just don't usually know how unless they're Catholic. Waiting and praying for guidance tends to do the trick for me, but for everyone else? I just don't know. And Potter always seemed so solid, even in the face of his responsibilities to us and to the Army. He was one of my few regulars on Sundays. If he was faltering, we were all in trouble.

He held up a blurry hand. "Don't worry, Padre. You've done your job. It's not my faith in God that's gotten all shaken up. That's the same as it ever was, which was never great but good enough." I relaxed a bit, but knew we weren't out of the woods yet. "No, for me this just might be worse. You see, Father, I've lost my faith in war."

"Go on," I said, but I didn't really understand.

"This is my third war. The other two were hell, there's no denying it, but I always felt like we were doing something good. Everything we went through in the trenches and on the beaches was worth it because what we were fighting needed to be fought. Here? Padre, I'm not even certain what it is we're fighting here, besides the inevitable."

Now, you know I've thought the same since I got here, but I'm a man of peace. It's in the job description. Hearing a man who's made a career out of war—who is respected within the military—express the same opinion was disquieting. With Colonel Potter giving up on the war, I had to wonder if there was anyone in Korea who thought we should be there. "May I ask what led you to this?"

"Oh, it was no one thing. Not Radar's leaving, if you think that's what did it. Though I have to say, that was a part of it. No, I reckon it's the entire war from start to finish building on me. Reminds me of my bunions. And that is no way to think of a war." He heaved a sigh. "What happened, Padre? When did we start fighting wars that didn't mean anything to anyone but the pencil-pushers?"

"I don't—"

"Hold it there, Padre. Just let me say my piece, then you can dole out the Hail Marys."

I think I've been giving you the idea that confession with Protestants is always an adventure. That idea is correct. And confession with cranky colonels doubting their entire history and purpose is even more difficult. Then again, if he wanted to do the talking, it meant I didn't have to. I'm a very good listener.

"When that boy left," Potter said, slowly and carefully, as though he was thinking about each word before it came out, "part of me felt like my own son had gone off to college. I wouldn't get to see him anymore. He wouldn't be around to help out, and do all those things that only Radar could do. But that was good because he was making a real life for himself someplace where he wasn't getting bombed and shot at for no reason at all. Sitting there at my desk, thinking that? I don't mind telling you, Padre, but it scared my petooties off.

"I looked out my window at the people here. Pierce, drinking himself into oblivion because it's a better place than South Korea. Hunnicutt reading all those letters from his wife and eating the crumbs of her cookies. Even Winchester. He'd be back in Boston if not for the war. And for the first time in my life, I don't think we've gained more having them here than the world lost for them not being back where they belong. I'm not certain I sent Radar home a better man for having stared death in the face."

I swallowed around the lump in my throat. Colonel Potter has the ability to say something and mean it so much that I can't help but agree with him. If I could do half of what he can with simple, honest truth, I would be a much better priest. In the wake of his statement, I had no platitudes, and no equivalent truths. "He helped save lives." I sounded so uncertain, I didn't even believe myself. "Surely that's worth something."

"Buffalo bagels. They're lives that should never have gotten put on the line in the first place. Dammit, Padre, how can I be a good CO if I can't even get behind us being here?"

All I had was my own thoughts on the war, my own stance on why I care and why I continue to struggle to help in whatever way I can. I don't believe in war, and I don't think I ever will. Not even Potter could convince me that the benefits outweighed the horrific costs. But I do believe in the people fighting a war. "You never met Colonel Blake, did you?" I asked.

"No, I never had the pleasure."

"Colonel Blake was drafted, Sir. He didn't belong in war any more than Radar did, and I think he knew that. I think it was why he drank as much as he did: he hated the war. He hated everything that went with the war."

"What—"

I kept going before I lost my nerve. "But Colonel Blake believed in us. Each and every one of us. I know . . . I know it's not the same. I know that it doesn't replace the faith that was lost, but you believed in Radar. It's why you miss him. It's why we all miss him. And you can still believe in your people. You can believe in getting them all home, each in their own time."

There was a long silence from the other side of the shower, and I began to fear that I'd managed to say the wrong thing again. I've been on the receiving end of Potter's dismissals only a few times, but it's never been a pleasant experience. I braced myself for harsh words, but they never came.

Colonel Potter picked up his glasses, toweled off, put on his robe and started to walk away. I felt like that was my third strike. I was out. I hardly ever managed comfort when it was really needed. I must have sounded like a broken man when I asked, "Should I have just prescribed three Hail Marys and an Our Father?"

And then Potter stopped. He didn't just leave, and I think he might have looked at me. "Nah," he said. "You're good at your job, Padre. Better than I thought. It's just this situation that's goddamn hopeless. Pardon my language."

He did leave after that, Sis, but I didn't. How could I? Colonel Potter believes I'm good at the job. He didn't blame me when he could have. He thinks I do good work. Failure is easy to accept. Success, even partial, will take a lot longer to believe.

Slowly getting there,

Francis