That famous quip: “Horse Hockey!”
That famous quip: “Horse Hockey!”
It echoed through the mist, gruff and wonderfully familiar, instantly breaking the quiet of the sky.
Margaret stepped out of the chopper.
Her uniform was pristine.
Not a single wrinkle.
She looked up.
There, standing next to a battered green Jeep, was Colonel Sherman T. Potter.
He was holding a paintbrush, a half-finished canvas resting on an easel beside him.
“Took you long enough, Major,” Potter said, that signature twinkle returning to his eyes.
Margaret’s breath caught.
To his right, Father Mulcahy offered a gentle, reassuring smile. “We’ve been keeping a seat warm for you in the mess tent, Margaret. Though I’m afraid the food hasn’t improved.”
Charles Emerson Winchester III stood nearby, offering a dignified, immaculate bow. “Finally. Some refined company to elevate the dreadful local discourse.”
Even Henry Blake and Trapper John were there, lounging in the background, raising a pair of martini glasses in her direction.
Margaret looked at them.
All of them.
The boys.
The sting of leaving the earthly world vanished completely.
She stood tall, shoulders back, a radiant smile breaking across her face.
“Well,” she said, her voice full of that old, fiery spark. “Someone has to get this outfit back into shape. You all look like a bunch of unmade beds.”
Potter chuckled, slapping his knee. “Same old Margaret.”
He pointed toward a set of wooden double doors that looked suspiciously like the Officer’s Club.
“Drinks are on the house, Major,” Potter said warmly. “Welcome home.”
Margaret Houlihan didn’t salute this time.
She didn’t need to.
She just walked forward to join her friends, the orchestra swelling one last time—not with a sad melody, but with the warm, joyous sound of endless laughter.
