O-O-O-O-O-O-O-O-O-O-O-O-O

November, '53… North Korea

He'd long since forgotten the sound of Peg's voice. But he dreamed of her all the same. He dreamed of Erin, too. But she didn't call him 'daddy'. He also dreamed of Hawkeye… and it was that very pair of laughing blue eyes that made him sit up straight in the dark. B.J. looked across the dirt floor to the place where – if he'd been at the 4077 – his best friend would have slept. Instead, it was empty. The pillow he would have thrown at a memory… it was nothing but an uncomfortably bunched up shirt.

It was hard being alone here, without someone to tease or to play jokes on, or to just talk to. And it was safe to bet that there would be no letters here. He was unaccustomed to the silence, with only his thoughts and an occasional renegade round of gunfire as company. And only in the dark of this ramshackle hut was he allowed to tend to the injuries that snipers and landmines alike had inflicted upon his tired body a few long months ago.

A bullet had grazed his arm, which had caused him to veer off the dirt road heading towards Seoul – towards home. It hadn't been bad. A simple bandage had later stopped the bleeding. It was the one thing that was completely healed since then. The crash off the motorcycle itself hadn't been bad either, but it had bruised up his shoulder pretty bad. It was still sore, even now. But that was nowhere near what happened to the North Korean that had tried to take the bike to escape on. He had ended up blown to pieces when he'd inadvertently stepped on his own landmine. It was, by far, the most horrendous thing B.J. had seen up close since coming to Korea. Sad thing was, Hawkeye had been right. A person did get used to the destruction. So, he hadn't blinked an eye when various limbs and shrapnel were thrown in his direction from the blast. A large piece of the metal shrapnel had narrowly missed becoming a permanent addition to his head, leaving a nice gash stretching from his left temple to the middle of his forehead. After that first night of enforced surgery, he'd been able to cleanse the wound as best he could and bandage it sufficiently. The deeper parts of the injury were still in the scab stages since he couldn't seem to keep from scratching it.

Since that day, he'd performed at least thirty to forty more haphazard surgeries… many he knew would end up fatal a week or so down the road due to the near rusty implements he was allowed to use. There was nothing B.J. could do… for the patients, or for himself. All day long, unless there were wounded, he was locked in the small hut with little food, little water, little sanity and heavy guard. He'd quit trying to get out on his own, and was close to losing hope that anyone would find him. After a thorough inspection on his first night here, B.J. realized that his dog tags were missing. It had been enough, in the beginning, to give him hope that someone would be able to track him down and get him out of Korea for the rest of eternity.

But according to the tick marks he'd begun to engrave on one of the wooden posts, it had been almost four months since that first gruesome surgery. And heaven knows how long he'd been out before then. Did they know where he was? Was Peg worried at all? Was anyone going to come for him? Dead or alive… it didn't matter much to him at that point. Where were Colonel Coner and his band of body hunters when you needed them? Had that whole 'every fallen boy deserves an American coffin' been a bunch of propagandist bull-shit? Well, it was beginning to look like it…

B.J. let out a sigh as he lay back down on his uncomfortable, makeshift pillow. He could add 'little sleep' to the growing list of things he was going without. When he lay alone in the dirt, all he could hope was that Hawkeye made it home okay, and sane. He could hope that his darling Peggy wasn't sick with worry for him. He could hope that everyone in the unit was well on their way to living long, happy lives. And he could only hope that death would take him before his usefulness to the North Koreans waned.

O-O-O-O-O-O-O-O-O-O-O-O

March '54… Crabapple Cove, Maine

Hawkeye smiled down at the young boy who was now sucking on a lollipop. Using the distraction, the doctor stuck the needle as gently as he could into the boy's arm. The boy, young Timothy Lockwell, didn't bat an eyelash. Just continued to suck on the candy. Hawkeye let out a chuckle and he stood up straight to address Timmy's mother.

"Oh to be young, carefree and absolutely infatuated with everything sugar," he joked. Melissa Lockwell smiled back.

"It would certainly cut down on a lot of the world's problems," she said as she picked up her son, who was still licking at the lollipop. Hawkeye nodded as he filled out the chart in front of him.

"Oh yes. Peace negotiations would involve naps, cookies and who got to play with the big red ball. The only world-wide epidemic would be a severe case of the cooties," he said jovially. He signed his name to the chart and handed it to his nurse. Then he stood and faced mother and son.

"Now… Mr. Lockwell… you are safe from the plague on mankind normally known as poliomyelitis. What's a little sting compared to the possibility of an unexplainable attachment to a certain kind of wheeled transportation? And I'm not talking about the type that will give your mother premature grey hairs from the frustration of teenage rebellion. Side effects of your inoculation will be extreme playfulness, unexplainable urges for chocolate chip cookies, and politeness towards your mother. And under no circumstances are you supposed to drive for 24 hours, mister," Hawkeye said with a mock stern look on his face, a finger pointed at the young boy. Timmy, who had no understanding of what his doctor was talking about, giggled anyway at the man's funny face. Mrs. Lockwell grinned as she bounced her boy a couple of times in her arms.

"Thank you," she said. "We've missed you around these parts, Dr. Pierce. We were sad to see you go before you could cause trouble with your own practice. Crabapple Cove is proud of you and we're glad to have you back with us." Hawkeye smiled appreciatively as he put a hand at her shoulder to guide them out.

"Thank you," he said, opening the door to the waiting room for the two of them.

"We were also sad to hear about your friend… the one from your unit…" she said. Hawkeye's jovial mood flew out the window, but he kept the smile on his face as not to hurt Mrs. Lockwell's feelings.

"Yes… well… who says war is fair to doctors? Soldiers can't have all the fun," he said. Then, Mrs. Lockwell looked pained as she laid her free hand on his arm.

"I'm sorry, I shouldn't have brought it up," she said. Hawkeye shook his head.

"No, it's alright. At least now I understand all of the casseroles and pies. For a while there I thought, perhaps, that I wasn't notified about being a judge in the county fair cooking contest…" he joked. Mrs. Lockwell let out a small laugh as she pat his arm.

"We here in Crabapple Cove take care of our own. You know that," she said. For a moment, Hawkeye was transported back in time to when his mother died. There had been food stashed on every available space in the Pierce house to last a year – which had been a good thing for the Piece men. They could both tell you what a thoracic artery was or how to take out an appendix blindfolded, but they had both been completely helpless when it came to the culinary arts.

"Yes, I do know that," he said. Then, with a last smile to the young boy and a friendly good-bye to his mother, Hawkeye escaped into the back rooms. In exam room three, his legs buckled just as he neared a chair. A shaking hand came up to wipe his hair back from his forehead. Then, he brought his still-shaking hand down so that he could look at it. He studied the trembling appendage for a second before letting it drop to his knee. It was the reason he hadn't taken the position as Chief of Surgery at Mercy Hospital in Portland. He didn't have the head or the hands for that type of responsibility.

He consulted often, though, and even made the short trip to do special surgeries himself when they called for him. Hawkeye knew that he couldn't trust himself with a steady hand day in and day out. Not right now. The slower pace of his father's practice was enough to get him through the day. The occasional call to Portland helped to feed the surgeon's ego for now. It had been almost five months since he'd been back.

It was a gift in its own right that no one expected him to be perfect or unscarred or the Benjamin Franklin Pierce of old. But with that said, Hawkeye knew he had to get a grip on himself. If anyone happened to mention the war, it usually sent him teetering on the edge. But the mention of B.J. usually knocked him right over. The panic attacks had subsided somewhat, but it was the shaking fits that took their place in causing problems. He was a doctor. He knew that it was all psychosomatic… all in his head. But his head was troubled. And he knew it. After he flexed his hands a few times, Hawkeye stood and went to the front desk.

"Any more appointments?" he asked the pretty young secretary, Patty. She smiled up at him.

"No, Dr. Pierce. Timmy Lockwell was the last for the evening," she told him. Hawkeye let out a breath.

"Good. This medical genius is going to go rest his brain at home," he said, slipping out of his lab coat and hanging it on the back of the door.

"Your father has early appointments tomorrow, but you don't have one scheduled until eleven," Patty reported. Hawkeye nodded.

"Good. I won't be in until then," he said and was about to turn to leave when Patty leveled him with a look. "What?"

"You avoided paperwork all day today. So… you'd better come in to fill out the report on Mrs. Germaine's lab work, I need your authorization to order more supplies, and I have a stack of papers that need your signature," she said. Hawkeye smiled slightly. His secretary certainly wasn't as organized and knowledgeable as Radar O'Reilly had been, but she certainly had the same paper fetish. How Colonel Potter had put up with it was beyond him.

"Fine. I'll be in at nine," he grumbled good-naturedly. Patty smiled before she waved.

"Have a good night!" she called.

"I was going to, until you browbeat me into coming back," he said back.

"See you at nine."

"I'm calling in sick!"

"You wouldn't dare," she warned. Hawkeye gave her a look.

"Oh wouldn't I?" he asked. Patty shook her head as she made a shooing motion with her hands.

"Get out of here before I'm forced to tell the population of Crabapple Cove they've trusted their health and well being into the hands of a two-year-old trapped in a man's body," she said. Hawkeye grinned.

"And tell all my secrets? You wouldn't dare…" he said in parting shot before stepping out the front door.

Winter was far from over, but early spring in Maine still held a bone-deep chill that could rival the preceding months. The sun was just starting to set and, thankfully, home was just a few blocks away. All Hawkeye wanted at this precise moment was to have a good tall glass of scotch, or brandy, or bourbon… or all three together. So, with his hands tucked deep into the pockets of his olive drab military issue jacket and his head hung low, he started his walk. It was funny really that the jacket was the only thing from the war that he could stand to look at, much less wear. It was the only thing that had survived an angry, spur-of-the-moment backyard funeral pyre dedicated solely to ridding himself of everything Korea. The jacket itself sported a few charred places since it hadn't been spared an attempt. Hawkeye had grabbed it from the flames as soon as it had started to smolder. He hadn't been able to do it. The emphatic purge to rid himself completely of Korea had failed.

It was funny how he had a life before Korea; a life he'd wanted back desperately. But now, his life seemed to be defined by that small spit of a country. B.J. was in Korea. B.J. would always be in Korea. All of Hawkeye's memories of him involved that damned country. There was going to be no making of new ones. So… getting rid of Korea would be getting rid of B.J. It was something that Hawkeye was both incapable and unwilling to do. And it was usually moments when he thought of that particular subject that he wished he could have just one memory of B.J. that didn't involve the war. Just one… it wasn't all that much to ask.

The walk home became an automatic function to Hawkeye. He didn't let his gaze wander over the neighborhood nor did he study the season's budding colors on the trees.

Only when he stepped inside his cottage did he let himself become aware. It was a safe place. It didn't change. He could look out the back window and see the coastline for miles. He could expect the trees of his childhood to still be there. Hawkeye knew each and every creak in the floorboards. Granted, his father no longer inhabited the house… but it was still the same. It was the same solitude that he'd enjoyed as a child, as an adolescent. It was the same solitude that he'd craved while serving the 4077.

It wasn't that he was alone in the world. That was one thing Hawkeye knew and didn't take for granted. He had family and friends, both near and far. Trapper had even called a few weeks ago. There really hadn't been much to talk about with him, though. Potter had also called. And so had Margaret. 'To check up on him' was the standard answer of most everyone that decided to call. If it hadn't pointed out his tenuous grip on sanity with bells and whistles aplenty, Hawkeye would have been touched.

He walked to the kitchen after entering the house and without taking off his coat or even closing the door against the cool spring breeze, he opened one of the cupboards. He took down the untouched bottle of gin that his father had brought him as a homecoming gift… then took down a glass as well before going to sit at the kitchen table. Hawkeye set the bottle in front of him and the glass directly next to it. The gin was unopened and the glass was spotless… and that was how they stayed for a full twenty minutes.

All Hawkeye could do was stare. It wasn't that hard to twist the cap off and pour himself a small amount. It wasn't that hard to lift the glass and swallow, either. But both actions seemed to stall in his mind. Gin was his first choice of poison – not much of a choice, but still a choice – for three whole years. What would one more drink be? Especially since this was the good stuff, not the fire water that they'd stilled in their tent. Shaking his head sadly, Hawkeye stood and picked up the unopened bottle. He crossed the room to the sink and with a harsh twist, opened the container and proceeded to pour the entire contents down the drain. 'One more' would be sacrilege to memories it would be best for him to forget.

Just as the last drop slipped down the sink, Hawkeye could hear a knock at the front door. The only person brave enough in Crabapple Cove to venture up to the door of his home was his father. And Daniel Pierce always walked right in. So, who dared to knock? Hawkeye set the empty gin bottle down on the counter and made his way towards the front door. He could see the shadowed shape of a tall figure standing on the other side of the screen door, but couldn't make anything else out in the twilight light. It was when he was a few feet away that Hawkeye could make out the definitive curls and the wide, dimpled chin he'd known every day for a year.

"Hi," Trapper said simply as he watched Hawkeye make his way slowly to the door. Hawkeye looked past the man to where the car sat. Trapper's car. With Massachusetts license plates.

"You made a special trip up here just to say hi?" Hawkeye asked without preamble. Trapper looked a little uncomfortable.

"Well, that, and I'm sorry you're still mad at me," he said. Hawkeye let out a breath as he held the screen door open and stepped aside for his friend to enter.

"Trap… it's not you that I'm mad at. Not anymore," the dark-haired doctor admitted. Trapper looked honestly surprised.

"Really? I honestly don't think the last phone conversation we had could have been any shorter…" he commented as he took off his coat. Hawkeye was silent as he led the other man into the kitchen and set another glass on the table. He filled in half full with the bourbon that had been waiting for him and then sat down. Trapper followed suit and downed the alcohol in two swallows. Hawkeye looked down at the liquid before continuing.

"For the two years remaining of the war, being mad at you was just easier. You got to go home, okay? I kept thinking 'What made you so special?' Why did you get to go after just over a year and I had to stay for the whole damn thing?" Hawkeye asked to no one in particular. Trapper was silent for a moment as he watched his friend twirl his still-full glass aimlessly.

"You were just too good, I think, Hawk," he said. Hawkeye looked up other man.

"Too good? Come on, Trap… I don't need my ego fed anymore. I wasn't too good. I was just a pair of hands to the United States government. I hated that war. I would have given anything, said anything, even turned communist to go home," he said angrily. Trapper smiled.

"I think that could have been part of the reason you weren't first in line to go home."

"Oh? How so? If you were running the war, wouldn't you want to get rid of the loose screw?" Hawkeye asked.

"I'd take it out or tighten it. Strangely enough, they took out this loose screw," Trapper said, pointing to himself. And then he pointed to Hawkeye. "And they tightened that loose screw."

"Enough with the metaphors. So they took you out and kept me in. What did it save, really?" he asked.

"Lives…" Trapper answered. Hawkeye looked up in surprise. Trapper just smiled. "Any other surgeon – perhaps one like myself – would have snapped. They looked at you and saw the best, all while purposely ignoring your zany ways, of course. But it wasn't just your skill that made you so valuable. It was the fact that even though you despised the war, taken it upon yourself to protest against the war even while serving in it, and were about as un-military as you could get, you worked your ass off to save those boys. A lesser man would have given up, or screwed up to go home. You did neither." Hawkeye thought over Trapper's words, and then nodded once, accepting the theory.

"I lost it at the end, you know. I don't know if anyone told you, but I did. I was sent off to Tokyo to visit our good friend Sidney. I watched a young mother smother her infant to death… and I lost it. I don't know what would have happened if that war had gone on any longer," Hawkeye said, somewhat ashamed. Trapper reached across the small table to grip the other man's shoulder.

"Everyone has a breaking point, Hawk. You're not God. You performed your own variety of miracles on the wounded, and the rest of us. But sometimes the savior needs to be saved. It's nothing to feel bad about. When I got home, it took months of therapy for me to actually talk to my daughters. I'd shut that part of me off, you see, because I'd had to when kids their age were put on my table. It took me longer to actually pick up a scalpel. I physically couldn't do it. So you took a week or so in Tokyo to come to grips with the fragile human psyche. It only proves that you're a stronger man than most," Trapper reassured his friend. Hawkeye didn't say anything. They sat in silence for a moment.

"I don't know if I've really come to grips with anything. I mean, the war is over. I should be ecstatic about it. But it was the war that killed him – even when it was over. To forget the war is to forget him. How can you want to fix something that's so obviously broken, but not be sure you want it fixed in the first place?" the dark-haired man asked miserably.

"You just need to deal with it, plain and simple," Trapper said. Hawkeye gave the other man a look.

"Easier said than done, Dr. McIntyre," he said. Trapper shrugged.

"We're in the dark on how to help you, Hawk. Really… we don't know. Potter, myself, Radar, even Sidney… none of us know. There are days you are fine. But then there are days you're not. When we talk to you on those days, we can never tell if it has do with B.J. or if it has to do with the war. And since we don't know that, we can't help. You don't talk to us, Hawk. Not beyond the superficial, anyway. You don't talk to anybody. And we're worried that it's…" Trapper said, but trailed off. Hawkeye's eyes snapped up.

"It's what? Going to drive me crazy? It's going to make me loony? Well guess what… I was crazy before all the… Korea. Just ask my homeroom teacher. Ask little Lizzie Baker from my third grade class, who ain't so little any more. Talk to my med school professors. They'd be glad to tell you that I'd lost a few of my marbles, that a few too many feathers had been plucked, that the nuts and bolts rattle around a little too much…" Hawkeye said, standing so that he could pace. Trapper moved to say something, but Hawkeye continued on.

"And it's oh-so-good to know I'm the subject of numerous cross-country conversations. Maybe everyone should start a radio show or something. You could call it 'Coping With the War Wacko'. You could syndicate…" he said angrily, his paces becoming a little more pronounced, his hand gestures becoming a little wilder.

"Calm down, Hawk. It's not just us. Your father's worried too," Trapper said. Hawkeye stopped pacing and gave Trapper a wide-eyed look.

"You all talk to my father about me!" he asked. "What am I? Two years old? Is this some sort of parent-teacher conference about the state of my mental health? How am I doing? Has there been a consensus on whether or not I get a passing grade?" Trapper held up a hand to stop his friend's tirade.

"Stop, Hawk. Whether you want it or not, we're allowed to be worried about you. You gave each of us at the 4077 something to help get us through whatever part of the war we were there for. Now let us return the favor by trying to help you through this. You just need to talk to us," he said. Hawkeye stopped pacing and was silent as he thought over his former bunk mate's words. With a sigh, Hawkeye sat his lanky frame back on the chair he'd abandoned.

"I know… and thanks. To know you all are willing to do that… it means a lot to me. And despite my initial welcome, I'm glad you're here," Hawkeye said. Trapper smiled.

"I'm certainly no B.J. Somehow, the man was able to put up with your for two whole years. He's a shoe-in candidate for sainthood, I'm sure. But I'd like to think you and I are still friends," the Bostonian said. Hawkeye smiled back.

"Of course we're still friends, Trap… you got me through that miserable first year there. Don't think I've forgotten that," Hawkeye said. Trapper nodded.

"I know. Just like I know that we'd like to forget it as well, along with a lot of other things," he noted. Hawkeye smirked.

"Yeah. I'd like to forget that trip through the mess tent in nothing but combat boots and a hat," he said. Trapper laughed.

"My God… I'd almost suppressed that. I'd like to think the whole camp has," Trapper chuckled.

"Yeah… and the worst part is I didn't even win that stupid bet," Hawkeye grumbled. The small, tentative trip down memory lane was interrupted when the telephone rang. Hawkeye rolled his eyes as he stood to cross the room.

"If it's Radar, hopefully his ability to predict the near future will prevent him from being offended when I hang up on him… If it's anyone else, they'll just have to live with the disappointment," he said before picking up the receiver.

"Hello?" he asked. Trapper watched as his friend smiled a genuine smile.

"Hello! It's good to hear from you. How's… Good? That's good. Is everything okay?" Hawkeye asked almost hesitantly. There was a moment of silence in the house as Hawkeye listened to the mysterious caller's side of the conversation. The smile that was on Hawkeye's face slipped slightly, but the tone of his voice continued on in a faux-happy manner.

"Oh? And when did this happen?" he asked. "Well… I suppose the world just can't stop. I understand that… I'm glad for you. You deserve it…" Trapper was getting more confused the longer the one-sided conversation went on.

"That's… that's good. I'm happy for you. I'm… very happy… for you," Hawkeye stammered. "No, no, no. That's not it. No… I'll certainly try. Surprisingly enough, summer is my busy season, but I will definitely try. Don't worry. Yes… I'll let you know as soon as I can. Of course… yes… it's good to hear your voice too. Yes… I'll talk to you soon… Bye…" Hawkeye hung up the phone slowly

"What's wrong?" Trapper asked as Hawkeye visibly paled.

"That…" Hawkeye started, clearing his throat quickly. "That was Peg Hunnicutt…" Trapper nodded.

"And what did she have to say?" he asked. Hawkeye walked slowly back to the table and sat down.

"She's… engaged," he said. Trapper frowned.

"Is it not okay?" he asked. Hawkeye was silent for a moment, trying to adjust to the information.

"I… I don't know. She said she'd like me to be at the wedding in June. It was like… it was almost like she was asking me for B.J.'s permission. And… and I don't know… what to think. I should be happy for her that she found someone to love again. But… it's like she's betraying B.J. somehow. I was there, you know. I saw how B.J. loved that woman to distraction. She and Erin were his entire focus. There wasn't a day that went by that he didn't mention them. And now…" Hawkeye said. Trapper smiled.

"Peg Hunnicutt is still young… do you expect her to live the rest of her life alone?" he asked.

"God, no. I wouldn't wish loneliness on anyone. Especially someone as nice as Peg. It's just that it's only been eight months. How could she… how did she find…" Hawkeye stumbled to a stop.

"How did she find the way to move past it and you couldn't?" Trapper ventured. Hawkeye looked up, surprised.

"Been taking lessons from Radar, have we?" he asked. Trapper chuckled as he shook his head.

"No, but then, it doesn't take a genius," he told his friend.

"Rules you out then cuz you're not even close…" Hawkeye threw back. Trapper gave him a 'ha ha' look.

"Keep in mind that for three years, Peg Hunnicutt didn't have B.J. by her side. You did. For her, he'd been gone before he died. Denial is a funny thing, but then, so is acceptance…" Hawkeye frowned at that thought.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Well… that first night I got home, Louise said that she really hadn't thought of me as alive until the moment I stepped off the plane and she was able to see me. For a year, she thought she'd never see me again. I can only imagine how a woman who hadn't seen her husband for three years would hold up under the strain," Trapper said.

"That's morbid…" Hawkeye commented. Trapper nodded once.

"It may be, but the mind comes up with interesting ways to cope. Just talk to Sidney about that," he said. Hawkeye let out a snort.

"Already have, thanks," he said. Then, he interlaced his fingers together and looked down at them. "I'm not sure I want to really talk about this anymore… but thanks for giving me a few things to think about." Trapper nodded.

"Hey, I'm just glad we were able to talk a little bit. We covered more ground than the 'How's the weather in Boston' talks we usually have," he said. The corner of Hawkeye's lip twitched.

"Yeah, well…" he started.

"How 'bout a game of chess?" Trapper interrupted, effectively changing the subject. Hawkeye shrugged.

"Sounds okay. Dad's been itching for a game. Wouldn't hurt to brush up a little before he effectively kicks my tookus… I really should challenge him to a game of Crinko one of these days…" he said while standing. Trapper grinned as he waved a hand in front of him.

"Lead the way…" he said. As Trapper began to chat about inconsequential things, Hawkeye's mind wandered slightly. Denial, acceptance, denial, acceptance… the words were so different, yet when stripped bare, they both relied on the same principle: not thinking of that which causes pain. Hawkeye threw the words back and forth in his mind as he and Trapper walked out of the kitchen. Now, if only he could pick one or the other. It would be so much better than the state he was in now…

"Have I told you that you can be pretty smart on occasion?" Hawkeye asked his friend as they made themselves comfortable in the living room. One of Trapper's eyebrows went up.

"Not recently. But then you also haven't told me how brilliant, wonderful, magnificent, don't forget altogether beautiful…" the other man started to list. Hawkeye rolled his eyes as he began to set up the chess board.

"You're smelly too," he said dryly. Trapper grinned as he placed pieces where they needed to go.

"Can't be too perfect, now can I?" he said. Hawkeye shrugged.

"A fatal flaw is the remedy for perfection," he said. "We'd have a time machine by now if only it would stop making toast…" Trapper laughed.

OOOOOOOOOOOOO

North Korea

B.J. sat, arms resting tiredly on his knees and his head hanging between them. Eight months… He'd been in this god-awful encampment for eight whole months. Somehow, he'd survived the bitter cold of the Korean winter. He'd been sick most of the time, but at least he'd made it through. His captors had been nice enough to get him a cot and a single blanket. Guess they didn't want their star (sole) surgeon to freeze up and die on them just yet. If anyone had asked B.J. what these people were up to that eventually made them pass in front of B.J.'s scalpel at all hours in the day he would have no clue. As far as he was concerned, the war was over. But it seemed that there was some – this seedy, unscrupulous group he was with among them – that seemed disinclined to believing it. For some of the young boys that had come into his not-so-sterile care, it was a waste. They were so young to die for something that, as far as B.J – and the United States - was concerned, didn't exist anymore…

It was nearing Erin's birthday. She'd be four this year. Four years… he'd missed her first tooth, he'd missed her first step, and he'd missed her first word… There were a lot of those he'd missed, and it was painful to think about. And when he finally got home – if he got home – she wouldn't have a clue as to who he was. B.J. let out a sigh as he picked up the blanket. It was early spring, so it was still cold. The Koreans had dumped him back in here after an extremely long night of surgeries. It had been one after another. From bullet wounds to broken limbs. And now, it was almost dawn.

The guard would be there soon to give him what could barely pass as breakfast. It usually consisted of a half-stale piece of bread, a small piece of fruit that B.J. could swear someone had already taken the liberty of starting for him, and a small glass of water that barely quenched his thirst. It was those moments he was staring down at such unsullied nourishment that he wished for the leather-like beef chunks or the rock hard peas… or even the often unidentifiable meatloaf of the MASH mess tent. B.J. shook his head at the thought… but more to keep himself awake than anything. If he missed the guard with his breakfast, he wouldn't get food for the rest of the day. He'd learned that one the hard way and would rather not go through it again. Especially if he was dragged to the small hut across the way to work 20 hours on 2 hours of sleep.

He was having a hard enough time keeping his thoughts in line on a good day, with sleep and food. It was becoming even harder to do so when his days stretched to those hellish 20 hour stints that required his medical skills. A person would think that after eight months of having nothing but thoughts, he'd be in control of them. But it was not the case. The long nights of working followed by the short days of sleep were hard on his system. He alternated back and forth from working so much that he actually perspired so much he could be mistake for a water fountain, and doing so little that he could give a frozen slab of beef a run for its money. There was no way he was going to survive this if the patterns continued. He'd either end up shot for failing to accomplish his North Korean captors' minimal standards or he'd work himself to death. Neither was an appealing way to go.

He'd have to get out of there. If he wanted any chance at all at getting home, he'd have to do it himself. If he died in the process it would probably be a better way to go than what any of the North Koreans were planning for him in the end. With that thought taking precedence over all others, B.J. began to take a survey of everything with new awareness.

It was up to him now… that is, if it hadn't been all along. All he needed now was a plan. And he'd certainly have the time alone to think of one.

O-O-O-O-O-O-O-O-O-O-O-O-O

To be continued...