Writer
Wrong: Part Six
Rockets
and Bombs
By:
Disclaimer: M*A*S*H belongs not to me,
and no money was made by writing this. Dangit.
~*~*~*~*~*~
I heard from
“The problem is,” I said as I moved my
rook on the chessboard. “Do they want the truth, or some kind of propaganda?”
“Does that matter?” Charles replied,
studying the board.
I flashed a grin. “Of
course not! I’ll write whatever I damn well please. Whether or not
they’ll—he’ll—like it is another matter.” I paused, watching the furrows on his
brow deepen. “Check in three moves, by the way.”
“Is she going to beat you again?” BJ
yawned and stretched, sitting up. I just smirked.
“Hunnicut,”
Charles said stoically. “Beating me three times out of thirty does not warrant
the word again with such an
inflection.”
BJ ignored him. “So what are you going to write?” he asked me.
I smiled mysteriously.
Unlike
most patients treated at the MASH 4077th, I was wounded within their
borders. Wearing a North Korean jacket and bearing the blood of my fallen
comrades, it was easy to see how I was mistaken for “one of them”. Some would
say that my Asian features only served to add to the case of mistaken identity.
Be
that as it may, I was wounded in the thigh. The bullet missed everything
important—save me, of course—and the chief surgeon, Captain Benjamin Pierce,
patched me up.
All
that I had been through before could not have prepared me for the men and women
of the MASH 4077. They are; all at once; crazy, capable, comedic,
compassionate, calm in the face of gore, caring…pardon my alliterations. They
excel in the depths of Hell in a way that would have caused Dante to run,
screaming in frustration.
My
wounds; physical, mental and even spiritual; have begun to heal.
I
can only hope that my presence here would be remembered.
“Radar,” I said, coming into the office
where he worked. “Could I borrow our typewriter?” I held up my chicken-scratch
draft. “I need to get this done and send it in to Mr. Walker.”
He didn’t even look up. “Yes, ma’am,
but I’ll need it back to finish the daily reports.”
I smiled and hefted the machine.
Glancing around, I wondered…
“Paper is in the second drawer,” Radar
provided.
I hesitated.
“No ma’am, you’re still dead,” he
added. He half-gasped and finally met my eyes. “Oh! I’m sorry!”
“Don’t worry about it,” I suggested;
removing a few sheets of paper from the drawer he’d indicated. “See ya, Short-stuff!” I called over my shoulder as I left,
grinning.
I had been the one to point out how
close in height we were. Upon measuring, it was discovered that I was 1/16th
of an inch taller. I’d been teasing him ever since.
Settling on the floor of the VIP tent,
I began to type. The click-clack-ping sounds were a fond comfort to me, and I
nearly found myself singing the words as I typed to its rhythm.
Finally completed—after two sheets of
paper and a series of curses that would make a marine blush—I pulled the
article/commentary out and skimmed it. Then, I went in search of Charles.
Tracking him by the opera music playing
in the Officer’s Club, I walked inside. It was empty, except for the barkeeper
and Charles—who sat in a chair, reading.
“Charles,” I greeted. “You promised to
proof-read for me!”
“Ah,
“Be ruthless,” I demanded.
“Of course,” he chuckled.
I wandered the room—which seemed so
much larger when it wasn’t crammed with bodies—and sat on the piano bench.
Recognizing the opera playing, I placed my hands upon the keys and began to
play along to the melody.
The opera record was turned off. I
continued to play for a moment; then stopped to look up at Charles.
“And I’ve never taken a formal lesson
in my life!” I announced wih a grin. “I play strictly
by ear!”
“Mmm,” he
replied, pursing his lips. “Sharon, who wrote this?”
He shook the paper at me.
“Is it that bad?”
“There is far too much tact and
melodrama for this to be what you really think. What happened to the anger? The frustration and the sorrow?” He snapped the paper
smartly. “This portrays us as a group of boy-scouts that stepped up to help you
across a mud puddle—not the people who—“
“Pulled me from the manure pile,
cleaned me up, and showed me how to live after the manure’s smell faded?”
“Somewhat more crude than I would have
said.”
I laughed. “This is my toned down,
please hire me and then I’ll become
obnoxious and annoying, style. It’s worked before…”
He just looked at me.
“Okay,” I sighed. “I’ll rework it.”
Sitting at the piano wasn’t going to
work for writing, so I moved to the empty bar. Charles stood staring at the
piano.
“Going to play a little ditty?” I asked
coyly.
He looked at me in surprise. “Certainly
not,” he retorted. “Do you really play by ear?”
Grinning, I replied, “It’s easier to
play with my hands, but…yeah.”
Shaking his head, he returned to his
chair and turned the record on. I saw the Korean man behind the counter wince
and had to smother a grin. Looking down at the paper before me, I pulled a pencil
from behind my ear.
I didn’t get too far.
“Attention all personnel,” the PA
shouted. “Ambulance in the compound. It’s a
two-for-one special, get ‘em while they last!”
Charles was already heading out the
door. Knowing they could always use an extra pair of hands, I followed.
It was the sounds of the wounded that
reached me first. I was fighting the need to go the opposite direction when I
heard something I had not heard in a long time: spoken Japanese.
“Daughter! Daughter!” a man called.
He’s
going to die, I
thought before turning towards him. Wouldn’t you know that Hawkeye was kneeling
over him.
“Oh God!” he groaned. “His chest is
half gone.”
In a haze, I came and took the man’s I
felt Hawkeye’s eyes upon me.
“Daughter!” he called in Japanese
again.
“Yes, Father,” I replied, touching my
forehead to the battered knuckles.
“Ah,” he sighed, a smile dancing across
his face. “My angel.”
“Shh, Father,
rest now.” He
disappeared in the sea of tears in my eyes. “You’ll be home soon.”
“Yes,” he agreed, shutting his eyes. He
took a deep rattling breath. “Home,” he sighed.
His chest remained still after that.
I bowed as deeply as I could, pressing
my face to the ground in respect. As I straightened, Hawkeye was called away.
Before he rose, he met my eyes.
“Amen,” he said, somehow understanding.
I was still kneeling when they came to
take him away on a truck. Then, and only then, did I stand one shaky legs. The
compound was nearly empty as the last were taken to Triage.
My mind whirled with thoughts and memories.
Without meaning to, I ended up at Radar’s desk. The typewriter was in front of
me, blank paper already loaded.
I began to type.
People
die. It’s a fact of, ironically, life. Having lost both parents at an early
age, I am familiar with the unexpected ending of a life.
Touring
war-torn Korea as a part of a journalistic troupe, we saw death everywhere: in
the mine fields as a young mother ran to save a lowly chicken whose eggs were
her only source of income…in the very faces of starving children who stand in
the dirt, wondering when, or if, their father will come home…
Death
is like a physical entity, come to display his power over us.
He
and I met face to face when my entire group of colleagues
were taken by enemy fire. As he took them, one by one; flaunting and
taunting; I took the cowardly route and his within the bushes. The instinctual
need for self-preservation overcame me and I lost myself to the terror. They
died, inches from me in an agony no one could imagine.
And
I envied them.
I
had been at war with Death my entire life: battle after battle lost—my parents,
my friends, my American and Allied brethren…gone.
I
was ready to surrender.
Nothing
could shock me any more. Not even that.
So
how is it that I was shaken to the very core of what
is me…by those who will not accept death for what it is; what it takes. They
excel in the depths of Hell in a way that would have caused Dante to run,
screaming in frustration.
And
to my amazement, they were winning. They fought for every soul, and somehow
beat Death at his own game.
This
took me a while to realize, but once I did, I knew I could not give up so
easily. I would fight too, joining them, using my skills and newfound
friendships to show Death that this battle was mine.
The
next time Death comes into my life, I’ll be ready.
Thank
you, MASH 4077.
I sat back, wiggling my fingers and sighing. I had
typed so fast and with so much feeling, the poor typewriter practically
exploded. Removing the paper from the machine, I wondered if I would be able to
follow through with what I wrote. In some ways, I was stronger than ever…but
when it came right down to it, would I balk?
I wasn’t sure how to go about getting the article to
“It’s easy ma’am,” he’d said.
Trusting him, I sat silently on his cot as he read
the article to someone on the phone. He kept looking at me as he spoke, and I
wondered what he thought. When he was done, he hung up and turned to me.
“Do you really mean all of this?” he asked, innocent eyes wide.
I glanced at the paper in his hand. “Yes,” I replied
simply, unsure of what else to say. He stared at me, hard, and I knew there was
more to this young boy that met the eye. Without another word, he rose and
handed the paper back to me.
“Radar,” I said softly and he paused, mid-step, to
look at me. “When I get a reply about this, will you let me know? No matter
what time it is, or what I may be doing?”
“Yes, ma’am,” he replied with a smile. As he left, my
eyes fell on the tattered and worn teddy bear that was half-hidden by the army
issue blanket. An idea began to churn…
I lay on my cot, willing myself to sleep, and finding
the battle too much. Slipping silently out of the tent, I padded to the
basketball hoop—in the makeshift court—and began to pace.
“Halt!” a voice cried.
I looked over my shoulder at Max as he limped towards
me. The gun he held seemed a great contrast to the long yellow sequined dress
he wore.
“Shh, Max, it’s me!” I
hissed.
“
“Couldn’t sleep,” I shrugged.
He seemed to understand. “Nervous
about the article?”
That startled me. “How did you know…”
Smirking, he leaned on the gun, which rested on the
ground beside his feet. “Radar told me.”
“Oh,” I said, at a loss for a reply. He shifted feet
and I remembered his awkward movements before. “Something
wrong with your foot?”
He grunted. “I nearly broke my ankle during the mess
earlier…cheap heels.”
I nodded in understanding, glancing up at the full
moon. He mumbled something about needing to move on, and shuffled away. Something
about the bright moon in the silence of the night calmed me and I nearly dozed
off in my standing position…
When I brought my head down, I could see that the
lights were still on in the Swamp. I began to walk, hearing voices as I
approached.
“…chance to
even talk to her!” Hawkeye was saying.
Somehow, I knew they were speaking about me. I
paused, unsure if I should eavesdrop or knock to announce my presence.
“The Army, in
its great intelligence declared her a casualty,” Hawkeye was continuing. “And
in some ways, she was one…ya know?”
“Mm,” BJ grunted. He sounded tired, and I realized
that they must have just returned from the OR. I hesitated still, thinking they
must want to sleep. I lifted my hand to knock.
“
I froze as he paused. I could just see him through
the side of the tent.
“Gentlemen,” Charles’ voice interrupted. “It is the
middle of the night, a time often used for such things as sleeping.”
I bit my lip to keep from laughing. Distracted by the
stuffy Bostonian, I didn’t notice that Hawkeye’s shadow was moving.
“Why am I laying here?” Hawkeye asked,
his voice closer. The door opened and I was unable to move away. “I should just go and talk to…” He saw me and
I smirked slightly. “Her,” he concluded.
“Hello,” I greeted, waving weakly.
For a moment, no one moved. BJ
seemed uncomfortable and cleared his throat. Charles was surprisingly silent.
Before anyone could speak, we heard
a voice: “Miss Sharon!”
I startled, looking around for the urgent whisper. I
spotted Radar coming up from behind me, waving a piece of paper in his hand.
“
I snatched the paper, stepping into the light inside
the tent to skim it.
“I’m in…” I breathed. “I have a job again…”
Hawkeye took the slip and began to read some of it
aloud. “Excellent writer with great promise…” he mumbled. “Welcome you to the
Civilian Division…” He looked up, grinning.
“
“
I hardly heard them as Hawkeye’s face fell. He met my
eyes and handed the note back to me. The others grew quiet, sensing something.
“What’s wrong?” BJ finally asked.
“She’s leaving,” Radar said sourly.
“What?” BJ exclaimed as Charles demanded, “When?!”
“Day after tomorrow,” Hawkeye said. A rooster crowed.
“Make that tomorrow,” he added.
Silence.
I fingered the slip of paper.
“Well,” I said, feigning cheerfulness. “We all need
some sleep.” I stepped outside again and Radar followed. “Goodnight.”
I rushed away to my tent, shocked not by the news…but
by their reaction to it. Had I come to mean something to them, after such a
short amount of time? Did that kind of thing happen in a war-zone, where death
may come tomorrow, so let us move faster into our emotions…?
Better yet, had I come to care for them?
I paced inside the VIP tent, letting my thoughts take
me where they wanted. Sometimes I got my best writing out of just letting
myself—
There was a gentle knock on the door.
I wasn’t surprised when I opened it to find Hawkeye.
“I couldn’t sleep,” he said quietly, as if explaining
himself.
I smirked, glancing at the clock. “It’s only been
eight minutes.”
“It seemed longer.”
I swallowed and moved aside so that he could come in.
He went to the cot—memories of the last time he’d been there made my face
flush—and stared down at his hands.
Those hands…I almost groaned at the path my thoughts
had taken me.
“
He was looking at me. Could he see the sudden lust in
my eyes?
“Listen, what we’ve shared…well,” he was saying. “I
don’t want you to think that it meant nothing to me. On the contrary, it meant
a great deal. It may have been highly inappropriate, ethically, but at the
time, I think your need was more important.”
I raised both eyebrows.
He stumbled. “Not to say that my, uh, desire
wasn’t…that is…”
“Hawkeye,” I sighed, sitting beside him and taking
those gorgeous hands into mine. “I don’t just fall into bed with anyone, you
know. There has to be something there
for my body to even react. The fact that you reached out to me in that way…” I
smirked. “It was just what the doctor ordered.”
He held up our intertwined fingers. “Do you think
this job is a good idea? You’ll be working closer to the front…”
Taking a deep breath, I shook my head. “I need the
work…and the money.”
“Of course, a dead woman can’t be paid,” he pointed
out.
I laughed quietly, glad I
could find humor in that. “Hopefully by the time they send me out, I’ll be
alive again.”
He slipped his hands from my grasp, touching my face
gently. Something unspoken passed between us.
We aren’t lovers…we are merely two people who
fulfilled a need…and found a friend.
“Goodnight,” he said, rising and going out the door.
Sleep came to me easily.