“Father, you’re a saint,” Sidney sighed as the priest handed him a cup of coffee.
“I’m fine with just being a friend,” he replied, sipping his own drink, “namely a friend with an open ear and a still tongue.”
“This is about Private Stern, isn’t it?”
“We’re all dying for some news, Sidney. Anything would put many minds and hearts at ease.”
“Maybe not anything, Father.”
“It isn’t good, I take?”
“Well, it may be best if you talk to him yourself. He answered my questions for the most part, but I suspect he’s holding back. Kept asking me if we were finished; I think that was his subtle way of saying he wasn’t comfortable.”
“Would he wish to hold a confessional?”
“No, Father. Told me he isn’t the religious type – not any more. Mostly I suspect he wants someone to listen rather than pick apart his brain.”
“Oh, all right,” Mulcahy said softly as he stood.
“One more thing; it may be best if you wear some civvies. Scared of anything in uniform; nearly cried when Major Houlihan passed by.”
“Did he give you any indication as to why he gave up his religion? I don’t mean to pry, but I’d rather not have to bother him with it.”
“He said the last priest he talked to dragged him out in front of the entire unit and excommunicated him.”
“Heaven’s sake, whatever for?”
“He confessed to being homosexual, to being scared that the other soldiers were planning on beating him. He was seeking sanctuary,” Freedman said, watching Mulcahy’s face carefully.
Father Mulcahy chewed his lower lip for a moment before straightening up, “Major Freedman, I believe in love.”
Frank had a raging headache when he woke up. He had been dumped half-haphazardly over his bunk, and felt as stiff as a board as a result. Groping around, he brought his alarm clock close to his face to read the time, 11:39pm. Looking around the Swamp, he spotted his tent mates sitting on Hunnicutt’s bunk, talking and passing their homemade swill between them. He sat up noisily, but neither bothered to so much as glance at him.
“I hope you’re happy,” he raved. “Now we’re all going to be in trouble. Could’ve just handed him over to the MPs and let them do their job, but no. You two had to be all defiant. That’s what this is really about, isn’t it? This is you’re way of trying to upstage Uncle Sam, isn’t it? You hate America!”
“Frank, your mouth’s running faster than your brain – and your feet, for that matter,” B.J. grumbled, massaging his temples.
“Bullux on you! You’re all talk, that’s what you are. You’re no better than grade school bullies!”
Hawkeye stood silently, walked to Frank, grabbed his shoulder, and punched him in the face. Frank fell back on his cot, unconscious, and Hawkeye would have punched him again if B.J. had not grabbed his hand. They stood by Frank for a few moments as Hawkeye calmed down.
“He rolled out of bed in his sleep. Hit his face on the desk,” B.J. said quietly, taking Hawkeye’s other hand.
“Right… Hit the desk,” Hawkeye mumbled in a daze.
Slowly and gently, B.J. managed to lay Hawkeye onto his bed. While his friend fell asleep almost instantly, B.J. was blessed with insomnia and lay awake for the rest of the night. When the day officially started – with wounded at half-past five – he was the first to reach the choppers as they touched down.
The day was long. Food lost the last of its appeal after digging his hands around inside soldiers, and sleep wouldn’t come no matter what he tried.
The only consolation he found was in watching Father Mulcahy – dressed in Hawkeye’s Hawaiian shirt and cowboy hat – smiling sadly as he held a crying Private Stern.
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