Mirror M*A*S*H: Through the Mirror, Part Six
This is by way of being a sequel to MirrorM*A*S*H.

Part one, Part two, Part three, Part four and Part five are here.

Part 6

“Who ordered the head injury?” Klinger asked.

“Who wants orange juice?” Father Mulcahy came in behind Klinger.

“What time is it?” the Colonel asked.

Hawkeye was stripping off his gloves. “Over here,” he said.

“Was that for the orange juice, or the head injury?” Klinger asked brightly. He was wheeling the patient over. “I wouldn’t want to get the orders mixed up, that’s how a restaurant gets a bad reputation.”

“Just get him on to my table,” Hawkeye said.

“I’ll take the orange juice,” BJ said. He was working on a lower intestine, exteriorised and clamped: the smell would make anyone a mouth breather.

Multiple lacerations to the scalp, neck, and shoulder, and damage to the ear and eye on the right side. The man had been a handsome guy.

“What time is it?” the Colonel asked again.

“It’s just after twenty-two hundred, sir,” Baker said.

“I’ve worked the clock around,” Colonel Potter said. “How many in the queue? Ah, thanks, Padre.”

“Sixty-two patients waiting, Colonel,” Father Mulcahy said.

“There were fifty-three waiting last time I asked,” the Colonel said.

“Second wave casualties started arriving twenty minutes ago, sir,” Klinger said.

That wasn’t good news for anyone; least of all for the man on the table. “Why wasn’t I told when they started arriving?” Hawkeye said. He wasn’t going to be able to do any work on the man’s face, not even around the eye, and he could only guess what that meant it would look like by the time he arrived in Tokyo. “We’ve got to plan our workload. We can’t just have patients getting pushed in here without knowing how many people are waiting.” One man had already died on Hawkeye’s table: Mulcahy had stayed with him till the end.

“Colonel, my nurses are doing an excellent job in triage,” Margaret said.

“I know that, Major,” the Colonel said. “Folks, we’re all tired. Let’s not pick fights with each other. Pierce, you okay over there?”

“I’m fine,” Hawkeye said. Mulcahy arrived with his tray of orange juice in beakers with straws. He wasn’t looking at Hawkeye and Hawkeye wasn’t looking at him. That was just fine. The juice was powdered and thinly diluted. It was wet, at least. There was a long night to go.


Hawkeye woke: mid-afternoon, from the light and the noises around camp. BJ was getting up to head over to post-op: that meant Charles would be coming back to the Swamp, probably all set to play some noisy classical stuff till supper.

He could head over the mess tent. Or stay here and bury his head under his pillow.

Father Mulcahy wasn’t in the mess tent. Or sitting outside his own tent. Or in post-op. It took half an hour of not asking to establish that he’d borrowed a jeep and gone to Seoul.

In post-op, BJ was doing rounds. Hawkeye followed him: there were a dozen casualties who hadn’t been fit to be moved out to the evac hospital after surgery, and three who would be going back to their units in a day or two. The man with the head injuries was gone: he would be on his way to Tokyo and then stateside. It was odd how sometimes he could look at someone on his table and remember him, though seldom if ever a name, unless he stayed on in post-op.

“What do you think about this?” BJ asked.

Hawkeye picked up the board and glanced at it: stomach and kidney damage. One of BJ’s, by the stitching. “Nice crochet work,” he said absently. “He’s not putting out much, is he?” He was the worst casualty who had survived to post-op: the others were all doing fine. Ambulances due in an hour or two: if the patients were lucky, they’d be out of the 4077th by the end of the day.

“Shall we – ” BJ said, pointing at the door to the outside. He sounded tense. He shoved the door of post-op open, and they went out. “I think he’s heading for renal shutdown.”

“I think you’re right,” Hawkeye agreed. The man looked in good shape apart from that, considering: he’d probably survive a chopper trip. A short one.

“Some crochet job,” BJ said. He sounded despondent and angry with himself.

No one had died on BJ’s table in the long night, last night – two men had died on Hawkeye’s. Father Mulcahy had stayed with them both till the end. Hawkeye said, tired and exasperated, “You did a great job. You want me to stroke your ego? He’ll live, he would have died without you.”

“You think that’s what this is about?” BJ snapped.

“What else? You want sympathy, go ask Father Mulcahy. You want ego-stroking, come to your friendly Chief Surgeon. What more do you want? Jokes? I’m fresh out.”

BJ’s mouth opened. Instead of yelling, he gave Hawkeye a long look. “Yeah, you are.”

“What?”

“What’s wrong with you?”

“Nothing’s wrong with me. Let’s get the Colonel to order up a chopper.”


The chopper swung up from the camp, which, as always, turned into a brown circle in green and was left behind faster than Hawkeye expected. It was amazing how much misery could be left behind so fast. He couldn’t figure out why the Colonel had sent him to Seoul with the patient: he hadn’t been that obnoxious. Not more than usual. Not lately. BJ had been just as bad. Charles was always more obnoxious.

BJ hadn’t said How come he gets to go to Seoul, and I don’t?

The patient was barely conscious on delivery, but barely conscious was better than almost dead. Hawkeye checked him in, told the doctor on duty the details of the case, and found he had four hours to kill in Seoul before he could catch a chopper going back.

Time for a meal, or a drink that didn’t taste like BJ’s socks, or...

“Isn’t there a Jesuit house here?” Maybe Father Mulcahy would let Hawkeye take him out for a meal. Or a drink.


It was easier than Hawkeye had expected to get inside the house. There was an army jeep in the outer courtyard. No one stopped him. Once inside, there was an entire absence of anyone to ask. Bluffing into a monastery was more like bluffing into a hospital than Hawkeye had expected: he didn’t even seem to need a black robe.

A priest – not Mulcahy – appeared silently in a doorway, and paused, looking at him. Hawkeye stopped. “I’m looking for Father Mulcahy.”

“Yes,” the priest said. “He’s in the infirmary.”

“Is he all right?”

“He’s asleep.” The priest started walking down the corridor. Hawkeye went with him. “He was very tired when he got here.” The man said nothing more, and his silence actively discouraged speech in a way Hawkeye had never met before.

The infirmary was a small room that smelt like a hospital and looked like a cross between a prison cell and his dad’s dispensary back home. There were two beds: Father Mulcahy was asleep on one of them, his glasses hooked over the frame at the head of the bed. Hawkeye sat down on the other.

Now he’d got here, he didn’t know exactly why he’d come. He hadn’t expected to be let in like this. Somehow he’d thought that if he caught Mulcahy away from the 4077th, Mulcahy’s deliberate evasion of him might have changed. Sidney Freedman had refused absolutely to tell him if Mulcahy had talked to him. Of course he couldn’t have said what about, but not even whether Mulcahy had talked.

The infirmary door opened and another priest looked in: a short, balding man with the remains of reddish hair. He saw Hawkeye and his face changed.

“I wanted to speak with Father Francis,” he said. “Please tell him I was here when he wakes up.” He shut the door again, abruptly.

Mulcahy twitched at the sound of the closing door, stirred, rubbing a hand over his face, and sat up. He looked at Hawkeye – looked at him, for what felt like the first time in days. He reached for his glasses and slid them on.

“What are you doing in here?” Mulcahy asked. His voice was crisp, light, oddly detached.

“Colonel Potter sent me to Seoul with a patient, and I,” Hawkeye shrugged, staring as Mulcahy jerked forward, apparently far more startled than Hawkeye’s words justified. “I wanted to talk to you, so I came here.” He was talking by rote now, because Mulcahy looked so profoundly taken aback. “I thought, I could buy you a meal, or a drink... we could talk.”

Mulcahy took his glasses off again and rubbed his face, blinking at Hawkeye. He swallowed. “Oh. Hawkeye.”

“What? Look, if you don’t want to see me, I’m sorry, but – No, I’m not sorry. I want to talk to you. I thought maybe if we weren’t at the 4077th – ” Hawkeye shrugged. “Okay, stupid idea.”

Mulcahy slid his glasses on again. “Hawkeye. I’m sorry, but I have to ask you to leave. Now. Please.”

“If you say so,” Hawkeye said. He stood up. “Look, how long – how long is this going to go on?”

Mulcahy shook his head. “I’m sorry. None of this is your fault. But I can’t – you have to leave. Now. Before – ”

“I thought we were friends,” Hawkeye said.

Mulcahy stared at him, looking profoundly disturbed. He didn’t say no. He didn’t say yes, either.

The door to the infirmary opened again. Hawkeye glanced over his shoulder. He turned around. The man in the doorway was –

– was astonishingly like Hawkeye. He looked older, and he carried himself with a stoop, but he was – he had the Pierce nose and the blue eyes, and the shape of the face –

He looked like Dad, only younger, with dark hair –

"Is Dad still alive?" the man said, in Dad's voice.

"Ayuh," Hawkeye said.

"Is Mom still alive?"

Hawkeye shook his head. It felt as if he were in shock. "Died... when I was... Mom died when I was ten. Who are you?"

The man’s eyes seemed fixed on him in equal fascination. “Benjamin Franklin Hawkeye Pierce.”

“Ayuh,” Hawkeye said again. He turned to look at Mulcahy, struck for the first time by his silence. Mulcahy looked as white in the face – as blankly horrified and sick – as he had looked his first time in OR. “Father,” Hawkeye said, urgently, as the other man said, with the same intonation, “Francis – ”

Mulcahy shook his head. “Please,” he got out, sounding as if he wanted to vomit and was controlling it. His voice was creaky. “Oh, please go away.”

The other man hesitated only for an instant. “All right,” he said, and went out, closing the door behind him.

Hawkeye’s gaze followed him, fascinated, until the door closed, and snapped back to Mulcahy.

“Father, what’s wrong?”

“Go away,” Mulcahy said. “Get out of here.” He still looked sick, but he sounded less creaky, more angry. “You should never have come here. Get out.”

The corridor outside was already empty. Hawkeye retraced his steps to the outer courtyard. No one stopped him or questioned his presence. He looks like me. He kept telling himself that, to cover the quiet appalling certainty: he is me.

The jeep was one of the 4077th’s vehicles. Hawkeye stood by it, staring at the building. Somewhere inside it was a man who was... like, Hawkeye kept wanting to tell himself, he’s only like me. A relative. A Pierce cousin Hawkeye hadn’t heard of. There must be one.

Mulcahy appeared in the doorway, looked at Hawkeye, and came down the steps, walking as if the ground were uneasy. He was still white in the face, but his voice was steady. “Hawkeye,” he said.

“Father,” Hawkeye said.

“I have to ask you... not to talk about this.”

“Who to?”

“Anyone,” Mulcahy said. “Can I have your word not to talk about – the man you saw, to anyone?”

“Who is he?”

“That doesn’t matter.”

“It does to me.”

There was a pause. Mulcahy’s mouth was trembling, Hawkeye saw, and he wanted very badly to promise Mulcahy anything, anything at all. But he could not bear to walk away from this.

“Look, Father, I’ll promise you I won’t talk about him – if you’ll drive me back to the 4077th and tell me what I’m not supposed to talk about on the way.”

“How did you get here?” Mulcahy asked.

“Chopper,” Hawkeye said.

Mulcahy put his hand out and clutched the side of the jeep. He shook his head again. “Hawkeye, I can’t talk about this to you. Not now. If you must – I’ll try, but – not now. Can it wait a month?”

“A month?”

“Please,” Mulcahy said. He sounded desperate now. “I’ve got to have your word you won’t tell anyone else about – ” he made a fumbled gesture, pointing back at the building “ – him. I can’t – I need to go back to the 4077th for tonight, and I can’t bear it if – ” He didn’t finish the sentence. He swallowed again, and looked at Hawkeye, and there was nothing in his voice but despair. “I can’t bear it.”

“Okay,” Hawkeye said. “I won’t tell anyone.” It was killing him, but he couldn’t stand this from Mulcahy. “I give you my word. Okay?”

Mulcahy nodded. He was trembling. When Hawkeye put a hand out towards him, he jerked backwards a step.

“You’re not planning to drive back in that state,” Hawkeye said.

“I’ll be fine,” Mulcahy said. He looked a little better, but still shocky-white. “I have to – I have to talk to a couple of people here before I go. I’ll see you back at the 4077th, Hawkeye. I’m sorry. I – wish you’d never come here.” There was at least something other than despair jangling in his voice now: he nodded to Hawkeye and turned back to go inside the building.

Hawkeye went out into the street. Glancing at his watch, he still had three hours before his chopper ride. There was a tea house a little way down the street. If he saw the jeep leave – if he could get back inside the Jesuit house again –

He’d only promised not to talk to anyone else.

To part seven.