A/N: This is just a little random oneshot that popped into my head one day. I don't own any part of MASH.
This is strange, for me to be writing you a letter like this. Truth is, it's the only thing to do that makes sense to me right now. I'd tell you to put yourself in my shoes, but there's no way in hell you'll be able to.
I don't know how I got here. One minute we've being shelled and Radar's trying to find out by which side, and the next thing I know I'm looking up at a white ceiling, something we don't have at the 4077th. Everything was different, too: the place was calm, and things looked…well, different. I was wearing my clothes, but that was the only familiar thing I saw. I could hear music—not anything I'd heard before—and someone was singing. You know how I am; I had to figure out what the hell is going on.
Somehow I've ended up in the year 2000. Or else this is one hell of a dream. There are things that are familiar, but at the same time there are so many strange things. I'll get into that in a bit, but first I want to tell you about the woman. She reminds me of a sweeter version of Hot Lips: blonde hair, blue eyes, tan skin, and legs that go on and on. Her name is Holly Grayson. Apparently she found me lying under a tree when she was out training one of her horses one morning and brought me back to her house.
I can tell you one thing, it was great to eat a meal that didn't include powdered eggs, coffee sludge, or mystery meat. Holly's a helluva cook, too. She can make a damn good sauce for pasta with just tomato sauce, mushrooms, and spices. Igor should take lessons from her.
You wouldn't recognize a lot of things here, Hawk. Typewriters are hardly used anymore; nowadays there are these things called 'computers'. Two different kinds, too…one can sit on a desk, and there's a small version that you can set on your lap and use. Holly has both. She told me about a lot of differences between 1951 and 2000 while we ate. Almost everything is electric these days, and they don't have to worry about generators anymore. Things are a lot smaller, too. Remember Hot Lips' hair dryer? Holly's dryer is a little bigger than Frank's pistol. Phones aren't rotary anymore, either. Instead, they have push button ones...'touchtone', they call them, and tiny little 'cell phones'. Movies aren't on reels and shown on a projection screen anymore; now they're on round discs called DVDs. Music isn't played on records anymore, although they're still around. Now they're on CDs that look just like DVDs.
Styles are different too. People wear fatigues just because they can…you won't catch me dead in those once I get home! Apparently women don't wear dresses like they used to. Jeans seem to be the most common thing for women to wear.
There are too many things that I don't know how to explain or describe. Things are different here. The war is over, but there have been other wars. There was one in Vietnam. I asked Holly about it, but she doesn't talk about it much. I think she lost someone there. Damn wars never change. She also mentioned something about a storm in a desert, but we didn't go into that.
I thought about trying to find out what's happened to all of us. You know, see where we ended up after being in that hellhole. But then I figured, why? What use would it be? I reckon what happens after the war is supposed to happen. Listen to me, talking all philosophical. Whatever happened in that shelling must have knocked something loose in my head.
I don't know if Holly believes much of what I told her. That something happened during the shelling and I ended up here somehow. Hell, I don't know if I believe much of it. Maybe I'm dreaming about all of this…
Margaret's voice sounded far away. "Dr. Pierce, I think he's coming around."
"Trapper? Trap, you still with us?" Hawkeye's voice cut through the darkness.
Slowly Trapper opened his eyes. He saw the olive drab of the post-op tent, the cots filled with recovering GIs nearby, and the worried face of Margaret, as well as a slightly worried but more amused Hawkeye watching him. "What the…"
"You were knocked unconscious during the shelling," Hawkeye informed him. "Nothing major, but you were out for a while…long enough that you had most of the camp worried that something was seriously wrong." Helping Trapper sit up, he grinned. "You're too much of a hardhead for something like that to hurt you too much."
Trapper chuckled slightly, feeling his head throb a bit with the effort. "Do I need to stay here?" He asked his friend and colleague. "I'm in one piece, and I'm sure you could use this bed for someone who's actually wounded."
Hawkeye shook his head. "I want to keep an eye on you. Even though you've got a thick skull, we'd better make sure nothing's seriously damaged." A wounded soldier called for a doctor, so Hawkeye went to the man.
"Get some rest, McIntyre," Margaret advised as she moved on to check the other recovering men.
Trapper lay back down, privately relieved to have been told to stay put. Reaching up, he rubbed his face before folding his hands and resting them on his chest. Hearing an odd crinkling, he reached into the pocket of his shirt.
He pulled out a letter.