Hello everyone! This one-shot was inspired by If You're Reading This by Tim McGraw. It's basically an alternate timeline for Where There's a Will, There's a War (S10E17). Rather than Hawkeye making it back to the 4077th as he predictably did in the show, he is killed at the Battalion Aid. This one-shot takes place during a memorial service for him at the 4077th, in which Father Mulcahy reads his final words as written on a piece of paper.

Just a note, I know the reactions to certain parts of the letter leave some to be desired. However, the focus of this 'shot is supposed to be the letter and Hawkeye, not the 4077th in general. If this gets enough positive feedback, I may do a sequel or add-on in the form of a separate one-shot.

Disclaimer: I don't own M*A*S*H or anything else you recognize here.

Dedicated to all of the real veterans who never made it home.

"Good afternoon, everyone."

Father Mulcahy's soft voice rang loud in the dull silence of the chapel. Everyone at the 4077th was gathered for what was likely the saddest event in the M*A*S*H unit's history. The previous night, they had received word of their fellow doctor and dear friend Hawkeye's passing. He had been killed at the Battalion Aid while working to replace a doctor that had been killed there; everyone at the 4077th had mistakenly assumed their beloved comrade to be safer than any other soldier could be. After all, life wouldn't be cruel enough to take away the very heart and soul of the unit, would it?

Unfortunately for them, it was.

Swallowing back the lump that was sticking in his throat, the Father began to speak again. "I wish that I could say this is going to be a happy gathering. Just another Sunday church meeting or emergency prayer service. Perhaps even a call to God to bless food we already know is too far gone."

A few people chuckled at that.

"But unfortunately, we are gathered here today for a much more depressing matter. It came to our knowledge yesterday evening that our beloved Hawkeye, the one we all thought was safe and sound rumbling back to the 4077th, was... killed in action." He lowered his glasses for a moment and dabbed at his eyes. "I know that no amount of words could ever truly express how much I adored that man. How much we all adored him. He was the life and blood of this unit. He gave his sweat and tears in the O.R., and his laughter in the Club. He was a prankster, a surgeon, and a great friend, all in one. I know we can all think of a few times when he got on our nerves a bit, but I bet upon my very life that every one of us here at the 4077th M*A*S*H was touched upon by his kind heart at some point.

"I know that even though he wasn't the best man, or the most reliable or honest, he was true down to the core. He hated the Army but loved his country. Maybe he wasn't a true soldier, or anything close to patriotic. He'd much rather drown himself in beer and poker chips than his uniform. But I saw how hard he fought to save the lives of those young men. The tears in his eyes when one of the patients didn't make it. His determination to save anyone, no matter what they looked like or believed in. That was, in my opinion, what made him more real and more true than any poster-worthy soldier or Congressman. He was human. That was what made him so appreciated. So priceless in a land where everyone is a monster with blood on their hands or a stiff desk jockey, forgive me Lord."

He paused to look down at two sheets of paper he had sitting before him. Sucking in a deep breath and fighting the tears, he looked back up at the crowd. "If you'll spare me the time, I'd care to share with you this letter. It was delivered to the M*A*S*H 4077th early this morning, and contains the last words ever written or spoken by the great Hawkeye Pierce."

Somewhere in the crowd, a loud sob broke out. Trying his best to ignore it for fear of breaking down himself, he looked back down at the words scrawled before him in shaky handwriting. He couldn't even begin to fathom what Hawkeye must have been feeling as he wrote down his innermost thoughts on those yellow pieces of paper. He had always laughed the war off. Refused to call himself a soldier serving his country. He was pulled into Korea against his will. He should have been in a hospital back in Maine, mending broken bones and taking out appendixes. Instead he was in Korea, dying for people he didn't even know and a cause he didn't even support.

Dear 4077th M*A*S*H and whomever else it may concern,

I don't know how much longer I can last here. There's shelling going on all around. Gunfire everywhere. Smoke. Blood. Wounded with injuries so terrible I'm surprised I can even put them back together. I'm sitting here in a corner trying not to get hit. Just trying to stay out of it long enough for my shaky hand to finish this thing.

I always said that living at the 4077th in that damn Swamp was hell. I always went on and on about how much I hated it. About how I'd take any place over there. Well, believe me, I wish I could take all of it back. That wasn't hell. The Swamp's heaven in a hand basket compared to this place. This is a living hell. I've never been more scared in my life. I just want to go home. I don't even care if they send me back to the 4077th for another five years. I just want to leave the front and all of this madness.

I've lost men here. I tried to help them, but they were just too far gone. Chests blown open, guts spilling everywhere. Blood. So much blood. More blood than I've seen in a long time, even during those grueling 72 hour operating sessions we've had to do. Missing legs and arms. Eyes, ears, feet, hands. I can't look at their faces. I can't imprint those looks of horror and fear on my mind. Not if I want to stay sane.

There isn't even time to bury our dead or do anything about them. We just pile them in the corner and hope they don't get blown up or crushed. That isn't right. They were soldiers. They gave their lives for their country. This hopeless war. They fought and made the ultimate sacrifice. This isn't the way to treat them. But there's no other way. It's this or leave them on the table. And there's still more wounded.

I don't want to be one of those bodies. I don't want to die. I'm not supposed to die here. I'm supposed to go home. Back to Crabapple Cove. I want to start my own practice. Maybe even marry someone and have a kid or two, if I can put anything before my medicine for once. I'm supposed to grow old. Grow a beard and rock in a chair all day long listening to old tunes and telling stories.

But I can't go home. I can't go home until the last shot's fired. And who knows if I can go that long. Sweet mother Mary, I'm so tired. I just want everyone to lay down their guns. Maybe then I can finally get some rest. I've never been through anything like this before. This is truly the worst place on Earth.

There's a break in wounded now. Not in the fighting, but that'll never stop... It might here, but it won't elsewhere. I've come to that conclusion... The fight won't ever stop. It just travels around like a jet or something. Always moving, never stopping.

I need to write some things. Things that I've never said or written down anywhere, ever. My deepest thoughts and feelings... in case I don't come home. If you're reading this, then that means I'm not coming home. I never will be. I want you to read this if that happens. I want you to know these things.

I'll start with you, Beej.

Father Mulcahy paused to look at the family man. He had a solemn smile on his face, tears streaming down his cheeks.

I want you to know that I admire you. I admire the way you hold your head so high when you talk of Peg and Erin. I admire your faithfulness. Your dedication to them; your love for them despite you being 12,000 miles away and tempted by so many beautiful nurses. You always talk about how Erin's grown or how good of a wife Peg is. You've spoken so highly of them, I've wanted to meet them since day one. Never stray, Beej. You're a good man. You deserve everything you've got, and more.

I know you well enough to know that you'll blame yourself forever if something happens to me here. If I come home not in my old ragged clothes, but in a pine box dressed in red, white and blue, you'll blame yourself for it. I can't stop you from doing that. It'd be the same if it were the other way around. I just want you to know this.

I want you to know that I'd die for you. I'd gladly stand in the way of a bullet if it meant you could live. You have so much to go home to. A beautiful wife. A little girl. A nice home, a successful career. I'd do whatever it took to keep that from being taken away from you. If I die tonight, I will die so your baby girls can be free. I will die so you can live.

I love you and respect you more than you understand, BJ. You're my anchor when I'm down and ready to give up. If I go, be someone else's anchor. Do that for me.

Father Mulcahy paused for a moment, allowing a few tears to fall, one of which sank into the corner of the paper. Snuffling, he continued with the reading.

Margaret.

The tough-as-nails Major gave a squeak as her name was read allowed, trying to hide her tears behind her hair.

This is hard for me to say. It's hard for me to get past my ego enough to admit that I was wrong about you. Completely wrong. Perhaps that's why I'm choosing now to say these things. Now, with shells raining down like snow and smoke as thick as a cloud.

I was wrong about you. You aren't a heartless, cruel, merciless Army brat. You're one of the deepest, most complex people in all of the 4077th. You've got so many buried feelings that no one knows about. A hidden sense of humor that really deserves to see the light a bit more often. You've been hurt so many times. By so many people. Your father. Frank. Donald. Me.

I never got to see you as, well, you until that night in the hut. That little hut, where we both thought we would die and decided to do so in each other's arms. We never told anyone of that night, did we? I have to chuckle about it now. Us kissing so passionately, like nothing else in the world mattered. I think it was then that I realized that you weren't so bad after all. I have to admit, being with you wouldn't have been so bad. It's too bad we didn't realize our feelings for each other sooner. If I get back... I'm going to tell you the following in person. But if I don't, then the written word is the best you're going to get.

I think I've fallen in love with you, Margaret. I desire you, I admire you, and I pine for you. I want you by my side. I don't like being away from you. I get a weird feeling unlike anything I've ever felt before, both when I'm with you and away from you. I want you to know that I'm sorry. Sorry for everything bad I've ever said about you or done to you. I want you to know that I think you're strong and beautiful and so smart. You have so many talents. You deserve a man greater than me. Much greater. I hope you find him, Margaret. Never stop until you do. I wish that man could be me. But you deserve better than that. Better than a drunkard who can't control his jokes and snide comments.

If I die tonight, it will be so you can find The One. I love you, Margaret, and I always will.

"Oh, Hawkeye," she sobbed. BJ put his arm around her and pulled her close, the two sobbing in a chorus of loud hiccups and wheezes. "My God, Hawkeye," Margaret cried. "I'm sorry. So sorry..."

The Father watched her curiously, never having seen this vulnerable side of Margaret before. He blinked away his own tears, relishing in the fact that the no-nonsense Major had finally let down her walls long enough to let her sorrow show. If only Frank Burns were here now. The priest had to smile a bit at that. Adjusting his glasses, he returned to his reading.

Charles.

Charles Emerson Winchester III. Oh, how many times I've spat that name. Let it roll off my tongue with so much sarcasm you could drown in it. Well, my friend, now is the time for me to say what I've never said before. Let me tell you, near death experiences truly do make the best in you come out.

You are a great surgeon. Perhaps even better than me. When you first came here, you performed a surgery none of us knew how to do. You did it so flawlessly I just had to stop and admire you, despite your obvious inflated ego and terrible taste in music. If I don't make it back, you should be Chief Surgeon in my place. You deserve it, even if it'll send your ego rocketing to the stars. You are incredibly talented, Charles. A very intelligent man you are. I'll never say this aloud, nor will I ever admit to it, but I envy you. I envy how smart you are. How you know so much and yet still find time here and there to learn even more.

I know that deep down, you have a heart. A real, true heart. You've done good things for me. For others. You're better than Frank Burns. Then again, perhaps everyone is. You can't get much worse than old Ferret Face. I know that, even though we act like it, we don't actually hate each other. We respect each other, in that strange sort of way where we bully and mock each other to show our affection. I do care about you, Charles. If I die tonight, I will keep you in mind. I will die so that you can go back to Boston some day and take that position you've been after for so long now.

For once, Father Mulcahy observed, the great Charles Emerson looked solemn. Although he did not sob and wail as BJ and Margaret had, he still cried. Cried for a friend he'd never get to see again. Perhaps Hawkeye was right. Perhaps there really had been a friendship buried beneath all of the mockery and snottiness.

Colonel Potter.

Oh, Colonel, where do I start? You're like a father to me. I adored Henry Blake, I really did, but you're something special. I know that I can count on you to help me whenever I need it. If I've got something bearing down upon my mind, I can count on you to lift that burden. Your years of experience are worth a million dollars to me. I know that I'm most certainly not the type of man you'd be proud to call your soldier. But perhaps it isn't too much to ask of you to call me your doctor? After all, that's really all I ever was. Just your doctor. Perhaps your friend, too, but never the best one.

I don't think I ever saluted you more than once. I am sorry for that. I regret not showing you my appreciation more often. I should have. I will, if I make it out of here. But in case I don't, I want you to know that I hold you in the highest esteem. You are a second father to me, Colonel. My war father, if you will. I can't help but think now of your wife. How lucky of a woman she is to be married to such an honorable man. I offer you what may just be my final salute, Colonel. If I die tonight, it will be so that you can go home to your wife- and stay there this time.

The old Colonel wiped tears from his eyes and offered a salute Mulcahy, or rather Hawkeye's, way. "Praise the Lord, Hawkeye. Bless your soul."

Klinger.

The first true laugh I've had since coming here is because of you. I think now of all of your antics. Your cross-dressing. Your many failed attempts at getting a Section 8 and going home. You know that a Section 8 is a dishonorable discharge, right? I don't think it should be, but it is. I don't think that you deserve a dishonorable discharge, Klinger. You've done plenty enough to deserve an honorable one. Hell, just being in Korea for a moment should be enough.

Despite that, I still want you to keep on dressing up. Keep trying for that Section 8. I think I'll die of a heart attack if you ever do get one for your antics, but I don't want you to stop. The dresses and the schemes are what make you, well, you. You're part of the reason I'm still sane. When I feel like crumbling and falling, one look at you in a wedding dress is all I need to push myself back up again. You bring strength and laughter where it is needed, and that is what I admire you for. Always keep going, Klinger. Keep helping others stay strong in that weird way you do. If I die, it will be so you can do just that.

Maxwell Q. Klinger, who for once was in a dress uniform, smiled a broad smile. He bowed his head, shaking it slightly. Mulcahy could just barely hear him murmur, "You were the real laughs 'round here, Hawkeye. But I'll do that. For you."

And finally you, Father Mulcahy.

The priest gave a sheepish grin and a chuckle. "Oh, look, it's me."

Your faith is so, so admirable. You have never wavered in your faith in the Lord. You bless every meal, hold a grand service every Sunday, and willingly provide every last soldier their Last Rites if needed. You have taken countless measures to prove your worth beyond the chapel, as well, which makes you all the more respectable in my opinion. You've gone to the front. You've risked your life. I don't think anyone has really taken the time to tell you how appreciated you are.

You are. You are more appreciated than you know, Father. I appreciate you. The 4077th appreciates you. Without you, we would lose our connection to the Lord. You remind us that there's more to life than drinking, poker, and pleasure. If you're reading this, I ask of you to bless my poor soul now. It could really use some blessing, Father. It's been tainted by years of drinking and other sinful actions. I need the Lord now, Father. More than I ever have before. So I ask of you, please pray for me. Pray for a soul that's been damned from the start. Maybe then I can make it to the Promised Land.

Keep on praying, Father. Never let yourself go off the deep end. Your faith in God must stay strong. You must do that not just for me, but for the 4077th. Regardless of whether I come back in one piece or many, I will start taking the Lord and his Word more seriously. I must, if I wish to save my soul. If I do indeed die tonight, Father, then I will die for his Word and his Promise.

Father Mulcahy broke down then. He hunched over his little podium, sobbing out loud for everyone to hear and see. The tears poured down his face, staining his collar and blurring his vision. He didn't even bother trying to fight it. He just let it happen, knowing full well that was what Hawkeye would have wanted. He wouldn't have expected the Father to keep it all in like he had for so many years. Through the sobs, he managed to choke out, "May the Lord bless you, Hawkeye. You deserve heaven and everything it holds. Bless you, Hawkeye, bless you..."

The crowd waited patiently for the priest to gather himself once more. Once he had finally regained his composure, he began reading the last of the letter.

Well, I guess it's time for final goodbyes. I only have the space to write a bit more. I just hope the good Lord spares me long enough for me to finish this.

I have gotten out my feelings now, and I feel better. I wanted you all to know how I feel, in case the inevitable happens. I love you all. I hope you understand that now. I have one final favor to ask of you, however. One that is of great importance to me.

There's this little place in Crabapple Cove. A little grove with this big old oak tree, next to this beautiful river. My dad and I used to go up there and fish all the time when I was little. Whenever something troubled me, I'd go up there and sit for a while. Just think. Me and my thoughts. That's all I needed to get me back up on my feet again.

It's so pretty there. So quiet and peaceful. The birds sing, the sun shines. The fish jump and the crickets buzz. At night in the summer, hordes of fireflies fly about like a light show. The breeze blows, and the water splashes so gently against the shore. The grass is soft, the plants lush and green.

If I die, I want to be buried there. Right beneath that big old oak tree. I've spent many an hour thinking about it. It's the perfect place. There's no where else I'd want to be. My dad can visit me a lot, and so can you. I can rest there, and be peaceful. Me and my thoughts, just like it's always been. That's what I want. After all this noise and chaos, I want peace. I just want to rest, and what better place to do it than there?

If I don't make it back, have a beer for me. Don't waste your tears on me. Use your energy for more productive things. Save lives for me. Live for me. And most importantly, take care of my dad. He's gonna be all alone... I need someone to be there in my place. Do that for me. My dad's happiness means the world to me.

I want to keep fighting. I really do. But I'm so tired. A rest would be good now. A nice, long rest, perhaps under that great big oak...

Perhaps the good Lord really is calling me home. Goodbye, friends and family. I will always be with you, I swear.

All my love,

Benjamin Franklin Pierce

~Fin~