Author's Note: Some time ago, I posted a poll on my profile page to see which M*A*S*H characters people wanted to read about most. The top four vote-getters were Hawkeye, B.J., Trapper, and Radar. I thought, OK, let's go ahead and put all four of those guys into a story… but I was tired (at least temporarily) of writing post-war fics. That presented a bit of a challenge, since Trapper and B.J. do not overlap in canon, but then this idea came to me, and I liked it. So thanks to those who voted in my poll, because it gave me inspiration for this piece.

Writing Wrongs

Radar dropped onto his bunk holding the lone letter addressed to him from this week's mail call. He tossed his empty mailbag to the floor and absently moved his teddy bear over so he wasn't halfway sitting on the poor guy. The letter had him preoccupied and mystified.

There was no return address on the envelope and the postmark said Boston, MA. For one brief, disorienting moment, he wondered why Major Winchester was writing to him, but of course that made no sense… Major Winchester was right here in Korea, just a couple tents away.

So who was this from?

His low-grade ESP told him nothing… not this time. There was only one way to find out. He tore open the envelope and as he started to read, he actually gasped.

Dear Radar,

Trapper here. I'm sure you're wondering why I'm writing to you and not to Hawk. Well here's the thing. I have started at least four letters to Hawkeye since I got Stateside, and I can never finish any of them. They sound so fake and hokey. I let too much time pass and I'm worried he's resentful, pissed off. He and I—we could talk about everything when we were together, but when I try to write to him now, it turns out I can't say anything.

That's where you come in, Radar. I was hoping you'd write and tell me how he's doing. Is he all right? Is he staying out of trouble? That guy needs somebody to keep an eye on him. Well, I don't have to tell you. I'm sure you remember that time he refused to stop operating and we ended up having to sedate him 'cause he just wouldn't rest. I love him, but he can be his own worst enemy sometimes.

So please drop me a line, Radar, and tell me how he is. But don't let him know that I've contacted you, OK? He'd be hurt, me writing to you and not him, and I just don't have any good way of explaining it.

Take care of yourself, kid, and thanks.

Trapper John McIntyre

Radar set the letter down, picked up his teddy bear, and whispered, "Wow." After all this time, a letter from Cap'n McIntyre. The guy was right, though… Hawkeye would definitely be mad if he knew that Trapper had sent Radar (and only Radar) a letter, after being radio silent for so long.

Weird situation to be in, he mused as he stared into the face of his bear. "But yeah, I'll write him back. It's the least I can do for him," he told Teddy. "He was a good egg."

Radar was pretty sure that Teddy agreed.

A few minutes later he was outside the Swamp, knocking on the door.

"Enter, as long as you've had your shots!" Hawkeye called out.

The tent looked as filthy as ever, and B.J. was moving some of the filth around with a sorry excuse for a broom. At least he was making an effort; the same could not be said for Hawkeye, who was sitting on his cot, a martini in one hand and the Crabapple Cove Courier in the other.

"Radar! To what do we owe the honor?" Hawkeye said cheerfully.

"Uh…" Truth be told, Radar wasn't even sure how to explain his visit. He hadn't really thought it through first. So he opted for something approaching the truth. "I got a little problem…"

"Aw," Hawkeye said, putting aside the newspaper and patting his cot, "sit down and tell your Ma and Pa all about it."

"Wait a second, I better not be 'Ma,'" B.J. said, shooting Hawkeye a look. But he apparently took the interruption as an invitation to stop cleaning, or attempting to clean. He put the broom down and poured himself a drink from the still.

Radar took the offered seat next to Hawkeye, figuring it would be all right if he talked in generalities rather than giving away actual information. He wouldn't be betraying Trapper that way. "There's this friend of mine, see..."

"Ah. A friend," Hawkeye said with a smirk.

Undaunted, Radar went on, "And he knows something that nobody else knows but he's not supposed to tell nobody, because this person he knows about? He asked him to keep it a secret. But it's big, trust me. And there's this one person who especially can't know, but boy, he sure would like to know, I'll bet. Anyway, my friend… he feels funny about it… about the knowing-but-not-saying."

Hawkeye and B.J. exchanged glances. "Well I'm sure there's a coherent thought in there somewhere, Radar," Hawkeye said. "But we can't help you if you can't be a little more specific."

Radar stood up again and began pacing. "Well…"

B.J. spoke up then, seemingly able to cut through to the heart of the matter despite Radar's deliberate vagueness. "I'll bet your friend already knows the answer to his problem."

Radar stopped in his tracks to look at B.J. "You do?"

"Sure. He shouldn't do anything that's going to make him feel guilty. So if somebody put your friend in a bad or awkward position, it's up to that person to step up and come clean, not your friend." B.J. paused and swirled his martini in its glass. "Your friend shouldn't be stuck in the middle, it's not right."

"Yeah!" Radar said, suddenly annoyed on his friend's—or rather, his own—behalf. He took a moment to let that advice fully sink in to his brain, and then he sat back down on Hawkeye's cot, saying, "I'll tell him that. Thanks."

Hawkeye put a hand on Radar's shoulder and nodded his head in B.J.'s direction, saying with obvious admiration, "B.J. Hunnicutt, able to decipher tall babble in a single bound."

B.J. gave one of his "aw shucks" grins and lifted his glass in a toasting gesture.

"Now that that's settled," Hawkeye continued, "and since there are no casualties expected for the rest of the day, and since we're so bored that Beej has taken to rearranging the dirt on our floor… what do you guys say. Anyone up for poker?"

"Poker? I hardly know her," B.J. quipped.

Hawkeye pretended to be aghast. "Please, Beej, not in front of the child."

"Don't be silly," Radar piped up. "I've heard that joke before. I don't understand it, but I've heard it."

That set B.J. and Hawkeye into peals of laughter, while Radar could only smile sheepishly. Eh, what else was new. A lot of the time, he didn't completely understand their jokes and conversations, but that was OK, as long as they did. He headed for the door as B.J. started to hunt around for the poker chips and the playing cards. "Join us at 1800 hours in the O Club, Radar?" he called over his shoulder.

"Sure, sirs, I'll be there. I just, uh, have something to do first. But thanks… thanks for the talk."

Dear Trapper,

It sure was swell to hear from you. I mean, wow, talk about a surprise! You'll be happy to know that Hawkeye is doing real good. The guy who took your place, his name is B.J. Hunnicutt, and him and Hawkeye get along great. They act like brothers, sometimes it seems like they've been friends forever. B.J. may be younger than Hawkeye, but I think he learned pretty quick that he sometimes has to look out for Cap'n Pierce, you know, when he gets the way he sometimes gets.

But you know, no disrespect intended, sir, but I think you really should write to Hawkeye and talk to him yourself. I know he'd love to hear from you, but don't worry, I didn't say nothing to him about this, I really didn't. I hope you can figure out how to write to him, because I don't feel right being in the middle. No offense, sir.

But anyways, since I have some time before the big poker game starts at 1800 hours, I'll bet you're wondering what's been going on here ever since you left…

Trapper set the letter down on the kitchen table and took a drink from his beer without really tasting it. Kathy and Becky were running around in the living room and squealing, and he absently called out, "That's enough, girls! Settle down!"

They lowered the volume on the squealing a notch but kept on running around, probably chasing after the puppy. Trapper couldn't bring himself to put his parental foot down. His eyes kept going back to the note from Radar. Who would've imagined that a two-page letter could so thoroughly derail a person's day? So many emotions and thoughts… so much news to absorb. There'd been a paragraph toward the end about Frank Burns, who had been promoted to Lt. Colonel and sent Stateside, and Trapper had to read it three times before the words managed to sink into his disbelieving brain.

But his initial reaction to the letter was relief… because Hawkeye was OK—doing well in fact, according to Radar. Trapper's replacement at the mighty 4077th was a good guy, apparently, and a worthy successor in the best friend category. Good to know, good to know.

Trapper's second reaction, the one that was gnawing at him as he sat here at the kitchen table staring at the letter that had traveled thousands of miles from a camp he used to call home… the second reaction was, weirdly, shame. He felt pretty damn foolish that Radar had called him out for putting the poor kid in the middle of this whole drama. It'd been ridiculous, writing to Radar as if passing a note in the hallway at middle school. "Do you think Hawkeye's mad at me? Find out for me during study hall, OK?"

He subconsciously shook his head, angry with himself. Yeah, Radar was young and naïve and one of the most unassuming guys you'd ever meet, but he was completely right about this. It was unfair to put him in the middle, and Trapper should damn well be able to sit down and write a letter to one of the best friends he'd ever had. There was no great mystery to it; just put pen to paper and say hello, for God's sake.

Now he was nodding his head, in full agreement with himself, and with Radar too. He'd do it, he promised himself. After the girls were in bed tonight, he'd write that long-overdue letter to Hawkeye. He'd figure out the right words even if it took him the entire night to do it.

Trapper drained his beer, pitched the can into the trash, then went to join his daughters in the other room, getting caught up in their puppy playtime. When he put the kids to bed an hour later, he was too exhausted to do anything but hit the sack himself. The letter that didn't get written that night also didn't get written in the days and weeks ahead, and after some time had passed, Trapper convinced himself that it didn't really matter. Broken connections, mounting misunderstandings, lost friendships. There were all kinds of casualties in war.