The rain had started, turning the already miserable compound into a soupy, freezing mess. General Binkley’s personal staff car—a modified Willys Jeep with custom leather seats, dual sirens, and a shiny, obtrusive four-star placard on the bumper—sat under a canvas awning, guarded by a bored MP who was currently distracted by a stray Korean dog trying to steal his rations.
Hawkeye and Radar crouched behind a stack of empty fuel drums.
“Sir, I really don’t think this is a good idea,” Radar whimpered, hugging himself against the cold. “My Uncle Ed once stole a tractor in Iowa and they put him in the state penitentiary. And that was just a John Deere, this is a General’s jeep!”
“Radar, listen to me,” Hawkeye said, grabbing the corporal’s shoulders. “There are boys bleeding out on those tables. General Binkley cares more about his Form 77-Alpha than he does about human life. The Army has gone insane, and in an insane world, the only sane response is lunacy. Now, do you have the wire cutters?”
“Yes, sir,” Radar said, pulling a pair of rusty cutters from his pocket. “But the MP…”
“I’ll handle the MP. You hotwire the jeep. You know how to hotwire a jeep, right?”
“Well, yeah, I learned it from the motor pool guys, but—”
“No ‘buts’. When I distract him, you move.”
Hawkeye stood up, brushed the mud off his bloody surgical gown, and sauntered toward the MP, whistling a jaunty, off-key tune.
“Hey, pal,” Hawkeye called out. “You got a light? My nerves are shot. I just pulled a piece of shrapnel the size of a Buick out of a kid’s spleen.”
The MP turned, recognizing the Chief Surgeon. “Uh, sure thing, Captain.” He fumbled for his Zippo.
As the MP’s back was turned, Radar scurried out from behind the drums like a frightened badger, diving into the driver’s side of the General’s jeep.
“So,” Hawkeye said, leaning in close to light his unlit cigarette, “did you hear about the new regulation? General Binkley says all MPs guarding vehicles must now fill out Form 88-Delta every time a dog looks at the tires.”
“You gotta be kidding me, sir,” the MP groaned.
Suddenly, the engine of the General’s jeep roared to life. The siren wailed a deafening, piercing blast that echoed across the valley.
The MP spun around, dropping his lighter. “Hey! Stop!”
Hawkeye shoved the MP into a nearby mud puddle, leaped over the side of the jeep into the passenger seat, and yelled, “Punch it, Radar!”
Radar slammed his foot on the gas. The jeep spun its tires in the mud, throwing a massive spray of brown sludge directly onto the rising General Binkley, who had just stepped out of the Mess Tent to investigate the siren.
“My jeep! Pierce! You’re a dead man!” Binkley screamed, wiping mud from his eyes.
They tore out of the 4077th, the siren blazing, heading straight into the dark, rainy hills toward Checkpoint Charlie.
“Sir, I’m driving! I’m actually driving!” Radar yelled over the wind and the siren, his glasses fogging up.
“Keep your eyes on the road, Mario Andretti!” Hawkeye shouted back, gripping the windshield. “We’ve got five miles to cover!”
Back at the hospital, the OR was reaching a critical breaking point. B.J. was using bare hands to apply pressure to a wound. Margaret was desperately trying to dilute the last vial of morphine.
Colonel Potter wiped his brow. “Where the hell did Pierce go?”
General Binkley marched through the OR doors, his uniform ruined, his face purple with rage. “Colonel Potter! Captain Pierce has just stolen my vehicle! I am declaring martial law in this compound. He is to be arrested the moment he returns, and I am formally charging him with treason, theft, and insubordination!”
“General,” Margaret spoke up, her voice trembling but firm. Binkley looked at her, shocked. Major Houlihan, the Army’s golden girl, was glaring at him. “If Captain Pierce doesn’t come back with that supply truck, half the men in this room will die. If he brings it back, I will personally help you arrest him. But right now, kindly get out of our operating room so we can try to save the soldiers your regulations are killing!”
Binkley was speechless. He turned on his heel and stormed out.
Meanwhile, Hawkeye and Radar saw the floodlights of Checkpoint Charlie ahead. A barricade was set up, and a large transport truck—the 4077th’s supply truck—was parked off to the side, looking sad and abandoned. An MP sergeant stepped into the road, holding up his hand, blinded by the General’s headlights and the blaring siren.
“Don’t slow down, Radar!” Hawkeye yelled.
“But sir, the barricade!”
“He thinks we’re the General! Keep going!”
Radar closed his eyes and floored it. The jeep smashed through the wooden barricade, sending splinters flying into the night. Radar slammed on the brakes, sliding the jeep perfectly sideways into the mud, mere inches from the MP sergeant, who had fallen flat on his back in terror.
Hawkeye vaulted out of the jeep before it even completely stopped. He marched over to the MP, projecting an aura of terrifying, unhinged authority.
“Sergeant! General Binkley’s orders!” Hawkeye bellowed, pointing back at the star-spangled jeep. “This truck is commandeered for immediate medical transport. Any man who delays it will be shot for treason!”
The MP, looking at the bloody surgeon, the blaring General’s jeep, and the sheer madness in Hawkeye’s eyes, didn’t hesitate. “Y-yes, sir! Open the gates!”
Hawkeye ran to the supply truck and pounded on the driver’s door. “Wake up, buddy! Follow me! Next stop, the 4077th!”
Twenty minutes later, the roar of engines announced their return. Hawkeye and Radar drove the General’s jeep back into the compound, the heavy supply truck lumbering right behind them.
Nurses and orderlies swarmed the truck before it even stopped, ripping open the canvas back to grab boxes of plasma, morphine, and bandages, running them directly into the OR.
Hawkeye killed the engine of the jeep and stepped out, exhausted, soaked in rain and sweat.
He didn’t get two steps before two large MPs grabbed his arms. General Binkley stood before him, flanked by Colonel Potter.
“Captain Benjamin Franklin Pierce,” Binkley sneered, a triumphant gleam in his eye. “You are under arrest.”
Hawkeye looked past the General, watching the boxes of blood being carried into the OR. He smiled.
“General,” Hawkeye said softly, “you have the right to remain silent. Because if you open your mouth right now, the sheer volume of hot air might blow this entire camp into North Korea.”
Binkley turned to the MPs. “Take him to the stockade. Immediately.”
👉 Can Hawkeye escape a court-martial, or has his anti-authoritarian crusade finally ended his medical career? The verdict awaits…
[ Next Chapter ⏩ ]
