The gin in The Swamp tasted worse than usual. It tasted like iodine and despair. Hawkeye swirled the clear liquid in his martini glass, watching the black ash from outside settle at the bottom like a morbid olive.
“I’m telling you, Pierce, it’s just a localized weather anomaly,” Frank Burns insisted, pacing the floor of the tent. He was meticulously polishing his boots, oblivious to the existential dread hanging in the room. “Probably some industrial soot from Seoul blowing north. Nothing to get your unpatriotic panties in a twist over.”
“Frank, if you had half a brain, you’d be a paramecium,” Hawkeye replied smoothly, downing the gin in one gulp and wincing. “Seoul is south of here. The wind is blowing from the north. And last I checked, the North Koreans haven’t industrialized the production of burnt chemical napalm.”
“You always look for the worst in the Army, don’t you?” Frank sneered. “That boy in the O.R. is a coward. Intelligence is coming for him tomorrow, and good riddance. We have no room for agitators in a combat zone.”
Hawkeye stood up slowly, the alcohol doing nothing to numb the sharp edge of his anger. He walked over to Frank, stopping just inches from the man’s nose. “Frank, that ‘agitator’ has a hole in his chest the size of a grapefruit. He’s bleeding out for a piece of real estate that changes hands more often than a counterfeit two-dollar bill. And he’s having nightmares about a war that makes this one look like a warmup act.”
Frank took a nervous step back. “I’m going to Margaret’s tent. At least she respects the chain of command.”
As Frank scurried out, Radar O’Reilly slipped in, clutching a clipboard to his chest like a shield. He looked paler than usual.
“Sir?” Radar squeaked.
“Enter, Radar, oracle of the impending apocalypse. What fresh hell brings you to our humble distillery?”
“It’s about Private Miller, sir. The kid from the O.R.” Radar swallowed hard. “I was listening in on the switchboard. I know I’m not supposed to, but… well, the man from Intelligence isn’t coming to debrief him.”
“What is he coming for?” Hawkeye asked, his posture straightening.
“They’re taking him to a black site, Captain. General Mitchell’s orders. The guy on the phone said Miller ‘saw something outside the theater of operations’ and is considered a ‘security risk to future containment strategies’.” Radar looked down at his boots. “Captain… what’s a containment strategy?”
Hawkeye walked over to the still and poured himself another glass. The pieces were snapping together, and the picture they formed was horrifying. Containment. The domino theory. The idea that if one country fell to communism, the rest would follow. Korea was the test run. The boy had been part of a covert op, scouting the next domino. Indochina. Vietnam.
“It means, Radar, that this isn’t an isolated incident,” Hawkeye said, his voice terrifyingly quiet. “It means we’re not just fighting a war here. We’re building a franchise. A permanent, traveling roadshow of death. Today it’s frozen hills. Tomorrow it’s jungles. The day after that, who knows? The moon?”
Hawkeye threw on his robe. The playful, sarcastic surgeon was gone, replaced by a man deeply disgusted by the machinery of his own government.
“Where are you going, Hawk?” a sleepy voice mumbled from the other cot. BJ Hunnicutt had just woken up from a four-hour nap, rubbing his eyes.
“I’m going to perform a little preventative medicine, Beej. Radar, get Colonel Potter. Tell him to meet me in the post-op ward. And bring a blank set of medical transfer forms. The ones with the highest priority.”
Ten minutes later, Hawkeye stood over Private Miller’s cot. The boy was awake, staring blankly at the canvas ceiling. The humidity in the tent was stifling.
“Hey, kid,” Hawkeye said gently.
Miller turned his head. “They’re coming for me, aren’t they, Doc?”
“Not if I can help it.”
“You don’t understand,” Miller whispered, tears tracking through the dirt on his face. “I saw it. I was in the jungle. It doesn’t end here. It goes on for years. We lose, Doc. We drop all the fire in the world, and we still lose. It tears the country apart at home. It’s a disease.”
Hawkeye felt a chill. The boy wasn’t just talking about a secret mission. He was an avatar for the future, a living, breathing warning of the quagmire that awaited America a decade down the line. MASH wasn’t just about Korea anymore; it was the soul of Vietnam, screaming out a warning through the lips of a dying private.
“I know,” Hawkeye lied, gripping the kid’s shoulder. “I know.”
Colonel Potter strode into the tent, followed by Radar. “Pierce, what’s this about transfer forms? Intelligence will be here at 0600.”
“Colonel, Private Miller has a highly contagious, extremely dangerous strain of… uh… Manchurian Jungle Fever,” Hawkeye said smoothly, though his eyes pleaded with Potter to play along. “If he stays here, it will wipe out the entire camp. He needs immediate medical evacuation. Stateside. Direct to a locked isolation ward in San Francisco. Under my medical authority.”
Potter looked at Hawkeye, then down at the boy. Potter had been in WWI and WWII. He knew what the meat grinder looked like. And he knew what a cover-up looked like.
Before Potter could sign the form, the unmistakable roar of an approaching jeep cut through the night. Brakes squealed outside Post-Op.
“Well, gentlemen,” a slick, authoritative voice called out as the tent flap flew open. A man in a pristine uniform, completely devoid of mud, stepped inside. “I believe you have Army property that belongs to me.”
Hawkeye slowly picked up a surgical tray. “Mister, the only thing you’re taking out of here is a massive headache.”
[ Next Chapter ⏩ ]
