Part One
Moving On

My name is Walter O'Reilly. I know things. In advance, I mean. And things I have no business knowing, things that I'm never told or shown. I just know.

That's how I got my nickname, Radar. Most people who know me think I got it over here, during my military service in Korea. My Mom never uses it, I'm always Walter to her. But over here, I'm mostly Radar. That's because I always know when the choppers are coming. Before the others can hear the beating of their roters, before they drift over the hills with their cargos of broken and bleeding humanity, I know Trapper John told me once during an alcohol fueled ramble that I'm responsible for saving some of those lives, since I get the medics to the wounded that much faster. I'd like to believe that, I've always admired doctors.

Anyway, the nickname. It was my Uncle Ed who gave it to me. He was the first one to notice my 'talent'. At first he just noticed that I was the only one who could find all the eggs each morning, even the ones that the broody hens hid. And I could alway locate the barn cat's latest litter of kittens. I've always loved animals. Maybe that's why my talent first showed up in association with them.

Then Ed noticed how I'd pick up the newspaper or Mom's reading glasses a second before she asked me for them. Mom never notices, bless her. She'll go to her grave thinking I'm nothing but a good, sweet, attentative boy. Eventually I was picking horses for Uncle Ed.

The problem was that my talent has never been one hundred per cent. I make goofs, big ones, frequently. And picking winners off a racing form isn't like seeing and touching the animals before a race. That makes it easier. Still, I managed to pull down a long shot for him now and then. More than once, it kept us fed. Farm life isn't all that easy. Never has been.

I never intended to do anything but work the farm. I expected to get married eventurlly and raise kids on the same land where I grew up. The Korean conflict put a kink in those plans. I was drafted the week after I turned eighteen.

I don't mind serving my country. I'm a patriot, I'm willing to do my duty, even though I'm not clear on what we're doing over here. Major Frank Burns' simple statement that we're 'fighting Commies' just doesn't satisfy me. But I see what brooding about it does to people. Hawkeye Pierce, a good man, is gradually descending into alcoholism.

So I keep my head down and do my job. I'd needed electives in high school. The sweat and clang of metal shop didn't appeal to me, I couldn't play an instrument, I couldn't carry a tune, and I didn't want to risk my fingers in woodshop (too many opportunities for injury with farm equipment, anyway). I signed up for typing and shorthand instead. I took unmerciful ragging from the guys, till I pointed out the fact that while they were scratching and spitting with each other, I was surrounded by giggling females. I was the only boy in both classes. That shut them up and got them thinking.

Not that it was really that much of a thrill for me. I dated, sure. I took this one to the malt shop, and that one to see a movie. I even borrowed the Studebaker and went and parked out in the feilds a couple of times with Becky Woodward. The kissing was nice enough. I didn't mind playing with her breasts. It was kind of fun to make her nipples stand up all stiff and crinkly. But I was never too disappointed when she stopped me from going any further.

Once, as she was rebuttoning her blouse, she'd said, "You're a real gentleman, Walter." She'd sounded kind of puzzled when she said it. I found out later that Becky always stopped the boys. And she always gave in when they pushed.

So I was still a virgin when I went into the army. That didn't last long, though. See, my first lover... my only lover was a higher ranking soldier, a sergeant.

He's about as different from Frank Burns as it's possible to be, but there are certain surface similarities. I don't like Major Burns much. He's always trying to make me feel inferior. My Mom always told me that I'm just as good as anybody else, but Major Burns always makes me feel like I have dirt under my nails and cow manure on my shoes. Ray is rugged, forceful and confident without being petty and arrogant. Frank Burns is... well, Frank Burns.

Ray is considerate, Frank is the single most selfish, self involved person I've ever known. But like Ray, Frank keeps his uniforms pristine. Both of them come from socially prominent families. Both of them have overbearing, domineering mothers, though my sergeant fights to escape the influence of his, while Frank has succumbed. And become sour. He never misses an opportunity to make someone who doesn't fit his standards feel low. And since I'm outside the pale as far as he's concerned, I come in for more than my fair share of his bullshit.

But Frank Burns isn't nearly the extent of my worries in Korea. I worry about Mom, back in Iowa, trying to run the farm. Sure, she has Uncle Ed, who's a lifetime farmer. But Uncle Ed was Dad's much older brother, and he's getting up in years. Then of course there are the North Koreans to worry about. And if they aren't enough, there are the occasional round of friendly fire to deal with. Plus the constant stream of broken, burned, bloody soldiers streaming into the camp by truck and helicopter, many of them not much older than me. But those are the kinds of things you expect in a war. You expect casualties when you battle on foreign soil. What you don't expect is to be frightened by your own side.

Frank Burns doesn't scare me, except that he's been acting a little nutty since Hot Lips dumped him for that Penobscot guy. I could almost feel sorry for him, if he hadn't been such a shit the entire time I've known him. He'd be pathetic if he wasn't so mean.

No, there's only one person on our side who really scares me. That's Colonel Flagg. He's with military intelligence, which Hawkeye says is a perfect example of an oxymoron. When I said I could go along with the ox part, but I didn't think Flagg was a moron, except in the figurative sense, Hawk explained what it meant to me. I think he was right.

See, Flagg's always doing stuff that looks pretty screwy and illogical, if not downright inhuman. The doctors don't have any respect for him. I do, but it's not the good kind of respect, the kind that you give to someone you admire, and would like to be like. No, this is the same kind of respect a farmboy learns to give snakes.

They may look harmless, but you don't mess with them, because even if they're not poisonous, they bite. And it's hard to be one hundred percent sure they're not poisonous. You only have to be a little wrong to be dead. That's what Colonel Flagg reminds me of: a snake.

Oh, not that he's ugly. He's a fairly presentable guy. But there's just something cold about him. At least I think so. I don't think the other guys are paying attention. They just hear the bluster. I look at his eyes.

They're brown, but they're not a dark, deep brown like my Ray's. They're almost tan, such a pale brown that they look almost yellow sometimes. And they're... I dunno. Flat. Some poet, or author, or other famous person said that the eyes are the windows of the soul. Well, with Colonel Flagg, when you look through the windows, it's like looking into an empty house. A house where something terrible happened, and something worse could happen. A haunted house.