December 22, 1951
Dear Lyle,
Things are continuing normally at the good old 4077th. What an odd thing to say about this place. It's neither good nor old, but you know what they say. "War is heck."
The fighting has moved closer over the last few nights, so they've stopped all incoming and outgoing mail carriers. The only way to get a letter out in a reasonable amount of time these days is to send up a carrier pigeon, but you know how unreliable they are on trans-Pacific flights.
Anyway, it's December now as I write this, which means if the brass have their way it should reach you by mid-April. I'm sure the weather is much nicer as you're reading this, but right now it's bitter, frigid, and as close to arctic as I ever hope to get in this lifetime. (This, of course, assuming my lifetime manages to carry on beyond this "police action.") Morale is down, zippers are up, and we're about half-past crazy heading straight for cuckoo at an alarming rate.
It's almost Christmas here. So, given the time difference, you should be right about at Thanksgiving. In her last letter, Mom told me about your draft notice. I can't quite say that I'm happy for you. In fact, I'm terrified for you. If I knew a way to get you out of this, believe me, I'd let you know. Obviously I couldn't figure it out, or else I probably wouldn't be writing this letter to you right now. At least they've got you stationed at Tokyo General. I hope for your sake they keep you there. No reason why two of the Johnson kids should be forced to endure the conditions of your average MASH unit. Besides, you've got such a weak stomach; I don't think you could handle it. Sentiment is not valued highly by the army in the Asian theatre.
Don't get me wrong, I'm not hardened. If anything, I'm an open, gaping wound, and all these kids who come through here day after day are the salt the world insists on rubbing in it. But you have to get a tough skin in this business or it eats right through you. I've seen enough detached limbs to put together twenty new soldiers who will just get blown up and put back together again. People often accuse doctors of trying to play God, but if they had any idea of the kind of operation we're running in Korea they'd say the Big Guy has it easy. After all, He gave Noah two of everything and a boat to keep it all in. We're lucky if we get one of anything. One day, one hour, one minute of repose. It just keeps hitting us again and again, and we're not even at the front lines. If we're faring so poorly back here, I can't imagine what the boys at the front are going through. I guess we're all in the same spot, trying to keep our heads above water and just barely getting enough air to keep us from going under. That boat would be pretty good about now.
Still, it couldn't have happened to a nicer bunch of people.
It's easier being in a nuthouse when you've at least got other nuts to keep you company. We're like a family here at the 4077th. We're each other's support, lifelines, and shoulders to cry on. The whole situation is better somehow knowing that none of us is going through this alone. There's always someone to turn to in a time of need. Believe me when I say that those times happen a lot more often here than they ever did back home.
I try not to think about home if I can help it. It's too painful knowing how far away I am and how different everything is and will be when I get back. I still wake up sometimes forgetting that I'm now a divorcee and that the medicine we're practicing is more meatball than anything ever was at Huntington or Walter Reed. Those quiet moments in the mornings are the most painful moments of all. Or maybe it's not the quiet, but the time right after the quiet when the camp starts moving and I suddenly remember where I am, thousands of miles away from my house and my family, about to face endless hours of bloody soldiers who feel exactly the same as I do.
It's distressing watching others going through the motions, knowing how torn up they must be inside, feeling totally helpless when I can't take away their pain and make it my own. Some nights when I'm restless, I stay up listening to the sounds of the camp. I hear people murmuring names in their sleep, clinging to their pillows like lovers. The worst of it is when I watch them cry and I realize that they can't get a break—no one can—not even in their dreams. I've heard our chief surgeon crying for his mother, our C.O. whimpering for his wife, and I wonder how many people have watched me do the same.
This letter was supposedto be a charming "how-do-you-do". I wish I could write something cheerier, but the weather and the war make it difficult to find anything to warm up to right now.
Damn. They're calling us in for surgery, more wounded from the battle up ahead. Pray for me if you haven't already.
And don't forget the two dollars you owe me when you ship out.
Your loving sister,
Jane