The Mess Tent of the 4077th MASH had served many functions: a dining hall for terrible food, a movie theater for terrible films, and a makeshift triage center during heavy shelling. Today, it was a kangaroo court.

General “Ironclad” Binkley sat at the head table, flanked by a very weary Colonel Potter and a remarkably smug Major Frank Burns, who had volunteered to act as the recording secretary.

Hawkeye Pierce sat in a folding chair in the center of the room. He hadn’t bothered to change out of his blood-stained scrubs. He was casually picking at a bowl of powdered eggs, occasionally offering a bite to an imaginary dog by his feet.

“Captain Pierce,” General Binkley began, his voice echoing in the canvas tent. “You are charged with grand theft of military property, destruction of a barricade at Checkpoint Charlie, insubordination, and threatening a superior officer. Have you anything to say before I contact I Corps to arrange a formal court-martial?”

Hawkeye swallowed a spoonful of eggs and grimaced. “Just one thing, General. Could you mandate a Form 99-Z for whoever cooks these eggs? Because I’m pretty sure it’s an act of chemical warfare against the Geneva Convention.”

“This is not a joke, Pierce!” Frank squeaked, slamming his pen on the table. “You stole the General’s vehicle! You acted like a… a hoodlum! A hooligan! An anarchist!”

“I acted like a doctor, Frank,” Hawkeye said, his voice turning icy. He dropped the spoon, the clatter silencing the room. “I acted like a man who took an oath to save lives, not to file paperwork.”

Hawkeye stood up, ignoring the MPs who stepped forward. He walked toward the makeshift bench. “You want to court-martial me, General? Fine. Do it. Strip me of my rank, lock me in Leavenworth, throw away the key. But let’s get something straight for the record.”

He pointed a finger at Binkley. “Your rules, your forms, your beautiful, immaculate bureaucracy… it doesn’t work here. This isn’t the Pentagon. This is a slaughterhouse. We deal in torn flesh, shattered bones, and kids crying for their mothers. While you were worried about Form 77-Alpha, three boys almost bled to death on my tables.”

“Regulations maintain order!” Binkley countered, slamming his fist on the table. “Without order, we lose the war!”

“We’re already losing the war, General!” Hawkeye shouted back. “We lose a piece of it every time a chopper lands! You think the Chinese care if our supply truck has the right stamp? You think the Grim Reaper checks to see if we filled out the manifest in triplicate? The only thing that stops the dying is us. The doctors, the nurses, the blood. Not the paper.”

“Brilliant speech, Captain,” Binkley sneered. “Truly moving. But it doesn’t change the law. You are a criminal.”

“Actually, General,” Colonel Potter spoke up, his voice mild but carrying a terrifying weight. He had been quietly reading a file folder that Radar had slipped to him ten minutes prior. “I’m not so sure he is.”

Binkley frowned. “What are you talking about, Colonel?”

Potter adjusted his glasses and opened the folder. “I had my clerk, Corporal O’Reilly, do a little digging into the Medical Corps Directives while you were sleeping in your quarters last night. It turns out, according to General Order 112, enacted in 1943 by the Surgeon General himself—an order which has never been repealed, mind you—in a designated combat zone, the Chief Medical Officer has the supreme authority to commandeer ‘any and all available resources, vehicles, or personnel’ in the event of an imminent mass casualty crisis.”

Frank Burns gasped. “That can’t be right!”

“Oh, it’s right, Major,” Potter said smoothly, tapping the paper. “It was drafted during the Battle of the Bulge. The wording is quite specific. ‘Any and all vehicles.’ That includes supply trucks. It includes civilian ox carts. And, unfortunately for you, General, it includes star-spangled Willys Jeeps.”

Binkley’s face went from purple to a sickly shade of gray. “That is an archaic loophole! It was meant for front-line emergencies!”

“General, look around you,” Potter gestured to the mud, the tents, and the distant sound of artillery fire rumbling over the hills. “We are the front line. Now, Captain Pierce here was acting as my proxy. He commandeered your vehicle under the authority of General Order 112 to secure life-saving medical supplies. He didn’t steal it. He drafted it.”

Hawkeye couldn’t help himself. He saluted the General. “And let me tell you, sir, your jeep served its country with honor. It even took a bullet for freedom. Well, a rock to the windshield, but it was a communist rock.”

Binkley stared at Potter, his jaw tight. He knew he was beaten. If he pushed the court-martial, Potter would bring up General Order 112, and Binkley would look like a bureaucratic fool who tried to let soldiers die over a missing form. It would ruin his career in Washington.

“Fine,” Binkley spat, standing up and adjusting his perfectly pressed tunic. “I am withdrawing the charges. But know this, Colonel. This hospital is a madhouse. It is a disgrace to the uniform. I will be recommending a complete overhaul of your personnel.”

“You do that, General,” Potter said, leaning back in his chair. “Write it all down on a form. Make sure it’s in triplicate.”

Binkley stormed out of the Mess Tent, leaving a heavy, exhausted silence in his wake.

Frank Burns scoffed, gathering his papers. “Well, I think it’s disgraceful. You people have no respect for authority.”

“Go count the tongue depressors, Frank,” Hawkeye sighed, sitting back down and pulling his bowl of powdered eggs toward him.

“You really dodged a bullet there, Pierce,” Potter said, removing his glasses and rubbing his eyes. “Don’t ever make me play lawyer again. My heart can’t take it.”

“Thank you, Colonel,” Hawkeye said genuinely. He looked at the tent flap where the General had exited. The brief victory against the machine was sweet, but they all knew it was temporary. The Army was an immovable object; they were just a small, muddy hospital trying not to get crushed underneath it.

Suddenly, the familiar, dreadful sound chopped through the crisp morning air. Thwack-thwack-thwack. Choppers.

Radar burst into the Mess Tent, out of breath. “Choppers, sir! Five of them! Incoming!”

Hawkeye pushed the eggs away. The war didn’t care about regulations, and it didn’t care about victories. It only cared about meat.

“Well,” Hawkeye said, standing up and stretching his sore back. “Back to the slaughterhouse. Come on, Frank. Let’s go practice our anti-authoritarian medicine.”

They walked out into the mud as the choppers landed, the cycle of the 4077th beginning all over again.