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“You ready to spoil a good walk, Johnny?” Tim Hutchins chuckled as he met Trapper John McIntyre to tee off for the first hole.
Trapper grinned back, adjusting the brim of his Panama hat. “Ready to lose miserably, you mean?”
Trapper and Tim had been friends since their intern days. Trapper had had trouble reconnecting with people after he got back from Korea. After over a year of having no privacy and being surrounded by people constantly, he just wanted to be left alone. Tim was one of the few friends who persistently kept calling and finally Trapper started answering. They’d get in a round of golf and some drinks afterward. The conversation was usually light and Tim didn’t mind if Trapper didn’t feel like talking too much.
“Mmmm, we’ll see about that, pally,” Tim said, hooking a thumb behind him. “Got my secret weapon … get a gander at my new clubs. Well … new to me.”
Trapper looked at the dark leather bag and the crocheted driver covers and let out a low whistle. “Wow, those are beauts, Timmy.”
“Picked ’em up last weekend in a second-hand shop —”
Trapper stepped closer to read the name stitched in gold thread on the bag.
B.F. Pierce.
Trapper felt like he’d just been kicked in the stomach.
“— they belonged to a local man who was killed in Korea. I felt a little ghoulish buying them, but what the heck. They’re beautiful clubs. Someone should be using them, right? I need to get the name changed.”
It can’t be. It just can’t. No, no, no, no.
And then the words left his lips before he could stop himself. “Say, Tim … where was this second-hand shop, anyway?”
“Oh, me ’n’ Sherry took a weekend jaunt up to Maine. Signed in as a married couple and stayed in one of those little inns, you know how it is," Tim said with a leering wink. "But we drove through this cute little town. Right out of a storybook. What was it called … Crabapple Cove, that’s it. This store on the main drag. They were selling them for a song compared to what they’d have been worth brand-new.”
But Trapper had stopped listening after hearing the words Crabapple Cove.
“These clubs are lousy, Trap. I couldn’t hit a straight drive if I bent over backwards and hit crooked on purpose in the hopes that the physics would balance out.”
“Eh, it’s better than nothin’. We could be whittling clubs out of bamboo.”
“Huh. Not sure that wouldn’t be better than these pieces of shit. God, Trap, I have this beautiful set at my dad’s house back in Crabapple Cove. Cost me a mint, but they are worth every penny. Rich, mahogany-colored leather bag. I got my name stitched on it in gold. ‘B.F. Pierce.’ My aunt crocheted me these blue covers for the drivers. They’re balanced so beautifully. Never played better games in my life. I’ll never need another set, no sir. I’ll have those clubs until I die. I can’t wait to get back and play with them again.”
“But until then …”
“Like with everything else here … make do with what we got and pretend to be grateful for it.”
“John … Johnny?”
Trapper shook his head and met Tim’s eyes. His friend was staring at him with concern. “Johnny … did you know this Pierce guy?”
Trapper hesitated for a moment. No … no … he couldn’t go down that road right now. He’d fall to pieces in front of Tim right at the first hole. So, he tucked this devastating revelation into a dark corner of his mind and forced a smile, shaking his head. “Naw … naw … it’s a big war, Tim. Just feel real bad for the fella. Those are some beautiful clubs. But it’s good that someone will get to enjoy them.”
Trapper played the worst game of golf in his entire life. He couldn’t focus. He couldn’t hit, he couldn’t putt, he hemorrhaged strokes in the sand trap. It was so bad that Tim gently suggested they just call it a day, but Trapper refused. “I’m seeing this through! You know what Churchill said, ‘If you’re going through hell … keep going.’”
All these months and I never wrote. I never called. And now he’s gone. And I’m in hell.
Tim and Trapper had a drink in the clubhouse after their terrible game. Well, Tim had a drink and Trapper had five. Finally, Tim suggested they should leave as Trapper gradually got louder and more belligerent.
“Naw … naw … I want another drink. I don’t wanna go home yet, Tim. C’mon … another round …”
“Say … how about you leave your car here and I’ll drive us back to my place. We can have a nightcap there and I’ll drive you home after.”
“Yeah … yeah … okay, Tim.”
Tim was divorced and had a nice bachelor pad downtown. Trapper remembered admiring the apartment and thinking how nice it would be if he had his own little place like that. Maybe a nice little divorce, too. But his place would be bigger … with rooms for Becky and Kathy.
He didn’t remember much after that. Not until he squinted awake with the sun coming into his eyes at an unfamiliar angle. His head was pounding. He stretched, rolled over, and fell onto the floor. What the hell?
He wasn’t in his bed at home. He sat up slowly, cradling his aching head in his hands and realized he was still at Tim’s. And had been sleeping on the sofa. He was still in his golf clothes and he reeked of the Scotch that he’d evidently sloshed onto his shirt.
“Good morning, Johnny. You didn’t do any more damage to that head in the fall, did ya?”
Trapper looked up to see Tim standing before him. He was wearing a robe and slippers and held two cups of steaming coffee in his hands.
“Decapitation would be a blessing at this point,” Trapper groaned, hauling himself back onto the sofa and reaching for the offered cup of coffee with shaking hands.
“You had quite the night,” Tim remarked not quite without judgment, settling into an armchair and sipping his coffee.
Trapper grunted, sipped some coffee, then a little more, finally looking at his friend. “I’m sorry, Tim. I don’t know what got into me.”
“I think I do.”
“Ugh, don’t tell me. I’m sure I made an ass outta myself.”
Tim shook his head. “No … no. You were grieving a death.”
Trapper froze.
Tim smiled gently. “Johnny … you didn’t make an ass out of yourself when we got here. You already did that when you lied to me about not knowing ‘B.F. Pierce.’ He was your friend in the war.”
Trapper nodded. “What did I do?” he whispered.
“You kept going for the phone, trying to call Korea. You had to know what happened to … Hawk. Hawkeye?”
“Yeah,” Trapper murmured, staring into his coffee. “His nickname. Benjamin Franklin ‘Hawkeye’ Pierce. He grew up in Crabapple Cove. He described that golf bag to me one time. I knew it was him. I couldn’t …”
“I know,” said Tim. “It’s okay, John. You just kept yelling at the operator until I was able to settle you on the sofa and you passed out. I called Louise about an hour ago. She was upset, but I explained everything to her and she’s fine now. She’s very sorry for your loss. She said you and Hawkeye were very close.”
“We were,” Trapper said quietly.
“I’m sorry,” Tim said. “I had no idea. Like I said yesterday, I hesitated buying the clubs because it seemed a bit odd buying a dead man’s things. I didn’t want to know the story, but Crabapple Cove is a very small town and the shop owner insisted on telling me about their owner. His father is the town physician.”
“Yeah … Daniel …” Trapper murmured.
“Well, Johnny … if he was a close pal of yours, he musta been one helluva guy. I know that much. Now, I’m going to get dressed and take you back to the club to get your car. Drink your coffee. Get a glass or five of water, too. Louise is waiting for you.”
“Thanks, Tim,” Trapper said softly, unable to meet his eyes.
“What are friends for?” Tim replied, moving to his bedroom. He’d already decided that John was better off not hearing about how he’d cried and smashed one of Tim’s crystal tumblers on the floor and agonized over never having written or called Hawkeye Pierce before he was killed in the war. He’d probably remember later, anyway, and drunken regrets were better experienced privately.
Trapper drank a few glasses of water and used Tim’s bathroom to wash his face and try to tame his curls. When he came back into the living room, Tim was waiting for him … Hawkeye’s golf bag sitting in front of him.
Trapper furrowed his brow. “Tim …?”
“Take them,” said Tim. “They should be yours.”
“Aw, Tim, I couldn’t …”
Tim chuckled softly. “Johnny … this isn’t a totally altruistic gesture. I can’t keep these. A dead man’s clubs are one thing … but knowing he was a good friend of yours? No, thanks. I can never play a game with them again. They’re … it’s not right. I think they’ll curse my game.”
“Aw, jeez,” Trapper said, his face flushing as he fumbled in his pocket for his wallet. “Lemme buy them off ya at least. How much did you pay for ’em?”
They cost me a mint, but they are worth every penny.
Tim shook his head severely. “Are you kidding me? Taking money from a grieving man for his dead friend’s golf clubs? Are you trying to ruin my game for life? Take them … please! I insist.”
Trapper managed a soft chuckle and reached out to hoist the bag onto his shoulder. “Thanks, Tim. Thanks a lot.”
“No problem. My payment will be beating the pants off you on the course with my brand-new clubs next time when you’re not a goddamned mess.”
He patted Trapper on the shoulder and grabbed his car keys, ushering him out.
Tim and Trapper shook hands in the parking lot at the country club after Trapper loaded Hawkeye’s clubs into his trunk.
“I’m sorry for your loss, Johnny. You hang in there.”
“Thanks, Tim. For … everything.”
“Give me a call next week. Let me know how things are. If you ever want to talk about Hawkeye … I’ll listen. You’ve told me about some of the shenanigans you got up to in Korea and he was part of them. I’d like to hear more.”
“You don’t gotta —”
“I want to.”
“Okay. Thanks again, pal.”
Tim gave him a loose salute that stung Trapper deep inside even though he knew his friend had no idea the effect it would have. Men who’d never served … been drafted … been thrust into the kind of situation Trapper and Hawkeye had found themselves in … they had no idea. Trapper was very fond of Tim, but couldn’t imagine sharing too many Hawk stories with him. Those were his. They were … private. Sacred somehow. War buddies were called that for a reason. War buddies shared something that no one else on the outside could ever understand.
Trapper arrived home and let Louise wrap him in a warm hug. He held her back and felt a mix of emotions. He was a good father, but an unfaithful husband. He was pretty sure Louise knew he played around … she wasn’t stupid. Her intelligence was part of what had attracted him to her. And she also knew that he’d be enraged if he found out she was playing around on him. That’s how it was with women and men … he didn’t make the different rules they played by. But they were raising a good family and Trapper worked hard and made sure everyone had what they needed … and what they wanted. That was his end of the deal. He took care of his family. He loved his girls to death and that drunken fantasy of a swinging downtown bachelor pad evaporated the moment Kathy and Becky flung themselves into his arms. This was where he needed to be.
He went upstairs and took a long, hot shower. The news of Hawkeye’s death eating a hole in his gut and his heart. How? What happened? Was it that goddamned new CO … Henry would have never let this happen.
The death of Henry Blake still weighed heavy on his heart. He and Hawk, and hell, most of the camp, had gotten drunk for three straight days in mourning, which, thank god, had coincided with a stretch with no casualties. Hawk had sobbed uncontrollably and Trapper had just felt numb. Henry was so close to getting home; to where he wanted to be. When Trapper got his own stateside shipping orders, his joy was tempered by being unable to reach Hawkeye in Tokyo … and wondering if he’d meet the same fate as Henry. He’d white-knuckled his way through every flight, drinking just enough to keep him from throwing a fit on the plane.
Trapper didn’t even know who was the CO at the 4077 now. In addition to not contacting Hawk after he was shipped home, Trapper hadn’t reached out to anyone. Didn’t know what was happening. Oh god, was Frank Burns still the CO now after his interim stint? Impossible. Trapper couldn’t even fathom that, but now he wondered … was Hawk’s death due to Frank’s inept leadership? Trapper resisted the urge to break his hand by punching the shower tiles. He had to know. Someone was responsible and he needed to find out who it was so he could plot their demise. Someone had to pay for this.
He forced himself to wait. Through the fog of his hangover he remembered that Uijeongbu was thirteen hours ahead of Boston. He’d wait until the evening. Louise made him a sandwich and reserved judgment on his hungover state.
“Do you have his father’s address in Maine?” she asked, taking away his empty plate and urging him to drink another glass of water. “We can send flowers.”
“I think I have it somewhere … but … I need to call the 4077 first,” Trapper said. “I have to find out what happened. How he died. I can’t contact Daniel until I know.” I can't ask Hawk's father for the details of how his only son died. I won't.
“John … I hope you’re not beating yourself up over this.”
Trapper glared at his wife and she cocked her head and glared right back until he backed down and shrugged. “How can I not, Lou? I … kept saying later, later, I’ll write him later. I’ll call him sometime. Dammit, I knew how dangerous it was out there, but I just thought … it’s Hawk. Hawk is always okay.”
“It’s not your fault,” said Louise.
Trapper slammed his hands on the kitchen table as he stood up abruptly. “Dammit, I know that! I was just … I was just trying to play a goddamn round of golf! Dammit!”
Louise stared at him. Trapper exhaled a long breath. “I’m sorry, honey …”
“I know. Why don’t you go upstairs and take a nap? I sent the girls across the street to play with the Larson kids. It’ll be quiet.”
“Thanks, Lou.”
Trapper went upstairs and lay down and took a nap for a couple of hours, which, between that and having some food and a lot of water, helped him feel better when Becky and Kathy came home. He washed up again and went downstairs to greet them, eagerly listening to their tales of their afternoon with the neighbor kids and even managing to play and roughhouse with them a bit until Louise called for dinner.
“Daddy … are you sad? Mommy says you’re sad about your friend from the war,” Kathy said solemnly as they ate.
Trapper smiled softly. “I am a little sad, sweetheart. You remember my friend Hawkeye?”
“Yes!” Becky chimed in, not to be outdone by her sister. “You said that Hawkeye was silly and liked to play jokes.”
“He sure did,” said Trapper, pointing at her with his fork. “He was the ultimate joker.”
“But he died,” said Kathy softly.
Trapper nodded, his smile fading. “Yes. He died, Kathy. Sometimes people die in war.”
“But you didn’t die, Daddy!”
Trapper’s smile returned in full force. “Me? Of course not. I knew I had to come back to see you two troublemakers.”
“Did Hawkeye have any kids?” Becky asked innocently.
“No, baby … he didn’t. But he liked kids a lot. He would have liked you two so much. He loved hearing about you from Mommy’s letters and photos and the letters you wrote, too.”
“Maybe he wouldn’t’ve died if he had kids to come back to,” said Becky sadly.
“Becky!” her older sister said sharply.
“What?”
“That’s … that’s … Daddy!”
“No, it’s okay, Becks. Kathy, it’s all right. Hawkeye didn’t have any kids, but he had his own daddy he missed a lot.”
“Is Hawkeye’s daddy sad?” asked Becky, frowning, her blue eyes filling with tears.
“Oh, sweetie. Yes, of course Hawkeye’s daddy is sad. But it’s okay … baby …” Trapper swept around to the other side of the table and gathered Becky into his lap. “I’m going to talk to Hawk’s daddy. And my friends in Korea. In the war. We’ll talk to each other and feel better.”
Becky flung her little arms around Trapper’s neck. “You promise? Talk to Hawkeye’s daddy and make him feel better. Tell him I wanna hug him!”
Trapper sniffed and blinked back tears, trying to keep his voice steady. “I will. I promise, honey.”
“Okay.”
“Girls,” Louise said firmly. “Are you done eating?”
“Yes, Mommy.”
“Hmmm. I don’t see cleared plates. But I’ll let it go this time. Do you want dessert?”
“Yes, Mommy!” Becky let go of Trapper’s neck to clap her hands.
“Okay. Just for tonight … you’ve been so nice to Daddy. We’ll listen to the radio and I have some tarts for you.”
“Okay, hurray!”
Becky turned to Trapper. “Do you feel better, Daddy?”
Trapper’s heart melted. There was no one he loved better in the world than this tiny girl and her sister. “You always make me feel better, baby.” He kissed her tenderly on the cheek. “Go to the radio and have some dessert. I need to make a phone call.”
“Are you going to call Korea?”
“Yes,” Trapper said, lifting Becky off his lap and very gently swatting her bottom in the direction of the living room.
“Will you come say good night?”
“He’ll try!” Louise called from the kitchen. “It takes a very long time to call Korea! Remember when Daddy was still stationed there and how long it took for Radar to get the call!”
“Radar!” Kathy called. “I like Radar! I miss him!”
“I miss him, too, sweetie,” Trapper remarked, standing up. “Thanks, Lou … I’m going to try to get through now.”
“Go ahead, John. Say hello to Radar for me.”
“I will.”
Trapper went upstairs into his study and closed the door. He sat at his desk and stared at the phone for a few moments. Then he opened a desk drawer and took out his address book and found the page he needed. He poured a generous measure of Scotch into a tumbler, picked up the receiver and dialed for the operator.
“Aw, sir, not this again!” Radar complained as Hawkeye tailed him around the office.
“It’s just a little three-day R&R form. Just mix it in with your reports and have Potter sign it!”
“Colonel Potter will tan my hide if he finds out I pulled a fast one on him like that. And-and-and he’s gonna find out because you’ll be in Tokyo, not here where he’ll be finding out and then I’m a dead duck!” Radar opened the file cabinet and rummaged through it as a way to avoid looking at Hawkeye. Hawkeye had a look that made most everyone do what he wanted and Radar was determined to resist this time.
“Radar …”
“What?”
“Look at me, Radar.”
“No way no how no sir, sir! I know better than that!”
“Radarrrrr …” Hawkeye cooed.
“Oh, quit it, sir! Oh … the phone!”
“Now you’re just inventing —” Hawkeye was interrupted by the loud ring of the phone.
“I gotta get that … it’s my job, y’know. Maybe you should go and … do your job … sir?”
Hawkeye slouched into a chair, throwing one leg carelessly over the arm. “I can wait.”
“Aw, jeez …” Radar muttered, then picked up the phone. “Four-oh-seven-seven MASH, this is Corporal Radar O’Reilly speaking. Oh … hey, Sparky! A call from the States, huh? For me? Oh, boy … oh, no … I hope Mom and Uncle Ed are okay … yeah … patch it through.” Radar waited, then said, “Ma? Is that you, Ma? Is everything okay, I … oh my gosh, Captain McIntyre!”
Hawkeye sat up straight, staring at Radar, his mouth falling open.
“Well, gee, how are you, sir? It’s terrific to hear from you,” Radar said.
“How am I? How are you, Radar? How’s everyone holdin’ up? Is … god, Radar, I have to know how it happened."
“How what happened?” Radar asked, confused.
“Hawkeye! Jesus, Radar … how did he … who let it … how did he die, Radar? I have to know who I’m going to beat to a pulp, and if it’s you, it ain’t nothin’ personal, but you killed my best buddy and someone’s gotta answer for that.”
“Oh! Oh, uh … can you hang on for just a sec, sir?” Radar put his hand over the receiver, hissing, “It’s Trapper! He thinks … he thinks you’re dead!”
“Oh my god,” said Hawkeye. He was still hurting over the way Trapper had left the 4077, but he didn’t wish this on anyone. His own father was still recovering from being misinformed about his son’s death. He stood up and held out his hand. “Give me that phone.”
“What … Radar … what’s the big idea … I just need to —” Trapper protested.
“So, I had to die for you to finally pick up the phone, you son of a bitch?” another voice barked into his ear.
Trapper’s jaw dropped and he fumbled before the phone receiver fell from his hand.
“Yeah, that’s right,” said the voice, softer this time. “Can’t get rid of me that easily.”
That voice … so familiar that Trapper felt weak with the sense of relief that flooded his brain.
“Hawk …” he finally managed to get out.
“How are ya, Trap?”
“Hawkeye … what the hell?”
“Clerical error. A doozy. That’s the army for ya. Do you know what a bureaucratic nightmare it is to come back from the dead? I need to get Lazarus’s phone number — I got a few questions for him.”
“Hawkeye …” Trapper said, his voice cracking, wiping suddenly damp eyes with the back of his hand.
“Hey, Trapper … don’t go to pieces on me. I’m fine, I promise. I … god, I would have gotten in touch if I’d had any inkling that you’d heard about my so-called passing. They telegrammed my dad, of course. He spent two terrible days convinced I was gone. But he didn’t waste any time in starting to give away some of my goddamned stuff! Even my —”
“Golf clubs?” Trapper interrupted.
“Golf clubs!” Hawkeye exclaimed. “Yeah! Wait … how …”
“My buddy bought them at a second-hand store during a weekend away in Crabapple Cove.”
“Son of a bitch. Dad always hated that I played golf. Thinks it's a snob’s game.”
“We were starting a round and I saw your name stitched on the bag. Tim hadn’t gotten around to having it removed yet.”
“Oh my god,” Hawkeye said. “That’s one hell of a coincidence … and one hell of a way to find out the bad news. I’m sorry, Trap.”
“It’s okay, Hawk. I’m just … god, I’m glad you’re still kicking around. I just had to find out what happened. I just had to …”
“Talk to someone who knew me?”
“Yeah. Tell Radar it was good to hear his voice, too.”
“I will. Hey, Trap? I gotta ask … do you —”
“I got your clubs, Hawkeye.”
“Oh, that’s terrific!”
“Tim said he could deal with owning a dead man’s clubs … but then finding out that dead man was a pal of mine … that was too much for him to handle. Said they felt cursed.”
“They are! Even when I was alive. But they’re my cursed clubs.”
“You’ll just have to come down to Boston to get ’em.”
“You don’t need to hold my clubs hostage to see me when I get back, Trap.”
It felt good to hear Hawkeye say when and not if he got back from the war.
“I dunno,” Trapper muttered. “I feel like a heel for not … writing or callin’ or nothin’. It was just too hard, Hawk. It was so hard leavin’ when you were in Tokyo. I kept buggin’ Radar to call you over and over again. And then we ran out of time and Radar asked if I wanted to leave a note …”
“I know,” Hawkeye said softly.
“I didn’t know what to say, Hawk. What could I write in a stupid note that would mean … would tell you …” Trapper trailed off, unable even now to verbally express how much Hawkeye Pierce’s friendship had meant to him during his stint at the 4077.
Hawkeye waited patiently on the line while Trapper took a breath, a sip of Scotch, and continued, “… and then so much time passed and I figured you’d be pretty sore at me and it was just easier to …”
“Wait until one of us was dead?”
Trapper chuckled. “Pretty much. You know me, Hawk. I’m lousy with words. I’m not like you.”
“I miss you, Trap.”
“… I miss you, too, Hawkeye. I don’t miss the camp. I don’t miss the long hours and the mangled kids and the boredom, but I miss you. My friends. I don’t let anyone call me Trapper anymore. Just you guys.”
“We’re honored,” said Hawkeye and Trapper could hear the smile in his voice.
“You keepin’ outta trouble there?”
“Never.”
“Good boy. You, uh … how’s the new guy?”
“Not so new anymore, but he’s great. His name is BJ. I think you’d like him. He’s been a great help keeping our still running and making Frank’s life a misery. One helluva surgeon.”
Trapper felt an irrational pang of jealousy. Picturing Hawk raising a martini glass with someone who wasn’t him. Pulling pranks on Frank Burns.
“Well, that’s good,” he said. “I’m glad you’re … I’m just glad you’re all right, Hawk. I should, uh, go … this is costing me a fortune.”
“Hey, Trap?”
“Yeah?”
“Don’t be a stranger, okay? You know where to find me. Drop me a line sometime. Send me some dirty pictures.”
Trapper laughed softly.
“You can throw some nudist magazines in there while you’re at it.”
“I will. I promise.” Trapper blew a breath out his nose, not wanting to cut the connection. As if Hawk would stop being alive and real if he hung up the phone.
“I’m okay, Trap. I really am. You take care of yourself, okay?”
“Okay,” Trapper murmured. “Bye, Hawk.”
“Bye, friend.”
The call disconnected and Trapper hung up. And then he put his head in his hands and wept silently, shoulders shaking, not wanting to disturb Louise or the girls. He wasn’t sure if it was relief or residual grief, or a mix of both, but whatever it was needed out of his system.
He’s okay. He’s okay. He just needs to stay okay.
He looked over at Hawkeye’s golf clubs in the corner of his den. He managed a watery smile, allowing himself to picture a day when he and Hawk would hit the links together and laugh their way through all eighteen holes. It was a day that would come … he needed to believe that.