The 4077th MAS*H awoke not to the gentle sound of reveille, but to the frantic, panicked screaming of Corporal Radar O’Reilly.

“He’s here! He’s here early! The General is here!”

Hawkeye Pierce bolted upright in his cot inside the Swamp, his head pounding from a combination of exhaustion, residual O.R. adrenaline, and exactly two sips of his homemade gin. Across the tent, Trapper John McIntyre was already pulling on his boots, his eyes wide with the universal terror of an enlisted man facing unexpected brass.

“Who’s here?” Hawkeye groggily demanded, grabbing his dog tags.

“General Kelly! ‘Iron Guts’ Kelly!” Radar yelled from outside the tent canvas. “He drove straight through the night! He’s in Colonel Blake’s office right now, and he’s looking at the ice skates!”

Hawkeye groaned, burying his face in his hands. “Of course he is. Why wouldn’t he be? The universe has a sick sense of humor, and its favorite punchline is Henry.”

By the time Hawkeye and Trapper made it to the command tent, the situation had already deteriorated past a comedy of errors and straight into a military tribunal waiting to happen.

General Robert “Iron Guts” Kelly was a man who looked like he chewed gravel for breakfast and washed it down with diesel fuel. He was standing in the center of Henry’s office, his swagger stick tapping aggressively against the side of a crate labeled “SKATES, FIGURE, LEATHER, WHITE.”

Henry Blake was practically vibrating behind his desk, his fishing hat nowhere to be seen, his uniform hastily buttoned.

“Colonel Blake,” General Kelly rumbled, his voice like a tank engine turning over. “I drove up here to inspect a frontline surgical unit. I expected to find crisp discipline, proper triage protocols, and a functioning military apparatus.” Kelly picked up a white skate, letting the gleaming silver blade catch the morning light. “Instead, I find Sonja Henie’s locker room. Explain yourself. Now.”

“Well, General, sir, you see, it’s a funny story,” Henry stammered, sweating profusely. “It was a clerical error at I-Corps. We ordered penicillin. They sent… winter sports gear.”

“A clerical error?” Kelly stepped closer, towering over Henry. “And what, pray tell, is your plan to rectify this, Colonel? Are you going to court-martial the supply sergeant in Seoul? Or are you just going to let your men pirouette across the battlefield?”

Hawkeye saw his opening. He stepped into the tent, flashing his most disarming, insubordinate smile.

“Actually, General,” Hawkeye interrupted, saluting lazily. “The skates are part of a highly classified, experimental psychological warfare initiative developed by Colonel Blake himself.”

Henry’s head whipped around to stare at Hawkeye, his eyes screaming a silent plea for mercy. General Kelly slowly turned, his eyes narrowing. “Captain… Pierce, isn’t it? The Chief Surgeon. I’ve read your file. It’s thicker than the Old Testament and twice as fictional. What ‘initiative’?”

“Operation Frozen Fear, sir,” Hawkeye lied smoothly, not missing a beat. Trapper, standing behind him, had to bite his own hand to keep from laughing. “You see, General, the enemy expects guns. They expect artillery. They don’t expect a heavily armed surgical unit gliding silently across the frozen rice paddies in the dead of winter. It confuses them. It demoralizes them. We call it the ‘Triple Salchow of Death.'”

General Kelly stared at Hawkeye for a long, agonizing minute. The silence in the tent was absolute. Then, surprisingly, the General lowered the skate.

“Psychological warfare,” Kelly mused, rubbing his chin. “Unorthodox. Completely against regulations. And deeply insane.” He looked at Henry. “I like it, Blake. It shows initiative.”

Henry let out a breath he had been holding for three minutes. “Thank you, sir. I, uh, pride myself on thinking outside the box.”

“Good,” Kelly barked. “Because I want to see a demonstration.”

The relief in the room vanished instantly.

“A… a demonstration, sir?” Henry squeaked. “In July? There’s no ice.”

“Improvise, Colonel!” Kelly yelled. “I want to see your men deploying these skates in a tactical formation by 1400 hours, or I’ll have your command stripped and you’ll all be transferred to a latrine duty battalion in the Aleutians! Dismissed!”

Hawkeye, Trapper, and Henry practically fell out of the tent. They stood in the bright, dusty Korean sun, staring at each other in horrified silence.

“A demonstration,” Henry whispered. “Hawk, how are we going to do a demonstration in the mud?”

“Don’t worry, Henry,” Hawkeye said, his mind already racing. “I have a plan. Trapper, get on the horn to the Greek battalion. Tell them the deal for the skates is off unless they can bring us five truckloads of their strongest ouzo and two hundred pounds of industrial soap.”

“Soap?” Trapper asked. “What for?”

“We’re going to build a slip-and-slide, Trap. If we can’t give the General ice, we’ll give him the slickest mud in Uijeongbu.”

Just as Hawkeye turned to head toward the Swamp, a terrifying, familiar sound echoed from the mess tent. A crash of pots and pans, followed by the furious, high-pitched screaming of the camp cook, Igor.

The Goat.

Hawkeye and Henry exchanged a look of pure dread. They had completely forgotten to hide the goat.

They sprinted toward the mess tent, throwing open the doors. Inside, the scene was one of total devastation. Pots of powdered eggs were overturned. The coffee urn was leaking all over the floor. And standing in the middle of a pile of spilled oatmeal was the goat, happily chewing on a string of sausages.

“Get that thing out of here!” Igor shrieked, armed with a meat cleaver. “It ate my week’s supply of flour!”

“Radar!” Henry bellowed. “Radar, where are you?!”

Radar popped up from under a table, looking terrified. “I’m right here, sir! I tried to tie him up, but he chewed through the rope! And sir… he ate something else.”

“What did he eat now, Radar?” Hawkeye asked dangerously. “Frank’s medical degree? Because that would be an improvement.”

“No, sir,” Radar gulped, holding up a mangled, saliva-covered piece of leather. “He ate the General’s swagger stick.”

Hawkeye stared at the chewed piece of wood. The reality of the situation crashed over him. They had a camp full of ice skates, an impossible demonstration to perform in four hours, a psychotic goat roaming the compound, and they had just destroyed the prized possession of a General who could have them all shot.

Before anyone could speak, the doors to the mess tent swung open again. General “Iron Guts” Kelly stood in the doorway, his face a mask of pure, unadulterated fury. He looked at the wreckage. He looked at the goat. And then, his eyes locked onto the chewed remains of his swagger stick in Radar’s hand.

“Colonel Blake,” the General said, his voice dropping to a terrifying, deadly whisper. “What… is… that?”