Hawkeye stared into the leather briefcase, the sharp scent of the Swamp’s gin suddenly failing to mask the cold reality in the room. There were no medical files in Sidney Freedman’s bag. No inkblot tests. No psychiatric evaluation forms.
There were only dog tags. Dozens of them. A tangled, metallic mass of silver chains and stamped tin that clinked softly as the distant artillery rumbled outside Uijeongbu.
“Sidney…” BJ Hunnicutt breathed, setting his book down on his footlocker. “Where did you get these?”
Sidney Freedman ran a trembling hand over his balding head, looking ten years older than the last time he’d visited the 4077th. The wise, calming aura he usually carried had completely evaporated, replaced by the hollow, haunted stare of a frontline infantryman.
“Graves Registration,” Sidney said, his voice barely a whisper. “I spent the last two days pulling favors at I Corps just to track them down. Thirty-four pairs of tags.”
Hawkeye set his martini glass down, his usual sarcastic armor cracking. “Why?”
“Because three weeks ago, they were sitting in my office,” Sidney replied, looking up with eyes rimmed in red. “Thirty-four kids. Crying. Shaking. Pissing themselves at the sound of a truck backfiring. Classic, undeniable combat trauma. A year ago, I would have stamped ‘Section 8’ or ‘Medical Discharge’ on their files and sent them home to their mothers.”
“And instead?” BJ asked gently.
“Instead, General ‘Iron Guts’ Bradley issued Directive 4-A,” Sidney spat the words out like poison. “A new psychological warfare initiative. Not against the enemy, but against our own. They determined that the ‘rate of psychiatric attrition’ was too high. The meat grinder needs more meat, boys. So, I was ordered to evaluate them using a new, ‘streamlined’ metric. If they had two arms, two legs, and could hold a rifle… they were miraculously cured.”
Hawkeye felt a cold knot tighten in his stomach. “You sent them back.”
“I sent them back,” Sidney confirmed, his voice breaking. “I told them to be brave. I gave them some pills. I signed my name on the dotted line. And within three weeks, every single one of these thirty-four boys was killed in action on Pork Chop Hill. Because they were too paralyzed by fear to duck when the mortars fell. I didn’t just evaluate them, Hawk. I executed them.”
The silence in the Swamp was deafening. Even the usual camp noise outside seemed to fade away.
Just then, the tent flap flew open, and Major Frank Burns marched in, his posture rigid and his face twisted in a perpetual sneer.
“Aha! I knew I smelled the distinct odor of malingering and psychological mumbo-jumbo!” Frank declared, pointing a finger at Sidney. “I heard you were in camp, Freedman. I hope you’re here to finally evaluate Pierce and Hunnicutt. I have a list of their infractions right here—forty-two counts of insubordination, and one count of replacing my toothpaste with foot powder!”
Hawkeye didn’t even have the energy to fire back. He just stared at Frank. “Frank, do us all a favor and go play in traffic on the main supply route.”
“Major Burns,” Sidney said quietly, not looking away from the dog tags. “Do you ever feel the weight of the men you sew up, only to send them back out to be shot again?”
Frank scoffed, puffing out his chest. “I feel the weight of duty, Major Freedman! Something your department severely lacks. Psychology is a crutch for cowards. If a man refuses to fight, he doesn’t need a couch; he needs a court-martial! The Army is finally waking up to your coddling.”
Hawkeye moved fast. He grabbed Frank by the collar of his pristine fatigues and slammed him against the canvas wall of the tent.
“Hawkeye, no!” BJ yelled, stepping forward.
“Listen to me, you spineless, flag-waving hypocrite,” Hawkeye hissed, his face inches from Frank’s. “There are thirty-four dead kids on that bed who needed a doctor, and the Army forced the doctor to turn into a firing squad. So unless you want me to demonstrate a highly unauthorized surgical procedure on your vocal cords without anesthesia, you will shut your mouth and get out of my tent.”
Frank swallowed hard, his eyes wide with fear. He shoved Hawkeye off and scrambled for the door. “You’re unstable, Pierce! You’re both unstable! I’m going to Margaret! And Colonel Potter!”
As Frank scurried out into the mud, the PA system crackled to life.
“Attention all personnel. Incoming wounded. Choppers arriving in five minutes. It’s a big one, folks. Grab your scalpels and kiss your free time goodbye.”
BJ sighed, grabbing his coat. “Meatball surgery. Just what the doctor ordered.”
Hawkeye turned to Sidney. “Stay here, Sid. Get some rest. Drink my gin. Heck, drink Frank’s gin, it’s hidden under his cot in a Listerine bottle.”
But Sidney was already standing up. He began methodically scooping the dog tags back into his briefcase. “No. I’m a doctor. I’m on the clock. I need to be in the OR.”
“Sidney, you’re a shrink,” Hawkeye said. “You don’t do meatball surgery.”
“Today, I do,” Sidney said, his eyes darkening with a terrifying resolve. “Because if Seoul wants me to play God with who lives and who dies, I’m going to start doing it my way.”
Without another word, Sidney walked out of the tent, heading straight for the scrub room. Hawkeye and BJ exchanged a terrified look.
Sidney Freedman was about to walk into an operating room filled with dying men, armed with a scalpel, a shattered psyche, and a dangerous grudge against the United States Army.
[ Next Chapter ⏩ ]
