Operating in a sterile, well-lit hospital is a science. Operating in a dirt-floor tent with artillery shaking the ground is an art. But operating in the back of a rusted-out Army ambulance, careening down a mountain road at forty miles an hour while a wildfire chases you? That is pure, unadulterated madness.
“Clamp!” Hawkeye shouted, struggling to keep his balance as the ambulance hit a massive pothole. He was practically straddling Private Miller, trying to keep his hands steady.
Margaret slammed the metal instrument into his waiting palm. “I can’t see a thing, Pierce! The flashlight is swinging too much!”
“Then use the glow of the apocalypse outside!” Hawkeye snapped back, wiping sweat from his forehead with the back of his arm. “Suction! I need to find the bleeder before this kid runs out of juice.”
The ambulance swerved violently. Up in the cab, Frank Burns was driving, screaming at the top of his lungs in pure panic. “Get out of the way! Everyone out of my way! I have a high-ranking officer in the vehicle! Me!”
“Frank, if you don’t keep this jalopy steady, I’m going to come up there and perform a lobotomy with a tire iron!” Hawkeye roared.
Margaret held the plasma bag high, her arm screaming in pain from the awkward angle. Despite the dirt on her face, the tear in her uniform, and the sheer terror of the situation, she didn’t flinch. She was a soldier.
“BP is dropping, Hawkeye. 80 over 50,” she reported, her voice tight but professional.
“I see it. The mesenteric artery tore. The jolting pulled the sutures right out.” Hawkeye’s fingers moved with desperate precision, slipping into the bloody cavity. “Come on… come on, you little bastard, show yourself…”
Outside, the roar of the fire was beginning to fade, replaced by the grinding gears of the convoy as they put miles between themselves and the inferno. But inside the ambulance, the war was still raging.
“Got it!” Hawkeye breathed, snapping a clamp onto the severed artery. “Tie off. Get me some silk. Thick as you got. I’m going to sew this kid up so tight he won’t be able to digest a jellybean.”
For the next twenty minutes, they worked in frantic silence, the only sounds the rattling of the truck, their own ragged breathing, and the snipping of scissors. Hawkeye threw the final stitch and leaned back against the canvas wall, totally exhausted.
“He’ll live,” Hawkeye panted, his hands trembling slightly as the adrenaline began to wear off. “Assuming Frank doesn’t drive us off a cliff.”
Margaret let out a long breath and hung the empty plasma bag on a hook. She looked at Hawkeye, then down at her blood-stained hands, and then, surprisingly, she smiled. A small, tired smile.
“Nice work, Pierce,” she said softly.
“Couldn’t have done it without my favorite head nurse,” Hawkeye replied, giving her a weary salute.
Two hours later, the convoy finally ground to a halt in a barren, rocky valley near the 8063rd MASH unit. The sun was beginning to rise, casting a pale, gray light over the exhausted survivors.
Hawkeye stepped out of the back of the ambulance, his back aching, his uniform ruined. He walked to the edge of the ridge and looked back south.
The sky over Uijeongbu was still choked with black smoke. The 4077th—the Swamp, the mess tent, the OR where they had saved thousands of lives, the Officers’ Club where they had drowned their sorrows—was gone. Erased by fire.
Colonel Potter walked up beside him, handing him a canteen.
“Drink up, son. It’s just water, but it’ll have to do.”
Hawkeye took a swig, grimacing at the metallic taste. “It’s gone, Colonel. The whole miserable, muddy, magnificent place. Reduced to cinders.”
Potter nodded slowly, chewing on his cigar. “Tents burn, Pierce. Wood turns to ash. But the 4077th? That ain’t canvas and wood. It’s you. It’s Major Houlihan. It’s Radar and Klinger. Hell, it’s even Burns.” Potter chuckled softly. “As long as we’re still breathing, the 4077th is open for business. We’ll set up some new tents. We’ll build a new still. And we’ll keep putting these kids back together.”
Hawkeye looked around the temporary camp. Radar was feeding his surviving guinea pig. Margaret was organizing a triage line on the dirt. Even Frank was busy complaining to anyone who would listen about his lost footlocker.
Hawkeye smiled. The war was still terrible. The conditions were still appalling. But they were alive.
“You know, Colonel,” Hawkeye said, tapping his canteen against Potter’s. “I think you’re right. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to go find Klinger. I have an overwhelming urge to figure out how to distill a martini out of a pinecone.”
