The air inside the Operating Room of the 4077th Mobile Army Surgical Hospital was thick with the scent of ether, iodine, and exhaust fumes from the generators outside. It was a smell that clung to the skin, a permanent cologne that Hawkeye Pierce couldn’t scrub off, no matter how much lye soap he used in the officers’ shower.
“Clamp,” Hawkeye muttered, holding his hand out. Nurse Kellye slapped the instrument into his palm with practiced precision. “Thank you, Kellye. If we ever get out of this place, I’m buying you a distillery.”
Across the table, B.J. Hunnicutt was working on a shattered femur. “Make it two, Hawk. I think I’m going to need a liquid diet for the rest of my natural life to forget the symphony of Frank’s whining.”
“It is not whining!” Major Frank Burns protested from the next table, his posture rigidly defensive even while hunched over a patient. “It is a tactical assessment of our dwindling supplies! If you two didn’t use surgical alcohol for your… your clandestine libations, we wouldn’t be in this mess!”
“Frank, we’re up to our armpits in kids who are leaking from holes the Army put in them,” Hawkeye retorted, eyes fixed on the chest cavity in front of him. “If a martini helps me keep my hands from shaking so I can sew them back up, then Gin is a medical necessity. Write it down in the manual.”
Major Margaret Houlihan stepped up behind Frank, her eyes flashing above her surgical mask. “Captain Pierce, your blatant disregard for military protocol is a disgrace. And your legacy in this army will be nothing more than a footnote of insubordination!”
“Margaret, sweetheart,” Hawkeye smiled beneath his mask. “I don’t want a legacy. I just want a cab ride back to Crabapple Cove, Maine.”
Before Margaret could launch into a tirade about the honor of the uniform, the double doors of the OR crashed open. Colonel Sherman T. Potter, looking ten years older than he had that morning, strode in. But he wasn’t alone. Trailing behind him was Brigadier General ‘Iron Guts’ Kelly—or someone cut from the exact same pompous cloth—and a very nervous-looking corporal lugging a heavy 16mm motion picture camera.
“Keep it moving, people,” Potter announced, his voice gruff. “General Sterling here is from the War Department. He’s putting together a moving picture for the home front. Showing them the ‘miracles’ of military medicine.” Potter’s tone made it clear exactly what he thought of the idea.
General Sterling, a man whose uniform was entirely too clean for Uijeongbu, clapped his hands together. “Excellent, Colonel! Look at this… organized chaos. The folks in Peoria are going to eat this up. We need a focal point. A hero. Someone who embodies the spirit of the fighting American surgeon!”
Frank immediately stood up straighter, accidentally knocking over a tray of instruments. “General! Major Frank Burns, sir! At your service! I have an immaculate record of attendance and my boots are highly polished!”
General Sterling ignored Frank completely, his eyes locking onto Hawkeye’s table. He had watched for thirty seconds, but that was all it took. Hawkeye’s hands were a blur of motion, working with a desperate, frantic brilliance that was impossible to look away from. He tied off a severed artery with the casual flick of a wrist that most surgeons took a decade to master.
“Him,” the General pointed a gloved finger at Hawkeye. “What’s your name, Captain?”
“Dr. Frankenstein, sir,” Hawkeye replied, not looking up. “This is Igor,” he nodded to B.J., “and over there is the monster,” he gestured to Frank.
B.J. stifled a laugh behind his mask.
“Captain Benjamin Franklin Pierce, sir,” Potter sighed, running a hand over his face. “He’s our Chief Surgeon.”
“Pierce! Perfect,” Sterling beamed. “Roll the camera, Corporal. Let’s get a shot of him saving this brave soldier’s life.”
“Hold it right there, Cecil B. DeMille,” Hawkeye barked, suddenly turning to face the General, his scalpel raised. “This is an operating room, not a soundstage. I am trying to keep an eighteen-year-old kid from bleeding out into his own boots. So take your flashbulbs, your propaganda, and your ‘legacy’, and shove them right up your chain of command!”
The OR fell dead silent. Even Frank forgot to breathe.
General Sterling’s face turned a violent shade of plum. “Captain, you are speaking to a General Officer!”
“And you are standing in a sterile field in dirty boots!” Hawkeye fired back.
“I am ordering you to cooperate, Captain,” Sterling growled, stepping closer. “You are going to be the face of this hospital. You are going to show the world the glorious legacy of the Army Medical Corps, or I will have you court-martialed and breaking rocks in Leavenworth by Thursday!”
Hawkeye stared at the General. The threat of prison was real. He looked down at the pale, unconscious boy on his table. He looked at B.J., who gave a subtle shake of his head. He looked at the camera lens, glaring at him like an unblinking, mechanical eye.
A slow, dangerous smile crept across Hawkeye’s face. He knew he couldn’t refuse the order without going to jail, and if he went to jail, he couldn’t operate. But he sure as hell wasn’t going to let them turn the slaughterhouse of the 4077th into a recruitment poster.
“Alright, General,” Hawkeye said softly, his voice dripping with sudden, feigned compliance. “You want my legacy on film? You want to show them what I do here?” Hawkeye reached into the patient’s abdominal cavity, his hand wrapping around something solid and horrific. “Corporal, make sure you get a tight close-up of this…”
[ Next Chapter ⏩ ]
