“Attention, all personnel! Incoming wounded! Choppers touching down on the pad! It’s a big one, folks. Grab your scalpels and kiss your sleep goodbye!” Radar’s voice echoed through the tinny loudspeakers, sounding equal parts terrified and exhausted.
The rhythmic, chest-thumping whump-whump-whump of the helicopter blades suddenly drowned out the deafening silence that had settled inside the Swamp.
Frank Burns stood frozen, his mouth still hanging open, the revelation of Hawkeye’s alleged crime trapped in his throat by the sudden influx of reality. Hawkeye didn’t wait. He slammed his martini glass down on the footlocker—spilling a tragic amount of the clear liquid—and grabbed his fatigue jacket.
“Save the treason charges for dessert, Frank,” Hawkeye snapped, his demeanor instantly shifting from sarcastic lounge lizard to hyper-focused surgeon. “We have young men bleeding out on the helipad. Even your monumental stupidity will have to wait in line.”
He shoved past Frank, leaving the Major sputtering indignantly in the doorway.
The triage area was a symphony of chaos. Stretchers were being rushed from the choppers, the smell of aviation fuel mixing violently with the metallic tang of blood and the sour stench of Korean mud. Margaret Houlihan was already barking orders, her blonde hair tucked neatly beneath her cap, a clipboard acting as her shield and sword.
“Chest wound, O.R. one! Sucking chest wound, get him on oxygen! This one’s gone… cover him up,” she directed, her voice carrying the practiced, hardened edge that kept the 4077th from completely collapsing into anarchy.
Hawkeye scrubbed in beside B.J. Hunnicutt, the soap lathering pink with the remnants of yesterday’s casualties.
“You look like a man who just swallowed a bug, Hawk,” B.J. noted, keeping his eyes on the surgical brush. “Or did Frank finally explain the birds and the bees to you?”
“Frank found the carbon copy of the requisition form,” Hawkeye muttered, his voice barely audible over the hiss of the sterilizer.
B.J.’s hands stopped scrubbing for a fraction of a second. “The penicillin? The fifty crates you diverted to the orphanage in Uijeongbu?”
“The very same,” Hawkeye said grimly. “He’s got the paper. He knows I forged his signature. And he was about two seconds away from screaming it to the entire camp before the war conveniently decided to interrupt.”
B.J. whistled low. “Colonel Potter is going to have your hide on a wall plaque. Stealing a couple of steaks is one thing. Diverting a truckload of life-saving antibiotics? That’s Leavenworth territory, Hawk.”
“It was for kids, Beej. Kids dying of pneumonia while our supply depot sits on a surplus big enough to cure every venereal disease in the Pacific theater,” Hawkeye defended, though the knot in his stomach was tightening. It wasn’t just about breaking the rules; it was about breaking trust. Sherman T. Potter was a decent man, a regular army cavalry officer who turned a blind eye to Hawkeye’s antics because he trusted his surgical skills. This, however, was a blatant betrayal of the command structure.
They pushed through the swinging doors of the Operating Room. The heat was instantly oppressive. The overhead lights beat down like interrogation lamps.
For the next four hours, the O.R. was a blur of clamps, sponges, and the grim mechanics of putting shattered farm boys back together. The banter, usually a rapid-fire defense mechanism against the horrors on the tables, was notably absent. The tension between Hawkeye and Frank—who was sweating profusely across the table from him—was thick enough to be sliced with a number ten scalpel.
“Retractor,” Hawkeye ordered, holding out a bloody, gloved hand.
Margaret slapped the instrument into his palm a little harder than necessary. “Watch your tone, Captain.”
“I’ll watch my tone when Major Burns stops staring at me like I’m a communist spy,” Hawkeye shot back, not looking up from the gaping abdominal wound he was repairing. “Focus on the bowel resection, Frank, not my impending court-martial.”
Colonel Potter, operating at the adjacent table, paused. He looked over his reading glasses, his eyes darting between Hawkeye and Frank. The old cavalryman possessed a sixth sense for camp trouble, and right now, his radar was pinging loudly.
“Alright, stow it, you two,” Potter grumbled, his voice gravelly and authoritative. “I’m trying to patch up a shrapnel tear here, and I don’t need your hen-pecking distracting me. What’s this about a court-martial, Burns?”
Frank’s eyes lit up above his surgical mask. He couldn’t resist. The audience was too perfect.
“Colonel, sir!” Frank stood a little taller, almost forgetting the retractor he was holding. “Captain Pierce is a thief! A saboteur! He forged my signature and your authorization to steal fifty crates of penicillin from the supply depot!”
The entire O.R. went dead silent, save for the rhythmic beeping of a monitor and the hiss of oxygen. Even Margaret stopped moving, staring at Hawkeye with a mixture of shock and profound disappointment.
Potter’s hands stilled. He slowly turned his head to look at Hawkeye. The jovial, fatherly demeanor was completely gone, replaced by the hardened glare of a veteran commander who had just been stabbed in the back by his best officer.
“Is this true, Pierce?” Potter asked. His voice wasn’t yelling; it was dangerously quiet. The tone of a man whose trust had just completely shattered.
Hawkeye looked up, meeting Potter’s eyes. There was no witty comeback. No Groucho Marx impression to hide behind.
“Yes, Colonel,” Hawkeye said quietly. “It’s true.”
Potter stared at him for a long, agonizing moment. “Finish your surgery, Captain. When you are done, you will confine yourself to your quarters under armed guard. We will discuss your court-martial in the morning.”
As the O.R. descended into a suffocating, heavy silence, Hawkeye felt a familiar, crushing weight. He had crossed a line. But the worst was yet to come. Because as Hawkeye tied off the final suture, Radar O’Reilly burst through the O.R. doors, his face paler than a ghost, ignoring all sterile protocols.
“Colonel! Hawkeye!” Radar gasped, holding a field telephone receiver. “It’s the orphanage in Uijeongbu… They just called. They never got the penicillin. The truck… the truck was hijacked.”
[ Next Chapter ⏩ ]
