A few days later, I found myself going to Radar's space, thinking once more about my pitiful situation, and staring at the typewriter on the desk, as Majors Burns and Houlihan finally put it back. I clocked in over forty hours in OR and taking orders from Major Houlihan once more. She was barking at me to work with Major Burns and I had enough. Finally, she shut up with a huffy attitude after I said some smartass comment back (with Hawkeye and Trapper laughing behind their masks, a first for me). I was tired and I couldn't sleep. The nurses were already in Post-Op, at the Mess Tent or in their own tents, on a sleeping shift, having coffee, taking a turn with the patients or flirting with the doctors.

I already had my shift and it had been over for an hour since it ended. I could technically claim the right to slumber for an hour or so, but I didn't want to or to go back to the nurses' tent, for many reasons. For one, I didn't want to deal with the other nurses and the noise they make if not sleeping, if you know what I mean. Another was that I had wanted to solve a problem and I was about to…if I could find the words to express myself.

How was I going to tell Henry about my problems? I could tell him about my adventures before coming here to Korea. Then again, does he have time to even comprehend the most horrendous of it all, even sober, and from officers who were dirtier than I was? Would he even listen to me, little Jeanie Morrison, who is a just shadow perhaps overlooking his coffee cup?

I didn't know. I didn't even know if Henry would bother to read this memo either. It was worth a shot though and one in writing too. Hell, I was bad about writing and it was maybe now time to learn. I had not bothered with lessons on how to type properly, even in the Army, for which Henry might not forgive me for (especially since I didn't write much to him to begin with). I might need to actually use more paper and ink than intended and might be slow about it, but I was sure going to give it a shot still.

To be honest, I could carefully craft letters and type reports when I had to, but I was not a writer or anything like that. It was not my forte. It was Dean's strength, one of his best. He could write and write and never stop to breathe. His hand would never cramp up with pain, like mine usually did. No, he was good, writing poetry and stories to forget the pain and then crumbling them up and burning it in the fire. I had never learned, even from Dean.

I sighed, thinking of words to say to my commanding officer, and cracked my knuckles loudly (another new habit of mine, since my lip was already having more holes than the front lines). I then started typing, making it all military-like, and then thought better of it.

Wouldn't Major Houlihan be so proud of me if I did?

I think not. She would not care, either way. And in any case, Henry wasn't the military type of guy. He went to medical and commanding school before being sent here and that's about it, as far as I knew. And how he went to commanding school, I would never know, since he can't even command his own body or family, despite Lorraine sending him the checkbook every other week to balance and send back to her.

After a few mistakes and crumbling up some paper, I finally got the hang of the keyboard and where the keys were and began. Once I was on a roll, I could not stop.

To: Commanding Officer, Lt. Colonel Henry Blake
From: Nurse, Captain Jeanette Morrison
September 12, 1950, 1100 Hours
Memo: Concerning Camp Activities and Such Other Things

Hey, Henry!

Since I can't get your attention and/or have not the time to talk to you, as more pressing matters come in the form of Majors Houlihan and Burns (or things around the camp, as you've pointed out), I might as well amuse you and type this out. At this point in time, this captain's hand has been tired out via over forty hours of surgery and another seven at Post-Op. Sleep has been eluding me for quite some time now and my patience at typing this is pretty damned thin, especially after throwing out four pieces of paper and cursing this typewriter. And you probably know that already, since this has been immaculately typed without a mistake (yet) and Radar's garbage bin is getting pretty full.

Anyhow, I wanted to talk to you about my time in this damned hell of a camp so far. I'll be very honest. Other than being frightened about being three miles from the front lines (amongst other things), I'm frightened for my sanity, if there was any to begin with. You think these people here are swell and nice and they are. You think they do their jobs well and make this place a success and they do. However, in front of me, I see nothing more than ignorance and a total case of the blues here. I guess it's my fault really. Here's what's going on.

I have always been sneered at and oftentimes am alone here. I think the latter is my fault, but at the same time, I thought that in this place, I could at least confine in someone. I didn't expect that it would be you and mostly Radar though (and at the Mess Tent, no less, and when he's eating all that food). Henry, you'd think that I was a doorstop here. Just the other week, you slammed the door in my face without a single thought, with Major Houlihan leading your hand to a disaster bound to happen always. And there's more going on than you just slamming a wooden door in my face…like everybody else does.

The nurses go through my footlocker like it's their business to. They read my letters all the time (gossiping about my mother and her instructions) and laugh behind their hands when I get into trouble with Major Houlihan. And that head nurse is so Regular Army that I'm afraid that she won't be able to relax, the rod is so far up her you-know-what. Even with Major Frank Burns around, I don't think anything will improve, since he's so much stuffer in regulations. I've kept my tongue stilled. It won't be long before I start snapping though.

Oh, did I tell you, Henry, that our head nurse ALSO gives me the creeps? Major Houlihan is Regular Army all right, but at the same time, she makes it so that she WON'T be liked by anyone BUT Major Burns. And I don't wanna go there, because that's just…a little more than wrong right now. I don't want to imagine it.

Do I do the same thing? I mean, I've been in the Army since I was almost eighteen years old and got a notice to serve my country from my previous assignment, so that I can come to this cocktail party (although, I am wondering whether or not the North Koreans and Chinese prefer white or red wine). I'm not even twenty-eight years old yet and have done so much that even my head is spinning from it. We're all getting too old here already. Parties tire people out, you know?

Am I too Regular Army as well, with what I've done and what has trialed me to Korea? Is this what has been driving the nurses to treat me this way? I don't know what I did and I am willing to amend it, except in the case where it changes who I am and my principles and morals, as you know. I'm not a religious person or anything (thanks to Mom). Seriously though, I still have my own set of values and morals. It's not like I'm a little heathen Communist, like my mother used to call me all the time.

Dammit, Henry! What can I do?

I reread what I wrote and smiled. It's true and he knows it.

Then again, will Henry read it and help, already seeing its pitiful and selfish tones? I don't think so, but it helps me to let it all out. I preferred to talk to someone though. I was a better talker than a writer. Dean does the same (talk more than write, I mean, although he can write well) except he's way more social than I am and he can fit into any situation with ease without making other people uncomfortable. I've always envied him for it, since I'm usually known as his clumsy, younger sister who sits in the corner and only reads or smiles and laughs when I don't know people. At the same time, I can be perfectly fine when Dean is there to talk things over or when I was with the one I loved, the one now gone from me…

God, I shouldn't be comparing myself with my older brother. Sure, he's the only one I interact with (all of our stepbrothers, twelve combined on both sides, don't talk to us and most are over in Europe anyhow). I need to outlet more to somebody and this seems to help. In turn, I took up my typing again, blowing the wet ink on the first page I took out. This time, I started putting an urgent note into it, the second page being a little more personal.

I was thinking, Henry, that this camp needs a break sometime and something much more than what we're used to. Sure, it's good with the pranks, but (and I am not taking sides or favoring people or anything) I think Majors Burns and Houlihan should have a break once in a while too, even if it was some camp event. Maybe we should include them in something?

Also, I want to meet everyone. All I do is work all day and feel sorry for myself at night, listening to the craziness. I want to feel like I'm having fun once in a while. Or at least counter your order. Let me know Captains Pierce and McIntyre. They sound interesting. So far, they have kept me saner with their antics, jokes and pranks (remember Frank in traction now makes me want to laugh). I know you're being WAY too fatherly and making sure the two don't do anything stupid to me or something, but I want you to know that I need to stand on my own two feet. I need to explore by myself. That's an issue with you, the person who saw me walk, stumble and get back up again. Parents need to let GO!

I don't think I'd understand, since I'm no parent and have no inclinations of becoming one until maybe the end of the war. I'm not a motherly figure and have no maternal feelings (with me now recalling how your mother gave me a doll for Christmas and I hacked the head off with disgust). When I feel like I'm being smothered and told who to see and who not to see, I feel controlled. I am TIRED of being controlled. Why do you think I left my mother's house? Why do you think I chose a career that would keep me far, far away from there and keep me super busy as well? I KNOW you don't see my often because of it except when Lorraine lets me in once in a while, but I didn't know what else to do. I couldn't live with you and Lorraine and the girls all the time. You wouldn't move out of that house to avoid the gossip of our hometown and because of it, the trouble would come over every time I'm over, like always. You had your own family to think about. I can't intrude upon that.

Where would I fit in? Where would little Jeanie Morrison fit into the picture? Well, nowhere, pretty much, I'd say.

There's always a way and that way isn't always clear. My mother used to say that to me all the time. Then again, why am I quoting my own mother, the same one who scorned me and wished me dead because I was a girl and my father's, at that? I don't know, but it seems to me that she was right in this sense (I'll admit it, because sometimes the people you don't get along with have some good things to say). There's always a way out of things and sometimes, the solution isn't always in sight or there's an obstacle ahead of the path. All we have to do is think more clearly and/or move aside, to reassess the problem, and finally jump over the hurdles. This is why I'm suggesting some of these things.

Please think about what I've written, Henry. I want you to know how I feel, despite it being a jumbled mess. Also, what I think can be done for these wonderful people we work with, since you think them as such. I want to know them all and figure out why most of them hate me so much and disrespect me. I don't want to walk through a war alone and without a friend out there, save for you and Radar.

Love, your "Genie"

I smiled, remembering how Henry used to spell out my name (which made Lorraine laugh so hard once that she almost choked on the apple she was eating). It might soften him and make him recall the good times because I'm sure the note will make him mad in some form or another. And, as commanding officer, I'm sure he's more concerned over everything else but morale (and he's usually the one not caring about the late night antics or joining in them and not realizing it). However, I can remind him of it and more. Maybe the whole camp can thank me later for it.

I took the last page out of the typewriter, waiting for the ink to dry. When it was, after a few minutes, I blew on them both for good measure, crossed my fingers and went into Henry's empty office, placing the incriminating documents upon his desk. It's on top, so I was hoping that he reads it soon, if Radar will let him. I am sure of it, one way or another.