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“Feel free to join me in my tent later tonight. If your jet lag is going to keep you up anyway, you might as well not be alone,” Father Mulcahy had said to Sidney Freedman in between patients in post-op. “I haven't been finding much sleep lately, so it won't be any problem for me at all.”
“Thank you, Father! I'd love to.” Sidney smiled. He'd visited home recently for the funeral of a family member – some sort of uncle. The worst part of it all was how awful his body handled the trip back. He was looking forward to getting back into the rhythm of his work to distract him from his pounding head and aching muscles.
—-
It was late when Sidney finally knocked on the door of the chaplain’s tent. Father Mulcahy had been keeping himself busy by annotating his beaten-up copy of the Bible. He startled when he heard the knock (he’d always been jumpy, but the war had only worsened it), and his pencil made a jagged line, trailing off the page. He shut his Bible. “Come in!”
“Sorry I’m so late. A lot of the soldiers in post-op had a lot on their minds.” He took a seat on the folding chair opposite Mulcahy.
“Never apologize for doing your work! I’m sure your aid was invaluable.”
“I sure hope so, although I think some of those guys are so loopy on pain meds that they won’t remember our conversation by tomorrow.” He shook his head and let out a groan. “A lot of those boys are really shaken up, but not for the reason you’d think.”
“Oh?”
“Most of them left home months, years ago. They left their girls behind. Those girls have been waiting on them for a long time, but they’ve got their whole lives ahead of them. They’re trying to move on, start families.” He waved his hand dismissively. “Dear John letters have been coming in more frequently than I’ve ever seen. It’s been really damaging to some of these young men.”
“I can only imagine. A symbol of hope, a potential future that’s kept them going for so long, just gone.”
“Exactly. And I spoke for an hour or two just with that young soldier who had the particularly long and arduous surgery today.”
“Oh, the one who –” Mulcahy nodded rapidly, as if hoping to change the conversation.
“Yep, that one. They ended up having to amputate his entire,” he paused for a minute, hoping to find a word befitting a conversation with a chaplain, “equipment. Sorry for the crudeness.”
“I’ve seen other young men with amputations respond particularly negatively.” He remembered a couple of those amputations. The surgeons avoided it when they could, but sometimes there wasn’t much they could do.
“It’s different with this particular kind of amputation. I’ve found that young men with this experience feel like they’ve lost a fundamental part of what makes them a man; makes them a human, deserving of love. I think that the reconstruction he has planned in Seoul has a good chance of helping, but it doesn’t change how defeated he feels.”
Mulcahy nodded. He didn’t have much to add.
“I feel silly, talking so much about sex and romance in front of a priest.” Sidney chuckled. “Although I imagine maybe you can relate to some of those young men’s pent-up romantic feelings.”
Mulcahy chuckled. “Oh, no, not really. I've found that my lack of interest in those sorts of… activities… have been somewhat of an advantage in my career in the priesthood. I’ve seen many of my brethren stumble and falter, but never me.”
Sidney laughed, but didn’t add anything. Mulcahy’s face became somber. Sidney thought it best to stay quiet; he thought perhaps there was more Mulcahy would feel comfortable getting off his chest if they sat in the silence for a moment.
Mulcahy stirred nervously. Even in the solitude of his tent, he couldn't shake the uneasy worry that he would be overheard. “Can I tell you something, Sidney?”
“Absolutely,” Sidney nodded, smiling, “Anything you say here is confidential. Actually, that goes both ways here, doesn't it?”
Mulcahy nodded, letting out a thin, forced chuckle. He cleared his breath, and, barely above a whisper – “I'm almost grateful that I don't seem to feel the normal sort of urges that other people do. I think it's saved me from a lot of heartbreak and disappointment from falling for people who couldn't like me back.”
“What do you mean, Father? You're a stand-up individual. You're caring and funny and selfless. Dedicated to helping people and improving yourself. Any woman would be lucky to have you.”
“Its not… like that.” Mulcahy stared at the floor, hands white-knuckling the fabric of his green pants. He was unusually still.
“Oh.” Sidney nodded in recognition, suddenly understanding what Mulcahy was alluding to. Slowly, he added, “You know, homosexuality-”
Mulcahy startled. “Don't say it so loudly.” His gaze fixed upon the mesh window on the door of his tent. “Or... I mean, don't say it like that. I'm not like them.”
“Not like them in what way?” Sidney prodded. “Kind? Generous? Looking to love and be loved in the same way that all of us are?”
“Promiscuous!” Mulcahy squeaked, louder than he intended. “God commanded Sodom and Gomorrah to be destroyed for the very sort of things those people do. They're more than welcome to be who they are and love who they want to, and I believe they won't be punished for it, but not me. I'm different. God set me apart to be an example to His people. I can't allow my struggles to define who I am.”
"That's a shame, Father.” Sidney paused for a moment, taking a breath before collecting his thoughts. “The way I see it, the God you worship created you like that for a reason. It would be a shame if you couldn't find it in your heart to love this part of yourself.”
“I just can't.” Mulcahy whispered, voice breaking as tears began to fill his eyes.
“Nobody's ever loved that part of you before, have they?”
Mulcahy shook his head, drying his eyes with the sleeve of his turtleneck.
“It's hard to love something that you have been taught to find so much shame in.”
Mulcahy nodded.
“Well, it’s not a quick process, I’ll tell you that. Some of the –” he stopped himself from saying ‘homosexuals’, “men of your 'inclinations’ who I have seen as patients have taken years to unlearn the hatred they’ve been taught. It doesn’t mean you have to kiss a man in the middle of the town square or shout on the rooftops that you aren’t the type that likes girls.”
Mulcahy cringed, drawing back. Sidney smiled, as if he knew that would be the response.
“But it’s important that you find peace with who you are. Such a dissonant self-image keeps you from finding peace.” Sidney intentionally conjured Christian language to help get his point across – he found some of his more fervent patients responded better to this. It seemed to be working for Mulcahy.
"You're right. I suppose there have been times in my life in which this has weighed on my heart." he said, in a way that implied he had just shared the understatement of the century.
“Is there anyone else who knows this about you?”
“Two people – my sister and one of the priests I attended the seminary with.” Mulcahy averted his gaze, appearing flustered. Sidney assumed there was a story there, but didn’t want to push it -- at least not tonight.
“That’s a good start.” Sidney smiled. “It’s important to find people who you can talk about this with. Holding feelings in doesn’t make them go away.”
Mulcahy nodded dismissively. “I know, I know. It’s just difficult to know who to trust. My job, my religion, my everything, could all be at stake if I told the wrong person.”
“I understand that.” Sidney leaned in. “Between you and me? I think maybe Hawkeye is someone you can trust. He’s a very open minded fellow. No pressure, of course. Only if and when you feel comfortable.”
“Oh, I know just how open-minded Hawkeye is,” Mulcahy chuckled to himself. “Gets him in trouble more than it helps him out.”
Sidney laughed in understanding. “Tell me about it.”