The war in Korea was ninety-nine percent sheer, mind-numbing boredom, punctuated by one percent of the most absolute, blood-soaked terror imaginable. The 4077th Mobile Army Surgical Hospital survived this delicate balance through a combination of black market gin, gallows humor, and a shared, unspoken agreement to ignore military protocol whenever it got in the way of saving a farm boy from Iowa who had a piece of shrapnel in his chest.
Major Frank Burns, however, had never signed that agreement.
“It is a matter of national security, Colonel!” Frank barked, standing so rigidly at attention in Colonel Sherman Potter’s office that he looked like he had swallowed a guidon pole. “We are operating a United States military installation like a clandestine syndicate of mobsters! ‘Hawkeye’? ‘Trapper’? ‘B.J.’? ‘Radar’? If the North Koreans intercept our supply manifests, they won’t know if they’re fighting an infantry division or a traveling circus!”
Colonel Potter sighed, a deep, rumbling sound that seemed to originate from his cavalry boots. He took a long drag from his cigar, exhaling a cloud of blue smoke that briefly obscured Frank’s pinched face. “Frank, we are surgeons. The enemy isn’t trying to decode our supply manifests; they are trying to blow holes in our boys. Now, I have three chests of penicillin held up in Uijeongbu because I Corps received a report that our requisition forms were signed by ‘fictitious personnel’. I assume you are the architect of this particular pile of horse hockey?”
“I am merely adhering to Army Regulation 42-B, Section 4,” Frank said, his chest puffing out. “All official documents must bear the legal, given name of the officer. No aliases. No nicknames. Major Margaret Houlihan agrees with me.”
“Major Houlihan would agree with a firing squad if it was laid out in a manual,” muttered Hawkeye Pierce, who was slumped in a canvas chair in the corner of the office. He was wearing his standard uniform: an untucked Hawaiian shirt over olive drab pants, holding a mug of coffee that smelled suspiciously of the Swamp’s homemade still. Next to him, B.J. Hunnicutt was attempting to balance a pencil on his upper lip.
“Captain Pierce,” Potter growled, though his eyes lacked real heat. “You are currently the primary suspect in this farce. I-Corps has dispatched an auditor. A Captain ‘Smith’. He’s outside right now, setting up a desk in the mess tent. He is refusing to authorize our medical supplies—and, I might add, our mail and my replacement saddle soap—until every officer in this camp verifies their legal identity.”
“This is an outrage,” Hawkeye protested, finally sitting up. “I demand to see my lawyer. Failing that, I demand to see a bartender. My name is Hawkeye. It says so on my stethoscope.”
“Your name,” Frank sneered, “is Benjamin Franklin Pierce. A name you mock daily with your insubordinate behavior.”
“Benjamin Franklin discovered electricity, Frank,” Hawkeye shot back. “You haven’t even discovered how to tie your shoelaces without adult supervision. There’s a difference.”
“Enough!” Potter slammed his hand on the desk. “We are going to walk into that mess tent, we are going to look this Captain Smith in the eye, and we are going to give him our god-given, birth-certificate-verified names. We are going to play a little game of trivia for the United States Army, and then we are going to get our penicillin. Understood?”
“Yes, sir,” B.J. said smoothly, the pencil finally dropping into his lap.
Potter narrowed his eyes at B.J. “And you, Hunnicutt. No funny business. Just give him your name.”
Ten minutes later, the mess tent had been transformed into a makeshift tribunal. The camp had caught wind of the situation, and the tent was packed. Nurses, corpsmen, and doctors crowded around the wooden tables. Hawkeye, never one to let a crisis go to waste, had already instructed Corporal Klinger (who was currently wearing a tasteful floral muumuu and a pillbox hat) to start taking bets.
“Alright, ladies and gentlemen!” Hawkeye announced, stepping onto a bench. “Welcome to the 4077th’s first annual ‘What’s My Real Name’ Trivia Extravaganza! The rules are simple. The auditor asks a question, we suffer a humiliating loss of personal privacy, and if you guess the middle name correctly before they say it, Klinger pays out three-to-one!”
“Captain Pierce, step down immediately!” yelled Captain Smith, a man whose face looked like it had been ironed. He sat behind a table laden with thick files. “This is a formal military audit.”
“It’s a game show, Smitty,” Hawkeye said, taking a seat directly across from the auditor. “Hit me. Let’s get this over with.”
Smith adjusted his glasses. “Captain Pierce. Your given name on file is Benjamin Franklin Pierce. Is this correct?”
“Guilty as charged. My father liked the founding fathers. It was either that or Thomas Jefferson Pierce, and ‘Tommy’ just doesn’t command the same respect in the operating room.”
Smith checked a box. “Very well. Next. Corporal O’Reilly.”
Radar stepped forward, clutching his teddy bear nervously behind his back. He looked like a schoolboy called to the principal’s office.
“Ah,” Hawkeye whispered loudly to the crowd. “The mysterious Radar. A boy of infinite secrets. Five bucks says his real name is ‘Radio’.”
“Corporal,” Smith said slowly. “Your file states your given name is… Walter Eugene O’Reilly. Is this accurate?”
A collective “Ooooh” went through the mess tent. Radar blushed furiously, his ears turning the color of an unripe tomato. “Yes, sir. But everybody just calls me Radar, sir. On account of I can hear the choppers before—”
“I don’t care about your auditory hallucinations, Corporal,” Smith snapped. “Walter Eugene. Confirmed.” He looked down at the next file. “Major Burns.”
Frank stepped forward, his chin jutting out proudly. “Here, sir. Ready to comply with all regulations.”
Hawkeye leaned over to B.J. “Ten bucks says his middle name is ‘Incompetence’.”
“I’ll take that action,” B.J. murmured. “I’m betting it’s ‘Stupid’.”
Smith cleared his throat. “Major Burns. Your given name is Franklin… Marion… Burns. Correct?”
The mess tent went dead silent. And then, a snort. It came from Klinger. Then Hawkeye let out a sound like a dying seal. Within seconds, the entire tent erupted into roaring laughter.
“Marion?!” Hawkeye wheezed, pounding the table. “Frank, your middle name is Marion? Oh, this is the greatest day of my life. The war was worth it. I forgive the Army everything.”
Frank’s face turned a violent, apoplectic purple. “It is a distinguished family name! It belonged to my grandfather!”
“Was your grandfather a ballerina, Frank?” B.J. asked politely, wiping a tear from his eye.
“Order! Order in this facility!” Smith shouted, slamming his hand on the files. “We are not finished! Next on the ledger. Captain Hunnicutt.”
B.J. sighed, standing up and buttoning his fatigue shirt. He walked over to the table with a relaxed, ambling gait.
“Captain Hunnicutt,” Smith said, his voice dripping with bureaucratic irritation. “Your personnel file is completely unacceptable. Under ‘First Name’, it simply says ‘B’. Under ‘Middle Name’, it says ‘J’. This is a military document, Captain. We require your full, legal name.”
B.J. smiled softly. “That is my full, legal name, Captain.”
Smith stared at him. “Do not play games with me. Is it Benjamin? Robert? William? What does the ‘B’ stand for?”
“Nothing,” B.J. said honestly. “It just stands for ‘B’.”
“And the ‘J’?”
“It stands for ‘J’.”
Smith’s face began to match Frank’s in color. “That is impossible! A person cannot be named just two letters!”
“My mother’s name was Bea,” B.J. explained patiently. “My father’s name was Jay. They compromised. B.J. It’s on my birth certificate.”
“I demand to see this birth certificate!” Smith yelled.
“It’s in California,” B.J. replied. “I didn’t think I’d need it to take out an appendix in Uijeongbu.”
“This is insubordination! I will not release the plasma, I will not release the mail, and I will recommend a court-martial for you, Captain, unless you tell me what those letters stand for right now!”
The humor instantly vanished from Hawkeye’s face. The game was over. The plasma was the line between life and death for the kids who would inevitably arrive on the next wave of choppers. He stood up, his voice dropping its sarcastic lilt, replaced by the cold, hard tone of a chief surgeon.
“Listen to me very carefully, Smitty—” Hawkeye began.
But before he could finish the sentence, the PA system crackled to life.
“Attention all personnel. Incoming wounded. Choppers approaching. Looks like a big one, folks. Scrub up.”
The bureaucracy had just collided with the reality of war.
[ Next Chapter ⏩ ]
