Writer Wrong: Part One
Bad Start
By:
Disclaimer: M*A*S*H belongs not to me,
and no money was made by writing this. Dangit.
~*~*~*~*~*~
It’s amazing
how instinct takes over when you’re being threatened. There I was; a civilian
in
We’d been on
our way to visit a renowned MASH unit when we’d drawn sniper fire. The MP’s had
tossed us behind a group of thick trees and returned fire. I hadn’t known how
loud gunshots were this close, or how the smoke after they’re discharged would
tickle your throat for hours afterward.
Ten minutes
later, we were ready to move on. Without warning, Fredricks (one of our large
MP’s) dropped, a hole where his temple and ear had been. I stared, fascinated
by the exposed gore for a beat. Then everyone scattered…
It was pure
instinct that saved me. When Irvin (my “esteemed” boss) was thrown into the air
by a landmine, I bolted in the opposite direction and dove under a bush. I
refused to move, even as I saw the rest of the troupe dead, or dying…or worse,
being calmly stalked by a few ruthless North Korean soldiers.
They argued
amongst themselves—probably wondering where the tiny woman with the dark hair,
namely me—had gone. Finally, they
shrugged and made sure everyone was dead by shooting them in the head. I smothered
a scream when a clump of bloody brain matter landed on my hand. Instead, I
emptied my stomach as silent y as possibly.
I laid there
another hour…two…I lost track.
The sun was
setting when I crawled out from under the bush. My body ached and I moved stiffly.
I went to our abandoned truck, seeing that they’d burned it. A singed duffle
bag seemed salvageable, so I pulled it out. Inside, I found mostly clothes—one
of the MP’s—and a small handgun. Dropping the duffel, I hefted the gun the gun,
remembering that I had been quite a shot in my youth…
“Bullets,” I
mumbled. “I need ammo…” I turned until I spotted the prone bodies of
Gagging, but
victorious, I skittered away from him and loaded the gun. I caught a glimpse of
my clothes and saw how filthy and bloody I was. As darkness grew, I shivered
violently—out of coldness or shock, I’m not sure.
I started
walking, in the general direction I thought the MASH unit was. I counted my
steps, telling myself to think of myself, to mourn the others later.
395…396…397…398…
Maybe that’s
why all the anger and sadness came out when I saw the North Korean soldier.
He was already
dead—the bastard—and lay at the side of the road like a piece of trash waiting
for the garbage truck…
I kicked him,
smacking and screaming and even aiming the gun at him, though I never did fire.
I just couldn’t waste the bullet, despite the intense desire to.
I had worked up
quite a sweat during my abuse of the deceased man, and so, once I stood. I
began to shiver uncontrollably. I eyed his jacket, and before I could
reconsider, I tore it off of him and wrapped myself in it.
Stumbling in my
exhaustion, I continued down the road. My mind narrowed and focused on the dirt
beneath my shoes, the gun in my hand, and the sounds of…a man yelling in
Korean?
My hand came
up, to shade my eyes from the rising sun, when I heard a loud BANG.
The world
tilted and spun as my leg burst into flame and my cheek smashed into the dirt.
*
* *
“…the hell did
you fire at her!” a voice was demanding.
“I’m sorry,
sir,” a plaintive voice replied. “I saw the jacket and the gun…”
Daring to open one
eye, I saw a figure in a cowboy hat leaning over me. He was peering intently at
my leg, and though I tried, he moved faster than I could focus my eyes. I could
have sworn I saw a blue Hawaiian print…
“Hawk, she’s
waking up,” another voice interrupted. I blinked up at him, seeing a friendly
and open gaze. “Hi there,” he said to me. I groaned, lifting my head to look
around. He pressed his palm against my forehead, gently keeping it down. “No,
no,” he said in a friendly tone. “Keep your head down.”
I gasped. “Come on! Keep your head down!” I heard
“You’re going
to be fine,” the one called Hawk declared, his face appearing and holding still
long enough for me to see him clearly. “This is the MASH 4077,” he continued. I
frowned. “I’m Doctor Pierce, and I’m going to fix you up.”
As he spoke, I
suddenly realized that we were moving. I seemed to be on a stretcher…a mask was
held above my mouth and nose.
“Breathe
deeply,” a calm voice instructed, and despite myself, I lost consciousness once
more.
*
* *
“Doctor!” a
woman called as I fought my way to the world again.
My leg was
throbbing dully and the realization made me jolt awake. I gasped.
“Easy,” Pierce
said, at my side. My eyes locked on his. He smiled slightly. “Do you speak English?”
he asked.
I laughed—the
sound was bitter and harsh. I’d been asked that more times than I could count,
and it made sense: my mother was Japanese, and my father was white. I had the
tilted eyes (exotic, former lovers had said), and the shiny black hair (but
mine was curly, thanks, Dad). It still caught me by surprise.
“I’m as
American as you,” I finally declared. “Although I may have a better grasp of
the English language…”
He stared for a
beat, then smirked. “She sounds like Charles!” he announced to the nearby
nurse, who smiled in agreement. “What’s your story? Who are you?”
My mouth
opened, but nothing came out. The answers were there, but how could I explain
all that had happened? The absolute horror…fear swept over me and I shook my
head.
“I…” My throat
closed up and I swallowed dryly. “I’m a journalist…” It was all I could say,
all I was sure of at the moment. I breathed deeply and sighed.
Pierce stood to
confer with another familiar face—the man who’d been there when I awoke the
first time, speaking so kindly to me. They were out of earshot, at the end of
my cot. Part of me wished I could read lips, while another part asked if I was
so sure I couldn’t.
I took the
opportunity to glance around. I was last in a row of cots, with a matching group
on the other side of the room. A blonde nurse tended to a young man at the
other end of the room. When the double doors near her opened and an older man
entered, my gaze met his. He didn’t hesitate, but instead strode right over and
just looked at me.
“Well, Pierce?”
he demanded.
Ah, the Commanding Officer…
“Colonel, I’d
like you to meet our very-American journalist,” he said simply.
The colonel
raised both eyebrows at me and I swallowed nervously. He nodded, a gentle
expression in his eyes. “Colonel Sherman T. Potter,” he said, sitting on a
stool beside the bed. “At your service.” He was eyeing me, analyzing. “Now,
Miss, how did you end up in a North Korean’s jacket, covered in blood, and
waving a pistol?”
Just like that,
I was there. Mines were exploding, guns firing, and the blood was spilling…
“Whoa!” Potter
cried, his hand on mine. “It’s okay, you’re safe now.”
“
Silence, then a
soft voice. “How many?”
“Six of us,
plus two MP’s…” I replied. “They…were all killed…I hid in the bushes. While my
companions died, I was cowering beneath the bushes! Oh, God!”
I was sobbing,
shaking all over as I remembered my troupe. But once again, my anger pushed the
fear out of the way and I grew calm.
“I waited until
dark, then I found a gun in a bag…” I continued quietly. My sudden mood swing
did not concern me, though the others exchanged a look. “I walked and walked…I
was cold, I saw a dead soldier—North Korean—and took the jacket. The next thing
I remember clearly is waking up here.” A thought popped into my head. “Hey, I
got shot by one of your guys!”
Potter made a
face. “An overeager young soldier, I’m afraid.”
I nodded
wearily. “There’s a lot of that going around…”
*
* *
I don’t even
remember falling asleep, but suddenly there I was—waking up. No one took notice
this time, so I looked around again. I was still relatively alone, though I saw
a new nurse at the desk nearby. My leg ached, but not much, so I shifted until
I was in a mostly upright position. The nurse was at my side in an instant.
“Hello,” she
said, making a mark on the clipboard at the end of the cot. “I’m Lieutenant
Kellye, can I get you anything?”
I thought for a
moment. “A pen and a pad of paper would be wonderful.”
“Of course,”
she replied. “You’re a journalist after all.”
A soldier near
the other doors was whistling softly. I was trying to name the song when Kellye
returned. I smiled tightly and accepted the paper and pencil.
And there it
was—a journalist’s worst enemy: the blank sheet of paper.
Try as I might,
I found I couldn’t just start telling what had happened. Instead, I began to
jot down everything I knew about the people who had died.
Irvin Ashton, age 33, single—general
pain in the ass and know-it-all. Good journalist, terrible joke-teller. Loves
to collect restaurant coasters and fortunes from gypsies. Believes everyone is
out to take his job.
Melissa Cotton, age 19, newlywed—absolute
knock-out, both by looks and brains. Graduated from high school at age 15,
college degree in European Literature. Wanted to have 5 children with her
fiancé, Robert. Joined us to complete her dissertation on wartime novels.
Clayton Thuxburn, age unknown, married
over twenty years—grizzled old war vet and photographer. Published dozens of
times in magazines and Stars and Stripes; often quoted Shakespeare, of all
things.
Maurice Bordeaux, age 27, single and
constantly looking—our resident chef, since food critics are not often needed
here. Sex fiend who prides himself on visiting every House of ill repute in
Rupert Collins, age 35, married—quiet,
reserved, and solemn. But when he makes a joke, look out! Clever and talented
cartoonist.
Marshall Emerson, age 40,
divorced—hated working with the MP’s and often criticized them and what they
stood for. Believes war to be an excuse for mentally unhealthy men to kill
legally.
I paused, then decided to add myself.
Sharon Lightfoot, age 27,
single—journalist of mediocre caliber, aspiring novelist. Took this job to put
bread on the table, unwillingly paired with Irvin. Collects books and useless
knick-knacks that cause more clutter of the mind than is worthwhile. A poet; an
artist at heart; caught in a whirlwind life of traveling and never having the
chance to miss home.
Another pause.
Andrew Fredricks, M.P.
Leon Gordon, M.P.
Sadly, I realized there was nothing
more I really knew about them. I let the pad drop onto my lap, my wrist sore
from holding it up for so long.
“Finished?” Kellye asked, standing at
the end of the bed.
I shook my head. “Just need a break.”
She smiled. “Are you hungry? You missed
all the meals today.”
My stomach clenched. “No, thank you.”
“You need to eat,” she insisted.
Sighing, I bowed my head in defeat. She
left me, murmuring to someone outside the doors. Shortly, a bowl of soup
appeared before me.
“I’m afraid it’s not much, mostly just
broth,” she said.
“It’s fine, thanks,” I mumbled. She was
waiting, so I slurped at the thin liquid. It worked and she left me to eat.
When she was working at the small desk
again, I put the soup—if you could call it that—to the side. Sighing, I looked
at the pad of paper and flipped to a new page.
To the families of those I knew:
I’m
sorry.
It wasn’t quite right still, so I added
four words.
…I didn’t die too.
Leaning my head
back, I closed my eyes.