“Three!”
The lock clicked as Hawkeye turned it, and the door swung open just as Frank was preparing to throw his narrow shoulders against it. Frank stumbled forward, nearly face-planting into Hawkeye’s chest.
“Watch it, Frank, you’ll wrinkle my war weariness,” Hawkeye deadpanned, blocking Frank’s view of Radar, who was frantically trying to pull his bloody sleeve back up.
“What is the meaning of this, Pierce?” Frank sputtered, straightening his cap. “Hiding in the scrub room! Shirking your duties! I’m putting you on report.”
“I’m treating a patient, Major,” Hawkeye said coolly. “Corporal O’Reilly sustained an injury during the mortar attack. I was assessing him.”
Frank’s eyes darted around Hawkeye and locked onto Radar, who was shivering despite the sweltering heat of the tent. Frank’s nose twitched; he smelled blood, and more importantly, he smelled vulnerability.
“An injury?” Frank pushed past Hawkeye, his boots clicking sharply on the linoleum. “Let me see it, Corporal. As second-in-command, it is my duty to inspect wounded personnel.”
“It’s just a scratch, sir,” Radar whispered, backing into the corner like a hunted animal. “Captain Pierce already fixed it.”
“Nonsense! I am the superior officer, and I demand to see the injury!” Frank lunged forward and grabbed Radar’s left wrist.
“Frank, let him go!” Hawkeye snarled, stepping forward.
But it was too late. In the struggle, Radar’s sleeve ripped further. The bloody laceration was visible, but so was the hand.
Frank froze. His eyes widened, his jaw dropping as he stared at Radar’s left hand. The short, fused digits. The structural anomaly. For a moment, the room was dead silent. Then, a slow, sickeningly triumphant smile spread across Frank Burns’ face.
“Well, well, well,” Frank breathed, his voice dripping with venomous glee. “What do we have here? This isn’t a war wound. This is… this is a deformity!”
Radar squeezed his eyes shut, his chin trembling. “Please, Major…”
“Please? Please?!” Frank cackled, dropping Radar’s arm as if he had touched a leper. “Do you realize what this means, Pierce? Do you realize what this enlisted man has done?”
“He’s bled on your shiny shoes, Frank? Send him the dry cleaning bill,” Hawkeye stepped between them, his voice dangerously low.
“He has defrauded the United States Army!” Frank yelled, his voice cracking with excitement. “Paragraph 4, Section 2 of the Enlistment Medical Standards clearly states that any severe physical defect, anomaly, or missing digits disqualifies a man from military service! He lied on his physical! He’s an imposter!”
“Frank, he runs the entire camp,” B.J. said, having just stepped into the scrub room, wiping his hands on a towel. He took one look at Radar’s hand, then at Frank’s face, and immediately grasped the situation. “He can type faster with one hand than you can read with two eyes. Who cares?”
“The Army cares, Captain Hunnicutt!” Frank puffed out his chest. “Rules are rules! If we let one deformed clerk slide, next thing you know, we’ll have one-legged infantrymen and blind snipers! This man is a fraud. He shouldn’t be wearing that uniform. He shouldn’t even be here!”
The words hit Radar like a physical blow. The one thing Walter O’Reilly took pride in—his service, his usefulness, his belonging to the bizarre family of the 4077th—was being systematically stripped away by a man who had less moral fiber than a wet noodle.
“I’m going to Colonel Potter,” Frank declared, practically vibrating with bureaucratic ecstasy. “I’m requesting an immediate Article 15, a court-martial for fraudulent enlistment, and a medical discharge! Section 8, or maybe a Section 10! I’ll have his stripes, Pierce!”
Frank spun on his heel and marched out of the room.
Hawkeye turned to Radar. The kid was sobbing silently, his good hand clutching his malformed one to his chest.
“Radar…” B.J. started softly.
“He’s right,” Radar choked out. “The recruiting officer back home… he was my uncle’s friend. He looked the other way. I just… I wanted to do my part. All the other guys were going. I didn’t want to be the freak who stayed home.”
Hawkeye felt a hot wave of anger wash over him, not at Radar, but at the absurdity of the world. “Radar, listen to me. You are the most essential organ in this hospital. Without you, we’re just a bunch of drunks with scalpels. Frank is an idiot.”
“But it’s in the regulations, Captain,” Radar said miserably. “Major Burns is going to send me home. In disgrace.”
“Over my dead body,” Hawkeye said grimly. “Come on. Let’s patch up that cut. Then we’re going to pay a visit to the principal’s office.”
Thirty minutes later, Hawkeye and B.J. marched into the commanding officer’s tent. Colonel Sherman T. Potter was sitting at his desk, painting a portrait of his horse, Sophie. Frank Burns was standing at attention in front of the desk, looking like a terrier who had just caught a rat.
“Ah, Pierce, Hunnicutt,” Potter said, not looking up from his canvas. “Major Burns here was just regaling me with a fascinating tale of medical deception, fraudulent enlistment, and anatomical anomalies. Sounds like a dime-store detective novel. Tell me it’s horse hockey.”
“It’s a witch hunt, Colonel,” Hawkeye said, crossing his arms. “Frank is trying to crucify the best clerk in the Eighth Army over a minor birth defect that has literally zero impact on his job.”
“Zero impact?!” Frank squeaked. “Colonel, the man is a mutant! He’s been hiding it for years! He is physically unfit for military duty!”
Potter finally put down his paintbrush. He sighed, rubbing his eyes with a paint-stained thumb. “Major, do you know how many perfectly healthy, structurally flawless boys I saw carried into our O.R. today in pieces?”
Frank blinked. “Sir?”
“I asked,” Potter’s voice hardened, “how many ‘physically fit’ boys are currently lying in the post-op ward without their original compliment of arms or legs?”
Frank swallowed hard. “I… I don’t see the relevance, sir.”
“The relevance, Frank, is that this entire damn war is a deformity,” Potter growled. “It’s a hideous, ugly, unnatural thing. And in the middle of it, we have a corporal who can requisition a jeep from Tokyo, secure fresh eggs in a combat zone, and hear a chopper before the radar dish does. And you want to drum him out because his left hand isn’t pretty?”
“It’s the regulations, sir!” Frank insisted stubbornly. “If we ignore them, we compromise the integrity of the United States Army!”
Potter stared at Frank for a long, heavy moment. The tension in the room was thick enough to cut with a bone saw.
“Bring him in,” Potter finally said softly to Hawkeye.
Hawkeye opened the door. Radar stepped in, looking as though he were walking to the gallows. He stood at attention, his left hand shoved deep into his pocket.
Potter leaned back in his chair. “Corporal O’Reilly. Let me see the hand.”
Radar hesitated. He looked at Hawkeye, who gave a reassuring nod. Trembling, Radar slowly pulled his hand out of his pocket and laid it flat on the Colonel’s desk. The crude bandages Hawkeye had applied barely covered the swelling around the malformed, fused fingers.
Frank leaned in, a look of vindicated disgust on his face. “You see, Colonel? Disgusting.”
Potter ignored Frank. He reached out and placed his own large, weathered hand—a hand that had served in two World Wars—gently over Radar’s.
“Son,” Potter said quietly. “Is this why you’re always carrying that damn clipboard?”
Radar swallowed hard, a tear slipping down his cheek. “Yes, sir.”
“Are you in pain?”
“Just the cut, sir. From the crate.”
Potter nodded slowly. He picked up the official report Frank had drafted—a three-page document detailing Radar’s ‘crimes’. Potter held it up, looking at it thoughtfully.
Then, with a swift, deliberate motion, Potter ripped the report in half.
Frank gasped as if he had been shot. “Colonel! What are you doing?!”
[ Next Chapter ⏩ ]
