Copyright and Author's Rambling
I don't own M*A*S*H. If I did, the show wouldn't have become the wonderful phenomenon that has touched viewers for nearly three decades. The credit goes to Larry Gelbart, Burt Metcalfe, and Gene Reynolds. And, of course, we cannot forget Richard Hooker, without who's book we'd never even have M*A*S*H at all.
The scene at the end of this chapter has some anti-Semitic comments. Please note that I most definitely do not prescribe to such hateful rhetoric; I am merely recording the thoughts of those particular characters. You have been forewarned.
The title of this chapter (and the following lyrics) is from the song Bridge Over Troubled Water, written and performed by Paul Simon and Art Garfunkel.
When you're weary, feeling small,
When tears are in your eyes, I will dry them all;
I'm on your side. When times get rough
And friends just can't be found,
Like a bridge over troubled water
I will lay me down.
Like a bridge over troubled water
I will lay me down.
Chapter Three: Bridge Over Troubled Water
Winchester Estate
Boston, Massachusetts
Thursday, November 25, 1954
Honoria Ellis Winchester positioned the needle over the record and let herself be overcome by the sounds of Tchaichovsky. The guests for the Thanksgiving Charity Ball weren't scheduled to arrive for another four hours. She had plenty of time to relax and make some adjustments to the still life she had been working on. She rearranged the fruit and candles to match the arrangement in her painting, and then proceeded to pick up the paintbrush. I'm running out of red paint. Guess I'll have to paint the apples green. Mother and Dad had accused her of wasting her time with idle nonsense, but Charles was encouraging her to do what she loved.
"I said, turn it off!" Charles screamed as he burst into the parlor, the color of his face slightly matching the color of his hair. He flung his arm out and knocked the old phonograph to the floor, replacing the melodious sounds of the symphony with the cacophony of broken machinery.
Honoria looked up from her easel. "Charles, what's wrong?" she inquired in the soft tone of hers.
"How many times must I repeat myself?" her older brother yelled. "All I ask for is some goddamn peace and quiet. No music!" Honoria blushed at his choice of language. "Now tell me, what the hell is so difficult to understand?"
"I'm – I'm s-s-sorry, Ch-Charles," she stammered. "I th-thought you were down-downstairs." Seeing her brother fly into a rage was frightening. Although they were separated by nearly a decade, the two siblings were extremely close. They had gone through everything together, from their father's distance to the death of their brother David. When one was upset or afraid, the other one was usually the only person they would accept comfort from. She was twenty-two-years-old and finishing her senior year at Radcliff when the war broke out. Two years later, she found herself hugging her brother goodbye before he embarked on the longest separation of their lives. Even while he was overseas, they were able to confide in each other through letters and phonograph recordings. But since Charles' return from Korea, all that had changed. The first words out of his mouth when she, Mother, and Dad met him at the airport were "No music." She had tried to ask him why once, but he refused to answer. Whatever happened, it must have been dreadful, she finally concluded. He would tell her eventually, when he was ready. She was sure of it. I want the old Charles back.
Charles bent down and brushed a tear off of his sister's cheek. She cringed. Have I really been crying? She wondered. "I'm sorry, Nori," he said, using her pet name.
"What happened to you?" she asked.
"What ever do you mean?" he responded, even though he was fully aware of what she was saying.
"In Korea," she explained. "What happened in Korea?"
"Nothing I care to discuss, dear sister." He gave his reply and made himself comfortable on the loveseat.
"There was a time when we could tell each other everything," Honoria reminded her brother.
"Times change. People change." He shot back. "If you ever decide to leave this little nest of yours, you'd understand."
She glared at her older brother. "How will I ever understand if you won't let me understand?" The paintbrush in her hand was forgotten. "I may not have been in Korea. I may not have witnessed any of the atrocities that you had to. But if you need someone to confide in, I'm here for you. I've always been, Charles."
"I know that," he assured her. "Thank you, Nori." He rapped on the armrest and cast nervous glances at the shattered phonograph.
"Well, Charles?" she pressed.
He took a deep breath, opening his mouth to speak but closing it again. "I'd prefer not to discuss it," he said curtly.
"Why not?" she demanded. "You cannot keep this bottled up. You need to open up to somebody. If you won't tell me, at least talk to a psych …"
Her brother gasped. "Are you suggesting that I subject myself to …" he gagged. " … A psychiatrist?" Honoria nodded. "Like hell I will!" he roared. "The very idea! A Winchester does not need to be bothered with Freudian mumbo-jumbo."
If I were to tell him he sounds just like Father, he'd probably go into a state of shock. Instead, she decided to focus on the issue at hand. "I'm not implying that you're crazy," she assured her older brother. "There are wonderful psychiatrists who specialize in war trauma. I'm merely suggesting that you utilize that option."
"I don't need a shrink picking apart my brain."
Or maybe not, she added silently. She had never been able to out stubborn her brother, so she took a different approach. "What about your friends from the 4077th? I'm sure they've got scars to heal, too." He nodded. "Didn't somebody from California call you one morning – sometime around six o'clock?"
"B.J. Hunnicutt. It was only three in the morning where he lives," he explained. "He had been awake all night and decided if he couldn't sleep, neither could the rest of the world."
"What about the doctor who suffered a nervous breakdown at the end of the war?"
"Hawkeye Pierce. I'm not sure how he's coping," he admitted.
"Don't you see?" Honoria said. "The three of you need each other. It doesn't matter how hard their families and I try to understand. Nobody can comprehend the horrors you saw the way that they can. B.J. and Hawkeye will be able to empathize with you, because they were in the same place."
"That's turning out to be quite a masterpiece," he commented, his attention suddenly focused on her painting. Even as a child, Charles Emerson Winchester III had difficulty showing his emotions. Getting him to open up was like getting blood from a stone, and Honoria knew it.
She stood and planted a kiss on her brother's balding head. "People care about you, Charles. Don't ever forget that."
* * *
Pierce Residence
Crabapple Cove, Maine
Friday, December 17, 1954
"Hawkeye, you have a visitor!" Daniel Pierce shouted to his son. When he received no reply, he turned to the person standing next to him. "He's upstairs," he told the psychiatrist. "Hasn't left his room since it happened."
"How long has 'it' been?" the psychiatrist inquired. By 'it', the two men were referring to Hawkeye's most recent panic attack.
The elder Dr. Pierce glanced sadly at the foot of the stairs and answered, "Three days." He cracked his knuckles, more out of nervous habit than anything else. "He won't eat, he won't sleep, he won't talk." He shook his head. "No, hold it – he does talk."
"What does he say?" the other man pressed.
Daniel shrugged. "He keeps insisting a baby's crying. The few times he's managed to fall asleep, he wakes up screaming about a baby being suffocated." Although he didn't verbally express it, the plea to help his son was evident in the old man's eyes.
The psychiatrist followed the other doctor upstairs and knocked on the closed door. "May I come in, Hawkeye?" he asked. Daniel nodded for him to enter.
Hawkeye was sitting on the edge of the bed, staring out the window. The psychiatrist noticed that he was wearing the infamous red bathrobe. I expected to find that garment burned. He slowly approached the surgeon and came into his peripheral vision. "Hi, Sidney," Hawkeye muttered in a monotone voice. His attention was aptly focused on the scenery outside his window. Catatonia? The psychiatrist wondered.
"Anything interesting out there?" Sidney asked. He sat on the desk chair.
"Birds" was the simple reply.
Sidney raised an eyebrow. "Birds?" He couldn't see or hear any birds that would be within Pierce's line of vision.
"Yeah, birds. Birds are nice." His voice was barely above a whisper.
"Why are birds 'nice'?" Dr. Freedman pressed.
"They're so innocent. They don't hurt people. They don't kill people. They don't have to worry about war or death or disease or any of the filth we humans have to occupy our time with. I like birds – I don't know. Birds are …" He broke his concentration away from the window and turned to the psychiatrist. "Sidney!" He exclaimed once he recognized the psychiatrist. He blinked to bring himself into the present. "What brings you to my cozy corner of the world?"
"Oh, I'm due for a medical conference over the weekend," he lied. "Thought I'd stop by and see how everything was."
Hawkeye grinned. "Everything's fine," he assured him. "How are things with you?"
"Good," Sidney replied. "I finally get to work regular office hours."
"You don't get that option when you're a surgeon," Hawkeye told him. "I've gotten phone calls at two a.m. because some kid paid the price for eating too many jelly donuts."
"How have you been feeling lately?"
Pierce eyed the psychiatrist suspiciously. "And what is that supposed to mean?"
"I hear you've been having panic attacks," Sidney hedged.
"I should have known this wasn't just a friendly 'I'm in the neighborhood and decided to drop by' kind of visit," Hawkeye scoffed.
"You're too quick for me," the psychiatrist admitted. "Your father was worried about you, so he …"
"He's worried about nothing!" Hawkeye cut in.
"When was the last time you left this room?" Sidney asked. Arguing won't work with Hawkeye, he reminded himself. I have to get him to realize the situation on his own.
"I hadn't seen this room for over three years," the former captain exclaimed. "People take advantage of their bedrooms. They sleep in their bedrooms, read books in their bedrooms, get dressed in their bedrooms, have sex in their bedrooms … I even forgot what the place smelled like." He leaned forward. "Can you imagine that? Slept in the same room my entire life and I forget how it smells." He let out a forced laugh.
"What was it like returning to your hometown?"
"I missed Crabapple Cove so much. I can't stand the way people kept bothering me – still do, some of them. I get all these questions about glory and heroes and Tommy Gillis." He stood up and began a frantic pace in front of the window. "The worst is when a little kid asks those kinds of questions. The damn government is already planting lies into the minds of five-year-olds. Telling them that war is noble." He slammed his fist into the wall. "It's a lie, damnit! They're all lies."
"Tell me about your panic attacks."
"I don't need your help, Sidney," Hawkeye shot back. "I already know what caused the panic attacks. I've been having them on and off since I got home from the war."
"I'm sure you'd like to get rid of them."
"I've gotten used to it. If you're going to probe into my childhood, you're wasting your time – and mine."
"Why don't you enlighten me a bit," Sidney suggested.
"The panic attacks usually occur whenever there's an infant nearby."
"Well, that's a start," Sidney told him. "Any major changes in your life?" The surgeon shot him a dirty look. "Besides the war," he added. Daniel had informed him of Hawkeye's sudden thrust into fatherhood.
"I'm a daddy."
Sidney feigned shock. "You? A father?" Hawkeye nodded. "That's wonderful. Who's the lucky lady?" Psychiatrists must be the only people who have to ask questions they already know the answers to.
His friend scratched his ear. "Margaret and I were linked at the 8063rd. After the war, she took a position at a V.A. hospital in Virginia, and I returned to Maine. While I was treating scab wounds for casseroles, she was getting morning sickness from the child we conceived. Of course, since we lost touch, I never knew …" He paused to take a breath.
Sidney used the lull in Hawkeye's explanation to interject a question. "What were you doing at the 8063rd?"
"Helping out with the consolidation," the doctor replied. He continued his explanation, filling the psychiatrist in on Lorraine Andersen's phone call and the events afterward.
"That's a lot of news to bear in one phone call," Sidney said sympathetically. "Tell me about your daughter."
"Oh, she's beautiful, Sidney," Hawkeye gushed. "It's too bad that she's taking her nap now. You'd like her." He grinned. "People insist she's got my smile."
"A future troublemaker," Sidney teased.
"No, she's more like Margaret. Demanding … bossy … she should get an award for being the pickiest baby in the state of Maine – maybe even the world. Have you ever seen a seven-month-old go into hysterics because her doll isn't placed in the right spot in her crib?"
"Maybe I should check her out for obsessive-compulsive disorder," the psychiatrist suggested. "Though I'm not sure if those traits you describe are from her mother's side."
Hawkeye pretended to be insulted, and then his expression grew serious. "I'm scared, Sidney," he confessed softly.
"Why don't you sit down and tell me what's on your mind." He gestured to the bed.
The other man sank down onto the edge of the bed and began twirling the blanket between his fingers. "I don't want Diana to die," he whispered.
"What makes you think Diana is going to die?"
"Every time I close my eyes, I see that damn baby," he said. "And all of a sudden, the baby changes into Diana." He waved his arms, becoming more vocal and more animated as he continued. "She's sitting on this woman's lap. The woman – the woman – she-she's got her hand over my daughter's mouth. She's smothering her." He laughed nervously. "Some lady's trying to suffocate my little girl and all I can do is stand there and watch."
"What happens next?" Sidney pressed.
Hawkeye shrugged. "I wake myself and the rest of the house screaming."
"Are you worried that what happened on the bus that night could happen to Diana?"
The medical doctor rolled his eyes and started to make a snide remark, but thought the better of it. "I'm losing it, aren't I, Sidney." He stated his fears out loud. "You crack up once and you're cracked up for life."
"I'm going to have to disagree with you there, sailor," Dr. Freedman told his friend/patient. "You seem perfectly normal to me." As normal as can be expected compared to your previous breakdown.
"I haven't driven any jeeps into walls," Pierce attempted to joke.
"It's natural for a parent to worry about their children's safety," the psychiatrist explained. "And in your case, it's downright expected." Hawkeye wiped a trickle of sweat from his forehead. "But in all honesty, I think we still have some unresolved issues to discuss."
* * *
Hunnicutt Residence
Mill Valley, California
Sunday, January 2, 1955
B.J. tossed the front-page news onto the floor and picked up the sports page. He'd read the newspaper so many times tonight; he almost had the whole thing memorized. The black print was starting to look blurry. He was too exhausted to do any type of reading, but he felt too wired to sleep. He placed a kettle on the stove to boil some tea. The bird in the cuckoo clock emerged two times from its cage, reminding B.J. that he was yet again the only living soul in the Bay area to be fully awake at such an early morning hour. He wished he knew why he couldn't sleep. His sleep-deprivation had almost cost him a patient last week. He tried tea, sleeping pills, going to bed early, going to bed late – anything that had the remotest chance of working – and found himself pacing around the downstairs kitchen at 2 a.m. He wondered what his old bunkies were doing lately. Probably sleeping – something I apparently know nothing about. The teakettle whistled, and as B.J. brought the steeping drink to the table, he felt the urge to talk to somebody. Even Charles. I'd talk to Charles.
"If this isn't an emergency, you will regret the day you were born," a pompous and groggy voice threatened.
B.J. stared wide-eyed at the telephone receiver in his hand. Oh god! Did I just call Winchester?
"Hello?" Charles repeated angrily. "To whom am I speaking?"
"It's B.J.," the tired doctor answered. "We served together in …"
"I know who you are," Winchester cut in. "I am getting close to setting my alarm for five-thirty in the morning so I can be awake for your midnight telephone calls." His voice softened, showing whatever concern he was capable of showing. "Is there something wrong, Hunnicutt?"
"No, no, everything's fine," B.J. assured his old friend. "I couldn't sleep. I've been learning yesterday's news by heart, drinking tea, and wearing holes in the downstairs carpet." He let the tea warm his throat. "It's dull being the only one awake."
"Why didn't you call Pierce?"
"You were the first person I thought of, to tell you the truth."
Charles groaned. "So, naturally, if you cannot sleep, then nobody else can, either."
"I didn't mean to," he apologized. "I thought about calling you, and the next thing I know, I'm hearing your voice on the other end of the line."
"May I ask you a question, Hunnicutt?"
"Already did," the Californian joked.
The Bostonian was not so easily amused. "How long has it been since you've gotten a decent night's sleep?"
"My flight home from Korea," Hunnicutt answered.
"Have you tried sleeping pills?" Winchester asked, stifling a yawn.
"I've tried everything," the tall doctor explained. "I didn't wake you up, did I?"
"Of course not," Charles said sarcastically. "I make it my prerogative to study chess strategies every morning before six."
"It's 2 a.m. in California," B.J. informed the ex-major. He rubbed his eyes. "Bring your chess board over to my house. I think I can finally beat you."
"I live in Boston …" Charles reminded his former bunkmate.
"Oh, that's okay. You've got plenty of time to get here. We don't eat breakfast till seven."
"… The other side of the country," he continued.
B.J. leaned his head against the back of the chair and closed his eyes. "So have Uncle Sam put Massachusetts on the next flight to the West Coast," he mumbled. A nagging sensation in the back of his mind forced his eyes to open. Erin's not going anywhere, he reminded himself for the umpteenth time. And neither are you, Beej.
"Your daughter is perfectly alright," the aristocratic surgeon assured the insomniac.
It was then that B.J. realized he had stated his thoughts aloud. "I think that's why I'm having trouble falling asleep," he admitted. "I'm happy to be home, and it's great to be with Peg and Erin, but what …" he yawned. "What if this is just a terrific dream? I go to sleep in Mill Valley in the dream – I wake up in Ouijongbu to the sound of choppers. This isn't a dream, is it?" he asked.
"No, this is real life," his ex-bunkmate informed him. "As difficult as it is to comprehend in your current state, the war ended well over a year and a half ago."
If there was one thing the former captain understood, it was his wife's entrance into the kitchen in about the next ten minutes. On his more restless nights – such as this one – B.J. went downstairs so as not to disturb Peg. The footsteps on the stairs would remind him that he was indeed keeping his wife awake as well. He figured his actions were a continual reminder of his leaving her and Erin alone for nearly two whole years. "How are you holding up, Charles?"
"I'm doing as well as can be expected."
The tone of his friend's voice made B.J. grow a bit suspicious, but he decided not to air his concerns. That would mean he himself being forced to unload the pressure from his mind – and he was not ready to do that yet. The nearly finished cup of tea was starting to look blurry. "Sleep deprivation isn't healthy, is it, Charles?" He suppressed another yawn. "Wake me when this is all over, will ya?"
"Hunnicutt, you must be exhausted – pretty soon you'll start to make sense," Charles quipped.
Faint snoring on the other end of the line was his only reply.
* * *
Harrington Estate
Boston, Massachusetts
Wednesday, March 23, 1955
"…And then Father said, 'Somebody remove this beggar off my property!' Really now, Charles, can you believe the nerve of those riffraff?" Camille Fanshaw Rutherford scoffed. She stopped her tirade long enough to take a sip of water.
The maid came to the table, sparing Charles from listening to Camille's snooty whining.
"What would you like to start off with?" she asked. Her accent made it sound more like Vot vould you like to start off vit? She appeared to be somewhere in the age range between Charles and Honoria, placing her in her mid-to-late twenties or early thirties. Chestnut brown hair was pulled back into a bun, and amber eyes held the expression Charles had witnessed many a time during the war.
"A bottle of cognac, please," Charles told the maid.
"Make that two bottles," Ebert Grayson Harrington interjected. "Oh, I almost forgot – Charles, Camille, I'd like you to meet Irena Dubrowski. Irena, this is Dr. Winchester and Miss Rutherford." The couple nodded politely at the maid and resumed their conversation.
"I admit, I felt a bit sorry for the poor old man," Camille continued. "So, I decided to be gracious and toss a few dollars into his cap. And, mind you, he was ecstatic."
"I'm sure he was," Charles said dryly. "What happened to Lise?" he asked their hosts.
"We caught her stealing from my mother," Justine Harrington answered.
"I should have warned you, Justine," Camille said. "Those Jews are all alike."
Irena returned to the dining room and poured the cognac into four glasses.
"Irena's different," Ebert assured everyone, as if she wasn't even in the room. "She knows her place."
"And she's only a Lithuanian," Justine added. "Lise thought she was above the others because of her 'German blood'. No wonder Hitler wanted to do away with them."
Irena gripped the edge of the table and stared at the floor to hide her paling complexion. "Should I bring out the salad?" she asked.
Charles gave her a sympathetic smile. "That would be nice," he answered. Ebert had been a classmate of Charles at the academy. He had never had any problems with his friend in the past – and now, just like with Camille, he was beginning to wonder where all these shallow snobs had come from. I was never this awful – was I? The disturbing thought stayed in the back of his mind throughout the entire evening. He tried to drown out the others' hateful rhetoric and concentrate on his dinner.
"Well, my friend, it was good to see you again," Ebert said once Camille had left with her chauffeur.
"Likewise," Charles answered. He put on his cap and started the three-block walk to his estate. As he passed the corner bus stop, he noticed Irena leaning against the pole, smoking a cigarette.
"Good evening," he addressed her.
"Good evening, sir," she replied.
"Do you have very far to travel?" he inquired. "That's over thirty blocks," he gasped when she told him where she was headed. "Walking alone is dangerous this time of night."
"I know," she said. "But the buses stopped running over an hour ago."
"Why don't I have Harrington's chauffeur drive you home," he offered. "Better yet, I'll have my own do it."
She shook her head. "Thank you for the offer, Dr. Winchester, but I think I can manage."
"Then would you at least allow me to escort you?" Winchester, what on earth are you doing? You never used to concern yourself with the well being of the lower class before. "I could use the exercise. Where are you originally from?" he asked once they began the trek toward her apartment.
"Vilna," she answered. "And you?"
"I've lived in Boston my entire life. Minus the year I spent in Korea, anyways."
"Were you a soldier?"
"No, I was a surgeon." They passed by a street flautist and Charles found his muscles tensing.
"Is something the matter?"
"Everything's fine," he answered brusquely. Get a hold of yourself, Winchester, he scolded himself. He could easily envision the Chinese flautist in the Bostonian flautist's place. It was then that he noticed Irena nervously wringing her hands. "Are you alright?" he inquired.
She cast her eyes toward the pavement and then looked up at Charles. "My mother played the flute," she whispered.