THE DAYS AHEAD

Crabapple Cove, Maine, 1954

Doctor Pierce smiled at the young boy who nervously sat on the examination bed. "Don't worry," he said with the same calm reassurance he'd used on thousands of wounded patients. "I know I don't look like it, but I've done this a million times." The boy smiled awkwardly.

Pierce grinned. "That's more like it! OK, now I have to give you this shot, but it will only hurt for a second…"

Some weeks later, Benjamin Franklin Pierce, better known to his friends and father as "Hawkeye," was driving his 1953 Buick Roadmaster past a local bar. The sound of Perry Como's voice that he briefly heard as he drove by reminded him of the Officer's Club back at the 4077th. Hawkeye had once told B.J. that there was nothing he was going to miss about that place except him…but there were so many things that kept reminding him of it. The cafeteria at the hospital where he worked made him think of Igor and his infamous Army cooking. But it also made him think of the mornings he'd spent with the others-Colonel Potter, now known simply as Sherman, Trapper and then B.J., Radar, Henry, God rest his soul, even Frank and Winchester…and Margaret.

Hawkeye rolled up the window, cutting off the sound of the music and laughter from the bar. That was all in the past, he told himself. He'd been home for less than a year, yet Korea already felt like a lifetime ago…but the memory of his friends was so close it felt like yesterday.

San Francisco, California, Thanksgiving 1955

B.J. Hunnicut's mouth was practically watering as he watched football on the new T.V. in the living room with his grandfather. "It'll be ready soon, everyone-I promise!" Peg's voice called from the kitchen.

"You haven't been saying much today," B.J.'s grandfather said. "Is everything all right?"

"Yeah, Grandpa. I was just thinking."

"About that Hawkeye fellow again?"

B.J. chuckled. "Is it that obvious? Yeah, I was just thinking about that surgical convention I went to in L.A. last spring. There was a guy there serving drinks that tasted so bad I was sure I wasn't going to be able to taste anything for a week. Hawkeye used to make martinis like that." B.J. stared down at the coffee table. "You know, I probably would have gone nuts over there if it hadn't been for him. And then there was Klinger and his outfits…Father Mulchahy…we were like a family. And now that we're all home…I'm starting to have trouble remembering what some of them look like."

"You developed a connection with the people you served with that will never be completely broken," his grandfather said. "Believe me; I know what you're going through."

"OK, everybody! Time to eat!" B.J. heard Erin and the children of his other relatives squeal with delight as the warm smell of Peg's Thanksgiving turkey filled the house. This was family, too, B.J. thought. And he was damned if he was going to let anybody take him away from it ever again.

Des Moines, Iowa, 1956

Newly elected City Councilman Water O'Reilly shook hands with the mayor's aide as he left city hall. "That was a great speech, Walter!" the young man said. "I'm sure the mayor will have no trouble getting that bill passed now. I guess that writing course you took over in Korea really paid off!"

"Yeah, I guess so." Korea. Walter was a different person than the naïve young man who'd gone off to war five years earlier. As Hawkeye had once said, he'd grown up. He didn't even miss his teddy bear anymore.

Walter wondered what Hawkeye was doing now. Probably working at a private practice, like he'd heard Klinger say he wanted to do during the get-together they'd had on their last night in Korea together. Klinger was really the only one he'd kept in touch with. He needed someone to remind him of what good there had been in that place.

Walter thought about Henry as he drove home. If Henry had been like a father figure, then Hawkeye had been the older brother. Hawkeye had given him courage and the ability to think of himself as a man, not as a kid in a man's job. Thank you, Hawkeye, Walter thought. And you, too, Henry. I'll try my best to make you both proud.

Chicago, Illinois, 1957

Doctor McIntyre guided his surgical team through the accident victim they were working on. "Just like riding a bike," he told them. "Once you get back on, you never forget how it's done. Of course, getting your knee scraped isn't my idea of a learning experience."

The younger residents laughed. John McIntyre, once known as Trapper, wondered if this was what it had been like for Hawkeye after he'd gone. McIntyre still thought about the abrupt way in which he'd left. But at their reunion last year Hawkeye had let him know that all was forgiven. He was glad that Hawkeye had found such a good friend in B.J., who in many ways was the exact opposite of him. B.J. was the kind of dedicated family man that McIntyre had always wanted to be but had failed at. Things were different now-he'd gotten back together with Louise, and was still trying as hard as he could to make up for all the lost years he'd been away. If Korea had taught him one thing, it was the value of commitment and to never take anything for granted.

Boston, Massachusetts, 1958

"Will you please turn that infernal noise down?" Charles Winchester begged his sister Honoria.

"It's j-j-j-just J-J-Jerry L-L-Lee L-L-Lewis," Honoria replied plaintively. "Y-y-you s-s-still w-w-won't l-l-listen to B-B-Bach. I n-n-need s-s-something to m-m-make me f-f-feel a-a-alive."

Alive. What did that word mean anymore? Winchester had loathed being exiled to Korea, where only his surgical skills separated him from the riff-raff he'd been forced to associate with. And yet, life was what Pierce and Hunnicut had taught him about. In their own way, they'd helped him deal with Korea. Now, all he had were reminders that he couldn't get out of his head.

"I am sorry, Honoria. But classical music…just isn't the same for me anymore."

"I u-u-u-understand, C-C-Charles. B-but m-m-maybe t-t-this will h-h-help." She handed him a record album. Winchester looked at the title in curiosity.

"Miles Davis?" he asked. "I'm not familiar with him."

"G-g-give it a ch-ch-chance," Honoria said. "It m-m-m-might b-b-be j-j-just what y-y-y-you've b-b-been l-l-looking for."

In the privacy of his study, Charles began listening to the record. He'd never been a devotee of jazz or any other popular music, certainly not the rock'n'roll that was now so popular. But this was different.

Late into the night, Charles was still listening to Honoria's other jazz albums. He'd found a way to live again.

THE END.