“Arrest him!” Major Frank Burns squeaked, his index finger jabbing the air so violently it threatened to dislocate his shoulder. “I want him in irons! I want him in the stockade! I want him out of that… that appalling shade of pink, it completely clashes with the camp’s aesthetic!”
Klinger backed up against Hawkeye’s still, knocking over a freshly poured martini. “Major, please! You don’t understand! I’m a victim of the system! I was a one-week temp! A flash in the pan! I’m not a deserter, I’m overdue for a bus ticket to Ohio!”
Hawkeye calmly stepped between Klinger and the MPs, holding up his hands. “Easy, Frank. Let’s not do anything rash. If you arrest Klinger, who’s going to coordinate the guard roster? Who’s going to do the morning report? Who’s going to bring us that special blend of Middle Eastern charm and high-fashion delusion?”
“The man is a malingerer, Pierce!” Frank spat, his posture stiffening as Major Margaret Houlihan marched into the Swamp, her blonde hair perfectly coiffed despite the war raging three miles away.
“What is the meaning of this circus?” Margaret demanded, her eyes narrowing at Klinger. “Corporal, that fruit bowl on your head is a direct violation of the uniform code, and those papayas are rotting.”
“Margaret, look at this!” Frank snatched the yellow carbon paper from B.J.’s hand and shoved it toward her. “The sneak isn’t even assigned to us. He was a one-week temporary replacement. He’s been hiding here, avoiding his true assignment with the 8th Infantry!”
B.J. stroked his mustache thoughtfully. “Frank, he hasn’t exactly been ‘hiding’. He’s been wearing a Statue of Liberty costume on the parade ground. It’s a very poor camouflage strategy.”
“The point is,” Frank sneered, “he is technically AWOL from the infantry. The penalty during wartime is severe. I’m having him transferred immediately to the front lines where he belongs. A rifle in his hand instead of a matching clutch!”
Klinger dropped to his knees, heedless of the mud ruining his hemline. “No! Not the infantry! I’m allergic to bullets! They give me terrible hives! Captain Pierce, do something!”
Hawkeye looked at the paper, then at Frank. Beneath the humor, a cold reality set in. The army bureaucracy was a soulless machine. If I Corps realized they had a perfectly healthy soldier lounging in dresses at a MASH unit instead of holding a trench at Heartbreak Ridge, Klinger would be dead in a week.
“Frank, you can’t send him to the infantry,” Hawkeye said, his voice losing its jovial lilt. “He’s our clerk. He knows how this camp runs. Radar relies on him.”
As if summoned by his own name, Corporal Radar O’Reilly materialized in the tent flap, clutching a clipboard to his chest like a bulletproof vest. “Uh, excuse me, sirs… ma’am… Major. Colonel Potter wants to see everyone in his office. Right now.”
“Excellent!” Frank beamed. “The Colonel will sign the transfer orders personally. Get up, Corporal. Your masquerade is over.”
Inside Colonel Sherman T. Potter’s office, the air was thick with the smell of cheap cigars and impending doom. Potter sat behind his desk, staring at the yellow slip of paper as if it were a dead rat someone had served him for breakfast.
“Horse hockey,” Potter finally muttered, tossing the paper onto his desk. “Pure, unadulterated, grade-A horse hockey.”
“I agree, Colonel,” Frank piped up. “The man is a disgrace to the uniform. Assuming he was wearing one.”
“Shut up, Frank,” Hawkeye, B.J., and Potter said in unison.
Potter sighed, rubbing his temples. “Klinger, according to this bureaucratic nightmare, you were supposed to be here for exactly one week in 1951. You are officially listed as a ‘Temporary Transiting Resource’. Since you never formally reported back to I Corps, they’ve flagged you.”
“So I can go home, Colonel?” Klinger asked, his voice trembling with a mixture of hope and terror. “Back to Toledo? Back to Tony Packo’s hot dogs?”
Potter looked at him with a mix of pity and exhaustion. “No, son. The Army doesn’t make mistakes like sending a man home. The Army fixes mistakes by sending a man to the meat grinder. Frank is right. I Corps has issued orders. Because you are physically fit and have no legal discharge status, you are being reassigned to frontline combat infantry. Effective tomorrow at 0600 hours.”
The room fell dead silent. Even Frank seemed to realize the gravity of what he had set in motion. Klinger wasn’t going to jail. He was going to die.
Suddenly, the unmistakable, rhythmic thwack-thwack-thwack of helicopter blades shattered the silence. The PA system crackled to life.
“Attention, all personnel. Incoming wounded. Choppers on the pad. Looks like a heavy load. Cancel your weekend plans, cancel your discharge papers. It’s meatball surgery time.”
Potter stood up, grabbing his hat. “This discussion is tabled. We have boys bleeding on the pad. Move it!”
The doctors rushed out. Klinger stood frozen in Potter’s office, the distant sound of the choppers echoing in his ears. His transfer orders sat on the desk. He was leaving the 4077th. Tomorrow. Unless he did something drastic.
[ Next Chapter ⏩ ]
