While none of the men at the 4077th MASH could be called particularly virtuous, most of them still attended the weekly Sunday service hosted by Father Mulcahy.

Sometimes it was just for relaxing off-duty, hoping there’d be no new casualties to stitch up, or sometimes they needed genuine guidance and support.

Not always religiously; the Father was a very good listener and would happily help anyone who asked, be they Catholic, Christian, Jewish, or even atheist.

You, however, avoided the ‘church’ like the plague. Even the mention of being invited to the Sunday service made you disappear to your tent like a rat down a burrow.

Nobody was really sure why. You were a good person— and morally cleaner than some at the 4077th.

It wasn’t that you didn’t like Father Mulcahy. He was kind. Fatherly, even, though you supposed that came with the title.

No, you didn’t like church. Even though there were no pews or altars at the 4077th, the thought of attending one of Mulcahy’s sermons made panic claw at your chest.

Religious trauma, some called it.

You sit in the mess hall, staring down at your tray of food without interest. You feel too isolated to be hungry.

“Is this seat taken?”

You glance up to see Father Mulcahy standing with his own tray next to the table. Your body tenses with fight-or-flight. Is he going to try and convert you? Tell you how much of a sinner you are? How you’re going to hell?

Ha. You’re already in hell, and it’s called Korea.

You shake your head. “Go ahead and sit.”

Mulcahy offers you a small smile, sitting opposite to you. He’s of average height, with short blonde hair and glasses perched on the bridge of his nose. He’s dressed in his Loyola sweatshirt and military-issued, army-green trousers.

For several moments, there’s silence. Then—

“You look troubled, my child,” Mulcahy says quietly.

You nearly flinch at his words. God, did you have daddy issues, too?

Should you reply? Ignore him? No, that would be rude.

Come on, say something!