Disclaimer: No, still don't own it.
Author's Notes: Just a small story I wrote in honour of Mother's Day. Also my first non HM fanfiction. Read, enjoy and, please, leave a review!
Dedication: This story is dedicated to my mother, who is a fellow M*A*S*H fan, and introduced me to the show, for which I am, and always will be, extremely grateful.


Dear Mom

Uijeongbu, South Korea, 1952:

Hawkeye sat down on his cot and rested his head in his hands. He couldn't stop thinking about that poor little girl. The one who had died on his table that day. He closed his eyes and tried to clear his thoughts, but he couldn't get her out of his head. He thought about what others did when they felt depressed. Drink, play pranks on someone, write a letter to a dead psychiatrist, more drinking... hold on. That's it. He could pour his feelings out in a letter. But who should he write to? The answer to that question was actually quite obvious. He took a paper and a pen and began to write.

'Dear Mom.

I must admit I feel a bit foolish writing to my dead mother. Writing letters for a dead person would have been put under crazy in my book, but even psychiatrists does it so why shouldn't I? It's been some pretty rough days over here. Business is far too good for my liking, but then again, one casualty is one too many.

Today we had another batch; all civilian. And I operated on a small girl. I don't know how long I was working to save that one fragile life. But I couldn't. She died today, July 27, 1952.

I have to say I'm feeling a bit depressed because of the girl. She was way too young to die, and I wish I could have done something for her. Right now my two bunkmates B.J. and Charles are in the Officer's Club, drinking their brains out. I think they understand why I'm not there with them. I just can't handle things anymore.

One day the war will be over, but how can I forget the face of every single person who has died on my table? I wish I could yell at Death and tell him to stay away, but Death always seems to hide from me, except when he takes my patients away. And that happens too many times'

Hawkeye paused and listened to the sounds of a couple of drunken GIs. They were singing some kind of song in a foreign tongue.

'Dad is okay, as always. Nothing can take him down as you know. If he knew I was writing this he would probably laugh and tell me to write a greeting from him. I bet all of my other friends would say the same. If you are sitting up there, I guess you know more about them than I do. You might even know more about me.

I wish I could go home to Dad, to Maine, but most of all I wish you were there, waiting for me too. I wish I could see you one last time and tell you some of this in person. But maybe it's for the best. But I wish you could send me a letter and tell me how you are. I miss you, I really do. Even though it's many years since you passed away, I still remember everything about you! And I am angry that you were taking away from me.

Does this sound childish? I hope not. I am an adult now; have been for some time.

I wish I could say something else, but I can't. Hopefully everything will be war will come to an end, and we'll all go home unharmed.

Love, your now grown-up son

Benjamin'

Mom had always called him Benjamin, never Hawkeye. He sighed and put the letter away. He turned off the light and soon fell in a peaceful sleep. The letter was caught in a draft and fell to the floor. Later B.J. came half-stumbling through the door to the SWAMP. He noticed the piece of paper and the floor took it and began to read it. He quickly realised what he had found and looked at his sleeping bunkmate. He quickly put it on Hawkeye's footlocker before he lay down on his bed and fell asleep.


USA, many years before:

Joan sat down on her bed. Her eyes were red and puffy from crying. Her father, Benjamin, had just been killed in a car crash! A car crash had taken her father's life! She sighed and took a piece of paper. First she thought about writing a poem, but she had never been good at that. Then she thought about writing a story, but she was not in the mood.

Think! She instructed herself. What do others so when they're depressed?

Suddenly she got an idea. She grabbed her pen and began to write.

'Dear Benjamin.

I must admit I'm feeling a bit foolish writing to my no-where born son. Writing letters to people who hasn't been born yet seems kind of crazy, but I have something on my mind, that I wish to share with you. You see..."

That was the night she decided her first son would be called Benjamin.

The End