Before the day was over, the entire town of Crab Apple Cove knew that Hawkeye had died in Korea. Wherever you went, there seemed to be a somber mood. The whole town had loved Hawkeye. He had been a fun-loving, aspiring surgeon. But Daniel Pierce had retreated into his house and sat in the dark, a martini in his hand. On the table next to him, was a picture that had been taken right before Hawkeye had left. Beside the picture was a stack of all the letters Hawkeye had sent him. Daniel shuffled through them, smiling now and then at some of his son's exploits. He felt he knew the people of the 4077th M*A*S*H, his son's extended family. That gave him an idea. He picked up the phone and dialed. It took him forever but he finally managed to reach the clerk of the 4077th M*A*S*H.

"Hello?" a sleepy voice answered him when the call finally went through. "M*A*S*H 4077."

"Is this…Radar?" Daniel glanced down at a letter to get the name right.

"No. That fink has a four day pass. This is Klinger. Who's this?"

"I'm Daniel Pierce, Hawkeye's father. I need to speak to…" Daniel consulted the letter again, "Captain BJ Hunnicutt."

"BJ? You sure?" Klinger asked, sounding confused.

"Yes. Only BJ." Hawkeye had written him that BJ Hunnicutt was his tent mate and best friend. He wanted to hear the news from him.

"Ok…" Klinger said. "Just hang on a minute, and I'll go get him." There was a long silence and Daniel waited nervously. But he had to know. Finally, a voice came back on the other end of the line.

"Hello? Mr. Pierce?" BJ Hunnicutt called.

"How? Why?" was all Daniel managed to get past the huge lump in his throat.

"Wha-" BJ began, but the line filled with static as the connection was lost. Daniel looked down at the phone in his hand, then broke down. He couldn't even find out how or why his son had died. Daniel sat there all throughout the night, not moving. But he didn't care. What was he supposed to do now? He was all alone.

X X X X

Over the next few days, Daniel rattled around the empty house, not quite sure what to do with himself. He had closed his practice down for a few days. Friends, family and neighbors all stopped by to offer their condolences and to see if there was anything they could do. There never was. They brought food, mainly casseroles, but food had lost all its appeal to Daniel. All its taste. He rattled around the house, empty, in his grief. He started giving away the things that were too painful of reminders, like the golf clubs sitting in the front closet, waiting for someone to return who now never would. He seemed to age a few year for every hour that past. He was lost and alone.