To judge him only by his looks, Sergeant Terence McKay is a man for whom substance counts more than appearances. His age reveals that he has either made his career during the Civil War or has served for most of the Indian Wars; in either case, he can boast some fifteen years or more of fighting experience. Despite his status as commander of the Palmer Creek garrison, he is as scruffy as any of his soldiers. We never see him clean shaven. We never see his uniform fully buttoned up. We often see him with orders tucked into his belt and some money ready for all practical occasions. But especially we never see him out of uniform: he is above all a soldier.

   The Army in DQMW

   As the main opponent of the Native Americans during the Indian Wars, the US Cavalry in DQMW is presented from a double point of view: the viewer's and the townsfolk's.
   As a whole, the viewer sees them unequivocally as the bad guys, from Custer and Chivington to their men, a mass of brutish creatures - whose excesses Sully denounces repeatedly while he is Indian Agent ("Last Chance") - devoid of any redeeming trait and supported by the scheming politicians of "A Washington Affair". This is the Army as it appears in episodes such as "The Prisoner", "Sully's Choice", "Washita".
   Then there are one-episode instances in which a single soldier is examined more in depth, and shown in a more favourable light, proportional to the degree in which he detaches himself from the Army: Cpt. Egan in "The Offering" (he repents the gift of infected blankets to the Cheyenne and probably dies), or Sgt. Carver in "Buffalo Soldiers" (he runs away). These characters are shown as essentially decent individuals, but it's not clear whether this is the result of a more attentive examination - implying that if we looked at each soldier we'd discover every one is a decent individual deep down - or if this suggests that the only good soldiers, as human beings, are those who acknowledge they're wrong and quit or sacrifice themselves.
   This dilemma gets more complicated with the introduction of O'Connor and McKay. Both are analysed through an arc of six episodes, which is a nice score for a non-regular character. O'Connor can hardly be called a decent individual: a good effort is made to explain what made him the way he is, but in the end he is dismissed as the token villain and is therefore killed. As for McKay, he is undoubtedly a good man; does this make him also a good soldier, or is there an inherent contradiction in this definition? To quote Thoreau's "Civil Disobedience": "A common and natural result of an undue respect for the law is, that you may see a file of soldiers, colonel, captain, corporal, privates, powder-monkeys, and all, marching in admirable order over hill and dale to the wars, against their wills, ay, against their common sense and consciences, which makes it very steep marching indeed, and produces a palpitation of the heart. They have no doubt that it is a damnable business in which they are concerned; they are all peaceably inclined. Now, what are they? Men at all? or small movable forts and magazines, at the service of some unscrupulous man in power?"

   Then, the townsfolk. With a few enlightened exceptions, they are almost unanimous in their opinion of the Native Americans - savages with no rights, to be ruthlessly stamped out, their land open to exploitation, their culture and traditions worse than ignored, unsuspected. Their basic attitude is a mixture of ignorance, prejudice and greed. However their attitude towards the Army, contrary to the viewer's, is often ambiguous. More than once the Army are said to offer protection against the "savages" ("Washita"); at other times the soldiers are just a nuisance, such as when they pick up fights in town ("Reason to Believe"). In time the patience of the townsfolk starts deteriorating. They don't feel protected by the soldiers; they resent their litigious presence; they are glad when the Palmer Creek garrison goes away, just like they would when freed of an annoying natural phenomenon. However, to some individuals, such as Mike and Sully while the latter is in hiding during season 6, the Army poses a definite danger indeed.

   McKay the soldier

   Sgt. McKay's arrival in Colorado Springs with his men ("Moment of Truth") is greeted by Mike with the words "Let's hope they do a better job than the current garrison." Actually, it seems her hope is fulfilled. Judging solely from what we see, McKay's bunch, though rowdy and rude, never misbehave towards the Native Americans, and all the speaking parts, from the young soldier wounded in MOT to the various corporals, show a "human face", as contrasted to some of the earlier episodes. Does this mean that McKay is actually able to keep his soldiers under some control? The sergeant is often seen silently supervising the reservation, by day or night; he takes care of his soldiers when they are wounded, he takes drastic measures against their excesses (he sends away the corporal who beat Cloud Dancing in MOT) and he always exposes himself in person.
   Yet McKay's main trait as a soldier is that he sticks to regulations for better or worse. He defends Cloud Dancing quoting the "rules", but all the same he wants to keep him confined during his convalescence. "Best I could do", he says. It's the best he could do within regulations.
    Because of this, from the moment Sully starts the Palmer Creek uprising, Mike is forced to hold McKay and his men as the enemy. A respectable enemy, but nonetheless somebody with whom there can be no lowering of the guard. Mike begins her connection with McKay with a big act of trust: she decides to tell him where Sully has gone in MOT, choosing him as the lesser evil as opposed to O'Connor. And of course he is the main interlocutor for her pleas on behalf of Sully and of the Cheyenne. Yet, from her point of view, McKay is as dangerous as O'Connor. McKay can be an honourable warrior, but also a tough one. We see him shooting a man point blank in MOT. We see him angered after the uprising, his fury smouldering under the surface, eyes blazing and voice barely under control, as he warns Mike he'll do all he can to catch Sully. He doesn't hesitate to break by main force into the homestead, pushing away Matthew who's trying to bar him the entrance. In his disposing of the Natives' lives, moving them about like cattle from Palmer Creek to the much more notorious reservation of East Fork, he does not behave differently from the commander of a concentration camp. He is dangerous as long as he does not question the government's policy towards the Natives. And no matter that his search for Sully gets nowhere, the longer he stays around Colorado Springs, the fewer are Sully's possibilities of coming home safe: at first because of his wound, then because of his dangerous stay in the woods, at risk of being caught and shot by any soldier (or by Hank and Jake in a fit of mischaracterization).

   McKay the individual

   But who is really McKay beyond his role as a soldier? Is there something more? Let's get back for a moment to his physical description and his appearance in the series. In the MOT script he is marked out by a descriptive cliché - "ruggedly handsome" - which is usually associated with positive characters. The other essential features listed by the script recall to mind the stereotype of the strong, reserved and charismatic hero. The choice of having him played by David Beecroft - a fine actor in himself, with a theatre background, but one who is often associated with soap operas and adventurous-romantic TV movies for his conventional good looks - reinforces from the start the idea that McKay is somehow going to fit into a traditional heroic role. Which is in contrast with his apparent position of mouthpiece for the government's politics, and immediately creates interest and expectation in the viewer.
McKay's nature unfolds slowly, and at first only through subtle hints. Every word he speaks expresses his commitment to his mission - and yet his body language reveals deep contradictions. He walks with shoulders thrown back and arms a little away from the body. His hands are seen closed into fists or open, rarely relaxed. His head is bowed reflectively more often than not. He falls easily into a John Wayne stance, feet apart, weight on one leg, which shows apparent self-assurance. He gestures a lot while he speaks, looking closely into the other person's face; restrained and yet expressive, as if he wanted to drive the point home. He looks like a man who cares about what he does and who he talks to. His eyes show understanding, and also, maybe exactly because of that, a deep sadness, a haunted look which gives him a sort of vulnerability, wipes away any macho impression and enhances the appeal of the character.
   McKay's actions too reveal a complex inner disposition. He appears as a soft-spoken and mostly well-mannered man, if slightly blunt, diffident and sometimes assuming. His above-mentioned tough behaviour is flanked and tinted by a different attitude, one that reveals intelligence, sensitivity and care. He's observant and hard-thinking: witness the attention he puts into searching the homestead, finding Sully's beads and connecting them to his presence at Palmer Creek (ATM). We often see him writing at his desk. However he is also able to act on instinct: he goes personally to warn Mike that they are calling off Sully's search, implying he's dead, and his compassion for her is palpable (RTB). We see his integrity in defending Cloud Dancing and caring for his well-being (MOT). Despite his determination in getting to the truth, he is always put off by Dorothy's and Mike's declaration of ignorance about Sully - another man would have arrested them or menaced them. In general, as the storyline proceeds, he looks more and more disgusted by what he is doing. Rules apply to his conscience too, and it is clear that moral rules are beginning to clash with military rules. (See also the scripts for the episodes quoted here: the conflict in him is continuously evidenced by stage directions.)

   There is a particular aspect in McKay's character which I find a bit awkward to discuss. Especially in the first three episodes of season 6, RTB, ATM and AMOC, McKay is given some inexplicable scenes. In the RTB scene with Matthew, in which he tries to convince him to stay in town and not go in search of Sully, he asks the sheriff to protect his soldiers from the townsfolk. Strange that this should be the concern of the commander of a garrison whose very purpose is to protect the townsfolk from the Dog Soldiers. Then, in AMOC, we have another slightly off-key scene, in which McKay unwittingly reveals to Hank the location of the parleys between Sully, Cloud Dancing and Black Moon, talking blithely of the matter within Hank's earshot and even asking him directions - by now he should know that the Hank of season 6 is not to be trusted. And then there's his most glaring blunder: in ATM McKay gives orders to his men under the very eyes of Daniel, who therefore is able to warn Sully. At first sight, I'd ascribe all this to mere bad writing, because it's impossible that a man experienced enough to be in command of a garrison, and one who has proven to be so attentive to details, should behave in such a careless way. But let's forget the mechanisms behind the story and try to judge these scenes from inside the Colorado Springs world. What do they tell us of McKay? He comes across as sort of naive and maybe not exceedingly bright. From a purely military point of view, he is no fearsome adversary - but, as we already saw, he can be dangerous nonetheless.

   On a little side note, we know nothing of McKay's private life. What does he like, how does he live outside the Army? Has he got any family? This is solely my interpretation, but I think we get one inkling of this through his behaviour with Mike. He consistently shows admiration, respect and empathy towards her, and even when he quarrels with her he treats her as equal (and frankly, lets her walk all over him). Is there also the smallest hint of longing in the way he looks at her? My utterly personal opinion is that in his scenes with Mike three things surface: 1. he's lonely, 2. he would like to have a woman like her by his side, 3. he's a man of enough style not to show his feelings in this sense - if any - with more than a warm look (compare with poor Daniel's bumbling declaration in "Between Friends"). This tells much about what kind of man he could be in his private life. Add to this that in AMOC Daniel tries to convince him to let the Cheyenne go with words like "They want their children to grow free, just like you and I", and while this does not say that McKay has any children, the use of the phrase in relation to him, and his reaction, suggests he would be credible as a family man. Just imagine saying that same thing to the embittered O'Connor...

   McKay and O'Connor

   From my previous analysis of MOT and of the beginning of season 6 - even before we take "Safe Passage" into consideration - emerges the well-rounded picture of a man with his faults and his quirks, but on the whole a good man, principled and possessed of a keen conscience. Which leads us inevitably to a comparison with Sgt. O'Connor, a character at first as complex as McKay. McKay and O'Connor are about the same age, they are likely to have had had similar experiences and possibly a similar outsider background - O'Connor is the son of Irish immigrants, McKay is of Southern origins (to judge by his accent). And McKay too surely saw some friend die, like O'Connor in "One Nation". Then, what is it that prompts McKay to say his famous MOT line "O'Connor, he does things different from me... even though we wear the same uniform, don't make us the same man"? What is it that made O'Connor bitter to the point of vengeful madness, and instead let McKay keep his humanity, or even made him more attuned to the sufferings of those around him?

   The answer is difficult to give and probably lies in the different natures of the two men. Let's analyse O'Connor more in depth. From his first brief appearance at the end of "Last Chance", he is established as a strict enforcer of the government's will, determined to bring order - their order - whatever the cost. He presents the same "rubber wall" attitude of Superintendent Hazen: although the latter is more civil and apparently sympathetic to Sully, neither of them has any understanding of what Sully and Cloud Dancing are trying to do to keep the peace, and both Hazen and O'Connor insist on blindly applying irrational regulations, regardless of the fact that they see under their very eyes a peaceful and well-organised community as it turned out under Sully's direction. Their purpose is clearly the utter extermination of Natives: culturally, from Hazen's point of view, who wants to transform them into Whites; civilly, from O'Connor's, who has the intention of keeping them as subdued as possible. When O'Connor, in "When a Child is Born", announces to Sully that the different tribes have been reassigned to different territories - thus disrupting Cloud Dancing's work to build "one nation" - he sees it as the best way to keep peace. In O'Connor's opinion, Sully's diplomatic efforts, respectful of the different cultures and of the individuals, are "a mess", just like in MOT McKay's efforts to solve the problem of the runaway Cheyenne without more people getting hurt are dismissed by O'Connor as "damage".

   And yet, in "One Nation", the episode which portrays him more fully, O'Connor reveals a substantial difference with Hazen. More than once he declares himself diffident of "the politicians". It can be read between the lines that his attitude is even more radical than Hazen's: were he really left to do things "the Army's way", he'd physically wipe the Natives away. He defends the Army as those who fight and die, as opposed to the civilians who make the rules without having a true comprehension of the problem. When he mentions "his folks" coming to America, he reveals the grudge he bears towards an establishment which, in his opinion, gives everything to the Natives without their having to work for it, while poor people who do all they can to get along end up in the Army to survive and are often killed for their efforts.
   Thus, O'Connor does something that McKay never does: he speaks for his men. McKay is seen as isolated: he relates his superiors' will, which he is uncertain about, but when challenged he brings forward his own opinions (as in AMOC, when he says he doesn't share Daniel's idealism), rather than backing into an apology of the Army. O'Connor, instead, is fiercely loyal to his men. We see it in his attitude towards the doomed Private Reilly (possibly another Irish trooper). He personally wires the young soldier's parents, then keeps watch outside the clinic, and even, in his own way, tries to have his say in the treatment of the wound. He shows his tough affection by accepting to sit by Reilly's bedside, but he is not able to talk to him directly, and in the end he goes away gruffly, unable to express his feelings.

   It is as though O'Connor's human nature had been encrusted under an unbreakable shell. His attitude towards people is constantly challenging and hostile. He disregards the needs of an evidently ill man, forcing him to work, he often uses brutality and points his weapon at unarmed people. He is disrespectful also to Whites such as Michaela ("Mrs. Sully") and McKay himself. He builds up a frightening tension with Sully, established even visually by the staring match in WACIB; McKay's "watchin' for" Sully never reaches the same intensity. From then on it's a crescendo of viciousness: he doesn't stop to check what happens to Sully after wounding him in WACIB, he shoves the pregnant Mike, he sadistically kicks Sully in the wounded leg. In MOT he searches disruptively the homestead and Dorothy's Gazette, he kills the defenceless Walks in the Night and the Arapaho elder. Those cracks in the shell that were visible in "One Nation", those brief insights into his inner soul, are sealed forever.
   And never for a moment does O'Connor show any doubts. McKay is certainly a suspicious man, but O'Connor exhibits paranoid traits, beginning with his obsessive distrust of "politicians", then of the Natives ("calm before the storm... they're up to somethin'") and finally his hatred of Sully, fanatically dragging Sully with him towards self-destruction. All along he feels he's right: that's what poisons his mind, and ultimately kills him.

   On the other hand, McKay is full of doubts. He acts very sure of himself, questioning everybody to get information about Sully, but the results for him are non-existent. Any inquiry on his part is met by a stare of disapproval from Mike, and this is always enough to shut him up and make him lower his eyes contritely as he questions the righteousness of what he's doing, more and more painfully as season 6 proceeds.
   From one point of view, McKay and his men seem to depict the good side of the Army, and at their best they play the role of a peace force, trying to keep the order in town, protecting the trigger-happy citizens from doing justice their way, supervising the reservation in a human way to the point of letting the Cheyenne go in ATM. It would be worse if he weren't there - another man would have rendered Mike's life impossible. However McKay almost never manages to be of effective help to Mike either. He and O'Connor are two sides of the same coin, one more negative and the other more appealing, but in the end both embody negative aspects of the Army: the loose cannon, unmindful of any rule, and the fundamentally nice person, bogged down by regulations and unable to come up with a solution of his own. As opposed to O'Connor, McKay's many doubts at first make him unable to act. It's true that in AMOC he frees the Cheyenne civilians; for the rest, his well-meaning intentions go nowhere. In MOT he begs for Mike's help, promising to help Sully in return, but they arrive too late to prevent Sully and O'Connor from fighting and falling off the cliff. In AMOC he promises Mike he'll work for Sully's pardon in Denver, but despite the fact that in a couple of following episodes we are reminded of a moving exchange of messages between him and Mike as he keeps working on behalf of Sully, he obtains nothing.
   And finally we arrive to "Safe Passage"...

   McKay the dissenter

   In SP McKay's doubt finally sets him apart, and his inability to act becomes his most powerful weapon of protest as he finally goes against the system. At the beginning of the episode we see him drawn and tired, once again unable to answer Mike's accusation that the Army's latest conflict against the Dog Soldiers was in fact a massacre of Natives. When Mike comes to try and talk to him, all he does is stand there as Major Morrison behaves rudely to both of them. As the diplomatic talks unfold, he just stares worriedly, listening in silence to words ("No more dying needlessly") that evidently strike home. It is as though now, no more in charge, he has the opportunity to really reflect on all he has seen and heard.
   When Black Moon surrenders, McKay is still the one who points out that "Handcuffs are Army regulation". Yet he is drawing near the limit of his ability to consent. Morrison decides to ambush the Cheyenne as they are riding safely away according to the treaty. McKay is appalled: this goes completely against his moral principles. He could try to wrestle command from Morrison, suspending him for not upholding the treaty - there's a chance McKay's men would follow their sergeant, seeing how they hesitate when Morrison gives the order to arrest him. Or McKay could use violence to try and stop Morrison. As shown in the episode, it's clear he hasn't the time or the opportunity to do either of these things. And yet the possible dilemma is the same that First Mate Starbuck faces in "Moby Dick": mutiny, murder or acquiescence.
   McKay's Ahab, of course, is not Morrison, but the whole system he is so plainly struggling with. What he does is to choose the road of civil disobedience, refusing to obey the order and thus letting himself be arrested and put into custody together with Black Moon. This brings us to the beautiful scene of him grasping the real condition of Black Moon and making him hide the blood, then compassionately asking for water to relieve Black Moon's coughing. They look at each other with understanding: after all, they are the real losers - honourable warriors who have no way of stopping a war that has no use for honour. Black Moon dies; McKay lives, but on a symbolical plane he could as well have died, because we know how the war is going to end and who is going to win. The beauty of the scene with Black Moon is purely a reflection on the individual. It highlights once again, most clearly and forever the goodness of his soul; but on the large scale of the war, all he manages to do is bring water to a dying man, nothing more.

   This is the destiny of all positive heroes in DQMW. Sully, Cloud Dancing, Michaela herself are powerless to avert the catastrophe that is befalling the Natives. Why are they, as fictional characters, powerless? Because we, today, can't rewrite history. We could wonder why their historical counterparts were powerless to stop the massacre back then. Suffice to say that in the series we see all of them resort to individual solutions - saving a child from the Washita massacre, allowing a group of Cheyenne to reach temporary safety in the North, obtaining that Cloud Dancing be able to come and go freely in Colorado Springs, buying the land of the Natives to prevent ruthless exploitation. In the face of the odds they were presented with, one can look for the ideal meaning of these actions, and say, with Oskar Schindler in Steven Spielberg's famous movie, "Who saves a life saves the world". Mike, Sully and Cloud Dancing can assuage their pain and their rage by comforting themselves that they have done their best and obtained the most they could obtain.

   Epilogue- McKay the civilian?

   But is this enough for McKay? For the man surely it is, but for the soldier? After the Black Moon incident, will he be able to go back to his usual Army life? I find it a pity that DQMW chose not to give us the answer and not to explore this side, just showing him exiting the prison tent, to be seen and heard no more. To return to the question I posed at the beginning of my essay, is there such a thing as a good soldier, or could it be that, in the moment that one reaches the full awareness of the situation, the only option is to quit?
   The question is open. I feel that, given the above-mentioned odds - that is, a state of war that he hasn't desired and can't end - a soldier can try to do his best with what he is given, honestly and painfully, like Captain Miller in another Spielberg war movie, "Saving Private Ryan". That's what McKay does, and it counts. Yet my utterly personal opinion - referring only to McKay and based on what we have known and seen of the character - is that, after SP, Sgt. McKay and the US Cavalry don't have much to say to each other anymore. I don't think he, Terence McKay, will be able to close his eyes and go back to fighting the Natives, not even with the mental reservation that at least he could try to prevent more damage. Thoreau says again: "Unjust laws exist: shall we be content to obey them, or shall we endeavor to amend them, and obey them until we have succeeded, or shall we transgress them at once?" I can very well imagine some other man, just as principled as McKay, choosing to remain in the Army and to live by compromise as McKay did up to then, dissenting when possible but without achieving a clean break, in the hope to amend the system from within. But McKay has already reached the third stage, that of transgression, and I can't see him going backwards from there, not after we have seen so many times his helplessly pained reaction to everything that goes against his conscience. To quote Thoreau for the last time, "If the tax-gatherer, or any other public officer, asks me, as one has done, 'But what shall I do?' my answer is, 'If you really wish to do anything, resign your office.' When the subject has refused allegiance, and the officer has resigned from office, then the revolution is accomplished."

   But this is just another of my flights of fancy, and maybe DQMW never intended to present McKay as a soldier on the verge of resignation. He could overcome his crisis and go on doing his job, thus constituting himself the middle way between the fleeing Carver and the murderous O'Connor, the one who could find himself one day in a key position, able to be influential and prevent some more damage. Sadly, we don't see it, and so we're left to speculate. But if nothing else, to DQMW goes our gratitude for giving us so much food for thought.

An Identity Crisis in Colorado Springs
(top)

The making of the first season of “McKay’s Story”
(Warning: contains BIG spoilers for my first season stories)

    This series of stories evolved in a direction I had not imagined. Well: I knew what I was aiming at. The stories came to my mind more or less all together, and from the beginning there were two fixed points: the ending of “The Red Needle” and the ending of “Knockin’ on Heaven’s Door”. I wanted to get Alison and McKay married before I lost interest - an unfounded fear! - and from "Safe Passage" I had gotten the very strong impression that being in the Army was getting increasingly painful for McKay, although I wasn't sure exactly when and how to get him out of it. All the rest came by consequence.
    Yet I also hoped to have more stories in which McKay behaves as in DQMW - going around on his horse, telling people what they should do only to have them answer back in his face, hanging around the camp tending to his business while people come to appeal to his good heart. I managed to show this only in the rambling “The Army Kittens”. Then two things happened: the stories veered on the psychological and McKay became very domestic.

    The existential trend began in “Sons of the Fire”. The story had started as a humorous tale centred only on McKay and Grandpa Angus, a typical DQMW-like episode on the lines of “somebody stubbornly hurts somebody else he’s fond of, then sees the truth, patches up things and is forgiven”. Then I developed the characters of McKay's parents and suddenly the story changed. I wanted to hear what they thought about McKay, because there was something dangerous surfacing, something that had to do with him being a man of conscience in a ruthless Army. So the story proliferated with all those dialogues about his nature and his destiny.
    The theme popped up also in “… That Never Finds The Day”, which should have been all a different matter. It should even have had a different title, something about acceptance, which of course referred both to McKay living with Alison’s past and the townsfolk facing the presence of the “alien” among them. Then I wrote that tense scene between McKay and Matthew in “The Halloween Unmentionable” ("the night is long that never finds the day"), and it gave me the idea for the change of title. I had already decided that Matthew would have been one of the radicals in “… That Never Finds The Day”, going against McKay despite the different opinion of his family; then it seemed to me that the two should have a reprise of their Halloween conflict. The moment I started thinking about their dialogue, up came immediately the theme of McKay’s belonging in the Army. It seemed that, no matter what I tried to get the characters interested in, they couldn’t restrain themselves from talking about the Army, just like McKay's parents.
    This way, “Knockin’ on Heaven’s Door” (and its true conclusion, “A Time to Forgive”) just precipitated, because the situation was steadily deteriorating and ruining McKay and Alison's life. When I say "the characters have their own life, the stories write themselves" I'm not just talking about the fact that these stories are born from some dark place inside me and they just have to happen this way, as in a sort of self-analysis; I'm also saying that, consciously or not, I gave a number of initial conditions which, just as in a math problem, could lead only to one solution; a microcosm with its own rules. And probably it is actually a good idea to have built the tension throughout all the stories. To me, it works. Yet, when I think about it, it still surprises me. I feel sorry at having made McKay suffer so much.

    The “domestication” of McKay seems to me less justifiable. But this is Mary Sue. For those unfamiliar with Star Trek fandom, "Mary Sue" is a fan fiction genre in which, in its most widely diffused form, the heroine is the embodiment of the writer, the means through which the writer lives out her fantasies. It also has a very derogative sense, that of the perfect, superhuman heroine, totally out of place in the story she is squeezed in - often she comes from the writer's present through time travel, or even is the writer, with her own name and face! - who makes all the regulars look like fools, and has them all fall for her. My Alison doesn't do this. However, biographical data apart (I'm an only child, I have both parents and I've never been dumped!), it's very obvious that Alison is what I am, fear to be, could be, or would like to be. So I should live with it.
    Would a different storyline have been better - one à la Mike and Sully, say, with a long and adventurous courtship, and all the tensions and the nuances generated by such a situation? I don’t know. Maybe I already answered myself. That worked for Mike and Sully; Alison and McKay are different from them. It is good to explore another way of being together. Yet, when I see them behaving so normally, I can’t help missing something. Alison is not a heroine in the traditional sense. I’ve created much bolder heroines, who inspired painters, explored space, sailed with whalers, met face to face with Napoleon. Alison is so down-to-earth. She shows what she’s capable of, adventure-wise, in “The Army Kittens”; then settles into routine, if one can call “routine” the life full of worries of a soldier’s woman. She doesn’t even think she has something to do about Harmon (“… That Never Finds the Day”); she just ignores him. All of her strength is private, like coping with despair in “Knockin' on Heaven's Door”. But maybe this is not wrong, after all. We already have Michaela. Two active, inspirational women in Colorado Springs would be too much. And then… this is my fantasy, right? Maybe what I want right now is being an ordinary person living an ordinary existence. Everybody grows up…

    There were other problems, of course. I haven't always managed to use Mike, Sully and the townsfolk as I would have liked. I created new characters which don't always seem to click - why do I have the impression that Corporal Winters is thoroughly insufferable? And then, I believe I made a total mess with "Balance of Nature", presenting it at first as an alternative story, and then using details from it in other, more mainstream stories. But I think that all in all my saga is turning out well.

    Notes, curiosities, behind-the-scenes, doubts...

    0. "Balance of Nature" - The first story I wrote, adjusting it with the laptop on my knees even as "Safe Passage" aired. Very emotionally charged: as though I needed to kill McKay first and bring him back to life, to exorcise my fears of seeing him die - nice material for psychologists. §:) So, since the main point of the story is symbolical, the plot is very shaky, and makes for some continuity problems (apart from making Mike and Sully go home instead of leaving for the Tongue River Valley): how did Morrison get the gun? What happened to McKay's Cheyenne "father", only remembered in "Knockin' On Heaven's Door"? Why doesn't anybody in the future, considering McKay's career, ever mention the fact that he was shot by Morrison? It should be quite a remarkable thing. And more disturbing, did McKay actually die and was resurrected? Could Mike make such a blunder as to mistake a coma for death? How could he get away without brain damage?
    Finally, writing this I was influenced by my impression that McKay had a vague crush on Dr. Mike, and I thought this very sweet in its honourable hopelessness, a sort of a medieval, courtly thing, in its traditional sense. Alison didn't exist yet...
    For the record, "Runs In The Rain" was the name of a character I played in a Star Trek role-playing game, a Native American officer in Starfleet.
    
    1. "The Army Kittens" - I wrote it after "The Red Needle", and it was difficult to set the scenario, introduce the characters, create a believable plot and put Mike, Sully and the townies in the proper evidence. The plot creaks in some points, such as the fact that I chose not to reveal the name of the Boston businessman responsible for the Windy Creek incidents.

    2. "The Red Needle" - First Alison/McKay story I wrote. I wanted to get them together at once, so we have this strange situation, two lovers getting married without even an official engagement. I also vented my (unfounded) worries for McKay's future in DQMW.
    Alison was "Bonnie" until the last revision! (Inspired by Bonnie Tyler, one of my favourite singers.) McKay's first passionate declarations were addressed to "Bonnie". But all my test readers hated it, so she briefly had another name I don't even remember (something like Elaine) and then I hit on "Alison", a name I've always loved (it means "noble woman").
    The guest star is John Hannah as Captain Coleman.

    3. "All God's Children" - If you look at the date of posting in the "What's New" page, you will see that the title of this story has nothing to do with the almost homonymous soap opera, despite the fact that both involve a Reverend. This was an attempt to diminish the abruptness of McKay's wedding, giving a little background to it, and to bring to the spotlight another townie. In fact I'm not sure where I got the title; I know there's a book called like that, and then there's the first verse of an old Tanita Tikaram song, "Twist In My Sobriety". It just felt right.

    4. "The Halloween Unmentionable" - Simple fun with my favourite Shakespeare play. By now the pattern was established: trying to give room to the townies, while developing McKay's romance. This one turned out pretty well in that sense; McKay is almost a guest star...

    5. "Sons of the Fire" - As I said above, a more complex story than it seemed at first. A lot of things haven't been addressed: was McKay actually born in Savannah? How can his mother be so callous in dismissing her Southern allegiance? How about Grandpa's experience as a Scottish immigrant, and his unique point of view as witness to the better part of the nineteenth century?
    I wrote this one just after "The Red Needle", while I was still in doubt as to McKay's destiny in DQMW (I hadn't seen "Safe Passage" yet, and wasn't bright enough to make inquiries on the Net). I was getting back from buying some cloth for one of my period dresses, and Cloud Dancing's words about the lost land of the fathers sprang into my mind, bringing tears to my eyes. I sprinted home and started writing.

    6. "The Light of the World" - This has been a "work in progress" for long, born more from amused discussions with family and friends than from a single, precise idea. It contains that mysterious question... what does Michaela give Sully for Christmas?

    7. "Out There" - I wrote this one later than other stories such as "... That Never Finds The Day". I wanted to strand Alison in the woods, as expression of a hard time I had had at New Year's Eve (loneliness and danger - quite some party) and also of a nightmare I had once about someone trying to crash through my apartment's door. Strangely, woods have a positive connotations for me, of safety and sweet mystery. I like having been able to use Robert E in this one; another potential friend for McKay.
    The title comes from a song in the TV series "Fame": What do you do in the dead of the night, you'd better have a weapon when a killer comes in sight, in the night air - Is there anybody out there?

    8. "... That Never Finds The Day" - This is one of my favourites. I'm satisfied of how I used the townies, especially Preston, to whom I had already given some good scenes in "The Army Kittens", and whose potential I appreciate a lot. And like Preston, I wonder: what did Alison ever see in Harmon? Has he changed so much from her first love to a total jerk? I just didn't give him all the thought I probably should have... I didn't even think of a guest star to visualise him.
    As in the previous story, McKay's behaviour here is open to discussion. Is his self-control so fragile because he's already feeling the strain of his upcoming breakdown, or did I just get the character wrong? Anyway, it's a good occasion to show McKay and Sully's building friendship, something that I think was possible even in DQMW, despite the daggers they exchange on their first and last meetings... McKay is almost Sully's mirror image, and this can only lead to closeness.

    9. "Justice" - This is short, but also good DQMW, I think. It should have been the prologue to "Telegraph Road", but the story was already bulky as it is, so I split it and made it an independent tale. Setting the stage for a big Hank-Daniel confrontation, which will happen someday, one way or another, trust me...

    10. "Telegraph Road" - I'm afraid that, for all the above-mentioned reasons, I concentrated in this one all the joys and sorrows of being an Army wife, not being able to carry on the theme subsequently. The "Telegraph Road", besides being a Dire Straits song, is symbolic of the difficult communications between Alison and McKay. This story is ever so slightly more daring than the others, but I thought that showing the consequences of stress on a couple's sexual life was an important part of the plot and not just sentimental indulgence.
    McKay's dreams come from personal experience, especially one particularly vivid nightmare in Paris after which I ran out of my hotel room and to the reception and on the terrace, convinced utterly that I had heard the voices of some friends outside the room. Corporal Winters begins to take shape as McKay's friend, being his peer despite the difference in age and rank and the opposite personalities. Colonel John Marlowe is named after John Wayne's character in the John Ford movie "The Horse Soldiers". I toyed for some time with the idea of making him the very same person, but then my character evolved differently - a career officer with wife and children. Anyway, now you should be able to picture Marlowe quite clearly... Also, Private Travis is an homage to Ben Johnson's character in many Ford movies, ex-Confederate officer Travis Tyree. Captain Shelby is named after Commander Elizabeth Shelby in "Star Trek: The Next Generation".

    11. "From Hell's Heart" - This was named for a long time "Home of the Brave", where "home" was Ireland and "the brave" were O'Connor and Fiona. But then I thought it was too confusing, given that it's also a quote from the American Anthem. When I realised the connection between "Moby Dick" and Fiona - no, I hadn't thought of it, when I decided what McKay would give Alison for her birthday! isn't it true that stories write themselves? - the title just reached out and grabbed me. The story stems from all the thought I've given to O'Connor, from just dismissing him as "the other sergeant" to understanding his complexity and wanting to add another layer to him, albeit posthumously. I was a bit worried that basing a whole story on a guest character would be too much, but I feel my Fiona stood the test. The guest stars are Susan Gibney as Fiona (Leah Brahms in TNG, but especially a guest star in feisty roles on various TV series, for example "The Pretender") and Liam Neeson as Micheál Donnelly (hey, it's my story...!).

    12. "Knockin' On Heaven's Door" - I'm rather satisfied of this one. Captain Bannon is the “disposable” McKay. An honourable and somewhat principled soldier, he is nonetheless the victim, like the equally honourable Two Streams. The intention of the tale is to show the flood of the war, which wipes away good soldiers on both sides (Two Streams and Bannon) and throws others on the banks of life (McKay), while a few have the strength, or maybe the resilience of youth, to go on and fight their personal battle (Winters).
    So, was McKay's breakdown justified? Or, is there any breakdown? I've received mixed reviews on this one - some say he just does the rational thing and leaves a situation he doesn't identify with anymore, and the emotional turmoil is exaggerated. I tried to scatter pointers to show that, although he "ain't goin' nuts", he *is* badly shaken, and will need some healing. Let's see all that happens to him in just a few days, even setting aside twenty years of war: his wife is pregnant (more responsibilities), his commander gives him an ultimatum (for his own good, but anyway...), he botches the handling of Sully and Cloud Dancing, he gets inches from being butchered by Dog Soldiers, he is torn between his newly-found loyalty for Bannon and the need to protect the Sioux village, he sees the flower of the Cavalry trying to rape a girl and is ready to kill them in cold blood, and finally the mysterious old Indian, the projection of his very saviour in "Balance of Nature", shoots him. With so many contradictions tearing him apart, is it any wonder that his farewell to the Army is traumatic?
     Corporal Winters here gains a first name, in honour of my favourite Star Trek novelist, Diane Duane. I later discovered it means "the shadowy one". Inspiring. The character gets more sharply defined here, not only as a close friend, but as the ideal heir of McKay's Army legacy.

McKay's Name
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As often happens in DQMW, McKay was named after an actual person, Greg McKay, the webmaster of the CBS DQMW website. The name had previously appeared in "The Operation": Dr. Michael McKay is mentioned, a colleague of Mike's father at the Massachussets General Hospital in Boston. Moreover, two characters named Ben and Ryan McKay appear in "California", the pilot of the series dedicated to Hank that sadly was never picked up. (Thanks Sunny!)
It is possible that the name "Terence" (spelled this way in the "Moment of Truth" script) was chosen after director Terrence O'Hara.

Who's Corporal Winters?
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A character named Corporal Winters is featured often in my stories. A "Corporal Winters" appears in "A Matter of Conscience" too. When Michaela goes to talk with Sgt. McKay about Sully's pardon, he sends this Winters, a rather unremarkable chap, to fetch him something to write on. However, in "Reason to Believe", McKay is seen talking to another young corporal, identified only as Corporal #2. This one looks more spirited, with a rather sensitive look, vaguely reminiscent of the actor Jeffrey Hunter. He is the one I've always visualised as the ideal subordinate for McKay. So, since I like the face of the one and the name of the other, I decided that the man McKay calls Winters is the young and bright corporal from "Reason to Believe". The actor is David Pearce Roberts, the same one who appears as Caleb in "Dr. Mike's Dream" and as the Sergeant in "Happily Ever After" (credited as Pearce Roberts). This last thing actually poses some continuity problems, but I'll glibly choose to overlook it!
(Thanks to Marilyn for the info.)

Pictures courtesy of Cinnamon.
Look for more "Corporal Winters" images in the Reason To Believe pictures page.

McKay's Story