Hey all! Sorry for the unacceptably lengthy delay, though I'm quite sure you all managed to digest lots of other fanfiction during that time.

Now chiddlers, repeat after me: "WE DO NOT OWN MASH." Say it… say it… come on, you know you want to. Good-o.

The end of Part 6 (in case you've forgotten)

"Attention, all personnel. Incoming wounded. Repeat, incoming wounded. All personnel report to surgery."

We both got up. "Well, that ends our lovely little conversation; now let's face reality, shall we?" He turned to me and smirked, his words carrying that hardened edge. "Come along, Frank."

Though I detested being spoken to in such a demeaning manner, the point was too trivial to bother arguing. We both stepped out of the tent and ran to the waiting choppers.

Part 7

Once again, we – and by "we" I mean Pie-Hawkeye and myself – found ourselves in the O.R. I hoped that McIntyre wouldn't be a pain this time, and would keep quiet. Pah. Like that's ever going to happen.

"Bonecutter."

"Bonecutter."

So far, so good. Everyone was behaving themselves. That load was a particularly heavy one; evidently the Koreans' aim had somewhat improved.

"Metzenbaum scissors."

"Metz."

The nurse I was landed with was a bit better than the usual substandard performance, so I can't deny that helped my mood.

"Hey, Frank."

I ignored McIntyre and continued with my work. Replying would only dignify the man (though you couldn't deny he was in need of some dignity…).

"Frank!"

"Answer him, Burns. The quicker the better."

"Yes, Colonel. What is it, McIntyre? I haven't got time for your childish interruptions."

"Childish interruptions? And what does that make you, Mr. Wise Old Man?"

"Trapper, let it be. You don't want another fight." Pier-Hawkeye. Being noble again, I see?

"Why not? Frank would have another tantrum and send him running into the bushes for a few days! What could be wrong with that?"

One could easily have heard a pin drop in that place. Once again.

"Wonderful, now could we keep this silence going?"

"Yes, Colonel."

"Yes, Mr. Henry Colonel Sir."

It was that time of day where Margaret and I should be spending some quality time together. Mid-afternoon, after surgery, patients in post-op. You know, going for a walk, checking out the, er, "supply tent," that sort of thing. Somehow, she just wasn't interested. I'd tried all the old ways of getting her eye, but she ignored all of them. Why was she doing this to me? What had I done to her?

I decided to stand around the middle of the compound, just so I could, you know, take in the views. Not that there's much to look at past brown and drab olive tents and the hills beyond.

"Mail call!"

A swarm of men and women rushed past me to collect their mail.

"Klinger… Baker… Houlihan…"

Shouts of "Here!" and "Yo!" punctuated the air. Evidently Radar O'Reilly had a lot of mail to give out.

"Blake… another Blake… another Blake, you're getting a lot of mail, sir…"

"Bet my wife's sending me a lot of chequebooks."

"Haha, nice one sir… Able… Mulcahy… O'Reilly, one for me… and McIntyre. Sorry folks, that's all for today."

A simultaneous groan rose above the camp. Those with mail ran off to read it, while those without returned to their previous activities.

"Hey Trap, come here, I want to show you something."

Those two rascals walked off in the direction of the Swamp. Hmm… I wondered what they were up to. Knowing the two Captains more than I would have cared to in any other circumstances, I was fairly certain they were not going to discuss the latest medical techniques out of Tokyo.

"…letter from Dad…Uncle Artie…"

Ooh, interesting gossip. I couldn't help but take a closer, er, listen.

"Wow, Artie was close to you then?"

"Not really, we never got along… actually he was a pain in the gluteus maximus. Wish I'd spent more time with him now, though."

"What makes you say that, Hawk?"

"You never really know how long the people you know will be around. Especially in this khaki-decorated cesspool – we could all be shelled to bits tomorrow, still wondering about things."

"Do you think you'll regret not talking to anyone here?"

A long silence ensued.

"I don't know – you can only really answer that question in hindsight. Maybe kissed Hot Lips a few more times, played a few more tricks on Henry. Maybe even been a tad more civil to Frank…"

"Hawkeye, you're not that desperate, are you?"

"You're right, Trap. I'm not, and I never will be. Let's have another drink."

The glasses clink and the chatter subsided.

I snapped back to reality when I realised I'd been staring at the Mess Hall tent for a full five minutes.

Still wondering…

"You're not that desperate." McIntyre was right. Things would never change. We would continue the same as before until the end of the war, whenever that was. We'd all go home, to our families and practices. Some days, we'd reflect on this whole "police-action." Some days, we'd ponder what happened and what might have been.

Still wondering…

Were those the tough questions McIntyre threatened me with? I believe they were. He forgot about his threats soon enough, as I'd imagined he would. The toughest questions were those I asked myself, confronting me with what I didn't want to hear. I didn't trust myself to give an honest answer. So much for being thick-skinned.

Still wondering…

The war would make no apologies for anything.

There you have it! The End! Thanks for reading! Sorry it's crap! Sorry it's taken so long!