“Vietnam?” Major Sterling repeated, the word sounding foreign and clumsy in his mouth. He actually checked his notepad, as if looking for the geography section. “Captain Pierce, the French are handling that mess. We just send them a few dollars and some old jeeps. Why on earth would anyone make a movie about that?”

Hawkeye began to pace the narrow strip of dirt between the cots. “Because, my dear Major, it is the natural evolution of the military-industrial entertainment complex! Think about it. Korea is too cold. The topography is depressing. But the jungle? The jungle is exotic! It’s humid! It’s the perfect setting for a tragicomedy of epic proportions.”

B.J. leaned back against his pillow, swirling his gin. “He’s got a point, Hollywood. Better foliage. Think of the Technicolor.”

“I don’t understand,” Sterling said, clearly annoyed. “The prompt from the Pentagon is to show American heroism. You want to pitch a movie about a French colonial failure?”

“No, no, no,” Hawkeye said, waving his hands frantically. “You’re not listening, Cecil. I’m pitching a movie about our future failure. Look at the pattern! We’re already paying for eighty percent of the French war there. What happens when they pack up their baguettes and go home? You think the brass in Washington is just going to let a perfectly good, highly profitable meat grinder go to waste?”

Sterling stood up, his face reddening. “Captain, that is borderline treasonous.”

“It’s borderline clairvoyant!” Hawkeye shot back. “Here’s the pitch. You make a movie—no, a television series! Week after week! You set it in a surgical hospital, just like this one. You fill it with brilliant doctors drafted against their will, incompetent commanders who love regulations more than human life, and a constant, unending stream of wounded kids.”

“Nobody would watch that,” Sterling scoffed. “It’s too depressing. The American public wants John Wayne. They don’t want to watch bleeding boys in a jungle.”

Hawkeye stopped pacing and stepped right into Sterling’s personal space. The humor had vanished from his eyes, leaving only a cold, hard truth.

“That’s the genius of it, Major. You don’t tell them it’s about Vietnam.“

Sterling blinked. “What?”

“You make the movie while the Vietnam war is happening,” Hawkeye whispered, pointing a finger at Sterling’s chest. “But you tell everyone it’s about Korea. You dress them in Korean War uniforms. You talk about Truman and MacArthur. But the people watching? The people protesting in the streets? They’ll know. They’ll see the helicopter blades, they’ll hear the anti-war jokes, and they’ll know exactly which war you’re really talking about. You use Korea as a Trojan horse to smuggle the truth about Vietnam right into their living rooms.”

The Swamp was dead silent, save for the distant rumble of artillery fire echoing off the mountains. B.J. stared at Hawkeye, impressed by the sheer meta-theatrical insanity of the rant.

“You’re crazy,” Sterling finally breathed, backing away toward the tent flap. “You’re a cynic and a madman, Pierce. You can’t make a comedy about an ongoing tragedy. You can’t use one war to satirize another. The network would never allow it. The sponsors would pull out!”

“The sponsors sell soap and razor blades, Major! They’ll sponsor the apocalypse if the ratings are good enough,” Hawkeye yelled as Sterling pushed his way out of the tent.

“I’m going to find Major Burns!” Sterling shouted from the mud outside. “At least he understands patriotism!”

“Give him a close-up!” Hawkeye yelled after him. “His lack of chin really represents the void of military intelligence!”

Hawkeye stood staring at the closed tent flap for a long moment. The manic energy slowly drained out of him, leaving the familiar, heavy exhaustion of the 4077th. He turned back to B.J. and slumped onto his cot.

B.J. handed him a fresh martini. “You know, Hawk. That was a hell of a pitch. But why not just make a film directly about Vietnam?”

Hawkeye took the glass, gazing deeply into the clear liquid. “Because, Beej,” he said softly, “if you show people the actual monster while it’s still eating them, they panic. You have to put a mask on the monster. You call it ‘Korea.’ That way, they can laugh at the tragedy… right up until they realize the joke is on them.”

He raised his glass to the ceiling of the Swamp.

“To the next war,” Hawkeye toasted grimly. “May the ratings be high, and the casualties be… well. We know they won’t be low.”

They drank in silence, waiting for the choppers to return.