“Frank,” Hawkeye said, his tone dropping to a terrifying register that made even Margaret take a half-step back. “If you don’t move out of my way in the next three seconds, I am going to surgically remove your spine and use it as a hat rack.”
“You wouldn’t dare!” Frank squeaked, though he involuntarily flinched. “Colonel! Are you going to let this insubordinate—”
“Stow it, Ferret Face,” Potter barked, stepping forward. He grabbed Frank by the collar of his scrubs and physically hauled him backward, tossing him toward the scrub sinks. “Get out of the way or get out of my OR, Major! That’s a direct order.”
Frank stumbled, sputtered, and finally fell silent, retreating to a corner to sulk like a scolded toddler.
Hawkeye didn’t even watch him go. He was already over Harold’s body. The transition from healer to harvester was immediate and violent. There was no time for reverence, no time for a prayer. The war didn’t afford them such luxuries.
“Retractors, Margaret. Now!”
Margaret was by his side instantly, moving with a fluid, mechanical precision that made her the best damn nurse in the Pacific theater. “Retractors in.”
“Six minutes, Captain!” Radar yelled from the corner, his eyes squeezed shut so he wouldn’t have to look at the blood.
Hawkeye worked like a man possessed. Sweat stung his eyes, but he couldn’t blink. He had to isolate Harold’s aorta, cut a section exactly the right length, and extract it without damaging the tissue. It was like trying to diffuse a bomb while riding a rollercoaster in the dark.
“Forceps. Scissors.” Hawkeye’s hands flew. “Come on, come on…”
He snipped the tissue. He held up a pale, bloody, tubular piece of flesh. It was barely two inches long, but at that moment, it was the most valuable object on the entire Korean peninsula.
“Got it,” Hawkeye panted. “Margaret, saline flush! We need to clean this out before we graft it.”
He rushed back to Jenkins’ table. The young soldier looked gray. The life was draining out of him, his body in deep shock from the trauma and the clamped artery.
“Time, Radar!”
“Four minutes and thirty seconds, sir!”
“Four and a half minutes to sew a microscopic seam in a slippery, blood-soaked tube,” Hawkeye muttered. “Child’s play. I usually do this blindfolded while singing ‘Toot Toot Tootsie’.”
He positioned the graft. “Needle holder. 6-0 silk.”
Margaret slapped the delicate instrument into his hand.
Now came the true test. Hawkeye had to suture the harvested artery to Jenkins’ remaining aorta. Two connections. Top and bottom. The stitches had to be perfectly spaced, perfectly tight. If they were too loose, Jenkins would bleed to death internally the second the clamp was removed. If they were too tight, the tissue would tear.
The silence in the room returned, heavier than before. Even Frank was holding his breath.
Hawkeye made the first stitch. Pull. Second stitch. Pull. His fingers, usually so agile, felt stiff and clumsy inside the tight confines of the chest cavity. The blood made everything slick. He couldn’t get a proper grip on the needle.
“Three minutes!” Radar’s voice cracked.
Hawkeye gritted his teeth. He finished the top anastomosis (connection). Halfway there. He moved to the bottom.
“Sponge, Margaret. I can’t see a damn thing.”
She dabbed the pooling blood away. “Heart rate is erratic, Hawkeye. He’s fibrillating.”
“Don’t you dare die on me, Jenkins,” Hawkeye growled at the unconscious boy. “You owe me a beer for this. I’m not doing this for my health. Two minutes, Radar?”
“Yes, sir! Two minutes exactly!”
Hawkeye’s needle flew. In, out, loop, tie. In, out, loop, tie. It was a macabre tapestry woven with silk and desperation. The physical toll was immense. His back screamed, his eyes burned, his hands were cramping so badly they felt like claws.
“One minute, Captain!”
“Shut up, Radar!” Hawkeye yelled, immediately regretting it. “Sorry. Sorry. Just… keep counting silently in your head and yell when we hit ten seconds.”
He tied the final knot. He snipped the silk.
He leaned back, breathing heavily. The graft was in place. It looked secure, but looking secure and holding back the torrential pressure of a pumping human heart were two entirely different things.
“Thirty seconds,” Radar whispered, unable to keep quiet.
“Okay,” Hawkeye said, his voice trembling slightly. He looked at Margaret, then at Potter. “This is it. I release the clamps. If the sutures hold, he gets a second chance. If they don’t… he bleeds out before we can even say ‘oops’.”
“Do it, Pierce,” Potter said softly. “You did all you could.”
Hawkeye placed his hands on the metal clamps holding back the blood above and below the graft.
“Ten seconds,” Radar squeaked. “Nine… eight…”
Hawkeye closed his eyes for a fraction of a second. Here’s to you, Harold. Thanks for the spare parts.
“Three… two… one… Time!” Radar yelled.
Hawkeye released the clamps.
[ Next Chapter ⏩ ]
