Margaret returned to her tent after dinner. She'd spent a good two hours with her nurses. Listening. Talking about life back home. Men. Nurse Collins' fiancée had written a very sweet letter, which she shared with the others. Clearly, Josh Landers was deeply in love with Betsy Collins – and she with him.

She'd almost forgotten about Frank's letter. When she got back to her tent, though, it was right where she left it. Opened. Unread. Margaret Houlihan had dealt with all kinds of realities since she'd come to the 4077th: death, loss, love, fear, weariness, anger and even a rare moment of joy. She could deal with more than she ever could have imagined.

Margaret sat down and started to read the letter. It was Frank's handwriting, but neater than usual, like he'd taken time instead of just dashing something off – like he had with his wife.

"Dear Margaret,

I hope this letter finds you well – that your marriage is happy.

And that the war ends soon, so you can start that family you've wanted.

You may have noticed that this letter was sent from New York City. I was on the trip there, recently.

When I got back to Fort Wayne, I thought everything would be swell – promotion and a good job.

When I chased after you, I drank like a fish. First time, too. Not the last. Being at home seemed harder, and I tried to take care of that by drinking more and more. My wife left me when I told her to leave me alone - I was fine.

Then, the Army caught up with me. Tried to help, but I couldn't – so I was given a general discharge. My medical license was suspended, too.

Without me knowing it, my mother had reached out to an old family friend, Reverend Michaels in Philadelphia. She told him everything about what I'd done. Reverend Michaels suggested she send me to him. My mother bought me a bus ticket, kissed me, and told me to go. "You need help, Frank," she said. I hadn't been sleeping much, and wasn't drinking like I had – but that was just because I didn't have the money. I almost held up a liquor store, but I passed out in front of it, instead.

The first time I'd seen Reverend Michaels in 20 years was when we met at the downtown bus station. I felt terrible, and looked it. The Reverend help me get my bag and took me to his church. Then, he sat me down – told me I could stay in a spare room, but I'd have to help around the church, and was required to attend the Alcoholics Anonymous meetings held there during the week.

Frank Burns doesn't talk to other people about his problems, I told the Reverend. He replied with, "You already are, Frank."

Over the next months I did manual labor at the church, more than I had ever done before. Margaret, I attended those meetings and found out how much I had in common with others there. Drunks? Yes, I was one. Still am.

In three months, I'd finally sobered up and felt comfortable working for the church. I'm an alcoholic and always will be. But, I think I've found more of who I really am, instead of who I was trying to be. I'm poor, attend meetings every day – but I've never been calmer or more relaxed.

Revered Michaels helped me get an orderly's job at a hospital. I've been working there for 2 months and have actually made some friends, there. They don't know I was a doctor – and that makes it a little easier.

We took a church trip to see the Empire State Building and the Statue of Liberty. I wrote this letter on the bus ride and mailed it from New York.

One of the 12 steps in AA is to ask for forgiveness for those we've caused problems.

I've spoken to some of my family; some forgive, some don't. That's something I have to work on.

Margaret, I lied to you, took advantage of you, and gave you a very false sense of security. You loved me, but I didn't deserve that. You were my comfort, my support, but I never loved you. Truth is, I'm not sure I loved anyone, before.

I'm very sorry for all of that. In the past months, I've found much I needed to be sorry for. Much to apologize for.

I'll put my address below. If you have it in your heart to forgive me, please let me know. If you don't, then that's my fault, and I hope you'll let me write you again.

Reverend Michaels told me that each of us is a "work in progress."

Which gives me hope.

Sincerely,

Frank Burns"