The man from Intelligence was named Major Sterling. He smelled like expensive cologne and Washington D.C. bureaucracy—two things that had absolutely no business being in a Korean swamp.
“Captain Pierce, I suggest you put the tray down,” Sterling said, an arrogant smirk playing on his lips. Two armed MPs stepped into the tent behind him. “Private Miller is under my jurisdiction now. He’s being transferred to a specialized facility in Tokyo.”
“Tokyo?” Hawkeye feigned shock. “Major, haven’t you read my chart? This boy has Manchurian Jungle Fever. Highly contagious. Causes severe hallucinations, uncontrollable babbling about jungles, and a sudden, violent allergy to military bullshit.”
Sterling’s smile vanished. “Captain, I am not in the mood for the 4077th’s legendary insubordination. Unhook his IV. MPs, grab the stretcher.”
“Hold it right there,” Colonel Potter barked. The sheer authority in the old cavalryman’s voice made the MPs freeze. Potter stepped between Sterling and the boy. “Major, I am the commanding officer of this medical unit. Until a patient is discharged by my chief surgeon, he is my responsibility. And my chief surgeon says he stays.”
“Colonel,” Sterling said, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. “You are interfering with a classified operation of the highest national security. This soldier was exposed to… elements… that the public cannot know about. The geographic location of his wounds alone is a state secret.”
“He means Vietnam,” Private Miller croaked from the bed.
The word hung in the air. Sterling’s face drained of color. Hawkeye watched the Intelligence officer carefully. Sterling wasn’t just angry; he was terrified. The leak had sprung.
“Gag him,” Sterling ordered the MPs.
“You touch him, and I’ll remove your appendix with a rusty spoon!” Hawkeye shouted, stepping forward.
“Enough!” Potter roared. He pulled the transfer form Hawkeye had prepared from his pocket. He took out his pen, uncapped it, and signed his name with a heavy, deliberate flourish. He handed it to Sterling. “Major, this man is being medically evacuated to San Francisco via the next chopper. Section 8. Total psychological breakdown. He is completely unreliable as a witness to anything, classified or otherwise. You take him to Tokyo, and I will personally write a letter to the Surgeon General, the New York Times, and the President of the United States detailing how Army Intelligence is overriding emergency medical care.”
Sterling stared at the paper, his jaw clenched. He looked at the boy, who was now weeping silently, broken by whatever he had seen in the future.
“You’re making a mistake, Colonel,” Sterling hissed. “You think you’re saving him? He’s broken. The war he saw… it’s coming. And it’s going to tear this whole generation apart.”
“Then let him go home and warn them,” Hawkeye said quietly.
Sterling sneered, turning on his heel. “He’s all yours, Doctors. But remember: this war doesn’t end. We just change the scenery.” He stormed out, the MPs trailing behind him.
An hour later, the sun was beginning to peek over the muddy hills, casting long, bloody shadows across the 4077th. Hawkeye and Potter stood by the helipad, watching as the medics loaded Private Miller onto a chopper bound for Seoul, and then stateside.
The boy looked out the bubble glass, making eye contact with Hawkeye one last time. He didn’t look relieved. He just looked tired.
“Do you think anyone will listen to him, Colonel?” Hawkeye asked as the chopper lifted off, the rhythmic thwack-thwack-thwack of the blades beating against his chest.
“No, Pierce. I don’t.” Potter sighed, pulling his hat down against the rotor wash. “Folks only hear what they want to hear. And nobody wants to hear that the meat grinder is permanent.”
Hawkeye watched the chopper disappear into the clouds. For a moment, the Korean mountains vanished again, replaced by a suffocating, emerald-green jungle canopy. He could almost smell the napalm, almost hear the rock and roll music blaring from transistor radios, almost see the protests in the streets a decade away. They were trapped in a time loop, fighting a war in Korea that was just a dress rehearsal for the tragic soul of Vietnam.
“Incoming wounded!” Radar yelled, sprinting across the compound.
Hawkeye blinked. The jungle was gone. The dusty hills were back. Over the horizon, five more H-13 choppers appeared like a swarm of angry locusts, carrying another batch of broken boys.
“Well,” Hawkeye muttered, adjusting his bloody scrubs and reaching for his metaphorical armor of sarcasm. “Back to the assembly line. I just hope the next batch of kids brought their own spare parts.”
He turned and walked back toward the O.R., the endless sound of the choppers following him into the dark.
