It didn't take B.J. long to find Jo. She was slumped against the outer wall of post-op. Her head was buried in her hands. The surgeon gently shook her shoulder. When she looked up, her eyes met his. They were gentle eyes, filled with care and concern, and Jo deserved neither.

He sat down next to Jo.

"What happened?" Jo asked.

"He lost a lot of blood. We gave him some more, but it just wasn't enough. He went into shock. I'm sorry Jo, he just slipped away."

"I - I promised. I told him he would be okay, and I promised not to leave him."

He sighed. "You did everything you could. More, even, than others would have. You made him feel comfortable, safe. The last thing he saw was a pretty nurse, holding his hand, telling him everything would be all right."

"I lied," she whispered, looking down into her hands. "I lied."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It's been nearly two months since I've been here. Some days I can't believe I've actually been here that long. Others I can't believe it hasn't been longer.

I promised to tell you about the people here. Some of them haven't been here much longer than me. Our commanding officer is new. Not to me, but to the others who have been here longer. I only hear bits and pieces about the C.O. who was here before. I know that he died when he was supposed to be going home. Colonel Potter is a good man. He reminds me of Grandpa Miller. Do you remember Grandpa Miller? Maybe you were too young to remember him. He used to give you a pat on the head and tell you to be a good girl, and you could tell, just by looking at him that he loved you.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"Jo," B.J. called across the mess tent. Jo looked up from the supposed food being scooped onto her tray. "Come join us." He gestured to an empty space at his table. He was sitting with Hawkeye.

Jo let the cook finish scooping the slop onto the metal tray in her hands. She hesitated briefly, eyeing the other available seats in the mess tent. Most tables were filled to capacity. Jo sighed and slowly made her way over to the table. B.J. had been kind to her, but Jo could see the concern in his eyes when he looked at her and it made her uncomfortable.

She paused briefly to make sure that she had balanced her cup of coffee on her tray. As she approached the table, her shoulder grazed against the back of another officer.

"Watch where you're going!" he snapped, turning around. Jo flinched as she realized that the man she had bumped into was Major Frank Burns, the same surgeon who had so painfully tried to pry Private Archibald's hand from Jo's arm.

"Frank," Hawkeye started, beginning to stand, but a voice from behind Major Burns cut him off.

"Frank, I'm sure it was an accident."

"Margaret," he whined. "She probably did it on purpose. It's the same nurse who refused to let a wounded man go into the O.R. I practically had to pry her away from him so the corpsmen could carry him into the O.R. She's just trying to make me look foolish."

"It's not hard to do," Jo heard Hawkeye interject, but her focus was on Major Houlihan. The head nurse was looking at Jo, at her arm, to be exact. Jo became acutely aware of the now yellowing bruises she had on her forearm.

"Frank! Did you do this?"

"Well - I... I'm not sure," the man stammered in response. "I may have."

Jo remembered the hands that had left their mark on her arm. They were the hands of a young man who she had promised to stay with. She sucked in a deep breath and tried to forget what his face looked like.

"Keep your hands off of my nurses!" she ordered, and walked out of the mess tent.

Major Burns trailed after her, whining. "But Margaret..."

Jo sat down and placed her tray on the table in front of her. Her coffee had spilled a little when she had bumped into Major Burns. Some of it had mixed in with what looked to be mushy peas. Jo took a tentative taste and decided that the coffee hadn't improved the peas, but it hadn't made them any worse. She pushed the food around the tray a bit before looking up to find B.J. and Hawkeye staring at her.

"Are you okay?" B.J. asked her.

"Fine. That was nothing. I should have been watching where I was going."

"Nonsense," Hawkeye said. "Let me see your arm. What the hell did Frank do to you?"

Jo pushed her arm under the table. "It's nothing really. It's fine. My arm doesn't even hurt anymore." She couldn't bring herself to contradict the rumour that Major Burns had left the bruises on her arm.

"Let me make sure. If he hurt you..." But Hawkeye was cut off by a less than subtle kick under the table. "Ow!" he exclaimed, glaring at B.J. from across the table.

"Look, Jo, if there's anything you need..." B.J. offered.

"I'm fine, okay?" Jo snapped. She stood and began to turn, her tray of half-eaten food held out in front of her. The tray slammed into the arm of a short man standing behind her, coffee spilling onto Jo's shirt and pants.

"Radar!" she exclaimed.

"Lieutenant, sir. I mean ma'am. I'm sorry. Let me help you."

"No, Radar, it's okay."

"I have a letter for you. I thought you'd want to read it. It might cheer you up."

Jo cringed. News travelled quickly around camp. She wished there was somewhere private where she could go to be miserable. Jo wasn't used to having her sadness become public knowledge and it embarrassed her. They all saw the same things here, but no one else was crying themselves to sleep because they couldn't get the face of a dead soldier out of their minds.

"Thank you, Radar," Jo said, setting down her tray so that she could tuck the letter in her pocket before leaving the mess tent.

Jo had almost reached the nurses' tent when someone put their hand on her shoulder.

"I said I'm fine!" Jo snapped. She turned, exasperated, expecting to find B.J. or Hawkeye. Instead she was met by the kind eyes of her commanding officer.

"I'm glad to hear it, Lieutenant. I wonder then, if I might have a word."

"Sir, I'm so sorry. I thought - I thought you were someone else."

"Shall we walk and talk?" he asked.

"Okay," Jo said warily.

"Lieutenant, it's been brought to my attention that you might have been, er, assaulted by Major Burns."

Jo followed his gaze to the bruises on her arm. "No, sir. He didn't do that. A soldier did that because he didn't want me to leave him." Jo felt tears sting her eyes and she looked up so that they wouldn't spill over.

"What happened?"

By now they had reached the edge of the compound and had stopped walking. The clatter of the camp was behind them.

"He was young. Younger than me. And scared. He didn't want me to leave him. He didn't let go until we put him under. Major Burns thought I was holding him up in pre-op, but I didn't mean to. Every time someone threatened to pull me away from him, his grip tightened. I guess that's how I wound up with these." She gestured to her arm.

"What happened to him?"

Jo looked into the Colonel's eyes. The tears in her own eyes threatened to spill over. He knew what happened. She could tell he knew.

He didn't break her gaze, but when she didn't speak he asked, "What was his name?"

Jo's bottom lip began to tremble. She began to cry. It was a quiet crying, but the tears streamed down her cheeks, leaving trails through the grime. Jo turned away from the man beside her.

"I'm sorry, sir," she whispered.

"Nothing to be sorry about, Lieutenant. No shame in crying." He handed her a handkerchief. "It's highly admirable to care so much for the patients. But the sad fact of the matter is, we're at war here, and there are some boys we just can't save. You need to find something, some way of letting go. You keep carrying every soldier you lose with you and you'll be no good to the ones you can save."

"Thank you, sir," Jo said, wiping her cheeks and handing him the handkerchief.

"You can always go talk to the Padre..."

"I'm not Catholic," Jo cut him off.

"I'm sure the Padre wouldn't mind. And my door is always open."

"Thank you, sir."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Victoria, I know you wonder why I don't write. It's not that I don't write. I just can't send the letters. Nothing I could tell you about what happens here would seem real. I know it doesn't to me. Everyone here seems to find some way to live with themselves and what they see. Some of them drink. Some seek comfort in the arms of another. Some do both. Some take comfort in religion. I write you these letters.