Although staunchly Presbyterian and not at all fond of rising early, Charles Emerson Winchester found himself settling in on one of the mess hall benches for Father Mulcahy's seven AM Sunday Mass. Out of all the personnel at the 4077th, he had genuinely liked the priest from their first meeting, and when Charles had overheard one of the other surgeons commenting on how sad it was that practically no-one ever went the early service he'd decided to make an effort to attend at least one.

The morning was overcast, and Charles wished he'd had coffee first, but he sat up and tried to look attentive, making it a point to live up to his moral obligation even if the flesh wasn't cooperating very much in the damp chill coming through the mess tent netting. The camp was fairly quiet at this hour at least. Looking over his shoulder, Charles spotted someone else coming in. A nurse, bundled up with a pale lace shawl he recognized as a mantilla. She moved to sit in front of him and bent her head, softly murmuring prayers.

Charles found himself oddly touched by this little gesture of faith; although he tended to live life with a more pragmatic approach, he recognized—and occasionally acknowledged—a power greater than himself in the world. When Father Mulcahy came in, officially vested and looking pleased, Charles gave him a small smile. A few other people trickled in behind him, and the service began in earnest.

Most of it was familiar enough for him to follow along. Charles had always done well with Latin, and the litany was plain. When it came time to pass the peace he did so graciously, reaching a hand to the little nurse in the veil. She looked up at him, and for a moment Charles simply stared, entranced by how her dark curls framed her large hazel eyes and pert nose.

"Peace be with you," she murmured softly, slipping a small warm hand into his.

"And also to you," he replied automatically, thinking she looked like a bride. Then someone else was tapping his shoulder, and eventually the rest of the service continued. When the Mass had ended, he made it a point to follow behind the woman and watched her head not to the nurses' tents, but off towards the other side of camp, towards the motor pool.

Odd.

"Father, lovely service," Charles told Mulcahy, shaking his hand. "Worth rising early."

"Why thank you, Major," Father Mulcahy beamed. "I'm just pleased to have anyone, period."

"Not left at the Assisi level of preaching to the animals?" Charles gently teased.

"Occasionally I practice a sermon or two on the colonel's mare Sophie," Mulcahy confessed. "She rarely objects, especially if I bring carrots."

"I say, Father, who was that nurse?" Charles asked, pointing his chin in the direction the woman had gone. "I thought I knew most of them."

"Probably not that one," Mulcahy murmured, his normally sunny expression growing slightly solemn. "That's Lieutenant Charlotte Colombe. She does the job nobody else can do." Lightly he crossed himself. "Mortuary Affairs Liaison."

"Ah," Charles murmured, slightly chastened. "I see." It made sense now that he hadn't recognized her; generally the paperwork for the deceased passed through the colonel's hands down the chain without much more for the surgeons to do but initial reports once a week.

"She's a nice girl," Mulcahy told him quietly. "One of my regulars."

"To be sure," Charles replied and made his way back to the swamp, thinking hard. He wasn't sure why the sight of this particular woman had made such a deep impression on him, but it had. Was it her faith? Possibly, Charles told himself—he appreciated commitments of deed. Was it her appearance? She was pretty, he admitted inwardly. Elfin with those great big eyes. Whatever the case, Charles found himself thinking of her periodically as the week went on.

-oo00oo—

On Thursday afternoon, Charlotte Colombe looked up from her clipboard, feeling a little exasperated as she heard the door open, interrupting her concentration for what seemed to be the hundredth time. "Close the door!" she called firmly and gave a little blink when the figure moved inside uncertainly.

"Major . . . Winchester?" she asked, surprised. Hardly any of the surgical staff ever came to the morgue on any regular basis with the exceptions of the colonel and Major Houlihan. Charlotte hurried over, looking up at him in the circle of light from the overhead lamp. There were no windows in these corrugated tin walls; they weren't needed here.

"Lieutenant Colombe, is it?" He nodded, looking intensely uncomfortable. Charlotte understood why; the metal racks lining the walls were currently empty, but each held a waiting black canvas body bag, and there were also wood coffins stacked neatly along the back wall. Momento Mori as it were.

She gave him a quick salute as she looked up, aware that she barely came up to his shoulder. "Yes sir. Welcome."

The major returned it perfunctorily. "Down among the dead men," he murmured, almost to himself, and Charlotte sighed.

"Yes, I always liked Purcell's version of that best. How can I help you, sir?"

Her words seem to surprise him, and he gave her a stare. "You know of Henry Purcell?"

"Well not personally of course," she replied, amused. "But I have the basics of who he was-seventeenth century composer, very big on ecclesiastical music."

"Sorry," Winchester told her and gave a smile. "It's so rare to find anyone who knows anything about classical music around here."

"Well certainly not around here," she admitted, waving a hand.

He gave a little chuckle and covered it with a cough, as if embarrassed to laugh at the job. Charlotte appreciated that.

"I'm here because I didn't realize—that is, I hadn't even truly thought about—the fact that we have a morgue here," Winchester admitted slowly. "And I felt I should remedy that with a visit."

"Oh." Whatever Charlotte had been expecting, this wasn't it. She blinked a little and glanced around. "Well, here it is. I take the black tag cases after the initial triage and record the vitals along with a few of the orderlies, and wait to see if any others pass away after surgery or in post-op. if I'm needed in surgery I go—I usually assist the colonel. If we can we do some preliminary embalming we do, if not, we don't. I'm sorry," she murmured, spotting his queasy expression. "It's just what I do, sir."

"I understand, but you're . . ." Winchester trailed off, looking bewildered.

Charlotte lifted her chin. "My papà was an undertaker, and his father and his father's father before that. My family's apartment was over the parlor downstairs, major. This is an honorable vocation. A necessary job. Being a woman doesn't change the fact that it needs to be done and done with respect."

He held her gaze for a moment and lifted his chin as well. "You're absolutely correct lieutenant, and I commend you for it. Certainly it's not a job that just anybody could do."

"No more than your own, sir," she told him graciously, pleased at his respect, and added, "sorry about sounding so gruff and all. I'm trying to complete this inventory and I'm getting a bit of a headache."

"Perhaps I can assist you," he offered. Charlotte looked to see if he was joking but his expression was sincere. She liked that too, and after a moment of hesitation, handed him the clipboard.

"Thank you," she murmured, feeling a little shy. "I appreciate this."

They moved to the cabinets and Charlotte began lifting out cardboard boxes and setting them on the worktable. "Death certificates, Identification forms, fingerprint cards, record of personal property, personal effects forms, transportation forms, special instruction forms and finally, family notification forms."

"Good lord, I had no idea death involved so much paperwork," Winchester murmured, looking appalled as he sat down on the opposite side.

"It's the army, Major; there's always paperwork," Charlotte pointed out with a little smile.

"Please, call me Charles," he murmured, glancing down at the clipboard. "Where do we start?"

For the next hour she read off the form numbers and quantities while he checked them off on the clipboard and helped her collate them into packets all neatly paper-clipped together. The major—Charles as he insisted-was efficient and just as meticulous as she was which meant the work that would have taken three hours or more moved along quickly, to her delight.

"How many paper cuts have you gotten?" she asked him with a smile.

"One for each finger at least," he responded. "I cannot believe you've been left to do this on your own. Don't you have orderlies to help you?"

"Generally yes, but I let Henderson have the day off for giving blood and Tucker is helping the grounds crew do maintenance at the chopper landing pads," she told him. "And while they're good guys they're sloooow with housekeeping."

"A common complaint," he sighed. "Still, I believe we're nearly through and to celebrate we could . . . wander over and see what culinary atrocity is on tonight's menu?"

She noticed he was somewhat pink in the face and was busying himself with a stack of forms to avoid her eyes. Very carefully she sighed. "I'm afraid not, Charles. You see, I'm not exactly . . . popular. It's the job. At a hospital, especially one like this? I'm the last person anyone wants to talk to, let alone be seen with."