“You’re out of your mind!” B.J.’s voice cracked, threatening to wake Major Burns in the next tent over, though Frank slept the sleep of the truly empty-headed.
B.J. paced the narrow length of the Swamp, stepping over dirty boots and discarded medical journals. “You are talking about assault, Hawk! You’re talking about mutilating a commanding officer. You’re talking about violating the Hippocratic Oath!”
“The Hippocratic Oath?” Hawkeye slammed his tin cup down on the footlocker. “First, do no harm! That’s the oath, B.J.! What do you call sending two hundred teenagers into a valley heavily fortified by artillery? Is that doing no harm? I’m talking about preventative medicine. We remove one completely useless vestigial organ from a maniac, and we save hundreds of lives. I’d call that a net positive on the ethical ledger!”
“We are doctors, not judges, and certainly not executioners!” B.J. shot back, his usually mild demeanor entirely replaced by righteous fury. “If we do this—if we cut into a perfectly healthy man just to manipulate a military outcome—we are no better than the butchers who send them to war. We lose the only thing that separates us from the madness outside this tent!”
Hawkeye rubbed his temples, suddenly looking incredibly old. The bravado melted away, leaving only desperation. “Beej, I closed up a kid today… his chest was completely hollowed out. There was nothing left to stitch. He kept asking me if he was going to miss his high school prom. I can’t do it again tomorrow. I won’t. If my soul goes to hell for taking a perfectly good piece of meat out of Colonel Lacy, then fine. I’ll pack asbestos underwear. But I’m doing it.”
B.J. stopped pacing. He looked at his friend—his brother in arms, the man who had kept him sane through the most insane circumstances imaginable. “I won’t help you, Hawk. I can’t.”
“I’m not asking you to,” Hawkeye said quietly. “Just… don’t stop me.”
Before B.J. could answer, the flap of the tent was thrown open. Standing there, holding a clipboard and looking perpetually bewildered, was Corporal Radar O’Reilly.
“Uh, sirs?” Radar squeaked, adjusting his round glasses. “Colonel Potter wants to see you both in his office. And… um… Colonel Lacy is in there with him. They’re drinking the good brandy.”
Hawkeye and B.J. exchanged a loaded look. Hawkeye grabbed his fatigue jacket. “Showtime.”
Colonel Sherman T. Potter’s office was a sanctuary of regular army discipline mixed with grandfatherly warmth, complete with a portrait of his wife Mildred on the desk. When Hawkeye and B.J. entered, Potter was pouring a very generous splash of amber liquid into two glasses. Lacy was sitting in the guest chair, looking pleased with himself.
“Ah, the gold dust twins,” Potter barked genially. “Come in, boys. Colonel Lacy here was just telling me about his glorious tactical maneuver for tomorrow morning. Wanted to make sure our blood bank was fully stocked.”
“We’re aware of the Colonel’s… ambitious plans,” B.J. said tightly.
Lacy smirked, lifting his glass. “It takes iron resolve to win a war, Captains. Something you civilian doctors struggle to grasp.”
Hawkeye leaned against the doorframe, a relaxed, almost predatory smile forming on his lips. “You know, Colonel, I was just thinking about that. Your iron resolve. It’s inspiring. In fact, B.J. and I were hoping to toast your inevitable victory tonight. A private send-off in the Swamp. We have a batch of gin that could strip the paint off a jeep. Fit for a conqueror.”
B.J. stared at Hawkeye, his eyes wide with silent warning.
Lacy puffed out his chest. “Well. It’s highly irregular to fraternize with insubordinate draftees. But… a commander must occasionally show himself to be a man of the people. One drink, Pierce. At 2100 hours.”
“We’ll leave a light on,” Hawkeye said cheerfully.
Two hours later, the Swamp was dimly lit. B.J. sat on his bed, rigid, watching as Hawkeye carefully crushed a potent cocktail of sedatives—chloral hydrate, to be exact—into a fine powder. He tipped the powder into a slightly cleaner-than-usual glass and poured a generous measure of their homemade gin over it. The liquid swirled, clouded for a moment, and then settled clear.
“This is the point of no return, Hawk,” B.J. whispered into the darkness.
“I know,” Hawkeye replied, his voice steady.
Right on cue, the tent flap parted. Colonel Lacy stepped in, looking distastefully at the squalor around him. “Good Lord, how do you animals live like this? It smells like a brewery and a latrine had a baby.”
“Atmosphere, Colonel,” Hawkeye grinned, handing him the spiked glass. “To Hill 403. May your victory be swift, and your casualties non-existent.”
Lacy barked a laugh. “I’ll drink to the first part, Pierce.” He downed half the glass in one gulp. He grimaced, wiping his mouth. “God almighty, what is in this? Battery acid?”
“Just a little local flavor,” Hawkeye said smoothly, watching the Colonel like a hawk tracking a field mouse.
Lacy went to take another step, but his boot snagged on the uneven dirt floor. He swayed heavily to the right. “Damn it… tired, I suppose. Been a long…” His words slurred, thick and clumsy. He blinked rapidly, looking around in sudden confusion. “The room is… pitching…”
“It’s just the sea legs, Colonel,” Hawkeye took the glass from his slackening grip.
Lacy’s knees buckled. He let out a low groan, clutching his lower right abdomen—exactly where Hawkeye had subtly directed his arm as he fell. The Colonel hit the dirt floor of the Swamp with a heavy, lifeless thud.
B.J. jumped up, his medical instincts overriding his moral outrage. He knelt beside the unconscious man, checking his pulse. It was slow and steady.
“Is he…?” B.J. started.
“He’s out cold,” Hawkeye said, grabbing his medical bag. “And wouldn’t you know it? He seems to have collapsed from an acute abdominal crisis. We need to get him to the O.R. immediately.”
Just as Hawkeye grabbed the Colonel’s shoulders to drag him out, the tent flap opened again. Major Frank Burns stood there in his silk pajamas, holding a flashlight.
“What is all that racket in—” Frank froze, shining the beam on the unconscious Colonel on the floor, and the two captains standing over him. Frank’s mouth opened and closed like a fish out of water. “By the ghost of General MacArthur… what have you two done?!”
[ Next Chapter ⏩ ]
