The silence in the mess tent stretched tight enough to snap. Frank’s hand hovered over his holster, his face contorted in a bizarre mix of terror and misplaced patriotic rage. Hawkeye stood perfectly still, his eyes darting from Frank’s sweaty forehead to the trembling hand near the gun.
“Frank,” Hawkeye said, his voice dropping the sarcastic lilt, becoming uncharacteristically soft and deadly serious. “If you pull that gun on me, you’d better be prepared to use it. And considering your depth perception, I’d advise everyone in a three-mile radius to hit the dirt.”
“Stand down, Major!”
The voice boomed from the doorway, thick with gravel and Midwestern exhaustion. Colonel Sherman T. Potter strode into the mess tent, his riding crop tucked under his arm, looking like a man who had already lived through three lifetimes of military nonsense and was entirely out of patience for a fourth.
Frank snapped to attention so fast he nearly dislocated his own spine. “Colonel! Captain Pierce is refusing a direct order from I-Corps! He refuses to arm himself!”
Potter sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose. He walked over to the table where Frank had slammed the Colt .45 down. The weapon looked entirely out of place next to the aluminum trays of powdered eggs and chipped coffee mugs. Potter picked it up, feeling its weight, before looking at his best surgeon.
“Hawkeye. I-Corps sent down a directive at 0400 hours. We’ve got guerrilla activity reported five miles north of here. Headquarters wants every officer strapped. It’s for your own protection.”
“Colonel, with all due respect, my protection is a sterile field and a good supply of plasma,” Hawkeye replied, not backing down. “I took an oath to preserve life. Not to blast holes in people so I can sew them up again later. It’s redundant, it’s hypocritical, and quite frankly, it ruins the line of my Hawaiian shirt.”
Margaret stepped forward, her arms crossed defensively. “You are an officer in the United States Army, Captain. The army says you carry a gun, you carry a gun. Why must you always make a mockery of the uniform?”
“Because, Margaret, the uniform is making a mockery of humanity,” Hawkeye retorted. “Look around you. We’re living in a muddy tent in the middle of nowhere, putting teenagers back together with catgut and safety pins. Now you want me to walk around with an instrument of death strapped to my leg? What am I supposed to do, shoot the shrapnel out of them?”
Potter raised a hand, silencing the brewing storm. “Pierce. I know how you feel. Believe me, I do. But I’ve got brass breathing down my neck. General Clayton is looking for an excuse to make an example out of the 4077th’s ‘lax discipline.’ I need you to sign for the weapon. What you do with it after that… well, as long as it’s in your general vicinity if Clayton shows up for a surprise inspection.”
Hawkeye stared at Potter. He respected the old cavalryman. Potter wasn’t a bureaucratic drone like Frank; he was a doctor. But he was also a regular army man.
“Fine,” Hawkeye muttered, his jaw tight. “I’ll sign the piece of paper. But I am not wearing it.”
Thirty minutes later, Radar O’Reilly sat behind his desk in the company clerk’s office, nervously pushing his thick glasses up his nose. Hawkeye stood before him, glaring at the olive-drab box sitting on the desk.
“Uh, sign right here, Captain Pierce, sir,” Radar squeaked, pointing to the requisition form. “One Colt M1911A1, caliber .45. Plus two magazines of ammunition.”
Hawkeye picked up the pen as if it were coated in poison and violently scrawled his name across the line. “There. The military-industrial complex is now officially one pistol richer in spirit.”
Radar hesitantly pushed the box toward him. “You, uh, you gotta take it with you, Hawk. Regulations.”
Hawkeye picked up the heavy steel weapon by the tip of the barrel using just his thumb and index finger, holding it away from his body like a dead rat. “Come on, little fella. Let’s go find you a nice, dark place where you can’t hurt anybody.”
Back in ‘The Swamp’, the tent Hawkeye shared with B.J. Hunnicutt and Frank Burns, Hawkeye immediately went to work. B.J. was lying on his cot, reading a three-month-old medical journal, and watched with mild amusement as Hawkeye marched in with the weapon.
“Did you join the NRA while I was at breakfast, Hawk?” B.J. asked, flipping a page.
“B.J., I have been forcibly deputized into the machinery of war,” Hawkeye announced, walking over to the small potbelly stove in the center of the tent. He looked around, assessing the room. Finally, he walked over to a stack of unstable medical crates that served as B.J.’s nightstand. He shoved the heavy pistol underneath the bottom crate, leveling the wobbly tower perfectly.
“There,” Hawkeye dusted his hands off. “A triumph of modern engineering. The .45 caliber doorstop. It finally serves a useful purpose in society.”
Just then, the tent flaps flew open. Major Frank Burns stood there, his own holster polished to a mirror shine, his eyes sweeping the room. “Alright, Pierce. I want to see it. I want to see your weapon properly secured in a regulation holster on your person.”
Hawkeye pointed to the floor. “It is properly securing B.J.’s collection of National Geographics, Frank. A much nobler cause, don’t you think?”
Frank’s eyes widened in sheer horror as he looked at the lethal weapon being used to prop up a wooden crate. He gasped, his hand flying to his mouth. “You… you desecrated government property! That is a court-martial offense! I’m going straight to Colonel Potter! You’re going to Leavenworth, Pierce! Leavenworth!”
Frank spun on his heel and sprinted out of the tent, screaming for Margaret.
B.J. slowly lowered his journal, looking at Hawkeye. “You know he’s actually going to do it this time, right?”
Hawkeye sighed, sitting on his cot and burying his face in his hands. “Let him. I’m not carrying it, Beej. I’m just not.”
Before B.J. could respond, the screeching voice of the PA system crackled to life, echoing across the compound.
“Attention all personnel. Incoming wounded. Choppers landing in five minutes. This is not a drill. Repeat, incoming wounded.”
Hawkeye’s head snapped up. The jokes vanished. The fatigue vanished. He grabbed his stethoscope, the only piece of metal he truly believed in, and bolted out the door. The court-martial would have to wait. There was blood to be stopped.
[ Next Chapter ⏩ ]
