Midway along one of those skinny finger peninsulas in Maine can be found a dimple in the miles of coastland.  Fishing boats moor in the small harbour, though little remains of the sardine cannery, now it’s burned down.  A general store and post office can be found on the main street that straggles up the hill; the small white church has a bell in the steeple; and wooden houses with shingled roofs overlook the sea, except when their windows must be boarded up against the storms that blow hurricane-fierce up the coast.  In the spring, there are groves of blooming crabapples; in late summer, the fruit is turned into jars of ruby jelly, sauce, and pickle, and bottles of cider; in autumn, the leaves change to burnished gold and bronze, till the winds blow them across the lawns.  Then they are raked into piles and burnt; and their sweet smoke scents the salt sea air.

The Korean War officially ended on the 27th of July 1953; but it takes time to demobilize an army, the more so when hospitals stateside are swamped with the last weeks’ casualties.  Still, “last hired, first fired”, as they say.  Or, in the army, not.  Hawkeye Pierce got out in the fall.  In Boston, he spent most of a day between trains looking round old haunts; but, though the idea briefly crossed his mind, he didn’t make any attempt to look up Charles Winchester at Boston Mercy Hospital.  Everyone he saw wore civilian dress—which made total sense, and yet was weirdly strange.  For three years now he’d been surrounded by olive drab and hated it.  Now, perversely, he felt out of uniform in civvies; and this offended his amour propre.  He was not and never wanted to be regular army:  he had spent the years yearning to be home.  Now it was only miles away; and he fretted with impatience.  He drifted back to the waiting room at North Station and spent the last hour nursing a cup of coffee.  Finally he boarded the train to Portland, and there changed to the coastal line.

Most of those last miles he stared out the window at the woods and farms, and the rare precious glimpses of the sea.  The sky was blue with scudding clouds, the wind brisk:  it was the sort of day not to be trusted in New England.  Still, he lowered the window and took off his hat, letting the breeze ruffle his hair as if he were a school boy.  The leaves were turning all the golds and scarlets of a Maine autumn; and he treasured every view. Finally, after several stops, the train ran through the back gardens of Waldoboro; and he collected his bags and disembarked.  He went through the station to the street, just as he had so many times coming home from college, and looked around for the old familiar Studebaker.  In vain; and, for a horrified moment, he wondered if perhaps Dad hadn’t got the telegram and he’d have to phone home and wait for him to drive to town, or even try to hire a car.  Then he saw Daniel Pierce walking up the street towards him.

“Oh man, oh man, oh man!”  Hawkeye dropped both suitcase and duffel.  A big grin split his face; and he waved wildly.  “Oh, Dad!  You’re a sight for sore eyes.  Now I know I’m home.”

“Hawk,” was all his father replied; but he clapped his son heartily on the shoulder before stooping to the suitcase.

“No, no,” Hawkeye protested; but his Dad demurred, grabbed the handle, and—as he straightened up—pointed down the street at a newish Plymouth that was damn near the colour of army fatigues.  “What?” Hawkeye began.  Then he realized.  “Dad, you didn’t get rid of old Betsy Bettissima after all these years?”

“I know, I know,” his father admitted.  “I always said she was all the car I needed; but she broke down once too often.”  He headed round behind the Plymouth, reaching into his pocket for the keys.  “Not that I got this new, of course.  It’s last year’s model.”

“What the hell colour do they call that?”

“Dunno.”  His father took the duffel from him and slid it beside the suitcase.  “Some kind of green.”  He slammed the trunk shut.

Hawkeye looked the car up and down doubtfully.

Patiently his father waited, letting him take in the unfamiliarity.  Finally, though, he opened the driver’s door, said “It’s not locked”, and got in.  Reluctantly Hawkeye joined him.  After the key was in the ignition, his Dad added, “Tell you what, when it gets muddy—and it will, you know what the farm tracks round here can be like—you wash it on Sunday, like you used to do Bettissima.  By the time you’re done, you’ll know every inch.”

Hawkeye started to laugh, and was still giggling a bit as his father eased the car away from the curb.  “There’s sense in that,” he was finally able to say.  “But I do know you’re really just fobbing the job off on me.  You like your lazy Sundays, if you can get them.”  Still grinning, he added, “Hell, no, Dad.  School’s out and summer’s high, and I’m playing hooky till Christmas.”

“I think you got your metaphors mixed in there somewhere,” his father said with a sideward glance.  “But I understand the feeling.  Well—”  He turned at the corner.  “—no reason you can’t play hooky for a while, son.  You’ve earned it.”

They drove out of town, south along the new highway, so called even after all these years, though Hawkeye had been a boy when it was built.  It wound down towards Crabapple Cove with almost as many twists as the old unmetalled road, though the trip was only ten miles or so as the gull flies.  Hawkeye looked avidly out of the window at the familiar farms and woodlots.  There was a slight hill ahead, and Dad reached down to change gear.  The road ran near the sea here, but on the driver’s side of the car; and, to catch sight of it, Hawkeye leaned a little too close and Dad turned, startled; so instead he twisted round to look through the back-seat side window.  The car slowed—not to a stop, but long enough for him to get a good clear view.  Then it sped back up; and Hawkeye sat back in his seat with a sigh.

“It’s good to be home,” he said after a while.

“It’s always home,” Dad replied.  “You’re welcome, you know you are.  Come any time.  Your room’s still there.”  A moment later, he added, “Clean sheets this morning.”

That had to be down to Mrs. Libby, Hawkeye thought.  She had hardly figured in Dad’s letters—covered, maybe, by comments that “everyone’s fine”—but she’d been an institution at the Pierces’ ever since Mom died, and helped out now and then even before that.  When he’d been in his teens, he’d wondered why the housekeeper didn’t live in, since she was widowed.  (Now, he knew exactly why, small New England towns being what they are.)  Surreptitiously, he glanced at his watch:  he’d see her tomorrow, he guessed, given the time.  Nevertheless, when the car finally pulled in the drive, tires crunching on the gravel, the door opened and the housekeeper came out, still in her apron.  Hawkeye was not desperately surprised she’d stayed late.  Not bothering with his bags, he sprang up the stoop to be met by a hug.

“Oh, it’s good to see you back home safe,” she greeted him.

He bussed her cheek like a kid home from camp.  “Look—” he began, and then turned at the sound of the trunk being opened.  “No, no, leave them for me!” he urged and then, with an apologetic glance, left Mrs. Libby in the doorway to run back to the car and grab the suitcase.  His father kept hold of the duffel; and the pair carried them indoors and left them at the foot of the stairs.

“Your dinner’s keeping hot,” Mrs. Libby informed them, taking off her apron and going through to the kitchen.  “Chicken pot pie,” she called back.  “I’d’ve done a roast if I’d known exactly when you’d be here.”  Hanging up the apron, she turned to say firmly, “I’ve baked a cake; but that’s for dessert, young man.  Don’t you go taking a piece now and spoil your appetite.”

Hawkeye laughed with delight.  It was so home.  He came in inquisitively, peering along the wooden counter for the cake tin.  “What kind is it?” he aske.

“It’s in the dining room, already,” she told him.  “Chocolate.”

“My absolute favourite,” he declared—and left to check, just in case.  He came back a moment later, licking his fingertips.  “Delicious,” he said.

“He didn’t really,” his father observed from the door, amused.

Mrs. Libby shook her head.  “You’re a wicked boy.”

Hawkeye grinned disarmingly.

She collected her coat and left for home; Hawkeye carried his bags to his room; and they dished up, and dined in unusual state.  Afterwards, they went into the living room, where a fire was already set; and they sat, sipped coffee and ate wedges of cake, and went back for seconds.

That night, Hawkeye slept in the bed of his childhood.  However often it had been turned, the mattress was long since hollowed.  He fitted the curve perfectly, and his body knew every bump, and relaxed into the comfort.  He never slept quite as soundly anywhere else—not even in Boston with Carlye, let alone on a camp cot in the Swamp.  Even so, he woke at reveille.

With a sigh, he rolled over, rose on one elbow to look at the clock, and then flopped back with his arms behind his head.  Out of the window, the sky was lightening into dawn.  Farmers’ hours, he thought.  Round here, anyway.  Soldiers’ hours in Korea.  If he were back at the 4077th, a bugle would soon toot for roll call.  Being ostentatiously not a soldier, he’d probably make a point of ignoring it, even if he hadn’t just come off a double shift and worked all night.

He ignored it here, too.  Dad was an early riser, but not this early.  Breakfast would not be for an hour at least.  Bacon or sausages, he hoped.  Or maybe bacon and sausages.  And maybe pancakes as well—and probably a fried egg or two, toast with real butter and jam, and coffee that didn’t taste as if it had been stewed for three days with the grounds in.  After meals in the mess hall, he could eat the whole larder.

After a while, he got up and dressed.  He went quietly downstairs, through the garden, and down to the beach.  There he looked out over the incoming tide as the sun rose.  After that, he kicked at the pebbles, killed a bit of time by walking a short ways down shore and back, and then simply sat.  The breeze was a tad brisk; but, even this early, the sun was warm enough on his shoulders.  Reaching out, he picked up a pebble and tossed it idly.  It splashed rather too near the shore.  After a while, he picked up another; but the colour caught his eye, and he stared into speckles.

“Keep sitting on that cold ground, you’ll get piles.”

Hawkeye twisted round sharply, looking up to see his father.   “Old wives’ tale,” he called back, but got to his feet just the same.  “Breakfast?”

“I was about to start, then realized you weren’t around.”

Hawkeye began to climb, his legs stretching easily to pass right over the occasional shallow step.  “I came out to see the dawn.”

“Meaning you came down that path in the dark.”  There was a hint of reproof.

“No, no.”  Hawkeye dismissed this with a nonchalant wave.  “It was getting light already.”

They walked across the bumpy grass, past a pair of windblown pines, a maple that had already lost its leaves on the upper branches, and an old red oak that was just starting to turn.  There were two crabapples nearer the house, still ablaze, and Mom’s old flower beds that had chrysanthemums and asters in full bloom.

“The leaves look great this year.”

“We saved them just for you.”  There was a pause; then Dad added blandly, “Rake’s in the shed.”

Hawkeye grinned.  “Boy, between that and waxing the car, you’re really trying to make me feel I’m home.”

“Wouldn’t want you to feel a visitor, now, would I?”

Indeed, that first full day home, Hawkeye was left in no doubt that, to everyone he met, he was an old familiar face that had strayed abroad and finally found its way home.

He headed into town—not in the new Plymouth but on foot, wanting both to stretch his legs after the long train trip home and to savour the fresh fall air and admire at leisure the burnished trees growing along the side of the highway into town.  There he was greeted, far too many times, by people wanting to know all about the war.  Crabapple Cove was, after all, small enough for everyone to know each other; and Doc Pierce’s son’s return was news.  The last straw was a friendly hail by August Pelletier, still editor of the Crabapple Cove Courier, wanting a last minute interview to fit into this week’s edition.  He manoeuvred Hawkeye into his car with the offer of a lift, but took him out along Route 6 to Eddie’s Bar and Grill.  Not that there was anything wrong with the food.  They had the best burgers Hawkeye’d eaten for years—about three years, to be precise—along with onion rings and root beer.  And, if he’d’ve preferred beer beer, they might have had that, too, in a friendly chatty way after the formal interview, except that by that time all Hawkeye wanted was to get back home.  Whatever he’d said (and, by then, he could hardly remember), he would see it again in print.  Along with the rest of the town.

That afternoon, Hawkeye took his rod to the stream behind the house.  He didn’t catch anything; but that’s never the real point of fishing in a creek.

That night, after fish chowder followed by the roast they’d not had yesterday, the two Doctors Pierce again sipped hot coffee in front of the old stone fireplace.  Now and then, odd coloured flames spurted from the sea-stained driftwood.  Sprawled on the rug with his cup and saucer beside him, Doctor Pierce the Younger stared into the flickers; but they went unregarded by Doctor Pierce the Elder, who had the latest edition of The New England Journal of Medicine in his lap.  Looking up more often than down, father studied son.

“Had a good day?” he ventured at last.

“Not really.”  Hawkeye twisted lithely round.  “Why do you ask?”

“I don’t know what your plans are…?” Dad began.

“I don’t want to do surgery any more,” Hawkeye said.  “I did my share.  More than my share.  I want to care for people I have a chance to get to know, all their lives from birth to death.  Be a family doctor, in other words.  I figured to stay here in Crabapple Cove.  Take over the practice when you retire.”

“Ah, I wondered,” said Dad.  With touch of humour, he added, “You do know I was meaning to work a while yet?”

Hawkeye flashed a sudden grin.  “Well, I’m not planning to bump you off, Dad.  I’d kind of miss you.”

“Glad to hear it.”

Hawkeye picked up his cup and drained it before turning back to the fire.  His father watched, chewing his lip uncertainly; then he set the Journal decisively aside.  “Perhaps I should tell you … Colonel Potter sent me a letter.  When you were in the hospital.”

“What?  He shouldn’t have done that,” Hawkeye said sharply.  He scrambled to his feet.  “That’s doctor-patient privilege. He had no right to tell you about it.”

“No,” said Dad firmly.  “Your doctor was, or so I gather, a man named Freedman.  A psychiatrist.  I’ve never spoken to him.  Colonel Potter, though … he wrote me as your commanding officer.”

Hawkeye looked at him tensely, then launched brightly into speech.  “Sydney Freedman may have thought me a nut job; but I can tell you right now that I’ve never been saner.  It was Korea, Dad, just Korea.  You know?  We were all a bunch of mixed nuts there at the end.  Almonds and peanuts; pecans and walnuts; butternuts, cashews, and filberts.  Pistachios—we had quite a pistachio, I can tell you!  Oh, and macadamias:  her name was Kellye.  We were all nuts, all of us.  Grind ’em into filling, stick ’em in a strudel.  Yummy-yum-yum.  Though,” he paused for the briefest of moments, “it was more like meatballs came out of that grinder.  I tell you, Dad, you don’t want to see the sausages being made.  They may come out good in the end; but you don’t want to see them being made.”

“I understand,” said Dad gently.  “When I came home from the First War, I didn’t want to talk about it, either.  Not to anyone, even your mother.  Well, take your time.  I could use a hand round here.  Or, if you change your mind—”

“Not gonna.”

“Son,” said Dad gently, “you were wounded.  I’m going to put it like that, because that’s what it was.  I dare say there are plenty of others who’d put it differently; but I’m not them.  And I’m keeping it between you and me.  That’s not doctor-patient privilege, either.  That’s me being your Dad.  Right at the moment, I’d call you convalescent.  And, as I told you before, this is your home.  You can stay here, in Crabapple Cove, for the rest of your life if that’s what you want.  Or, if you want, you can stay here as long as you need.”