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“But you know how I am, Mildred. What folks do in their off-duty hours is no business of mine.”
Colonel Sherman Potter had always been of the opinion that what officers and enlisted men did in their off time should be no business of their commanding officer. Sure, this is a pretty standard opinion to have as the lower-ranking personnel, but he always held this belief even as he began to command troops of his own. He’s found, over the years as he rose through the ranks, that the more authority he has, the less likely his men are to share the happenings of their off-duty lives. It’s become increasingly hard as he’s aged to bond with his men in personal ways as well, as they now tend to assume he either can not relate to their problems (all of which are problems as old as time itself, save for a few technology-based mishaps he’s heard through the camp gossip mill), or that he will chastise them for their humanity . Nevertheless, he’s always tried to prove to the people he commands that he’s willing to lend a helping hand or open ear, while also trying to maintain plausible deniability; something he finds he has to do more and more often here at the 4077th MASH, as their antics are unlike any he’s ever seen in his entire career. And he was in the cavalry !
He learned very early on in his command of this camp that they had suffered recent losses, which is atypical for their type of unit, and were still deep in mourning. That’s often to be expected with a last minute transfer such as his own was, but sometimes all you can do is hope and pray for the man who came before him that he was simply sent stateside, rather than any other unfortunate alternative. Unfortunately for Henry Blake, he was a recipient of a pine box. His heart broke for the man’s family, both the one stateside and the one he left behind at this hospital, and his heart broke even more when he learned that in actuality, there was no pine box to be sent, as there was no body recovered.
The colonel finds himself wondering about the type of man Blake was to have commanded such an outfit for nearly three years. Not only that, but to have seemingly been close on a personal level with many of the officers and several of the enlisted personnel, because Sherm can tell that they are not simply mourning a commanding officer, but a friend, and a father even. The sorry state the company clerk has been in since the moment they met is one he is aware is not his usual demeanor, though he’s never seen him behave any other way. He tries to cut him some slack, as he is clearly struggling, while also not getting the help a young man needs when he loses his father. Potter had learned from O’Reilly’s personnel file that his biological father was already deceased, and knows himself the struggle of losing a father figure when your own father has already passed. When Mildred’s father died, he was more bent up about it than he was when his own father died when he was a young boy. O’Reilly seems on edge every time he enters the office, and at first he had assumed he resented him for taking the place of a man who he cared for, but now realizes it seems more that he’s having trouble processing the change of space.
Captains Hunnicutt and Pierce, he learned, are a packaged pair. You can’t have one without the other, and a man called Trapper. Sherm had been in the 4077th for nearly a week before he realized that this Trapper character was in actuality no longer with them, and not only that, but Captain Hunnicutt had himself never even set eyes on the man! Hunnicutt had only been in camp for a week by Potter’s own arrival, but had already established himself amongst the men. Surely this is majorly Captain Pierce’s unintentional doing, as he seems to be the big man around camp- well respected and adored by all. Pierce is buddies with all the men, and flirtatious with all the women, and it didn’t take Sherm more than an hour of knowing the man before he realized that Pierce was also buddy-buddy with all the nurses , and flirtatious with the men as well. But that’s none of his business.
Hunnicutt is a character all on his own, and Sherm is sure he would have come about his sterling reputation without Pierce, eventually. Everyone around camp seems to adore him already, but are still curious about the handsome new fellow. It doesn’t take long for him to bring up how much he adores his wife and new baby girl, maybe about four minutes if he really puts in the effort. Despite the nurses already having established him as off-limits, this doesn’t keep them (or Pierce, for that matter) from sneaking peeks.
Without a new available doctor to entertain them, the nurses still seem to be mooning over Doctor Trapper (all Sherm has managed to learn about the man is that he is a doctor, named Trapper, though he’s sure that’s not his given name, and also some details on his abilities that Potter rather wishes he hadn’t overheard). Truly, you couldn’t swing a dead cat in this camp without hitting someone talking about “Trap”. And it’s not just the nurses lamenting the loss of a great lover (and from what he’s heard, he was great. Really got around, apparently), but the men lament the loss of a great local character, joker, prankster, and friend.
On the night which Pierce and Hunnicutt offered him a belt in tent 6, affectionately titled the Swamp by its inhabitants, it had been just over two weeks since Trapper’s departure, and Hawkeye seemed to be taking it harder than any of the nurses. Or, dare he say, all of them combined.
What was supposed to be a quick belt with his fellow doctors after a shift turned into several long drinks, and belting of a different kind. Sherm, Hunnicutt, and Pierce all began pouring drink after drink from the glass distillery in the corner of their tent that seemed to sparkle like the north star the more intoxicated they became. They sang show tunes, and laughed at old stories from home, which slowly turned more sentimental as the night went on. Sherm learned a lot about Hunnicutt and Pierce that night, about their families and lives left behind against their wills, as Sherm learned both had been drafted.
As Sherm and B.J. had begun to slow down, he noted Pierce kept pace. He also noted how unsettled B.J. became, and repeatedly commented on the late hour, urging Potter back to his own tent. But, over the course of Sherm’s short time here, he had to admit that he had become enamored of this Hawkeye character. Like Gatsby, he was mysterious, and larger than life, and Sherm just had to know more. Even he had to admit that scrubbing down earlier in the evening, the way Pierce held him as he cracked his back and shoulder for him, and maintained that contact as he invited him back to their tent for a drink sent a chill down his newly adjusted spin, and sent his heart in motion just a tad. Surely feeding off of the nurses who had been scrubbing down with them. He had fallen victim to this character he had built up in his own mind.
But when he noticed the drinking, which he had noted to himself the day before to be mindful of as he read Pierce’s personnel file, he felt he had a responsibility to wait it out with Hunnicutt, and not just to help carry the man to his bed. He felt he owed it to Hawkeye himself to break down this legend of Hawkeye Pierce and to see him for what he was: a man. He also owed it to the patients, for if he had an alcoholic head surgeon, it was his duty to ensure the safety of the young men who came across their tables.
“Y’know,” Hawkeye slurred, completely lost to the conversation happening before him between Sherm and B.J., “this rotgut isn’t half as good as Trap’s. I still can’t get it right.”
“You seem to be enjoying it just fine.” Hunnicutt smirks at him.
“No, no, it’s no good.” He stops to think for a moment, “I wish he left instructions. Or a recipe book. Or anything at all.”
Hunnicutt’s eyes practically roll to the back of his head as he gets up and heads for the vacant bunk in the far corner, where several small piles of junk are placed seemingly carelessly, but somehow organized. “He did, look, remember? He left you some of his books. And Look at this beautiful ribbon!” B.J. grabs a handful of random items to give to Pierce. It’s all just junk . Garbage .
Pierce begins to tie the little ribbon so tightly around his finger that it turns a deeper purple than the ribbon itself. “We should write him and ask how he did it.”
“Hawk.” B.J. has shown himself until this very moment, to be nothing but caring and empathetic, but now his kind words have an edge of exasperation to them, “He spent the entire time trying to find you! To say goodbye to you in person! There was no time for a letter, and there was no goodbye because you intentionally made yourself impossible to find. Let's go to bed.”
“If he mailed one from stateside, it should have been here by now, right?”
“I don’t know, Hawk.” B.J. sighs with a hurt look, “I haven’t gotten anything since I’ve been here, and I’m sure Peg mailed me things the second after she left the airport. I wouldn’t worry yet.”
“Right.” Hawkeye stumbles over the the abandoned cot, and lovingly places the knick knacks in no cohesive fashion, but nevertheless does it with purpose. And promptly falls to the floor right as he finishes.
Sherm and B.J. jump to their feet to help him up, but it’s no use, he’s completely out. Dead weight.
“I’m sorry, Colonel.” B.J. looks at him guiltily, “I’m sure he’s not always like this.”
“You’re sure? You mean you don’t know?”
Hunnicutt winces. “Well, this is how every night has been since I’ve been here, but tonight was also my first time in the O.R. since my first day, so I’m sure when the pressure’s on he’s not like this. He’s very dedicated to his work.”
“I see.” Potter nods solemnly, “And what says the local scuddlebutt?”
He winces again, and hesitates, “They say him and Trapper drank every moment they weren’t working- but they also say he’s the best surgeon they’ve ever worked with. Everyone says that. And they say he’s never once shown up drunk, or unprepared. They say he always gives one hundred percent .”
Potter raises an eyebrow at this.
“I asked around.” He elaborates, “I was scared for him!”
He accepts this, and agrees with himself to give it a few days' observation. After all, the past two days Pierce has been completely functional and coherent, and if B.J. is to be believed, this night’s events also happened the first two nights Potter has spent here as well.
“Lets get him to bed.”
…
…
The next few days don’t really provide the new commanding officer with much of a chance to observe Pierce’s behavior, as they are all at once hit with a bout of bad weather, inadequate supplies, a flood of patients, and seemingly endless friendly fire from bonehead generals. And while by this point, Potter has long since been reassured of Pierce’s ability to work, and also been personally reassured by Hunnicutt that Pierce’s nightly breakdown had slowly lessened over time in both frequency and severity, it’s not until their head surgeon is wrongly declared deceased that the conversation in the swamp that night comes back to his mind. At least, that part of the conversation.
He has Radar make an announcement over the loud speaker to have Captain Hunnicutt report to Colonel Potter’s office at the earliest possible convenience, but that it is not urgent.
“The earliest possible convenience” ends up being, conveniently, right as they’re wrapping up in the O.R., which also, conveniently, happens to be just as Radar enters holding his hat over his nose to inform them that all communications are back up.
Hawkeye sprints out of the room, through the scrub room, and into the outer office the very moment he ties his last suture. When the rest of them all take their time to clean up and scrub down, B.J. approaches him at the sinks.
“You wanted to see me, sir?”
“Yes, but let’s go to my office.” He tells him neutrally, and they begin to help clean up the scrub room. He’s glad for it, because by the time they pass Hawkeye in the outer office, he is happily chatting away with his father on the phone, having already gotten past the emotional part. Sherm has always been a crier at sentimental moments, and he doesn’t think he would have been able to handle that, even in passing.
“Sit down, Son.” Sherm invites him. “What’s the latest with his mail?” He nods towards the double doors, just as Hawkeye guffaws loudly at something said on the other line.
“They’re still holding it.” B.J. sighs, but with a hint of hope, “I think he’s just holding onto the fact that they’ve been holding his mail, so maybe that’s why he hasn’t gotten anything from McIntyre.”
“But you don’t believe that?”
“No sir, I don’t.” The confession seems to upset him as well, “I got letters from Peg several times before all this, if anyone had sent him anything around that time, he would have gotten it already. I just hope this phone call with his dad is enough.”
“So do I.” Potter can tell B.J. isn’t quite finished yet, so he doesn’t add anything, just let’s the boy take his time.
After a minute, he looks nervous when he asks, “I won’t make it a habit, I swear-“
“Spit it out, son.”
“Is it alright if I make a call after Hawk’s done?” He looks hopeful, “It doesn’t have to be tonight! But I’d really appreciate a phone call, Colonel.”
It’s times like this when Potter feels like a prison warden. It makes him feel guiltier than hell when he realizes that, to these guys, that’s exactly what this is, where they are, and who he is.
“Sure, son, sure.” Because what else do you say to that? “Just don’t go spreading it around. Can’t have men in here all day. Loose lips and all.”
“Oh, Sherm, I could kiss you!” B.J. practically floats out of his seat, into the outer office.
Time in the army passes quicker than you could possibly imagine, while also feeling like time isn’t moving at all at the same time. Sometimes, when the flow of casualties is especially consistent (not quite a deluge, like they get, just… consistent ) it can feel like purgatory in a way. Doomed to living the same nightmare over and over again with little variation. It’s not until Clete Roberts asks how long he’s been in command of this unit that he realizes he’s been at the 4077th for a little over three months.
The segment airs only a week later. Mildred calls him on a commercial break to tell him what a fine job he seems to be doing at his new unit, and to ask after a few of the other personnel he’s written to her about that we’re not featured, like Major Houlihan. She comments on how sweet Corporal O’Reilly is, and how she wishes she could see one of Corporal Klinger’s ensembles for herself. He tells her that he tried to wear a bright red halter dress, that dipped very low on the back, but that Pierce and Hunnicutt convinced him it was too daring, and more likely to send him to the stockade than home on a section 8.
At the mention of Pierce she says, “He didn’t seem at all how you describe him. You tell me all about a great surgeon, who at times seems like a clown in olive drab, but looking at that man, I can’t imagine him capable of bringing joy anywhere, to anyone. I can’t imagine that man has ever even experienced joy, let alone know how to bring it to others.” Then, she really hits home with, “I thought to myself, ‘surely there must be two captain Pierces, because this isn’t the man my husband writes to me about.’”
They haven’t had the opportunity to see the film, of course. But it saddens him to think that potentially thousands of people aren’t getting the same impression of Hawkeye that they get at the 4077th. That the people back home see him and feel sadness, rather than all the ways they feel about him around here.
“Sir, there’s another call coming in.”
Potter is almost grateful, because he really doesn’t know what to say to that, but instantly feels bad for feeling that, because phone calls with the missus are few and far between for him, as personal calls are against regulation, and they both have busy schedules, which coupled with the time difference makes it damn near impossible.
“We’ve got another call coming in, Dear.” They exchange goodbyes, and he hands the equipment back to Radar. Potter decides against returning to his office, as Radar will be coming in to fill him in on the call anyway. Might as well just listen in.
“Sparky?” Radar almost shouts, “I can’t barely hear ya! Where did you say the call was from?…Stateside?… Who’s it for?” There’s silence for a minute, “…Well can’t you ask?… Then just ask where they’re from!… ”
This all would seem a bit ridiculous to an outsider, who would wonder why they can’t simply just patch them through and then ask, but stateside calls are so difficult to put through, they’re practically on a time limit! To patch them through, ask the caller personally who they’re calling for, and then have to go out to the compound to find that person all while their loved one is on the line, is simply a waste of time. The call would most likely fall through before Radar even returned with the intended party.
Radar turns to Potter then, “He says it’s from Boston, and for me! I’ve never been to Boston! I don’t even know where it is!” The call goes through before he can tell him that Boston is, in fact, in Massachusetts. “Hello? Who is this? Captain McIntyre ?!”
The mumbling on the other line sounds frantic, and Potter strains his ears to hear, but can’t make any of it out.
“That was just a week ago!… Well why would you think that?…. Oh. Yeah I remember…. Well he’s here, sir!… Well not here here. He’s in post-op…. No he’s perfectly fine! It’s his shift!…. Yessir!”
The Corporal rips off his headset and jumps from his seat. “It’s Captain McIntyre! He saw the interview and wants to talk to Hawkeye!”
“Couldn’t he just write?” Potter questions. Because hasn’t this been the problem from the start with him; not writing to Hawkeye.
“He thought Captain Pierce was dead!” He shouts as he runs out the door.
He figures McIntyre is just sitting there on the line anyway, so Potter decides to pick it up, curious about the notorious Trapper John.
“Captain McIntyre? This is Colonel Potter.”
“Where’s Hawkeye?”
“He’s in post-op, Son, Radar’s getting him.” He eases.
“The news network was givin’ me the runaround! I musta called fifty different offices in New York ‘fore I got the idea to just call up Korea! I tell ya, my wife’s gonna have a fit when she sees the phone bill!”
“Well, he’ll be here in a second.” He knows the sound of an adrenaline high when he hears it. Knows nothing he says to this man right now is going to stick at all, or matter. “You’re a well loved man around here. Everybody misses you, and talks of you often enough. Us new guys feel like we know you.”
“Yeah, I’m universally loved by all.” He laughs, tethering slightly back to earth, despite the self-important sarcasm. “I woulda thought they’d promote Frank, not bring in a new guy. Figured Frank running things was why… guess it doesn’t matter now.”
He thought Burns got his buddy killed. Makes sense, knowing the man, if he had stayed in command much longer he probably would have gotten someone killed. Suddenly, he remembers the whole thing -several months ago now- when Hawkeye had been declared dead. Word must have gotten to McIntyre, but not that it was a foul-up from I-CORPS.
“He’s here, Son.” Potter says the second the door to the compound swings open, revealing a disheveled Hawkeye, followed by Radar a moment later, as Hawkeye rips the phone from his hand.
Once the receiver is in his hand though, Hawkeye seems to proceed with caution. Almost as if he expects this entire thing to turn out to be some sort of elaborate prank, though they all know that for all their goofing around no one here is that heartless. Not when they can hear the gentle voice filled with trepidation as Hawkeye whispers “Trap? You there?”
The shout of “God, Hawkeye! ” through the earpiece is loud enough for the room to hear, it’s a wonder why the man doesn’t flinch. Radar smiles. The man on the other end of the line rambles.
“Do I detect a sniffle, Trapper John? A tearful twinge?” He tries, in typical Hawkeye fashion, to joke in an all too serious situation. It’s quiet while the other end responds.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t know.” His voice is empathetic as he responds. “I just thought.. I assumed you wanted to put this place behind you, you know? You can’t move on while writing letters to your old bunkie. What’s the point of being stateside if you’re getting a play by play of the events at the front every week?”
Something in Hawkeye’s face changes, shock maybe, or relief- just as Radar is suddenly tugging gently on Potter’s sleeve, leading him into the main office.
Sherm swears he can hear Hawkeye’s heartfelt “I love you, too” even over the creak from the double door as it swings shut.
In the office, Sherm tries not to pry. He knows Radar knows a good deal more than he lets on in almost every situation, but it’s simply none of his business what his officers discuss on their private phone conversations, even if those phone conversations shouldn’t be taking place in the first place.
Even with the noise of Radar rustling around in the filing cabinets, he can still tell the conversation is much more tame than that of the conversation Pierce had had with his father after finding out he was alive as well. There’s no boisterous laughter, and Hawkeye doesn’t gradually raise his voice as he often does when shooting the shit in the swamp with his buddies. He wonders if they can hear each other at all; phone calls from a world away typically require raised voices just to get over the static.
Radar grabs a file and heads for the double doors seconds before Pierce’s voice shouting “Radar!” ring through the air.
“Radar, we got cut off!”
“I’m sorry, Sir.”
“We’ll get him back!”
“I can’t!” Radar whines, “I’m fresh outta favors at HQ! Sparky’ll never patch me through another call!”
“ Radar-“
“I have Captain McIntyre’s address here, so you can write now.”
“Thanks Radar.” Is his melancholic, yet grateful reply.
Suddenly, Radar shouts “ Ah! No! Oh, gee! Not again, Sir!”
Sherm decides it is his business if his company clerk is being made to do things he doesn’t want to, so he goes back out to the outer office. “What’s going on, boys?”
“Just a kiss for my knight in shining armor, Colonel!” It’s another Hawkeye line that people often assume is a joke, or him simply trying to cause outrage. If it weren’t for his knowing Pierce so well, and for the way Radar’s cheeks are rapidly turning beat red, he might have assumed he was kidding too.
“Hawkeye, go write your letter. And please stop kissing the enlisted men against their will.” He says it sternly, but Hawkeye can feel the love in his statement, the acceptance.
Because while the personal lives of his underlings may not be his business to pry into in any official capacity, he knows it’s a gift to have such relationships with his men. He knows the kind of trust it took Hawkeye to even take that phone call in his presence. Potter may not be the most modern man, but he cares about his men, and with men like Pierce, even feels a paternal connection, and he knows Hawkeye feels that too, and he knows how important it is to have that type of someone in your corner.
Dear Mildred,
It’s so rare in the middle of a war to get to say something good happened today, and have it be God’s honest truth.
Shortly before I arrived at this hospital, one of our surgeons had been sent stateside, leaving the vast majority of my personnel mourning his absence, having left in the typical Irish fashion, no one has heard hide nor hair of him since. This is the main Hunnicutt replaced, I’m sure you’ve gathered. His name is McIntyre.
Come to find out, Mildred, McIntyre had wrongly received word that Captain Pierce had died. I’m sure you remember my letter to you about this, when General Eisenhower made his visit over here. Hawkeye told me tonight that Trapper (that’s what they all call this McIntyre around here, though I have yet to be made privy to that tale) had written him three letters in that first week before I got here (one he claims he mailed the second he touched down in San Francisco), only to have them returned weeks later, stamped DECEASED.
All this to say that tonight, McIntyre viewed that interview we all did with Mr. Roberts last week on television, and he was shocked to see our Hawkeye was alive and, well, in the state we had discussed earlier tonight.
I’ll be the first to admit that Pierce and I did quite a bit of drinking together this evening, as I’m sure we’ll do with B.J. when he receives the letter his wife is surely writing tonight. We got to talking, and it appears that this phone call with “Trapper”, which was all of five minutes, mind you- was loaded with quite a few life changing propositions. I understand his desire to get drunk tonight, it’s a lot to put a man through asking about his future when he’s just spent the evening in post-op telling boys that what’s in the future doesn’t matter, just that they get to have a future. Now, our Hawkeye is suddenly faced with the possibility of a completely different future than he has ever imagined before being called up. He even told me he had no intention of staying in Boston when he got called up, and was even considering making the move back to New York City, where I understand he spent a considerable amount of time before Boston. I told him all about your sister and her husband who live in the city, as I’m sure they’d be more than happy to help him out if it came to that.
Well, sorry for rambling, Mother. You know how I get when I’ve got a few in me. Evidently that translates over to writing as well.
All my love,
Sherm