January 2026.
Malibu Creek State Park.
California.
The place where everything ended.
And somehow… the place where everything began again.

Alan Alda was about to turn 90.
His legs didn’t work the way they used to.
His hands shook from Parkinson’s.
His memory came and went like a radio losing signal.
Some days, he remembered everything.
Some days, almost nothing.

But he remembered this place.
Always.
Mike Farrell drove him there.

Eighty-seven years old.
Bad back.
Stiff knees.
Still driving.
Still showing up.
“Just a short trip, Hawk,” Mike said.
“Where are we going?” Alan asked.
“You’ll see.”
When the car stopped, Alan looked out the window.
And his breath caught.
He knew this place.
Even when he forgot names.
Even when he forgot dates.

Even when he forgot the face in the mirror—
He remembered here.
The hills.
The sky.
The dirt road leading to where the 4077th once stood.
Eleven years of his life.
Right there.
Mike helped him out of the car.
Slowly. Carefully.
There were no tents.
No Swamp.
No mess hall.
No OR.
Just dirt.

Just hills.
Just California sunlight.
And ghosts.
“Why are we here, Beej?” Alan asked softly.
“There’s nothing left.”
Mike smiled.
“There’s everything left. You just have to look.”
Mike pointed toward the hill.
That hill.
The one Alan had seen from a helicopter—
43 years earlier.
“Do you remember?” Mike asked.
Alan searched the fog.
Then his voice cracked.
“The helicopter…”

“Yes.”
“I was flying away. For the last time.”
“And you looked down,” Mike said gently.
“And you saw—”
“GOODBYE,” Mike finished.
“You spelled it with stones.”
The memory came rushing back.
The helicopter lifting.
The camp shrinking below.

The white stones arranged on the hillside:
G O O D B Y E
Alan had broken down crying then.
So had the world.
106 million people watched that moment.
Because B.J. Hunnicutt said goodbye
without words.
“That’s why we’re here,” Mike said.
“Wait here.”

He walked away—slowly—
his body protesting every step.
Alan watched, confused.
Then he saw Mike bend down.
Pick up a stone.
Then another.
And another.
“Beej?” Alan called.
“What are you spelling?”
Mike didn’t answer.
He kept working.
Hands dusty.
Breathing heavy.
Movements slow.
Stone by stone.

Alan stepped closer, leaning on his cane.
He adjusted his glasses.
And saw it.
The stones weren’t perfect.
They were crooked.
Uneven.
Like the hands that placed them.
Like the men standing there.
But the message was clear.
H A P P Y B I R T H D A Y H A W K
Alan Alda had no words.
His cane slipped from his hand.
His knees buckled.
And he wept.

Not quietly.
Not politely.
He wept like a man who had just been given
the greatest gift of his life.
Mike rushed over and held him.
Two old men.
Standing in a field where a fake war was filmed.
Where a real friendship was forged.
“I couldn’t let you turn 90 thinking I was still saying goodbye,” Mike said.
“Back then, I had to spell GOODBYE.”
“But I never wanted to say goodbye to you.”
“So today, I came back…
to say something different.”
“Why?” Alan whispered.

Mike looked him in the eyes.
“Because you’re still here, Hawk.”
“We’re still here.”
“After everything we’ve lost—
Wayne. Loretta. Bill. Harry. David…”
“We’re still standing.”
“And as long as we are—
I don’t want to say goodbye.”
“I want to say HAPPY BIRTHDAY.”
Alan finally spoke.

“Back then, I saw GOODBYE from a helicopter… flying away.”
“Today,” he said, looking at the stones,
“I’m standing right here.”
“Not going anywhere.”
Mike nodded.
“This time, nobody’s leaving.”
They stood there a long time.
Two old soldiers
Two old friends.

Two brothers.
“This is the best birthday present I’ve ever had,” Alan said.
“Better than an Emmy?”
“Better than anything.”
“Because Emmys don’t spell messages in the dirt.”
Before they left, Alan turned back one last time.
At the field.
The hills.

The stones.
HAPPY BIRTHDAY HAWK
“Same time next year?” Alan asked.
Mike smiled.
“Same time next year.
I’ll spell something new.”
The stones stayed behind.
Maybe the wind would scatter them.
Maybe no one would ever know they were there.

It didn’t matter.
The message wasn’t for the world.
It was for one man.
In 1983, B.J. taught us how to say goodbye.
In 2026, he taught us how to stay.
Some friendships don’t fade.
They just find new words.