Hawkeye tapped the microphone. It shrieked with a burst of static that made Major Frank Burns flinch and drop his tray of powdered eggs.
Hawkeye didn’t blink. He locked eyes with Major Sterling, a man whose uniform was so heavily starched it looked like it could stand up and salute all by itself. Sterling had a pencil tucked behind his ear, specifically a red one, the universal weapon of the bureaucratic coward.
“Testing, testing,” Hawkeye deadpanned, his voice echoing through the damp canvas of the mess tent. “Hello, America. This is Captain Benjamin Franklin Pierce, broadcasting live from the 4077th Mobile Army… Sniffle Hospital. We are currently experiencing a heavy influx of… very tired men who need band-aids and a firm, patriotic handshake.”
Sterling’s face twitched. He marched forward, his boots completely unsullied by the Korean mud, a minor miracle that Hawkeye suspected involved a hovercraft or a deal with the devil. “Captain Pierce,” Sterling hissed, keeping his voice low so the ‘mic’ wouldn’t pick it up, even though it wasn’t even plugged into the transmitter yet. “The phrase is ‘valiant soldiers experiencing temporary setbacks.’ Not ‘tired men.’ And we do not use the term ‘sniffle.’ It undermines the gravity of the medical theater.”
“The medical theater?” Colonel Sherman Potter barked from his table, slapping down a mug of something that only vaguely resembled coffee. “Son, the only theater around here is the one where Frank forgets which end of the stethoscope goes in his ears. We are a MASH unit. We fix broken kids. It’s messy, it’s loud, and it ain’t pretty.”
“With all due respect, Colonel,” Sterling said, adopting the infuriatingly calm tone of a man who had never been shot at, “the Pentagon believes that maintaining stateside morale is paramount. If the public hears about… visceral details, support for the police action wanes. The broadcast tomorrow night must be flawless. Uplifting. We are showcasing the triumph of American medical ingenuity.”
“Triumph?” Major Margaret Houlihan chimed in, her voice cutting through the tension. She was sitting next to Frank, though leaning slightly away from him. “Major Sterling is right, Colonel. Discipline and a positive public image are essential for the war effort. We must project strength.”
Frank nodded so vigorously he nearly gave himself whiplash. “Exactly, Margaret! Er, Major Houlihan. We are the sword and the shield! If we let the home front know that we occasionally get our hands dirty, the communists win! I, for one, welcome the censorship. It builds character.”
Hawkeye took a slow sip of his martini. “Frank, your character was built by a contractor who cut corners on the foundation. Major Sterling, let me get this straight. You want us to lie to the families of the boys we’re sewing back together?”
“Not lie, Captain. Edit,” Sterling corrected, tapping his clipboard. “For instance, I’ve reviewed your letters home.”
Hawkeye froze. The mess tent went dead silent. Even the constant background hum of generators seemed to pause.
“You read my mail?” Hawkeye asked, his voice dropping its usual sarcastic lilt, replaced by a dangerous, quiet edge.
“Standard procedure under Directive 4-A for forward medical units during a PR blackout,” Sterling replied, utterly oblivious to the fact that he was standing on a landmine. “Your descriptions of the operating room are overly graphic, Captain. You used the word ‘blood’ fourteen times in a single letter to your father. I have taken the liberty of redacting those sections. Henceforth, you will refer to it as ‘vital fluids’ or simply omit it. Furthermore, your jokes regarding the Supreme Commander are not only unfunny but border on seditious.”
“You blacked out my letter to my dad,” Hawkeye repeated, stepping away from the microphone and closing the distance between himself and the PR officer.
Radar O’Reilly, sensing the impending explosion, slowly backed toward the kitchen flaps. “Uh oh,” the corporal whispered to nobody in particular.
“It’s for the good of the nation,” Sterling said, puffing out his chest. “Now, I have prepared a script for tomorrow’s live broadcast. Captain Pierce, you will read the part of the ‘Grateful Surgeon.’ Major Burns, you will be the ‘Stoic Leader.'”
“I’ve always been stoic!” Frank beamed. “I’m practically a statue!”
“Pigeons certainly treat you like one,” Hawkeye muttered. He looked at the script Sterling shoved into his chest. He read the first line aloud. “‘Greetings, citizens. Today, I patched up a brave lad’s scraped knee, and as I applied the iodine, he looked at me and said, ‘Doc, did we take the hill?’‘” Hawkeye looked up, his eyes wide with mock wonder. “Who wrote this? Walt Disney’s less talented, heavily medicated cousin?”
“It is an amalgamation of approved sentiments,” Sterling said stiffly. “You will read it exactly as written. No ad-libbing. No mentions of artillery, missing limbs, or… or ‘meatball surgery.’ Is that understood?”
Potter stood up, adjusting his belt. “Now listen here, Sterling. My doctors are the finest meatball surgeons in this man’s army. We don’t have time to rehearse a radio play. When the choppers come, we work.”
“The broadcast is at 1900 hours tomorrow, Colonel,” Sterling insisted. “The network has cleared a fifteen-minute slot. I expect full cooperation.”
Hawkeye crumpled the script into a tight ball and tossed it into Frank’s half-eaten powdered eggs. “Tell you what, Major. You can take your script, fold it until it’s all sharp corners, and…”
Suddenly, Radar froze. His head tilted slightly, his eyes widening. He wasn’t looking at Hawkeye or Sterling. He was looking at the canvas ceiling, listening to a sound that nobody else could hear yet.
“Choppers,” Radar whispered.
Ten seconds later, the unmistakable, rhythmic thwack-thwack-thwack of Huey rotors echoed over the mountains. Not just one. A swarm of them.
“Wounded!” the PA system blared, Father Mulcahy’s voice ringing with urgency. “Incoming wounded! All medical personnel to the compound! It looks like a heavy load!”
Hawkeye’s demeanor instantly shifted. The sarcasm vanished. He tossed his martini glass onto a table and bolted for the door. “Grab your red pencil, Major,” Hawkeye shouted over his shoulder to the pale-looking PR officer. “Let’s see you try to edit this!”
[ Next Chapter ⏩ ]
