Corporal Radar O’Reilly had a sixth sense for trouble. He usually felt it in his left ear just before the choppers arrived, or in his stomach when Colonel Flagg was within a fifty-mile radius. Tonight, the warning came as a cold shiver down his spine.
Radar sat up in his cot, clutching his teddy bear. The camp was dead quiet. Too quiet.
He slipped out of the office and padded across the compound. The mud squelched softly under his boots. As he rounded the corner of the Mess Tent, he froze.
About fifty yards away, near the eastern perimeter, a solitary figure was walking with a slow, deliberate gait. It was Hawkeye. He was wearing his unbuttoned Hawaiian shirt over his long johns, the fabric flapping gently in the icy wind.
“Captain Pierce?” Radar hissed softly.
Hawkeye didn’t turn. He kept walking, his arms slightly raised, as if he were holding a sterile gown, waiting for a nurse to tie it in the back.
Radar’s eyes widened in sheer panic as he realized the trajectory of Hawkeye’s stroll. Just beyond the supply dump was Sector 4—a freshly laid defensive minefield installed by the engineers only two weeks ago to deter North Korean guerrilla patrols.
“Oh, sweet mother of Toledo,” Radar gasped.
He couldn’t shout. If he startled Hawkeye and woke him up abruptly, the shock might cause him to jump, trip, or stumble directly onto a pressure plate. The rule of sleepwalkers—don’t wake them up—was never more literal than when explosive ordnance was involved.
Radar sprinted toward Margaret Houlihan’s tent. He didn’t bother knocking. He burst in, nearly tripping over a footlocker.
“Major Houlihan! Major!”
Margaret sat up instantly, her military instincts overriding her sleep. “Radar? What is it? Casualties?”
“Worse, ma’am! It’s Captain Pierce! He’s sleepwalking again, and he’s heading straight for the minefield!”
Margaret didn’t hesitate. She threw her heavy army coat over her nightgown, grabbed a flashlight, and bolted out the door with Radar. For all her bluster, regulations, and frequent screaming matches with Hawkeye, Margaret possessed a deep, fiercely protective compassion for the surgeons in her unit. They were her people. And nobody blew up her people on her watch.
They reached the edge of the compound just as Hawkeye stepped past the first warning sign: DANGER – MINES – STAY BACK. “Dear God,” Margaret whispered. She clicked off her flashlight, terrified the sudden beam would startle him.
Hawkeye was five feet into the danger zone. The mud here was churned and treacherous. He was still muttering to himself, trapped in his invisible operating room.
“Vascular clamp… no, the other one. Dammit, Frank, get your hands out of the way…”
Margaret turned to Radar, her face pale in the moonlight. “We have to guide him out. We can’t wake him.”
“How, Major? If we walk in there, we might step on a mine ourselves!”
“I’ve got the map of the safe paths memorized,” Margaret said, her voice trembling slightly but laced with absolute iron resolve. She had studied the perimeter defenses meticulously, as any good head nurse would. “I’m going in.”
“Major, no!”
“Stay here, Corporal. If I blow up, tell Frank he’s a coward.”
With excruciating slowness, Margaret stepped past the warning sign. She kept her eyes on the ground, mentally visualizing the grid the engineers had provided. Two steps forward, one step left. Avoid the depression by the rock. “Hawkeye,” she cooed softly, pitching her voice to perfectly mimic the soothing, professional tone of a surgical nurse.
Hawkeye paused. His head tilted slightly.
“Captain Pierce,” Margaret continued, stepping carefully behind him. “The patient is stabilized. We need you in OR 2.”
“OR 2?” Hawkeye mumbled, swaying slightly. “Right. The chest wound. Wash me up.”
“Yes, Doctor. Just step back this way. Away from the table. Follow my voice.”
Margaret extended her hand, hovering just inches from his shoulder.
Hawkeye took a step backward. His heel landed exactly where Margaret had just stepped—the safe zone.
“That’s right, Doctor. Keep backing up.”
Another step. And another. The tension was suffocating. Radar was gnawing on his own fist to keep from screaming.
Finally, Hawkeye cleared the warning sign. Margaret instantly grabbed him by the belt and yanked him backward onto the safe mud of the compound. She collapsed onto her knees, gasping for air, her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird.
Hawkeye, undisturbed by the sudden movement, simply sighed. “Good work, Margaret. Remind me to buy you a drink at the Officer’s Club.” And with that, he collapsed forward, fast asleep in the mud.
By the time Colonel Potter arrived on the scene, Hawkeye had been hauled back to the Swamp.
The next morning, Potter called Hawkeye into his office.
“Pierce, sit down,” Potter commanded.
Hawkeye, looking pale and deeply fatigued, fell into the chair. “If this is about me stealing Frank’s hairnet, I can explain.”
“It’s about you trying to play hopscotch in a live minefield at 0300 hours, son.” Potter leaned across his desk, his eyes full of paternal concern. “You’re broken, Hawk. The meat grinder has finally jammed your gears. I’m writing you a pass. Forty-eight hours in Tokyo. R&R. Mandatory.”
Hawkeye shook his head, a grim, stubborn look settling over his face. “Can’t do it, Colonel. The Chinese offensive is pushing south. The radio says we’re going to get hit with a wave of casualties by nightfall. I can’t leave Trapper and BJ—” (He corrected himself) “—I mean, I can’t leave the unit short-handed. Not now.”
“That’s an order, Captain!”
“And who’s going to do the bowel resections, Sherman? Frank? He can’t even carve a turkey without accidentally amputating a drumstick.” Hawkeye leaned in. “I’ll stay awake. I’ll drink a gallon of coffee. But I’m not leaving.”
Potter stared at him, torn between military authority and the desperate reality of their situation. Before he could argue further, the dreadful, unmistakable sound chopped through the crisp morning air.
Thwack-thwack-thwack-thwack.
Radar burst into the office. “Choppers, Colonel! Five of ’em! Heavy casualties!”
The argument was over. The war had voted.
Hawkeye stood up, the exhaustion momentarily masked by pure adrenaline. “See you in the Swamp, Colonel.”
For the next eighteen hours, Hawkeye operated flawlessly. He was a machine, his hands moving with impossible speed and precision, pulling shrapnel from teenagers, closing arteries, fighting death for every inch of flesh. But when the final patient was wheeled out, the adrenaline crashed.
Hawkeye dropped his scalpel. He didn’t even make it to the scrub room. He collapsed right onto the bloody floor of the OR, out cold.
When he finally opened his eyes, he was lying on a cot. He blinked against the harsh overhead lights. He looked to his left. Potter, Margaret, and Radar were standing there, their faces drawn with deep concern.
Hawkeye squinted, his expression utterly blank. He looked at Potter.
“Who… who are you people?” Hawkeye whispered. “Where am I?”
[ Next Chapter ⏩ ]
