Work Text:
It was dark when Margaret finally left the ward, unable to find one more patient in need, or another task that would let her stop thinking about today’s news.
Henry Blake, gone. Dead.
He’d survived everything this place could throw at them, put back together God-only-knew how many boys, only to be killed on his way home. If only they had let him help with that last load of wounded - he almost had – Henry might still be alive, still saving lives.
She tried not to think about the woman getting a telegram instead of her husband.
They both deserved better.
***
Francis Mulcahy stood in front of the chapel tent, letting the cool night air soothe him.
The news of Henry Blake’s death had hit them all hard, but the MASH couldn’t stop for just one man. Not only that, Henry wouldn’t have wanted them to stop working when there were men who need them.
So they had worked in the operating room. Then they’d mourned.
That was when his work really began.
He’d prayed for the Blake family, hoping Henry’s wife had strength and support.
He’d comforted the officers who were grieving.
Now he could take a moment for himself.
***
“You looked exhausted,” Margaret said as she sat beside him.
Margaret wasn’t particularly religious, but she was thankful for Father Francis Mulcahy. He always knew when to talk and when to listen, but she wondered if anyone ever listened to him. How many people had needed him today?
He looked like he needed someone now.
“It’s been a hard one,” he said after a long moment.
“Long days are our specialty,” she murmured. “It’s just so unfair to him.”
“We’ll never forget Henry,” Mulcahy said. “He was a good man.”
So are you, Margaret thought. Probably better than we deserve.