Speak Ill Of The Dead, Chapter 2
I did bring it up the next day. Major Browning was blunt.Â
"We couldn't spare any."
"Couldn't spare any? Nurse, she was barely functioning!"
"I know!" She yelled at me and we both realised her temper was finally snapping under pressure. "We have practically none left! She'll have got all she needs in Seoul, we need to save what we have for the next lot who come in screaming."
"Sorry, sorry" I apologised, backing off, hands raised. She didn't seem like the kind of dame who'd throw a punch over a thing like this, but I'm far too pretty to take that kind of risk. "Why so low?"
Browning sighed, her temper sinking as fast as it had risen. "It gets stolen. Every single vial of morphine we get, it walks. We've tried hiding it, keeping it locked away, I even slept with it under my pillow one time. It somehow just goes."Â
That was never a good sign.Â
"Since when?" I queried.Â
"Last month or so."
So before Colonel Bailey split then. There goes the theory that it was lack of command then.Â
"Any suspects?"
She shook her head "Not without suspecting everyone. There's very few new staff here - other than yourself I'm the next most recent transfer, everyone else has worked together for most of the war. We do what we can to squirrel it away but there's nothing we seem to be able do to stop it."Â
"Leave it to me, Major." I replied, hating myself for getting involved "I'll see if I can find anything out"
I left the recovery ward before lighting up a smoke. Stupid thing to volunteer, but I had a gut feeling that being an outsider might be an advantage in this one. Not that I had any idea where to start, but this is the army. Not knowing where to start is standard operating practice.Â
 I decided to look at the other people in camp first - the medics would all have opportunity but they also had reason to want the morphine available. The hangers on, on the other hand, not so much.Â
 My first stop was the prayer tent, because it was in a set position and therefore easy to find. To call it a chaplaincy would be like calling a bread roll a banquet - it would do in a pinch, but only the army would argue that it was good enough. The tent was was in essence just the Padre's quarters, with an alter at the front and a sheet hanging up to keep his bunk out of sight of sinners.Â
"Hello?" I called.Â
A smiling face emerged from the back tent, followed by a strong built body with a beard and a dog collar. Pastor Dean Tuttle.Â
"Hello there! Mouse, isn't it? What brings you to my humble abode? Looking for a prayer?"
I smiled back, against my better judgement. "Not my area really Padre. God and I have more of a nodding relationship than a close friendship."
"May you be struck down" He laughed, showing a gold tooth. Unusual. Generally they mean it when they say that. "So what are you looking for here?"
I shrugged. This guy did not fit the standard template and it intrigued me. "Just thinking I should get to know my fellow inmates" I replied carefully. A priest shouldn't make one feel intimidated but for some reason, this one did. Intimidated, and very curious.Â
"Inmates, indeed" Tuttle replied quietly, a tone of friendly menace sneaking in. "You'll be a draftee then, Mouse. Plucked away from a nice cosy private practice and dropped in this dark corner of God's green earth. Never expected to be spending your career under fire in the muck. And the blood."Â
I held his gaze as firmly as I ever had in my life, and his baby blues kicked onto mine likewise. St Michael and all his archangels could have come down and played the last trump right here in Korea and we'd still have been standing there, waiting to see who blinked.Â
"You've guessed wrong there, Padre. I signed up straight out of med school. Fourteen years a soldier and I've seen my share. I go where I'm needed, always have done, always will do. That's why I don't agree with bringing civilians into theatre and if I understand right, that includes your good self. Father."
For a long moment the silence hung in the air. I offered a silent prayer to a God I didn't believe in that I'd guessed correctly.Â
"Pastor" he said finally, looking over to tap the cross on the wall. Breaking off without backing down. "Father is a Catholic term and you can see there's no image on the cross here. Catholics use a crucifix with an image - usually a statue but it's not doctrinal - to give a focal point for prayer. Most Protestant denominations consider that to be bordering on if not in fact fully idolatry, and so have the unadorned cross. That's how you can tell that Father is not the correct term."Â
"As you wish, Padre."Â
He nodded "It'll do."Â
"So what flavor of Christian are you then, Padre?"Â
He spread his arms expansively. "I consider myself quite ecumenical in that regard."Â
"An ecumenical preacher. That's pretty unusual."
"I choose to take that as a compliment."
I laughed, genuinely. I didn't trust this guy and I wasn't ruling him out of my list of suspects, but I was really starting to like him.Â
"You should do, Padre. I like a man who hedges his bets."Â
"Think of it more as playing my cards close to my chest."
"So let's put our cards on the table then" I decided to be blunt. "I'm looking to find out who's stealing morphine. Know anything about it?"
He managed a horrified expression, but I wasn't buying it and I could see he wasn't intending me to. It did however make it impossible to read his actual thoughts. I felt that I would love to play poker against this guy. Though not for high stakes.Â
"Are you asking me if I'm breaking the eighth commandment?"
"Of course not, Padre" Unless of course that's the one about stealing. Because in that case yes. "I'm just asking if anyone has said anything to you about it."Â
"Ah." He let out a knowing sigh, sitting down in one of the wooden chairs around the place and steepling his fingers as he looked at me. "You're asking me to break the seal of the confessional."Â
I set my face into a mask of confusion.Â
"Oh I couldn't possibly do that" I replied, trying to keep the smugness from my voice "The confessional seal is Catholic."
I'd like to report that I walked out on that line but the truth is that we kept talking for some time after, the verbal sparring dispensed with. If he knew anything he wasn't talking, but he made a decent cup of Joe and was happy to chat about anything else going on. He was, as I had correctly guessed, a draftee. Cagey about where he came from in real life but I don't begrudge a man his secrets. Lord knows I've got enough myself. He wasn't innocent, but whether or not he was guilty of this particular crime I wasn't going to find out today.Â
That didn't mean I was letting it lie, but I had other avenues to pursue.Â
 The avenue my feet took me down next was Times Square, at least metaphorically. There was a journalist embedded with this MASH unit and I couldn't wait to see what she had to say for herself.Â
I didn't have to wait long. She was sitting in the shade of her personal tent - when you pay to come to hell, turns out you get a private suite - the clatter of the typewriter telling me she was home. Mostly in shadow, a long thin shaft of sunlight perfectly illuminated her graceful fingers. As I stepped through the doorway I briefly saw my outline fall across her face and I caught my breath as she stood to greet me.Â
A mass of soft black curls fell across her beautiful face, striking in the sudden light as I moved out of the doorway. She was wearing a simple t shirt and skirt, army style in all but color, but somehow on her the normally shapeless style did nothing to disguise her curvaceous form. I could tell from the way she moved and the curl of her perfect mouth, this dame was trouble and she knew it. My momma always warned me, I was bad at staying away from trouble.Â
 "Hello there Captiain" She greeted me with an exotic foreign accent, French I think, it maybe Italian. "I don't believe we've been introduced."Â
She held out a hand and I wasn't certain for a moment if I was meant to shake it or kiss it. Ignoring my instincts, I shook it warmly.
"Doctor Micky Richards, at your service."
"I'll bear that in mind" She smiled back at me, an engaging smile. "Meena Namora, at yours."
"A pleasure, madam." I found myself saying. I should have more sense than to get involved with a dame like this but I could never resist a challenge. "I'm sorry, I appear to have interrupted your writing."
"Oh I wouldn't worry about that, Mouse. I can always pick up where I left off. I'm very capable that way."
Mouse, is it? She'd done her homework. IÂ could smell her perfume, flowery and rich. It's deep scent was all I could smell. I took a step forwards and could feel her closer to me.Â
"So what are you working on?" I asked, as much for something to say as from any genuine interest. She waved a manicured hand over the paperwork dismissively.Â
"Just a fluff piece on Charlie Washington. Nothing particularly interesting, but folks back home lap that kind of thing up."
"And where is home exactly, Mrs Namora?" I'd not heard of Charlie Washington, but that could certainly keep.Â
"Miss" She corrected me teasingly. Which is why I'd asked. "What is it you Americans say? Home is where I hang my hat, oui? So I am at home anywhere I go. But my readership is mainly European."
I was burning to ask further but we were rudely interrupted by Major Sharp bellowing my name across the compound.Â
"Sir!" I yelled back reflexively, before offering a slight mock bow to the vision before me "Duty calls, I'm afraid."
"But of course, ma petite souris" She quirked her mouth into an exaggerated pout of disappointment and I decided then and there I had to learn French. Or maybe Italian. Basically I needed to know what she'd just called me but cursing my luck I had to go. To my joy she accompanied me, staying the perfect distance to eavesdrop without seeking to intrude. Must be a thing they teach you in journalism school.Â
However as I said, duty always gets to come first and so I hurried over to Major Sharp and threw off a smart salute. Earning me a look of surprise from everyone in the huddle, himself included. Clearly saluting was a step too far along the protest army protocol line for this unit. Point taken, though I'd far rather be laughed at for being too army, than be spending the night in the stockade.Â
"Mouse, glad you made it. We've got a shout on, a downed pilot is radioing in wounded and if we don't get to him first the enemy will. I can spare one surgeon but I'd like another medic to accompany them. I understand you've had combat training, I hope it won't be relevant but be prepared."
I looked around at the group as Sharp continued. It included a few I had met the evening before on my tour hunting for Quacks, a few I hadn't and one I had intended to pick up with after Meera.Â
"Captain Cody will fly the group in as close as we can but the guy came down in pretty dense jungle so be prepared to hoof it a while. Magdalena has agreed to come to translate in case you encounter any hostility: it's a medical mission so you should be able to talk your way out of things."
A medical mission. With three medics, three combatants and a civilian.
"I would like to accompany them, Major, if I may. Get a full rescue to recovery view of your work, oui?"
Make that two civilians. Sharp immediately disagreed with her of course, but I knew Meera would get her way. That put the group as:
Captain William Cody, our pilot and highest priority. Without him, none of us were getting back alive.Â
Captain Reuben Koppelman, our only practising MD. The one I was worrying about, the one who had somehow acquired the biggest machine gun on base. Oh this was really looking like a medical team indeed.
Private Leslie Bloom, a despatch rider who I'd met last night. He was good at darts, I hoped that translated into being handy with a pistol too.Â
Corporal Jack "Rooster" McEachan, who definitely seemed handy with a gun.
Private Robbie Mann, quite a reserved kind of guy but he seemed decent enough.Â
Lieutenant J.J. Baker, a nurse who I hoped has a strong stomach for this kind of thing. Some dames do, and nurses more than most. I hadn't yet found out what J.J. stood for but I'm sure I had that pleasure to come.Â
Miss Magdelena Hackett, a local guide and recovering former missionary. Apparently she' d spent twenty years trying to deliver God to the Koreans before realizing that what they really needed was a hot meal and decent healthcare.Â
And Miss Meera Namora, who whatever other skills she had, was clearly very good at being a hard dame to say no to.Â
 Between us, I wasn't convinced we were going to strike fear into the heart of the commies, but with any luck we were enough to carry a wounded man back to safety. Ideally without making ourselves casualties on the way.Â













