When dinner ended, Nellie retreated back to her tent. The half empty bottle of Scotch she'd brought from Tokyo sat in the corner near her notebook, and her shot glasses stood nearby. She stared at the drink for a moment. Her mouth watered. Reaching for the glass, she hesitated at the last second. Instead she grabbed her notebook and pencil.

There weren't many places to sit in the 4077th other than the Mess Tent and Officer's Club. But she didn't want to sit alone for the night. Or rather, she did, but she knew it wasn't good for her. She left her tent.

Nellie stopped suddenly. While her tent door closed behind her, she looked up. A thousand colors splashed across the sky. In the darkest recesses, a few of the brightest stars peaked through the fabric of evening. It took her breath away. It made her think; how could such beauty exist in such horror?

With a small smile, Nellie pulled herself away from the miraculous sunset. She made her way across the compound leisurely. The door to the Officer's Club flew open as she got close, and three orderlies stumbled out laughing and clinking beers. She stood aside to let them pass.

The offbeat lilting of Father Mulcahy's piano playing clearly sounded over the mostly subdued atmosphere of the club. As Igor cleaned glasses behind the bar, a handful of orderlies sat in the corner near the door chatting. She asked for a beer from him at the bar before she took her own seat in the opposite corner. From this back corner should could see everything. 

Klinger leaned against the piano smoking a cigar. He wore the tan short sleeve undershirt of the fatigues, having took off his Mudhens jersey in the heat of the evening Officer's Club. She didn't blame him. Even her own Hawaiian shirt nearly felt too warm over her tank top. Between puffs of his cigar, Klinger chatted with Padre.

The knowledge of impending wounded had everyone quiet. She could hear it in the voices of the men around her: short sentences, tense tones, laughter that seemed to end a bit too quickly. Igor looked preoccupied with shining the shot glasses. They sparkled in the warm light.

Nellie opened her journal. She passed the flying elephants and the deer and the glass slippers. The first clean page she reached had a slight wrinkle in it, and the edges had coffee stains. No matter. The coffee stains became part of the scene of the Officer's Club as she sketched the world around her. 

Between the seemingly endless loop of Mulcahy's piano and the hum of the enlisted men, Nellie fell into her own rhythm. She forgot about the wounded, she almost forgot about the war. For a time, only she, her pencil, and the club existed. It went on for hours. Enlisted men and nurses came and went, Klinger and Mulchahy eventually stopped their conversing. Her page transformed.

At three in the morning, she got the feeling Igor wanted to close up. Her third beer bottle sat nearly empty, but her fingers barely tingled. One last gulp, and she left the quiet Officer's Club, the tired bartender, and the tranquil atmosphere. When she flipped on the light in her tent, it nearly blinded her. The walk across the compound hadn't done her eyes any favors.

A distant but rapidly approaching whir came into earshot. Her journal tumbled to the floor. Nellie clenched her fist.

"Sorry, folks. But the next wave is here. Report to the OR on the double! First and second surgical teams to the chopper pad. Places everyone!"

Nellie threw off her Hawaiian shirt and ran back outside in just her undershirt. The flash of headlights immediately blinded her. Her hands flew into her face instinctively. But the clamor of the wounded and the medical staff jolted her back into the present. Charles and the Colonel unloaded the first ambulance, and as a second pulled up, she forced herself into action.

Her boots slammed against the steps into the ambulance. As she bounded up, she grabbed a flashlight from a nurse and shined it down the bus. All sixteen metal cots were full. Groans of pain bombarded her ears as she made her way down the bus. The first two men she looked at were hurt only moderately bad. They could wait. As Nellie continued to check wounds and their reports, she forced herself to breathe. Overall, no immediately life threatening wounds now that they'd been stabilized.

"Major! They need you to scrub up!" Goldman shouted. 

She turned down towards the end of the bus where he stood and shielded her eyes from his flashlight. He quickly apologized and moved away. Nellie wasted no time. Taking the steps down in two bounds, she moved quickly to Pre Op and the scrub rooms.

"Here." She handed another orderly her flashlight. But as she hurried the last bit to the doors, Kellye called to her.

"Major! We need your help!"

Her voice sounded frantic. Nellie lost no time and veered her way. The patient was convulsing. "Shit," she muttered. Briefly she glanced at his injuries. Head trauma, severe stomach laceration, bindings on his left leg. She grabbed some nearby pressure bandages and pushed down hard on his stomach wound. But it was no use. He fell still moments later.

She took her bloodied hands away from his body. For what seemed like hours, but lasted only seconds, Nellie just stared at his limp form. When she forced herself to search for a pulse, she felt herself gag. But she couldn't let herself be sick. There would be time for that later. "Time of death, 0321 Hours." Nellie went to pull away, but her hand trailed across his metal dog tags. 

Stiles, Bryan H
32227580
A B Negative
Catholic

Nellie froze. Her hand hovered over his tags. Finally Kellye interrupted her thoughts. "Major they need you inside."

"Right. Right sorry." She shook her head and stood away. Blood had gotten under her nails and ran through all the cracks in the dry skin of her palms. Even as she rubbed it on her shirt, it dried.

Before she could step into the scrub room, she found herself stopping. Her breath hitched and she covered her mouth as a sob tried to escape. Nellie hid her face, and scooted out of the light. She had to stop. She had to get herself under control.

When she removed her hand from her face, she remembered the blood. Red, oozing, but brown in the dark. It smelled like iron. Nellie steadied herself against the side of the building. Breathe in, hold for three, breathe out, hold for three. She bit her tongue. She bit it so hard to stop the nausea that soon her mouth tasted of iron too. 

"Get ahold of yourself!" Nellie hissed through gritted teeth, anger and shock fueling her. Her breaths came quick, heaving. She stopped, holding the air in. After fifteen seconds, she released it. Her head spun.

When she stepped inside, most of the nurses had started changing. She got to work. Fatigues off, whites on. Nellie hurried to get her mask over her face. Maybe it would hide the emotions. With the mask, hat, and pants on, she started scrubbing.

The blood fell away from her hands. The brown turned red and the red turned pink to match her raw skin. The bubbles lathered. She scrubbed under her nails and up to her elbows. By the time she finished, Colonel Potter took up her side. She said nothing.

Margaret slipped on her top scrubs. Nellie didn't thank her. Instead, she slipped into the OR without a sound. Peggy snapped her gloves on, letting the latex hit her raw skin. Hawkeye and BJ had already started on patients, and based on the lack of witty banter, they faced their own hardships.

Her patient arrived. Klinger and Goldman set the litter down on her table. Nurse Baker took up anesthesia. With a last, ragged deep breath, Nellie stared down at the man's face. 

To call him a man was a gross overstatement. He couldn't have been over eighteen; almost no facial hair to speak of, round cheeks blushing from the medications. The red, curly locks on his head had been stained a further shade of crimson. Nellie tore herself away and took a scalpel from Gwen, her assisting nurse. She let work consume her.

Twelve hours later, her heart stopped pounding. The last patient went to Hawkeye. Her eyes drooped. Sunlight blazed into the OR through the windows. Finally, she fled.

When she got back to her tent, stripped of her stained white scrubs, she grabbed the scotch. Her tired feet stomped right over her fallen journal. It lay forgotten.

Nellie threw her head back and downed a mouthful of liquor. It burned her throat. Setting the bottle back down on her desk, Nellie ripped off her bloody tank top and pulled on Jack's shirt. She stared at herself in the mirror. One button at a time, she did enough of them to be considered presentable. She freed her hair, letting it lay naturally. Nellie took another drink, filling her glass this time first.

The second one burned even more. She picked up her picture of Molly, Jack, and herself. Staring, Nellie couldn't stop thinking. And she hated thinking at times like these. Too many memories of Jack's sickness, too many hours spent wondering if he'd survive being left alone.

Nellie fell back to sit on her bed. After a third drink, she started to feel it. Tingling beneath her skin, warmth in her hands and face. It took significant effort to convince herself to get up fifteen minutes later when a knock sounded on her door.