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Title: Five Letters Hawkeye Pierce Never Wrote
Author: [ profile] hawkeyecat
Fandom: M*A*S*H
Claim: General Series
Prompt: 065. Passing
Community: [ profile] fanfic100
Word Count: 500
Rating: PG-13, for language
Disclaimer: See the title? Never wrote. Should be a clue.
Author's Notes: Spawned by a one AM conversation with [ profile] cerieblue819. Thanks to [ profile] amazonqueenkate and [ profile] sarcasticsra for the betas.


Dear Dad,

The war’s not so bad, after all. The food’s decent, not your cooking but it’s passable, and my tentmates are great. Frank and Trapper. Frank’s a religious nut and bad surgeon, but an okay guy. Trapper is the opposite, except he’s also a good guy. They’re both married with kids, daughters, cute things.

There are a lot of wounded, kids getting hit badly, but it’s manageable. Between the nurses and the bars, there’s plenty to do during downtime.

I’ve got to run, Dad. We’ve got another batch coming in, long session by the sound of it.



Dear Dad,

I met someone here. Great sense of humor, smart, hard working, one of the best surgeons I’ve seen, barring me. You’d love him.

His name is John, Dad. Goes by Trapper. We don’t have a chance outside this damn war; he’s married and has two little girls. But here, inside this protective bubble, we make it work. The nights are getting colder, and we share a cot to keep warm.

How do you know if you love someone? You feel funny around them, the way you look at them, how you know their laugh?

Don’t hate me.


Dear Dad,

You remember Trapper, the guy I wrote you about? Tall, good with his hands, my best friend? Well, that best friend got sent home today. He didn’t even leave me a goddamn note. What kind of friend does that? All I got was a lousy kiss through Radar. What does that mean? Men don’t say goodbye with a kiss. Especially not one through a pimple-faced corporal.

What if he was queer? All that time, spent in the same tent with a homosexual. He had a wife, two kids. He couldn’t have been queer. Could he?

Your son,


Dear Dad,

Trapper’s replacement is right out of medical school. They couldn’t even send us a fully-trained surgeon. It’s on the fly, in the middle of OR, that he needs help, and I’ve got some kid’s bowel in my hands. Burns is useless, telling BJ—that’s the new guy—procedures from last year, ones the journals have surpassed. It’s bad, Dad. I don’t know if we can handle it. Worse, I don’t know if BJ can. The kid’s going to burn out on us soon, and then where will we be? Short-handed, and flooded under an incompetent CO.



Dear Dad,

They’re sending me home. In a week, I’ll be back in Maine, eating lobster and apple pie with you at Mary’s.

It’s not because I got my points. I cracked up one too many times, and Sidney couldn’t put the pieces back together this time. He tried, though. I was in Seoul for three weeks, with him trying. They’re giving me a Section Eight. I can never work in a hospital again, never get another job seeing patients except with you. It’s going to follow me my whole life, all because of this damn war without end.

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September 2011

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