“Don’t just stand there with your teeth in your mouth, Frank! The man is having an attack!” Hawkeye barked, effortlessly pivoting from conspirator to panicked physician.

Frank dropped his flashlight, rushing forward, his medical training fighting a losing battle against his military panic. “An attack? What kind of attack? Was there a sniper? Did you shoot him, Pierce?!”

“He has acute appendicitis, you idiot!” Hawkeye shoved Frank aside, grabbing Lacy by the shoulders. “He was complaining of pain in the mess tent, came in here for a drink to dull it, and collapsed! Help B.J. grab his legs!”

B.J. hesitated for a fraction of a second. He looked at the unconscious man, then at Hawkeye’s desperate, pleading eyes. With a heavy sigh that sounded like the surrender of his own soul, B.J. grabbed Lacy’s boots.

They hauled the heavy Colonel out of the Swamp, shouting for corpsmen. The camp, usually dead quiet at this hour unless choppers were landing, burst into frantic activity.

By the time they got Lacy onto a table in the O.R., Colonel Potter had arrived, hastily buttoning his pajama top over his undershirt.

“What in the name of jumping Jehoshaphat is going on here?” Potter demanded, pushing his way through the swinging doors.

“Acute appendicitis, Colonel,” Hawkeye lied flawlessly as he scrubbed his hands furiously at the sink. “Classic presentation. Rebound tenderness in the lower right quadrant, rigid abdomen. He passed out from the pain.”

Potter stepped up to the table, looking down at the peacefully slumbering Lacy. He poked a finger into Lacy’s abdomen. “He doesn’t look like he’s in pain now.”

“He ruptured, Sherman,” Hawkeye lied again, doubling down on the medical perjury. If he was going to hell, he might as well buy a first-class ticket. “The pain subsides momentarily right after the appendix bursts. We have to open him up right now before peritonitis sets in and kills him.”

Margaret Houlihan was already gowned and gloved. “Vitals are stable, Colonel. But if Captain Pierce says it ruptured, we need to move.”

“Alright, Pierce, get in there. I’ll assist,” Potter said, moving toward the scrub sinks.

“No!” Hawkeye shouted, perhaps a little too forcefully. He took a deep breath, trying to calm his racing heart. “No, Colonel. You need your rest. B.J. and I have this. It’s routine.”

Potter looked at him, his bushy eyebrows knitting together. He looked at B.J., who was standing rigid near the back wall, his hands firmly stuffed in his pockets, refusing to look anyone in the eye. Potter was a seasoned doctor and an old cavalry man; he knew when a horse was spooked. But the patient was on the table, and the clock was ticking.

“Alright, Pierce. He’s your patient. But you keep me informed,” Potter ordered, turning on his heel and leaving the O.R.

Frank Burns, who had finally managed to put on a surgical gown over his pajamas, stepped up to the table. “I should perform the surgery. As the ranking officer—”

“Frank, if you touch this man with a sharp object, I will personally sew your lips to your forehead,” Hawkeye threatened, his voice dripping with ice. “Margaret, scalpel.”

Margaret hesitated. She looked from Hawkeye’s intense eyes to the completely unscrubbed B.J. in the corner. “Captain Hunnicutt? Aren’t you going to assist?”

“No, Major,” B.J. said, his voice flat, devoid of emotion. “I am simply observing. Captain Pierce is flying solo tonight.”

Margaret frowned, sensing the massive ethical chasm opening up beneath their feet, but military discipline and O.R. protocol won out. She slapped the scalpel into Hawkeye’s hand.

Hawkeye looked down at the expanse of iodine-stained skin. His hand hovered over the lower right quadrant. This was it. The moment of truth. He was about to cut into healthy tissue. He was breaking the most sacred vow he had ever taken.

He glanced up at B.J., seeking some sort of absolution, or maybe condemnation. B.J. just turned his back, facing the canvas wall of the O.R., refusing to be a witness.

With a steady hand, Hawkeye made the incision.

Ten minutes later, he held up the small, worm-like organ with a pair of forceps. It was perfectly pink. Perfectly healthy.

Margaret stared at it. “Captain… that appendix… it’s not inflamed. It hasn’t ruptured.”

“Microscopic inflammation, Margaret,” Hawkeye lied smoothly, tossing the healthy organ into a stainless steel basin with a dull clink. “Very tricky. Hard to see with the naked eye. Good thing we got it out when we did.”

He began to sew the Colonel back up. Every stitch felt like a chain binding his conscience.

The next morning, the sun rose over a quiet 4077th. There was no artillery barrage in the distance. There were no choppers incoming.

Colonel Lacy awoke in post-op, furious, confused, and grounded. With the commanding officer incapacitated, his Executive Officer had immediately canceled the assault on Hill 403, deeming it “tactically unsound without the Colonel’s leadership.”

Two hundred men in the valley lived to see another sunrise.

Hawkeye sat alone in the Swamp. The morning light filtered through the dusty canvas, catching the floating motes of dust. He had a fresh cup of gin in his hand. He hadn’t slept.

B.J. walked in, completely dressed. He looked at Hawkeye for a long time.

“They called off the attack,” B.J. said quietly.

“I heard,” Hawkeye replied, not looking up.

“You saved a lot of lives today, Hawk.”

Hawkeye took a slow sip of the gin. It tasted like ash. He looked down at his hands, hands that had healed thousands, hands that had just willingly committed an atrocity in the name of peace.

“Did I, Beej?” Hawkeye whispered into the empty air. “Then why do I feel like the casualty?”