“I’m going to see Trapper today.”

That was the first thought Alan Alda had when he opened his eyes on Christmas Eve.

Not presents.
Not family dinners.
Just that name.

Trapper.

At 89, nothing moved quickly anymore. Parkinson’s had taught him patience the hard way. Every morning was a ritual now—sweater, coat, scarf—hands trembling, breath measured, pride carefully folded away.

A car drove him to the cemetery as New York slowly woke up.

When it stopped, the driver rushed around to help.

Alan lifted a hand.

“No,” he said gently, gripping his cane.
“This part… I need to do myself.”

From the parking lot to Wayne Rogers’ grave was barely a hundred meters.

On a good day, it was a two-minute walk.

For Alan Alda, it took fifteen.

Each step cost him something.
His legs shook.
The cane trembled in his hand.
Cold air burned his lungs.

A groundskeeper started toward him.

“Sir, can I—”

Alan shook his head, breath heavy but eyes steady.

“I need to walk to him on my own.”

So he did.

One slow step at a time.
Boots crunching against frozen grass.
Winter biting at his face.

Not once did he turn back.

Because at the end of that path wasn’t just a gravestone.

It was his friend.
His partner.
His first on-screen brother.

Trapper.

When he finally reached it, he stopped.

A simple marker:

WAYNE ROGERS
1933–2015

Alan planted his cane, chest heaving, and just stood there.

Then, barely louder than the wind, he whispered:

“Trapper… I’m here.”

His shaking hand rested on the stone.

“Ten years,” he said softly.
“Ten years since you left. And I still miss you.”

A smile broke through the tears.

“Eighty-nine now,” he murmured.
“Walking like a baby deer.”
He chuckled. “Parkinson’s took a lot from me… but it didn’t take you.”

He stared at the name, and the years rushed back.

“1972,” he said.
“Two kids who had no idea what that little show would become.”

“Hawkeye and Trapper. Two smart-mouth surgeons at the end of the world.”

He wiped his eyes.

“First week, strangers.
Second week, friends.
By the third… brothers.”

The wind moved through the trees like a held breath.

“People ask me who I loved more,” Alan continued.
“B.J. or Trapper.”

He shook his head.

“B.J. was my friend.”
He leaned closer to the stone.
“But you… you were my brother.”

His voice cracked.

“You’d look at me, and I’d know the joke before you said it. I’d look at you, and you knew when I was about to go too far.”

“That’s what brothers do.
They don’t need scripts.
They just know.”

An old man stood in the cold, speaking to granite like it could answer back.

“Trapper,” he whispered, “Hawkeye misses you.”

His legs began to ache. His back protested. Time reminded him who was in charge.

So he straightened his shoulders.

He placed his hand flat on the stone one last time.

“Okay, buddy,” he said quietly.
“I made it. I kept my promise. I came for Christmas.”

A tear slipped free.

“Save me a chair up there, will you? One day we’ll run lines again. No cameras. No notes. Just you and me.”

He gave the stone a gentle pat—like a shoulder.

“Goodnight, Trapper,” he whispered.
“From Hawkeye. Always.”

Then he turned and began the long, careful walk back.

To anyone watching, it was just an old man leaving a grave on Christmas Eve.

But if you ever loved MAS*H…
If you ever watched two surgeons laugh their way through hell…

You know what really happened that morning.

Hawkeye went to see Trapper.

And even with shaking hands and unsteady legs—
he never stopped walking toward his brother. 💔🕯️

************

“I’m going to see Trapper today.”

That was the first thought that hit me when I opened my eyes on Christmas Eve morning. Not the usual stuff—no thoughts about presents under the tree, no family dinner plans, nothing about the grandkids tearing through wrapping paper. Just that one name, clear as a bell.

Trapper.

I’m eighty-nine now. Born in ’36, so yeah, the math checks out. Time doesn’t fly anymore; it creeps, especially with Parkinson’s riding shotgun. It started showing up seriously around 2015, the same year Wayne left us. Funny how that lines up. The disease has been my unwelcome houseguest ever since—tremors, stiffness, the whole package. But I’ve learned to live with it. Boxing lessons, moving to music, all those little tricks to keep the body guessing. It’s become almost a full-time job, figuring out new ways to button a shirt or open a jar. But on this morning, none of that mattered. I was going to see Trapper.

Arlene was still asleep beside me. We’ve been married sixty-eight years now—can you believe it? She stirred when I sat up, the mattress creaking under my weight like it was complaining too.

“You okay, Alan?” she murmured, her voice thick with sleep.

“Yeah. Just thinking about heading out later.”

She knew what that meant. She always knows. “Take the driver. And bundle up. It’s cold out there.”

I nodded, even though she couldn’t see it in the dim light. “I will.”

Getting dressed was its own little battle. The sweater first—pull it over my head slowly, no sudden moves or the tremors kick in harder. Then the coat, the scarf. My hands shook as I knotted it, but I’ve gotten good at hiding the frustration. Pride’s a stubborn thing, even at my age. Parkinson’s teaches you patience, whether you want the lesson or not.

By the time I was ready, the sun was up, painting the New York skyline in that pale winter light. The city was just waking up—honking taxis, people hustling with coffee cups. Christmas Eve, but it felt quieter than usual. Maybe it was me.

The car was waiting downstairs. My driver, Tom—he’s been with me for years—opened the door without a word. He knows the routine.

“Morning, Mr. Alda. Straight to LAX?”

“Yeah. And Tom? No rush.”

He nodded. “Got it.”

The flight to Los Angeles was smooth. I spent most of it staring out the window, clouds below like a blanket of snow. Memories kept bubbling up, uninvited but welcome.

Wayne Rogers. Trapper John McIntyre. God, where do I even start?

We met in 1972, total strangers. I’d done some Broadway, a few movies, but nothing like this. He’d been around too—Stagecoach West, some guest spots. Neither of us knew MAS*H was going to change everything. The audition process was a blur. They wanted two guys who could bounce off each other like brothers in the Swamp, cracking wise while the world fell apart around us.

First day of rehearsal, we shook hands. “Wayne Rogers.”

“Alan Alda.”

And that was it. But something clicked right away. We both got the humor—the dark kind, the kind that keeps you sane when you’re elbow-deep in someone else’s guts. Hawkeye and Trapper: two smart-ass surgeons in a war that made no sense. We didn’t need much direction. We just… knew.

Those early seasons were magic. The set in Malibu, those fake hills standing in for Korea. Wayne hated driving, so he’d park at my place and I’d drive us up the winding roads. Hour each way. We’d talk about everything—life, acting, dreams. Literally dreams. I’d tell him mine, and he’d interpret them like some Freudian cowboy.

One time, I dreamed I was on stage but couldn’t remember my lines. The audience was waiting, and I froze.

Wayne listened, then said, “That’s about fear of losing control. But listen—the dream’s telling you you’ve got this. You always find the words.”

He was right. He usually was.

On set, we improvised like crazy. Larry Gelbart and Gene Reynolds let us run with it. Remember that episode where we steal the colonel’s jeep? Or the time we distill gin in the tent? Half that stuff was us just riffing. Wayne had this grin—mischievous, warm. You couldn’t help but laugh with him.

People always ask about the departure. Why Trapper left after season three. Truth is, it wasn’t about me. Wayne felt the scripts were shifting—Hawkeye getting more of the spotlight, Trapper becoming the sidekick. He’d signed on thinking we’d be equals, switchable leads. But the writers leaned into what worked, and that was my sarcasm carrying the comedy. Wayne got frustrated. Contract disputes piled on. One day, he just didn’t show up.

It hurt. Not gonna lie. We were brothers on screen, friends off. But life’s messy. He went on to do his thing—investing, business shows. Smart guy, made a fortune. We patched it up quick. Stayed close. Met for dinner every year, just the two of us. Talked about old times, new dreams.

Then 2015. Pneumonia took him on New Year’s Eve. I got the call and… it hit hard. Ten years ago now. Feels like yesterday.

The plane landed. Tom was waiting with the car. Traffic was light—holiday miracle. We headed west, toward Westwood.

Pierce Brothers Westwood Village Memorial Park. Small place, tucked away. Marilyn Monroe’s there, Farrah Fawcett, a bunch of Hollywood legends. And Wayne.

I’d visited before, but not on Christmas Eve. Something about this year felt different. Maybe turning eighty-nine. Maybe the Parkinson’s reminding me time’s not infinite. Or maybe just missing him more.

Tom pulled into the lot. “Want me to come with you, Mr. Alda?”

“No. This part… I need to do alone.”

He understood. Helped me out, handed me the cane. “Take your time.”

The path to Wayne’s spot wasn’t long—maybe a hundred yards. On a good day, two minutes. Today? Fifteen, easy.

Each step was deliberate. Cane first, then left foot, right foot. Tremors made the cane wobble, but I steadied it. Cold air bit my cheeks, burned my lungs. Legs shook like they were arguing with me. A groundskeeper spotted me, started over.

“Sir, need a hand? Golf cart’s right—”

I shook my head, breath coming in puffs. “Thanks. But I’ve got to walk to him myself.”

He backed off, respectful.

Crunch of gravel under boots. Frozen grass. Wind whispering through the palms. I didn’t stop. Couldn’t. Because at the end wasn’t just a wall crypt.

It was my partner. My first on-screen brother.

Trapper.

Finally there. Simple marker in the wall:

WILLIAM WAYNE MCMILLAN ROGERS III

1933 – 2015

I planted the cane, leaned on it. Chest heaving. Just stood for a minute.

Then, quiet as the breeze: “Trapper… I’m here.”

My hand—shaking, always shaking—rested on the cool stone.

“Ten years, buddy. Ten damn years. And I still miss you every day.”

A smile fought through the tears welling up.

“Eighty-nine now. Walking like I’m on ice skates. Parkinson’s is a real son of a bitch. Took a lot—the steady hands, the quick steps. But it didn’t take our memories. Didn’t take you.”

The years flooded back.

“Remember ’72? Two cocky kids thinking this TV thing might be fun. No idea it’d become… this. Hawkeye and Trapper, laughing through the apocalypse.”

I wiped my eyes with the back of my glove.

“First week, we were polite. Second week, buddies. By the third… brothers. You’d give me that look, and I’d know the punchline was coming. I’d start a rant, and you’d rein me in before I went too far.”

“That’s what brothers do. No script needed. Just instinct.”

Wind rustled the leaves overhead.

“Fans always ask—who’d I love more on the show? B.J. or Trapper?”

I leaned closer.

“Mike’s great. Real friend. But you… you were different. My brother.”

Voice cracked then. Couldn’t help it.

“Trapper, Hawkeye misses you. Swamp’s not the same without your golf stories or that godawful martini recipe.”

Legs aching now. Back screaming. Time to wrap it up.

I straightened best I could. Hand flat on the stone one last time.

“Okay, old friend. I made it. Kept the promise—Christmas visit, cross-country for you.”

A tear escaped, cold on my cheek.

“Save me a spot up there, huh? One with a still and a view. We’ll run lines again. No directors, no notes. Just us, cracking wise forever.”

Gentle pat, like tapping a shoulder.

“Goodnight, Trapper.”

“From Hawkeye. Always.”

Turned then. Slow pivot. Started the trek back.

To anyone passing by, just an old guy leaving a cemetery on Christmas Eve.

But if you ever loved MAS*H…

If you ever laughed with two surgeons turning hell into heaven with a joke…

You know what happened.

Hawkeye went to see Trapper.

And even with trembling hands, unsteady legs, and a heart heavy with ten years of missing—

He walked every step to his brother.

Because some bonds? They don’t break. Not war. Not time. Not even death.

Merry Christmas, Wayne.

See you soon.