Enter the woman with no history. She's got no memory of...anything. Family, friends, significant others? None that jump to mind.

Nothing jumps to mind.

XXX

11:31 P.M., May 23rd, 1952

Dear Diary,

Well. Lah-de-dah. I've just arrived at the sanitarium, also known as the MASH four-oh...well, it's the MASH four-oh-something.

I suppose you'd enjoy a bit of history about me. (I know I certainly would.) In the fourteen hours that I've been conscious, I've learned these lovely tidbits about myself:

I'm British. (Hence the accent.)

I have little to no knowledge on how I got to this hellhole.

I cannot stand meatloaf.

Pathetic. And now I'm here, for God knows how long.

Speaking of here, I suppose I should now inform you how I came to be here. After all, I have nothing better to do.

Captain Hunnicutt supposedly found me in a ditch on the way back from the eight-oh-sixty-third last night. (Now how can I remember that but not the bloody unit I'm trapped at?) I was unconscious and bloody and...well, you can about imagine. He brought me back, I caused a stir, and I then woke up. Completely confused and utterly exhausted, I demanded to know where I was. They told me and...I suppose I blew up. I knew I belonged somewhere and this was not it. I made a mad run (if you could call it "mad" in the state I was in) towards the road and then I was caught. Not by the enemy, mind you, but by Major Winchester. He is tall, large, and balding, but he is quite attractive, actually.

Either way, attractive major or not, the C.O. told me that I would be staying at the unit until they could figure out where I came from. I swore up and down that I was not going to stay here, but they put me in post-op with the male soldiers. I put up so much of a fuss that they put a divider between their beds and mine. I'm closest to the desk, which is of small comfort.

And as for this diary, well, it was prescribed by a psychiatrist named Dr. Freedman. He seemed quite interested when Captain Pierce called him. (Or at least that's what the captain told me.) The psychatrist suggested that I record the events of each day and see if it leads to things that are more in-depth. I certainly don't hope I have to show this to him, because I've already babbled about the attractive ranking surgeon, my skittishness, and generally made myself to be an idiot. Well, whomever gets to analyze this, you would be quite the idiot too if you had to deal with so much in less than twenty-four hours.

I think I will cut the "dear diary" dribble (alliteration!) in further entries. It's much too...too adolescent. Something a lustful fourteen-year-old would stoop too. But for tonight, I'll just resort to a cheesy ending and say:

Until tomorrow,

BLAST! I don't even have a name. This is horrible. Bloody horrible.