“Over hill, over dale…”
Alan’s voice cracked on the words.
He paused, struggling for breath.
Jamie reached out.
A trembling hand resting on his friend’s arm.
Anchoring him.
Supporting him.
Just like they did in the freezing mud of Korea.
They picked up the melody again.
“We will hit the dusty trail…”
They didn’t have the volume they used to.
They didn’t have the youth.
But they had the love.
And it filled every corner of that small church.
Then, from the pew behind them, a soft baritone joined in.
Mike Farrell.
Standing up.
Then another voice, quiet but steady.
Gary Burghoff.
Then Jeff.
Then the crew.
Then the family.
Soon, the fragile duet swelled into a chorus.
A room full of people, bridging the gap between a television screen and real life.
Singing the U.S. Artillery March for the woman who embodied its spirit.
“And those caissons go rolling along.”
When the final note faded, it didn’t leave an empty silence.
It left a profound, heavy peace.
Alan stood there for a long moment, looking at the photograph on the casket.
Margaret.
Golden hair. Sharp uniform.
Fierce. Beautiful. Unbreakable.
For once in his life, Hawkeye Pierce didn’t have a punchline.
He didn’t have a sarcastic quip to deflect the pain.
He just had a broken heart.
Slowly, fighting the tremors in his arm, Alan raised his right hand to his brow.
A slow, deliberate, perfect salute.
Beside him, Jamie straightened his posture as best as he could.
He raised his hand, too.
Not as actors playing a part.
Not as soldiers in a forgotten war.
But as brothers.
Saying goodbye to their sister.
“Goodbye, Margaret,” Alan whispered, his voice barely carrying past the first row. “We’ll see you at the next aid station.”
Jamie’s aide gently helped him back into his wheelchair.
Mike stepped forward to help Alan back to his seat.
The service ended.
The tears dried.
But the love remained.
Loretta Swit was gone.
But as long as there was a screen, a memory, and a song to sing…
Major Margaret Houlihan would live forever.
Dismissed with honor.
And finally at peace.
