Hawkeye and Sidney talked for some time. Sidney had conferred with Hawkeye's treating doctor, Dr. Whitley who was allowing Sidney to hang around as long as he wished. Whitley understood the importance of continuity of care and agreed that his position as a mere civilian was not adequate to treat a veteran of Pierce's experience.

Sidney sat in a chair next to Hawkeye's bed where he sat his feet in the small two-person room. Both men took note of how alike this room looked compared to the two-person room Hawkeye resided in the Tokyo hospital, though neither man brought the similarity up.

"Why do you think you can't handle patients here in the states? You performed surgery after you left the hospital."

Hawkeye paced the room. It wasn't the frenetic pacing he did during the war, this was calm pacing for Hawkeye to work out the energy that had penned up inside him all day. "That was different."

Sidney raised an eyebrow. Hawkeye's answer was matter of fact. "Different? How?"

Hawkeye paused his pacing and looked at the floor. He spoke half his reply then continued on. "It wasn't only me."

Now Sidney understood. "I see. You don't trust that you can handle patients alone. You might make a mistake and no one would be there to catch it." Hawkeye nodded as he reached the wall and turned around to continue. "When did you first think this?"

Hawkeye paused again. "It took a while. When I got back state-side I felt fine. We had worked out my problem, I had performed surgery since I was in the cuckoo farm and I was making plans to get on with my dating life." Here, Hawkeye paced once more. He was tired and the steps were shorter and less energetic. "But then a few days went by and when it was time to get back to work and I went out to my local watering hole. As I was drinking that Scotch the thought popped into my head and it scared me shitless. I was supposed to just go back to seeing patients and act like I hadn't gone nuts? Was that being fair to them? And one thought led to another and I didn't stop drinking."

Sidney leaned back casually. "What did your father think of this?"

"Oh, he was ecstatic about it." Sidney shot the surgeon a look. "Okay, okay, Dad wasn't pleased, naturally but he was easy on me. The first few weeks he let me be. After that he started to softly get on my ass about simple things like doing the dishes and taking out the trash. I felt like a teenager again." Hawkeye sat on the bed now. Sidney could see the medicine he had been given earlier starting to take its effect. "Then I took to all night binges that had me sneaking in the house at all hours of the morning. After a few of those, I came home to a version of my father I had never met before. It scared the hell out of me. Its why I am here.

Sidney didn't hear anger in Hawk's voice and realized the time. "I think we've talked enough. We'll talk again tomorrow."

Sidney got up and left Hawkeye to go to bed for the night. He then went to Dr. Whitley's office and found the head shrink hunched over case files after his secretary allowed him in the office. Dr. Whitley looked up from his desk and then gestured to the opposite chair as he spoke. "Ah, please come in, Dr. Freedman. How did your talk with Ben go?" Sidney sat in the chair and reacted to this question with a look. Whitely caught Sidney's expression. "Did I say something wrong?"

"I've always known him as 'Hawkeye'."

Whitley crossed his arms on his desk with a quizzical expression. "I asked him if he preferred to be called Ben. He said he didn't mind. Does he introduce himself as 'Hawkeye'?"

Sidney nodded. "He normally does but he could have changed. I'm not worried."

After this, Sidney caught Whitley up on what he and Pierce talked about. There was no need to worry about confidentiality as Pierce had been in Sidney's care previously and was now in Whitley's care so each were within their rights to review Pierce's case with the other. When Sidney finished, he read a concerned look on Whitley's face.

Whitley spoke quietly. "Doctor, I have to know. How did the army allow that man to stay in for as long as he did?"

Sidney readjusted his body without thinking about it. "Well, there are a few ways I could answer that. First, surgeons were a hot commodity in Korea. Secondly, I must admit, it had a lot to do with me. My colleagues and I over there found that if we worked with a kid on the front lines, they responded better to talk therapy. You see we all did a tour of Walter Reed during our basic training and saw men ravaged by insanity, unable to ever to live life to their fullest potential. All of them had been pulled out and sent away and we psychiatrists had to wonder what would happen if we went to them instead of the other way around. Well, that was the way I approached Pierce until the end of the war."

Whitley was listening intently, absorbing Freedman's every word. He found this practice intriguing. "What were the results? Did it help your patients?"

"It wasn't always a miracle cure but it worked with most of the kids I tried to help."

"So, you did therapy in fox holes?"

Sidney chuckled. "And in machine gun nests and even in a tank once."

The room went quiet for a few seconds and Whitley's demeanor changed. "Hey, Dr. Freedman."

"You can call me Sidney."

"Hey, Sidney. If it wouldn't be imposing on you, could I have your opinion on a few other cases? I can give you the files to review tonight, If you don't mind."

That night, Sidney settled into his hotel room bed and called his wife. At first, she was a bit annoyed that he left her and their young son to go off to do "army business" but she relented when he told her he was leaving to help Hawkeye, a man whom she felt she knew from Sidney's letters.

On the phone, Sidney didn't speak about Hawkeye, other than to say he was okay as that would be a violation of doctor/patient confidentiality. He spoke about the town and how long Sidney would be gone, exchanged "I love yous" and ended the call. Then Sidney read the case files as a favor to Dr. Whitley. Afterwards, he fell asleep.

It was nearly 9pm at San Francisco Dr. BJ Hunnicutt watched a newly built Douglas DC 7 back away from its gate and taxi onto a taxiway. The plane had 4 propellers and the sounds of them built up in BJ's consciousness and threatened his sanity as they sounded like the propellers of a helicopter if you listened right. He stood up from his small seat and began pacing, stretching his arms out, deciding to both stop watching the aircraft, and the let out all the energy he felt welled up inside him. The one good thing about his being here in the airport was that Peg had encouraged him to leave for Maine, and he was able to call in a favor with another surgeon who could use the overtime. BJ could be gone for at least 4 days without being missed at the hospital. A small part of BJ questioned why he was here but it was drowned out by the rest of him feeling only the overriding drive to be there with Hawkeye.

As he paced, an airline hostess answered a ringing phone behind her desk and frowned. BJ noticed her forlorn expression and went to her. "What's wrong?"

The 30-year-old hostess took a few seconds to decide how she should answer, but then did so with a professional, yet positive tone. "The plane on its way here had to divert."

BJ mustered control of his reaction as he didn't want to shoot the messenger. "Because of the weather?"

The hostess shook her head no. "No, sir. Engine trouble."

BJ shifted the weight on his feet. "When is the next plane due?"

She shook her head side to side again. "No, sir. You don't understand, that was the last plane due for 8 hours."

"You mean the next plane due in to pick up passengers for Portland-Westbrook Municipal Airport?", BJ asked knowingly.

"Yes. I'm sorry sir." BJ sighed and put his hand on his forehead. The hostess, taking pity on the nice man in front of her asked him, "May I ask why you are wanting to fly to Portland, Maine on such short notice?"

BJ took his hand away and answers without thinking. "I just got some news about my best friend from the Army and I don't know, I felt like I should see him."

Hearing this, the hostess smiles and picks up the phone with a smile. "Why didn't you say you were a Veteran?"

In 40 minutes, BJ was sitting in the jump-seat, the seat attached to the wall behind the Captain's chair which was on the left of a Douglas DC 7 cockpit, and on his way to General Edward Lawrence Logan International Airport of Boston, Massachusetts which they would arrive at after a stop over at Lambert-St. Louis Municipal Airport of St. Louis, MO.

BJ felt awkward and sat silently while holding his suit case in his lap as the Captain, First Officer and Flight Engineer went through their checklists, flipping switches and checking gauges. BJ wasn't sure if he was allowed to be in this jump-seat, nor was he sure that he cared to share the pilots' view on the off chance something went wrong. Regardless, he was here so he took in the efficiency and professionalism of the flight crew.

The Captain was a man younger than Col. Potter, probably in his mid fifties, his co-pilot was a man approximately BJ's age while the Flight Engineer appeared so young he probably went to flight school straight out of high school and graduated both a week ago.

The flight crew finally finished and turned their attention to BJ once they received taxiing clearance. BJ felt like he was a passenger in the back of an oversized car as the aircraft followed road lights to the runway. "So, what'd you do in the war, Buddy?" The Captain twisted his body, looking back to BJ, and asked with a sense of cheery curiosity.

BJ leaned a bit forward to make sure the Captain's sole attention wasn't on him, though, he honestly couldn't tell which of the pilots were "driving" the plane, nor was he sure how they did it. He answered quickly to hide his concern. "I was a surgeon at a MASH."

The Captain twisted his body to meet Hunnicutt's eyes again. "Lenny here is driving, Doc, and he's doing it with a tiller, it's one of these bad boys on my left."

BJ reddened, embarrassed that the Captain read him that easily. He leaned left and saw past the chair to a wheel like apparatus on the Captain's left. "Most planes don't actually have a tiller on the co-pilot's side but our airline had our DC-7s ordered custom with the money they got from the government for hauling you boys and your equipment home. This your first-time joyriding in the fourth seat?"

The Captain's friendly demeanor was slowly putting BJ at ease and he relaxed a little bit. "Well, actually, I had no idea there was a fourth seat or that random passengers could ride here."

The Flight Engineer smiled. "You usually can't but we made an exception for you after Darlene told us your troubles. We have respect for you Veterans. I bet you saw a lot of action."

BJ saw where this conversation was going and was trying to think of how to politely change the subject. He didn't like being thought of as a Veteran: Colonel Potter was a Veteran, Margaret was a Veteran, BJ was just a coward who was sent to war against his will. "I saw some action, but really I was only ever there after it ended. I'd sooner just put the whole experience behind me."

The Captain looked at BJ again. "That's a good attitude to have. I did my time in both World Wars and I have to say, I never understood how some guys entertain themselves telling the same war stories to anyone who will listen. They're the same ones who will announce to the world they're a veteran if it means getting anything free."

Before BJ could reply, the plane was given permission to take-off and their full attention was off BJ and onto the task at hand. BJ released his breath when they were finally in the air.

Charles and Mary laid in bed, holding each other's arms. Mary looked forward but ran her hand through Charles' palm. His other hand was on the bare skin of her stomach and he swore he felt the baby kick though the physician in him knew it was unlikely this early on. Mary finally spoke, having found the courage to say what she wanted to, speaking out of loving concern. "Charles, where does your mind go when you go silent and stare into space?"

Charles continued running his hand over her stomach, feeling for the baby as he spoke. "It doesn't go anywhere." Charles answered without thought: it was a half-truth. He didn't realize he stared into space, but he knew he did think of the war when he went silent.

Mary grabbed Charles' hands and turned her head to look at him. "If you think about the war a lot, it's okay. I just want to know what I can do for you."

Charles withdrew both his hands brought them to his own lap and looked down and away from his wife. He hated that he thought of his time in that Khaki purgatory as much as he did, and he especially hated it that people, especially Honoria and Mary, could tell when he was thinking of it. He knew that he wouldn't just leave Korea and be done with the experience, that outcome was killed with the Chinese musicians, but he couldn't come to terms with how much he had changed compared to who and what he was before being drafted. The old Charles Emerson Winchester III would have never allowed himself to marry a woman who came from divorced parents and had even attended public school before graduating an all-girls prep school, or one who never allowed a man to dictate her life for her. He certainly never would have fallen for a Red Sox fanatic.

Mary watched her husband's eyes and face intently. Charles was thinking about himself, searching in his soul for the way to respond. Mary waited patiently, she understood that Charles was a private man and could not easily speak from the heart. It wasn't his way. She wouldn't force him too and he would respond eventually.

And he did. "I'm usually contemplating how different I am compared to the man I was."

Mary grabbed his hand and he allowed her to take it. "Please elaborate, dear."

"It's just that, well, I would have never allowed myself to fall in love with an extraordinary, beautiful, intelligent woman such as yourself. Nor would I pay the Help as much as I do, or dare I say, even disagree with my parents on certain issues."

Mary looked at Charles quizzically. Charles saw the look and went on further, "Mother and Father were discussing the report on the radio that the Immigration and Naturalization Service is considering a program that would allow Korean refugees, women and children that is, into the country if they can prove they had no ties to the Communists. Where once I would have been totally against this, I found myself actually taking the pro-stance. Unfortunately I did so, verbally, in front of them and had to describe the Korean women constantly running village to village carrying malnourished, traumatized children as old as 10 in their arms because they had their legs or arms blown off."

Mary took in his words and her face immediately fell. "Children lost their limbs? I thought the villages weren't bombed."

Charles spoke matter of factly: "Villages were most often bombed in crossfire and anyway, that's not the way children usually lost their limbs. That happened when they went into minefields or when they went hunting for brass artifacts that were booby trapped."

Mary's eyes widened. "Why would they do that?"

Charles sat up straighter. "Because stupid American GIs would pay them. And see? This is why I like to keep the war to myself. No one, especially you, needs to be inundated with the horrors of the war in Korea."

Mary responded by wrapping her arms around Charles and hugging him. She whispers, "Charles, I am your wife now and I own half of everything that bothers you whether you like it or not."