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

Part one, Part two, Part three, Part four, Part five, Part six, part seven, part eight, part nine, part ten, part eleven, part twelve, part thirteen, part fourteen and part fifteen are here.

There was a long gap between posting part 6 and part seven. There has been an even longer gap posting part 8. Sorry about that. You might want to go back and re-read part seven.

Part 8

It was odd to see yourself crack up.

Francis hates me. He likes you. Get out of here.

The chopper swung down into the camp, the last few feet always seeming to come at a rush. Hawkeye got out, ducking his head as he moved away. The pilot took off: he had a patient to collect.

The chopper field was about as quiet a place as could be found inside the camp perimeter. Hawkeye stood still, hands in his pockets, looking round.

It was really, really odd to see yourself crack up. He’d left himself curled on the bed, not quite crying, not quite laughing. Scars on his chest. Someone did that to him. To me.
.
Where had Mulcahy spent that month?

Somewhere people cut up other people. With knives. While they were still alive.

Unless Mulcahy had driven much faster than he usually did, he wouldn’t be back from Seoul yet. Hawkeye wandered down to post-op and spent an hour checking on what patients they had left.

He saw Mulcahy drive into the compound. He stood by the window, momentarily distracted by the way Mulcahy got out of the jeep: Bigelow coughed twice before Hawkeye looked at her. He handed her the chart. “He’s doing fine.”

The patient was. Hawkeye wasn’t so sure about himself. Or Mulcahy. He got as far as the door before it occurred to him that just because he knew why Mulcahy had been avoiding him – sort of – it didn’t mean Mulcahy would stop doing it.

He stopped, looking at the door, digging his hands into the pockets of his coat.

On the other hand, Mulcahy had to stop avoiding him sometime. Hawkeye went on out into the compound.

Mulcahy looked across, and saw him: Hawkeye watched him turn away – a quick, unthinking retreat.



Mulcahy retreated, and Hawkeye stalked him, through the mess tent and round post-op and by the Colonel’s office and across at the officer’s club. Mulcahy seemed to be acting normally: no one else had noticed anything wrong. Anything different.

It was two hours at least before Mulcahy, apparently thinking he’d dodged Hawkeye, made a swift left as he crossed the compound and went into his own tent. Hawkeye hesitated. But Mulcahy had to stop avoiding him sometime. He didn’t wait after he knocked, but pushed the door open and went in.

Mulcahy was standing on the far side of the tent. He had taken his hat off, and his hands were folded together across his waist.

“What can I do for you, Hawkeye?” He sounded crisp and formal.

Hawkeye shut the door behind him. He had a hundred more questions than he’d started with that morning. “Who is that guy?”

Mulcahy’s face got whiter. His voice was steady. “I told you I didn’t want to talk about that.”

“I went back and talked to him.”

Mulcahy stared. His voice had gone unsteady when he said “Why did you...” He paused, and his voice was even again. “No. I suppose that’s a foolish question.”

“What happened to him?”

Mulcahy didn’t answer for a long moment. There was an odd smile on his face when he said, “He was drafted.”

Hawkeye wanted to look away. He said, at last, keeping his eyes on Mulcahy, “He says you saved his life.”

Mulcahy shrugged, a brief wavery movement. “I suppose I did. I suppose he saved mine.” He stopped again. “Yes, he did. I was – in a very bad place, and I think – ” He stopped again, and stared at Hawkeye. “When I saw him, then, I thought he was you. But of course it wasn’t you. That was him, and he got me out of there. I suppose – ” Not a shrug, but a shudder. “I would still be in that place, if not for him. But – I really don’t want to talk about this now.” Mulcahy’s voice was levelling out again, his shoulders steady. “Can we just leave – can you not ask me any more questions?”

“Sure,” Hawkeye said. “Till after he gets sent to Spain?”

Mulcahy didn’t move. “He can’t stay in that house much longer.” Mulcahy sounded calm, almost withdrawn. “He won’t have to keep living in a Jesuit house once the Society can get him papers, and that will be easier in Spain than in Korea. Really, it’s the best solution.”

“No, it’s not,” Hawkeye said. “Look, he’s cracking up. You should have told me about him sooner. There’s a perfect solution. He can go to Crabapple Cove.” This had occurred to Hawkeye as a funny idea on the flight back, but the more he thought about it, the better it worked. “He can get out of Korea as me. I’ll say my papers got stolen and ask for replacements. Then he can stay with Dad. I’ll write to Dad – ” It was going to be one hell of a weird letter “ – but anyone, anyone who sees him in Crabapple Cove is going to think he’s another Pierce cousin. No, they’ll know it. He looks like a Pierce.”

“No,” Mulcahy said. It came out as a croak. He shook his head. “No.”

“Why not?” It came out as sharper than Hawkeye had intended. “Do you hate him?”

“Hate him?” Mulcahy’s hand gripped at his cross. His eyes were wide, but he didn’t look as if he were seeing Hawkeye. “God help me, I can’t even forgive him. I want him gone.” His voice was wavering. “I want him gone. I can’t tell you apart. I want this over. God forgive me. Please go away.”

Hawkeye swallowed. “Father – talk to me about it. I already know – ” The knife-marks on the other man’s chest, fresh and red. What marks were there on Mulcahy?

“He told you?” Mulcahy’s eyes came back into focus. “He – told you?”

“Yes,” Hawkeye said.

He was unprepared for the look Mulcahy gave him. Mulcahy turned away after a speechless moment, facing the wall of the tent. His head was bent and his hand was still clutching at his cross. “If he told you – I didn’t fight it – ” he said, abruptly and inexplicably. “But I fought them. I fought even when it didn’t make sense any more. They put me in fetters to stop me – I couldn’t raise my hands to – but I wasn’t in fetters when he – ” Mulcahy put his free hand on the wall and leaned against it. “I couldn’t fight him.” He let out a long, sobbing breath. “I can’t tell you apart. Please go away.”

Hawkeye was frozen. He swallowed twice, feeling his mouth go dry. “I’m going,” he said at last. He hardly recognised his own voice.

“Please do,” Mulcahy said. He sounded as if he was trying to force some control into his voice.

“Okay.” Hawkeye was backing towards the door. “Okay.” His head was spinning. He felt as if he was going to choke. He put his hand out to the door. What did he do to you?

But he knew. He couldn’t stop himself from understanding.

“Oh God,” Hawkeye said out loud. “I couldn’t have. You – you’re a priest – ” He’d never let himself even entertain a fantasy about Father Mulcahy, not ever, not even drunk – And even if he had, Mulcahy would never have said yes to it, not even inside Hawkeye’s fantasies, it wasn’t possible to imagine him cooperating –

Mulcahy turned around. His face looked bleached. “Is that the only reason?” he said. His voice was grey.

It was possible to imagine him not fighting. Hawkeye didn’t answer. He was afraid if he opened his mouth he’d throw up.

“Is that your only reason?” Mulcahy repeated.

Hawkeye stared at him. He didn’t know what to answer. He pushed his hand against his mouth, and shook his head. He turned around and walked out, directly across the compound.

I couldn’t have. I never have. Not anyone.

Throwing up didn’t help. His throat hurt.

It wasn’t possible. Nothing could make him want to – nothing could make him able to –

He’s me. And he did.

He was leaning against the wall of the latrine, tired and empty and his throat raw, when the PA system switched on, almost overhead. “Choppers, incoming.” The voice went on to say other things, but Hawkeye wasn’t listening. He wanted out.



Father Mulcahy didn’t look at him in OR, but Hawkeye was grateful for that. BJ and the Colonel and Winchester talked to each other: Hawkeye supposed he must have answered any questions they had, but he couldn’t think of anything he’d said. He operated. He couldn’t remember one patient after another.

Klinger rolled away one patient, and the table stayed empty. Hawkeye lifted his head and looked round. Father Mulcahy was nowhere to be seen. All the tables were empty. “Are we done?” he asked out loud.

“Admirably observant, Pierce,” Winchester said.

“Shut up, Chuck,” BJ retorted.

“I’ll see you in my office,” the Colonel said.



“Pierce, what is wrong with you?”

“I want a transfer,” Hawkeye said.

The Colonel was standing behind his desk, about to sit down. His expression didn’t change, but he turned away, went over to the drinks cabinet, and took out a bottle and two glasses. Without saying anything, he poured them each a shot, pushed one glass across the desk to Hawkeye, and sat down.

“What did you say?”

“I want a transfer.”

“That’s what I thought you said.” The Colonel lifted his glass, and drank.

Hawkeye had been braced for protest, for shouting, for argument. Not for this. After a moment, he reached out for the glass. He’d swallowed it before he registered that it was the ten-year-old Scotch.

“Aren’t you going to argue with me?”

“Do you want me to?”

“Yes,” Hawkeye said frankly. “No.” He stopped. “Why aren’t you arguing with me?”

“I thought you might change your mind.” The Colonel reached across his desk, and twitched a piece of paper from the out-tray. “The padre insisted on filing this, right before the choppers got here. I haven’t had time to sign it yet.”

Father Mulcahy had applied for a transfer.

“Pierce,” the Colonel said, as if from very far away. “Why the devil couldn’t you leave well enough alone?”

to Part Nine