March 4, 1961
"You're thrown together as strangers and you become like family," Hawkeye said, his eyes scanning the room. A few of the people he was addressing understood exactly where he was coming from; most of them couldn't possibly relate. "There isn't really an alternative. You need one another, and you find that out pretty damn quickly. So you bond, and you bond fast. The person next to you becomes your brother. Well…" His eyes found Margaret in the third row, sitting there stoic as Kevin held her hand, and he heard himself crack, "Except maybe when that person is Frank Burns." She kept her face expressionless, but he could feel her eyes boring into him… a disapproving glare.
Hawkeye gestured, impatient with himself for taking such a cheap shot. That wasn't what this was about. "So yeah," he continued, getting himself back on track. "We became family. We worked together and lived in each other's pockets and loved one another. Hell of a place… hell of an experience… But we had each other, and that was what kept us all sane. I never would've been able to do it if I hadn't had those people by my side. Every one of them."
For the first time, he spotted Radar in the back. He hadn't expected the former company clerk to show, so seeing him was a nice—and touching—surprise.
"But in the beginning, at the core… it was me and Trapper. My original partner in crime. It was us against them. Whoever the them, we were always us. Playing practical jokes, pulling scams, taking care of our own little corner of the war. We couldn't right every wrong, but damned if we didn't try."
He paused, collecting his thoughts. He was doing this off-the-cuff, nothing at all written down in front of him, nothing at all planned. He'd tried to write something, of course, but the blank piece of paper had just stared back at him, and after a while, he'd given up. He had hoped the words would come to him when he needed them.
"I was looking at some photos yesterday," he went on, picturing them as if they were in front of him on the podium. "Trapper with that lopsided smile of his, martini glass in hand. Trapper in that yellow Hawaiian shirt, looking carefree and happy… not at all like a young man in the middle of a war zone. He was like that, you know. While I was brooding and turning grayer by the second, Trapper was taking it all in stride. You got the feeling nothing bothered him… he'd just roll with the punches. Then one day we found out he had an ulcer, and it was like, 'Aha! You really do have some shit going on inside you after all.'" As soon as it was out of his mouth, he was horrified, wishing fervently he could take it back. Damn, he thought. Stop saying all the wrong things, you asshole.
He took a measured breath and put his hands on either side of the podium, as if it using it to hold himself upright. "I could go on and on, but really, when you come right down to it… there's only one thing that needs to be said. Trapper John McIntyre, in life we all loved you." His eyes teared up as he looked out at the pews filled with fellow mourners, some of whom he knew, many of whom he didn't. Then he forced himself to look at the casket. It was a closed casket… the damage to his face had apparently been extensive. "And now that you are gone, we will all miss you. Very, very much."
That was it, he couldn't say any more. He put his head down and hurriedly stepped away from the podium, rushing to take his seat, swiping at his eyes as he did. He hadn't realized how much the eulogy was taking out of him while he was delivering it; now he felt drained and overwhelmed with grief.
Kathy, one of Trapper's daughters, stepped up to the podium next and began to speak, but Hawkeye couldn't focus on anything she was saying. His eyes kept glancing in the direction of the casket. Closed, because Trapper's rugged face had been beyond repair. Closed, because the bullet he'd put into his head had done the damage he'd intended, and then some.
Hawkeye shut his eyes tight, because it was the only way to keep from looking at the damn casket that held one of the best friends he'd ever had.
What demons were you dealing with, Trap? What the hell was going on that made you think this was the only answer?
Kathy's words weren't even penetrating Hawkeye's brain. Instead he heard Sidney's voice from yesterday, when they'd spoken on the phone. "Nobody ever really knows what's going on in somebody else's head," Sidney had insisted. "Sometimes we may think we do, but we don't. You're going through enough pain… I don't want you to feel like you must have missed signals. There was no way you could have known, Hawkeye."
No way of knowing now, either.
Because just like all those years ago, Trapper hadn't bothered to leave a note.