Chapter Text
Summer, 1972
Crabapple Cove, ME
It’s been a week since the letter arrived, and every time Hawkeye looks at it, he still can’t quite believe it’s real. It’s sitting innocuously on his desk, looking nothing like the bomb – and he’d know a propaganda bomb anywhere – he knows it to be.
But no matter how many times he picks it up and reads it again, the words on the page never change.
“Dear Dr. Pierce…”
There’s a summer rainstorm drumming on the roof overhead, as Hawkeye picks up the letter again, still feeling a lump in his throat as he reads the letter again, from the CBS logo in the letterhead to the too-neat signature at the bottom of the page.
“I want to invite you to participate in a documentary about the 4077th MASH.”
“You keep reading that,” Daniel comments from his armchair, and Hawkeye isn’t even sure how he knows, given that he’s hidden behind a newspaper. But his voice sounds amused anyway, as he continues, “Do you expect that one of these times you’ll pick it up and it’ll say something else?”
“I don’t see how it’s any of your damn business.”
“Perhaps I’m worried about you.”
“Well, worry a little less, huh? You’ll get lines.”
“I’ve got lines,” Daniel says amused. “And every one for you, Ben.”
“Don’t you have better things to do than heckle me, Normal Rockwell?”
Daniel lowers the paper, an expression of innocence on his face. “Have I ever had better things to do than heckle you?”
Hawkeye tucks the letter under a paperweight with the Golden Gate on it, and that makes something in his chest ache, thinking of BJ.
“I’m not doing it,” he mutters to himself, and walks over to the liquor cabinet to pour himself a drink instead.
“A little early for that, don’t you think, Ben?”
“You know what they say, Dad… it’s five o’clock somewhere.” He looks through the contents of the liquor cabinet, before pulling out the bottle of bottom shelf gin.
For some reason, he’s craving a martini that tastes like lighter fluid, and since his own still was… well, stilled, a good twenty years ago, the liquor store’s worst will have to do.
“I haven’t seen you drink this early, in… well, years.”
“Well, it is a time to be nostalgic,” Hawkeye comments, pouring himself a glass of gin, the scent rising like spirits from the bottle, and he raises a glass to his father. “What shall we drink to? Old friends? New friends? News? The news media?”
Daniel rolls his eyes. “How about good news?”
Hawkeye snorts, but takes a sip anyway, the gin burning in his throat, taking one last glance at the letter before he settles into the armchair across from his father.
“And what is this good news?” he asks, gesturing to the newspaper in Daniel’s lap. “Has Cole Porter been spotted at Eddie’s again? Because if so, Eddie might want to start taking his prescriptions from us instead of a bottle.”
“No, listen to this: President Nixon to Halt Vietnam Draft.”
“Well that’s very kind of him. I’ll be sure to send him my thanks.”
“He’s not sending anymore draftees to Vietnam, Ben. That’s a good thing.”
“That’s not even a start. It’s too late.”
“It’s better late than never.”
“No,” Hawkeye snaps back. “Do you have any idea how many kids went over there fighting for a cause they didn’t understand – a cause I might add, they probably wouldn’t believe in if they did understand – because their government told them they had to?”
“Is it the war that’s bothering you?”
“It’s always the war that’s bothering me,” Hawkeye says, taking another gulp of gin. “Which one at the moment is up for grabs.”
“So it’s not the war. The letter, then?”
“Forgive me if I’m not about to throw myself on the mercy of a movie director looking for his fifteen minutes. I tried it once, and he didn’t like the exposure I gave him.”
“So it is the letter.”
“Very astute diagnosis, doctor. Now if only you had the cure.”
“The cure is you do it. I don’t see the harm-”
“The harm? The harm? Do you even hear yourself? First, do no harm. Well, I’m not going in front of a camera just so some news director can get all weepy about my patriotism. The harm is done, it’s irreparable, and I don’t want to be thanked for my service when I didn’t especially want to serve!”
“Ben-”
“He wants to talk about a war? There’s one going on right now, all he has to do is turn on the TV!” Hawkeye stands up, reaching over and snatching the letter before tossing it into the fireplace. “To hell with it.”
“I wish you hadn’t done that,” Daniel comments mildly, watching the letter burn.
“Why not?”
“Well, it’s not just about you, for one thing. What about all the lives you saved? The people you met? There are a whole lot of people walking around right now who wouldn’t be if it wasn’t for you.”
“There are a whole lot more who aren’t walking around because of me. Remember? I worked in a slaughterhouse, making sure the lambs weren’t dying before the army told them to. I’m not sure it balances out.”
“So balance it out. Do the documentary. Tell their stories.”
“They’re not my stories to tell. And they don’t have a happy ending.”
“Well…” Daniel glances at the fire, where the letter has been reduced to ashes. “I guess you’ll never know.”
“I guess not. But I think I can live with the unknown.”
“I’m not sure you can.”
“But it’s my decision,” Hawkeye points out, reaching for the bottle of gin, hating how the letter has left him off-kilter. “And what does it matter when there’s always another war going on?”
“It matters more than you know,” Daniel says softly, but Hawkeye is already leaving the room, the gin tucked under his arm, ready to burn away the nightmares he knows will come tonight.
But when he closes his eyes, he can still see the fire licking at the edges of the letter.
Fort Ord, CA
By the time the letter gets to Margaret, there are a few more stamps on the envelope, forwarded from base to base, following her like a trail of breadcrumbs across the US.
Initially, she thumbs right past it, looking through her payroll statements, a letter from her insurance company, and what looks like a note from her landlord.
She looks up and down the street, the heat of the day having not yet settled in, the sun still barely peeking over the horizon.
Pulling her robe more tightly around herself, she closes the mailbox, and walks back up the steps of her rented bungalow, noticing that the paint on the top step has chipped again, no doubt from someone scuffing it on their way up the stairs.
She resolves to paint it, but as she’s reaching for the handle of the screen door, she notices a familiar logo on the first envelope, the one with all the stamps, and settles into the wicker armchair on the porch to read it.
She tears it open without grace, and pulls the letter out.
“Dear Colonel Houlihan…”
She smiles to herself as she reads the opening of the letter, but as she scans the rest of the page, the smile slips somewhat.
My name is DJ Carson and I am directing a documentary on the 4077th Mobile Army Surgical Hospital, which was active during the Korean conflict, from 1950 to 1953. I am writing to express my interest in interviewing you for this documentary, along with your esteemed colleagues.
The reason I am producing this documentary is that I had recently come across a series of interviews conducted with Clete Roberts for our news broadcast. I was touched by the spirit of your interviews, and the truly amazing statistics of your unit. The work you did was truly extraordinary, and I wish to honour that, in time for the twentieth anniversary of the armistice.
Please respond at your earliest convenience and I look forward to hearing from you.
Most sincerely,
D.J. Carson,
CBS News.
While Margaret has been reading the letter, the sun has been creeping up over the horizon, golden light spilling down the street like a river, the air coming to life with chirping birds in the trees, and Margaret’s bare feet are still slick from the morning dew on the grass.
She sits there for a moment, holding the letter, and closes her eyes.
She can picture their faces so clearly, it’s like they’re sitting right in front of her, and a smile tugs at her lips unconsciously.
But it’s been a long time…
She reads over the letter again, taking care to note that DJ Carson, whoever he is, doesn’t say a damn thing about patriotism or veterans, merely the work.
And he’s seen the interviews they’d done in Korea.
“Well…” Margaret sighs, checking her watch.
She’ll have to be at the base hospital at noon for the shift change, but until then, her day is free.
She stands up, and walks back inside, still clutching her mail. But instead of going back up to bed, or into the kitchen to start breakfast, she sets down the letters on the hall table, and picks up the phone.
She dials, waiting impatiently, until there’s a groggy voice on the other end.
“Hello?”
“Peg.”
“What the hell do you want?”
Margaret softens. “I’m sorry, I should’ve waited to call.”
“Is everything alright? What time is it?”
“Six-thirty,” Margaret says, and winces. “I’m really very sorry, I didn’t realize how early it would be.”
“Not at all.” Peg yawns into the phone, not bothering to disguise the sound, and it makes Margaret smile. “Did you need something?”
“Is BJ awake?”
She hears a yelp from the other end of the line, somewhat muffled, and then Peg’s voice is back, sleepiness tinged with amusement. “He is now.”
“Can you put him on?”
“Margaret?” BJ sounds a lot more alert than Peg does, which is admirable considering he’s barely awake – the mark of a doctor used to being woken up for emergencies at all hours. “What’s the matter? Is everything okay?’
“I didn’t mean to call so early,” Margaret says apologetically, winding the phone cord nervously around her fingers. “I just… couldn’t wait.”
She can hear the exhausted smile in his voice, and pictures him sitting up in bed, Peg’s hand on his shoulder. “You engaged again?”
“Very funny, BJ, but no. I… I got a letter in the mail this morning. A letter from CBS.”
“Well congrats, Margaret, now that you’re making it big, you can give up that army job of yours.”
“Did you get one too?”
“What about?”
“The unit. They want to do a documentary on the unit.”
“… Our unit?”
“Yes.”
“I don’t know. I’d have to check.”
“Okay. I’m sorry to have woken you.”
“It’s alright, Margaret.” BJ hesitates, and then says, “It’s good to hear your voice.”
“It’s good to hear yours.”
“But next time you call, can you do it while I’m alive to hear it?”
She laughs a little at the joke, however feeble. “You bet.”
“I’ll call you once I read the letter.”
“Okay.”
“Bye, Margaret.”
“Bye.”
She sets down the phone, and glances at the letter again.
As much as she knows she should take time and read it over, there’s a part of her already wanting to reach for a pen and paper, the same part of her that lit up at the sound of BJ’s voice.
Because much as she hates to admit the distance has separated them, she knows that if she were in a room with all of them, they would still feel like the best home she’s ever known.
But at the moment, home is a small bungalow with chipped paint on the front steps and a sunny kitchen.
She yawns.
After some coffee, she thinks, she’ll sit down and write that reply.
Boston, MA
The letter arrives in Boston on a Friday afternoon, delivered through the mail slot like any other bill or notice – although when Charles sees the CBS logo, he opens it right there in the front hallway, standing there as the afternoon sun comes in through the stained glass window over the door, painting the letter in shades of green and blue.
It sits untouched in his pocket for three days, and every time he reaches up to touch the letter, the paper crinkling under his hand, he feels like he’s touching a talisman, warding off evil.
It’s Sunday afternoon by the time he sits down in the study to read it again, the mid-afternoon sun coming through the window.
The house is silent, save for the ticking of the mantle clock and the sound of Perdita’s nails clicking on the wooden floors.
“Well, come on then,” he tells her when she sticks her head around the door to his study, and she eagerly bounds over, circling a few times before curling up on top of his feet. “Good girl.”
He turns back to the letter, pulling his reading glasses from his pocket as he unfolds the letter to read it again, although he’s quite sure he has it memorized by now.
It’s very clearly a form letter, but the sentiment is the same no matter how he looks at it.
Dear Dr. Winchester,
My name is DJ Carson and I am directing a documentary on the 4077th Mobile Army Surgical Hospital, which was active during the Korean conflict, from 1950 to 1953. I am writing to express my interest in interviewing you for this documentary, along with your esteemed colleagues.
The reason I am producing this documentary is that I had recently come across a series of interviews conducted with Clete Roberts for our news broadcast. I was touched by the spirit of your interviews, and the truly amazing statistics of your unit. The work you did was truly extraordinary, and I wish to honour that, in time for the twentieth anniversary of the armistice.
Please respond at your earliest convenience and I look forward to hearing from you.
Most sincerely,
D.J. Carson,
CBS News.
He sighs, setting it down on the desk, before turning to the notepad, reading the vital statistics Donna had been able to conjure up for him regarding one Daniel John Carson.
But the statistics do nothing to convince him one way or the other, and the letter is so carefully worded – there’s nothing to indicate the personal politics of Mr. Carson, save that the letter seems curiously absent of patriotism.
“Rah, rah, rah,” Charles murmurs, tapping his pen on the notepad.
He hears the front door open, and although Perdita lifts her head, she lays back down after a second.
A few moments later, the door opens, and Donna sticks her head around the door. “Knock knock.”
“You’re home early.”
“Norie wanted to hit the showers early so she won’t be disgusting by dinnertime,” she says, grinning as she walks across the room, leaning against his desk with a groan.
“My sister has the capacity to be disgusting at any time of day.”
“When she gets here, I’ll tell her you said that.”
He gives her a stern look over his reading glasses. “Don’t you dare.”
This makes her laugh, wandering over and collapsing into one of the armchairs in front of the fireplace.
Perdita walks over and joins her, Donna absentmindedly rubbing the top of the dog’s head with her foot.
“Hello old girl,” she says, and Perdita raises her head to lick Donna’s foot in response. She grins over at Charles, and some of the apprehension melts from him. “You know your sister skunked me at tennis again?”
“Well to be fair to you, my dear, she’s been instructed since the time she was old enough to hold a racquet. It’s hardly a fair game.”
Donna laughs. “All’s fair in love and war?”
He gives her a look over the top of his reading glasses, one that simply makes her laugh, further relaxing the tension in his shoulders.
“Are you alright, darling?”
“I’m fine.”
“Every time I’ve seen you lately, you’ve had your nose buried in that letter. Is there anything I can do?”
“Believe me, you’ve done plenty.”
“If it’s anything, this Mr. Carson of yours seems like a good man.”
“His qualifications are good for someone so young,” Charles admits. “Although his age… it concerns me.”
“Worried he won’t be respectful?”
“Worried he will not understand the gravity of the situation.”
“Darling, he’s only a few years younger than you were when you went to Korea,” Donna points out gently.
“True.”
“If you’re worried…”
“I always worry,” he replies with a tight smile, taking off his reading glasses.
“And this time?"
“I… I don’t know that this will be treated with sensitivity. Yes, we… we accomplished remarkable things, but…”
“But at a great cost?”
“An insurmountable cost. And any documentarian should surely understand that.”
“I suspect he does. But you won’t find out unless you write him.”
“I will… but first…” Charles walks over to the other armchair, sitting across from his wife and reaching out to take her hand. “What do you say to going up to Maine next weekend?”
She lights up. “Really?”
“I think it’s about time we open the house for the summer. I’m eager to hear Pierce’s thoughts on the matter.”
“I’m sure he has many.”
“Donna…”
“What are you thinking, Chuck?”
“I am thinking… that I want to do this.”
“You do?”
“I consider myself a lucky man, a fortunate man… but I was drafted all the same, and while many good things in my life have resulted from my time in Korea… you chief among them… it was still not my choice to go.”
“It wasn’t. And you should tell him that.”
“I will.”
“Although when you do,” she says, squeezing his hand, “Try and be a bit more succinct, won’t you?”
“I shall.”
“Good.”
Donna leans in to kiss him, and he melts against her.
But when she pulls away, and smiles at him, it gives him just the boost he needs to get past his mental block.
Cleveland, OH
It’s with a sigh of tired contentment that Max flips the sign hanging in the front window of the shop from “Open” to “Closed”, before locking the door and flipping off the lights.
He weaves his way back through the mannequins, and into the back office of the shop, where Soon-Lee is sitting at his desk, poring over his ledgers, frowning as she squints down at them.
“Hey, honey. Chow time.”
“Hm?”
“Didn’t you say Seong-jae was making dinner?”
“Yes.”
“He said he’s making…” Max tries for the pronunciation, already knowing that he’ll get it wrong. “Budae jjigae?”
Soon-Lee snorts, closing the ledger with a thud before putting it back in the drawer. “Yes, that’s what he’s making.”
“Was I even close to being right?”
“No,” she admits, a smile still on her face. “But I find it sweet that you’re still trying.”
“Give me a break, I’ve only had a few years to learn that one!”
“Ten years, Max, and it still sounds terrible,” she says, laughing. “But I wouldn’t worry about it. You’re nearly fluent otherwise. Save a few phrases.”
Max grimaces a little. “Let’s head up.”
“Wait a minute,” she says, frowning as she looks through the mail scattered haphazardly on the desk. “Oh, if this is a letter from the landlord, I am going to tell him I’ll put such a curse on him…”
“I know you guys are superstitious, but I didn’t think you Koreans went in much for curses.”
She grins, an impish look on her face as she says, “We don’t, but he doesn’t need to know that.”
“My money’s on you, Honey. Now c’mon, I’m starved. And the kids will be hungry too.”
“For army stew? I doubt it.”
“Hey, who doesn’t love budae jjigae, just like mom used to make?”
“Everyone in Korea,” she replies dryly.
“Come on.”
“It’s addressed to you.”
“Whatever it is, it can wait,” he assures her, although the uneasy look she gives the envelope makes him doubt himself.
“I don’t think we should.”
“Alright, if I take it with us, can we go upstairs?”
“Yes.”
She passes over the envelope, before following him up the back stairs to their apartment.
The whole place smells like spicy broth and Spam, and they can hear Seong-jae singing in the kitchen.
“Oh, where’s the camera?” Soon-Lee asks, sticking her head around the door, watching their son bounce around the kitchen with an apron on, singing show tunes loudly to himself. “This is prime blackmail material.”
“I wouldn’t take a picture until after he’s served us, or he’s liable to poison the food,” Max reminds her, hanging up his coat, before walking into the kitchen. “Smells great in here.”
“Thanks,” Seong-jae says, beaming at him. “I made the girls set the table.”
“And Abdul?”
“He’s reading.”
Max cuffs him lightly on the shoulder. “If you’re making the girls do work, he better be working too.”
“What’s that, Pop?” Seong-jae asks, his eyes glittering with mirth as he nods towards the letter.
“Don’t worry about it, I’m sure it’s nothing.”
But still, he drifts into the living room, hearing the girls squabble and the crash of cutlery in the dining room, as he tears open the letter and reads it.
“Huh,” he mutters, reading it over.
And then he reads it again a second time just to be sure – the consequences of trying to make sense in three languages at any given time means he’s never quite sure what his default is.
“Dad, come taste this!”
“No thanks, kid, I’ll just have seconds at dinner!” he calls back.
“But it’s army stew, it’s your favourite.”
There’s a sharp rapping sound that Max barely hears, the sound of Soon-Lee gently smacking Seong-jae’s knuckles with a wooden spoon.
“Dinner time, Dad!”
“Be right there!”
There’s a general stampede of noise – all of which is drowned out by the slight ringing in Max’s ears.
It all started with a letter like this one day, the news that he’d been drafted – and now this one.
“Max?” Soon-Lee asks, and he finally looks up, the words starting to blur on the page in front of him. “What’s wrong? Is it the landlord?”
“No,” Max says, aware that what he’s holding is a bit of a bombshell, and he has no idea how to tell Soon-Lee this, not when they’ve only just started being able to dodge the shell craters. “No, it’s… it’s not the landlord.”
“Then what?”
“They want to make a movie about us,” Max says.
“Us?”
“The unit. The 4077.”
“Oh… that us. And you don’t want to?”
Max is still staring down at the letter, not sure if the lightness in his head is from anxiety or hope. “I… I think I do want to.”
“Well… that’s something.”
Max can still smell the lingering scent of the Spam, and for a second, he’s back in the mess hall, yelling at Igor over some latest vile concoction.
But he isn’t there.
He’s in a tiny apartment in Cleveland, his fingers worn practically to the bone from sewing and alterations, surrounded by his family.
Korea is a long way away – and maybe it can’t hurt him anymore.
“Only if you think I can, honey.”
“I do.” Soon-Lee squeezes his hand. “Now come on, your dinner’s getting cold.”
He leaves the letter on the table, but he already knows he’s in.
Philadelphia, PA
It’s late – sometime after midnight on the Fourth of July – and Francis is sitting alone in the darkened chapel, lit only by a few flickering candles, his eyes fixed on the cross hanging on the wall above him.
It’s quiet, the hustle and bustle so routine in the hospital by day reduced to absolute stillness.
Francis, although the light is dim, is re-reading the letter he’s holding, when the door opens.
“Father?”
He turns, only to see one of the newer boys – one of the Vietnam boys – walking in.
“Hello… Joey, right?”
The boy squints at the Father’s lips, and then nods. “Yes.”
“Couldn’t sleep?”
“What?”
“I said, couldn’t sleep?”
“No.”
“Come on,” Francis says, speaking slowly as he does so that Joey can read his lips, gesturing to the bench beside him as he does. “Come sit with me.”
Joey hesitates, his eyes flicking to the cross at the front of the room, before he starts walking over.
Although Francis hasn’t seen him much, save in the hallways and in the group therapy sessions, he knows him very well.
“What are you doing up?” Joey asks, as Francis turns his eyes away from the cross to face the young man, the scars still showing across his face from the shell he’d encountered last winter, a dark wound on the side of his head where one of his ears used to be.
“I couldn’t sleep myself. I was going to go to the kitchen for some hot milk… but I thought I’d stop in here first.”
“But it’s nighttime.”
“Well… are you Catholic, Joey?”
“Was raised that way,” Joey says, his eyes flickering to the cross, his voice a little too loud in a way that Francis recognizes all too intimately.
If you can hardly hear yourself, you could shout and only hear a whisper.
And it’s a familiar refrain.
“Do you know what Perpetual Adoration is?” Francis asks, running his fingers over the words of the letter in his hand.
“Yeah, that’s where…”
“That’s where someone comes and sits with the Lord… at all hours of the day. An hour at a time.”
“Is that why you’re in here?”
“No, I came in here to think.”
“At twelve-thirty in the morning?”
“Yes… it is a bit odd, isn’t it? But sometimes I do my best thinking at night when there’s no one to hear me but the Lord. And he’s actually quite a good listener.”
“Only if he’s actually there.”
Mulcahy winces, but it’s nothing he hasn’t heard before.
“Kenny was having a nightmare,” Joey explains, his voice now slow and deliberate, and softer. “Woke me the fuck up, and I couldn’t get back to sleep.”
Francis doesn’t wince at the profanity – although his eyes do flicker towards the cross, begging for forgiveness – as it’s not the worst he’s heard in these halls.
“How about… we head down to the kitchen? I was thinking of some warm milk, might be soothing.”
Joey’s eyes are squinting, they’re focused that hard on Francis’s lips, but then he nods. “Why the hell not?”
Francis chuckles uneasily. “Why… not, indeed?”
“I’ll meet you down there.”
Joey heads for the door, but Francis stops, glancing up at the cross one last time, before reaching out and lighting a candle.
I commend to your service the soul of thy servant Henry, he prays, and then after another furtive glance around, he lights another. And thy servant Joseph.
He closes the door to the chapel, and follows the sound of Joey’s footsteps down the hall, although there’s a high-pitched whine his hearing aids are picking up from the fluorescent lights of the hallway.
When he gets to the kitchen, Joey has already poured milk into a saucepan, and when he turns around, he nearly jumps out of his skin at the sight of Francis sitting at the table.
“Jesus Christ!” he yelps, and then grimaces. “Sorry, Father, I… I didn’t hear you come in.”
“It’s quite alright, I’m told I’m pretty stealthy.”
“Yeah,” Joey says, his eyes still fixed on Francis’s mouth, his voice bitter as he says, “Not that I’d hear a stampede of elephants come through here.”
“Have the doctors said anything about your hearing possibly coming back?”
“It won’t.”
“You don’t know that.”
“It’s been months already, if it was back, it would be by now.”
“I wouldn’t bet anything on that. It’s simply too soon to tell.”
“Yeah, like you have any idea.”
“Actually, you’d be surprised, Joey.” Mulcahy smiles, gesturing to the hearing aids in his ears. “I don’t wear these because I’m in the Secret Service.”
Joey blinks, and then the expression on his face changes. “You mean…?”
“During my war… er… the Korean War, I had something similar happen to me. A shell landed too close, knocked out my hearing. For a long time, I thought I’d never hear anything again.”
“So what happened?”
“Well, over time, my hearing came back a little… and then I got these, and they help some.”
“A deaf priest,” Joey says again, appraising him with new eyes.
“The Lord moves in mysterious ways. And my hearing loss led me here… so I cannot entirely say I’m sorry for it.”
“So you think that the Lord made you deaf so you could come preach to veterans?”
“Joey, I am a veteran. But yes… my path led me here, to this time and place… perhaps even to you.”
“I doubt it.”
Mulcahy smiles. “Either way, I’d be glad to talk to your doctors about hearing aids.”
“Well, I doubt they’ll help me much. Be awful lopsided, sticking them in one ear.”
“Yes, well…”
“You were in a war?”
“Yes, I was the… chaplain for a medical unit.”
“Do any of the other guys know?”
“It’s an open secret,” Francis admits. “Although I imagine the boys who don’t know will soon enough.”
“Why’s that, Father?”
“Well, I’ve been invited to participate in a TV special they’re making about my old unit.”
“Is that what that letter’s about?” Joey asks.
“Well… yes and no. It arrived a few days after the official one did. It’s from a boy I knew during the war, who came through our unit. A boy by the name of Danny Fitzsimons.”
“And what did he say?”
Francis holds out the letter. “See for yourself.”
“Okay.”
As Joey reads through the letter, Francis busies himself with getting up and getting mugs for the warm milk, which is simmering away on the stove.
“He thinks you should do it?”
“He does – he was invited to say a few words and he wanted to see if I was going to do it. He’s lucky I already agreed.”
“Why? I mean… most guys I know don’t want to talk about the war.”
“Well, I figure I should go where I can do the most good… and if I can spread the word about people like me… and like you, what harm can it do?”
“What good can it do?”
“Boys are still going overseas, boys like you and Danny Fitzsimons. A lot of them don’t come back, and a lot of them come back hurt. And there isn’t all that much I can do to stop it, but if I can change even one mind…”
“Okay.”
Francis tucks the letter back in his pocket, and as Joey pours the milk, his hands surprisingly steady, he waits.
And then when Joey sits down across from him at the table, Francis asks, “Joey, has anyone talked to you yet about using sign language?”
“What?”
“Sign language,” Francis says again. “It doesn’t help everyone, and it takes a bit of practice, but… you use your hands to speak.”
“So do drivers on the turnpike, but they’re not saying hello, if you know what I mean.”
Francis laughs. “That wasn’t the sign language I had in mind. But it’s helpful for people like us, people who can’t quite… hear.”
“Okay, Father,” Joey says, looking apprehensive. “Whatever you say.”
Francis can feel Danny Fitzsimons standing behind him, along with the ghost of Boom Boom Gallagher, as he raises his hands. “Well… let’s start with the basics, shall we?”
Boston, MA
John is content to sit quietly through the meeting this week, in a back corner of the room where most people don’t look. He sits in an old, wobbly chair that won’t sit straight, listening to everyone else.
He rarely, after this many years, feels compelled to speak, although today is a different case.
His news – contained in the letter in his pocket – can wait.
And in the meantime, he’s sitting in the corner, flipping his sobriety chip over and over again in his hands, rubbing his thumb over it like it’s a poker chip and he’s about to lay his cards on the table.
The hall they’re meeting in smells like the slightly-burnt coffee sitting on the side table, waiting for the refreshment hour following the meeting. John is itching to go lose himself in a cup of bad coffee and a Boston cream – although he can already see Patrick eyeing the same donut he is and prepares himself for a fight.
He sits through the prayer, the readings, the introduction of new members, and he isn’t sure what he’s waiting for, but he’s content to sit and listen.
It’s nice not to be rushing anywhere, nice not to be needed anywhere.
Life is good when he isn’t running from one emergency to the next.
“You know,” the woman next to him murmurs, looking down at the chip he’s hanging on to for dear life, “I hear they’re going to start making bronze medallions for us alkies.”
“Really?”
She nods, and he recognizes her somehow, although he isn’t sure why. “Really rolling out the red carpet.”
“They just have to hope we’re sober enough not to trip on that red carpet,” he quips back, but a glare from Leo, who is leading the group, is enough to quiet him.
Sorry, the woman mouths.
There’s a few more half-heartedly testimonials, and then Leo glances around the room.
“Anyone else?”
“Yeah,” John hears himself say, standing up as he does and pulling out the letter. “I’ve been sober for five years now… although this past weekend, I was tempted to start drinkin’ again.”
“Why?” the woman next to him asks.
“I’m glad you asked. As you all know, I used to be in the army – I was in Korea. That’s where I learned how to drink. And I got a letter this week, asking me if I’d consider talking about my experiences to somebody. Not a therapist, mind you, a journalist. And boy I tell ya…”
“What?”
“I almost broke down. I almost… I was heading out the door to the bar, and…”
“Did you drink?” Leo asks quietly.
“Not a damn drop.”
It felt like more of a victory in that moment, and again John reaches for his sobriety chip.
“That’s good, John, thank you.”
“Only,” John continues, because if he doesn’t, he’ll never get the words out, a cold sweat starting to crawl across his skin, “I think I wanted to drink because I was scared of thinkin’ about Korea again. Scared of the memories. But also because I wanted to celebrate those memories. Only… I wrote back, and I said I’d do it.”
“Why?” Patrick asks. “If it almost made you drink, why did you do it?”
“Because there were people in that place that I loved – and they promised to keep a candle burning for me.” John smiles at the room full of people and then back down at the letter. “And besides – I know I’m not the only guy who forwarded my mail from the army to the bottom of a bottle. If I can stop anyone else from going down that road, isn’t it worth it?”
“That’s… very noble of you, John.”
“Thanks.”
“And now… let’s have our closing prayer.”
John sits down, bowing his head as required, but his eyes are still fastened to the letter.
His reasons are both selfless and selfish – although it would take a master to unravel the tangled knots of his emotion.
Although, looking at the letter, the words as familiar to him as the Serenity Prayer, John may not feel serene, but he is sure of himself.
Ottumwa, IA
Walter is playing football with the boys in one of the empty pastures in front of the house when he hears it – a faint sound at first, but one that sends a familiar shiver down his spine.
He turns, looking for the source of the sound, as Eddie calls, “Dad! Dad! Go long!”
Walter is distracted, dodging the tackle from Andrew with ease, and he catches Eddie’s perfectly spiralled toss.
And then he stops, hearing the sound again, feeling a whisper of the old anxiety in his throat as his heart starts to pound.
“Here he comes!” he calls to the boys, who have no idea what he’s talking about, all of them falling silent.
“I don’t hear anything.”
“Wait for it,” Walter says, like a line from an old movie, and he can taste the words as he says them, so familiar are they.
Finally, the faint ringing sound bears fruit – it’s just Percy coming up the driveway on his bike, his familiar blue uniform rumpled with travel and stark against the white fences and green grass of the pastures as his tires rumble over the gravel.
“What, you never seen mail before?” Walter asks the boys, who are all watching silently, before walking over and leaning against the fence. “Percy!”
“Afternoon, Mr. O’Reilly. Sorry I’m late with the mail.”
“Anything good today?”
“Just another fancy letter from that CBS fellow,” Percy says, pulling the letter from his bag and passing it over. “You keepin’ your boys in line?”
“Oh, I sure try,” Walter says absentmindedly, looking over the letter.
“I saw Mr. Sung in the store today, said as how he’d be here for dinner.”
“Uncle Park is coming?” Andrew asks shyly, and Walt rubs his hair, still not listening.
“Mr. O’Reilly?”
“Yeah – Oh, I’m sorry. Thanks, Percy. Give my love to your wife.”
“One of these days she’s gonna show up here and you’ll be in for a world o’ trouble,” Percy advises.
“Not like me to be a bigamist.”
“What’s a big-a-miss?” Andrew asks, as Percy laughs, doffing his cap as he rides back down the driveway.
“A large lady,” Walter says, tearing the letter open.
“What is it, Dad?” Bert asks, trying to crane his neck over his father’s shoulder – and succeeding, since to Walter’s consternation, he’s at least a few inches shorter than his oldest son. “Bad news?”
“Nah,” Walter says, looking it over. “Good news.”
Dear Mr. O’Reilly,
I appreciate your suggestion of speaking to Mrs. Blake, and will take it under advisement. Thank you for agreeing. More details will follow in short order.
Yours cordially,
DJ Carson,
CBS.
He hadn’t expected to get a reply so soon, when he’d eagerly agreed to participate. But here it is, in his hands.
“What is it?” Henry asks, hopping up on the fence.
“It’s about the war,” Bert points out.
“Vietnam?”
“No, not Vietnam,” Walter says. “Does this look like the jungle to you?”
“Mom says it does when you don’t cut the grass.”
“Your mom is usually right, but this isn’t a jungle. And it’s not about Vietnam.”
“It’s about your war,” Eddie adds, setting down the football in the grass, consciously setting it down a few feet from the nearest cowpat – and then nudging it further away as Andrew starts kicking his feet absentmindedly.
“Daddy was in a war?” Henry asks, as Walter glares at Eddie.
Eddie shrugs. “Sorry.”
“Yeah,” Walter says. “A long time ago, I was in a war.”
“Did you kill a lot of people?”
“No.”
“But… war is about killing bad guys.”
“Son…” Walter sighs, leaning against the fence, looking at his sons.
They don’t know – they haven’t seen the cost of war, and they’re too young to remember the ways Walter was haunted by it.
They were too young to ever remember – and it was long before their time, something he’s profoundly grateful for.
“War isn’t about good guys and bad guys. It’s about people havin’ disagreements, and thinkin’ those are worth killing over. And I never killed anybody – I did save a few lives, but that’s a story for another time.”
“So what did you do?”
“I worked for a bunch of doctors, helping them run their hospital.”
“Doing what?”
“I uh… I was the company clerk. Sort of like a secretary.”
“But that’s a girl’s job.”
“It was my job.”
“Were you any good at it?” Bert asks.
“Yeah… I think I was.”
“And now you’re going to go on TV.”
“Yep. I’m gonna go on TV and tell everyone about it.”
“Why, Daddy? Do you want to be famous?”
“No.”
Walter – Radar – tucks the letter in his pocket as he looks over his sons, before they’re distracted by the sound of the dinner bell.
“I want to tell everybody about the kids I remember in Korea who didn’t have any way to survive. I want to make sure that people over here know what’s going on,” Walter says. “And I want to help make sure other kids aren’t hurt.”
“Okay.”
“Now we’d better go in and wash up – I can see your uncle coming up the driveway, and you know how persnickety he gets about eating on time.”
The boys hurry off across the pasture, looking like something out of Norman Rockwell.
Walter takes another look at the letter, and wonders who was there to tell Henry’s sons about war.
And then he tucks it in his pocket, along with his hands, and makes his way back up to the house.
Chicago, IL
The morning sunlight is falling over the desk in the guest room that makes do as Lorraine’s study, and she wraps her robe more tightly around herself as she walks in, a cup of coffee in one hand, the steam rising in the early morning sunshine, leaving stripes on the carpet and desk.
She sits down with a sigh, feeling the creak of her bones as she does, and sets her mug down on the surface of the desk.
She loves this desk, as bittersweet as she feels about it.
It’s a handsome oak desk that used to sit in her husband’s study, and nobody has been in any of the myriad extra drawers or pigeonholes - or the secret compartment that she knows has dirty magazines in it - since the day Henry left for Korea.
In fact, she’d packed it up completely as is, leaving it untouched, but moving it with her from Bloomington to Chicago when she’d moved in with her sister.
And now it sits here, in the guest room, pictures of Henry in his uniform sitting on its polished surface, a little piece of history, and fitting for the missive she’s about to write.
Twenty-one years haven’t dulled the sting of loss, and Lorraine glances wistfully at the picture before tugging an empty piece of paper from the middle drawer of the desk, along with a pen.
And then she settles in to write.
Dear Henry,
Well, another Fourth of July come and gone! I hope you enjoyed it, darling. I know you can’t tell me where you are, but I hope it was properly observed all the same. We had a real party here – I know back in Bloomington, we always had proper block parties, but this year we had a quiet barbecue here at home. It isn’t the same without you, but having the little ones around was a real balm on my spirit.
I have some news so hold on to your hat – Molly is expecting again! I was blown away when she and Carson sat us down and told us the news. She’s doing perfectly fine – I was worried, since she was so horribly sick when she was expecting Susan – and the baby is due in February. I wish you’d be home in time to see the new baby, but I think I know better, deep down.
I have some other news to share! I was contacted by a Mr. Daniel Carson, who works for CBS, and he wants to make a documentary about the 4077! I was a bit excited, but a little sad to receive the letter. But don’t worry – I’m keeping a stiff upper lip. He said he got my name from Radar O’Reilly and that I’d be a perfect addition. Even though I told him I didn’t actually go to Korea, he still thinks I have good points to make about the home front. I told him I wouldn’t make any promises about what I'd have to say, but I did say I’d do it for him.
I hope everything is going well for you, darling, and that you’re safe and happy where you are. You are constantly in my thoughts and prayers, and if I can do anything to tell the world about you – and about all the horrors the poor draftees face, as well as their families – I’ll consider it a worthy legacy of the Blake family.
I love you very much.
She sets the pen down, wiping the wetness from her cheeks, and turns to look at the photo of Henry, standing proudly in his uniform, a gleam in his eyes.
“I hope I’m doing the right thing, darling,” she says softly, before pressing a kiss to her fingers and her fingers against the portrait.
And then she signs the letter, resolving to send it off as soon as possible.
Hannibal, MO
“Okay, what about…” Mildred consults her list of dates from the show producers. “October 7th?”
“That’s Peg Hunnicutt’s birthday,” Sherm says absentmindedly, noticing Mildred’s neat handwriting on the calendar. “Unfortunately, it’s also when I promised Bert I’d go look at his new fillies he’s supposed to have for me by then.”
“You think Pepper is getting lonely in her old age?”
“I think she could use a companion,” he replies, and Mildred rolls her eyes, turning back to her list.
“October 21st?”
“Mildred, dear, that’s Cory’s wedding,” he points out. “And I think he’d be a mite put out if we tried to outshine him with this.”
“I think he’d be happy for us.”
“Cow feathers,” Sherm says dismissively, looking at the little red heart on the calendar. “You think him and Dottie will have any little ones anytime soon?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” Mildred says, absentmindedly. “They’re young, they’re not in any hurry.”
“No, but I think I’d like theirs to be the last baby these hands catch.”
Mildred looks up at this, smiling at him over her reading glasses, before turning back to her calendar. “I think we’ve run out of October, Puddinhead.”
“I think you’re right. What’s the next date?”
“November 4th.”
“We’ll be in St. Louis then, visiting Emma for her birthday.”
“Well good grief, Sherm, are you trying to avoid the subject?”
“I’m not trying to avoid anything!” Sherm protests. “I just don’t want to get in the way!”
“Your head really is puddin’ if you think I’m gonna buy that. Two tugs and I’ll unravel your whole yarn.”
“Don’t fuss, Mother, we’ll find a date.”
“What’s this really about, Sherm?”
“It’s nothing. I said I’d do this and I will.”
“Sherm.”
“I don’t know, I just get… thoughtful, this time of year. Especially with Cory around this age – every year, every milestone, reminds me of one some of those boys will never have… I still don’t think I’m too eager to bring it all back up.”
“It might help. Besides, I think I trust Mr. Carson.”
“It isn’t that I don’t trust him… but what if he tries to paint me as the enemy? I mean hell, I’m career army as they come.”
“He’ll understand if you tell him. It’s not like it was then.”
“No, you’re right.” Sherm looks at the calendar one final time, before circling a date. “Here we go: November 11th.”
“Veteran’s Day,” she remarks quietly, so quietly his hearing aids almost miss it.
“Fitting, don’t you think?”
She smiles a little across the table at him, as beautiful as they day she’d said she’d marry him. “Very.”
It reminds Sherm a little of planning their party, and as if on cue, he turns and glances at the photo hanging on the wall of the kitchen – all of them frozen in time under a phony Fort Dix sign.
“It worked out then,” Mildred says, following his gaze. “No reason it won’t now.”
“No… no reason it won’t,” he agrees softly.
Stinson Beach, CA
The mid-morning sun is hot on the top of BJ’s head as he walks down the path to the beach, the sound of the waves crashing on the shore already relaxing the tension in his shoulders.
It’s the damn letter, he thinks, ducking under a branch and vowing that he’ll have to cut it back the next time he’s gardening. That’s what has him so nervous.
Ever since Margaret brought it up, he’s been avoiding the moment where he has to confront the issue, carrying the unopened envelope around like a good luck charm for the past week.
He doesn’t know why it scares him – the war is so far from this paradise that he almost can’t picture it intruding on his fragile, well-earned peace.
BJ sighs as he sits down in the sand, hearing the cracking of his joints as he sits.
If Peg were here, she’d laugh at him, and it would be well-deserved too.
Instead, he’s alone on the beach with his thoughts, his paradise, and this letter that could blow it all to pieces.
Has anyone else gotten one? he wonders, tugging the envelope from his shirt pocket, where he’s carelessly folded it in half. Has Hawkeye?
The thought of his best friend tugs at his heart, making his eyes water in a way he can’t pretend is just the stiff salty breeze coming off the ocean.
Still, if Hawkeye were here, the letter would already be open.
Hawkeye has never been one to avoid the tricky subjects - in some ways BJ admired him for it - but would rather walk through the minefield and take the blows as they come.
With this in mind, BJ gently tears open the end of the envelope, tugging out the letter and unfolding it.
He reads it through twice, the words blurring on the page the first time and then becoming starkly clear, black type on crisp white paper – just like his orders had been – spelling out what he’s feared.
And then, from behind him, he hears Peg’s voice, amused and beloved. “I thought I might find you here.”
“Hey.”
“Hey,” she says, picking her way across the sand like a plover, before sitting down next to him. “I see you finally opened it.”
“Yeah.”
“Any surprises?”
“No, it’s pretty much what Margaret said,” he says, passing over the letter.
Peg squints at it, before holding it slightly further away from her face.
BJ grins at the sight. “I think someone needs glasses.”
“Oh, shut up,” she says crossly. “My eyes are twenty-twenty.”
“I love it,” he assures her, reaching over and taking her hand. “Even if you are a terrible liar.”
And it’s true – time has only made her more beautiful to him, from the silvery threads starting to creep in among the blonde, to the pronounced crows’ feet forming around her eyes, a few decades worth of freckles stamped onto her nose as if in permanent ink.
She squeezes his hand, as she reads the letter. Then she glances back up at him, giving him an affectionate look.
But all she says is, “You’re a chickenshit.”
“What’s that supposed to me?”
“What exactly is so scary about this letter? It’s what Margaret said!”
“But- but-” BJ splutters, knowing she’s right. “It means talking about the war!”
“Would you expect anything less from a director wanting to talk about the unit? You weren’t exactly over there mashing potatoes, darling!”
BJ sighs, taking the letter back from her and reading it again.
“And you’ll notice,” Peg points out, “that there’s not the slightest whiff of politics in this – very neutral.”
“You’re saying you don’t think he’ll give us a fair shake?”
“Well if I had to guess, he’s probably a maverick – like a certain friend of ours.”
“Why do you say that?”
“The letter is almost too neutral. But you’ll notice all he says is the extraordinary work you did – he doesn’t mention the cause at all.”
“So you think I should do it?”
Peg laughs a little. “Darling, I’m not the boss of you.”
“Says you.”
“Well, alright,” she amends, still giggling. “I’m mostly not the boss of you. Do you want to do it?”
“I don’t know. I’d gotten kind of used to ignoring the war.”
Peg smiles. “Because you figured you’re in paradise so who needs it?”
“Yeah.”
“Well darling, I hate to break it to you, but that’s probably what Adam and Eve thought. And look what happened to them.”
“That…” BJ says, leaning in to kiss her, “is absolutely blasphemous.”
Her eyes are glittering with mirth as she presses her forehead to his. “And I even know where I can find a snake.”
Her mouth is hot on BJ’s, her hand coming up to cup his cheek, and BJ is almost ready to throw caution to the wind and re-enact that scene from From Here to Eternity, but before he can, she pulls away.
“Peg-”
“We’d better get back to the house,” she says, all business as she checks the battered silver watch on her wrist, as though her lips aren’t still kiss-swollen. “I have a showing this afternoon, and you have to be at the airport in an hour, or our poor daughter will think we've traded her to the Yankees.”
“Alright,” BJ says, his heart still pounding. He tucks the letter back in his pocket and stands up, dusting himself off before offering Peggy a hand.
She takes it, and even once she’s standing, the sand dislodged from the bottom of her shorts, she doesn’t let go of his hand.
They walk back along the path up to the house, BJ lost in thought again about the letter.
“I wonder what Hawkeye said,” Peg says suddenly, jolting him from his reverie, and startling him, because-
“That’s funny. I was wondering the same thing.”
She squeezes his hand. “You should call him.”
“Peg-”
“BJ,” she says, more firmly. “You should. I’m sure he’d love to hear from you.”
“And what, I’m just supposed to reach out after all this time? Like it’s that easy?”
“It is that easy.”
“It’s that hard.”
“Darling, I know you miss him.”
“I do.”
“Don’t you think he deserves to know that too?”
“I don’t want to get back in touch with him because of this!”
“Because of what?”
“The war.”
“Darling have you stopped to consider that if you do this, maybe you can lay it all to rest for once and for all?”
“It doesn’t work like that,” he tries.
She laughs. “Of course it doesn’t, but that doesn’t mean it isn’t worth a try.”
“How did you get so wise?”
“Years of practice,” she assures him, stopping him at the back door of the house and standing on her toes to press one last scorching kiss against his mouth. “Call him.”
“I will… when I get back from the airport.”
“Right. I love you.”
“I love you too,” he says softly, and he leaves her standing there, sun-dappled and smelling of the ocean, wondering if Hawkeye will even want to hear from him.
Or has he found his own post-war paradise by now?
CBS Studios
When Macy walks into the office they’re using for the documentary one Friday morning in August, Daniel is on the phone, scribbling something down on a notepad.
His hair is sticking up, as though he’s been running his fingers through it, and she can already see the ink stains on the side of his hand.
“Yes, of course,” he says, laughing and leaning back in his chair, before he notices Macy. He covers the receiver with his hand. “Morning.”
She gives him a wave, before setting down a cup of coffee on the desk in front of him.
“Anything good?” she asks in a whisper.
“Former patient.”
Macy nods, sitting down at the desk beside him as he finishes the call. It isn’t the first, and it will be far from the last call they field from patients who were treated at the 4077. Daniel has been handling the calls and letters with kid gloves, as though he expects them to explode in his hands.
They’ve been fielding those calls and letters from across the US – everyone, it seems, wants to talk about the 4077.
“No, no, I understand. Thank you. Thanks. No, I won’t turn you in. Okay. Thank you.”
As Daniel hangs up the phone, Macy leans forward, resting her elbows on the conference table. “Did you know that some joker has hung a sign on our office door that says ‘the swamp’?”
Daniel raises his eyes to her. “Hm?”
“I said-”
“Oh, right. Yeah, it was Stevens down in advertising.”
“Word’s got around then,” she says, leaning back in her chair. “I had Laurie at the front desk telling me she was so excited to see me do some real reporting for once.”
“From the mouths of babes,” Daniel cracks lightly.
“DJ, she’s twenty years old.”
“Like I said,” he replies, glancing down at his notes. “Did you grab the mail on the way in?”
“Shit.”
“It’s alright.”
“Are you waiting for something particular?”
“Nah,” he says, waving a hand dismissively. “Just waiting on a few more letters.”
“Uh huh. What was that phone call all about?”
“Oh, I was talking to this former patient named… either Wendell or Walter, I don’t remember. Said he wishes he could be in this documentary but all they treated him for was appendicitis.”
“What’s so bad about that?”
“Well, apparently, the kid has a Purple Heart – but it’s not on his service record. I mean, for starters, his service record isn’t his. He borrowed his brother’s identity to sign on. And after his little bout with appendicitis, our own beloved Dr. Pierce decided to give him a medal.”
“And where did Dr. Pierce get a Purple Heart?”
“The plot thickens – Wendell didn’t know, but the name carved on the back was Franklin D. M. Burns.”
“Hang on…” Macy flips through her notes, the name sparking something. “Franklin Burns… he was in the first interview, wasn’t he? And he hasn’t answered our letter. It came back ‘return to sender’.”
“Huh.”
“Of course,” Macy says, more scornfully than she means to sound. “I’ve heard everything I need to hear from him. He sounds like a jackass in Clete’s interviews.”
“Yeah.” Daniel takes a sip of coffee. “Who all have we heard back from?”
“Well…” Macy consults her list again. “Aside from all those letters we’ve been getting from former patients, so far we’ve had confirmation from Dr. Potter, Colonel Houlihan, Mr. Klinger, Father Mulcahy… Mr. O’Reilly, who led us to Mrs. Blake.”
“Nice of Mr. O’Reilly too. I hadn’t even known about Dr. Blake – his name wasn’t in Clete’s notes – and I probably wouldn’t have thought to talk to his widow if Mr. O’Reilly hadn’t given us her name. Almost like he knew we'd need it before we did.”
“Let’s see…” Macy keeps flipping down the list. “Nurses Bigelow, Kellye, Able, Baker and Bayliss are confirmed so far. We’re still waiting on Davis, Hall, Irving, Wilson, Walsh… well. About half.”
“What about some of the other doctors?” Daniel asks.
“Dr. McIntyre is confirmed, as is Dr. Winchester – their letters arrived within days of each other. And I haven’t checked the mail yet, but I’m hoping to hear from Drs. Hunnicutt and Pierce anytime now.”
“Good.”
There’s a knock on the door, and Daniel gets up, opening it.
“Mail call,” Stevens jokes, tossing a few envelopes into Daniel’s outstretched hands. “I was on my way up to the newsroom and I thought I’d pass these over.”
Macy, who has walked over to glance at the mail in Daniel’s hand makes a triumphant noise deep in her throat, grabbing one of the letters from Daniel.
“Aha!”
“What?”
“This has a return address of Stinson Beach, California.”
She tears open the envelope, accidentally tearing part of the letter.
“You know mail tampering is a federal offence,” Daniel remarks mildly, sitting back down across from her.
“Whatever. Listen to this: Dear Mr. Carson, although I have made it a hobby of mine – and a full-time one at that – to never talk about the war, I think I would appreciate the chance to participate in your documentary!”
“Ha!” Daniel cheers, the rest of his mail forgotten. “Another one!”
“I read on: I have considered myself a privileged man that I have had the chance to forget, and the chance to move past it. A lot of men in my shoes, and a lot of women too, haven’t had that chance. So I ask, in good faith, if you will please tread lightly – some of us were a lot more broken by the war than we let on – and we in return will try and take this chance to reflect. Yours, etc.”
“Oh if only he knew.”
Daniel turns to the other letters, flipping through them quickly.
“This one is from Dr. Oliver Jones – he was a neurosurgeon at the 4077th for about six months before he was transferred to the 8063rd – saying that he will be unable to participate as he is in Vietnam, training doctors on treating head trauma.”
“Damn,” Macy whistles.
“But… a silver lining, he did include an article that he did a few years back about his work. Well, that’s a consolation prize if nothing else.”
“And is there a letter from Dr. Pierce?” Macy asks, a little nervously.
Daniel rubs a hand over his face. “No. And without him, we’re sunk.”
“Are we though? I mean… I know Ms. O’Shea says he’s the heart of the place, but you got everyone else to agree pretty easily.”
“I did,” Daniel agrees. “But it won’t be the same without him. No Dr. Pierce, no documentary. Like trying to make a musical without lyrics.”
“Isn’t that just a ballet?”
Daniel glowers at her, before frowning down at the letter. “I think if I can’t get Dr. Pierce to come to us…”
Macy groans, recognizing the determination on his face.
“DJ-”
“Macy. We need him.”
“Do we?”
“Yes. We do.”
“Well… alright.”
The phone starts ringing as he shrugs his coat on, but he grins at her. “Do you mind getting that?”
“Asshole!” she calls out the door as he heads out, before picking up the phone anyway.
When she looks up again, he’s vanished.
But the news on the other end is distracting enough that it doesn’t matter.
Crabapple Cove, ME
Hawkeye buzzes his secretary, rubbing his aching head yet again.
Rachel sounds polite, but impatient. “Yes, Dr. Pierce?”
“Do you remember where I hid the aspirin?”
“Aren’t they in your top drawer next to your reading glasses?”
“No, I’d be able to hear the pill bottle rattling,” Hawkeye says, massaging his forehead before pinching the bridge of his nose. It doesn’t help, but it gives the illusion of it – one pressure succeeding another.
“Don’t you think you’re too old to drink like a fish?”
“Rachel, believe me, if I was coming off a bender, you’d know it,” Hawkeye protests, leaning against his desk. “I gave myself a headache last night trying to read. I left my reading glasses here.”
“… Doctor, if I may: you’re a geek.”
“Will you just bring me some aspirin and a coffee?”
“The coffee pot is in the break room,” Rachel reminds him. “You can get it yourself.”
“That would be considered desecration of a corpse,” Hawkeye mutters, letting go of the intercom button.
It buzzes again a second later, aggravating the pain in his head.
“What, Rachel?” he asks, pressing down the button with a little more force than necessary.
“Hawkeye, there’s someone here to see you.”
“I don’t want any visitors until Gene Kelly stops tap-dancing on my skull. My appointment book is clear today! My only patient is myself and my prescription is lying on a chaise lounge with a cloth on my face!”
“And when you’re done having a case of the vapours, I’ll send in Daniel-”
“Send him in now,” Hawkeye says, letting go of the button, before picking up the damp washcloth and walking over to the couch.
He collapses onto it, a puppet with its strings cut, and drapes the cold washcloth on his face.
It’s rudimentary medicine, and the cold clamminess reminds him of a cold sweat in a way he doesn’t need, but the darkness and the chill is oddly soothing.
He wonders why Rachel called his father “Daniel” – she normally refers to him as Dr. Pierce – and why he didn’t just walk in of his own accord.
Still, Hawkeye waits patiently, the cloth on his face, until he hears the door open.
“Since when do you wait for Rachel to buzz you in? I mean what were you waiting for?” he asks to his father, who doesn’t immediately respond with a quip. “An engraved invitation?”
“Actually, that’s why I’m here.”
Hawkeye sits up, the washcloth landing in his lap with a damp plop, only to find a young man – Jesus he can’t be much older than thirty – standing in his doorway.
“Who the hell are you?”
The man smiles. “The name’s Daniel Carson. CBS.”
“Well, Daniel Carson, CBS, it’s been a long time since I worked with a movie director, but your tactics need some… well, tact.”
“I didn’t get a response to your letter.”
“Well unlike President Truman’s costume party, it didn’t require a response. Unless CBS has started conscripting documentary subjects?”
“I’m as against conscription as you are, Dr. Pierce.”
“You don’t know a damn thing about me,” Hawkeye retorts, feeling his chest tighten with anxiety as he says it. “Or my opinion on conscription.”
“I know enough, but if you’re for it, I think I’d like to take the opportunity to convince you otherwise.”
“You lost your chance to convince me of anything when you broke into my office.”
“Your secretary let me in.”
“Yes, and I’ll be sending her flowers and a sternly-worded prescription to avoid strangers. You broke in under false pretenses.”
“You invited me in.”
“Because I assumed-”
“Exactly.” Daniel looks around, before gesturing to the chair in front of Hawkeye’s desk. “May I?”
“Only if you’re here to consult me about a medical problem.”
“I’m here to talk about my documentary.”
“Well unfortunately for you, I’m a people doctor, not a script doctor. Goodbye.”
“Dr. Pierce.”
Hawkeye drops the cloth back on his face, dramatically sighing, waiting for Daniel Carson to take his leave.
“I’m not leaving until I get a chance to talk to you about this documentary,” Daniel says, an edge in his voice.
Hawkeye sits back up, incredulous, again dislodging the cloth, before huffing out a laugh. “So you’re staging a sit-in in my office until I talk to you.”
“Yes.”
“I’m not accepting new patients, and I will gladly lock you in over the weekend.”
“I’ll manage.”
“Look, Carson,” Hawkeye says, the frustration that’s been boiling under the surface since he first got the letter finally erupting. “I wouldn’t do it for the friends I love, so why would I do it to promote an army that I hate?”
“Loyalty?”
Hawkeye scoffs. “To whom?”
“To other veterans.”
“I’m retired from tilting at windmills, Quixote,” Hawkeye says. “The wind is blowing in other directions.”
“It doesn’t make you mad?”
This gives Hawkeye pause, his chest full of righteous anger – but the question is like a pin right to the center of a balloon.
“Every fucking day,” he admits.
“Me too.”
“So why would I parade myself in front of a flag and say how happy I was to do it?” Hawkeye asks. “I saw good men go to war, and I saw… well, malcontents like me come out of it. Family men with their families ruined by the time they went home.”
“Dr. Pierce, may I be frank with you?” Daniel asks, his face open and earnest, still looking much younger.
Hawkeye waves his hand dismissively, giving Daniel the go-ahead.
“This wasn’t even my original idea for a documentary.”
Hawkeye looks him up and down and feels a smirk rise to his lips. “Let me guess… young, naïve and a little too trusting in your own country… a war co-respondent?”
“I was a junior war co-respondent in Vietnam. The Ia Drang Valley,” Daniel says, his voice polite but pointed. “I’ve met Clayton Kibbee and Aggie O’Shea, and the only things I want to say about Vietnam are what it’s doing to the damn kids we keep sending there.”
Hawkeye blinks, taken aback.
“And Dr. Pierce, my original documentary idea – which was rejected on account of being anti-establishment, mind you – was to talk to Vietnam veterans about what life has been like since coming home.”
“Well, I think you took a wrong turn somewhere. I fought in Korea.”
“I know.”
“And now you want to make a documentary about Korea.”
“About your unit.”
“Right. Why?”
“Because I can’t talk to the public about Vietnam, but I can talk about veterans of the Cold War, and I can talk about draftees, because the issues that plagued us coming home from Korea-”
“Are still with us and the kids coming home from Vietnam,” Hawkeye finishes. “And how exactly did you sell this to the top brass?”
“Easy. It’s the twentieth anniversary of the armistice next year. I said I wanted to pay tribute to your unit. And I do.”
“But you also want to call out the system that sent us there.”
“Yes.”
Hawkeye smiles a little at this, genuinely moved at this point.
But then he watches as Daniel sinks into the chair, the one Hawkeye had deemed for medical consultations, and tents his fingers, looking up at Hawkeye.
“The country is bleeding, Hawkeye,” he says, and Hawkeye forgives the use of his first name. “It’s bleeding and people are trying to put band-aids over it, without even trying to understand why the bleeding is happening.”
“The common denominator is blood,” Hawkeye says softly.
Daniel’s eyes light up. “Does this mean…?”
“It doesn’t mean anything except I’m getting soft in my old age. Did you drive all the way up from New York?”
“I might have.”
“On a Friday in August?” Hawkeye asks, his view of Daniel going up several notches. “Jesus, you must’ve wanted to talk to me.”
“I did.”
“Well you can’t drive back to the city tonight. Where are you staying?”
“I uh… I thought I’d check in-”
“Everywhere is full. You can stay with us.”
“Oh, wow, sir, thank-”
“Will you quit it with the sir stuff? Military courtesy gives me a migraine. Besides, it’s dinner and a bed,” Hawkeye says, hoisting himself off the couch and listening to the popping sounds of his spine cracking as he stands up. “It’s not an agreement to participate in your little patriot pageant.”
“All that and you still think I’m a patriot?”
Hawkeye laughs, holding the door open for him. “Fair enough. Were you really going to stand there all night?”
“No,” Daniel admits, as they walk down the hall. “I actually almost invented something embarrassing like a bad case of hemorrhoids just so you’d let me sit down.”
Hawkeye is surprised at the big belly laugh that Daniel’s joke brings out in him.
“C’mon,” he says, gesturing to the front door. “I’m sure Dad will love to have someone to help him browbeat me into doing this.”
But Hawkeye already knows, as he and Daniel step out into the soft sunshine of a Maine afternoon, that he’s going to say yes.
Daniel Carson has done something he hadn’t thought possible anymore – he’s surprised and impressed him.
And he’s driven all the way up in weekend traffic to see Hawkeye, to ask him to join this documentary of his.
Hawkeye is impressed by this kid, this kid who threatened to sit in his office until he got what he wanted, who’d tricked his way past Hawkeye’s secretary – well what can he do but say yes?