Hawkeye took down the Christmas cards, one by one, giving each a quick glance before adding it to the stack in his left hand.   Most only had a quick signature, or multiple names if everyone in the family had signed it.

“You done there, Hawk?  I could do with a hand here.”  The call echoed up from the back stairs; and he turned to answer.

“Just coming!”  But instead, he dallied to open the next card.  It had come first-class mail, with an enclosed letter.  The card was signed by Beej, Peg, and Erin—though, of course, the toddler had made only a shaky illegible scrawl, and even that had probably been guided by Mommy.  Or Daddy, Hawkeye thought.  For a moment, he was tempted to go up to his bedroom and read BJ’s letter again.  Then his father’s steps could be heard coming downstairs; and he quickly snatched at the handful of cards remaining on the mantel.

“Reading the cards?” said Dad from the doorway.

“No, of course not.”  But Hawkeye felt his cheeks flush.

Daniel Pierce crossed the living room to take the stack from his son’s hand.  Glancing down, he recognized the picture on the top car—a row of cheeky chickadees sitting on a fine fat snowman.  “Ah yes,” he said, even as he checked quickly inside to make sure, “from your friend BJ and his family.”  With a twinkle as wicked as any Hawkeye himself could summon, he added, “Was I right, or was I right?  You do seem to have acquired a fair collection here.”

“Well, some of them are from family,” Hawkeye pointed out.  “Not to mention neighbours and patients, which round here is pretty well the same thing.”

“Of course,” his father allowed.  He plucked the final cards from the mantel himself, and then herded his son out to the hall.

As Hawkeye carried boxes of decorations up to the attic, he had to admit—if only silently to himself—that yes, indeed, back at the start of the month, Dad had done the right thing when he ignored the assertion that everyone else from the 4077th would also just want to forget everything about Korea.  Dad had simply asked him if he had addresses.  On Hawkeye’s shamefaced admission that, in the throes of their emotional departure everyone had swapped details, he had then been marched to the kitchen table where, under the paternal eye (and with the housekeeper making dinner in the background), he had repeatedly scrawled, “Glad to be home, Hawk,” addressed the envelopes, and affixed postage.  It had been an absurdly long list; and every name recalled events he wished he could manage to forget.  Mercifully, the flap of each envelope had only to be tucked in.  By the time he had licked all the stamps, he had no spit left and a horrible taste in his mouth.

He worked off his feelings out in the yard, sawing up the decrepit fir tree.  As always, its last days had been marked by the ominous slither of dropping needles and the tinkle of crashing balls and bells that he could have sworn he’d tied on tightly.  Sweaty under his plaid jacket, he came inside with an armful of logs, which he dumped in the brass box by the fireplace.  Then he went upstairs to wash for dinner.  It was only that evening, after he’d already got into bed, that he remembered BJ’s letter.  Reaching out a long arm, he turned the lamp back on, and fished the envelope out of the drawer of the bedside table.

Dear Hawk, BJ had written.

I’ve been meaning to write so many times, but you probably know what it’s been like.  Pretty naïve to think I’d get straight back home soon as I got off the transport—of course, when you think about it, they still need doctors.  You were drafted long before I was, so I figure you must be home long ago.  I’m still in the army, believe it or not, stationed at Madigan hospital.  It may be on the west coast, but it’s nowhere near Mill Valley.  Peg and Erin have joined me, we’re in married quarters.  At first, we did discuss renting out our house, only tenants do want to know how long the lease is going to be for, and I still have no idea when I’m getting out.  Fortunately Peg’s family live not too far away, so her Dad is driving over now and then to keep an eye on the place.

You know those photos I sent home?  When Peg and Erin got to Madigan, the first word out of my daughter’s mouth was, “Dada.”  Looked right at me and smiled.  I think she was puzzled I was real flesh and blood and not a black and white snap in an album, but she recognized me.  It was the greatest thing ever, Hawk, it really was.  Peg told Erin about me every day, and showed her the photographs so that she could grow up knowing she had a real father who’d be coming back home to her.  (Of course, it was also the greatest thing ever to see Peg herself.)

Christmas this year is going to be a weird mixture of happy family and memories of MASH, the more so since they’re trying to do something festive here at the hospital for the patients who can’t be discharged yet.  I look at those guys, Hawk, and I know I’m lucky.  I may not be properly home yet, but I’ll get there eventually.  Some of them never will, and even those who do get out will take the war back with them for the rest of their lives.

Hey, write me, man!  I figured I’d be getting a letter from you long ago.  Then it occurred to me all the mail must be going to Mill Valley, and it maybe missed getting forwarded.  So have a look at the envelope this came in, okay?  That’s my address for now.

Love and best wishes, BJ

P.S.  Have a great Christmas, you and your dad.  I don’t know if we’ll ever make it to Crabapple Cove, but we’ll get the whole gang together some time somewhere for a reunion.  If our folks could do it, we certainly all can too.

BJ

With a sigh, Hawkeye refolded the letter and slipped it back in the envelope.  Sure, it would be nice to see BJ again, but the thought crossed his mind that the two might find they had far less in common in civilian life, no matter how much their friendship had meant at the 4077th.

What had he brought home from those years in Korea?  A few photographs of his own, certainly.  A worn duffel up in the attic; a certain precious vascular clamp liberated from military supplies; a notebook filled with scrawled names and addresses, some on odd scraps of paper.  His dress uniform hung at the back of his father’s bedroom closet:  at one point last fall he’d threatened to burn it; but Dad had intervened.  Dad also had the box containing his Service Medal.  Hawkeye never wanted to see either of the damned things ever again.  “Your kids’ll want them someday,” Dad had told him firmly.

It wasn’t much to bring back from the years in Korea.

“So, what have you been doing to yourself?” Hawkeye asked.

The little boy sucked his upper lip, looked at him wide-eyed, and said nothing.

“Actually, he’s here to get his shots,” said the mother, leaning over to lend moral support with a pat on the shoulder.

“Barbara?”  The sound of her voice was incredulously familiar.  “Barbara Williams?”

“Well, it’s Thompson now.”  She looked up with a smile.  “Did you just remember me?”

“You’ve changed.”

She looked amused.  “I certainly hope so, Hawkeye.  I’ve grown up, married, two children.”

“I’ve been away too long,” he said sincerely.  “I didn’t catch your married name.  So you have this fine fellow—”  He bent to take the boy’s hand and shake it.  “Hello, Brian.  I’m very pleased to meet you.  I’m Doctor Hawkeye.”  He looked back up at Barbara.  “And another as well?”  He glanced briefly at her waistline as he picked her son up and sat him on the examination table.  “Don’t squirm,” he warned.  “We don’t want you to fall off, now do we?”

Barbara had caught the glance.  “I’ve a daughter in first grade,” she said.  “But yes, you’re right, I am expecting again.  Your father’s my doctor, delivered both kids; but he suggested I bring Brian here today.  I gather Dr. Pierce is out?”

“A couple of house calls,” said Hawkeye.  “I’m covering for him.”  With that he got out the needle, told Brian he’d hardly feel it, and rewarded him with a lollipop.  Over the rest of the afternoon, he checked Mrs. Allen’s arthritis, sewed a gashed arm for Dave Michaud, dressed a burn on Anna White’s hand, and went through the eye chart with young Sharon Roy.

“—who’s going to need glasses,” he told his father that evening.  “Is she related to Gus Roy down Muscongus way?”  All the patients had surnames he’d known since childhood; but only some of the faces had been familiar.

“His granddaughter.”

“Also, I gave his booster to Barbara Williams’ boy Brian,” Hawkeye finished.  “I updated their records if you need to check them.  They’re on top of the cabinet.”  He stretched his long legs out towards the heat of the fireplace.  “Barbara Thompson, I should say.”  He sighed.  “God, I remember when Jimmy’s mom kept telling us to take her along when we were heading for the pond; she’d come yelling after us, ‘I’ll tell Mom you’re being mean, and you’ll catch it hard!’”  He laughed.  “We mostly still did our best to outrun her.  We were … about eight or ten, maybe?  No guy that age wants a girl hanging around.”  He sighed reminiscently.  “Maybe we were twelve at most—after that we were taking the bus to high school every day, at least till Jimmy left school.”  He stopped, looking into the flames.  It was another driftwood fire, flashing sparks of blue and green among the flames.  “What’s he doing now?” he said eventually.  “Still working on the farm?”

“Pretty well ready to take it over, soon as his father’s ready to give it up.”

“God, time runs like lightning.  Everything’s changed.”

“You’ve been away.”

In the dark of the movie theatre, Hawkeye debated with himself whether his date were more interested in the movie than flirtation.  It was Clark Gable, though Gene Tierney appealed more to him personally; and Gable was considered a big draw for the ladies.  Also the plot was very romantic, with a bit of Cold War adventure thrown in for good measure as the hero tried to rescue his ballerina from the clutches of the evil Reds.  Carol’s eyes were not sliding over to meet his; she was staring at the screen.  Philip was kissing his Marya:  Hawkeye could not compete with that, not right now, though it might stir up feelings he could work with later.

Slowly and regretfully, within weeks of arriving home, Hawkeye had discovered that the girls he’d chased years ago were married with kids.  He supposed it was more or less inevitable given the years he’d spent away.  Still, it definitely blighted his weekends to find that no one that he remembered dating in high school was eagerly waiting around to welcome him home.

He glanced again at Carol.  It would be unfair to say that he was settling for what was available.  (Just how available had yet to be discovered.)  Even so, that was more truth than he liked.  Still, she had at least left high school.  In fact, besides helping at home, she had a job at the post office in George Murphy’s general store; and, as this was hardly a full time occupation, she also helped behind the counter.  Hawkeye knew where he drew the line.  It might not be where a girl’s mother would have liked (still less her father!) but—and he mentally patted himself on the back for his scruples—at least he was no cradle-snatcher.

She was reasonably pretty; she was nubile; she was flattered by the attention of a war hero.  She was years younger than he was; but she liked a free movie and dinner in town.  Hawkeye settled back in the seat, turning his own eyes to the lip-action on screen.  Maybe later, if there were boring bits, they’d get some lip-action of their own.  Or maybe, if Carol remained regrettably entranced by the movie, they’d make out afterwards in the car.  The Plymouth’s heater worked just fine, they could stop off at a convenient spot for a bit of nookie.  How far Carol would let him go—well, that was another matter.  It wasn’t their first date; but she was clearly a good girl.  If he were back in Korea, he’d have hopes.  (Often no more than dashed hopes; but he had got lucky more than once.)  With Carol, he doubted he’d get to more than first base.

After the movie, though, she suggested they go to the soda fountain at the drug store.  It was mildly disappointing.  Still, they walked along the main street hand in hand, her full skirt swinging as they went.  It was a red plaid—cut on the bias, Hawkeye thought (and then decided he’d heard too much of Klinger’s clothes talk back in Korea)—with which she wore a shorter jacket than the weather warranted.  Her legs must be feeling the wind whipping up underneath, Hawkeye thought suddenly, looking down at the trim nylon-clad calves above her boots.  When they sat at the booth, she took off her tam and slipped out of the jacket to show, once again, the tight white sweater over her tempting curves.

“I’ll have a chocolate malt,” she said, smiling up at the waitress.  Hawkeye opted for a root beer, and then looked with pleasure across the table.

“So,” he began, and then stopped for a long moment, stumped.  Inspiration struck and he asked, “Would you like something on the jukebox?”  This bought him time as he got up, fished out a nickel, and fiddled to find her song.

By the time he returned to their table, the waitress was back with their drinks; and his wallet came out again.  Then he slid into place and picked up his glass for a long swig of dark innocent bubbles as Carol poked her straw deep into her tall glass and lowered its load by at least a quarter of an inch.  “Oh, my, I was getting thirsty,” she said.

“So how was your week?” Hawkeye proffered.

“Oh, just the usual,” she said dismissively.  “I’d much rather talk about you.”  She smiled sweetly.  “I know Dr. Pierce—your Dad, I mean—must be glad you’re safe home; but you never talk at all about what it was like over there … in Korea, I mean.  And it must have been awful at times—war and all that, I mean—but there were good times too, right?  And I’m sure you were very brave.”

“Well, I was at a M.A.S.H. unit,” said Hawkeye, and smiled in a self-deprecating way.  “I dunno about ‘brave’.  I got sent up to aid stations near the front a few times; and I’d say the guys who worked there were the brave ones.  They shipped the wounded down to us to patch up.  What do you want to know?”

She shrugged slightly, eyes locked on his.  “Where’d you stay, what’d you do, your friends and stuff.  Whatever.  I just want to get to know you, Hawkeye.”  She smiled sweetly again.

Friends and stuff, he thought.  “Well, we lived in tents.  That’s the ‘Mobile’ in M.A.S.H.  We had to be able to bug out—I mean pack up and move—on a moment’s notice.  The doctors all shared one big tent … we called it the Swamp … guys on their own, you know?  Lousy at housekeeping.”  He laughed; and she gave a quick appreciative giggle.  “I guess my best friend there was a guy called B.J. Hunnicutt.”  With a little smile, he added, “Beej was always real secret about what the ‘B.J.’ stood for.  He’s married, lives in California, has a little daughter.”  Hawkeye paused for a moment.  “Sent me a Christmas card,” he offered.

“That’s nice,” she said encouragingly.  “What about other people?”

“Well,” Hawkeye paused for thought, and then—perhaps because her flared plaid skirt had brought Klinger to mind—launched into a light, funny description of the Lebanese orderly with the passion for ploys.

“Get out of the army?” she said, shocked.  “But how could he?”

“He didn’t,” said Hawkeye succinctly.  “Everybody saw through him.  He could try for a Section Eight all he wanted—you should have seen him in a kimono or bridal gown; it was ridiculous, he was a hairy guy with a big schnozz of a nose.  No one bought it.  Not Colonel Potter, our C.O.; nor Sidney Freedman—he was a psychiatrist, came down from Seoul.”

“I’m surprised he wasn’t in prison,” said Carol indignantly.  “All those good men doing their duty.  You must have hated having a coward like that around.”

This reaction stopped Hawkeye cold.  “You had to be there,” he said finally.  It was true of anything to do with Korea, really.

Carol’s eyes fell.  She covered her confusion with a long draught of her chocolate malt, and then changed the subject to the forthcoming celebrations for Washington’s Birthday next month.  Crabapple Cove was as patriotic as any little American town.  The annual display couldn’t compete with Portland or Boston; but it was a matter of civic pride, and attended by everyone in the district.  Hawkeye might not have been back for too many years; but he had vivid treasured memories.

He ordered a slice of raisin pie, put a quarter in the juke box for a full set of songs, drank his root beer, and reminisced about days of yore.

When they finally went out to get the car, it was starting to snow.  Not heavily, but, once Hawkeye had opened the door for Carol to get in, he had to get back out with the brush to clear the windows.  A glance at his watch told him it was getting late:  this time there’d be no quiet stop at Lover’s Lane; and, in truth, he had already come to the conclusion that that was precisely the reason Carol had suggested going to the soda fountain.  The car coughed a couple of times as he started it; he turned on the heater, and headed out of town for the highway.

It was not that far to Crabapple Cove, though the road was far from straight.  Almost immediately, though, Hawkeye had to switch on the wipers and then slow the car.  The storm had picked up; and visibility was so limited that practically all he could see through the windshield was white on white.  For a short while, he tried switching to high beam; but he quickly realized that that only made things worse, since the light reflected off the falling snow and all he got was glare.

“My Dad said to be home by eleven at the absolute latest.”

“Nothing to be done.”

“I know.”

They crawled uphill and down, then slid slightly as the road curved.  Hawkeye steered into the skid, straightened the wheels, and slowed even more.

“It’s actually almost pretty, you know,” Carol commented, looking out the side window.  “The snow’s like a movie, just drifting down in big fat flakes.”

“Yeah, there are a lot of flakes,” Hawkeye said, almost on autopilot.  Which the car most definitely was not.  It took all his attention.  He peered through the haze, trying to find the road.

“You turn here,” said Carol, more familiar than he was with the turnoff to the lane leading to the family farm.

In quick reaction to her direction, Hawkeye turned the steering wheel sharply, and felt the car slide.  Inexorably, the left rear wheel dropped off the road, leaving them askew.  He gunned the wheel; but he could heard it whir blindly round, and the car didn’t budge.  Leaving the engine running, he opened the door and got out, carefully feeling down for solid ground.  Snow stung his face as he made his way gingerly along, one hand on the car for balance, until he could see clearly what had happened.

“I’m going to have to get traction,” he called, “or we’ll never get out.”  Then he found that the trunk was locked, and had to go back to the open car door, brush off the snow that had drifted onto the seat, and turn off the ignition.

“No, don’t do that,” said Carol.  “It’ll get cold in here.”

“I need to open the trunk,” he said.

He got the small shovel—no country doctor goes unprepared in winter—cleared a bit of snow by the jammed wheel, and then trod the rest down firmly.  Getting back in, he tried again to get the car to move, but only flooded the engine.  He rolled down the window to look out, hoping to see a miracle.  Behind him, he could hear Carol opening the passenger door.

“I can walk from here,” she said.  “It’s not far.”

Turning the car off again, he also got out, and then took the time not only to shut the door properly this time, but to lock it and go round to lock hers.

“Oh, for Pete’s sake,” she said impatiently.  “No one’s going to steal it out here!  Come on.”  She wrapped her arms close round her, and stamped her feet to warm herself.  “I’m not standing here to freeze.”

The lane to the farm was semi-cleared, but the snow was high between the ruts left by the pick-up.  Flurries whipped into their faces.  Hawkeye, who had picked Carol up after work, lagged slightly behind, using her as local guide.  Eventually, lights shone ahead, vague behind the snow; then farm buildings loomed through the haze.  Finally they stood outside the door, Carol fishing in her red patent leather handbag for her key.

Suddenly, the porch light came on; and the door opened to a blast of golden warmth.  Then the gold was occluded by the broad form of Farmer Adams.  “You’re late,” he told his daughter bluntly.

“The car got stuck,” she said; and he shifted back to let her in.  Hawkeye followed, adding quickly, “It’s in the snow, down by the turnoff.”  He pointed back the way they’d come.  “Can I use your phone?”

Adams grunted.  “Your mother’s been worried sick,” he told his daughter.  “She’s in the kitchen.  You’d better go through to her.”  Then he turned back to Hawkeye.  “Don’t be a dumbass, Doc.  You’ll never get a tow till tomorrow, and that’s if the plows go through.”  Loudly, he called, “Joe?  Dave?  Get out here!”  And, within startled minutes, Hawkeye found himself accompanying his date’s father and brothers—all togged up in heavy jackets, snow boots, caps with flaps pulled down over their ears, and leather gloves—back down the farm lane to the highway where, in short order, they had the car lifted out of the ditch by main force and back on the road, pointing towards Crabapple Cove.

“There,” said Adams, vigorously dusting off his trousers.  “You get going straight away, and you should be able to make it home before the road’s snowed right in.”

“Thank you, sir,” said Hawkeye.  He received a friendly slap on the shoulder from one of the brothers—Dave, he thought—and a “See ya” from the other; and then all three headed back up the lane.  Shaking his head, he got in the car, still hearing the echo of that uncharacteristic “sir”.  From doctor to past or future patient, it was jarringly anomalous.  Yet again, right now he wasn’t Doctor Pierce:  he was just the guy who’d brought Adams’ daughter home late from the movies.  He sighed, rubbed his nose, and stuck the key in the ignition.

Eventually, Hawkeye arrived home.  His father, he found, had already gone to bed.  There was no welcoming light in the window, no relieved paternal hail; just silence in the hall.  He left his boots on the mat, hung his coat in the bathroom where melting snow would not dampen the carpet, and headed for bed, where he slept deep.

The next morning, he woke late and found the house empty.  Looking out the window, he saw ruts in the snow on the drive; and later, going out with the shovel to clear the path, he found the Plymouth gone from the garage.  His father was still not back when he’d shovelled the drive clear and returned to the house.  So he fried himself up a lonely half pound of bacon, broke two eggs in the pan, and made toast and coffee all for himself.  By the time his father returned, he’d even washed up, having been told many years earlier that it wasn’t fair to Mrs. Libby to face a weekend’s worth of dishes as soon as she came to work on Monday.  Hawkeye was nothing if not susceptible to an argument of fairness.

Only subliminally did he hear the sound of the car as his father came home.

“How’d your date go?” Daniel asked as he came in.  “I was in bed when you got home.”

Hawkeye looked up from a back issue of the Journal of the American Medical Association.

Meaningfully, his father added, “Rather late,” and raised a quizzical brow.

For only a brief moment, Hawkeye was taken aback; but, ever quick with a quip, he recovered in a flash.  “If you’re asking if I got lucky,” he said with as wicked a smile as he could muster, “and that’s a hell of a question to get from my dad, Dad, then the answer is no:  we got caught in the snow and I had to crawl home at a pace that would make an arthritic snail look like a cheetah.”

“Well, it sounds as though you needed to sleep in,” Daniel admitted, “but you’d probably benefit more from regular attendance at church.  I’ve had a couple of comments.”

Hawkeye’s jaw almost dropped.  “I’m not exactly what you’d call devout,” he said after a moment.

“What you believe isn’t the point,” said his father firmly.  “You aren’t living in Boston any more.  Back here in Crabapple Cove, people expect their doctor go to church.  In our profession, you have to look respectable.”  As a stubborn look set on his son’s face, Daniel added, “Also, you need to be part of the community.  This is a small town, Hawk.”

His answer was JAMA slapped loudly on the side table.  Hawkeye got to his feet and stalked out.

By dinner that night the spat was forgotten.  Mrs. Libby had left a chicken pot pie in the refrigerator ready to be baked.  As Daniel cut through the crust, he said, “Unless the plow comes through early, I don’t think either of us will be doing house calls outside the Cove tomorrow.”

Hawkeye nodded his agreement.  “At least, I got out to see Linda Thompson yesterday morning,” he said.  “I’m pretty sure she only has a cold; but that sore throat is full blown tonsillitis.  I had a look at her records.  It’s not the first time.”

“No, any infection goes straight to her throat.”

“She should have them out.”

“It’s high time,” Daniel agreed.  “You want me to talk to her parents?”  He handed over a full plate to Hawkeye, and began to spoon chicken and gravy onto his own.

“No, that’s okay.  I went to school with Barbara’s brother, Jimmy.  Remember?”

Daniel nodded.  “You talk to them, then; and I’ll arrange a referral to the clinic in town.”  He reached for the peas.

“Oh, that’s not necessary,” said Hawkeye with surprise.  “I can whip it out right here!”  At Daniel’s frown, he added, “It’s nothing, Dad, honest.  Pretty basic, really.  I could do it in my sleep.”

“Oh, Hawk, honestly!” Daniel almost laughed.  “The days of tonsillectomies on the kitchen table are long over.”

“Did you kill a lot of gooks?”

The question took Hawkeye aback.  “I’m a doctor,” he said, setting down his burger.  Beside him, Jimmy Williams looked uneasy.  They’d gone to Eddie’s Bar and Grill to chew over old times and good food.  Being accosted by a boy barely out of school wasn’t on the menu.

“Yeah, but you were a soldier. Over there in the War.  D’ja kill a lot of ’em?”  There was an eager viciousness in the kid’s tone that flicked Hawkeye on the raw.

“No, I did not!” he snapped.  “I told you:  I’m a doctor.  I was over there saving lives, not taking them.  You do know that they—‘gooks’ you call them, which is damn rude—the enemy, the North Koreans, they had guns and grenades and bombs same as we did.  Sure, our side killed a lot of them; but their side killed a lot of our guys, too.  I was a doctor damn it!  With a M.A.S.H. unit, not—”  He glared at the teenager with contempt.  “—that I’d expect the likes of you to know what that stands for.  ‘Mobile Army Surgical Hospital’.  Operative word there being ‘Hospital’, which is where me being a doctor comes in.  Our guys got wounded, they’d get shipped back from the front to us and we’d patch ’em up, save most of them.  Save a hell of a lot of them!  Our guys and theirs, didn’t matter, wounded is wounded, we’d do our duty by all of them.”

“You had guns, though,” said the kid.  “You should’ve been out there shooting.”

“We did not have guns,” Hawkeye retorted, conveniently forgetting both Frank and Margaret, not to mention the sentries on night duty and the occasional tank parked too close nearby.  “That’s what the red cross means.”  He tapped his shoulder where the armband would have been had he been in uniform.  “Their side or ours, the people who are medical personnel are noncombatants.  That means no weapons.”

He expected some comment like, “You guys must’ve been nuts,” which—at times when they’d been shot at or nearly had a jeep blown up by landmines—they’d occasionally said themselves.  He did not expect to be accused of being a cowardly Commie sympathizer, if not a gook himself.

“Half my age,” he said to his father when he stormed into the house.  “Not old enough to be drafted, and all he wants to do is have another war, angry Eisenhower had to go and end this one before he had a chance to go over there and kill him some ‘gooks’, as he calls them.  Cannon fodder, that’s all he is!  And he has the nerve—the goddamn nerve—to call me a coward, and everyone else at the 4077th too!”  For a moment he sat down; then nervous energy propelled him back to his feet.  “I’ve seen BJ go out under fire to help someone who’s wounded,” he protested.  Not that his father had said anything.  “Any of us would.  Well,” in sullen truth, “maybe not Frank Burns, but he’s no doctor.  The colonel would.  Trapper would.  I would—and yes, for one of the enemy as much as any G.I. Joe.  Because that’s what it means to be a doctor.”

Eventually he ran down.  Eventually, he went to bed.  Left downstairs alone, Daniel Pierce spent some time hunting through months’ old correspondence.  Finally, he found the letter he was looking for … the one with the phone number.  The next day, therefore, he was able to place the call to New York.  It took a while for him to reach the man he wanted, during which time he fretted that the number might—given the months since war’s end—be out of date.  His son having taken the Plymouth out on house calls, his free ear kept listening for the sound of tires on the gravel drive, just in case some urgency brought Hawkeye home early.  Finally, though, a male voice came on the line.

They talked for some time.

He mentioned none of this to his son.

In the dark of a winter Friday night, Daniel Pierce requisitioned the Plymouth—his own car, as he pointed out to his son—and drove into town to the railroad station.  The train was on time; and among the handful of passengers who got off was a thin, short stranger with curly graying hair and an overnight bag.  He looked around the waiting room, and then made unhesitatingly towards Daniel.

“Dr. Pierce, I presume.”  There was a twinkle in the man’s eye.

“Daniel, please.”  He smiled involuntarily.  “Do I look that much like him?”

“Oh … maybe a year or two older.”

They were quiet on the drive home.  Daniel did try some vague conversation; but he’d never had the gift of idle words beyond “Had a good trip?”  Only as they neared the turn-off did he mention that he’d not told Hawkeye that Sidney Freedman was coming.

“Just as well,” was the response.  “He’d only insist he was fine.”  After a pause, the psychiatrist added laconically,  “Lovely countryside.  You invited me for the long weekend?”

“Come to think of it, I did, didn’t I?” Daniel said.  “Do you skate?”

Sidney had, in fact, packed with that in mind, though—as he said ruefully the next day, contemplating the frozen pond with its irregular borders lined with dry reeds poking through the rime—he’d learned years ago on the local municipal rink in Brooklyn.  Hawkeye, who had been ardently avoiding any chance of being alone with him, was lacing up his own old skates, stored for too long and now a bit stiff in the leather.  He looked up from the rock on which he was sitting and said, “Let me warn you not to go too near the middle.  The pond’s supposed to be frozen solid but—”  He got up and stamped.  “Who knows, right?  It’s a warm day; it won’t last forever if this keeps up.  If it starts to crack, skate like hell.”

“Thanks,” said Sidney drily.

“Don’t mind Hawk,” Daniel told him.  “He’s just in a mood.”  With that, he sailed off into the midst of the crowd and, skater of many years, swung round in an easy curve to begin skating backwards.

“Show off,” said Hawkeye mildly.  “Hey, Sidney, I’m years out of practice myself, counting the time spent in the big city.  You’ll not be the only one skating with the kiddies and biddies.  In fact,” he grinned, “most of them will be out there with Dad whooping it up big time.  We’ll be with the moms and tots.”

Instead, after skating in cautious circles around groups of people he didn’t know, Sidney drifted down to watch the pick-up hockey game.  One side had an actual net, the other a packed pile somewhat resembling a small snow fort.  The players were a mix of kids and young adults, except for a grey-haired man who had to be at least fifty.  Everyone was clearly madly enjoying themselves.  There seemed to be no particular rules except “get the old hat zipping across the ice”, which was fine by Sidney, who was no purist.  Hockey wasn’t his game.

After a while, the chill from the ice started to creep up under his jacket.  He’d been told there’d be eats; so he headed back to the clearing off the road where cars had been parked.  There was a sort of shack thing, much on a par with eateries he remembered from Korea.  In honour of Washington’s Birthday, which this year fell on Monday, it was festooned with red, white, and blue bunting.  Behind the counter, Annette Murphy, wife of the local store owner, was selling hot cocoa and baked potatoes.

“Just staying for the holiday,” he said in response, taking his mug.  And then, “Yes, I know Hawkeye from Korea.”

Daniel came up and placed his own order.  “Have you had a chance to talk to my son yet?” he asked.

Sidney took a long slow thoughtful sip.  “I think he’s avoiding me,” he replied finally.  He looked out over the pond.  Out of the mass, Hawkeye skated, arm in arm with a pretty girl wearing a scarlet tam.  He gave her a whirl, and her short skating skirt flared.  Clearly he’d got the knack back.

“Your son’s been seeing a lot of Carol Adams, hasn’t he?” said Mrs. Murphy to Daniel.  “Getting serious, is he?”

“Hasn’t said anything,” he replied.  As he was also looking towards the pond, she couldn’t see his expression.

“Here’s your potato,” she said, and he turned back to pay.

“That looks good,” said Sidney at sight of the butter melting under the steam.  As Daniel nodded his thanks to Mrs. Murphy, slid his wallet away, and headed for one of the picnic tables, he picked up his own mug and followed.  “I got a sketch over the phone,” he said, pulling his coat tight under him.  (The bench was damned cold on the tuchis.)  “Why don’t you colour it in for me?”

The following morning, he suggested a walk and wouldn’t take no for an answer.  “For sure, it’s a fair bet you’d rather be private with me than spill all in front of your father—though from what I can tell, he’s no fool.  Look at it this way,” he added cannily, “I’m your guest, and you’re supposed to entertain me.  So show me the sights.  We can talk or not as you please.”

They walked along the beach in silence.  The tides swept away snow; but it lay on the upslope, slowly melting in the February thaw.  The sea, of course, was wet and wavy; and there was a fairly brisk breeze.

“You know, Hawkeye, I didn’t turn up at the railway station, bag in hand, just hoping to scrounge a bed,” said Sidney finally.

“It’s none of Dad’s business.”

“He’s your father after all.  One could argue it’s his job to worry.”

“I’m fine.”

Sidney let that lie unanswered.

“Are you saying I’m not?”  Hawkeye stalked ahead vigorously.

Sidney let him go without attempting to keep up.  Finally, though, Hawkeye stopped some twenty feet ahead and turned round to challenge loudly, “So what’s wrong with me, then?”

Rather than shout, Sidney continued at the same pace until he was close enough to say, “Probably the same thing that’s wrong with all of us.  We’ve been taken out of our own place and time, sent into hell, and then plunked back home.”  He paused, hoping for a response.  When Hawkeye simply continued to glare at him though, he went on, almost conversationally, “Tell me about Crabapple Cove.”

“This,” said Hawkeye, swivelling round to gesture broadly at the ocean.  “This is Crabapple Cove.”

“Yes,” said Sidney thoughtfully.   “And I’m sure it’s just as you remembered it back in Korea.  Tell me about home, then.  Has it changed?”

“You mean my Dad?  No, he’s the same.  A little greyer.  Or do you mean the house?”  Hawkeye relaxed a bit.  “We’ve never been ones to go buying new furniture or wallpaper.  Even our housekeeper’s been working here donkey’s years.  Dad got a new car.”  He took care to shrug.  “People do, after all.”

“Okay.” Sidney nodded.  “But Hawkeye, back in Korea you talked about ‘Crabapple Cove’ all the time; and it was pretty clear it meant a lot more to you than your family home and a pretty bit of beach.”

Hawkeye’s eyes dropped.  He kicked at the pebbles a bit, muttered “Yeah”, and turned away to stare down along the beach.  Finally, he looked back.  “Well, you know how they say you can’t go home again?  I left years ago.  College, med school, residency in Boston.  But I always did come home.  Summer vacation, holiday weekends, definitely Thanksgiving and Christmas.”  He scratched the back of his head, and shook his head.  “They say you can’t go home again.  But I always do.”

Watchfully, Sidney asked softly, “And now?”

Hawkeye just shook his head.

“When you left Korea, when M.A.S.H. 4077 was broken up, reassigned, sent stateside … what were your plans?”

Hawkeye looked at him blankly.  “You know that.  God, I told everyone I was going to go back to Crabapple Cove, stop trying to be this hotshot surgeon in the big city, become the kind of doctor who deals with people.  What was Korea?” he asked in sudden indignation.  “A neverending stream of damaged anonymous bodies.  I want to get to know my patients!”

“Okay.”  Sidney nodded.  “That’s what you wanted then.  And now that you’re here in Crabapple Cove…?”

“Well, I’ve been doing it, haven’t I?” Hawkeye pointed out.  “I’ve been helping Dad in his practice, especially with the kids.”

“You were always good with kids,” Sidney agreed quietly.

“‘Doctor Hawkeye’ they call me.”

“And the other people in town?  The grown-ups of your childhood; the people who were friends at school … how’s Crabapple Cove, coming back after all this while?”

Hawkeye shifted his feet uneasily.  “I don’t want to talk about it.”

Sidney nodded thoughtfully.  “You know, Hawkeye,” he said, “those people only know the boy you were, not the man who lives here now.  You aren’t the first person to come back from war and find it hard to fit in again … and impossible to talk about.”

That evening, after Sidney had gone up to the guest bedroom, Daniel set aside The Last of the Mohicans (which he was reading for the umpteenth time) and said, “You’ve been seeing quite a lot of Carol, haven’t you?  Things getting serious between you?”

“Not really,” said Hawkeye.

“I suppose I’m asking your intentions.”

“Isn’t that more her father’s line?”

“Trust me,” said Daniel, his voice hardening, “if George Adams asks you that question, you’d better have the right answer for him.  If you go on like this, the town’ll have you engaged by Easter and married in June.”

Hawkeye rolled his eyes.  “God, Dad, she’s okay to date, but I can’t imagine spending the rest of my life with her.  What would we talk about?”

“The children?” Daniel suggested.  “What to do on vacation?  Repairs around the house?  What does any married couple talk about?”  After a pause, he said, “Why?  What do you want to talk to her about?”

“Life,” said Hawkeye, almost at random.  “What’s going on in the bigger world.  Politics.  Baseball.”  He pointed at his father’s book.  “The Last of the Mohicans, why not?  My work, certainly.”

“If you want someone to discuss work with,” his father said immediately, “then you should have married one of those nurses at the M.A.S.H. unit.  You’ve talked about a few of them.”

“There were one or two,” Hawkeye admitted.  “It never worked out.”

“There was Carlye,” his father said.  “You brought her here a couple of times.  I liked her.  But, no, that didn’t work out, either, did it?  And you aren’t going to meet a lot of nurses here in Crabapple Cove.”

The fireworks were almost as good as he remembered.  Hawkeye watched them, beer in hand; and, as the crowd slowly dispersed, spent a judicious amount of time chatting.  By now, he was pretty well reacquainted with the good citizens of Crabapple Cove; but there were plenty of people who’d driven in from the surrounding farms.  Some of them turned out to be strangely familiar, once he got past the changes of intervening years.

Eventually, he and his father got in the car and drove home.  Each had had a beer or three; but neither was as drunk as Hawkeye had been a time or two in Korea, and he’d driven drunk often enough there.  The route home was engraved in his brain from the time he’d been a tot taken to the store by his mother, through the walk to school, the drive to Eddie’s Bar and Grill, and the route to the station when he went back to college after each vacation.

“You talked to Dr. Freedman?” said his father when they came in.  They’d dropped him off to catch his train, before coming back for the fireworks.

“Isn’t there doctor-patient privilege in there somewhere?”

“Not asking details.”

“Yes, we talked.”

It was dark out; but in February that didn’t mean it was all that late.  Before going home, Mrs. Libby had left a supper out for them.  There was no point in dining in state:  Hawkeye got out the cutlery and began setting the kitchen table as Daniel warmed up the fish chowder and sliced hunks of bread.

“Oh, by the way,” Daniel said as he ladled the soup into bowls.  “Mrs. Allen down in the valley said that she’s pretty certain her youngest has measles.”

“He just started school, didn’t he?  It’s the age for it.”  Hawkeye sat down and started buttering bread.

“Well, if one of them has it, they’ll all catch it.”

“Just hope none of them has complications.”

Later, as they carried their coffee into the living room, Hawkeye asked, “Do you want a fire tonight?”

“Why not?” said Daniel.  “It’s a holiday, after all.”  He picked up The Last of the Mohicans but didn’t take the bookmark out.  Instead, he sat watching his son lay the fire.

Hawkeye swivelled round, a last piece of wood in his hand.  “Dad, I was wondering … you called Sidney, didn’t you?  How did you get his phone number?”

“Your Colonel Potter put it in the letter he sent me.  Just in case.”

“But how did he know it?”

Daniel shrugged.  “There’s only one man could have told him, isn’t there?”

Hawkeye nodded thoughtfully.  He turned back to throw the wood on the fire, struck a match, and set it to the shredded bark he’d stuffed below.

“He’s a damned good doctor,” he said.

“You’re not bad yourself,” said Dad.