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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
- 17
- 18
- 19
Title: Infatuation
Characters: Benjamin Franklin "Hawkeye" Pierce/ Father John Patrick "Dago Red" Mulcahy
Rating: M for Sexual Content/Language
Summary: There's a difference between seeing someone and noticing them.
Author's Note: Based on the characters from the book/movie. This is Mulcahy's POV. Please ignore any typos. I don't always catch them all. This chapter is another whirlwind chapter that spans many, many years, which I did in the interest of reuniting our main characters. Thanks for reading. Enjoy.
**Additional Note:** The scenes in New Orleans are 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 (with one or two minor changes). No copyright infringement intended. Read the book if you haven't. Totally worth it.

I felt numb as I sat on the bus, staring out the dirty window as we roared down the highway. My mind couldn't comprehend what had happened. I couldn't understand how Hawkeye could have resented me so much that it had overridden his affection for me. His rejection had almost killed me; but judging by the emptiness I felt inside, I wasn't entire convinced it hadn't.
I had never imagined that things might go so horribly wrong once Hawkeye and I had come to the crossroads when I would have to leave him. I knew, of course, that he would be upset, but his reaction was so far beyond the spectrum of my wildest dreams that I almost felt like he wasn't even the same person.
Hawkeye had always seemed to be a little bit of a Jekyll and Hyde when it came to not getting his way in something. In Korea, he'd turned on me so easily that it had left my head spinning. There had been multiple occasions when he'd said something hurtful just out of spite, but this was more than just spitefulness. This had completely broken my heart.
Though I had nowhere to go, I knew I couldn't stay with Hawkeye, and I returned to the apartment just long enough to collect my personal effects. I had left some of my belongings in Crabapple Cove, but seeing as how most of the clothes I wore 'off duty' were Hawkeye's anyways, I didn't consider it much of a loss. Things could be replaced…
I felt guilty leaving without so much as a goodbye to Mary after all she'd put up with over the course of my relationship with Hawkeye, and so I sat at the kitchen table to write her a letter of apology that I intended to mail back to her home in Crabapple Cove, knowing that I couldn't leave it up to Hawkeye to deliver.
My Dear Mary,
I can never express the gratitude I feel for you. Your friendship and understanding has been a blessing to me, and I only wish that you and I had met under different conditions. While I know you have accepted my relationship with Hawkeye, I will never be able to forgive myself for it. You are a good woman; a good wife and mother; a good friend. I am truly sorry for any pain I might have caused you or your family, be it through my involvement with Hawkeye, or my abrupt departure from your lives.
Wherever my path in life takes me, I shall always remember your kindness, and I shall always think of you as my friend.
May God bless you, Mary Pierce.
Sincerely,
Ft. John P. Mulcahy
I found an envelope and sealed the letter within, tucking it away to be mailed later, then sat back down at the table to pen my last words to Hawkeye.
Tears filled my eyes as I tried to think of what to say, wondering if he would even bother reading it.
Dear Hawkeye,
I never imagined that our lives would ever come to this. A final goodbye written in vain as a love that should have never been is lost.
I know you resent me and the choice I have made to return to missionary work, but I hope that one day you'll understand that, as a priest—as a Christian, my life is not my own. I live to serve the Lord, my God. I go where I am needed; I follow the call of my heart. As much as I love you, Hawkeye, I cannot shirk my responsibility any longer. I'm sorry you cannot see the distinction between desire and duty. If I could stay with you forever and still be a missionary, I would…but—as you so bluntly put it—that is a pipe dream.
I should have never allowed this relationship to happen, but I am not sorry that it did. Loving you has been one of the greatest joys of my life. You have shown me things, taught me things, that I will cherish forever. I hope that when you look back on our time together, you will have no regrets either. Even if you do still love me, our lives are heading in two separate directions now. I'll return to missionary work; you'll finish your residency and return to your family. I don't think either of us would be satisfied with only seeing each other once or twice a year, though I know we both hoped it could sustain us.
I wish nothing but good things in life for you, Hawkeye. I know that you still rail against God for the loss of your mother, but I hope you can see how much he has blessed you with—a devoted and loving wife, three beautiful children, friends and family who would do anything for you, and the power to heal the sick.
You and Mary have done so much for me since the end of the war, and I could never repay your kindness, but I would like to repay you for the expense—or some of it—of the trip to Nepal. I suppose, ironically, I have you to thank for all of this. If you refuse to accept my money as repayment, then put it in a trust fund for your children.
There is so much I wish I could say, and I wish the last word wasn't 'goodbye,' but it is time for us to both move on. I wish things weren't ending this way—in a letter you might never read—but I cannot face you with the way that I'm feeling right now. Your last words and the way you walked away from me… You've broken my heart, Hawkeye, and left a scar that will never heal. And yet, despite the pain, I forgive you… Corinthians 13 will tell you why, should you choose to look it up.
I'll never forget you, Ben…and I'll always love you.
Eternally,
Dago
I pulled a roll of bills from one of my socks in my bag that I kept on hand for emergencies, and counted out several hundred dollars, knowing that the round-trip airfare alone had probably cost Hawkeye in the neighbor of $600-$700. I knew I could leave him about $450 without running myself too short, so I folded the bills inside the letter and placed it on his pillow in the bedroom.
I felt another onslaught of tears threatening to fall as I looked at the bed where we had both slept together and made love so many times, deeply feeling the pain of that loss. I ached to feel his arms around me, and I nearly tore up the letter and stayed in hopes that we could still work this out, but I knew that I would just be prolonging the inevitable by doing so.
With a deep breath and a prayer for strength, I left my copy of the key to the apartment on the table, picked up my belongings and walked out.
I hired a cab to take me to New York, not caring how much the fare would cost. If the cabbie thought it odd for a middle-aged man to be sobbing uncontrollably in the back of his cab, he politely said nothing during the drive.
I spent the first few days holed up in a motel room, unable to do little more than sleep or cry or cry myself to sleep. I could think of nothing but Hawkeye, and though I never wished ill on anyone, I found myself hoping he was as miserable as I was. The last moments with him in Crabapple Cove replayed over and over and over again in my mind like a broken record. I was so grief-stricken, so sick over losing him that I truly didn't care if I just laid there and died….and I might have if God hadn't stepped in.
Whether it truly was God, or simply a hallucination brought on by despair and lack of sustenance, I heard a voice speaking to me—just a vague, indecipherable whisper at first, but then louder and clearer, as if someone was in the room with me.
"Get up, John." The voice told me. "Get up and weep no more."
There was nothing said beyond that, but I felt compelled to obey. I rose from the bed only to fall to my knees and pray. By the time I finished my prayer, I felt somewhat renewed, and I knew that I would not cry again for the love I had lost. I cleaned myself up, and pulled out the clericals that I had not worn in nearly 6 months, carefully dressing in them as I quietly thanked God for His presence and His comfort. Then I left the room for the first time in several days, ate, and visited the Maryknolls in person.
"Father Mulcahy!" Sister Camilla Angelica, who had been with the missionaries since before I was sent to Tibet greeted me with a warm hug which was a balm to my wounded spirit. "What good fortune it is that you came today! Father Fredrick was just speaking of you yesterday. Shall I tell him you're here?"
"Please, Sister, that would be kind of you."
Moments later, Father Fredrick returned with the Sister and shook my hand in greeting. "I've good news, Father. Come, let us talk in my office."
I followed Father Fredrick down the corridor and sat across from him, declining a drink as he began to speak.
"Have you heard of the Nepal Evangelistic Band?" Father Fredrick asked me as he poured himself a scotch. I shook my head. "Neither had I until just a few days ago. It was started up just a couple of years ago by several doctors who were granted permission to open a hospital in Pokhara, Nepal on the stipulation that they would not be involved in proselytizing or political activities. In other words, they were allowed to provide medical treatment only, but since then, they have established the first Protestant Church of Nepal, the Ramghat Church of Pokhara, in which they hold services in secret in the compound beneath the hospital. Your request for a mission trip to Nepal couldn't have come at a more opportune time, John; there are several representatives from different denominations organizing one of the largest cooperative mission trips to the area. The Catholic Church, as of this moment, has no representative in the organization. His Holiness has recommended you to represent the Catholic Church to the committee members."
"Me?" I asked, completely surprised. "Oh, Father, that is quite a shock…Surely they would want someone other than a mere priest to represent the entirety of the Catholic Church."
"Who better to represent the Church in a missionary organization, than a missionary priest with years of experience in that region?"
I couldn't argue with that, even though I still felt a representative from the Vatican would probably be better suited to represent the Church, but a recommendation from the Pope…that was overwhelming.
Father Fredrick smiled with a soft laugh, "We'll be sending you to Kathmandu to meet with the representatives of the missionary group, who are calling themselves the United Mission to Nepal. They are looking forward to meeting the priest who has come highly recommended not only by our organization, but by His Holiness."
I felt a chill run down my spine as I realized that all of this was God's perfect design. My befriending Tseten, ultimate expulsion from his country, Hawkeye's gift to send me to Nepal…it was all Divine Intervention that would lead me to where I was this very day. God himself had pulled me out of my bed of sorrow and brought me here to be appointed His representative in a interdenominational organization. I couldn't ask for a clearer sign that God was still using me for His work on earth. I felt overcome with emotion, and shielded my eyes from Father Fredrick as they began to tear up.
"We're all very excited for you, John."
"Thank you, Father."
Two days later I found myself boarding another trans-Atlantic flight that would eventually lead me back to Nepal, where I would travel to Kathmandu, the HQ of the United Mission to Nepal.
Though still in its infancy, I quickly learned that the organization wasn't wasting any time in establishing themselves around the country. The committee informed me that they were nearing completion of the first mission hospital in Tansen, and they had plans to begin outreach in other areas as well.
"We've focused mainly on the southern region of Nepal, primarily in the Kathmandu Valley," I was informed. "But we'd like to extend our influence in the north towards the Tibet-China border. We've been told that you are exiled from these two countries?"
"Yes, an unfortunate misunderstanding between myself and the Tibetan government."
"And you recently served as chaplain for a MASH unit in Korea?"
"That is also correct."
"Would you feel comfortable in helping us establish a medical center in Kodari?"
Kodari, as I quickly discovered, was directly on the border of Nepal and Tibet, and a permanent medical center was to be built barely more a stone's throw from the soil I was forbidden to ever set foot on again. The village, which was located at the foot of the Himalayan Mountains, was steeped in history, as ancient merchants bound for Lhasa would journey from Kodari up through the trans-Himalayan caravan route through the Kuti pass into Tibet. The village was still a major trading center between the two countries, which was one of the reasons the UMN was so interested in procuring a facility here, as there would be a steady flow of merchants and travelers to serve.
While I felt a little uncomfortable about being so close to the border of Tibet and China, I knew there must be a reason for God placing me here, and so I accepted the offer to help expand the organization to the northern border of Nepal. My primary purpose at the medical center would be to lead underground worship services and merely be a representative of Christ's love. I was told never to preach the word of God beyond my services, but instead to lead by example. I would work alongside two doctors and one nurse who were missionaries of the UMN, but otherwise, the four of us would be on our own in Kodari until a more permanent structure was built and we could recruit more medical missionaries. As a committee leader, I would be expected to attend committee meetings once a month on our progress in the village.
Arriving in Kodari, reminded me how much I enjoyed being a missionary in Lhasa. The village was hardly more than a shanty town, though the main thoroughfare through town was lined with shops of all kinds of trade goods—millet and grain and silk among the most common. The people went about their daily lives with barely more than just a curious glance as we set about turning an old building into a temporary medical center. It was a crude set up, as we didn't have much supplies yet, but the doctors had examination equipment and a few vaccinations to at least begin to see people. We sectioned off the back area of the structure for sleeping quarters, and I would be spending my time turning the dark cellar underneath the structure into a workable sanctuary.
I wanted desperately to write to Hawkeye and tell him where I was and what I was doing, but instead I wrote my letters to Tseten under the Tibetan name he and the monks had given me, Kipu Tenzin, while I journaled what I wanted to say to Hawkeye in the language that only he and I could read. I didn't know if Hawkeye would ever read this journal, but it brought me great comfort to write my sorrows and regrets and ongoing love for him in an open letter.
Though it took several months for us to really get established, by the end of the monsoon season we had several regular members of our underground church, and several families in the village who came to us for medical care. The committee was pleased with our progress, and how quickly our numbers were growing, and began to send me on assignments to other new establishments around Nepal to offer advice or consultation on what they could do to improve outreach in their communities.
By May of the following year, they named me the UMN ambassador of the region, and my job became solely focused on acting as an advisor to the priests and missionaries. I was stationed in Kathmandu at the headquarters but traveled around Nepal about 80% of the time. While I primarily met with the missionaries, I still made it a personal goal to visit with the locals in each region I traveled to. I still found history and culture and religion to be quite fascinating topics to discuss with the locals, and there were several elders that I quickly became acquainted with that I always looked forward to visiting. That personal interaction was what helped me maintain the feeling that I was still a missionary and not just some glorified mentor, and it began to rub off on the newer missionaries, who saw what a little interaction with people could do.
While I stayed busy with traveling or meetings or interacting with locals, my thoughts never seemed too far away from Hawkeye. I wondered if he ever thought of me, or if my leaving had only reinforced his resentment and he had resolved to forget about me. I knew he must be finished, or close to finished, with his residency. Karen would be nearly a year and a half now, and the boys would have gotten bigger, too. Did any of them think of me? Wonder how I was or if they'd ever see me again?
I thought of writing often, of sending birthday cards or Christmas cards, or gifts from the various villages in Nepal. Tseten had encouraged me on more than one occasion to write, saying that a true friendship never dies and that I would only live to regret not writing some day.
Before I knew it though, another 5 years had passed. It was April of 1960. I was 49 years old, and I was currently on my way to Rome at the behest of Pope John XXIII. The Venerable Pope Pius XII, who had recommended my appointment to the UMN committee had passed away in October 1958. His successor, John XXIII, was said to be a good humored and kind man who often liked to walk the streets at night, earning him the nickname "Johnny Walker." I couldn't, for the life of me, figure out why the Pope would want to see me of all people, but I was anxious to find out.
I tried not to fidget as I waited to be seen by His Holiness. I had worn my best cassock for the occasion, but I still feared I would be undressed to meet the Pope. After an hour, I was granted a private audience with His Holiness…and nearly vomited on him from nerves as I kissed the papal ring.
"I'm pleased you could come, Father." He said in perfect, practiced Latin.
Oh God…Could I even remember how to speak formal Latin?
I answered slowly, "Thank you, Your Holiness; I am honored to be here."
"Your work in Nepal has become something of legend around here."
"My work, Your Holiness?" I was surprised and confused. Had I done something of true value? "Forgive me, but the mission in Nepal is a combined effort of many. I have only done what has been asked of me."
"On the contrary, Father," he smiled pleasantly. "I have it on good authority that the mission work would never have made it to this point without you. Your connection with the people has inspired many of us—myself included. You walk among them, learning about them, sharing in their lives, history, culture, teaching them of kindness and generosity…much as Christ our Lord did when he walked upon this earth. Many of us have set out to follow your example. I have made pastoral visits to my diocese in Rome, I have visited children at the hospital, prisoners…and I am not the only one, Father."
I was speechless. Truly speechless. I had never considered that my genuine interest in the lives of the locals would be compared to the same path Jesus walked before his crucifixion. I certainly did not feel worthy of such a comparison to my savior.
"Your praise is too kind, Your Holiness."
The Pope transitioned fluidly between Latin to English, "Tell me, Father; what projects have you helped to advise on in the Nepal mission?"
"All of them, Your Holiness….in some capacity, but it was my suggestion that we start an education program, and we established two schools in the region. We've also just begun a program for rural development."
"Pius, always had an eye on you, Father. When I took over from him, I was aware of who you were and the work you were doing in Nepal. I have also been watching you closely."
My heart was thudding loudly against my chest.
"I'm sure you're wondering why I've called you here, Father."
"Yes, Your Holiness."
"The work you have done in Nepal is to be commend; you have risen to every challenge set before you, overseeing and mentoring the Nepalese districts…almost like an archbishop might do over his territory. These tasks were not assigned at random, Father…the Church, as I said, has been watching you."
I stopped breathing and waited for him to continue, feeling the seconds tick by slowly.
"I would like to give you a new mission," he said, pausing again. "As you may or may not know, since your exile from Tibet and China, we have established more than 20 archdioceses, 85 dioceses, 39 apostolic prefectures, sent over 3000 missionaries, and have roughly 2500 priests."
"I am pleased to hear that, Your Holiness."
"I thought you might be," he smiled. "The reason I've asked you to come, Father, is because I find myself in need of an archbishop for the Swengchan province in China. I understand that the conditions of your exile mean that you cannot physically preside over the territory, of course, so you would be the archbishop in title only, but you would still be responsible for the Swengchan archdiocese."
"Your Holiness, I'm…I'm…I'm speechless. I'm honored, of course, but…speechless. I'm not sure what to say."
He laughed. "Say you'll accept, John."
"Of course, Your Holiness."
I felt I could be knocked over with a feather. Me? An archbishop? Who cares if it was titular or not…never had I ever imagined I would be an archbishop. Nor had I ever thought the Pope and his advisors would be watching me so closer, or that I would be inspiring others unknowingly. It was almost too much.
"Of course, I also realize that not being able to preside over your district also presents several problems, namely living arrangements and an office in which to work from. The Church would like to offer you an apartment near St. Peter's Church, as well as space here in the Vatican to perform your duties."
"That's very gracious, Your Holiness. When would you like me to begin?"
"Today," he smiled. "I've sent for your things to be shipped here from Nepal, and they should arrive in a few days. In the meantime, my assistant will show you to your office and introduce you to your new secretary."
I felt somewhat sad that I wouldn't get the opportunity to return to Nepal and say goodbye to some of the elders I had met over the last several years, but I resolved to send something to each of the villages as a way of thanking them for all they had done for me, and letting them know they wouldn't soon be forgotten.
"I am certain I will see you around, Archbishop," he smiled.
I again kissed the papal ring, thanking him profusely before his assistant led me out of the office. I was escorted through several corridors, to an office where my name and title had already been etched on the glass door. I stared at it for a long moment, before the assistant chuckled softly.
"You don't have to stand outside; go in."
With a shaking hand, I opened the door and found myself in a small reception room with a man seated at a desk. He stood as we came in.
"Your Eminence," the papal assistant said, and I wasn't sure if he was addressing me, or the man who was now standing in front of me. "May I introduce your secretary, the very Reverend Monsignor Pancho de Malaga y de Villa. Monsignor, the titular Archbishop of Swengchan, China, John Mulcahy."
"Your Eminence," Monsignor Malaga y de Villa gave a short bow of respect as I stuck out my hand to him. I laughed nervously, retrieving my empty hand awkwardly.
"This is going to take some getting used to," I admitted. "Ten minutes ago I was simply Father Mulcahy. I'm not sure I'll be able to get used to 'Your Eminence.'"
"It will take some time," the Monsignor said with a friendly smile. "Please, let me show your office, Your Eminence."
The papal assistant bid us adieu and left the office, closing the door, and I looked at my secretary. "I'd really prefer it if you just called me Father…or even just John."
"Of course, Your Eminence."
I sighed softly. We were going to have to work on that… I followed the shorter, dark haired Spaniard in through another office door and stopped abruptly as I crossed the threshold. The office was incredible. There was a large, ornate mahogany desk polished to a shine and centered before a large window that looked out over the courtyard of the Vatican. There were two black leather chairs in front of the desk and a large, comfortable looking chair behind the desk. There was a depiction of Christ on the cross hanging on one wall, and an empty bookcase on another wall.
"This is my office?"
"Yes, Your Eminence."
"You've really got to cut that out," I told him. "Honestly…just call me Father when we're alone."
"Of course…Father." He said with some effort.
"What should I call you?"
"Whatever you desire, Your…" I arched my eyebrow, cutting him off. "Father."
"How about I just call you Pancho? Is that alright?"
"Of course, Father."
"Good, now we're getting somewhere." I rubbed my hands together and looked around. "What exactly should I be doing right now?"
"It would be my honor to give you a tour of the Vatican, Father."
Touring the Vatican was a dream come true. As Pancho led me into the Sistine Chapel, I nearly had to pinch myself to make sure this wasn't just a dream. I gazed up at the ceiling Michelangelo had painted in the 1500s, trying to imagine what he must have felt like be suspended some 70 feet in the air trying to paint a ceiling back in those days. To see the paintings done by Perugino, Botticelli, Rosselli, and Ghirlandaio on the walls of the chapel was like being transported back in time. I was awestruck by the architecture of the building and the sheer magnificence of it.
Pancho took me through the Vatican Museums, Raphael's Room, and over to St. Peter's Basilica. I wished that I had my camera with me so that I could take pictures of everything, but I had to tell myself that I lived here now…I could see all of this whenever I wanted. The last stop on the tour was the modest apartment building near the church that I assumed is where I would be staying. Pancho unlocked a door with a key and gestured for me to enter first.
The apartment was completely furnished with the basics—a full kitchen, a couch and chair, and I assumed a bedroom suite in the room down the hall. It was spacious and comfortable, plenty of room to accommodate one person. In the back of mind, though, I couldn't help but think of sharing it with Hawkeye. My heart seized with momentary pain at the memory of our relationship and I quietly scolded myself for having such thoughts. Hawkeye and I were through, finished, finito. We had been for almost six years now. I needed to move on. My life was here now. I was an archbishop. The time for wanderlust and romance was over…if there had ever been an appropriate time for such flights of fancy.
"I am told your belongings will arrive before the end of the week," Pancho was saying. "I've been instructed to get you fitted for your new vestments and take you to get whatever you may need in the meantime."
"Is there anything you don't do?"
Pancho looked at me curiously for a long moment as if trying to assess what type of personality I had. "Laundry?"
I laughed and clapped Pancho on the back. "I think you and I will get along just fine, Pancho."
The first few weeks in my new office felt like a whirlwind as I tried to learn the reigns of policy and procedure, and figured out just what my duties as titular archbishop entailed. Pancho helped as best as he could, but being only a secretary, he wasn't privy to all the duties I was responsible for.
I was in the middle of reading files for every parish in my archdiocese, when there was a knock on my office door. I looked up, curious as to who was knocking, as I'd already instructed Pancho it wasn't necessary.
"Come in," I called, then mumbled, "Whoever you are."
I was surprised when His Holiness entered my office and I scrambled to my feet, making the short, plump man in white laugh and wave his hand.
"Relax, Father. I've simply come to see how you are settling in?"
"Oh, of course, Your Holiness. It's going…well."
He gave me a knowing look.
"To be honest, Your Holiness, I'm a bit lost on what exactly I should be doing."
He smiled. "Yes, I thought you might be. It can be quite daunting, no?"
"Very," I said with a slight laugh.
His Holiness guided me on what duties he expected me to complete each month, but not how I should go about completing them. I figured that much would be for me to figure out through trial and error. I felt somewhat better now that I had a little direction and guidance in what I should be doing.
"Thank you, Your Holiness; I cannot tell you what a relief your visit is."
"My pleasure, Father. Now, I was wondering if I might seek your advice on a matter. Unofficially of course."
"Yes, of course. How can I help?"
His Holiness laced his fingers together over his stomach as he thought. "I'm not an ignorant man; I know that I was voted into this office because I would have a short reign. I'm an old man, John. I will be blessed if I live to see another 5 years. The only reason I am here is because Archbishop Montini had not yet been elevated to the College of Cardinals when Pius passed. Even I had expected he would be Pius' successor."
"With all due respect, Your Holiness, I believe that your own merit and service to God and the Church is what gained you your status."
"Yes, well, you would be the only one," he said with a laugh. "Whatever the case may be, I want to be remembered for good works…I want to call an ecumenical council."
I raised my eyebrows in surprise. No pope had ever called a council since the 1860s. An ecumenical council had one purpose: to change Church doctrine and practices. It was a bold move, and I told him such.
"Yes, I know, but the world is changing, John. The Church must change along with it if we are to thrive." He pinned with a serious look. "What do you think I should do?"
I considered his question for a long moment. I was in no way qualified to advise the Pope, and this was probably highly irregular, but my opinion was unofficial. "I think that you should do what you feel is in the best interest of His children, Your Holiness. The world is changing, as you said, but you should consider whether or not the Church is ready to change with it. Changes in doctrine could cause more harm than good."
He considered this for a long time, then nodded. "I think I will take that risk. Thank you, Father."
I continued to offer my unofficial advice to His Holiness whenever he sought it out, all while continuing to learn my duties as an archbishop. Even though I couldn't directly preside over my bishops and priests, I spoke to them frequently and often had them visit me in Rome. I'd always heard that it takes a good year before you really feel comfortable in a new position, and that certainly seemed to be the case here…
On September 24th, 1962, I was summoned to His Holiness' office, where another man—a Cardinal—was seated with him. His Holiness smiled almost sadly and beckoned me into the office, where I knelt and kissed the papal ring.
"Please, sit." He said softly. "Do you know Cardinal Montini, Archbishop?"
"Only by reputation," I admitted, shaking the other man's hand. "Pleased to meet you, Cardinal."
"Yes, likewise, Archbishop. You've established quite a name for yourself around here, too. Even before your arrival."
I felt myself blushing, and looked back at His Holiness, "You called for me, sir?"
"Yes." He sighed. "I'm afraid that I have some unfortunate news…I have just learned that I have cancer of the stomach."
"My God…" I breathed. "Is it operable?"
He laughed softly. "Dear John, I once told you I would be blessed to see another five years. The doctors believe that, with good nutrition and blood transfusions, I will have perhaps another year."
"My condolences, Your Holiness." The Cardinal said. "If there is anything I can do…"
"Giovanni," His Holiness smiled. "You and I both know that you will be my successor. You would already be serving as Pope had Pius put you in the College of Cardinals. My purpose for informing the two of you is so that you might know each other. John has been a dear friend and trusted advisor—unofficial of course. It would serve you well to consider him a friend also, Giovanni. God has blessed him with a true gift of grace and understanding and compassion. He may be among your best allies; he remembers that we are here to serve God, not ourselves."
My face flushed again at his praise. I had never thought the Pope considered me a friend; I felt truly honored and humbled, and saddened that this man would soon be lost to us.
As Cardinal Montini and I left His Holiness, the other man looked at me curiously. "He has always been rather unorthodox, but I feel he may be right about you, Archbishop. I would like to buy you a drink."
Montini, I learned, had a similar interest in all religions, and had encouraged his congregations not to shun others of different beliefs, but rather embrace them and learn about them.
The Cardinal and I became fast friends. Our interests and philosophies were quite the same in many respects and he was a quiet intellectual like myself. We would often meet for a drink once a week, sharing our life stories and exchanging ideas. We spoke of theology, philosophy, music, art and literature. He told me of his family—his aristocratic father, rural nobility mother, and his two brothers. He told me about attending a school run by the Jesuits and going onto seminary to become a priest. I learned that he had a doctorate in Canon Law, and also studied at the Accademia dei Nobili Ecclesiastici at the request of Cardinal Guiseppe Pizzardo, who later requested that Giovanni work for him in the Secretariat of the State before Pope Pius XII made him the Archbishop of Milan. Now, Giovanni was slated to be the next Pope of the Catholic Church. Next to Giovanni Montini, I felt like a complete simpleton.
"Even Jesus had a simple life," he told me as I voiced this thought.
By May of 1963, His Holiness' health had taken a turn for the worse and he suffered a major hemorrhage that required a blood transfusion, but it was too late…the cancer had perforated the wall of his stomach. Few were permitted to see him as he lay in seclusion on his death bed, and I prayed that God would be merciful and ease his pain and distress. On June 3rd, at the age of 81, my friend, Pope John XXIII, was taken home by God's angels.
His loss was mourned by all, and he was quickly referred to as "Good Pope John." I always smiled upon hearing such reference, knowing that he had left the kind of legacy he'd intended. He'd shaken the Church with his council and his call for change, but he had been a good man.
As expected, Giovanni became his successor. Though we were no longer able to have our weekly engagements, Giovanni—who had chosen the name of Paul VI—sent for me several times during the first few months in the office for unofficial advice.
I missed having a close friend, though. I missed sharing stories and thoughts and ideas. I was still in communication with Tseten on a regular basis, who—at nearly every opportunity—asked if I had yet made amends with Hawkeye. I hadn't, of course, though I still wrote to him in my journal, which seemed more like a memoirs now than anything else, as the open letter spanned the length of 6 full journals.
It had been almost 10 years since I'd last seen Hawkeye, but not a day had gone by that I didn't think of him. I still missed him deeply. I often wondered if I'd made a mistake in leaving him. Sometimes I knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that I had…but I knew that I wouldn't be where I was today if I'd stayed. I had to trust that I'd made the right decision, even if it meant the sacrifice of a love that meant more to me than eternal life in Heaven.
"Is there anything else I can do for you today, Father?" Pancho asked, breaking me from my thoughts. I realized that it was after 5:30 and he was ready to call it a day.
"No, Pancho; thank you for your hard work today." As Pancho turned to leave, I found myself calling him back. "Pancho…would you care to get a drink with me?"
"A drink?" Pancho looked surprised. "Sure, Father; I would be glad to."
Italian beer was not quite as good as American beer, but I had quickly learned to adapt to the drink over the last few years. As Pancho and I sat at the bar with our drinks, I turned to face him curiously. "You've been working for me for 3 years, Pancho, and I know so little about you."
"What would you care to know, Father?"
"Where are you from? How did you come to the Church?"
"I come from Toledo in España. My father was a sword maker and my mother was a costurera…a—how you say…?—seamstress."
Pancho told me about his 2 sisters and 3 brothers, one of which had been killed in the Spanish Civil War. Pancho told me about how he'd grown up around artists and musicians in Toledo, and how he'd wanted to be a painter like Pablo Picasso, who was born in Malaga, where his father's family came from. He said that it had been his grandmother who had told him that he had been 'marked by God' and was destined for the clergy, so he attended the Seminario Mayor San Ildefonso de Toledo where he received his ordination and presided over a parish in Toledo. It was the archbishop of Toledo who had given Pancho the honorary title of Monsignor and recommended him to the Roman Curia, where he now served as my assistant.
"I hope you don't feel that you've been demoted in any way by having to serve as my secretary."
"No, or course not. I am honored to serve God in any way, and secretary to the Archbishop of Swengchan, China is a noble title, yes?"
"Quite noble." I agreed, smiling.
"If I may make an observation," Pancho started slowly. "You have seen…preoccupied recently. Is there something that troubles you, Father?"
"I've just been feeling a bit melancholy," I admitted. "Thinking of old friends I haven't seen in a very long time."
Though I didn't tell Pancho about Hawkeye that evening, I eventually began to share stories of my time in Korea, and of the friends I had made. I told him about the antics and hijinks of the boys who referred to themselves as the Swampmen. Though I shared stories about my time in Tibet and Nepal as well, Pancho seemed most amused by my tales of Korea.
Talking about Hawkeye, however, made me miss him all the more. Alone at night, in my apartment, I would spend much of my time thinking about him and writing to him in my journal, the creased and faded black and white picture of us captured from our last Christmas in Korea sitting next to me.
Do you still think of me? Do you miss me the same way I have missed you all these years? How I long to see you, speak to you, kiss you, hold you… I don't know if it's pride or propriety or the sheer daunting thought of just how much time has passed that keeps me from reaching out to you again now. Each time I think of it, I remember our last conversation. Do you still resent me?
Pancho became one of my most trusted friends, but it wasn't for several years that I finally told him just how much Hawkeye meant to me…
"There's something I want to tell you," I prefaced in a quiet voice as we sat in my apartment drinking Italian beer, myself smoking a cigarette. "But it will change the way you think of me."
Pancho merely looked at me, waiting for me to continue.
"I haven't always been faithful in my vows of celibacy. And, moreover, I've been in love. With a man. Not just a man…" I corrected, picturing Hawkeye's face as the way it had been 15 years ago now. "Hawkeye…"
Pancho said nothing, just sipped his beer quietly, and I found myself telling him the whole story from start to finish.
"It seems to me," he finally said. "That he must have loved you very much."
"Why is that?"
"Only love could cause so much anger in a person."
I mulled over his words long after he left that evening, trying to find comfort in them at the thought that Hawkeye had still loved me, but only feeling a deep sense of regret. I should have never left, and now it was too late to go back…
Turning 60 felt like an accomplishment rather than a milestone, as I was beginning to feel every single one of my years. Even though I presided over my churches from Rome, my duties still kept me very busy, and I was still offering private counsel to His Holiness—though those times seemed to be fewer and fewer these days. I was also involved in several councils that met once or twice every week to discuss everything from gender issues to foreign affairs to mission trips.
Pancho had remained my assistant, declining all of my recommendations for a promotion, and we still kept our practice of lounging around my apartment with a beer on the evenings when I didn't feel completely drained by the day's events.
I'd started writing less and less in my journal, finally concluding that Hawkeye would never read the words I'd written, and writing to him in such a way was a sheer waste of time and energy. Nevertheless, Hawkeye always seemed to be the last thought on my mind whenever I fell asleep at night. I still dreamt of him often enough that I would wake up, reaching over to him, only to find that he wasn't there and that he hadn't been for a very long time.
I told Pancho from time to time about my dreams and my inability to stop thinking about Hawkeye, and his response was always the same.
"Maybe you're not suppose to forget him."
Any time I asked him what that meant, Pancho would just shrug, finish his beer, and bid me goodnight.
Maybe it was my age, or maybe it was the fact that I seemed to be stretching myself so thin with my duties, but in the fall of 1972, I came down with a chest cold that I couldn't seem to shake. I had a deep cough and seemed to get very short of breath or tire very easily, but otherwise felt fine. I didn't have any fever or aches—other than my chest and back from coughing—but I couldn't seem to shake the respiratory infection. After a round of antibiotics with no result, the doctor finally did an x-ray of my chest to find out if there was something else going on. I was worried it might be pneumonia, but I wasn't prepared for what he told me.
"I'm not sure how to tell you this, John, but you've got lung cancer."
Cancer? The word hit me like a freight train. Surely I had misheard. "What?"
"I'm going to refer you to an oncologist," he said gently. "From what I can tell by the x-ray, it's only in your left lung right now, but the mass is dangerously close to your heart. The oncologist will be able to look at these and determine what kind of options there are for you. I'm sorry, John."
I left the office in a daze, suddenly feeling as though my body had been invaded by some type of alien from one of Hawkeye's science fiction television shows. Every time I took a breath, I swear I could feel the mass inside of me growing bigger and bigger. I automatically reached for my cigarettes, mindlessly putting one between my lips as I pulled out my lighter before my brain kicked on and I realized that I was doing the one thing that had given me this illness. I spat the cigarette out, then crumpled the pack in my hand in anger. Giving up the habit now seemed like too little, too late, but I simply couldn't bring myself to even think about enjoying the feel of the nicotine as it calmed my nerves.
Cancer…I supposed, really, the news shouldn't have been such a shock. I had been a moderate to heavy smoker for 20 years now, filling my lungs with the poison of the tobacco and nicotine. I'd played with fire, and I'd gotten burned, but the question now was how bad?
The oncologist was able to see me just a few days after I'd been referred, and he confirmed that there was a large carcinoma in my left lung. He recommended exploratory surgery to see if my condition was operable, and suggested—if it was—removing the entire lung. I had only ever had surgery once in my entire life, the day that Hawkeye had stitched me up from a knife wound… That had been a minor injury, and the surgery had sacred me to death; I couldn't even comprehend surgery to remove an entire lung, or how I would survive without it.
"Without surgery," I asked carefully. "How long would you say I have?"
"Depending on how rapidly the cancer grows…" he considered for a minute. "Perhaps a year, year and a half at best."
I felt my blood turn to ice in my veins.
"With the surgery, you could go on to live another 10, 20 years even if the cancer hasn't spread and there is no emphysema."
I shook my head, "Thank you, Doctor, but…this is God's will."
"Archbishop, please…you must at least consider—"
"Thank you, Doctor." I said firmly, getting to my feet. "God bless you."
The news was unsettling at best, but there was no way that I was going to let some stranger remove one of my lungs. If I had cancer, it was because it was part of God's plan. I would do what I could in the time I had left and then I would leave this world and all its suffering behind and join my Father in His Kingdom. I'd had a good life…I would be ready.
Pancho, of course was the first person I told of the news.
"What will you do?" He asked me, shocked and saddened.
"I'd decided not to have surgery," I said. "If this is God's will, then I shall not fight it."
"That is, of course, your choice, Father; but will you not consider any alternatives?"
"Such as?"
"There must be some treatment...medication…"
I shook my head. "Without surgery, any treatment would be useless."
"Well, it will be my honor to continue to serve you, Father. Whatever you wish, I will make it so."
"Thank you, Pancho."
Breaking the news to His Holiness was a little more difficult, as he couldn't seem to accept my acceptance of the matter.
"God works in mysterious ways, John. How can you know that your decision not to fight for life is the right one?"
"Of course I can't know that for certain, Your Holiness, but…the thought of surgery, of removing an entire lung…I simply can't cope with that."
"Trials in life are not meant to be easy. God has planned this path for you, John. And whether you forgo surgery and die in a year, or whether you have surgery and live for several more…it will not change the fact that you will be with God in the end. The choice, however, remains with you and whether you think your work on Earth is finished."
His words stuck with me like a bird with a fish stuck in its craw. How could I, or anyone, ever be sure that our work here was done? God's work would never be done so long as there was hate and violence and war and suffering, but would it make a difference whether I had one year or ten years left to work? I didn't know…
As 1973 came rolling in, I wonder if this would be the last New Year I would ever see. I wondered if I would suffer as my friend Good Pope John had, or if my death would be quick. The doctors had said the mass was close to my heart…what did that mean exactly? What happened if it spread to other organs? What happened if I did have emphysema? I wasn't afraid to die…but the thought of suffering a long, painful death terrified me. I almost didn't know what I feared more—a painful death or the surgery that could prolong my life.
On my 62nd birthday, I was called to His Holiness' office and was told to bring Pancho with me. I had the suspicion that Pancho knew what this was about, but if he did, he wasn't telling me.
"Ah, John, come in," His Holiness beamed with open arms, embracing me warmly before I had the chance to greet him in typical respectful fashion. "First, I would like to wish you a very happy birthday."
"Thank you, Your Holiness."
"Secondly," he said, holding up a finger to stay any comments. "There is a favor I would ask of you."
"Anything, Your Holiness."
"The Knights of Columbus in New Orleans are having a convention at the beginning of next month, and have issued an invitation for a representative of the Vatican to attend. I would go, of course, but I have called for a continuation of Second Vatican Council that was started by Good John and I simply cannot leave Rome at this time. I would like for you to attend in my place."
"I would be honored to."
"While you're there," he continued as he passed me an envelope with his wax seal. "I want you to at least visit with the doctors at the Gates of Heaven Hospital for a second opinion on your condition. It has come highly recommended to me. You will want to give them that envelop, as it contains your medical records and the x-rays recently taken."
I knew I couldn't say no, "Of course, Your Holiness. As you wish."
"The choice is still yours, John," he said gently. "But perhaps God may provide you with an alternative."
I simply nodded, but as Pancho and I left his office, I looked at my assistant angrily, "Why do I have a feeling you had a hand in this, Pancho?"
"I have no idea what you're talking about, Your Eminence." Pancho replied with a less-than-innocent tone.
I was instructed to pack for a two week stay, and at the beginning of April, Pancho and I boarded a private jet to New Orleans. It was the first time I'd been back on American soil in almost 20 years, and I could almost feel how close I was to Hawkeye. I was sorely tempted to call him up whilst I was here, if nothing else to at least break the news of my illness to him. Maybe, like Danny, I could make amends when him before it was too late.
We were met at the airport by Monsignor John Joseph Clancy, the chancellor of the New Orleans diocese. He shook my hand eagerly. "Welcome to New Orleans, Archbishop. How was your flight?"
"Long," I admitted tiredly. "Thank you for meeting us, Monsignor."
"Please, call me Jack."
"Of course, Jack. This is my assistant, Monsignor Pancho de Malaga y de Villa. You can call him Pancho."
"Pleased to meet you, Pancho." Jack said, shaking hands with the Spaniard. "If you'll come with me, Archbishop, I will take you to the hotel. The Knights of Columbus have scheduled a reception for you at 5:15, followed by dinner, so you should have a little time to refresh yourself."
We made it to the Old Royal Maison hotel around 3pm, which left me very little time to catch my breath, but Pancho and I were able to get checked in and taken to our room on the 8th floor without too much hassle. Pancho seemed to be rather anxious and continuously checked his wrist watch as I laid in bed until it was time to get ready for the reception.
"Pancho…quit pacing."
"I'm sorry, Father." He set about pulling out my formal robes and laying them out for me, and I finally started getting dressed around 4:15, as we were supposed to meet the Archbishop of New Orleans in the lobby before the reception.
I still had the unfortunate problem of being nervous in front of crowds, so I convinced Pancho to sit with me in the hotel bar while we waited for the archbishop to arrive. I ended up trying a Sazerac cocktail, which was the New Orleans version of old-fashioned cognac, made with whiskey, cognac, absinthe and Peychaud's Bitters, but I was assured by the bartender that it was the best cocktail I would ever have.
I followed up my first one with two more by the time the Archbishop of New Orleans arrived with his entourage of bishops and monsignors. Introductions were made and the Archbishop suggested we move to the Jean Lafitte Pirate's Cove Room where the reception was to be held.
As we moved through the lobby and took our places before the doors, ready to be received by the gentlemen and ladies who had gathered to honor my arrival, a voice echoed through the lobby, and the words made me pale, my eyes growing wide as my jaw fell slack.
"Hotlips Houlihan, report to the Swamp!" It called. "Hotlips Houlihan, report to the Swamp."
I turned and looked at Pancho, who was looking at me stoically. "Pancho, I want you to investigate that page. Find out who is responsible for it."
"Immediately, Your Eminence." Pancho said, bowing slightly before he ran off, though again I had the feeling that he knew who was responsible for it.
My heart was hammering against my chest. I didn't believe it could be mere coincidence that those particular words would have been spoken here at this time. It was deliberate…but why? When Pancho came back, he leaned in close to my ear.
"Someone paid the bellboy to say it, Your Eminence. Someone in Room 517."
I nodded, swallowing the anxious lump that had suddenly formed in my throat. I would have to investigate that later… Right now, I had an entire room full of people to greet.
As the last Knight of Columbus and his lady had passed through the reception line, however, I turned to the Archbishop of New Orleans.
"Your Eminence," I said with some urgency. "I must beg you to excuse me for a few minutes. A matter of the most pressing personal importance has arisen. Please entertain these fine people for five or ten minutes, after which I will return…God willing,"
The Archbishop nodded, but sent Jack along with Pancho and myself as we made for the elevator and were taken to the fifth floor. I was trembling slightly, anxious and nervous to find out who the hell was here and who had made that page, though the possibilities seemed limited to 3 prank-worthy clowns.
"Suite 517, Your Eminence," Pancho reminded me as we stepped off the elevator.
"Wait here, Pancho." I told him. "You too, Jack."
It seemed to take me a lifetime to walk down the hallway before I reached the door of 517. I swallowed hard, and raised my hand, hesitating only a moment before I knocked.
The door swung open and there stood the tall, half-naked visage of Trapper John McIntyre.
"I'll be goddamned!" He shouted, just as surprised to see me as I was to see him. "You ugly mackerel snapping sonofagun you!"
Trapper lunged forward, throwing his arms around me and embracing me tightly. I hugged him back just as fiercely, unable to speak both around the lump of emotion and the fact that he was crushing me against him, but his next words made me weak.
"Hawkeye, get off the crapper! The cat just drug in Dago Red in the goddamn flesh!" Trapper bodily picked me up and carried me in through the door, setting me on my feet again just as Hawkeye Pierce emerged from the bathroom in his boxer shorts, his handsome face half covered in shaving cream, and his eyes wide with disbelief. We stared at each other for a long moment and I couldn't help but wonder if this was all just a dream. I felt Trapper move around me and heard him start to shake a martini mixer. I licked my lips and found my voice.
"Hello Hawkeye." I said softly, feeling somewhat shy and uncertain in his presence after almost 20 years apart.
Hawkeye's reply was so soft—his throat constricted with emotion—that I almost didn't hear it. "I told you that if you kept your eyes open and your mouth shut, you'd get a promotion."
I smiled as my eyes began to water and Hawkeye took several large steps, his arms encasing me even tighter than Trapper's had, smudging me with shaving cream as he held me the way I'd been dreaming of for so long.
"Oh, God I've missed you, Dago." He whispered fiercely.
"I've missed you too, Hawk…"
I heard him sniff as he pulled away, looking at me with red-rimmed, watery eyes before he moved into the bathroom, where I heard him blow his nose. I pulled a handkerchief that I had tucked in my sash and wiped my own eyes before I blew my nose.
He laughed softly. "I always wondered where you kept that. Where do you keep your cigarettes, in your socks?"
I couldn't help but smile even as I shook my head. "I don't smoke anymore, Hawkeye."
"Here you go, Red," Trapper said as he pressed a martini glass in my hand, handing another one to Hawkeye. "Here's to Auld Lang Syne!"
The three of us sipped our gin before a knock came at the door and Trapper went to answer it.
"I gave at the office, fellas. And besides, Father Mulcahy is working this floor."
I'd nearly forgotten about Pancho and Jack and the reception downstairs. "They're with me, Trapper…let them in."
"Is everything all right, Your Eminence?" Pancho asked, obviously uncomfortable in the presence of two half-dressed men.
"Perfectly all right," I replied, casting a look at Hawkeye who was looking at me still in disbelief. I turned to Jack, "Would you be good enough to tell His Eminence that God is His mysterious ways has brought me together again, after many years, with two of my dearest friends?"
"May I remind Your Eminence," Jack replied. "That two hundred people are waiting to pay their respects in the Pirate's Cove Room?"
"I'd quite forgotten," I sighed, knowing my long overdue reunion would have to wait. "You're right, of course."
"May I further suggest," Jack added, "speaking both as diocesan chancellor and as spiritual advisor to the New Orleans Consistory of the Knights of Columbus, that we would be honored to have your friends accompany you?"
I thought about this for a long moment, closing my eyes as I bowed my head a little. I wondered how much Trapper and Hawkeye had changed since I'd last seen them together. They were rotten influences on each other, and if their prank in the lobby—if it even was their prank—was any indication, I wasn't sure they'd be able to act civilized enough for the reception. I peeked open one eye and looked at them. "Can you guys behave? Just for a couple of hours?"
Hawkeye was looking at me with an unreadable, but serious expression. "On one condition."
"Which is?"
"That we get it in writing." He said. "If I went home and told Wrong Way Napolitano, who is the head witch doctor of the Spruce Harbor Council K of C that I got asked to a meeting of the Knights of Columbus by their spiritual advisor, he would never believe it."
I saw Jack's eyebrow rise as he considered he might have made a mistake in issuing the invitation. I couldn't help but laugh.
"Excuse me, gentlemen," I said. "I haven't introduced you to each other. Dr. Pierce and Dr. McIntyre, may I present Monsignor Pancho de Malaga y de Villa and Monsignor John Joseph Clancy."
I watched the four of them exchange handshakes as Trapper grinned. "Wait till Wrong Way hears about this! Two monsignors at once!"
"Wait a minute," Hawkeye said with a curious expression as he turned his gaze back to me. "If these guys are monsignors, Dago, what are you?"
Pancho spoke in a grand voice before I could open my mouth, "It is my great honor to serve as private secretary to His Eminence, who is Archbishop of Swengchan, China."
I watched their mouths fall open as they exchanged shocked looks before they fell to their knees and bowed at my feet in a display that could only be classified as classic Hawkeye and Trapper. Jack and Pancho gawked at the two, obviously never knowing anyone who could be so blatantly disrespectful, yet still be considered a close friend to someone like me. I sighed, not having the time or inclination to deal with their shenanigans tonight and I tipped my glass so that the contents of my drink ran down their necks.
"When I said behave," I said sternly. "I meant behave. And next time you call me Dago Red in public, I'll make you eat the glass. Understood?"
They rose into a kneeling position with their hands in prayer position over their hearts, looking up at me angelically. I could see the slight grin on Hawkeye's face as he found all of this to be completely amusing. Together they spoke, "Understood, Your Eminence."
I shook my head and rolled my eyes, turning to my assistant. "Pancho, I'm going back to the reception with Monsignor Clancy. You stay here with these two. Make sure they get nothing else to drink, and that when they get dressed, they look like respectable members of the medical profession. Then you bring them down to the reception."
Pancho looked uncertain of the task as he eyed Trapper and Hawkeye, "Very well, Your Eminence."
I looked back to Hawkeye and Trapper as they got to their feet. I wanted to stay with them a while longer, I wanted to talk to Hawkeye, to find out if he was still angry with me, but I had a duty to perform and it would have to wait. "I mean it, boys. Your best behavior."
With that, I followed Jack back down to the reception.

TBC
Note: I tried to be as accurate as possible as far as the timeline's of the Popes' reign in office and what they accomplished. Also, the United Mission to Nepal is a real organization that was establish in 1954 and is still active today.
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Infatuation