A/N: I'm on a MASH kick, can you tell?

Anyhow, I watched "Abyssinia, Henry" (again) last night and I felt the itch to write again, only it was a poem itch. So, of course, I wrote a poem from Radar's POV.

This is the result. Sigh. I'm such an addict. Grin.

Enjoy.

(P.S.: Sorry about all the lines, but won't let me edit it properly or even show it correctly, as usual.)

Radar looked at the paper before him, filled with his scratchy handwriting and lines that had crossed words or phrases out. It was late, probably closer to dawn than it was midnight, and he was working by one of the few oil lamps that the camp possessed. He hadn't wanted to use any artificial lighting; it just didn't seem right.

He removed his glasses and rubbed his eyes. He was tired, but it more of a weariness of the soul than any physical desire to sleep. He hadn't slept since Henry had died; his dreams were plagued with visions of the plane's attack and eventually crash into the Sea of Japan. He knew that everyone was worried about him, not for the great amount of grief he showed, but rather the lack of it. He preferred to grieve alone, quietly, and had told Sidney as much when the doctor had inquired him about it. The psychiatrist had, thankfully, left it alone at that.

Still...

He sighed and began to rewrite his words on a new piece of paper. It was almost funny how they flowed so well now, unlike earlier when he was nearly ready to beat his head off his desk. A more private person than he let on-- especially with his feelings-- he found it unbearably hard to put his thoughts to paper. Often during the night he wanted to simply give up, but he knew deep down that Sidney was right. He needed to do this. All of them did.

It had been Sidney's idea to have everyone in the camp to write out their grief about Henry, either by relating their favorite memories or just by what they felt at the moment. It didn't how it was written, Sidney had said, and Radar knew that a few had written theirs out as a letter to Henry. He hadn't seen any, but he didn't need to.

Unlike most, he had waited until tonight to write his out. It had been a week since Sidney first suggested the idea, and everyone had already written theirs and turned it in. (They were to be published a large "book" for everyone to read; anonymity was allowed.) It wasn't that he was too busy to do it, he just didn't want to. He didn't want to deal with the grief. The pain he felt-- though he knew everyone else felt it, too-- was so deep and personal. How could he ever deal with it?

Even so, he knew had to, and had begun to write as soon as he was left alone for the night.

Satisfied with the neat copy, he folded it up and placed it inside an envelope. He put it in the bag that held all the others, which Sidney would take to Seoul have them published together. He would be back next week with them, and finally the "great healing," as Father Mulcahy called it, could begin.

Idly, Radar wondered if he would ever heal as he blew out the lamp.

Sidney was back from Seoul, and the pamphlets were handed out almost immediately. Radar had been busy at the time wrangling with Sparky and a few others over the wires, which kept him busy until night rolled around again. Finally, he managed to pick up a copy and open it up. To his surprise, he was the very first one.

He closed the little book; he didn't need to read it. He knew what it said, and knew that the entire camp was reading it.

"Henry"

by Radar O'Reilly

-

You were the father

I never really had

You knew how to cheer me up

When I was sad

You knew my gift

But you didn't really mind

In fact you relied on it

Most of the time

You taught this country boy

So much about life

Including how not to cut myself

When holding a knife

You taught me about girls

And what they like

I'm still too shy to try, though

Afraid of being told to take a hike

One time you saved me

When I was really sick

I don't know how to express

How much I thank you for it

You were always there

In good humor and heart

It hurt me in my soul

To see your helicopter depart

For, you see, that is why

I am writing this

You gave me so much

But not this wish

I ask you to forgive me

Because I made a mistake

You left that day

And my radar came too late

I'm sorry, so sorry

That I couldn't save you

I didn't know in time

And there was nothing I could do

You have orphaned children

And a widowed wife

Because I was moment over

You lost your life

I knew, I knew!

But only after you were gone

I didn't say a word

I hoped I was wrong

I wanted to

But where would I begin?

So I waited and cried

For the call to come in

I was numb then

What could I say?

But even so

I gave the message without delay

I know if you were here

You'd cheer me up somehow

But I'm all alone

And I have no one now

There are the others

But they're grieving, too

What will happen

When I tell them I knew?

I wonder if they'll hate me

Deep down inside

I wouldn't blame them

I know I didn't try

I know I said

I want you to forgive

But how can you

When I didn't let you live?

I hope you're happy

Wherever you are

And I hope that maybe

It's not really so far

In my life I know

My only regret will be

That I wasn't there for you

The way you were there for me

Like a father and son

Is what we were

And in the end all I can say is

I miss you, sir

He cried. He thought that all the tears would have left him by now, but still he cried.

He sat at his desk, head buried in his arms. His tears fell onto the pamphlet, causing the ink to run. It looked as if it, too, was crying.

That night, the entire camp cried at Radar's words. Even Sidney, who had read the poem and had purposely placed at the beginning, cried as he read them again. No other person had written anything as deep or moving, unable to put their grief into words. Out of them all, it was the quiet company clerk who grieved alone that could say what everyone else thought and felt.

Hawkeye couldn't finish it; he had Trapper read it to him, though he, too, had to pause every few lines to wipe his eyes and try to make it to the end. They had tried to keep it together with their normal barrage of jokes and semi-good humor, but it hadn't worked. Hawkeye had drowned himself in liquor at the Swamp, while Trapper hid out in Rosie's Bar most of the time. This was the first both they and Frank had all been together in the Swamp since...

Frank had read it silently, and then had listened as Trapper read it aloud. He didn't say a word or move from where he sat on his cot. He hadn't liked Henry much, but nobody deserved to die. Tears tracks had been visible on his face since that fateful day in the OR. He had always wanted to be the commander of the 4077th, but not like this. Never like this.

Margaret and her nurses had read it together in their quarters, crying and holding each other. She wasn't brave, stern Margaret Houlihan tonight, but rather a tearful mess that missed her former commander-- and her friend-- terribly. They held each other for comfort, but all felt that there was no true comfort out there. Nothing could take away the pain.

Klinger was in Father Mulcahy's tent. He hadn't been able to make it through, either, and had gone to the priest to have it read to him, though the padre was having as trouble making it through as Trapper was. Sidney was with them, but not as counselor. He shared the grief this time. They all did.

Radar had cried himself to sleep that night, unaware that he had been able to say and write what no one else could. The quiet country boy from Midwest was the one had written what the entire camp had wanted to, and from then on, they would all give him a respect that no one, not even he himself, could express.

And that, the company knew, was Radar's true gift.