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The Korean theatre, Francis Mulcahy has decided, is primarily cold, damp, and confusing.
"Excuse me," he says, trying to catch someone's attention for the third time; "er, excuse me--!"
This time, the person turns around; in point of fact, he spins around and immediately snaps, "What?"
Father Mulcahy blinks at the stranger wearing the rank insignia of a major and he says mildly, "I was hoping that you could direct me toward Colonel Henry Blake's office."
"Oh, sit on it," snarls the major, and he stomps off across the camp with his hands stuffed into his coat pockets.
"Don't mind the major," says a kindly voice from behind Mulcahy. "He's got this problem where he's a jerk all the time."
Mulcahy chuckles lightly. "I'm sure he's a very busy m--" and then he turns around, all of his gear in tow, and sees who he has been speaking to. "--man."
"I can take you to Colonel Blake, sir," says the hairy person in a women's skirt suit, high heels and fur coat, a rifle slung over his shoulder. "I saw you get dropped by the motor pool; those guys are a bunch of chuckleheads."
He is aware that his mouth opens and closes three times before he finally manages, "Yes. Thank you. That would be most appreciated."
"Everybody's gonna be real interested to talk to you, sir," says the friendly sentry, picking up his extra duffel bag without a word of complaint and leading him across the compound. "We don't get a lot of fresh blood around here, especially from Stateside."
"Well!" Father Mulcahy says, finding himself blinking once again. "I don't know that I'll have much to impart, unfortunately; I don't follow much of the news that the fellows in Seoul were asking about."
"That's okay," he says, ducking into the doors of one of the more permanent-looking structures and walking through a military office, heels clicking on the wooden floor. "You're new; that means you're automatically interesting."
Once inside a second office, where a man is standing behind a desk with his back to the door, the sentry throws a salute. "Colonel Blake, sir! Reporting, with new personnel, sir!"
"New personnel?" asks the man wearing a fisherman's vest and hat (lures and all) over his fatigues. "Klinger, what in the hellllll--" He turns around midway through the word, gets one look at Mulcahy, and starts tripping over his own tongue. "--eeeccckkk're you talking about. Holy cow, Klinger," he hisses. "Jeez louise! Did you have to wear something like that when you're meeting the new chaplain?"
"It's quite all right," Mulcahy hastens to say. "The color is -- very nice."
"Thanks, Father," Klinger says, beaming at him. "But next time, I'll pick an ensemble with less cleavage." He gives the colonel a full, militantly proper salute, then turns and marches out of the office.
"You'll have to excuse Klinger, Father," Colonel Blake says, making a poor show of hurriedly trying to clear off his desk. "He's bucking for a Section 8, and he's making himself a real pain in my keister while he does it." He freezes. "Uh, is it Father? Or do I call you lieutenant?"
Mulcahy smiles. "Father will be just fine," he assures him.
"Oh," says the man, laughing nervously. "Good. Uh, Radar--"
Before the shout is even finished, a corporal in wire-rimmed glasses has appeared through the double doors. "Sir, Father Mulcahy's tent is all ready to go--"
"Why don't you go ahead and make sure that the father's tent is set up--"
"Major Burns heard that he's here and offered to give him a tour--"
"--and find a volunteer to walk him over there and show him around the place--"
"--and here's the transfer paperwork for later."
"--and we'll sort out the paperwork once he's all settled in, snug as a bug." Colonel Blake smiles at him and Mulcahy reflexively smiles back, as stunned as he feels. "Uh, Father, this is Corporal O'Reilly, our company clerk; he can introduce you to the ... major, and get you where you need going."
"A pleasure," Father Mulcahy says.
"Sure; right this way, Father." He picks up the bag that Klinger had set down, and leads him back out through the office and into the cold. "Major Burns, this is Father Mulcahy; Father, this is--"
"--You!" says the sharp-faced major who'd snapped at Mulcahy under the flagpole. He looks as though he has seen a ghost.
"Hello," says Mulcahy pleasantly. Corporal O'Reilly looks between the two of them, blinking owlishly behind his glasses, then sets down Mulcahy's bag, gives them a small salute, and scurries across the compound toward a tent that looks even more ramshackle than the rest.
Major Burns's mouth gawps uselessly before he finally manages a horrified, "You have to know, I had no idea you were a priest!"
"Ah! I hear that often. No harm done," says Father Mulcahy, smiling. "I understand that you're my tour guide, Major?"
"I -- yes. Yes, I am." He seems to recover somewhat, sweeping his arm to the left. "Right this way, Father."
He starts to walk, leaving Mulcahy to heft his second bag and struggle along after him. "Certainly."
When he catches up, Major Burns is already talking. "--nd we, that is to say Major Houlihan and I, are just so pleased to hear that someone of your fine moral standing will be here in the camp, to set an example for the men."
"Well," Mulcahy chuckles breathlessly, "I'm here as a support more than an example, but it's nice to be appreciated."
"Oh, your example is sorely needed," Burns assures him earnestly, not seeming to notice the two men in bathrobes leisurely strolling toward them. "This is a camp full of degenerates and perverts; ones who wouldn't appreciate a true patriot if he b--"
"Hi," says the man in the yellow bathrobe. "Captain Degenerate."
"Captain Pervert," intones the other, with a small bow.
"Pierce!" Major Burns snaps, face abruptly flushing a color that Mulcahy hadn't realized was physically possible. "McIntyre! Butt out, you - you -- buttinskis!"
"Frank, for shame; language! Besides, he's a priest, not a pack mule," says the taller of the two. His outrage doesn't seem entirely genuine, though he does add, "Need a hand, Father?"
"One certainly wouldn't go amiss," Mulcahy says.
He makes a regal gesture toward Mulcahy's second bag. "Trap?"
"Now I'm the pack mule," grunts the other one, but it sounds good-natured as he takes the duffel bag off Mulcahy's left shoulder. "Oof; what do you got in here, Father, the Red Sea?"
"Oh, no," Mulcahy says. "Just ten Bibles."
The two of them exchange grins. "Just ten?" asks the taller one. "You're a man who comes prepared. I like that about you." He winks; Major Burns makes a scandalized sound from his other side, but Mulcahy only laughs. "Hawkeye Pierce, surgeon, rake, and general gad about town, at your service."
"He never shuts up, either," says his friend. "He doesn't mention that in his introduction. I'm Trapper."
"It's a pleasure to meet you boys," says Mulcahy, and he tips his cap with a ready smile. "Father Francis Mulcahy."
That night, once he has signed an improbable amount of paperwork and already started the work of committing dozens of names and faces to memory, Father Mulcahy looks around the tiny tent that is apparently going to be his home for the conceivable future. He unpacked as well as possible in the afternoon, before the deluge of introductions (and jokes about the edible content of the, admittedly dubious, food) at dinner, and now the desk already looks well-used and there are spare uniforms and collars in the small wardrobe.
His eyes linger on the wardrobe. The khaki cap has never suited him terribly well, and military dress doesn't seem to be a strict requirement at the 4077th.
He wonders if anyone would object to a nice panama hat.