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Infatuation	By : Ridgley-Warfield Category: M through R > MASH > MASH Views: 2024 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own MASH or the characters. I make no profit from this story.

Chapter List
- 9
- 10
- 11
Title: Infatuation
Characters: Benjamin Franklin "Hawkeye" Pierce/ Father John Patrick "Dago Red" Mulcahy
Rating: M for Sexual Content
Summary: There's a difference between seeing someone and noticing them.
Author's Note: Based on the characters from the movie. This is Mulcahy's POV. Please ignore any typos. I don't always catch them all. Thanks for reading.
**Additional Note:** The scene involving Jean-Pierre de la Chevaux is from M*A*S*H Goes to New Orleans, written by Richard Hooker and William E. Butterworth (1975). All character quotes in that scene are directly quoted. No copyright infringement intended.

Time was a conundrum in Korea. It never seemed to progress normally. Hours could feel like days whenever we were inundated with wounded, or could feel like mere minutes whenever I was alone with Hawkeye. Sometimes I felt like if I blinked, he would be gone and I would be alone again. I dreaded February with every fiber of my being.
It was for purely selfish reasons that I didn't want Hawkeye to leave when his time was up. I didn't want to say goodbye, I didn't want this relationship to have to end, I didn't want to go back to a life without love…his love. I'd simply had to stop thinking about our relationship from a Biblical perspective because I knew that God did not approve, and if the Holy Mother Church ever found out I was sure to be excommunicated. I didn't think about the penance I would pay for this sin, mostly because I felt it was worth it, no matter what. This time with Hawkeye, the way he made me feel, the way we shared in each others life…if it meant spending 1,000 years in purgatory to atone for the wrongness of it, I would gladly accept it. One day with him was better than thousands elsewhere.
Being around Hawkeye and the boys, however, was introducing me to habits that I had, thus far, avoided in my life. When it was 'cocktail hour' in the Swamp, the booze would flow and the joints would be passed, to which I would indulge in both without a second thought now. At first I had joined in just so I wouldn't be so utterly out of place among them, but now it was more than that. I'd started enjoying the way it made me feel. I felt like a completely different person. Trapper had coined the phrase best when he'd called it "Liquid Courage." Whether I was stoned or drunk or both, I felt that type of cocky confidence I admired in people like Hawkeye and Danny. I said and did things that I wouldn't dream of saying or doing sober, and I didn't care. It was…liberating.
If the drunkenness and drug use weren't enough, though, I'd also started to form an addiction to cigarettes. I'd always passed whenever Hawkeye had offered me a puff on his, but one day…I didn't.
It had been another one of those long days in the OR, but this day had been exceptionally trying. I had been helping in the pre-op ward, talking to patients and trying to help them get into a positive mindset before surgery. I'd prayed with some, merely talked with others, but generally tried to be the face of optimism and hope for all of them.
A jeep had roared into camp and a young sergeant was carried in on a stretcher with a red tag pinned to his shirt. A red tag meant that a soldier was critically injured and needed immediate care. I saw the boy's grievous wounds—a hole torn into his leg near the groin—and was briefly told what had happened by another boy who had traveled with the sergeant to make sure that the clamp, currently pinching his femoral artery together in his leg, didn't come loose. A mortar shell had exploded near the boy's squad, and nearest to him. A shard of metal had sliced clean through his leg, severing the artery. They had been up on Heartbreak Ridge when it had happened. The boy's squad had carried him down the treacherous face of the mountain—one of the other boys using his dirty fingers to hold the end of the artery closed to stop the loss of blood. They had carried him to a battalion aid station half a mile away, then road in a jeep to the 4077th. At least an hour had passed since the boy had been injured. If the red tag and story hadn't been enough to convince me that the he was in serious trouble, the blackening of the skin on his leg due to blood loss certainly did.
I ran to the OR to get Hawkeye. God must have truly been watching over that sergeant because Hawkeye had just finished with a patient, and he followed me out to pre-op.
"What's your name, friend?" Hawkeye asked as he looked at the note pinned to the boy from the doctor at the battalion aid station.
"Jean-Pierre de la Chevaux," the boy said in a thick Cajun accent, surprising still lucid and conscious.
"That's a good German name," Hawkeye had told the boy, obviously teasing to lighten the mood.
"How's it look, doc?"
"Don't go making Dago Red any promises you don't have to," Hawkeye replied. "I think we can keep you alive."
I stood by while Hawkeye ordered for the boy to receive several units of blood, and the boy asked for some pain medication. Hawkeye had told him they'd give him something in the OR if he could stand it a little longer.
"Yeah, I can stand it," the boy said bravely, but then added, "What I couldn't stand is losing the leg."
Hawkeye, without skipping a beat, told the boy, "We'll do our best," but when he turned to me, the look in his eye told me there was no way he could save the leg and he was counting on me to decide whether the boy should be told about it then or not at all. I had no idea how the hell I was going to be able to make that decision, but I still nodded to Hawkeye. I had a job to do. When Hawkeye left us, however, it was obvious that he hadn't fooled Sergeant Chevaux.
"Is that doctor a friend of yours, Father?"
"Yes, he is; and he's a very fine surgeon. You'll be in very good hands, Jean-Pierre."
"You call me Horsey," he drawled. "And you do me a favor, Father?"
"Anything I can, Horsey."
"You tell your friend the doctor that if he cuts off my leg, I don't want to wake up. You comprend(sic)?"
I swallowed hard, thinking quickly. "You're lucky to be alive, Horsey. Isn't it better to be alive with one leg than dead with two?"*
"Not for Horsey Chevaux, it ain't. I'm Cajun, Father. I live in bayou country, what some people call a swamp. You don't get around the swamp on one leg and a crutch. Horsey Chevaux don't want to spend the rest of his life with people carrying him around."
"Isn't that really God's decision to make?" I asked, trying to spiritually reason with him.
"Then maybe if God is good, like I believe all these years, he let me die in there." Horsey paused and looked up at the ceiling. "He is gonna take off the leg, the doctor, ain't he?"
I couldn't lie… "Your leg is very badly hurt, Horsey."*
"Then I ask God to let me die," he said, strongly convicted.
I sat with him while he received the blood, trying in vain to think of something to say, some way to make him believe that losing his leg wouldn't be the end of the world, but each attempt was rebuffed with his determination to die if his leg couldn't be saved. By the time Hawkeye came back to check on Horsey, I felt sick with my failure. Hawkeye seemed to sense my distress and he placed a hand on my shoulder as he talked to Horsey.
"How do you feel, Dutch?"
"Doc, you gonna try to save my leg?"
"I'll do my best."
"If your best isn't good enough, just pull the plug, will you? I beg you, Doc! I never begged no man for nothing before."
"No, I don't suppose you have," Hawkeye was genuine and serious now. He paused, clicking his tongue in the way that always indicated to me he was thinking deeply, then he spoke again. "Tell you what, Dutch, you get Dago Red to put in a good word for you with his boss, and we'll shoot for a miracle."
When Horsey looked at me, the simple words "pray for me, Father" falling from his lips, I felt my stomach clench. This was going to be the biggest fix I had ever put in for…
Oddly enough, my prayers were more for Hawkeye to be successful in saving that boy's leg than they were for Horsey to pull through and have peace with whatever the outcome would be.
Hawkeye went against regulations to try and save Horsey's leg—spending too much time and too many resources to do all that he could do. Circumstances like theses were pretty cut and dry by army standards—chop it and move on. Hawkeye had tried to stretch the artery so he could sew the two ends back together, but too much had been torn out by the shrapnel. Just when it looked like the end was near and amputation was the only option, Hawkeye asked Trapper if he remembered anything about the saphenous vein.
"I seem to recall it was located somewhere between the knee and the scrotum," Trapper answered.
"Damn, Hawkeye," Ugly John groused. "You're going to try a saphenous vein graft?"
Hawkeye did more than try, though. I watched from the head of the table as Hawkeye located the vein and began to cut away a section of it. I didn't speak—I was still praying my guts out—but I watched Hawkeye suture the ends of the femoral artery to the graft, release the clamps, fix the bleeders, and then we held our breath as Ugly John left his equipment long enough to go to the end of the table.
"Beautiful," he smiled, his black mustache twitching upwards. "He's got a pulse in his foot."
I heaved a heavy sigh of relief and Hawkeye looked over at me, his eyes slightly obscured by his tinted glasses, but I could still tell he was grinning. "Good work, Dago."
"Thank Him," I indicated my head towards the heavens. "All I did was put in the request."
"You did more than you think," he said softly as he began to close.
I needed air. I left the OR and leaned against the side of the building heavily, trying not to imagine what would have happened if they'd taken the boy's leg. He hadn't been the first person to ask for death, but he'd been among the first I hadn't been able to convince that any life was better than the alternative. I had a hard time coping with the ones like Horsey…
Hawkeye joined me several moments later, still wearing a bloody scrub top as he pulled his pack of cigarettes from the rolled up sleeve. He lit up and blew out a long line of smoke before he offered it to me, just like he had countless times before. This time, I accepted. Hawkeye looked over at me, eyebrows raised as I sucked the butt of the cigarette long and hard, watching the paper and tobacco burning away. There was something satisfying and calming about it all, despite the bitter taste of the smoke in my mouth.
"Jesus, baby, you okay?" Hawkeye asked with a soft, albeit concerned, laugh as I took a second drag on his cigarette. I watched him pull another cigarette from the pack and light it.
"Why am I so terrible at consoling the wounded, Hawkeye?" I asked as he leaned next to me.
"What are you talking about, Dago? You're extraordinary. Why do you think I wanted you to tell him rather than me?"
"I couldn't convince him that a life with no leg was better than no life with two legs."
"Babe, I don't think God himself could have convinced that kid."
"I'm glad you were able to save his leg."
"Yeah, though my butt's probably going to be in a sling now. I gotta figure out some way to keep him here a few days. If he gets to another hospital and they see what I did, they might just cut the leg off to teach me not to go against regulations again."
"Would they really do that?" I asked, horrified by the possibility.
"I dunno," he shrugged. "Probably not, but either way I'll be in a lot of shit for this. Not that I really care what the army has to say, but I don't want to wind up being transferred to a battalion aid station or something where I really can't do anything for those kids."
I hadn't thought about what might happen in the way of disciplinary action if Hawkeye was caught. The thought of him being transferred out was unsettling to say the least. "Could we put him in the VIP tent and make up a story about who he is and why he's here?"
Sometimes my ideas surprised even me… Hawkeye was looking at me strangely, obviously considering my suggestion. "You know, babe, that just might work." He grabbed the back of my neck and pulled my head down, kissing my forehead. "You're a genius."
I laughed softly, watching him get up and toss his cigarette down, stamping it out. He went back in through the post-op doors and I got up, stamped out my own butt, and went to my tent.
After that day, I no longer passed when Hawkeye—or anyone—offered me a smoke. It was still mostly a social habit, something I did around Hawkeye or the other boys, but I gradually began to crave cigarettes when I was on my own. Intellectually, I knew that it was the nicotine in the tobacco that my body was craving, but there was something psychologically linked to that craving and the physical touch of holding the cigarette between your fingers, putting it to your lips, breathing in and blowing out. There was an odd sense of comfort in the act of smoking.
I started keeping my own pack of cigarettes, started lighting up when I was alone, and in a few short weeks, I was smoking just as regularly as anyone else in the camp. Hawkeye had commented on this change saying that he really was a bad influence on me, but the tone had been more amusement than culpability. I found, though, that smoking did help ease my anxiety whenever I thought about Hawkeye's eventual leaving, but that was a double edged sword, as the habit only seemed to increase as we moved through the days of November and found ourselves in the December snows.
"If there's anything I hate more than the rain in Korea," Hawkeye had said one morning as we sat at breakfast. "It's the snow."
"What do you have against snow?" I asked as I sipped my coffee. "I think it's quite beautiful."
"That's the problem," he replied. "It doesn't belong here in this hellhole. Right now it's pretty—serene and glistening all pristine out there on the ground—but the minute the wounded come into camp and trail their blood everywhere, it's going to be ugly again. It's going to remind us all just where the hell we are."
I rested my leg against his beneath the table comfortingly as Duke and Trapper muttered their concurrence to Hawkeye's sentiment. I understood what they meant, that the war ruined all happiness here, but I was glad that I hadn't yet become as cynical as they had—I could still appreciate beauty while it lasted.
"What are we going to do today, gentlemen?" Hawkeye asked, squeezing my knee gently under the table.
"Sleep." Trapper replied. "Some of us worked last night's shift."
"Killjoy." Hawkeye retorted. "What about you, Duke?"
"Sorry, Hawk, I'm helping Hotlips in the supply tent, if you know what I mean."
"Well, Dago, it looks like it's just you and me today."
I was not disappointed by that in the slightest. "Would you care for a game of gin rummy?"
"What's the wager?" He asked, looking at me as his hand slowly slid up the inside of my thigh under the table. I felt my face turning red.
"Whatever you want," I told him, unable to think of anything witty to say as I focused on his hand and the fact that we were surrounded by the others.
"A bottle of your good hooch," he replied, "To share with the person of my choosing."
I nodded dumbly and he withdrew his hand from my leg with a satisfied grin. We all got up to leave as a group, walking side by side through the layer of snow on the ground. I looked at my feet and saw that one of my laces had come untied so I stopped and knelt down to tie it, but when I looked back up, I got a face full of snow as Hawkeye launched a snowball at me.
"Hawkeye!" I cried, wiping the wet snow from my eyes. He was doubled over laughing and I glared at him as I gathered up a large handful of snow myself, balling it up and hurling it at him. He ducked, but I still had managed to hit him in the shoulder. He bent again and scooped up another ball of snow and I scrambled to get another one myself. His hit me in the chest and mine caught him in the knee. We were both laughing almost hysterically as we raced to see who could get off the most shots. Trapper, Duke and several others in the camp had joined in our fun and I was breathless as most of them all attacked Hawkeye, though I was pelted from different directions several times as well. I was about to throw another snowball at Hawkeye when someone pulled back the hood of my coat and smashed a giant ball of snow on my head, grinding it into my hair. I looked up to see Trapper grinning at me as Duke handed him another handful of snow. Trapper pulled back my coat and the neck of my shirt and dropped the snow down my back.
I gasped as the cold snow burned my heated skin and leapt to my feet, trying desperately to pull my coat off as I hopped around. Hawkeye, Trapper and Duke were practically on their knees in the snow, laughing as hard as they could until I'd managed to shuck my jacket and pull my shirt tails out of my trousers, flapping the back of them to get the ice out of my shirt. I reached down, scooped up another handful of snow and pelted Trapper right between the eyes.
A truce was called and the impromptu camp-wide snowball fight was over. Hawkeye and I resumed our course to my tent, with him still chuckling in amusement. We reached my tent, kicked the snow off our boots, and went inside. The stove had kept it relatively warm inside and we both began to take off our coats. Hawkeye grinned as he faced me, running his hands through my hair and dislodging several flecks of snow that had stayed stuck.
"You're right, Dago, the snow isn't all that bad."
I shook my head, rolling my eyes even though I was smirking softly. "Yes, well, I'm holding you personally responsible if I end up with pneumonia."
"Don't worry," he smiled and kissed me gently. "If you do, I'll take care of you."
I slid my tongue in his mouth, deepening the kiss. He tasted just the way I liked—coffee and his morning cigarette. I would never be able to associate the combination with anything but Hawkeye Pierce.
Hawkeye unbuttoned my shirt with practiced fingers, pushing it back and biting down on my shoulder through the black turtleneck I was wearing underneath. His hands worked open my belt and fastenings, then quickly lowered my trousers as he dropped down to his knees in front of me. His teeth sank deep into my hip over the bone and I dropped my head back with a pleased groan as I twined my fingers in his hair. It had grown a little shaggy over the last month, his bangs often hanging low over his eyes. I found it incredibly attractive…
When his mouth engulfed me, I gripped his shoulders, my knees going weak. His hands wrapped around the back of my legs, running up over the curve of my backside before his fingers gently parted me, brushing over the point of penetration. I ran my fingers through his hair continuously, watching the strands slip between each digit before they recoiled and fell back over his forehead. Hawkeye looked up at me through his disheveled bangs, then pushed two of his fingers inside of me with his mouth still firmly sucking my member.
I cried out at the unexpected wave of pleasure, unable to suppress myself as my body trembled with the threat of a premature release. Through all of our sexual exploits over the past couple of months, never once had he been both inside of me and pleasuring me orally, and the sensation was almost too much.
"Ben…" I whispered, completely breathless as he furiously worked me with his lips, teeth and tongue. His fingers were probing, pulsing, pushing deep inside of me…and then he stopped, quickly getting to his feet. I opened my eyes to look at him, confused and curious as to what had made him pull away, but he spun me around and pushed me towards my desk, forcing me to bend over and brace myself with my hands against the surface. I heard the sound of his belt as he unhooked it, working his pants down around his knees before he took hold of my hip with one hand and entered me. I groaned, pushing further back into him. As he thrust into me, the force drove me forward, making my tags jingle around my neck, but when I moved to take them off, he stopped me.
"Leave them," Hawkeye murmured against my ear.
I raised my eyebrows and looked at him over my shoulder, "You usually hate when they make too much noise."
"Usually," he smirked, thrusting into me roughly, making them jingle just to prove his point.
The wood grain was coarse against my hands, but the desk was solid enough for me to lean into without it wobbling or moving under the strain. I closed my eyes, losing myself again in the pleasure he doled out to me. He was breathless and grunting behind me, exerting all of his effort into this single act of passion.
"You drive me wild, Dago," he said in a low voice, kissing the back of my neck. I felt myself blush, wondering what it was about me he couldn't seem to get enough of, but understanding it all the same. The newness of our relationship had worn off some time ago, but the thrill and excitement of it still remained. I still thought about Hawkeye almost every minute of the day, still anticipated our time together—be it sexual or otherwise—and still loved him from tip to toe.
Hawkeye peaked first, muffling his cry of bliss against the thick cotton blend of the turtleneck I was wearing, his hands slipping beneath the material and roaming across my chest and abdomen before he took me into his hand to stroke me. I was close, but couldn't seem to quite get there for whatever reason and finally I gave up, gently taking a hold of Hawkeye's wrist.
"I don't think I can, Hawk…"
"What's the matter, baby?" he asked softly, kissing the shell of my ear.
"I don't know," I confessed. "I just can't…"
"I think you can," he murmured, turning me back around. He leaned in, kissing me sweetly, then lowered himself once again to his knees, his pants still around his ankles. "Just relax, Dago."
My eyes slid close again as he took me back into his mouth and his hand cupped my testicles. The gentle but firm vacuum of his mouth made me feel swollen with the need for more. I rested my hands behind me on the surface of the desk and pushed myself deeper into his mouth. Hawkeye made a soft gagging noise and I realized I'd pushed a little too deep. I felt my face burst into flame.
"Sorry," I told him, meekly.
He merely hummed his acceptance of my apology, vibrating me pleasantly, and I shuddered, almost losing control. Hawkeye seemed to know how close I was, because he hummed again and again each time I was at the back of his throat. I was moaning almost continually as he brought me closer and closer to my release, digging my fingers into the planks of wood on my desk and biting down on my lip to try and muffle the sound. I could taste the coppery tang of blood as I pierced the skin on my lip when Hawkeye held me deep in his throat and hummed rhythmically, his hands squeezing my testicles. I gripped his head with one hand, my hips bucking forward almost uncontrollably as I tried to push myself over the edge.
He squeezed me tighter as he sucked harder, and I cried out as I was finally able to find my release. I felt light-headed and shaky as I emptied myself into his mouth, my vision growing dark and narrow as if I was in a tunnel, pin pricks of light exploding behind my eyes. It was hard to believe that pleasure of this magnitude was possible. It always felt good whenever I came, but there had only been a few times…maybe only twice now…that it had felt this good.
My knees buckled as Hawkeye withdrew me from his mouth, but his hands were pressing against my thighs—holding me upright—as he looked up at me and swallowed, then smirked. "Told you you could."
I gave him a sleepy, satisfied smile and he pulled himself to his feet, drawing me into his arms.
"You gotta stop biting your lip so hard, baby," he murmured before gently sucking my bleeding bottom lip into his mouth.
I pulled back, aghast. "Hawkeye!"
"What? It's okay. I'm kissing it better." He leaned in again but I turned my head.
"I'm bleeding." I said pointedly, appalled that he had tasted my blood…and willingly.
"Well, you've drank enough sacramental wine, I bet I'm tasting the blood of Christ."
"Hawkeye!" I admonished, pushing him back. I knew lately I had let him get away with saying some very blasphemous things, and even I had made a joke or two—which made me even more reprehensible than him—but that comment had simply gone too far.
"Come on, baby, it was just a joke."
"It's not 'just a joke' to me, Hawkeye. My faith is not a joke." I said seriously. "I'd really appreciate it if you'd stop being such a horse's ass when it comes to God and Christianity and the Bible."
He looked thoroughly chastised. "I'm sorry, Dago. You know I'm never being serious when I say shit like that. I'm sorry I offended you."
"It just makes this a harder cross to bear sometimes," I told him softly.
"How do you mean?"
He stepped closer into me, sliding his hands around my waist, and I looked down at our bare lower halves, unable to stop the laughter from bubbling out of me at the absurdity of it. He looked at me oddly. "Can we at least pull our pants up, Hawkeye. I can't talk about how this makes me feel spiritually when my trousers are hugging my ankles."
He smirked but let me go and we both pulled up our pants before he hooked his finger in my belt loop and tugged me to him, gracefully turning us, letting gravity pull us down into the cot, with him landing on top of me.
"I think I understand what you mean," he said before I could open my mouth again. "And I promise I'll stop making cracks of the religious variety. At least in reference to what we're doing."
"Thank you."
"It's just too easy sometimes, though," He continued with a devilish smirk. "There are so many good ones that I haven't said because I knew it would piss you off."
I sighed and rolled my eyes, my curiosity getting the better of me. "Like what?"
He smirk and shook his head, "I really shouldn't tell you…but, probably the best one I ever had was the first time you sucked me off. I thought something akin to how well you could speak in tongues."
I shook my head, but laughed all the same. "You're incorrigible."
"Yeah, but you laughed." He leered, rolling on his side next to me and reaching up to the shelf above my bed to grab my cigarettes and the Zippo lighter that Trapper had given me after growing tired of me always asking for a light or a match. Hawkeye tapped out two cigarettes from the pack, put them both between his lips, flicked on the Zippo flame and lit them both before he passed one to me.
"Thanks."
"Can I ask you something, Dago?" Hawkeye questioned, his tone quite serious.
"Of course."
"Why do you love me?"
We'd had a conversation similar to this many months ago when we'd first tried to determine what exactly our feelings entailed, but neither of us could really say more than it was just simply a feeling. There was no obvious reason for it then, and I wasn't sure there was one now, but I tried to consider the question a little more thoughtfully.
I rolled on my side to face him. "Because you're Benjamin Franklin Pierce from Crabapple Cove, Maine; the son of a lobsterman who loved The Last of The Mohicans so much that he called you Hawkeye. Because you're the confident doctor that strolled into this camp and said to me 'don't let the door hit you on the ass' the first time I'd come to try and console you after you'd lost a patient, but then drank me under the table with my own booze and—after I'd passed out—wrapped me in gauze like a mummy and taped me to a cot, posting a sign outside the tent advertising for people to come see a pickled priest. Because you've played countless pranks like that on me and others, painting yourself to be a real jack ass, but when we're alone, I get to see who the real Hawkeye Pierce is—his fierce loyalty and devotion, his pain and anguish, his insecurities. But mainly because when I think of you, and when I'm near you, I feel that you're my amici intimi."
"What is that?" he asked softly.
"My intimate friend…my soul mate, more or less."
"You really think of me as your soul mate?" He murmured, his gaze softening.
I nodded. We held each other's gaze for a long moment and I cleared my throat softly. "Why…um…why do you love me?"
"Now you're putting me on the spot," he said, his voice thick with emotion. "You know I can't come up with anything even as remotely nice as what you just said."
"I'd still like to know."
He took a drag on his cigarette, brushing ash off his chest as it fell from the lit end. "What was it Danny used to call you?"
"His Condemned Angel," I said, wondering why he was bringing that up again. "Angelus Damnata."
"Don't get angry," he prefaced softly. "But when you told me that story, I thought it was really a beautiful nickname for you. And…well…it's fitting for you; then as well as now. I told you a long time ago that you're my light in the darkness, Dago. You make me happy, Dago. Being with you is really the only thing that does."
I smiled widely at him. "You make me happy, too, Hawkeye."
"Not to mention you're great in bed."
I scoffed and rolled my eyes, knowing the solemn moment was now over.
"Think you'll bang anyone after I'm gone?" he asked, his curiosity sincere at least.
"No. I never intended to 'bang' you."
"Ah, but what if my replacement sweeps you off your feet too? He could end up being twice as charming as I am. And, who knows, maybe he'll be a mackerel snapper like you."
I gave him a stern look at the deprecating nickname for Catholics, but answered him all the same. "Regardless of his faith, or how charming he may or may not be, Hawkeye, I'm not interested."
"How do you know? You haven't seen him yet."
"I'm not interested." I repeated, firmly. His insistence that I would find another lover was a little disconcerting to me. I wasn't sure if he was still just teasing me or not, but I didn't appreciate his attempt to try and sway me towards another relationship. He got the message the second time and backed off, turning on his back as he smoked his cigarette, reaching across me to flick his ash on my floor. I made a mental note to get an ashtray at some point in the near future.
A strange silence fell over us as we both finished our cigarettes and smashed the cherries out on a 2x4 support beam that ran at a diagonal next to my cot. He pulled me into his arms and I settled my head on his shoulder, closing my eyes as he massaged my scalp and finger-combed my hair.
I couldn't stop thinking about what he had said, and it was bringing thoughts to mind that I had resolved not to think about…
"Hawkeye…?" I licked my lips nervously. "Do you…do you think I'm…homosexual?"
"I think I've decided there is no such thing as hetero- or homo- sexual. I think there is jut sexual and non-sexual, and I think we both fall into the sexual category." He answered, philosophically speaking. "You've only had experiences with me and Danny, right?"
"Right." I paused. "But you're the only person I've ever been in love with."
"What about attraction? Have you been attracted to anyone else before?"
"I've admired people's appearances," I answered, thoughtfully. "I can appreciate beauty in both men and women, but I haven't been sexually attracted before, at least not to this degree."
"Really? Not even as a teenager?" He asked, surprised. "Never had a hard on?"
"Well, of course I have." I laughed softly. "I think at that age it's not really something you can control. But…I don't really remember if there was anyone I specifically lusted after. I'm sure I must have noticed girls, but I never dated anyone."
"Jesus Christ, Dago. Seriously?"
I shrugged softly, "I was too shy to pursue anyone. I spent most of my time with my nose in a book. In senior high school, I talked to girls and had friends who were girls, and I thought they were pretty, but…I don't know, Hawkeye, it never really crossed my mind to ask them out."
"So Danny was literally your first everything?"
"Yeah… pretty much."
Hawkeye climbed over me in the cot and got to his feet, pulling on his coat. "Wait here; I'll be right back."
I watched Hawkeye leave, seeing large snowflakes falling from the sky as he hurried out into the cold. I laid back in my cot and considered my own question…was I homosexual? By the technical definition, there was no doubt I was. I had only ever engaged in sexual activity with other men. But was that by design or by coincidence?
Either way I knew what the Bible said about such things. Homosexuality—in any capacity—was an abomination to God. I knew I couldn't reconcile my faith with my sins, that's why I had resolved not to think about it in the first place, but in moments like this I couldn't help but worry about it and wonder just how angry God would be with me when my time on earth was up. Still…despite the fury of His impending wrath, I couldn't stop loving Hawkeye.
Hawkeye came back into my tent, stamping snow off his boots. "Damn winter in Korea…It's gotta be below zero out there."
I smirked as he whined, watching him take off his coat before he tossed a magazine at me. I looked at the cover and saw a young woman with exposed breasts and I blushed deeply, turning it over as if to cover her for propriety's sake.
"Hawkeye! What's the meaning of this?"
He grinned as he crawled back over me and settled beside me on the cot, snuggling close for warmth. "Come on, give it a look, Dago. See if any of the girls strike your fancy."
"Hawkeye, it's pornographic!"
"It's gotta be if you're gonna see the goods." He raised his eyebrows at me. "Unless you want me to enlist the support of the nurses and have them troop through your tent with their tops off."
"Hawkeye!" I exclaimed, scandalized.
He laughed raucously and nudged the magazine. "Come on, baby; there's nothing wrong with looking."
I wanted to point out every verse of the Bible that said just the opposite, but I found—once again—that my curiosity had gotten the better of me. Maybe if I found myself aroused by at least one of the girls in the magazine, I would know that I wasn't a complete disgrace to God, and maybe wouldn't burn in Hell for all eternity.
I sighed and closed my eyes as I flipped to the first page.
"It's not Braille, Dago, you can't feel your way through the pictures…unfortunately."
"You're not helping," I said dryly as I gathered the courage to peek open one eye. The women were, indeed, gifted in the way of their assets, and the magazine photos—thankfully—were at least somewhat tasteful.
"Let me know if any of them do something for you."
I vaguely nodded and allowed myself to fully look at each picture, studying the curves of each woman's breasts, waist, hips, buttocks, legs, or whatever else the photograph allowed me to see. Some women had small breasts, some quite large. Some nipples were long, some were short, some were fat, some seemed to be inverted. Though nothing had 'struck my fancy' yet, I found I preferred darker-haired women with medium-sized breasts and proportionate nipples.
"Nothing?" Hawkeye asked beside me after I'd gotten near the last page.
I shrugged softly. "I have a preference, at least, but I don't feel the desire to have sex with any of these girls."
"Which ones do you like?"
I pointed out a few of the ones I had found striking and Hawkeye nodded approvingly. "Brunettes, huh?
"Yeah," I laughed softly. "Strange since both you and Danny are both on the blonde side."
"Maybe you just prefer blonde men and brunette women." Hawkeye supposed.
"I guess, but I still can't picture myself with any of these women, Hawkeye."
He clicked his tongue in thought for a moment. "You remember Dish don't you, babe?"
"Lt. Schneider? Yes of course. She was here a long while before you arrived."
"Did you find her attractive?"
"I never thought of her in that way," I shook my head. "She was a married woman, and I don't make a habit of sexualizing people, even in my private thoughts."
"You can find someone attractive without wanting to have sex with them, Dago."
Reluctantly, I admitted, "She was a very stunning young woman, yes."
"Close your eyes and pretend for a minute that she wasn't married—that she was completely available."
I sighed but did as he told.
"Now, pretend that instead of coming to me about Painless, you went to Lt. Dish and she touched you like I did."
I imagined the scene in my mind, but I couldn't sync up the way the touch had made me feel to Lt. Scheinder. "I'm sorry, Hawkeye, I guess my imagination isn't that good."
"What if you pretend you're not a priest?" He asked. "Pretend…hell, pretend you're me. Before she left, she and I would fool around a bit. I never got all the way, though…"
I wasn't surprised by this revelation. I tried to imagine myself in Hawkeye's shoes. Rather than envisioning my memory about Painless, I envisioned myself as Hawkeye lying in a cot with Lt. Dish, but I still couldn't imagine the touch or kiss of a woman, as I had never experienced either. Maybe that was the problem… I voiced as much to Hawkeye.
"Well, babe, the only solution—as I see it—is to have one of the nurses show you how it's done."
"Absolutely not." I shook my head. "I'm not dragging an innocent girl into this just to satisfy my own curiosity."
"Come on, Dago, it's not like she'd be forced—"
"No."
"I'm sure there would be several volunteers for the cause—"
"Hawkeye…"
"We could have a spin-the-bottle tournament and you'd have a chance to kiss any number of nurses—"
"Hawkeye!" I reached up and covered his mouth with my hand to shut him up. "I said no."
"Okay, okay…it was just a suggestion." He conceded, pulling my hand away from his mouth. "Honestly, though, Dago…what does it matter? Does having a label for this change anything?"
He had a point. It didn't change anything. Whether or not I was homosexual didn't mean much, except that I had more to feel ashamed about. It didn't change what I'd done with Danny or with Hawkeye, it didn't diminish my love for him, it didn't change the fact that my vow of chastity was pretty much a joke at this point, and it didn't mean I was going to stop sinning just because I had a name for it.
The only thing I worried about was what it meant for me as an active priest, and the hypocrisy of anything I preached. While I fully accepted the consequence of my actions, how could I help others atone for their sins when I refused to atone for my own? Would God continue to speak through me? Did I deserve to call myself a leader of His Church? None of these thoughts were new to me, either, but—deep down—I still felt I belonged in the priesthood. I still loved God wholeheartedly…this was just my struggle, and I knew it was selfishness that kept me from casting off my desires altogether. I didn't want this to end.
"No," I finally said in answer to his question. "It doesn't change anything."
He kissed me, slow and softly before telling me to, "Stop worrying about it, then."
Hawkeye's interest in my lack of attraction to other people didn't wane after that conversation, and—in fact—he started pointing people out to me, asking whether or not I thought they were attractive. He focused mainly on blonde men and brunette women, nudging me in the side with a soft "eh?"
"Would you cut it out?" I finally asked after the 3rd nudge in a row. We were putting up a Christmas tree and hanging decorations in the mess tent, and the incessant pestering was starting to kill off my Christmas spirit.
"What? I'm just curious." He said innocently.
"Well, go be curious somewhere else," I answered hotly. "How many times do I have to say that I'm not interested, Hawkeye? I'm starting to feel like you're trying to pass me off on someone else."
"Of course I'm not," he said quietly as he picked up a clamp and hung it on one of the branches of the tree. "I'm sorry; I'll behave."
I snorted with derisive laughter. "I'll believe that when I see it…and maybe not even then."
He was quiet for several moments as we worked in tandem to decorate the tree with surgical equipment, then he looked at me. "What do you want for Christmas, Dago?"
"Peace on Earth and good will to men." I replied, not skipping a beat, and only mildly joking. I did pray for such things on a nightly basis.
"I'm not sure Santa can fit that in his sleigh."
"Oh…" I said, feigning disappointment. "Well, I guess I'll just settle for a pair of warm socks, then."
He laughed loudly. "Socks? You really want socks?"
I shrugged and looked over at him, barely able to contain my amusement. "Why not? The ones the army gives us are paper thin. I have to wear three or four pairs at night to keep my feet from turning into blocks of ice."
"That's it though? Just socks?"
I laughed at his astonishment. "I'm a man of few material needs."
"I'm glad you specified 'material' in there." He smirked.
I laughed again, then asked him, "What about you, Hawkeye? What do you want for Christmas?"
"Lots of sex and a bottle of cognac."
"Oh, is that so?" I chuckled.
"I'm also a man of few material needs."
About that time, Radar wandered through with the mail bag, shuffling through the stack in his hand as he passed out the mail. "Hiya Father, hiya Hawkeye."
"Hello, Radar." I smiled.
"I've got some mail for you, Hawkeye, do you want it now or should I just leave it on your bunk?"
"I'll take it."
Radar handed over several letters to Hawkeye, then bid his farewells and wandered off again.
"Don't you ever get mail?" Hawkeye asked as he flicked through the stack.
"Not typically." I shrugged. "Updates from the military vicar's office, but that's about the extent of it. My mother sends me a card at Christmas and one around my birthday."
"When is your birthday?" He asked curiously.
"March 17th."
"Jesus Christ, could you be any more Irish?"
I laughed softly. "When is yours?"
"May 9th." He said softly, looking at an envelope. "Hey, babe…I think this is for you. It's from Tibet."
I nearly dropped the scissors I was holding as I looked over. I'd forgotten that Hawkeye had written Tseten for me. He held the envelope out to me and smiled. "Wanna open it?"
I took the envelope and sat down at one of the tables as I carefully broke the wax seal that had been stamped with the Tibetan symbol for the Aum. I withdrew a fragile looking piece of parchment and began to read out loud.
Namaste Kra Sang-po.
Many thanks for your writings to me. Please give my warmest greetings to Dhrog-po-po. I am very happy to hear of him. He is greatly missed in Lhasa. Please tell him that his church has prospered, though much fighting is happen in Tibet. Dhrog-po-po is great friend to Lhasa and to monks. All have wished him very best. I would greatly like to see him again. One day I shall hope so.
You are good friend to write for Dhrog-po-po. I thank you, Kra Sang-po—kind and generous hawk. Please tell him that monks have given him Tibetan name— Kipu Tenzin; happy keeper of Dharma. He may write me with that name. I wish again to hear from you.
Namaste,
Kamala Tseten
Hawkeye was sitting on top of the table next to the Christmas tree, listening intently as I read the letter. I started to get a little choked up near the end and had to clear my throat several times and wipe my eyes. I looked up at Hawkeye as I finished and found him smiling softly.
"Thank you, Hawkeye…I can't tell you what this means to me." I sniffed. "Thank you so much for writing to him."
"You're welcome…Kipu." He grinned.
I laughed and sniffed again, wiping another tear that fell as I folded the letter and carefully replaced it in the envelope. "Can I keep this?"
"Of course. I think it's written more to you than me, anyways."
"Not necessarily," I shook my head. "He's given you a nickname, which means that he considers you a good friend. He wouldn't ask you to write if he didn't really want you to."
"So what does it mean that the monks have given you a Tibetan name? I'm assuming that's a big honor?"
"Oh, yes…very big. It's a sign of immense respect, especially since I'm not a Buddhist. It means they consider me one of their own." I tucked the envelope into a chest pocket on my shirt and heaved a sighed, feeling light and happy and unable to stop smiling. I was sad to hear about the fighting in Tibet, but I knew that civil war was still raging on, even with China focusing most of its efforts on helping the North Koreans. It was wonderful to hear that he was alive and well and that the church had continued to thrive in my absence. The Maryknolls must have sent someone soon after my arrest—or release—to tend to the flock. God Bless them…
I wondered if Tseten and I would ever see one another again. Like him, I hoped we would, but at least he had given me a way to write to him under a Tibetan name. So long as I never gave my real name, or any specific details, any letters that were intercepted wouldn't raise suspicions. I was exceptionally delighted by the prospect.
"It's getting hard to keep up with all your names," Hawkeye teased, shrugging into his coat and pulling out his cigarettes. He offered one to me and I took it, placing it between my lips as I grabbed my own coat and followed him outside to smoke. "Dago Red, Dhrog-po-po, Kipu Tenzin…I feel like I'm forgetting some."
"Well, stick with me a little longer and you'll end up with a list of names too, Kra Sang-po." I ribbed back.
We lit our cigarettes, standing under an eave of the building as we watched the heavy afternoon snow start falling. We could hear the sound of a jeep's tires crunching through the snow and ice on the ground as it made its way towards camp, and though we couldn't see it yet, we wagered on what it would be about.
"Wounded?" I asked, listening for the sound of choppers and looking to see if Radar would be rushing to tell everyone that we had incoming wounded.
Hawkeye looked in the direction of the main office as well, but shook his head. "Sounds like just one jeep."
"Sounds like they've got the pedal to the metal." I remarked, listening to the roar of the engine drawing closer.
We watched the jeep slide on a sheet of ice around the last bend in the road before he entered camp, narrowly avoiding going into a tailspin. There appeared to only be one person in the jeep—just the driver.
"What in the hell does he think he's doing driving like that?" Hawkeye muttered.
We watched the jeep skid to a halt, leaving a long set of tracks in the snow before the driver rushed up to us. "You a doctor?" He asked Hawkeye.
"Yeah, where's it hurt solider?" Hawkeye replied, throwing down his half-finished cigarette.
"I'm not injured. I've got 2 buddies at the battalion aid station. Choppers won't come and I couldn't bring them by jeep. We need help, fast. The doc there sent me to get someone."
"Alright, let me grab my kit. Dago, tell Henry where I'm going."
"I'm coming too," I said steadfastly. Hawkeye and the driver looked at me strangely. "You never know when you'll need a priest."
"Fine, get whatever you need to, and make it quick." Hawkeye said, rushing off to the Swamp for his med kit. I raced to my tent and grabbed the tools of my trade, then headed back to the jeep just as Hawkeye was climbing in the front. I hefted myself into the back, stepping on the back tire for leverage, seconds before the driver jammed the jeep into gear and sped out of camp. Snow was hitting me in the face, stinging like needles, and I tried to hunch over, dropping my head so that my helmet shielded me. I clung onto the back of Hawkeye's seat as the jeep swerved and lurched and slid all over the icy road, praying that God would protect us and keep the driver from rolling the damn thing.
A few minutes later, he slammed on the breaks again and we skidded to a halt outside the dilapidated tent of the battalion aid station. If anyone thought the MASH units were 'roughing it,' they'd never been this close to the front lines. Hawkeye and the driver leapt from the jeep and I quickly collected myself before climbing out over the side and following them inside the tent.
Just as the driver had said, there were two men in extremely bad shape. The aid doctor looked up as we enter.
"What took you so damn long?" He snapped. "I already lost one boy, god damn it!"
I looked and saw the fixed expression on one of the boy's bloody faces. He was, indeed, quite dead. I moved around Hawkeye towards the boy and felt someone grab my arm and jerk me back.
"The hell do you think you're doing?" the driver growled. "He ain't dead; get over there and fix him, doc."
"Touched as I am that you think I can give the gift of life," Hawkeye said, prying the boy's hand from my arm. "Your buddy is gone. Let Dago Red do his job, and this doctor and I will do our best to save your other buddy. If you think you can stay out of the way."
The boy backed down and stormed outside. I resumed my course towards the fallen soldier and began to administer the last rites as Hawkeye and the battalion aid doctor began to perform emergency surgery on the other boy. When I'd finished performing the last rites, I covered the body with a sheet, then moved to Hawkeye and the boy that was barely clinging onto life. I didn't need to be asked for a fix; I was already anointing the boy's forehead with holy oil and praying for God to heal him.
As I watched the surgery, waiting to lend a hand or a prayer or whatever else I could, the sound of an explosion shook the ground beneath our feet. Hawkeye and I both looked at each other in fear, but the battalion aid doctor didn't seem at all fazed.
"This kind of thing happen often?" Hawkeye asked tensely, working a little quicker.
"The sooner we fix this kid up and get you guys out of here, the better," the aid doctor replied. "When the shelling gets close, it means I'm about to be up to my asshole in bodies, and the choppers ain't flyin'."
"The shells ever get close enough to hit this tent?" Hawkeye asked as another explosion rocked us.
"It's still standing, ain't it?"
About that time a third shell hit, this one causing not only a loud explosion, but a fireball as well that sent a heat wave into the little tent, along with several large pieces of fragments. Hawkeye and the aid doctor instinctively covered their patient with their bodies as I hit the floor next to Hawkeye behind the gurney.
"What the hell was that!" Hawkeye cried out. I stood up and we both looked at the battalion aid doctor who was slumped over the body with a large piece of metal protruding from his spine, the singed insignia of the U.S. Army barely recognizable as a piece of the jeep we'd rode in on. The doctor was dead. "Oh…fuck! FUCK!"
Hawkeye felt for a pulse on the doctor, though even I could see that he was clearly gone. Hawkeye's hands were shaking and I looked down at my own, seeing they were no steadier.
"What do we do?" I asked in a terrified voice.
"I can't leave this kid," Hawkeye said. "Can you move him? Just…put him on the floor. Jesus…fuck…"
Hawkeye's rising panic was not helping me in the slightest, but I mentally assessed the situation for damage control as I moved around the gurney and pulled the doctor off of the wounded boy, carefully lowering him to the floor. 1. We were at the battalion aid station without permission from our commanding officer, and without the knowledge of anyone in camp. 2. We were being shelled by the enemy. 3. The jeep we'd arrived in had just been blown to smithereens. 4. The battalion aid doctor had just been killed. 5. Hawkeye's patient was still in dire need of care.
I knew I didn't have time to administer last rites on the doctor at that moment, so I pulled myself away and moved towards the tent flap.
"Dago!" Hawkeye cried out. "Get back here!"
"The other boy, Hawkeye," I told him. "He was outside…"
I knew Hawkeye was worried that a mortar was going to fall on my head, but I had to check on the other boy, even though I was fairly certain that he had suffered the same fate as the battalion aid doctor. The carnage that greeted me outside the tent was enough to force bile up from my stomach and I turned my head to vomit. What was left of the jeep was a twisted heap of metal. Parts were scattered across the ground and there was a scorch mark left by the explosion of the gas tank, but at least nothing was on fire. What was left of the driver was a spray of blood in white snow, like a watermelon had been dropped. He must have been standing directly beside the jeep when the shell had hit, and it had simply obliterated him.
I pulled myself together, scanned the horizon for any sign or the enemy or our guys, but saw nothing. I wondered if the next mortar would fall in our laps…
"He's gone…" I told Hawkeye shakily as I returned to him. He was trying to work on the boy by himself, fumbling the instruments as his hands shook. "Tell me what to do, Hawkeye."
"I don't know…" he said, shaking his head, his voice still near panic.
"Dr. Pierce," I said firmly, hoping to snap him out of it. "You have a patient who needs urgent care. What can I do?"
He looked at my across the table and took a deep breath, regaining a little composure. "I need you to look for shrapnel in his belly while I suture."
I nodded. There was no time to don gloves, so I simply—for lack of a better term—dug in.

TBC
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Infatuation