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M*A*S*H: Northern Spies
Northern Spies

for Jennifer, who loves apples and Hawkeye

“You the doctor who operated on my men?”

"No,” Hawkeye said. He was so tired it felt like someone sitting on top of him. “I'm the janitor. Sometimes they let me operate. Did I leave anything inside?”

“He's just kidding,” Radar said, looking uncomfortable. “He's a doctor. Hawkeye, this is Henry Canfield. He's a sergeant.”

“Congratulations,” Hawkeye said, and yawned. “Hope you get over it soon.”

“Real kidder, aren't you?” Canfield said. “Doc, I got a parcel of these from home but I've only got one left now, and they tell me you're a Vermonter. Figured you'd appreciate it.”

“Maine,” Hawkeye said. He yawned again, his eyes squinting shut. “Mom's from Vermont. Can I help you?”

Canfield seemed to give up: he picked up Hawkeye's arm by the wrist and pushed the red thing he was holding into it. Hawkeye lifted it to his nose and smelled: faint and sweet and unmistakable, the scent of a New England apple, picked hard in autumn and left to ripen in storage.

“For you. Thanks,” Canfield said, and walked out of Hawkeye's life. He was gone before Hawkeye got his eyes properly unsquinched: and even then Hawkeye wasn't sure what he had looked like. But the apple in his hand was round, slightly flattened, wine-red with streaks of green: it smelled sweet and wintery. An apple.

“Who told him I was from Vermont?” Hawkeye asked in puzzlement.

He got up and walked away from the mess table, holding the apple in his hand. Trapper would have told the sergeant Hawkeye was from Maine: but Trapper wasn't here. Trapper was home where he could have all the apples he wanted.

“Did you tell the sergeant I was from Vermont?” he asked Radar.

“No,” Radar said. “Do you want that apple? I could get a whole pack of toilet paper for it, maybe some peanut brittle, too. No one around here's seen fresh fruit in weeks.”

“Let them eat cake,” Hawkeye said, with a queenly gesture that didn't let go of the apple. He wandered on.

“Hey, BJ, did you tell the sergeant I was from Vermont?”

"No,” BJ said. “I told him I was from Vermont, but he didn't believe me. If you don't want your apple, I'll have it.”

Hawkeye laughed. It was difficult to laugh with sleep sitting on him. “Did he give Frank an apple?”

“Ha!” Frank said. “I didn't want one of those apples. Are you going to eat that? An apple? It's very bad for you.”

“An apple a day keeps the doctor away,” Hawkeye said, and waved the apple at Frank. “Away, away.” He wandered on.

“Hawkeye, are you all right?”

“I'm asleep, Father,” Hawkeye explained. “I dreamed someone told me I was from Vermont and gave me an apple.” He sank down on to the nearest bed, and sniffed the apple again. “It smells good for a dream. Do you want an apple?”

Father Mulcahy sat down on the edge of the bed, and Hawkeye pulled him down like a reluctant coverlet to lie on top of him. He bit into the apple: the white flesh beneath the thin skin had run in streaks of red, like wine, like blood. He held out the apple in his mouth to Father Mulcahy, lifting his face towards Mulcahy's, feeling sweet relief as Mulcahy's head dropped in surrender, and Hawkeye felt his teeth bite into the apple's flesh.

“Why did you tell him I was from Vermont?”

“I hoped he'd give you the apple,” Mulcahy said. His mouth tasted sweet and cool.

“Serpent,” Hawkeye hissed affectionately, twined round him.

***


These are what Northern Spies look like: