The figure emerging from the shadows was Father Mulcahy. The chaplain’s usually gentle face was drawn tight, a rosary clutched desperately in his left hand. He didn’t offer a platitude. He didn’t tell Hawkeye that Henry was in a better place, because they both knew the only place Henry was supposed to be was sitting on his porch in Illinois, complaining about the neighbor’s dog.

“Hawkeye,” Mulcahy said softly, stopping a few feet away.

“Don’t, Father,” Hawkeye replied, his voice raspy from the cigarette smoke and the unshed tears burning the back of his throat. “If you try to sell me on God’s mysterious ways right now, I’m going to have to file a formal complaint with the Vatican.”

Mulcahy offered a sad, broken smile. “I wouldn’t dream of it, Pierce. I’m having a hard enough time selling it to myself tonight.” He hesitated, then reached out and placed a hand on Hawkeye’s shoulder. A brief, grounding squeeze. “He was a good man. A terrible soldier, but a profoundly good man.”

“Yeah,” Hawkeye whispered. “The worst soldier I ever met. That was his redeeming quality.”

Mulcahy nodded slowly and walked away into the dark, leaving Hawkeye alone with the distant sound of the approaching choppers.

Hawkeye tossed the cigarette stub into a puddle and made his way to the Swamp. The tent was dark and freezing. He didn’t turn on the light. He navigated by memory, avoiding the scattered boots and deflated footballs, until he reached the center of the room. The homemade still sat there, an intricate contraption of glass tubing and stolen medical supplies, a monument to their desperate need to forget where they were.

He grabbed a tin cup, bypassed the vermouth entirely, and poured a generous measure of raw, unadulterated gin. He sat down heavily on his cot, the springs groaning in protest.

The flap of the tent snapped open. B.J. Hunnicutt stepped in, looking like a man who had just survived a firing squad only to realize they were reloading. B.J. didn’t say a word. He walked to the still, poured his own cup, and sat on his respective cot.

They sat in the dark for a long time, the silence broken only by the whistling wind rattling the canvas.

“I bought him a suit,” Hawkeye suddenly said, his voice piercing the quiet. “In Tokyo. I told him he needed to look like a respectable civilian, not a guy who just escaped a chain gang. Pinstripes. He looked ridiculous in it.”

“He looked like a used car salesman who had just closed a big deal,” B.J. agreed quietly, staring into his gin.

“He was so happy, Beej,” Hawkeye said, his voice finally cracking. The dam was breaking. The cynical armor he wore every single day to survive the 4077th was dissolving in the face of absolute, senseless tragedy. “He had all the pictures of Lorraine and the kids. He had that stupid fishing hat. He made it out. He actually made it out. He beat the house.”

“The house always wins, Hawk,” B.J. said bitterly. “It’s a rigged game. We stitch these kids up, we put them back together with spit and baling wire, and for what? So they can go back out there and get blown up again? And Henry… Henry gets a piece of paper saying he’s done, and they shoot him out of the sky anyway. It’s a joke. It’s an unfunny, sick joke.”

Before Hawkeye could respond, the tent flap flew open again. Frank Burns stood there, his uniform meticulously pressed, his posture rigidly straight, though his eyes were red-rimmed. Frank looked from Hawkeye to B.J., his jaw tight.

“Drinking in the quarters is against regulations,” Frank barked, though there was no real heat behind it. It was a reflex, a desperate attempt to cling to the rules when the world had just proven that rules didn’t matter.

“Have a drink, Frank,” Hawkeye said tiredly, not even looking up. “The regulations died today. Along with the Colonel.”

Frank bristled, stepping further into the tent. “It’s a tragedy, Pierce. A terrible military loss. But we must remember that Colonel Blake died a soldier’s death. He gave his life for his country.”

Hawkeye slowly stood up. He didn’t yell. He didn’t throw a punch, though his hands were balled into tight fists at his sides. He walked over to Frank, stopping inches from the Major’s face.

“He didn’t give his life, Frank,” Hawkeye said, his voice a lethal, vibrating whisper. “It was violently, violently taken from him. He wasn’t a soldier. He was a doctor who was drafted into a nightmare. He didn’t die charging a machine gun nest. He died sitting in a transport plane, dreaming of his wife’s pot roast, unarmed and helpless. So don’t you dare try to wrap him in a flag to make yourself feel better about this meat grinder.”

Frank swallowed hard, stepping back. For once, he didn’t argue. He looked down at the floor, the military facade cracking just a fraction. “I… I requested a memorial service,” Frank mumbled, turning toward the door. “At 0800 hours.” He left the tent as quickly as he had entered.

Hawkeye let out a long, shaky breath and sat back down. He picked up his cup of gin. He held it out into the dark space between his cot and B.J.’s.

“To Henry,” Hawkeye said, his voice trembling but clear. “The worst military commander in history, and the best doctor I ever had the misfortune to serve under.”

“To Henry,” B.J. echoed, raising his cup.

They drank the burning liquid in silence.

Just as Hawkeye set his cup down, the shrill, agonizing wail of the camp’s PA system crackled to life, echoing across the compound.

“Attention, all personnel. Incoming wounded. Choppers on the pad. I repeat, incoming wounded. All medical personnel report to the OR immediately.”

Hawkeye stared at the speaker mounted near the roof of the tent. The war didn’t care that they were mourning. The war demanded its blood.

He looked at B.J. B.J. looked back, the exhaustion carved deep into his face.

Slowly, agonizingly, Hawkeye reached under his cot and pulled out his muddy boots.