Disclaimer: Still don't own M*A*S*H...

To the one whom I love,

How the hell are you, Trapper?

Now I know that this might come as a surprise, seeing as that we haven't seen or spoken to each other since, 1952. Nineteen years is a hell of a long time for two people who were as close as we were in Korea, to completely ignore each other.

I am sure you're probably wondering how I got your mailing address in the first place. Well, let's just say that one of the nurses I used to work with knows you quite intimately. In fact, I know this nurse in just such a manner myself. After all, Margaret was my wife before she became the second, Mrs. Johnathan Xavier McIntyre.

You remember those love letters you were mailing back and forth for five years? Well when Margaret hastily packed up her things the night she decided to leave me, she accidently forgot a few of them.

In a drunken fit of rage and remorse, after having the loudest fight I think Crabapple Cove has ever heard; I decided to read the letters… a bad, bad mistake.

By the time that I was finished reading; I had downed so many martini's that I could even stand up to run to the toilet to throw up. Instead, I slumped down off of my office chair, got down on all fours, and got sick on top of the genuine Persian rug that Winchester gave to us as a wedding present. I then proceeded passed out onto a pile of my own puke.

When I came to it, I discovered that my face was not only covered in hardened regurgitation – but I also had pissed and crapped myself as well. That god awful night set the tone for the last eighteen years.

Sure I tried to quit drinking more than once, but after a few days of sobriety I would remember about the letters and the empty hole I felt in my soul… It would drive me right back to the bottle like an infant to a Mother's nipple.

I not sure if you care or not (doesn't matter to me anyways) – but I am on death's doorstep.

My liver is shot, thanks to how you and Margaret stabbed me in the back.

Now knowing you and your ego; I am assuming that you're thinking right now about how me blaming my predicament on you two is completely wrong headed thinking. I am sure that Margaret has regaled you with tales of my drinking before she left. If you think that I was bad then, you have no idea how I've been since.

Not writing me when you left Korea was a low blow – but stealing the love of my life? That has to be about the dirtiest, most despicable, underhanded things that one man can do to another.

I hope that one day "Hot Lips", will find another poor sucker and then you will feel the pain that I have felt for all these long, miserable years.

To be completely honest, not every part of me hates you. I still love you because off all the good and bad times we endured during the war. We depended on each other. Quite frankly, I don't think that I would have made it those first few months without you there. They would have probably hauled me off in a padded ambulance… What you did to me though, almost completely eradicates the sentiment of the time we spent together in that shithole of country.

Leaving me without saying goodbye and stealing Margaret behind my back, tells me that you are nothing but a yellow bellied coward.

I hope you rot in hell,

"Hawkeye" Benjamin Franklin Pierce

A/N: Hi there, I just wanted to quickly say thank you to all of the people who have followed/Favorited/reviewed this little fic so far.

I was wondering if you guys think I am capturing Hawkeye's character well or not?

I know that he sounds pretty serious, but in my mind I think that a situation such as the one of I've created for Hawkeye; he'd be much more serious because he finally realizes the implications of the addiction that the show hinted at throughout the entire series.

The next letter will either be to Colonel Potter or Klinger; haven't decided yet.

Thanks for taking the time out of your day to read this, and please leave a review if you have any thoughts or criticisms.