The old woman bristled at the young doctor's apparent lack of respect for his elders.  "Well!" She gasped.  "I never!"

Suddenly, a series of high-pitched wails pierced throughout the store.  Hawkeye felt the blood drain out of his head and his heart beat dangerously fast.  Black dots swam in his vision, and Marty's General Store faded into the back of a M.A.S.H. bus.  He grabbed the shelf to support his trembling body.

"Benjamin?  What's the matter, Benjamin?"… "Hawkeye!"… "Someone get a doctor!"

            The voices sounded muffled and far away.  "D-don't …don't s-s-suff …o…c-cate …  that b-baby!" he begged the young woman in harsh gasps.  "Don't suffocate the baby!"  He felt his knees collapse from beneath him and he fell to the floor.  People were milling around him, but he was barely aware of their presence.  "Don't suffocate the baby," he mumbled, repeating the words like a mantra.  His entire body was shaking, his hands were clammy, and his chest felt like it was going to explode.  The moment the dead infant's neck rolled back over its mother's arm, he let out a bloodcurdling scream.  And then everything was black.

* * *

Hunnicutt Residence

Mill Valley, California

Friday, December 25, 1953

            "Ho!  Ho!  Ho!" B.J. Hunnicutt called out in a booming voice.  "Merry Christmas."  He adjusted the Santa Claus hat and squatted in front of the yellow-haired toddler.  "Have you been a good little girl this year?"

            Two-year-old Erin clapped her hands in delight.  "I'm always good!" she answered. 

            B.J. planted a kiss on the top of her head.  Then, he picked up one of the presents.  "Here's one for Erin," he said, handing her the gift.  "And one for Mommy … one for Daddy … one for Erin … one for Mommy … one for Daddy …"

            Once all the presents had been distributed, the Hunnicutts proceeded to rip off the wrapping paper.

            "Oh, honey, it's beautiful," Peg gushed.  She pressed the flannel nightgown to her chest.

            "Look, Mommy!" Erin shouted.  "Santa brought me a dolly."

            Peg winked at her husband.  "He sure did, sweetie."

B.J. proudly held up the leisure suit his wife had given him.  Not a trace of green anywhere in it, he thought.  One of the first things he had done upon arrival in the States (after hugging the life out of his beloved wife and daughter) was to ban all of his green-colored clothes to the attic.  He had been devoted to Peg and Erin before he was drafted (Hawkeye had once dubbed him "the family man"), but now he found himself showering affection upon his family every chance he could get and vowing to never leave again.  For the first few months since his return home, he found himself suffering from insomnia.  No matter how many times Peg tried to console him, he was always reminded that the war had forced him to miss important milestones in his daughter's early life – and he wasn't about to miss any more.  Part of him was glad to spend his first Christmas with his child, but another part knew that he had missed the real "first" Christmas.  Just like I missed her first (and second) birthdays … her first word … her first step …

            Peg squeezed her husband's hand.  "You're here now," she whispered.  "That's all that matters."

            He wanted to argue with her, wanted to say It does matter!  I wasn't there for Erin, and that's a time I can never replace.  Instead, he kept his mouth shut and squeezed her hand back.  There was no use in voicing concerns he had aired since his first letter he had mailed home.

The telephone rang, distracting B.J. from his thoughts.  He stepped into the kitchen.  "Hunnicutt residence," he greeted the caller.  "Santa Claus speaking."

            "Silent night, holy night.  All is calm, all is bright," a familiar voice sang.

            "Colonel Potter!" B.J. exclaimed.

            "Just plain 'Doc Potter' now, son," Potter corrected him.

            "God it's good to hear from you."

            "Same here.  Merry Christmas, B.J."

            "Merry Christmas to you, too, Col – sir – Sherman."

            "Takes some time getting used to, doesn't it," Potter said.

            "I can't picture you as anything other than 'Colonel Potter,'" B.J. admitted.

            "I'm talking about adjusting to civilian life.  How's your little girl?"

            "Opening her Christmas presents as we speak.  How's Mildred?"

            "Mother is doing just dandy.  I spoke to Radar a few minutes ago."

            B.J. leaned against the counter.  "How's our 'gentleman farmer' doing these days?"

            "You're gonna have to add 'Daddy' to his resume."

B.J.'s mouth dropped open.  "Radar – our little corporal – is going to be a father?"

            Potter sighed.  "The boy's grown up."  Nobody could forget the night Radar called the 4077th and announced his engagement to a Miss Patricia Haven from Lancaster, Missouri.  He had crossed paths with the nurse while en route to Ouijongbu from R&R in Tokyo.  When his Uncle Ed passed away and he was sent Stateside, Radar initiated contact with her.  They were married six months later.  "Have you spoken to Pierce or Houlihan lately?"

            B.J. shook his head.  "Margaret's at a V.A. hospital in Arlington last I heard," he told the ex-colonel when he realized shaking his head was futile over the phone line.  "I've tried calling Hawk, but I can never get through to him."  He'd attempted to establish contact with his friend several times since returning home, but Hawk never wanted to talk.  He suspected something was wrong, but didn't want to press the issue.  He just hoped Hawkeye or his dad would have enough sense to call Sidney Freedman if it came to that.  "Did you get a postcard from Klinger and Soon-Lee?" he asked, trying to change the subject.

            "With a shot of Fort Dix, of course."  They both laughed, remembering Klinger's wasted attempts to hide his true location from his mother.  "They located Soon-Lee's mother."

            "And the rest of her family?"

"No luck, but knowing Klinger's perseverance with the section eight stunts, he's not about to quit searching."

            They brought each other up to date on other former members of the four-oh-double-natural.  Father Mulcahy spent half of his time at the church orphanage, and the other half at the Philadelphia Academy for the Deaf.  Charles Winchester was settled into his position as Chief of Thoracic Surgery at Boston Mercy and was rumored to be keeping company with the daughter of one of Boston's most elite businessmen.

            Erin Hunnicutt tugged at her father's leg.  "I'm hungry, Daddy," she whined.

            "Gotta cook breakfast," he told the elder doctor.  "Merry Christmas, sir."

            "And a Merry Christmas to you and yours," Potter replied before ending the phone call.

            B.J. lifted his daughter and hoisted her upon his shoulders.  "Merry Christmas, angel."

* * *

Boston Mercy Hospital

Boston, Massachusetts

Sunday, February 14, 1954

            Charles Emerson Winchester III sank into his office chair and yawned.  As the Chief of Thoracic Surgery, he was aware that the hours would be unorthodox.  At least I'm not in a horrid operating room in the middle of an uncivilized world, he reminded himself.  The better part of the day had been spent observing the newest addition in action.  Although Dr. John McIntyre was what he considered "an Irish rogue," a "ruffian prankster," and a notorious "Don Juan DeMarco," he had to admit that the man certainly was skilled when it came to performing surgery.

            His secretary poked her head in the door.  "A Camille Rutherford on the phone for you, Doctor."

            "Thank you, Lucille," he acknowledged and picked up the telephone.  "Dr. Charles Emerson Winchester speaking," he stated in a professional tone.

            He could almost swear he could envision Camille's smirk on the other end of the line.  "You forgot 'the Third'," she teased.  "Why so formal?"

            After Lucille closed the door, Charles was able to relax.  "Force of habit," he explained.  "It's a breach of protocol to air your romantic feelings in the middle of a professional atmosphere," he added.

            He had known Camille since they were children.  Charles Emerson Winchester II and Quentin Garrett Rutherford were friends and business partners; they sent their offspring to the same private academies and anticipated a union between the two families in order to carry on the Winchester and Rutherford legacies – mainly, one between Charles and Camille.  He didn't have anything against Camille Fanshaw Rutherford, but he felt that the only reason he was keeping company with the lady was to please his father.  It was obvious that she, too, was simply complying with her own father's wishes by seeing him.  She had knowledge and a love of art, music, theater, literature, and all the other cultural classics so important to Charles.  The names "Rutherford" and "Winchester" were frequent topics of conversation amongst the Boston elite.  Camille didn't see Charles as pompous; they shared similar political and societal opinions.

Before the war, the perfect evening consisted of dinner at their favorite French restaurant, followed by a performance of the Boston Symphony.  Conversations revolved around reviews of the evening's symphony, name-dropping, and whether or not so-and-so's name would appear in the Society Page of the Boston Globe. 

His time in Korea had caused an inner transformation to occur.  When the war ended, Charles had one simple request for his family – no music.  Though they couldn't understand why, they obliged and kept the music off whenever he was within earshot.  Listening to his Victrola had been the only thread linking him to sanity – his only escape from the wretched war.  But the tragic incident with the Chinese musicians had changed all that.  Now, he couldn't even hear one chord without seeing the musicians' faces.  And their faces always meshed into the one musician's blown-apart chest.  Camille hadn't been as receptive of his request; she couldn't fathom why he would shun something he'd been passionate about all his life.

            "What would you like to do for Valentine's Day?" she asked.

            "Is that today?" he asked.  "I nearly forgot!  You'll have to pardon me, we've been quite busy here today," he added.

"I can imagine," she laughed.  "What time does your shift end?"

            He smiled at the sound of her laughter.  "I'm the one who designates the shifts in this department," he replied haughtily.  He lowered his voice.   "Does eight o'clock sound good to you?"  I'll take her to – I'll have Pierre set up a romantic, exquisite candlelit dinner.

            "Better make that eight-thirty," Camille said.

            Lucille knocked on the door.  "Pardon me, doctor," she apologized.  "Dr. McIntyre …"

            "Tell him I'll see him in five minutes," Charles told his secretary.  She nodded and exited the room.  "Why eight-thirty?" he asked Camille.

            "A woman needs all the time she can get to freshen up," Camille told him.  "And besides – you need time to get ready, too.  Maybe do some of that last minute Valentine's Day shopping."

            "Eight-thirty it is, then," Charles agreed.  "Why don't I have Stanley drive…" The sudden and violent opening of his office door interrupted him.  "McIntyre, you cretin!" he growled at the intruder.  "Don't you ruffians know how to even knock?"

            "Winchester, we need to talk," McIntyre said matter-of-factly.

            "I'm in the middle of a phone call!" Charles roared.  "What gives you the gall to enter a room uninvited?"

            Lucille poked her head in.  "I'm – I'm sorry, sir," she stammered.  "He – he …"

            Charles waved her away.  "It's quite alright, Lucille," he assured the young woman while sending daggers McIntyre's way.

            "I can walk," Camille broke in.  "Stanley doesn't have to go through all that trouble."

            He had completely forgotten about the woman on the other end of the phone.  "There's no need for you to walk," he told her.  "I must be going now.   I have some unwanted company to tend to at the moment."  He spat out the word "unwanted".

            Dr. John McIntyre hovered over Dr. Winchester's desk with his arms crossed over his chest, waiting impatiently for the other surgeon to end his phone call.  "Finally!" he announced loudly when Charles slammed down the receiver.  "We need to order twelve more cases of morphine," he said before Charles could berate him for the interruption.

            "Was it necessary to tell me that now?" Charles asked.  "Or could it have waited until I was finished with my telephone call?"

            "You see, I couldn't decide between asking you now or next year," the tall, curly-haired doctor answered in a sarcastic tone.  "Now seemed as good a time as any."

            Charles groaned in exasperation.  This man is unruly, undisciplined, and simply obnoxious – just like Pierce.  He tried to picture what the two imps would be like if they ever had the chance to meet.  The thought sent a chill down his spine.