“Nobody move a muscle,” Colonel Sherman Potter ordered, his voice dropping to a gravelly, deadly serious register. “That core looks unstable enough to blow if someone sneezes too hard. Pak, I need a translation, yesterday.”

Captain Pak took a slow, deliberate step toward the frantic elder. He raised his hands in a placating gesture and spoke in rapid, soothing Korean. The old man responded, his voice cracking, gesturing wildly with the hand that wasn’t holding high-grade explosives.

Hawkeye stood frozen next to a stretcher, a scalpel still pinched between his fingers. “Is it a bomb threat, Pak? Because if he wants Frank Burns, I’m perfectly willing to negotiate a trade.”

“Quiet, Pierce,” Potter snapped.

Pak listened intently for another thirty seconds before turning back to the group. He didn’t look relieved; in fact, he looked significantly more stressed.

“It is not a bomb threat, Colonel,” Pak explained, his eyes darting between the detonator and Potter. “This man is Mr. Choi. He is a farmer from the valley about three miles north of here. He found this detonator in his cabbage patch this morning.”

“So he brought it here?” B.J. asked, incredulous. “What, does he think we run a lost-and-found for high explosives?”

“No,” Pak said grimly. “He brought it here to show us what kind of ordnance is buried in the road. He came to warn us. He says heavy rains caused a mudslide near the old stone bridge on Route 4. It uncovered an entire cache of these. Unexploded. Unstable. They are scattered all across the road.”

Potter rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Alright, that’s good to know. We’ll radio the engineers to clear it. Tell Mr. Choi we appreciate the warning, and ask him very politely to put the very shiny, very deadly detonator down on the ground.”

“There is more, Colonel,” Pak interrupted, his voice tight. “Mr. Choi says he tried to flag down an American military vehicle that was heading straight for that bridge about ten minutes ago. He shouted at the driver to stop, but the driver just honked and kept driving.”

Hawkeye’s stomach dropped. The blood in his veins suddenly felt like ice water. “An American vehicle? Heading north on Route 4?”

“Radar!” Potter bellowed, not taking his eyes off the explosive. “Where’s Klinger?”

Corporal O’Reilly materialized from behind the triage tent, clutching his clipboard like a shield. “Uh, Corporal Klinger took the jeep to the 8063rd about an hour ago, sir. He went to barter some of our penicillin for a crate of surgical gauze… and, according to his official manifest, ‘two yards of premium pink chiffon’.”

“And Route 4 is the only way to the 8063rd,” Hawkeye whispered.

“If Klinger drives over that bridge…” B.J. trailed off, the implication hanging heavily in the dusty air.

“He’ll be wearing that pink chiffon in orbit,” Hawkeye finished.

“Radar, get on the radio!” Potter roared. “Raise Klinger’s jeep on the tactical frequency. Do it now!”

As Radar sprinted for the clerk’s office, Hawkeye turned his fury on Frank Burns, who was slowly emerging from behind a crate. “You hear that, Frank? This man came to warn us that Klinger is about to be blown into Toledo, and you were busy telling him you wanted to eat his shoes in Japanese!”

“It was an honest mistake!” Frank defended himself, clutching his useless phrasebook to his chest. “How was I supposed to know they don’t speak Japanese in Korea? The geography in this war is very confusing!”

“Major,” Captain Pak said coldly, “The Japanese occupation of Korea ended violently just a few years ago. Speaking to a Korean elder in Japanese is not just ignorant; it is profoundly traumatic. It is a miracle he didn’t detonate that shell just to get away from you.”

Margaret Houlihan, who usually defended Frank to a fault, looked at him with sheer disgust. “Frank, put that idiot book in the incinerator before I put you in it.”

The next twenty minutes were agonizing. Mr. Choi, finally understanding that they had received his message, allowed Captain Pak to gently take the detonator and place it inside a sandbagged bunker at the edge of the camp.

Inside the radio room, the atmosphere was suffocating. Radar sat hunched over the transmitter, twisting dials with sweaty fingers. “Spark plug to Klinger. Come in, Klinger. This is Spark plug, do you read me? Over.”

Only the hiss of static answered.

“Try again, son,” Potter said gently, resting a hand on Radar’s shoulder.

“Spark plug to Klinger… come in…” Radar’s voice cracked.

Hawkeye paced the length of the small room, gnawing on his thumbnail. B.J. stared blankly at the map on the wall. The absurdity of it all was overwhelming. This was the MAS*H experience in a microcosm: a life hanging in the balance, threatened by unexploded bombs, saved by a local farmer, and nearly doomed by the towering cultural ignorance of the United States military.

“Wait…” Radar pressed the headphones tighter to his ears. “I’m getting something. There’s a lot of interference.”

A garbled, squawking voice broke through the static. “…read you, Spark plug. This is Klinger. What’s the hubbub? Over.”

A collective breath escaped the room. Hawkeye slumped against the doorframe.

“Klinger!” Potter grabbed the microphone. “This is Colonel Potter. Where are you right now? Have you crossed the stone bridge on Route 4 yet? Over.”

• “Uh, negative, Colonel,”* Klinger’s voice crackled back, sounding slightly annoyed. “I’m about a quarter-mile south of the bridge. I had to pull over. Over.”

“Thank God,” B.J. muttered.

“Why did you pull over, son?” Potter asked. “Engine trouble?”

• “No, sir,”* Klinger replied. “It’s the most extraordinary thing. I saw a dead sniper in a tree yesterday, right? Well, his parachute got tangled in the branches near the road here. Colonel, it is pure, unadulterated, ivory-white parachute silk. There’s enough material here to make a bridal gown that would make Elizabeth Taylor weep with envy. I’ve been spending the last twenty minutes trying to cut it down with my dog tags. Over.”

Hawkeye began to laugh. It was a manic, breathless laugh.

“Corporal,” Potter said, closing his eyes. “You listen to me very carefully. You leave the silk. You put that jeep in reverse. And you back away from that bridge until you hit the South China Sea. The bridge is rigged with live artillery shells. Do you understand me? Over.”

There was a long pause on the radio. When Klinger spoke again, his voice was a squeak. “Copy that, Colonel. Leaving the silk. Putting it in reverse. I’m going to drive backward so fast I’ll be in yesterday. Klinger out.”

Five minutes later, a low, concussive THUD shook the ground beneath their feet. A plume of black smoke rose lazily over the northern hills. The mudslide had shifted, and the bridge was gone.

Later that night, the Swamp was quiet again. The still was bubbling, producing a new batch of ‘Despair ’52’.

Hawkeye poured three glasses, handing one to B.J. and one to Captain Pak, who had stayed for a drink. Frank was sulking in the corner, writing a letter to his wife about the “ungrateful locals.”

“Gentlemen,” Hawkeye said, raising his glass. “I want to propose a toast.”

“To Mr. Choi?” B.J. asked.

“To Mr. Choi,” Hawkeye agreed. “And to the United States Army. May they never find out that the only thing standing between Corporal Klinger and a fiery death was his burning desire to look fabulous in ivory silk.”

They clinked their glasses.

“And Captain Pak,” Hawkeye added, taking a sip and grimacing at the taste. “Do me a favor. If I ever try to speak Korean using a phrasebook I bought in an alley in Newark, please, just shoot me.”

Captain Pak smiled into his gin. “I will not shoot you, Hawkeye. But I will tell you that your grandmother is a bicycle.”