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stubbornnesskeepsmesane · 2 years

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Speak Ill Of The Dead, Chapter 2

I did bring it up the next day. Major Browning was blunt.

"We couldn't spare any."

"Couldn't spare any? Nurse, she was barely functioning!"

"I know!" She yelled at me and we both realised her temper was finally snapping under pressure. "We have practically none left! She'll have got all she needs in Seoul, we need to save what we have for the next lot who come in screaming."

"Sorry, sorry" I apologised, backing off, hands raised. She didn't seem like the kind of dame who'd throw a punch over a thing like this, but I'm far too pretty to take that kind of risk. "Why so low?"

Browning sighed, her temper sinking as fast as it had risen. "It gets stolen. Every single vial of morphine we get, it walks. We've tried hiding it, keeping it locked away, I even slept with it under my pillow one time. It somehow just goes."

That was never a good sign.

"Since when?" I queried.

"Last month or so."

So before Colonel Bailey split then. There goes the theory that it was lack of command then.

"Any suspects?"

She shook her head "Not without suspecting everyone. There's very few new staff here - other than yourself I'm the next most recent transfer, everyone else has worked together for most of the war. We do what we can to squirrel it away but there's nothing we seem to be able do to stop it."

"Leave it to me, Major." I replied, hating myself for getting involved "I'll see if I can find anything out"

I left the recovery ward before lighting up a smoke. Stupid thing to volunteer, but I had a gut feeling that being an outsider might be an advantage in this one. Not that I had any idea where to start, but this is the army. Not knowing where to start is standard operating practice.

I decided to look at the other people in camp first - the medics would all have opportunity but they also had reason to want the morphine available. The hangers on, on the other hand, not so much.

My first stop was the prayer tent, because it was in a set position and therefore easy to find. To call it a chaplaincy would be like calling a bread roll a banquet - it would do in a pinch, but only the army would argue that it was good enough. The tent was was in essence just the Padre's quarters, with an alter at the front and a sheet hanging up to keep his bunk out of sight of sinners.

"Hello?" I called.

A smiling face emerged from the back tent, followed by a strong built body with a beard and a dog collar. Pastor Dean Tuttle.

"Hello there! Mouse, isn't it? What brings you to my humble abode? Looking for a prayer?"

I smiled back, against my better judgement. "Not my area really Padre. God and I have more of a nodding relationship than a close friendship."

"May you be struck down" He laughed, showing a gold tooth. Unusual. Generally they mean it when they say that. "So what are you looking for here?"

I shrugged. This guy did not fit the standard template and it intrigued me. "Just thinking I should get to know my fellow inmates" I replied carefully. A priest shouldn't make one feel intimidated but for some reason, this one did. Intimidated, and very curious.

"Inmates, indeed" Tuttle replied quietly, a tone of friendly menace sneaking in. "You'll be a draftee then, Mouse. Plucked away from a nice cosy private practice and dropped in this dark corner of God's green earth. Never expected to be spending your career under fire in the muck. And the blood."

I held his gaze as firmly as I ever had in my life, and his baby blues kicked onto mine likewise. St Michael and all his archangels could have come down and played the last trump right here in Korea and we'd still have been standing there, waiting to see who blinked.

"You've guessed wrong there, Padre. I signed up straight out of med school. Fourteen years a soldier and I've seen my share. I go where I'm needed, always have done, always will do. That's why I don't agree with bringing civilians into theatre and if I understand right, that includes your good self. Father."

For a long moment the silence hung in the air. I offered a silent prayer to a God I didn't believe in that I'd guessed correctly.

"Pastor" he said finally, looking over to tap the cross on the wall. Breaking off without backing down. "Father is a Catholic term and you can see there's no image on the cross here. Catholics use a crucifix with an image - usually a statue but it's not doctrinal - to give a focal point for prayer. Most Protestant denominations consider that to be bordering on if not in fact fully idolatry, and so have the unadorned cross. That's how you can tell that Father is not the correct term."

"As you wish, Padre."

He nodded "It'll do."

"So what flavor of Christian are you then, Padre?"

He spread his arms expansively. "I consider myself quite ecumenical in that regard."

"An ecumenical preacher. That's pretty unusual."

"I choose to take that as a compliment."

I laughed, genuinely. I didn't trust this guy and I wasn't ruling him out of my list of suspects, but I was really starting to like him.

"You should do, Padre. I like a man who hedges his bets."

"Think of it more as playing my cards close to my chest."

"So let's put our cards on the table then" I decided to be blunt. "I'm looking to find out who's stealing morphine. Know anything about it?"

He managed a horrified expression, but I wasn't buying it and I could see he wasn't intending me to. It did however make it impossible to read his actual thoughts. I felt that I would love to play poker against this guy. Though not for high stakes.

"Are you asking me if I'm breaking the eighth commandment?"

"Of course not, Padre" Unless of course that's the one about stealing. Because in that case yes. "I'm just asking if anyone has said anything to you about it."

"Ah." He let out a knowing sigh, sitting down in one of the wooden chairs around the place and steepling his fingers as he looked at me. "You're asking me to break the seal of the confessional."

I set my face into a mask of confusion.

"Oh I couldn't possibly do that" I replied, trying to keep the smugness from my voice "The confessional seal is Catholic."

I'd like to report that I walked out on that line but the truth is that we kept talking for some time after, the verbal sparring dispensed with. If he knew anything he wasn't talking, but he made a decent cup of Joe and was happy to chat about anything else going on. He was, as I had correctly guessed, a draftee. Cagey about where he came from in real life but I don't begrudge a man his secrets. Lord knows I've got enough myself. He wasn't innocent, but whether or not he was guilty of this particular crime I wasn't going to find out today.

That didn't mean I was letting it lie, but I had other avenues to pursue.

The avenue my feet took me down next was Times Square, at least metaphorically. There was a journalist embedded with this MASH unit and I couldn't wait to see what she had to say for herself.

I didn't have to wait long. She was sitting in the shade of her personal tent - when you pay to come to hell, turns out you get a private suite - the clatter of the typewriter telling me she was home. Mostly in shadow, a long thin shaft of sunlight perfectly illuminated her graceful fingers. As I stepped through the doorway I briefly saw my outline fall across her face and I caught my breath as she stood to greet me.

A mass of soft black curls fell across her beautiful face, striking in the sudden light as I moved out of the doorway. She was wearing a simple t shirt and skirt, army style in all but color, but somehow on her the normally shapeless style did nothing to disguise her curvaceous form. I could tell from the way she moved and the curl of her perfect mouth, this dame was trouble and she knew it. My momma always warned me, I was bad at staying away from trouble.

"Hello there Captiain" She greeted me with an exotic foreign accent, French I think, it maybe Italian. "I don't believe we've been introduced."

She held out a hand and I wasn't certain for a moment if I was meant to shake it or kiss it. Ignoring my instincts, I shook it warmly.

"Doctor Micky Richards, at your service."

"I'll bear that in mind" She smiled back at me, an engaging smile. "Meena Namora, at yours."

"A pleasure, madam." I found myself saying. I should have more sense than to get involved with a dame like this but I could never resist a challenge. "I'm sorry, I appear to have interrupted your writing."

"Oh I wouldn't worry about that, Mouse. I can always pick up where I left off. I'm very capable that way."

Mouse, is it? She'd done her homework. I could smell her perfume, flowery and rich. It's deep scent was all I could smell. I took a step forwards and could feel her closer to me.

"So what are you working on?" I asked, as much for something to say as from any genuine interest. She waved a manicured hand over the paperwork dismissively.

"Just a fluff piece on Charlie Washington. Nothing particularly interesting, but folks back home lap that kind of thing up."

"And where is home exactly, Mrs Namora?" I'd not heard of Charlie Washington, but that could certainly keep.

"Miss" She corrected me teasingly. Which is why I'd asked. "What is it you Americans say? Home is where I hang my hat, oui? So I am at home anywhere I go. But my readership is mainly European."

I was burning to ask further but we were rudely interrupted by Major Sharp bellowing my name across the compound.

"Sir!" I yelled back reflexively, before offering a slight mock bow to the vision before me "Duty calls, I'm afraid."

"But of course, ma petite souris" She quirked her mouth into an exaggerated pout of disappointment and I decided then and there I had to learn French. Or maybe Italian. Basically I needed to know what she'd just called me but cursing my luck I had to go. To my joy she accompanied me, staying the perfect distance to eavesdrop without seeking to intrude. Must be a thing they teach you in journalism school.

However as I said, duty always gets to come first and so I hurried over to Major Sharp and threw off a smart salute. Earning me a look of surprise from everyone in the huddle, himself included. Clearly saluting was a step too far along the protest army protocol line for this unit. Point taken, though I'd far rather be laughed at for being too army, than be spending the night in the stockade.

"Mouse, glad you made it. We've got a shout on, a downed pilot is radioing in wounded and if we don't get to him first the enemy will. I can spare one surgeon but I'd like another medic to accompany them. I understand you've had combat training, I hope it won't be relevant but be prepared."

I looked around at the group as Sharp continued. It included a few I had met the evening before on my tour hunting for Quacks, a few I hadn't and one I had intended to pick up with after Meera.

"Captain Cody will fly the group in as close as we can but the guy came down in pretty dense jungle so be prepared to hoof it a while. Magdalena has agreed to come to translate in case you encounter any hostility: it's a medical mission so you should be able to talk your way out of things."

A medical mission. With three medics, three combatants and a civilian.

"I would like to accompany them, Major, if I may. Get a full rescue to recovery view of your work, oui?"

Make that two civilians. Sharp immediately disagreed with her of course, but I knew Meera would get her way. That put the group as:

Captain William Cody, our pilot and highest priority. Without him, none of us were getting back alive.

Captain Reuben Koppelman, our only practising MD. The one I was worrying about, the one who had somehow acquired the biggest machine gun on base. Oh this was really looking like a medical team indeed.

Private Leslie Bloom, a despatch rider who I'd met last night. He was good at darts, I hoped that translated into being handy with a pistol too.

Corporal Jack "Rooster" McEachan, who definitely seemed handy with a gun.

Private Robbie Mann, quite a reserved kind of guy but he seemed decent enough.

Lieutenant J.J. Baker, a nurse who I hoped has a strong stomach for this kind of thing. Some dames do, and nurses more than most. I hadn't yet found out what J.J. stood for but I'm sure I had that pleasure to come.

Miss Magdelena Hackett, a local guide and recovering former missionary. Apparently she' d spent twenty years trying to deliver God to the Koreans before realizing that what they really needed was a hot meal and decent healthcare.

And Miss Meera Namora, who whatever other skills she had, was clearly very good at being a hard dame to say no to.

Between us, I wasn't convinced we were going to strike fear into the heart of the commies, but with any luck we were enough to carry a wounded man back to safety. Ideally without making ourselves casualties on the way.

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stubbornnesskeepsmesane · 2 years

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Speak Ill Of the Dead Chapter 1

This is a fic loosely based on a larp loosely based on the M*A*S*H tv show. Which is loosely based on a film loosely based on a book loosely based on a war, but not the one that it’s about. Basically what I’m saying is don’t expect historical accuracy here.

=-=-=

Through early morning fog I saw raindrops large as tears crashing down onto blackened earth, as though they were trying to batter Korea into submission. Hell, the United States army had been trying a long time with no success, might as well let the rain have a go. Better raindrops than blood, and there's been a whole lot of both these last two years. I turned away from the window and back to the desk I was about to lose.

The name's Mouse, though my dog tags call me Captain M. Richards. Three guesses what the M stands for? Yeah, right first time. Bunch of jokers in the army and I am not a vindictive person but if I ever get my hands on that Walt Disney, it won't be pretty.

I'm a shrink for my sins. Also known as the doctor who worked all the way through med school, then retained to get some extra qualifications, just to get dismissed as a drop out who couldn't hack real medicine. Most people don't even believe I've got a medical degree at all.

I would ask what I’d done wrong to get stuck in a MASH unit, but I knew exactly what. Do your job too well and you too will get a visit from some MPs with an exciting new opportunity to fall down some stairs. I woke up with a three day headache and a brand new commission to the MASH rotation. It’s not fair, but then if you’re looking for fairness the army is not the place to find it.

So here I was, "accepting" a transfer to the Mobile Army Surgical Hospitals rotation. First stop, the 7040. They needed someone to tell them whether or not it was crazy to want out of this mess. Apparently they needed a qualified professional to tell them that.

There was a file, but I didn’t have the heart to read it. I knew what it said

There would be surgeons, all of them crazy. In the army surgical corps, you’re either a high-functioning alcoholic or you ain’t functioning.

There would be nurses, and if I was really lucky they’d have already given up on caring. Idealistic young kids who get into nursing to help people and save lives, then find themselves 5 miles behind the line looking at broken young bodies with old, old eyes. If I'm lucky, they won't try and take me down that spiral of despair with them. Pity luck ain’t my specialty.

There would be Corpsmen, stretched to the limit but grateful to be somewhere that wasn’t meant to be under direct fire. It usually was, but the fact it wasn’t meant to be maybe counted for something.

Then there was the rest. There was usually a preacher of some flavor, Padre or Rabbi or some such. I didn’t get on with preachers. Promises of heaven don’t mean much when you’re living through hell every day. There might be locals or interpreters or any of the various hangers on you find around army units. Some people looking for hope, and others looking to prey on the first lot.

Yeah, I didn’t have to look through the file to know what I was getting. I turned away from the window and took a long pull on my cigarette. Right now I wasn't focusing on what I was getting, but on what I was losing.

It wasn't a good office, but it was mine. The frosted window was as cracked as the leather on the couch and didn't so much keep the wind out as funnel it into a freeze ray like a dime store superhero. The Military Hand-Book And Soldier's Manual of Information, that uplifting volume of heroic wisdom, was doing military service holding up the corner of my desk, and Freud's Interpretation Of Dreams was my favorite coaster. The drawers rattled, the door stuck, and the whole place smelt of gin.

That last might be my fault.

Still, bright side to everything, it wasn't gonna be my problem for too long. As of 0800 tomorrow I was M*A*S*H 7040's problem. Good luck to them.

-=-=-

We had been flying for several hours when Cody, the taciturn helicopter pilot and my current best friend - at least until we landed - shouted something at me and I strained to catch it over the tremendous racket of the helicopter. The air was screaming in pain as the blades sliced the clouds to ribbons.

"What?" I yelled back, giving up completely on the pretense of having been paying attention. Cody glared briefly in my general direction, but was concentrating more on keeping the bird in the air.

"I said, brace for landing!"

The chopper lurched once and then dropped towards the dusty ground. I assured myself this was meant to happen and moved on to more immediate things, like not losing my lunch all over Cody. He seemed like a stand up guy with a fine right hook and didn't need that kind of distraction while he was busy trying to stop the ground from doing what it does best.

Somehow, the chopper came down with a few jolts that did no more than rattle a few bones. Resisting the urge to count my fillings, I thanked Cody for an excellent and pleasant flight - it doesn't do to be too blunt to someone when they're your only getaway driver - and he tipped his hat in silent acknowledgement as I promised to buy him a drink later. Something told me I might need all the friends I could get here.

For lack of any better welcome, I picked my way through the dust and stones down the slight incline towards the haphazard collection of tents that comprised my life for the foreseeable future. Or until I was forgiven, or the war ended. Or hell froze over, which seemed the best bet from the three options.

That aside, it felt rather strange that no one had come to meet me. Even if only to tell me to beat it. As I got closer though I realised why: the helicopter wasn't the only thing screaming in this camp. I must have come hot on the heels of a full crop of wounded so the fact that no one was left free to notice my arrival was either a glowing testimonial to their dedication or a sign of how desperately short staffed they were. I wasn't betting a nickel on option one.

My bet was confirmed when a one eyed corpsman ran past me, not even casting her one eye on me but instead straight over charging over to Cody.

"How many wounded? We've not got room!"

As Cody offered reassurance that he'd only brought one person and I was pretty healthy, I looked at the dame shouting at him. Somehow managing to be lanky yet short, she looked like she could do with a week in bed but I wasn't going to be the one to tell her. She looked like she could swing a punch too, and it would hurt through sheer force of will. I caught her on the shoulder as she hared off back again.

"Shouldn't you be in a ward somewhere? Sergeant." I added, spotting the insignia. Her eye was clearly a recent loss. The bandage was clean but fresh and the skin around it was as angry as the other eye looking out at me.

"There's no room, didn’t you hear me? We've not got anything we need right now."

"Sergeant Richards, call me Mouse. I've got medical training, where do you need me?"

She pointed out a large tent which, now I looked I could see was the epicentre of the activity. I nodded grimly and set my direction. No telling where the camp commander was, but there was a nurse who was clearly the one running the show just now anyway. I approached her as she was stepping back from one whimpering patient and was briefly pausing before moving onto another.

"Major Richards, call me Mouse. I'm a doctor, where do you need me?"

She paused, I'd clearly caught her interest with such an unexpected offer. She tucked a lock of black hair behind her ear as it escaped from her hat.

"They sent us a doc? We've only been asking for a year and a half"

"Not quite, major. I'm a shrink but I got my MD first."

"Figures" she groaned. I decided not to take it personally. "Major Carly Browning, head nurse. I'm not letting you into the O.R. when you don't know your way around, but you can still be helpful. Here."

I followed along behind as she set a sharp pace towards the post op ward

"Just out of surgery but she's running a fever and I'm not pulling any of the surgeons out to find out why. Third degree burns, right side denucleation"

Another one? That would make a total of four people I'd met here and four peepers between them. Maybe that was why they'd called me in, one of the docs had turned collector. Wouldn't be the first time I'd seen that. Wouldn't be the second, either. I grimaced.

"What's his prognosis?"

"She'll live. Probably won't thank us for that."

Major Browning pointed out a woman in standard army drabs, her eyes coated in bandages and blood, dressings all down one arm and second degree burns along the other. Probably could have done with bandaging too, but I was glad they'd left her one hand to interact with the world. I could trace exactly what happened along the lines of the scarring. A fire had caught her from above and right, probably a roof or covering, and she'd thrown up her hands to protect herself. She was sitting in one of the ubiquitous wooden chairs that subbed for bunks around here, and I didn't have to see her face to see how scared she was.

"Thanks Major. I'll take it from here."

She shot me a grateful look and dashed off to the next emergency. I picked up a chair and put it down silently in front of my new patient.

"Hello private. I'm Doctor Richards but you can call me Mouse, everyone else does." I spoke gently but clearly. She jumped and looked around, or at least tried to. So she still had her hearing. "I'm just going to put my hand on your left shoulder so you know where I am, and then I'm going to sit back in front of you." As I spoke I did as I described, and even that gentle human touch made her snap her arm up to grab mine. Carefully reaching around the worst of the damage I softly moved our hands together to rest on my knee, but I didn't let go.

"What's your name, private?"

"Thorpe, sir. Gail" She whispered, intubation and anaesthetic having finished the work the fire started on her throat. With my free hand I flagged down a passing nurse and angrily demanded a drink for her. When I saw how few staff there were though, I was mollified a little. It may have been a necessity rather than an oversight. Still needed fixed though.

"OK Gail, I'm getting you a glass of water, that'll help with your throat. Feels a bit rough, yeah? Yeah, don't worry, it's meant to. The knock out gas does that to everyone. Nothing to worry about. Where do you come from, private?"

She hesitated before croaking out "Baltimore"

"Baltimore, eh? Colts fan then, you have my sympathies. Look Thorpe, I'm not leaving you but I need to reach over here to get your chart so I'm getting to let go your hand for now but I'm still here"

"Tell me honest doc, how is it? Its bad, isn't it?"

My heart sunk to my army issue size 9s. I guess it was too much to have hoped that someone else had told her. The worst part of any medical job.

"Just give me a minute here, I wasn't the doc who did your surgery so I need to check. I'm gonna need you to drink the water that's coming and then I'll take your temperature and get your answer on that for you."

She managed a faint smile, though it clearly hurt.

"I think I've had all the temperature I can take for one day."

That's the spirit, kiddo, I thought to myself. It was hard to estimate her age, with no face and no skin to go by, but there was no way she was north of twenty five. That's no age for life as you know it to end.

As she drank the prescribed glass of water I flicked through her file and revised downwards my estimation of her age. I could see what Browning meant about her not thanking us for saving her, she had a long slow road to recovery to go and it was going to be painful. Her temperature was elevated but not unreasonable under the circumstances, but I ordered a course of penicillin just in case. Burns get infected extremely easily and this was about as far from the best of circumstances as it was possible to get.

I kept her talking, making sure she was lucid and trying to stave off the emotional shock a bit. She was a shop clerk in civvy life, drafted into hell a year ago. Helped run a girl scout troop. Her files showed she'd had terrifyingly little by way of pain relief other than the general anaesthetic, she was criminally low on painkiller. Kid should be so full of morphine by now that she could fly off to Seoul without waiting for the helicopter, instead she was wincing at even the slightest movement. I resolved to speak to someone about that when I could - some nurses are so scared the patients will get addicted that they leave them in agony instead. Also, it certainly didn't make this bit any easier.

"OK private, I've read through everything and I've examined you too. Are you ready to hear how you're doing from me, or would you rather wait till they get you to the experts in Seoul?"

She swallowed. It looked painful.

"Just tell me doc. I'm ready to hear it."

They always say that. They never are.

"Kid, there is someone up there who likes you a whole lot. Most people would be dead after what you went through, but you're alive and you're going to stay that way. That said, it's not going to be an easy few years' recovery..." She visibly flinched at the word years, but held her nerve. "... but I can promise you we'll get you back leading your girl scout troop with a purple heart to go with your badges. As soon as your buddies are out of surgery you'll all be on your way to the proper hospital in Seoul where you'll start full recuperation ready to fly home to Baltimore."

There's no good way to deliver this kind of news. I've tried many methods and it turns out there's no good way to tell bad news. There's only bad ways and worse ways.

"The surgeons here are extremely skilled and they did all it was possible to do" I lied. At least, I assumed I did. Odds are they were either hungover or amputation-happy or just plain incompetent, but a comforting lie is always better. "They were able to save the use of your hands and one eye but I'm afraid your right side sustained..."

I wasn't able to finish that thought before she burst into silent and clearly painful tears. Believe it or not that's one of the better reactions - it meant she believed me, which meant she could stay dealing with it. I reassured her that she'd still live well with one eye and the burns wouldn't hurt forever and she could wear her hair over it and look like Veronica Lake. Slowly the sobs subsided and by the time Cody was ready to take off she was able to go with dignity to her new life.

I stood up, my thighs burning from having been squatting so long, and belatedly hoped that someone had thought to offload my kit bag before Cody flew it out of my life.

The camp was strikingly quiet after the chopper took off. Like after the tornado, as the survivors pick through the wreckage trying to find a lifeline back to normality. Beds were stripped and cleaned, and surgeons wandered around in blood stained gloves until someone stripped them back too. Conversations were muted as everyone fell to their role whether that was counting the pills or moving the bodies. The padre was working overtime, two had been brought in dead and one had joined them before the sawbones had finished his ministrations. He floated through the crowd in ridiculously ornate vestments which I was later to learn was his way of showing respect. A shamrock in a sea of khaki and blood.

It has long been my opinion that if you allow yourself to fade into the background you'll spend your life there, so I set about finding the name on my transfer papers. Nobody with a sufficiently high number of stripes presented himself so I went to the OR to find instead someone to ask for directions. Looking around the tent, I ticked through first impressions to find the best doc to ask.

Alky.

Greenhorn.

I ..... I'm gonna say probably The Reason They Sent For Me.

Burnout.

Greenhorn seemed the best bet for a sensible answer.

"Hey, the name’s Richards. I’m looking for Colonel Bailey?”

She looked up, surprising me. You don’t see that many dames in the OR, and her short hair and slim build had misled me.

“Funny, you don’t look like an MP.”

“Next best thing, sweetheart. I’m a head shrinker.”

She smiled slightly “Bit late then. He went AWOL two weeks ago.”

“What?” Takes a lot to surprise me, but that’ll do it. Every time. “I thought he was the commanding officer here.”

“He was, until he went AWOL two weeks ago. I shit you not, he just upped and left in the middle of the night, him and about half the corps. No one knows why."

Wow. This place was crazier than I'd thought - and I pride myself on my cynicism.

"So who is in charge here?"

She nodded over to Burnout, who was sitting with his head in his hands looking like a man who's quit smoking at just the wrong time. Given the circumstances I couldn't blame him. I thanked her and went over.

"Need a smoke?"

He looked up briefly and waved away the suggestion.

"I quit thanks. Who're you?"

I showed him my transfer papers.

"Major Micky Richards, call me Mouse. Army psychiatrist just transferred in sir and I understand you're in charge."

"So they tell me" I wondered briefly if he was going to stay sitting but he got to his feet and I found myself looking him squarely in the chest as we saluted each other. "Major Edgar Sharp, surgeon and currently base commander till we find the old one." Something in his mind caught up with the conversation and he raised a questioning eyebrow. "Major...?"

I smiled "I always like to see that in a commanding officer, you're the first one in camp to notice. Sharp by name and nature I see. It’s a quirk of my job, I always have honorary rank the equal of whoever I'm talking to. Means no one is spilling their guts to a subordinate, and means I can order anyone to stand down if their mental state demands it."

"Can you demand I step down please? I've had enough of this. " His tone said he was joking, but his eyes told a different story.

"Sorry Major, you seem way too competent to me."

"Figures. OK Mouse, I'll get Ruby to assign you some quarters. You here for anyone in particular?"

"I was hoping you could tell me that, Major. Usually they have the psychiatric cases lined up and ready for me" I didn't make any suggestions, but could see the sawbones I'd had concerns about was now alternating smoking and swearing, two hobbies which rarely work well together but he was making a good fist of it. Sharp caught my glance but clearly decided not to engage.

"It wasn't me who sent for you but now you're here, fill your boots. I'm sure you'll find someone to talk to."

"I usually do" I saluted politely and went off to find out who Ruby was. After a little investigation I learned that Ruby was the one-eyed firecracker who had greeted me at the chopper and who was until recently the company clerk and exactly the right person to speak to about sorting out a bunk but as of three weeks ago, that duty fell to a man who apparently revelled in the name of Quacks. Quacks however was proving a lot harder to find and I ended up taking a whistlestop tour around the whole camp before using my brain and going to take a break in the clerk's office to let Quacks come to me.

It was a fairly well-appointed outfit, with a working tannoy, a reasonably modern typewriter and a few pictures to remind us what we're fighting for - and I don't mean mom's apple pie. This kid had a good eye for the ladies, and the men. Or maybe those were Ruby's. I sat back in the only chair, flinging my boots up on the desk. Take a chance to rest when you can, that's always been my motto.

One of my mottos. I have a few, and I can change ‘em when necessary.

I had barely closed my eyes when the door clattered open. At least, I think I had. It'd been a long day. A young kid with a harassed expression came in, gave a yelp of surprise, and dropped all the papers he was carrying. I smiled, and raised a toast from my hip flask before offering him the same courtesy.

"Ah, the elusive Quacks. You'll forgive me, no one felt like giving me your real name."

"Corporal Mallard, sir. Declan Mallard" It struck me that if his accent was any more southern it'd be trying to secede from his body. He tried to accept the flask at the same time as picking up the files, and ended up baptising whatever he was writing about in neat gin. I decided to take pity on him and gave him a hand.

"Captain Richards, better known as Mouse" Quirks of the job be damned, I wasn't giving one inch when my comfort was on the line. I did help him with the files though, too many years of experience allowing me to run a practised eye over then without being too obvious about it. Nothing particularly exciting but that was interesting in and of itself. Duty rosters should definitely have a lot more names on them than I was looking at.

"Quacks, when was the last time you had R&R?" I hadn't intended to get involved this early, but I couldn't help myself. Unfortunately, he misunderstood my meaning.

"It's fine sir, sorry sir. I just slipped, I didn't expect to see you here sir."

"Oh no, no that's ok." I hastily explained myself. It never does to make an enemy of the man who got to choose my bunkroom. “I more meant that it seems really short staffed here. I get that the colonel went AWOL but even so, it just seems really short staffed. Any I wanted to make sure that you’re getting to have some rest.”

"Oh. Sorry sir, I didn't think of that. Its been a while for most people but, uh, Colonel Bailey wasn't - that is, he generally felt that you could get enough of a break on the base so people generally didn't."

Jeez. Maybe the best thing this guy could have done for the unit is run out on it.

"Gotcha, yeah, I've heard of that a few times." I stayed non-committal for now, it’s not my place to get involved until I absolutely have to, and that's usually a few days in at least.

We haggled out a decent place for me to hang my hat, sharing with a couple of others but not too many. Not everyone was happy with a shrink in their room anyway. Cody had indeed had the good sense to leave my kit bag in the dust so I had the essentials - a packet of smokes and my spare hip flask. So armed I returned to the mess tent to spend the evening getting acquainted with my fellow inmates and it was only as the sandman started doing his rounds that it occurred to me I'd never asked about Private Thorpe's pain relief.

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