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Summary
“Well that’s the poop, isn’t it? Radar’s finally informed the brass we can’t take any more patients, but that was after we got two new ones!”
Hawkeye flinched. He had an idea what was coming. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
Margaret flicked something at him. It might have been lint from her pockets. It might have been lint from Frank’s pockets. “He needs your cot, you idiot!”
“He can’t have my cot, it’s mine! I need that to sleep on!”
Hawkeye felt more than saw Radar look up at him. “Captain McIntyre wouldn’t mind, would he?”