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Hawkeye set the cards he’d been dealt down on the table. “Pay up,” he said lightly.
Charles scowled in disbelief at Hawkeye’s third win in a row. “You’re cheating, Pierce.”
Feigning an indignant look, Hawkeye collected the cards the rest of the players had tossed onto the table and tapped them into a neat stack. “As if I’d cheat when I’m playing against a man of the cloth.” He turned to Father Mulcahy. “In all the time you’ve known me, have I been anything less than honest?”
“Well, given that I try not to be less than honest, perhaps you don’t really want me to answer that, Hawkeye,” Father Mulcahy said with a chuckle.
Hawkeye smiled as he put away the deck of cards. “Good enough for me. In return for your no-less-than-honesty, I won’t collect.” He turned from Father Mulcahy to Charles. “That doesn’t apply to you, of course. I won fair and square, Charles, and there was money on the line.”
Still scowling, Charles folded his arms across his chest but made no move to retrieve the money Hawkeye was demanding. “What about Hunnicutt?”
BJ shook his head. “Nope, not me. Hawkeye owed me from last week’s game. This makes us even. But you… Pay up, Charles, it’s only fair.”
That explanation didn’t satisfy Charles. “And Colonel Potter? Why aren’t you asking him to make good on his gambling debts?”
Hawkeye pretended to be shocked by the very suggestion. “Oh, I couldn’t ask him to pay–he outranks me, you know.”
Charles stood suddenly, nearly overturning the table. “I outrank you, too, Pierce!” He marched out of the tent.
Colonel Potter raised an eyebrow at Hawkeye. “I hope you’re not trying to make a living at poker, because you’ve got a pretty poor payout for winning every round of the night.”
BJ snickered. “Hawkeye’s payment is getting under Charles’s skin. It’s worth more to him than any money owed.”
Hawkeye nodded in agreement, but before anyone could respond, a distant voice from somewhere outside caught the attention of all who remained in the tent. “Choppers!”
All four men rose to their feet and went for the door. The P.A. system echoed Radar’s warning. “Attention, all personnel- incoming wounded.”
There were two helicopters in the air, and an ambulance approaching at a rapid pace. “Well, let’s get to it,” Colonel Potter said, though the doctors were already running to meet the wounded.
Father Mulcahy followed close behind, watching, waiting to see if he was needed. The first few soldiers Hawkeye and BJ assessed had luck or God on their side; a broken arm here, a mild concussion there. Then, Hawkeye turned to another patient and pulled back the blanket that had covered the lower half of his body; his leg was missing nearly to his knee. Father Mulcahy said a quick prayer for him while Hawkeye shouted at someone to get the soldier to pre-op.
BJ sent another one straight to pre-op, this man barely able to catch his breath as bruises crept across his abdomen. When a couple of corporals appeared to move the soldier, one of them tripped on the uneven ground next to the ambulance; Father Mulcahy reached out to steady the corporal before he fell, and as he did so, the priest looked down.
It wasn’t the uneven ground that had tripped the corporal. It was the missing leg of the other young man on the way to surgery.
Father Mulcahy had assumed it had been left behind in the minefield where it had probably been removed, but now that it was here, he wondered what had happened. When had the leg come off, anyway?
God, it must have hurt like hell, and knowing that it was rattling around in the ambulance somewhere separate from him must have driven the leg’s owner crazy. Not wanting to think about it further, Father Mulcahy’s eyes rolled skywards, searching for some divine strength. Looking at the expanse of blue sky–it was astonishingly clear today–he remembered the choppers that had been on their way; one of them had landed, and its wounded were already on the way to surgery. There had been another one, though. Father Mulcahy scanned the air in search of the unaccounted for aircraft, but there was no sign of it.
When the injured soldiers had been triaged and organized–and the spare leg had been retrieved, too–Father Mulcahy turned to Colonel Potter. “There was another chopper,” he said, jumping straight to the point.
“What?”
“There were two choppers in the air. Only one landed.”
Colonel Potter was marching off to scrub in, largely uninterested in Father Mulcahy’s concerns. “I didn't notice. If there was another, maybe it wasn’t intended for us, Padre.”
That didn’t sit right with the priest. He was certain that there was a second chopper, aiming for the 4077th, and it wasn’t there. A pit formed in his stomach, but he let Colonel Potter walk away. Father Mulcahy looked out at the hills beyond the MASH. What if the helicopter was out there, somewhere? What if it had gone down, wounding another in its pilot? He considered it for a brief moment before turning to look for someone who could help him. “Radar!”
The company clerk appeared by his side, somewhat frazzled. “Yes, sir, Father Mulcahy, sir?”
“How many choppers were there?”
“Two, I think.” Radar looked around and it seemed to dawn on him what only Father Mulcahy had been concerned about so far. “But there’s only… Hey, where’d it go?” He looked around as if another helicopter would materialize somewhere before him.
“That’s what I intend to find out! Are you with me, Radar?”
Radar nodded earnestly. “I’ll get a jeep.” He was back in a minute, and Father Mulcahy wasted no time in hopping in next to the young man, who peeled off at a rapid speed. Both men kept an eye out for anything amiss as they drove away from their colleagues who were apparently unconcerned about the missing chopper. For a while it was the usual landscape, but then something caught Father Mulcahy’s eye.
“There, Radar!” Father Mulcahy exclaimed, pointing at a plume of smoke rising from behind a cluster of trees north of the road.
Radar stopped the jeep rather suddenly, making them both lurch forward, but Father Mulcahy paid it no mind and hopped out quickly, running toward the site of the fumes. He felt somewhat victorious in that he was right: there was another helicopter, and something had gone wrong, but he and Radar were here to help.
When he reached the smoking chopper, the victorious feeling evaporated. It was bad; it didn’t take a doctor to recognize that.
Sure enough, Radar’s voice came out as barely more than a squeak. “Oh, my God… Sorry, Father.”
“Don’t ever be sorry for calling out to God, Radar,” Father Mulcahy answered, wading through the wreckage. He saw two people, but he wasn’t sure yet if they were the only ones in the rubble that used to make up a chopper.
Father Mulcahy and Radar were both relieved to hear a low moan escape the pilot’s lips. That meant he was alive, if in pain. “I’ll get his legs,” Radar offered, so Father Mulcahy grasped the pilot by the shoulders and on Radar’s count of three, heaved the wounded man upwards and carried him in a lurching gate back to the jeep.
“Stay with him,” Father Mulcahy advised Radar. “I’ll go back for the other one.”
He ran back to the site of the crash. The second soldier was partially underneath a bit of what used to be the helicopter. Father Mulcahy moved the rubble with great care, and was met with the sight of a woman who couldn’t have been more than twenty-one. She was breathing, thank the Lord, but there was so much blood surrounding her that Father Mulcahy was sure she wouldn’t be breathing much longer if he and Radar didn’t get her to a doctor right away.
The young woman’s deep brown eyes were wide, and though her dark irises made it hard to tell, her pupils were dilated in spite of the bright sun shining down. She reached for Father Mulcahy’s hand and clutched it tightly. “Am I dead?” She asked, her words slurred.
“You’re very much alive,” Father Mulcahy said in what he hoped was a soothing voice; his heart was racing. “And you’re going to stay that way.” He looked around. “Was there anyone else with you, besides the pilot?”
“No. Just me and him. We didn’t have any wounded, but we knew how many people were being sent to the 4077th. We thought I could help.” A nurse, then. Father Mulcahy felt a deep melancholy creep over himself; this poor young lady had only been trying to help, had gone above and beyond, and now she was rapidly losing blood, convinced she was dying.
“Well, now we need to get you some help,” Father Mulcahy said. There was no question about it, she wouldn’t be able to walk, so he picked her up with care and tried to walk with urgency, but without jostling her, back towards Radar and the jeep. “I’m Father Mulcahy,” he said as he walked, suddenly realizing he’d never introduced himself or learned the name of the woman in his arms. “I’m the chaplain at the 4077th.”
“Mary Carter. I feel I should tell you, Father, that I’m not Catholic.”
Father Mulcahy had to resist the urge to laugh at that. Who was Catholic, anyway? As hard as he worked to serve the soldiers and locals, he often wondered how much good he was doing in a space where next to no one shared his beliefs. “I don’t mind. And I don’t think God does, either.” He thought he might’ve seen a smile on Mary’s face, but maybe it was a grimace from the pain. As he eased Mary into the jeep, he realized for the first time that the blood pouring from the wounds all across her abdomen had soaked through his own shirt.
“Hold on tight, Father,” Radar said before stomping on the gas like a madman. They both knew it was essential to get Mary and the pilot to surgery as soon as possible, but they also both worried each time the jeep hit a bump or rounded a corner.
When they got back, Mary was drifting in and out of consciousness. Radar moved to call someone over to get her inside and prepared for surgery, but Father Mulcahy shook his head. “I’ve got her.” He felt a certain responsibility for her.
As he carried her toward the doctors he trusted to save her, Father Mulcahy noted how light she was. It could have been his own adrenaline, but he couldn’t help wondering just how much mass the chopper crash had taken from her; the blood loss alone looked significant enough to effect weight loss.
Colonel Potter was already removing his gloves and gown when Father Mulcahy burst in with Mary. “Where’d you find her?” Potter asked, reaching for a new pair of gloves.
“I told you there was another helicopter. Radar’s behind me with the pilot.” Father Mulcahy eased Mary onto a gurney.
Colonel Potter leaned on the door to the OR. “Don’t pack up yet,” he called inside. “We’ve got another two.” He turned to Father Mulcahy. “Well, get washed up if you’re coming in.”
Father Mulcahy watched as a nurse looked over Mary’s injuries and rolled the young woman into the OR. “I’ll sit this one out, if it’s alright with you.”
“And if your services are needed?”
Looking skyward, Father Mulcahy’s hand absent-mindedly reached up to hold the cross that hung around his neck. “They won’t be.” Even if they were, Mary wasn’t Catholic. It hadn’t stopped the priest from praying over others, but he got the sense that Mary didn’t want that.
“If you say so,” Colonel Potter answered with a shrug before turning away from Father Mulcahy.
The latter made his way outside, needing the fresh air. He sat and closed his eyes before silently reciting the Litany of the Saints. He’d lost track of the time when Hawkeye and BJ materialized in front of him. He stood quickly, eager for news.
“Potter said you’d taken a special interest in the nurse from the chopper.” Hawkeye yawned. “I’m sorry, Father. She lost too much blood. We couldn’t save her.”
BJ nodded his agreement. “Even with a transfusion, the human body can only handle so much.”
Both doctors stood in silence for a moment, waiting for Father Mulcahy to acknowledge them. “I told her she’d live,” Father Mulcahy said softly. “I wasn’t honest with her.”
“You had no way of knowing,” BJ insisted. “That’s not dishonest.”
“Even if you did know, you believe in eternal life- it wasn’t dishonest either way,” Hawkeye added.
Father Mulcahy knew he meant it to be lighthearted, but somehow, it didn’t land. The priest turned away from the doctors and toward his tent. As he walked, he wished the sky wasn’t so blue. It was a beautiful day, but it didn’t feel like it.
He sat on his bed and pulled a rosary out from under his pillow. He had one in his pocket that he carried with him always, but this one was special; his sister had given it to him as a going away present the day he went to the seminary.
After making the sign of the cross and kneeling next to his bed, Father Mulcahy got through the Apostles’ Creed alright, and the Our Father, but his mind was wandering by the time he got to the first Hail Mary.
Hail, Mary.
That was her name, too, the nurse who died in the crash.
Full of grace.
She must be. That young woman, called home to the kingdom of God. Her soul must be so full of grace, in the presence of the Lord. Her body, though… The only thing it was full of was shrapnel.
The Lord is with Thee.
Yes, the Lord is with that poor nurse. She was only doing her job. She didn’t deserve this.
Blessed art thou amongst women.
Blessed indeed, that most courageous nurse. Blessed and dead. Looking down, Father Mulcahy noticed that his knuckles had gone white, his fingers locked around the beads of his worn old rosary desperate for something to hold onto. He unfurled each digit slowly, one by one, trying to regain some feeling in his hand, in his heart, but he had suddenly gone numb. The string of beads fell to the floor.
And blessed is the fruit of thy womb…
The crucifix landed face up.
Jesus.
Holes in his abdomen, just like that nurse. Tears welled in Father Mulcahy’s eyes when he thought of her. She was only trying to help; like so many who had died in this God-forsaken war, the poor girl was barely out of high school and just doing her job. She didn’t deserve to die.
Though his vision was blurred through the tears falling freely now, the priest stared at the crucifix on the ground before him. “Where are you?” he asked out loud. His gaze turned skyward, searching for the omnipotent God he thought he knew. “Where have you gone?”
He suddenly felt so alone, so empty. His hand shot out to grab the rosary; he clutched it tightly, searching his mind for the familiar words he knew so well.
Holy Mary, Mother of God,
Pray for us sinners,
Now and at the hour of our death.
Death. It was all around him. He had known that long before today, of course; how long had he been in Korea, anyway? How long had any of them been in Korea? He’d seen plenty of bodies and souls torn apart by unspeakable acts of violence. Why was this one any different?
Absent-mindedly, his fingers moved to the next bead and repeated the prayer. Despondency continued to creep up over the words he knew so well, but he moved to the following bead and echoed the prayer again.
He knew the Glory Be was next, but the words hovered just out of reach of his lips. He had just remembered it was Monday, a day to reflect on the Joyful mysteries of the Rosary. The Sorrowful mysteries felt more tangible: agony, death.
Father Mulcahy stood and tucked the rosary back in its place under his pillow. It was no use, no use at all. For the first time in his life, prayer was not quieting or soothing. There was no peace in his mind. He let out a heavy sigh and reached for a bottle. It wasn’t the best batch Hawkeye and BJ had brewed, but Father Mulcahy figured he wouldn’t remember that the next morning.