The click of Major Frank Burns unholstering his .45 caliber pistol was a sound that didn’t quite belong in the 4077th MASH. Oh, there were plenty of guns, sure. Mostly they were used by Hawkeye to shoot the camp’s rats, or by Colonel Potter to shoot at the camp’s rats while riding a horse. But drawing a weapon on a fellow surgeon over a clipboard? That was a new low, even for Frank.
“Put the cannon away, Frank,” Hawkeye said, his eyes flicking from the shaking barrel of the gun to the pale, sweating kid on the stretcher. “Unless you’re planning to shoot the shrapnel out of this boy’s leg, you’re just taking up valuable oxygen.”
“I am enforcing General ‘Iron Guts’ Kelly’s new directive!” Frank shrilled, his voice cracking. “This is a Police Action! And this… this delinquent is out of uniform! Look at his helmet! It’s completely non-regulation!”
“Frank, half his helmet is missing because a mortar shell used it as an ashtray!” Hawkeye took a step forward, the bloody scalpel still in his hand. He wasn’t entirely sure he wouldn’t use it. The exhaustion of a 14-hour shift was a potent cocktail when mixed with Frank Burns’ specific brand of idiocy.
Margaret “Hot Lips” Houlihan jogged up, her blonde hair tucked neatly beneath her cap, her eyes scanning the stretcher. “What is the hold-up here? Pierce, why is this patient still in the compound?” She paused, noticing the standoff. “Frank… what in heaven’s name are you doing with that firearm?”
“Maintaining discipline, Margaret!” Frank whined, seeking her approval. “General Kelly’s memo clearly stated—”
“General Kelly is sitting in a heated office in Tokyo eating a steak that costs more than my monthly salary!” Hawkeye snapped. “Margaret, tell your ferret to stand down before I perform an unauthorized lobotomy.”
Margaret hesitated. She loved the army. She loved the rules. She loved the crisp, clean lines of military doctrine. But she was, above all else, an exceptional surgical nurse. She looked down at the boy. His pulse was weak, his breathing shallow. The mud on his uniform was blending terribly with the dark, wet stain spreading across his thigh.
“Major Burns,” Margaret said, her voice dropping into her authoritative command-register. “Holster your weapon. Now.”
“But Margaret—!”
“Now, Frank! Or I will personally write a report to General Kelly detailing your unauthorized delay of triage protocol!”
Frank blanched, his lip quivering. He hastily shoved the gun back into its leather home, muttering something about insubordination and communist sympathizers. Hawkeye didn’t wait. He grabbed the front handles of the stretcher.
“Come on, kid,” Hawkeye muttered softly to the unconscious soldier. “Let’s get you inside before Officer Krupke here gives you a parking ticket for bleeding in a no-bleeding zone.”
The doors to the OR swung open, welcoming them into the sweltering, blood-smelling sanctuary of the surgical tent. For the next eight hours, the “Police Action” faded into the background. There were no politicians in the OR. There was no Truman, no MacArthur, no General Kelly. There was only the rhythmic hiss of the anesthesia machine, the sharp snap of hemostats, and the desperate, bloody puzzle of putting broken boys back together.
Hawkeye stood over Table One, his hands moving with practiced, mechanical precision. Beside him, Margaret slapped instruments into his palm before he even asked for them.
“Clamp,” Hawkeye muttered. Snap. “Sponge.” Slap. “Suction.”
“BP is dropping, Doctor,” Margaret warned, her eyes glued to the anesthesiologist’s dials.
“I know, I know. Come on, where is this bleeder… ah. Gotcha, you little bastard.” Hawkeye tied off the artery, feeling the tension in his shoulders ease just a fraction. “Alright, close him up. Beautiful work, Margaret. Remind me to tip you on my way out.”
“Just wash your hands, Pierce,” she replied, though a faint hint of a smile touched the corners of her mouth behind her surgical mask.
Suddenly, the wooden doors of the OR banged open. Colonel Sherman T. Potter stomped in, his riding crop tucked under his arm, looking like a thundercloud in khaki. He didn’t bother scrubbing in, standing strictly behind the red tape on the floor.
“Colonel,” Hawkeye greeted, looking up over his mask. “Care to join the festivities? We’re having a special on appendectomies today. Two for the price of one.”
“Stow it, Pierce,” Potter growled, though his eyes were tired. “We’ve got a situation.”
“Did Frank finally swallow his whistle?”
“Worse. That idiot Inspector General from Seoul, Major Larson, just rolled into camp. He’s here to ‘observe and evaluate’ our compliance with the new Police Action directives. And he’s brought a platoon of Military Police with him. They’ve set up a literal checkpoint at the mess hall.”
Hawkeye dropped his bloody gloves into a metal basin with a wet slap. “You’re kidding. They’re blockading the creamed chipped beef? The enemy has finally hit us where it hurts.”
“It’s not a joke, Hawkeye,” Potter said, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “Larson has ordered a complete lockdown. No movement between tents without a signed hall pass. No medical supplies unloaded without a triplicate inventory check.”
“Colonel, we have three more choppers inbound!” Margaret objected, her rule-loving nature finally clashing with her nursing instincts. “We need plasma! If they hold up the supply trucks at the gate—”
“I know, Major. I tried to talk to him. He cited Regulation 402, sub-paragraph C, and threatened to relieve me of command for insubordination.” Potter sighed heavily. “He’s demanding a full camp inspection in fifteen minutes.”
Just then, the canvas flaps of the scrub room parted. Radar O’Reilly stumbled in, clutching his clipboard to his chest like a shield. His eyes were wide behind his round glasses, and he looked paler than usual.
“C-c-colonel?” Radar stammered.
“What is it, son? Spit it out.”
“It’s… it’s Major Larson, sir. He found an unexploded mortar shell sitting in the mud near the latrines.”
“Lord preservation,” Potter muttered. “Call the bomb squad from Seoul.”
“I did, sir! They’re at the front gate right now!” Radar gulped. “But… Major Larson won’t let them in.”
Hawkeye stared. “He won’t let the bomb squad in to defuse a bomb?”
“No, sir. He says their truck hasn’t been properly washed, and it violates the new camp sanitation protocols for the Police Action. He told them to go to a car wash in Uijeongbu and come back when they look presentable.”
The OR fell dead silent. Only the hiss of the ventilator could be heard. Hawkeye slowly reached for a fresh pair of surgical gloves, his eyes locking with Potter’s.
“Well,” Hawkeye said softly. “I guess it’s a good day to die clean.”
[ Next Chapter ⏩ ]
