Author's Note: This idea has been floating around in my head for months; I've just been saving it so I could post it at a more appropriate time.
I love the MASH fandom because it's so much more intimate than other fandoms. The collection of familiar pennames, popping up on reviews and PMs, supporting, and encouraging, and always positive have become a family not unlike the small gathering at the 4077th, and for that I love you all. Merry Christmas and God bless!
Apologies all around for any butchering of the timeline, which is really such a beast to figure out I just decided not to try.
Long Road Back
December, 1952
I'll be home for Christmas
Dear Mildred,
I was thinking the other day and figured that this is our eighth Christmas we're spending apart. I'm sorry, dear, I guess maybe I shouldn't have started out a letter like that, but I suppose, what with all this cold and snow and casualties coming in, I get to thinking a little somberly, especially with Christmas right around the corner and knowing I won't be standing beside you singing Silent Night at the midnight service or waking up under your mother's quilt beside you in the morning.
I suppose you'll be having the kids up like we always do. It's little Susie's first Christmas isn't it? I bet she's getting big. Can't wait until I can get home to hold her. If we manage to make it through any of these peace talks before the next century, maybe that will be before she's too big to hold.
Be sure to give my love to Joe and Jeannie. Tell Evelyn I've heard from my old friend Paul Charleston. He's got Bob in his battalion – said he'd keep an extra eye on Old Sherm's son-in-law. Evy's got nothing to worry about; Bob's in good hands. Give Amy a hug from me. Tell her Grandpa misses her very much.
Things are just about the same around here. I'll tell you something, when winter comes in Korea it certainly comes with vengeance. It's cold enough during the night to freeze your bunions off. Those socks you sent me are certainly coming in handy. In fact, when I'm not wearing them on my feet I'm wearing on my hands as makeshift mittens.
It's so cold that the blood's been freezing solid inside the beakers and we had to find a way to thaw it out before we gave it to the patients. Captain Pierce got the idea that the best way of keeping the blood from freezing is to plug up one of our guys and pump it into the wounded before it had the chance to cool down.
It worked for a while but because we had such an abundance of wounded and only so many personnel, we had to stop that because our guys ended up giving too much and not being able to stay on their feet. Corporal O'Reilly gave twice in a day and almost fainted on his way to the chopper pad. Face turned the color of an unripe tomato. It's not exactly the shades of red and green I'd imagined to give the place a festive look.
The only people the weather doesn't seem to bother is the Chinese; they just keep coming at our boys and, of course, that means our boys keep coming at us. We've had a pretty steady flow casualties coming in since last Tuesday, when the bombardment started. I've just come off an eight-hour shift, myself, and should probably be trying to get in twenty or thirty-winks before my next shift. But I just somehow couldn't set my mind at ease, knowing I hadn't written you any Christmas greetings yet and you'd be liable to feeling a bit lonely with the big day less than a week coming.
What with the constant wounded, blasted cold, and general tone of this letter, I bet you've gathered morale's been a little low around here lately. I'm sure you remember me mentioning Captain B.J. Hunnicutt before in my letters. He's more than a decent surgeon for just coming out of residency before being shipped over here. Anyway, he's got a little girl about to have her first Christmas, too. If you could get one smile out of Hunnicutt for the past month I would have called it a miracle.
I can sure remember what a thrill it was when it was John's first Christmas, how he got all tangled up in the tinsel and almost went and burned the house to ashes when he tipped over the tree. Knew it even then he'd be a prime linebacker. Last time we put real candles on the tree, though.
Pierce has also been down in the dumps lately. One of the kids came in with a pretty well torn up pectoral. Usually I'd abdicate to Winchester to take him, seeing as he's our top chest-man, but he already had his hands full with a pulmonary laceration and this kid couldn't wait. Pierce set on the kid and did some dandy work, but you and I both know that a doctor can only do so much. The kid's in Post-op now with a post-operative infection and I don't think Pierce has left his side once.
That's something about Pierce; he certainly takes the well-being of his patients personally. In a way that's not a bad thing, but it also certainly has a way of dragging a doctor off to the deep end. Especially in a war, where you've got to keep yourself looking forward in case you lose yourself trying too hard to help everyone else. Then again, I suppose I would be more concerned if Pierce didn't care so much.
Corporal Klinger's been a right nuisance, as usual. His latest ploy was to pack himself into a wooden crate, complete with a big red bow, and mark his address on the top, writing it was a Christmas present for his wife. I've sentence him to two week KP duty. Boy doesn't seem to ever get off KP duty.
Anyway, Mildred, my eyelids are beginning to close of their own accord. I'd best set this aside for now. Say howdy to all the kids and give Susie a peck on the cheek from her grandpa.
Yours with much love, merry Christmas,
– Sherm
You can count on me
Dear Honoria,
Well, here I've come to my first winter in this dreadful place and it is even more abhorrent than I could have imagined. It's so frigidly cold that each morning I wake to find my covers encrusted in frost. I thank you most cordially for your gift of cashmere stockings. They have been put to good use.
Please tell Mother and Father I am also abundantly grateful for their generous hamper of caviar, truffles, darjeeling, bottle of 1921 cabernet sauvignon and other assorted delicacies. When compared to the horrid swill masquerading as food the army forces upon us, their favors were a veritable offering of nectar and ambrosia.
It seems as though Christmas is once again upon us and I hope my letter finds you, Mother, and Father, in top health this holiday season, and my packages, sent some months ago to ensure their arrival in time, are to all of your liking.
I have to say, the compound is distinctly lacking of any festive panache, and, in fact, seems lacking of any merriment whatsoever. Although, really, I cannot say I expected anything more. It does have me longing rather for the lights of Beacon Hill and the finery of the Manson's annual Christmas Eve Ball. Do give my regards to those who ask after me but please refrain from mentioning my quandaries; I shouldn't like to trouble anyone.
I shall, perhaps, most pointedly miss the Boston Symphony Orchestra's Christmas concert. This is the first year since I was a young boy that I can remember not attending with you, Mother, and Father. I shall miss escorting you down the steps of the Symphony Hall and hearing the swells of the violin and cello sweeping through the air and cascading down upon the ears of their listeners like a million glistening snowflakes.
Being away from Boston and home, while always difficult – especially considering where I am as an alternative – seems to be even more trying at this time of the year, which is usually so full of joy and warmth. I miss you, Mother, and Father, more strikingly than I have, perhaps, ever missed you since the start of this ghastly ordeal. I find myself, day and night, yearning for my return home.
Casualties have been coming in by torrents recently, as if the Chinese are aware that it is nearing Christmas and wish to make our plight even more unbearable. I know I have bemoaned the working conditions thoroughly in the past, but cannot help but continue to be astonished with the utter brutality of medical procedure in this camp.
The number of wounded ensures that I should have no time to operate to my fullest ability. Why, if I could only be given more time I might send all these boys back home fully intact with a well-hemmed scar, complete with a bow on the suture. There is no point in having such a gifted surgeon such as myself at a unit such as this if my talents are to be wasted on surgery of which any trainee surgeon could be capable. To think that I was only moments away from becoming Chief Thoracic Surgeon at Boston General!
Well, I suppose Lord Tennyson had it aptly put when he wrote "theirs not to reason why, theirs but to do and die," although I do not think for a moment that he meant for us to submit to the unfortunate duty happily.
Speaking of which, one of my tent mates, Captain B.J. Hunnicutt – I am certain you remember me mentioning him before, Honoria; I, however hard I try, can certainly never forget him – has done nothing but sulk lately. He seems to be lamenting the fact that he will not be present for his child's first Christmas back in California.
It's difficult enough as it is without him grousing about the camp and bringing others' morale down with his. After all, the child is not even a year old and this war, however hard it may be trying, can certainly not last forever. The man will have plenty of opportunities to watch his offspring drool over presents under the Christmas tree. And do not expect me to ponder why it is anyone should yearn for home life back in California.
Pierce – another I'm sure you recall, worse as he is than Hunnicutt by far – has also been moping. Pierce seems to be at times an unstable man and his mood swings, ranging from one extreme of the spectrum to the other, leave us all guessing. He is in this current funk, I believe, because one of his patients in Post-Op is not picking up as he believes he should. As if Pierce thinks he could even hold a candle to my surgical ability. I should have been given the patient in the first place; Pierce would then have nothing to worry about and the patient be better off as well.
But Pierce seems to be a favorite of our commanding officer, Colonel Potter – a gruff, country horse doctor whom thinks Zane Gray is literature – and always seems to be given the most difficult and intriguing cases.
However, do not get me wrong, a sullen Pierce, although unpleasant, is a thorough improvement from the incessantly snickering, sneering, and wisecracking specimen as he usually presents himself. Why, just last week he thought it might be amusing to decorate for the holidays by stringing up snowflakes of those like children cut out of folded construction paper.
Without going into overtly loutish detail, I'll say that paper can be, at times, a more indispensable necessity than you could believe. So, instead, Pierce cut squares out of kaki undergarments and strung them all around camp, complete with spare thermometers which, the impish Company Clerk explained to me, are supposed to look like icicles – as if we were in any want of the real thing.
It was only afterwards that I realized Pierce had, in fact, filched the material used for his childish antics from my own footlocker. Needless to say, I took my complaint to the Colonel Potter whom, needless to say, brushed the whole incident aside with a wave of his hand and a completely inappropriate chuckle, saying that the "Place was in need of some good cheer anyhow".
Major Houlihan – the only even potential prospect of cultured comradeship – is, as only fate could have it, feeling under the weather and ergo completely out of sorts. I'm in sore company here, Honoria. Perish the thought of what I am missing in Boston.
Now, if you'll excuse me, I seem to have misplaced one of my bottles of Vieux cognac, although I would not be surprised if either Pierce or Hunnicutt pinched it – miserable buffoons, the both of them.
I digress. Yours affectionately, albeit miserably, and happy Christmas,
– Charles
Please have snow
Hey Mom and Uncle Ed,
It's almost Christmas here. I guess that means it's almost Christmas back home, too. I can't believe this is already my third Christmas over here. It sure feels strange, knowing I've been here so long. I guess it feels like a long time but – I don't know – while I was going through it, it seemed like time was dragging, but now, looking back on it, it feels like only yesterday that I left home and had to take the train all the way to Des Moines so I could catch the plane. That was my very first ever plane ride, I remember.
Now I'm thinking, though, about everything that's happened over these past years. I guess it really does feel like a long time, after all. I don't think – if I were to somehow get back home right now – I'd even remember what I was supposed to do, it's been that long.
I sure did like that fruitcake you sent me, Mom. I offered to share it with the guys but Hawkeye said he'd let me have it all because he was still pretty fond of his teeth. He was just joking, though. He does that a lot.
By the time you get this letter I guess Christmas will already be past, won't it? I'm sorry, I should have written sooner but it's been pretty busy around here lately. Right now I'm only not busy because Colonel Potter made me lie down because I'd given too much blood and wasn't feeling real well.
I guess you've already got the Christmas tree up. Do you still have those paper chains I made way back in kindergarten? I bet they're almost falling to pieces now. And that pretty bird's nest I found when I was a kid and cleaned up? What about that little foil star I made in Sunday school? Gosh, I can almost see the tree, all lighted up with the tinsel and strings of popcorn. I miss stringing popcorn like we used to do, sitting in front of the fire and listening to the radio.
I've been keeping track and figured it was Aunt Bessy's turn to host Christmas dinner this year. Be sure to say hey to everyone for me: Uncle Bob and Aunt Audrey, Thelma, Carl, Ben, Uncle Lou, Aunt Minnie, Laurie, Em, and Danny and anyone else I forgot about. I sure will miss Aunt Bessy's sweet potato casserole and Aunt Audrey's apple pie. Be sure to tell Uncle Charlie to go easy on the turkey so it doesn't catch fire like it did back in '47.
Like I said, we've been pretty busy around here. There's been an awful lot of wounded and all the doctors have been working their tails off to make sure to get to everyone. Captain Pierce (Hawkeye) has been worried about one of his patients who go hit in the chest pretty bad. He's been sitting with him night and day and getting hardly any sleep for himself.
Major Houlihan's been pretty snappish lately. I suppose part of the reason is because she's had a cold all week but, because of all the wounded, hasn't been able to rest in her tent like she should have. I think the real reason she's so grouchy, though, is because she's missing her husband. He's a Lieutenant Colonel stationed in Tokyo. It's their first Christmas together as a married couple who are husband and wife and I guess I'd be pretty upset, too, if I was married and couldn't see the person I was married to for Christmas.
What with everything that's been going on, there hasn't been much time to think about the holidays. Father Mulcahy's been talking about getting together some of our people and going down to the orphanage on Christmas Eve to throw the kids a party. I don't know how much sense that will make, seeing as most of kids there come from Buddhist families and don't celebrate Christmas, but I guess it might take our minds off some of our own problems.
What with all the wounded, supplies have been real low. I've been working overtime to get everything we need. It seems like the fighting's pretty thick just about everywhere, though, so it's been a real hard thing to do. I tried to order us some turkeys for Christmas dinner but so far haven't had much luck. I did manage to get my hands on a couple dozen cans of cranberry jelly, though. I traded with the clerk at the 8063rd who was in real need of some toilet paper. He also had a couple boxes of spare thermometers he didn't mind throwing in.
Even though it's so cold around here, we never seem to get much snow. There's always frost and ice but we've never gotten more than a couple of inches of snow. I guess that's good in a way. I can't imagine what it would be like having to make our way through mounds of snow just to get to Post-Op or the mess tent. I wonder if a couple of feet of snow might halt the progress of the Chinese for a bit, though. But maybe all their tanks and jeeps would just roll right over it.
We used to get some real dandy snowstorms back in Iowa. I remember going around with Uncle Ed and the truck with the plow strapped to the front. You'd always have a pot of nice hot cocoa waiting for us when we got home.
Remember that one year when I was six and it had been dry and brown the whole winter leading up to Christmas? It was even raining when I went to bed on Christmas Eve. I remember how I lay awake for hours, kind of sad that we were going to get a wet Christmas instead of a white one. And then, when I woke up the next morning, I found that the rain had turned into snow in the middle of the night. The ground was all covered and glistening and icicles were hanging from the windowsill. That sure was a special Christmas. Almost even a little like magic.
Well, that's the phone ringing now. I've put in a call to ICOR to see if I can't still get some turkeys in time for Christmas. I'll write you again in a couple of days. I hope you have a really great Christmas and everyone else does too. I miss you and love you,
– Walter
And mistletoe
Dearest Donald,
It's strange to think that this is our first Christmas together, stranger still to think we'll be spending it apart. I can't possibly deny that I miss you fiercely. I want so dearly to feel your arms around me and lips pressed to mine, to lie side by side together and drink in the delirious joy of each other's presence. I tried to get Colonel Potter to give me a pass so that I might spend the holiday with you but, unfortunately, the war continues to get in the way. An onslaught of casualties refuses to allow me time to get away.
I suppose it is my duty, and truly I do enjoy being in the Army – it is my career after all – but this year it seems to be an unusual bother that the war insists on lasting so long. I suppose that has something in part to do with the fact that this is the first year that I've had you as something besides my military career with which to occupy myself.
Just think, Donald, perhaps next Christmas we'll be gone from this country and have a place of our own somewhere in a lovely, peaceful suburb in America. It'll have a white picket-fence and a two-car garage. Inside we'll have a living room with a fireplace where we can hang our stocking – perhaps a few more years down the road we'll have one or two more stocking to hang up – and a large corner by the window where we can stand our Christmas tree.
When I was a child living with Mom and Dad, we never had very much room in our military housing, so instead of a full-sized Christmas tree we had a little artificial one we would put on a table. I know Mom and Dad always tried their best and I wouldn't want them to know I'm complaining – because I'm really not – but, still, I always did wish to have a full-sized Christmas tree that we could decorate with colorful lights and strings of cranberries and all those arts and crafts I made in grade school but always ended up throwing out because we hadn't enough room to keep them all.
Earlier this week, Captain Pierce and Corporal O'Reilly made an attempt at decorating for Christmas. I can't say they did a very good job of it with snowflakes cut out of shorts hung from the ceiling where they blew in the wind and looked utterly ridiculous. They scavenged a little prickly shrub for a makeshift tree, complete with garland made out of tied surgical masks and a bedpan tree-topper. They hung a surgical glove over the doorway of the mess tent and Pierce tried to tell me it was working as mistletoe.
I, for one, wanted them to take it all down. Major Winchester agreed with me. I usually don't enjoy agreeing with Charles about anything. He really is an insufferable snob. But in this case I couldn't help it. Pierce is appallingly unmilitary at his best but defiling supplies so blatantly – especially during the press of casualties we've had lately – really was below his usual standards.
Colonel Potter ended up doing nothing about it, of course. He does seem to have a soft spot for Pierce. Or maybe it's just that Pierce has a way of bending anything and anyone over to his way. Sometimes I even catch myself…well, I can't deny that he doesn't get on my nerves quite as much as he used to, but that doesn't mean I think everything he does is to be praised.
He is a marvelous doctor, though. I've never had trouble admitting that. In fact, just recently a boy came in with a very serious chest injury but Pierce pulled him through. He's sitting beside him in Post-Op right now. The boy's been fighting a post-operative infection for the last few days. I hope he pulls through. Hawkeye always takes things like that very hard. We don't need any more death than we already have, especially considering it's Christmas.
I've been feeling rather out of sorts myself this week. Of course I've mainly been missing you but I've also had a dreadful head cold. In fact, I'm afraid I wouldn't be at all attractive if I had managed to get away to see you. My nose is so red and swollen I looked very much the part of Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer when we went to visit the orphans earlier today.
We'd had a break in the casualties and Father Mulcahy had suggested the trip to get our minds on more cheerful things. Colonel Potter had heartily approved. Almost everyone turned out for it. We played games and sang Christmas carols and gathered whatever treats we could find for the children.
Captain BJ Hunnicutt had received a box of Christmas cookies from back home. He's been rather sullen lately, too, missing his wife and little daughter – he has the most precious little girl, Donald, all blond and big blue eyes. He ended up bringing the box along to the orphanage for the children to eat. I thought it was rather sweet of him. A little girl fell asleep in BJ's arms. I think it must have reminded him of Erin, his daughter. I saw him brush away a tear from his mustache when it was time for us to leave, but maybe it was just a trick of the light. It seems like everyone's a bit more sentimental around this time of year, though.
Altogether I think visiting the orphans was a splendid idea. It seems to have raised everyone's spirits, even the gloomy and horridly self-centered Major Winchester. It certainly made me feel better, even if I'm still saddened we're apart.
I love you more than I can say. Merry Christmas, Donald.
Sincerely and affectionately, your adoring wife,
– Margaret Penobscot
And presents on the tree
Dear Katherine
"And the angel said unto them, Fear not: for, behold, I bring you good tidings of great joy, which shall be to all people. For unto you is born this day in the city of David a Savior, which is Christ the Lord. And this shall be a sign unto you; ye shall find the babe wrapped in swaddling clothes, lying in a manger. And suddenly there was with the angel a multitude of the heavenly host praising God, and saying, 'Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace, good will toward men.'"
Merry Christmas, Kathy. Although, I cannot deny that it hardly feels so in the wake of the abounding suffering I've lately witnessed. I don't mean to be dreary, but the whole camp seems lately to have sunk into a most downhearted mood. I suppose, however, that I have cause to be grateful that I am in sound mind and body, if not spirit, and God has certainly not forsaken me and is not apt to in the near future, or any future at all.
Your letter came as a very dear comfort to me. I was gladdened to hear of your triumphs with the girls' basketball team and the overall thriving of your convent. Your recollections of Christmases past spent with our parents made me smile, if not a bit somberly. Please, place an extra rose on their graves for me, much love from their son. I shall say an extra prayer for their souls tonight, as we made custom that first lonely Christmas Eve.
Wounded have been coming in thickly lately. I do not see why the fighting might not stop for only a few days over Christmas. After all, are those few precious hours really so important in the progression of the war?
Administering Last Rights always seems to be so much more of a heavier task at this time. Despite the knowledge that their souls have entered a better place, I somehow cannot erase the image of those young boys eating turkey and Christmas pudding back at home with their families as they – God forgive me – rightfully should be. We've been gifted with prime doctors in this unit, however – in fact we have the highest percentage of survivals out of all MASH units, I believe – so my work has been mercifully light.
What with morale being rather low, completely contradictory to what the approach of Christmas is supposed to be, I thought it might help to stage a charity night for the orphans. I find it often helps people to get their minds off their own troubles if they help those in need, and thereby are reminded that there are people in this world still far worse off than themselves.
I encouraged the personnel to donate any extra funds they might have. Payday was only last Saturday and I've discovered that it is best to work quickly in such matters. Money has a way of disappearing quite quickly over here, and I'm hard-pressed to make sure those funds might make their way to more…worthwhile causes.
But, since the weather has largely kept people indoors, not to mention the wounded have kept everyone very busy, there has been little time for any recreational activity besides gambling, and that only means that money has changed hands, not passed out of the compound altogether. In fact, people seemed so taken by my idea of helping the orphans that they even pitched in with some treats they'd received from home, so that the children might have a few Christmas tokens to help them celebrate.
We planned the evening's festivities for early Christmas Eve. Thankfully the weather limited itself to just being indisposed instead of altogether unruly and so we managed to transport all our volunteers down the road to the orphanage without difficulty.
The whole of us came out in our Christmas best. I had suggested previously that we might have a Father Christmas who could deliver the scavenged gifts to the children. Colonel Potter graciously permitted himself to be dressed in a red coat and false beard. Corporal Klinger, not to be outdone, dressed up as Mrs. Claus to accompany him. The children saw right through the fake beard and proceeded to tear it off of Colonel Potter's face, passing it amongst themselves for the rest of the evening to take turns trying on. It ended up being the cause of much hilarity.
Major Winchester was loath to go, but in the end was persuaded because the thought of being cooped up by himself on Christmas Eve, in want of any human companionship, was too much for even him. He did grumble a good bit during the festivities but I rather thought much of that was an act. I have the sneaking suspicion that our Doctor Winchester is a much more sympathetic person than he often gives himself credit for.
The same thing goes for Major Houlihan, who has shown herself to be a wonder with children despite her sometimes strict military veneer. Despite doing battle for the past week with a lingering cold, she seemed to jump at the chance to get away to the orphanage and even donned a pair of reindeer antlers to go with her already red nose, little sense as it would make to children who had never before heard of Rudolph, but it certainly made the littler ones laugh.
Hawkeye, unfortunately, was not able to attend the celebration, as he'd elected to stay behind to monitor Post-Op. He's got a patient that he's rather concerned about and I think he was unwilling to relay his care to anyone else. Hawkeye often times guards his charges with a kind of jealous fixation.
It's a shame, too, because I think Hawkeye could have used the sense of reprieve the event brought the rest of us, conveyed by that sweet, innocent joy any and all children seem to possess. Even BJ – whom has been rather down in the dumps as well, missing his wife and young daughter back home – seemed not immune to the children's charm.
We went back to the camp when it began to get late. I had planned previously of holding Christmas Eve services in Post-Op. The lights were dimmed and candles lit and I spoke only briefly, finding no words better suited than those I have penned at the beginning of this letter. Afterwards, I led the men in some good, wholesome Christmas hymns. Hawkeye – I've always admired his ability to make jokes even when downtrodden – suggested Jingle Bells.
I'm in my own tent now, writing you by candlelight. For the moment at least the wind has stopped howling, and Radar says that chances of more casualties are doubtful in the morning. I sorely hope he's right, as it should be a most upsetting gift on Christmas morn. Radar does seem to have a knack about things such as these, however.
I suppose I should try to get some sleep now. It has been a very busy day. Although, I should like to tell you Kathy, that while writing this letter I discovered a most astounding thing: my own spirits have begun to rise, reflecting on all the joy we managed to bring to individuals tonight.
At the same time wonderful and troubling – a double-sided blade as most things are in war – I've realized that in the midst of all the pain, suffering, and death that is this monstrosity that the true meaning of Christmas would somehow seem so much closer and shine so much brighter here than in the hustle and bustle, and commercialism back home.
Although I am certainly not suggesting I would rather be here than there. Neither am I suggesting I'm glad that it took a war to bring about such a revelation. Goodness knows I wish we could have seen, felt, and experienced these things without the aid of death and suffering. But, even so, God truly does show us that even in the worst of times He and His unending love are not lost to us.
Merry Christmas and God bless you,
– Francis
Christmas Eve will find me
Hey Laverne,
I made a wish last night, shut my eyes and held my breath and everything, and thought "There's no place like home. There's no place like home." I even clicked my heels together three times. Wouldn't you know it, when I opened my eyes again I was still right where I was when I shut them.
Korea sure is dismal in winter. I guess it's pretty dismal all year round now that I think of it. Now I just remembered why I try not to think of it. Everything's gray and gloomy and cold, that goes for everyone, too. There isn't so much of a shred of tinsel to make do for holiday cheer.
I'm writing this while nursing the blisters on my fingers from all the potatoes I've had to peel yesterday and today. I've been on KP for what feels like the past six months, maybe the whole past war. Right after I get off of it I seem to get right back on. I told Colonel Potter if he makes me go on KP once more I'm going AWOL and this time I'm really not ever coming back.
Everyone always takes it out on me when things go wrong around here. And, believe you me, boy have things been going wrong around here lately. First of all, wounded have been coming in by the truckloads. Major Winchester just about blew his top when he couldn't find a bottle of his fancy-pants booze. Major Houlihan's been snapping at me all week because I forgot to save her a bowl of soup for her cold. Colonel Potter almost had my head because I tried to mail myself back to Toledo as your Christmas present. And both Captains Pierce and Hunnicutt have been sulking and usually they're the guys you can count on for a few laughs!
I nearly forgot it was Christmas until I woke up this morning to find it was Christmas Eve. It sure doesn't feel like it. I guess it can't possibly feel like Christmas without my mom's kibbet batata, baba ghanoush, qawarma, and don't even get me started on her baklava! Sorry if I've smudged the ink any, remembering all that great food is making me drool – especially since I know what we're eating tomorrow for Christmas dinner and it certainly isn't going to be chopped lamb, probably not even roasted turkey the way Radar was talking.
Don't get me wrong, just because my letter makes it seem like I'm lonely, cold, and miserable that's not necessarily the case. Really I'm miserable, lonely, and cold, which isn't quite as bad. To top it all off, I ended up losing half my pay in a poker game last Saturday. I'd been planning on saving up to buy a couple yards of some blue satin that caught my eye the last time I was in Soule.
Speaking of which, I hope you liked the present I sent you, in lieu of not being able to mail you yours truly. It was one of the first times I decided to make a dress that I wasn't planning on wearing myself. I was hard-pressed to find the right sized model 'cause I guess I'm a little broader in the shoulders than you are. I thought about asking Major Houlihan, but with the mood she's been in lately, that just might have ended up with me turning into her punching bag and my nose is just too big a target. Eventually I ended up asking Radar, who's just about the right size, even though he doesn't quite have the same curves as I remember you do.
Well, I'm beat and holding this pen is aggravating the blisters on my fingers. I guess I'd better say good-bye for now. I hope you have a merry Christmas on your side of the ocean, at least.
Tell my mom for me: أنا أحبك واشتقت لك وآمل نراكم قريبا
I love you, sweetheart,
– Max
Where the love lights gleam
Dear Dad,
Well, here we are at yet another Christmas and yet another year and you're home and I'm still where I am. It's funny to think when I first got here that I thought I might be home in less than a year. I guess that's not funny at all, really, now that I think of it.
In all honesty, Dad, nothing's been very funny lately. It's been cold and gloomy and everyone seems to be sulking, not to mention the kids out there at the front who insist on getting in the way of bullets. I guess no one's told the Chinese that we're all supposed to take a holiday.
One of the kids I was working on, Private McConnell – must have been just a couple months out of high school; still had spots on his chin – came in with a pretty badly ripped pectoral. A piece of shrapnel had just barely missed lodging itself into his left lung. He went into hypovolemic shock when I'd already started on him. He just barely pulled through but infection set in pretty quickly.
I spent every spare hour sitting next to him in Post-op, just in case anything else happened to him. The kid was 6,883 miles away from home, maybe dying on Christmas Eve, and I thought losing a couple of hours of sleep was the least I could do for him if maybe it would help his chances of pulling through.
I know you'd probably tell me the same thing Colonel Potter did, that the only miracle worker is the guy sitting up in the clouds with a white robe and there's nothing us doctors can do about that, but I still couldn't help but get wrapped up in this kid. Somehow his struggle became the embodiment of everything I was feeling: either he was going to make it back home to spend a future Christmas with his family or he was going to die right there on that cot with me sitting beside him and not being able to do a darned thing to push him from one side of the fencepost to the other.
Well, you'll be happy to hear that it looks like the kid's going to pull through. His fever broke late last night and he's resting soundly early this morning. It's not quite the Christmas present I was looking for – something more "ceasefire" oriented – but it's a heck of a lot more than I was beginning to expect.
I guess relief might have something to do with it, but all of a sudden the world looks a whole lot brighter. It's still cold and still gray and still the middle of Korea in a middle of a war but it seems like something a little bit cheerier is in the air, and I'm not the only one to feel it.
The whole camp seems to be transformed. Colonel Potter's granted Margaret a pass for Soule over New Year's, so she gets to see her precious round-shoulders Colonel after all. She's been laughing through her stuff-up nose so much it sounds like a flock of geese have decided to roost here for the winter. Father Mulcahy's singing Christmas songs at the top of his lungs. Klinger's dressed in a festive red, floor-length silk. Radar's got a box of peppermint sticks from home and is passing them out left and right. I told him to take it easy; he knows how he is when he's had more than one peppermint. Charles even greeted me with a "Happy Christmas" when I woke up this morning. Granted, he finished it with a "Although I cannot think for a moment what is happy about it."
Speaking of which, I hope you liked your present, the best bottle of cognac I could get my hands on – courtesy of Doctor Charles Emerson Winchester the Turd, he just doesn't know it yet.
The only one who seems still immune to this unexpected Christmas joy is BJ. He's been upset the better part of the month because it's his, Peg, and Erin's first Christmas together as a family and he's had to submit an absentee ballot.
Unfortunately, I haven't been able to be there for BJ as much as I would have liked to lately. After all, it's not exactly like I've had enough time to darn my socks, let alone sit down for a nice long chat over a couple of martinis.
What do I really know about it anyway? Sure, I miss not being able to spend Christmas with you. I miss not going out to the bar with a couple of guys for a bottle of beer and watching a football game while falling into a food and drink-induced stupor after Christmas dinner, but I really can't imagine what it would be like to be a father and know you've been over here for almost a year, missing out on being and doing everything you're supposed to be and do as a dad.
I guess all I can do is just sit back, cross my fingers, and be there with a glass of booze if BJ decides spilling his guts to me is what he wants. He's sitting on his own bunk now and from the perpetual scratching of his pen that's been going on before I was half-awake, I suppose he's writing Peg a novel. Maybe that will help. I get the feeling she's the only thing that really could.
I guess going home really would be the best medicine of all. I wonder what the Army would feel like if all of us together – I mean the Colonels, Majors, Captains, Corporals, Privates – absolutely all of us made a pact and just got up and left in the middle of the show. I guess there's really no way to have a war if there's no one left to fight it.
Do me a favor, alright, Dad? Instead of sulking at home all by yourself for the holiday, make sure to head out and borrow yourself a family to eat dinner with. I guess that really doesn't make sense, seeing as you're going to get this letter a couple of weeks after today, but just do it anyway. Go visit one of your patients whether they call for you or not, knock on their door and barge right in. I don't like the thought of you eating a cold turkey leg at the head of our lonely table in our cold and lonely dining room.
I was thinking while I was sitting beside Private McConnell of all the fun we used to have on Christmas. Remember how you and Mom would always have a glass of sherry together in the afternoon? Remember when I was six and you offered me a sip but Mom wouldn't let me? And then when she left to check the turkey you gave me a taste anyway. I thought it was the most awful stuff I'd ever tasted. Good thing tastes change when we get older.
Who can forget that one year that we had grandma up for dinner and you brought out the bottle of champagne that wasn't chilled enough so that when you popped the cork it splattered all over the table and us. Grandma got so mad that you'd ruined her fancy dress that she stormed out of the room but you, me, and Mom just laughed until we couldn't breathe.
You let me pick out the Christmas tree when I was nine but it ended up being too big so we just bent the top down against the ceiling so it could fit. I remember the trunk didn't fit in the stand so we just propped it in the corner but then, after it was all decorated, it came tumbling down in the middle of dinner and almost caught fire because it landed in the fireplace.
That was the last Christmas before Mom got sick. I remember the first Christmas without her, how it really didn't feel like Christmas at all. Instead of having turkey for dinner we packed up all the candy and cake and other sweets we had in the house and went driving through the mountains to who-knows-where, nothing but the road, trees, and stars in the sky. You must have turned around after I fell asleep in the backseat because the next thing I remember is waking up in my bed the following morning.
We still had fun times after that, though. There was the Christmas I got that bike I'd been trying to save up for but always seemed to be a couple of dollars short because I'd pass the candy store on the way back from school.
And who could forgot that Christmas when I was sixteen and about an hour after we put the turkey in the over, Mr. Miller called to say his wife was going into labor. You had to head out right away and left me behind to finish up with the turkey. I did it all like a pro, too. Basted it and watched it and took its temperature. I had it all set, arranged on that big silver platter with the potatoes and stuffing and then on my way to the dining room I tripped on a piece of ribbon we'd forgotten to throw away and the whole thing landed on the floor.
I remember I was absolutely horrified and had no idea what to do. Then I had the brainwave that if I just collected it all back up again and arranged it nicely on the platter, you'd never be the wiser. When you got home a couple hours later, there was the turkey, sitting innocently on the table and I don't think you even noticed a thing.
Now that I think of it, I don't think I've ever told you that before.
Well, I'd better go. It's getting late and I'd like to check on Private McConnell one more time before I head to the mess tent for supper. Radar came through, just like he always does. We're having turkey tonight for dinner, something I don't think anyone really expected we'd get.
I guess it's another one of those little miracles that seem abounding in this time of year. I just wish some of that Christmas magic might start working in the way of the peace talks, so we might get out of this place before next Christmas comes around.
Have a second cup of sherry for me, Dad,
– Hawkeye
I'll be home for Christmas
Dear Peg,
It's Erin's first Christmas. Give her an extra hug and kiss and tell her they were wrapped up special delivery all the way from Korea from her daddy. I wish I could be there to give them to her in person. Take a kiss for yourself, too. I miss you more than I can say.
It seems like everyone's a little late writing home this year. It's just that we've all been so darned busy. I guess the war never got the memo that they were supposed to take a breather for Christmas. Along those same lines, I'm sorry I haven't sent you your Christmas present yet, but there hasn't been much time lately for Christmas shopping. You have to admit that that's at least a little better than my usual excuses.
Wounded started rolling in pretty regularly about a week ago and only now have they finally come to a relative stop. Radar says we aren't likely to get any more for at least a couple days, but you never really know in this place.
I haven't had much time to feel very Christmassy. I guess really no one has. Every spare moment has been spent yearning to be back home with you and Erin. It just about kills me, knowing what I'm missing, knowing there isn't any possible way I could get it back, and knowing what I'm missing it for.
I guess the people here have become my family for this year, poor substitute as they are for the real thing, but I guess they try their best. It never ceases to amaze me the way the people here will put aside their own troubles in favor of helping someone else who's in greater need.
Take Father Mulcahy for instance, even though he's been on double duty helping in the OR as well as tending to his priestly duties, the first thing he thought of on Christmas Eve was getting up a party to see the orphans. He even cajoled me into tagging along, even though I really didn't want to. In the end, though, I'm glad I did. I guess seeing all those precious little faces reminded me a little of Erin, and just what she might be like, trying to tear the paper off her presents on Christmas morning.
And then there's Colonel Potter. He must have picked up about how I was feeling about you and Erin because he joined me for a cup of coffee in the mess tent one night and told me it was his eighth Christmas spent apart from his wife. He told me that it never gets any easier, but it sure makes you appreciate more the time you do get to spend with loved ones.
Radar, of course, has been just as great as he always is. He's been playing Christmas carols over the intercom all week to try to keep our minds as much as possible off the somber task at hand.
Hawkeye's been worried about a patient for a couple days now, but just woke up this morning with a smile on his face that I somehow didn't realize was missing until I saw it again. Hawkeye has a way with him of joking despite what he's feeling inside. Still, I should have noticed it before now. I've just been so wrapped up in my own loneliness that I forgot to look around to see if maybe I could be of help to someone else.
That is, after all, something the Christmas season is supposed to represent. I'm only upset that I didn't realize it until now, but glad that maybe I'll remember to keep my eyes peeled in the future.
I was thinking about our last Christmas the other day. You were only a couple of months along with Erin and we decided to break the news to everyone during dinner. Mom and Dad already knew but I remember the look on your brother's face when he found out he was going to be an uncle.
I was still in residency back then. Remember how money was so tight we'd decided not to exchange presents that year. I pawned my golf clubs to get you that pendant to go with your gold chain. Little did I know you'd sold the chain to buy me a bag for my golf clubs. I remember when we went down to the tree and I saw the bag wrapped in comics I started laughing. Once you knew what I was laughing about and I showed you the pendent you started crying. I guess it might have had something to with overactive pregnancy hormones.
I remember I took you into my arms and just held your head close to my chest. Your tears soaked right through my robe. We spent the rest of the day snuggling on the couch eating the toffees your mom had sent us. That's one of the happiest memories I have of you, Peg, feeling you so close to me, your arms around my waist, silently staring at the lighted Christmas tree and listening to Bing Crosby on the radio, dreaming about what next Christmas would be like with little Eric or Erin toddling around the room.
I guess, this isn't at all the Christmas we ever envisioned having, but there wasn't very much I could do to stop it from coming, even for all my sulking. So now it's here and I guess I'd better make the most of it. Apparently Radar's gotten a hold of something other than spam and k-rations for dinner tonight. That's something to be thankful for I guess, even though it's certainly a pore substitute for carving the turkey there at home and feeding Erin spoonful's of mashed potatoes.
I know I should be happy I'm not lying in Post-Op with my chest stitched back together like most of the kids we've had come in, or that I'm not on the front lines having to write home while huddled in one of the trenches, or that I'm not dead altogether and coming home in a coffin, but none of that really seems to make the burden of knowing I'm still not with you and Erin any lighter.
I'm sorry I won't get to see Erin cry when she's put on the mall Santa's lap, and I won't be there to put the angel on top of the tree, or tie the tree on the top of the car in the first place. I miss the smell of your snicker doodles baking in the oven – and I'll miss seeing the smile on your face when you see Erin set her eyes on Christmas lights for the first time.
Next year hopefully there will be a six-foot-two box on your doorstep marked fragile, keep upright. I can already feel your arms around me, Peg, and smell the cinnamon in your hair.
– BJ
If only in my dreams
End