I'm Millie Carpenter. I died in 1951, in Korea, just three miles from the front of the fighting while stationed at Mobile Army Surgical Hospital 4077 or a "M*A*S*H" as they're called.

It was a beautiful night. I had to get away somewhere to think. Trying to sleep was useless. Trying to express how I felt was useless. Hawkeye didn't mean to toy with my affections but I let him anyway. Now I see the grief in those hooded eyes, the same ones that danced only hours ago. I took one wrong step into the mine field.

We must have drank the whole bottle of that horrid stuff Hawkeye tries to pass off as gin. The taste of it made me gag. He is just darling though. How Hawkeye goes out carousing like that at night and then gets up at a moment's notice to pull those poor boys through is beyond me. All those shell fragments scared me sometimes. They're so tiny.

All the staff here amazed me. All the nurses give so much. I thought Major Hoolihan was such a stickler until I saw why. She has so much responsibility. There's the medicine we use, the other nurses petty complaints and needs, her job is endless.

I guess I should go on to the road where the soldiers begin their walk home. I always feared death. Now I feel strangely aware and unafraid. I'll miss Hawkeye and Mom and Dad. Oh well, I know they will be alright. It's time to put this away.

The End