Colonel Griswald took a slight step back as Hawkeye approached. There was something in the Captain’s eyes that wasn’t in the military manual—a raw, unfiltered fury born from too many hours fishing shrapnel out of teenagers.

“Excuse me, Captain?” Griswald said, his tone a mix of warning and confusion.

“War is Hell,” Hawkeye repeated, tasting the words as if they were gone sour. “It’s a great quote. It really is. It looks fantastic on a propaganda poster. But with all due respect, Colonel, you’re wrong.”

“Captain Pierce,” Potter warned gently. “Ease off the throttle.”

“No, Colonel, let me finish,” Hawkeye said, his gaze never leaving Griswald’s perfectly shaved face. “War isn’t Hell. War is war, and Hell is Hell. And of the two, war is a lot worse.”

Griswald scoffed, a nervous, dismissive sound. “How do you figure that, Pierce? It’s a figure of speech.”

“It’s not a figure of speech to the guy bleeding out on my table,” Hawkeye shot back. “Look, let’s break it down logically. Theologically, even. Father Mulcahy would back me up on this. Who goes to Hell?”

Griswald blinked, completely derailed by the question. “What?”

“Who goes to Hell, Colonel?” Hawkeye pressed. “Sinners, right? Bad people. Murderers, thieves, people who talk in the movie theater. The wicked. Hell is exclusively populated by people who, theoretically, did something to deserve being there.”

Hawkeye pointed a trembling, blood-stained finger toward the operating room doors.

“Now look at war. Who is in war? Is it just the wicked? No. It’s everyone. Do you think that twelve-year-old kid we had in here yesterday, the one missing a leg because he stepped on a landmine while looking for his lost dog, is a sinner? Do you think that old farmer in there, whose only crime was trying to harvest rice in a field that some general decided was a strategic grid coordinate, did something to deserve catching a mortar shell in his liver?”

Griswald was silent. The bluster had completely left his posture.

“There are no innocent bystanders in Hell,” Hawkeye said, his voice dropping to a hoarse whisper. “War is chock full of them. Little kids, cripples, old ladies, farmers. In fact, except for a few of the brass who actually start these things, almost everybody involved is an innocent bystander. So please, Colonel, don’t insult Hell by comparing it to this place.”

Hawkeye stared at the man for three more seconds, letting the silence hang heavy in the humid air. Then, without another word, he turned, pushed past the swinging doors, and walked out into the freezing Korean night.

Later that evening, the Officer’s Club—a glorified tent held together by canvas, spit, and the sheer willpower to get drunk—was uncharacteristically subdued. Hawkeye sat at the makeshift bar, staring into a martini that was roughly 99% gin and 1% despair.

BJ Hunnicutt, who had heard about the incident from the nurses’ grapevine, slid onto the stool next to him. “I hear you gave Griswald a theology lesson today.”

“I just corrected his geography,” Hawkeye muttered, taking a sip. “He had his circles of torment mixed up.”

At a table in the corner, Frank Burns was aggressively cutting a piece of Spam. “It’s insubordination, that’s what it is!” Frank whined to anyone who would listen, which was no one. “You can’t talk to a superior officer like that. And all for what? A local! We are here to patch up American soldiers, not to run a charity clinic for the entire indigenous population!”

Margaret, who had been sitting quietly next to Frank, slammed her fork down. The metallic clatter echoed through the tent.

“Frank,” she said, her voice dripping with venom. “If you say one more word about that patient, I am personally going to take that Spam and shove it so far up your nose you’ll be smelling preservatives until 1960.”

Frank recoiled, clutching his napkin to his chest. “Margaret! I’m just citing regulations!”

“Regulations don’t stop bleeding, Major!” she snapped, standing up. She looked over at Hawkeye, a complex mix of respect and exhaustion in her eyes, before storming out of the tent.

BJ whistled softly. “Looks like Hot Lips is thawing out.”

“Don’t count on it,” Hawkeye said. “She’s just tired. We’re all tired. I’m so tired my fatigue has fatigue.”

Just then, Father Mulcahy walked into the club, his collar slightly askew, looking as though he carried the weight of the world on his narrow shoulders. He walked up to Hawkeye and ordered a ginger ale.

“Hawkeye,” the priest said softly. “I heard about what you said to the Colonel. About… Hell and War.”

“Sorry, Father,” Hawkeye sighed. “I didn’t mean to step on your professional turf.”

“No, no,” Mulcahy smiled sadly. “Actually, I’ve been thinking about it all afternoon. And I must admit… God forgive me… I think you’re entirely correct. It is the innocence of the victims that makes this place so unbearably profane.”

Before Hawkeye could respond, the screech of the PA system tore through the camp, followed by the nasal, panicked voice of Radar.

“Attention all personnel. Incoming wounded. Choppers landing in two minutes. Repeat, incoming wounded. It’s a big one, folks. Scrub up.”

Hawkeye closed his eyes. He slowly pushed his half-finished martini away.

“Well, Father,” Hawkeye said, sliding off the stool and grabbing his coat. “It looks like the Devil is opening up another franchise.”

They walked out of the tent, boots sinking deep into the mud, heading back toward the blood, the noise, and the endless, unforgiving machinery of a war that was, undoubtedly, worse than Hell.