A/N: I didn't join this fandom so much as it kidnapped me and is still holding me hostage. Thanksgiving Break has been filled with practically nothing but A-Team episodes, including this one 30-hour stint where I watched them on Netflix all night (and day; 30 hours is a lot). That being said, this is a little character study that struck me one night about our good ole' friend Howlin' Mad Murdock, who is officially my favorite character. Episodes are cited below. I don't own the A-Team. Enjoy!

The human mind was a funny thing. If you asked Dr. Richter, that was an understatement. The brain, the mind, was more interesting than the body itself- mere biology and anatomy couldn't compare with consciousness. The body, once mapped out, was quite simple. But the mind, now, the mind had no limits.

Seemingly.

He was very aware of the fallacy. Every mind had its limits, but they varied depending on the person. When reaching its breaking point, some would break utterly. There would be no recovery, only shivering, semi-catatonic states. Others forgot the trauma. Others slowly recovered, but remained scarred.

And others just went mad.

Minds cope in a lot of different ways. He'd seen enough of it to know from the men returning from Nam. Too many wide-eyes, too many broken souls, too many haunting screams. He thought he was numb to the consequences by now.

And yet, somehow, the mind was still surprising.

When he joined the Veteran's Administration Psychiatric Hospital he expected routine from the patients and he got it. His medical service years and first-hand experience helped- he knew how to calm down patients in flashbacks, and help promote tranquility and safety. In his sessions, his patients slowly started drawing back to the real world.

Except for one patient.

A one H. M. Murdock was not getting any better. He didn't seem to be getting worse, but nothing seemed to be improving. Many times Richter would see him frozen in the grip of a flashback during one of their sessions, or squinting around the room as if it were painful to look at. All the attempts to coach him through the memories failed miserably.

See, Richter had a little system he called the three R's: Relive, Remember, Reconcile. They represented the stages his patients went through on the road to recovery from PTSD, shell shock. First, they were stuck reliving the traumatic moments. Through therapy and coaching, the goal was to tone down the flashbacks into ordinary memories, so that instead of Reliving the moment, now they could simply Remember. After that came Reconciling the event. It certainly brought in good results.

Patient Murdock, however, didn't respond well to any form of counseling for the moments. He was stuck Reliving the details, but couldn't recall other moments. Richter was no stranger to intermittent memory loss, and understood enough not to press those issues.

But after several months of his other patients responding well, and slowly getting released, Richter decided to try a different tactic with Murdock. If focusing on those awful memories wasn't working, and instead just sending him into more breakdowns, perhaps the focus should be turned to everywhere but the memories.

The idea came to him on the fly, and in a spur-of-the-moment decision he handed Murdock a Rubik's Cube before stepping out to attend some nurse trying to get his attention. He was with her for ten or fifteen minutes before stepping back in his office to see how Murdock was doing.

To his surprise, instead of being caught in another flashback like what normally happened when he was left alone, Murdock was still sitting where he was, only upright, and intensely focused on the Rubik's Cube. He already had two sides figured out, and gained a third in the time it took for Richter to cross the room to his desk. The doctor watched Murdock for a while, observing the speed and agility at which he methodically figured out the puzzle.

"Keeping you busy?" he commented casually.

"Finally something to do around here," Murdock muttered absently, still working the cube. "Than sit and staring at the walls all day…" he trailed off.

Richter watched the man work until he finished the puzzle and placed it on the desk, all sides showing a solid color. "We gon' start talking about memories and places now?" Murdock asked, less than enthusiastically.

"No," Richter shook his head and reached for the cube. "No, I believe this concludes today's session."

Immediately following that, Richter called in and requested a new variety of activities for the patients, specifically Murdock. Books, TV, toys and games, and anything that diverted focus from wartime memories were introduced as constructive distractions. The other patients found it novel, but it was especially effective with Murdock. In a way, it was like he was starting his life over. He sat in front of the TV, absorbed in the adventures of Woody Woodpecker and other cartoons. He read insatiably, on every topic there was from ancient South American history to modern-day almanacs and even mathematical textbooks. When the video game and arcade room was installed in the hospital, Murdock was a popular visitor, mastering various levels of all kinds of games. Richter watched as the man finally concentrated on something other than his horrific experiences in the jungles of Vietnam.

His flashbacks decreased with the exposure, and things were finally looking up. However, with the TV exposure, and books, and other diverse activities, a new problem arose.

Murdock grew increasingly random.

On the outside, it made no sense. He would suddenly start speaking in other languages that he had learned, or acting out characters of people he saw on TV or from books he'd read. He held animated conversations with people who weren't there, and stubbornly adopted a "dog" named Billy.

Even worse, he started disappearing for times on end.

Richter read the papers; he knew about the high-profile capture and escape of 'the A-Team'. He also knew Murdock once flew their unit and remained a close friend. He had enough solid suspicions to even catch the elusive A-Team whilst picking up their friend, however he kept silent for an important reason.

Murdock loved flying.

He never hid the fact. He constantly wore his favorite bomber jacket and spoke animatedly of his flying days with the Thunderbirds and in Nam. Reading about and watching flying weren't the same as actually doing it. And, every time he returned to the hospital, his mood was certainly more positive than before.

For a long time, though, Richter still couldn't find the reason for the random episodes. It looked like Murdock was getting worse. A lot of new doctors tried to diagnose him with hysterical neurosis dissociative type*, schizophrenia, and a load of other disorders. Richter just shook his head. Despite all the evidence supporting those claims, something in his gut told him there was another reason for all this.

The answer came during a war-protest parading disrespectfully near the hospital. Richter watched some of the proceedings from the window of his office, shaking his head. The police should arrive soon and direct them away from the VA. No sense disturbing the veterans like this.

He turned around to where Murdock was reclining on the chair backwards, with his feet of over the top and his head near the floor. It hadn't been the best week- they'd started poking at some of the Vietnam memories again. The session had so far made Murdock increasingly anxious and uneasy.

"What do you think of it?" Richter asked suddenly, changing the course of the session.

Murdock stopped humming his aimless little tune and twisted his head up to look at him. "What do I think of what?"

Richter tapped the window. "Of what's going on out there. The anti-war parade."

"Oh," Murdock trailed. "That." He rubbed his shoulders and slid further down the chair onto the floor, so that just his knees hooked over the seat with his feet tapping against the back. "Look, Doc, I don't really wanna go down that r-road…"

"They're saying some pretty nasty things," Richter mused, still peering around the curtain.

"Yeah, I know, and it's, uh…" he drew in a shaky breath, running a hand through his unkempt hair, eyes nervously flicking everywhere.

His attention snapped to a small figurine of a cow on Richter's desk.

"COWS!" Murdock suddenly shouted, leaping up from his awkward position. It startled Richter from the window as the chair fell over and Murdock snatched the figurine from the desk, bringing it close to Richter's face.

"Have you ever truly considered the cow, Dr. Richter, our bovine, dairy-licious friends throughout the plains?" he spoke animatedly. "I mean, look at it. Ya know, we have so much to thank these cows for when you get down to it, I mean, without the cow we wouldn't have any, any milk, any cheese, any beef, and what's America without burgers? Why, we owe everything to these little cows, but what do we do when we see them, what do we think when we look at 'em? Nooo, we don't see the creature that made all your milkshakes possible, we just look out and see some… dumb creature slowly chewing its cud." Murdock looked down at the figurine, and then back at Richter. "Ya know, I think the cow deserves a little more respect around here, for all its contributions to fueling America's tummies; we should make it the, the national four-legged creature of the United States," he finished with an important nod of official-ness.

He's gone mad, Richter started to think, but froze, both his eyebrows shooting up. In a single moment, he was convinced that he had just decoded Murdock.

His eyes drifted back outside to the parade below. It was mainly college students and leftover hippies; he didn't see anyone who'd actually seen action over there. Did these people know what they were talking about?

He had his own opinions on the parade. And it appeared that Murdock agreed with him, even if it was done through an unusual analogy to cows.

Richter knew how to contact Hannibal Smith, courtesy of the numerous 'visits' by Templeton Peck. He closed the blinds in his office and locked the door if it made Smith feel safer, or at least more secure about the meeting.

"Well?" Smith asked, straightforward.

"I believe I know what Murdock is doing," Richter replied. "I called you in case you hadn't already figured it out; it may make your interactions with him easier."

"I'm all ears," Smith said dryly.

Richter conceded that he had every right to be cautious. "Murdock's case is different from the other shell-shocked patients because without distractions, he has nothing to command his attention except his traumatic memories."

"That's nothing new to me," Smith said quietly.

Richter held up a finger. "But I believe I've finally figured out the random, erratic behavior. His characters? His accents? His unusual, obsessive fixations? He's funneling his different facets and emotions. He expresses himself through analogies, and keeps his attention focused on what's going on by making the mundane interesting. A boring lunch conversation could be too lulling, and possibly send his mind wandering back to his soldier days. But, spiced up with a German accent and the air of an eccentric photographer? It's a grounding device. I believe all this actually helps him stay focused in the real world. And any darker memories are channeled through fixations and backstories of seemingly unrelated objects as an analogy."

Smith chewed on his cigar as he listened. When Richter fell silent, the colonel slowly drew it out and blew a thoughtful puff of smoke into the air.

"You may be right, Doctor," he nodded. "I won't give you details of what we do, but I've seen this myself. In high-adrenaline situations he's very dependable, rational, and focused. But it's tough to think of anything else at those times. If we're just driving someplace, he's certainly more… out there. Random, like you said. But not a lot is happening and that's a long time to just sit there thinking. If he is acting out, that fits with your theory. He either reads, or chats in different voices, or bugs B.A." Smith grinned. "Even intermittently, if fits. He helps us build something we need, still in character, though sometimes needs a little guidance to focus back at the task at hand and not his imaginary friend." He looked straight at Richter. "And so the message is?"

"Listen to him," Richter said gently. "Even when he sounds the most crazy, that could be when he's telling you how he really feels." He walked forward until he was standing in front of Smith. "You're his friends. There are some things you just don't tell your doctor." He smiled tightly.

Smith considered it all quietly for a moment. "So does this mean, in your professional opinion, that Murdock is actually sane?"

Richter chuckled. "He's coping. He's not dealing with the memories directly, and taking an unusually creative way about it, too. I say he's getting better, the accents and Billy included. Unfortunately, I'm not the only doctor assigned to his case, and the others are still convinced he's got quite the myriad of problems."

"Well," Smith dragged around his cigar. "At least he still has a place to stay for now." He looked back at Richter and smiled. "Thanks, Doctor."

"My pleasure," Richter replied, pulling up the blinds and unlocking the window.

"I'll remember what you said," Smith replied seriously as he swung a leg over the ledge, grabbing the water spout.

"I know," Richter answered. "That's why I called you."

Hannibal knew B.A. would never understand why he always played along or was sympathetic to Murdock's "crazy foolishness". But he knew better than most just what was going on in that mind. And he knew to make himself available should the pilot ever want to talk straight.

"It's always easier to look the other way, isn't it Hannibal?"

They'd been doing their 'soldiers of fortune' stint for years now.

"And justice is always awarded with indifference."

Focus back on the mission, Captain. "Sure, Murdock, when you seal these, make sure you get all of the air out first, huh?"

Hannibal debated on letting Face know the full scoop behind Murdock's fantasies, but he seemed to be just aware enough on his own to handle it when needed.

"Like, I mean, take the injustice of the golf ball washer."

Ah. This related back when Murdock was speaking with B.A. about the golf balls. The warning bells had gone off for Hannibal during that conversation.

"There it sits, right next to the tee-off area, and all those naked little balls are put right into that… torture chamber."

And there it was.

"And they are slammed up and down, the brush bristles… clawing into those little bodies…"

I know, friend, I know. I know all too well and I'm here.

Hannibal took a shuddering breath and put his hand on Murdock's shoulder. No, he couldn't call it, couldn't say it straight. That would do more harm than good. But he didn't deserve to call himself a friend if he didn't show some kind of support.

"The Golf Ball Liberation Army, huh?"

Murdock wasn't hard to understand at all. Hope was his method in his madness.

*This was the name used from 1968-1980 for MPD (Multiple Personality Disorder) which is now known as Dissociative Identity Disorder (DID). I originally had it down as MPD, but decided to stay truer to the time period.

All of the italic lines are from the episode 'Recipe for Heavy Bread'. I'm not the only one to spy the analogy of Murdock's Golf Ball Liberation Army to time spent in Vietnamese interrogation during the war, and the conversation Murdock has with B.A. near the truck gets me every time. Dr. Richter is not my original character, but Murdock's shrink from 'The Doctor is Out'. If you have any questions, please feel free to ask, and please review! Thanks, guys!