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It started in the Officers club after hours. The group of them were huddled over one of the small jeep-tire tables, poker chips strewn across it as they all pondered the cards in their hands in the dim light emanating from the lamp hanging above them. The smell of booze and cigar smoke hung in the cool evening air like the Under New Management sign Pierce and Hunnicutt had nailed to the door of the latrine earlier that day.
There weren’t many things any of them could really look forward to, but damn if these monthly poker games didn't come close.
“You gonna bet anytime soon Sidney? The anticipation is killing me.”
“Does the silence make you uncomfortable, Hawk?” Sidney asked mildly as he thumbed at his cards. “You know… that fear of silence really comes from a fear of the thoughts and anxieties that we’re left with when we’re not making noise.”
“Oh yeah?” Hawkeye asked, arching an eyebrow. “And what thoughts and anxieties are supposed to be troubling me now?”
“I can’t speak for your anxieties. I can, however, speak for mine. They’re telling me I’ve got a snowball’s chance with these cards. Fold.”
The group chuckled as Al finally arrived at the O-Club, “Sorry I’m late, I was telling the chopper pilots a bedtime story. Miss anything exciting?”
“Just the loss of my topaz drop earrings,” Klinger lamented.
“One of war’s many tragic losses,” Hawkeye added, smirking into his cards. “Pull up a chair and we’ll deal you in on the next one.”
Al nodded as he sauntered over to the chair between Sidney and Klinger, dropping his cigarette onto the floor and stomping on it before trading it for a cigar from Klinger’s evening-gloved hands as he sat.
“Sidney, we’d like to introduce you to a new old face at our circus,” Hawkeye began. “This is Alvin Roberts, PA announcer, radio operator, and tightrope walker every second Saturday. Al, this is Dr. Sidney Freedman.”
“Oh yeah,” Al said with a sniffle, “Headshrink, right?”
“So they tell me,” Sidney answered. “Why, have anything you need to talk about?”
Al snorted, “Nah, I ain’t crazy.” His eyes suddenly widened as he began to stammer, “Not that I got a problem with people that need to talk to ya, I don’t think those kids are crazy just, y’know, I’m not either. In a different way than them, though. I don’t need someone poking around in my head unless there’s a bullet you gotta fish out… not that I’m planning to have a bullet there anytime soon-”
“If Corporal Roberts would care to remove his foot from his mouth so we can continue the game, that would be lovely,” Charles interrupted, hardly looking up from his cards as Al sank miserably into his chair. “See your 10, and raise you two more.”
“You’re bluffing,” Hawkeye said, tossing in his chips definitively. “Call.”
“Well?” Father Mulcahy asked expectantly.
Hawk grinned as he placed his cards down, “Full house.”
A chorus of groans erupted as he began to pull the chips towards him, before a grinning BJ spoke.
“Not so fast, Hawk. I think a straight flush is just a tiny bit better.”
Hawkeye’s smirk vanished as BJ reached forward to collect his winnings, “I don’t believe this. There’s no way you’re currently holding a straight flush.”
“Cards don’t lie,” BJ answered happily as Hawkeye stared at Beej’s winning hand.
“This is impossible. This is the third game out of five you’ve won tonight. And the two you didn’t win you hardly lost anything! What’s the trick? Cards in your sleeve? Got a mirror hidden somewhere? Radar tapping morse code on your foot?” Radar frowned at Hawkeye from behind his grape Nehi.
“No tricks, just a lucky streak. What’s the big deal? I’ve seen you on hot streaks like this before, why is it that when it’s me, I have to be cheating, but when it’s you it’s perfectly normal?”
“Because I’m good.” Hawkeye answered.
BJ laughed “Oh, is that so? Well, Obviously not good enough,” he said, gesturing at his winnings.
“Oh, yeah? Well just you wait, Hunnicutt, your hot streak’ll end and Hawkeye Pierce, reigning champ, will make his return.”
“Just shuffle, already,” BJ chuckled, shoving the deck of cards to the other doctor’s hands.
Hawkeye had barely started shuffling when Igor and a few other enlisted men walked in with an arsenal of cleaning supplies. Chairs and tables were pushed out of the way noisily, buckets dropped to the floor with a slosh, two men had already started arguing over the most efficient way to clean the shelves of bottles behind the bar, and one young private beelined for the jukebox, fiddling with the machine for just a moment before the opening notes of a sappy pop song filled the room.
“Hey! Igor, what’s the big idea?” Hawkeye asked, just barely getting his feet up in time to avoid a mop’s splash zone.
“Yeah, I thought we’d booked out the O-Club for the night,” BJ added.
“Sorry, sirs, we’re deep-cleaning the place. Colonel Potter’s been wanting it done for weeks now.”
“Gee, a guy gets a few days in Seoul for a medical conference and he forgets the little people,” Hawkeye quipped, frowning.
“I, for one, am quite pleased to hear the Officer’s Club is getting a good spring cleaning,” Father Mulcahy said with a grin. “Just the other day I nearly lost my boot to the sticky spot in the corner. It took almost fifteen minutes to pry it up. I fear it’s gotten rather untenable.”
“Aw c’mon father, the sticky spot gives the place character!” BJ responded.
“Hunnicutt, as shocking as it may be to someone of your bedraggled nature, some of us do, in fact, appreciate a certain cleanliness to our surroundings,” Charles said, taking a sip of his cognac.
“Alright, alright, look: let’s just move someplace away from Igor and his Singing Custodians and continue our game already, alright?” Hawkeye offered. The rest of the group voiced their agreements readily.
⚕️⚕️⚕️
The Swamp was just as good a spot as any for poker. It was, after all, where the monthly poker games began, back when Trapper and Henry were in camp and Sam Pak actually had the time for some five-card stud every so often. It was maybe just a bit cramped with eight people piled in (not to mention all the trash and junk that had accumulated over the course of their time in Korea), but they’d certainly fit more people in there before on their wilder nights.
“Dealer bets 5,” Klinger said through his cigar-holding teeth.
“I see your 5,” Al started as he peered over his purple shades, “and raise you 5 more.”
“Raise you another 5,” Sidney added.
“Call, and let the Lord smile upon these cards.”
Hawkeye frowned into his cards. Between his rotten luck so far that night and BJ’s staggering hot streak he half wondered if Beej had somehow sucked all of his luck out of his body like a vampire. “Maybe I could sell Charles for some more money.”
Charles snickered, “No one in this cesspit charitably called a hospital could afford me.”
“Then fold,” Hawkeye said, tossing down his cards, “Radar?”
Radar, however, wasn’t paying attention to the game. Instead, his eyes were trained on the corner right behind Al and Sidney.
“O’Reily? You gonna bet or did your brain finally blow a fuse?” Al asked, flicking the ash off of his cigar.
“That bed moved,” Radar answered quietly, eyes remaining fixated on the corner.
All eyes followed Radar’s gaze to the spare cot. It had once been where good ol’ Oliver Jones had bunked, before the powers that be had decided that the unit having a damn good neurosurgeon on staff was simply too helpful and had him transferred elsewhere, but now it primarily existed as yet another spot for Hawkeye and BJ to pile dirty laundry and the remains of failed pranks. Hawkeye couldn’t remember the last time it had been used for anything else, maybe the last time gasoline shortages had forced them to huddle together.
“I don’t see anything moving,” Klinger said, eyeing the bed warily. “You sure you actually saw something, Radar?”
“I’m tellin’ ya the whole thing moved,” Radar answered.
“What’s your take, Sidney? Any psychiatric explanation to seeing beds move on their own?” BJ asked, turning to the major.
“Yeah, this place is such a dump, even the beds are trying to leave.”
Suddenly, cot shook for a moment before stopping with a thump. The group flinched away from the corner.
“Did you…?”
“Yeah, we saw.”
“What on earth could be the cause?” Father Mulcahy asked. He was hovering over his stool now, caught between wanting to remain with the group and being ready to bolt.
“Gotta be something under there,” Al answered. He had pressed himself against their makeshift table in an attempt to put some distance between himself and whatever horrors the cot was hiding. “Hang on.”
Al reached over to the small bowl of pretzels they’d stolen on their way out of the O-club and tossed a handful on the floor next to the cot. No one moved. Until:
“Oh my god.”
“Is that…?”
“I believe it is.”
“It’s huge.”
“Huge? I’ve seen Great Danes smaller than that thing!”
“How the hell does a rat get that big?”
The men stared at the rat in silent awe.
“Uh, sirs? It looks kind of angry.”
“I didn’t think the pretzels were that bad.”
“What’s it doing?”
“Oh, no-”
The tent suddenly erupted into a chorus of shouting and swears as the group scrambled to grab what poker chips and money they could and high-tail it out of the Swamp. Before they knew it, all 8 of them were standing in the dust outside, blinking at the tent in the dim light coming from outside the hospital.
“Well,” BJ began as he stared at the tent, “the Swamp was fun while it lasted.”
“You can’t seriously be suggesting that we allow our quarters to be taken over by vermin?” Charles asked, incredulously. “Besides yourselves, of course.”
“Charles, did you see that thing?” Hawkeye responded. “That thing could eat Radar as an afternoon snack! I’m not going back in there without a full suit of armor and a howitzer!”
Charles straightened himself, “Well, I am certainly not going to be bested by a mere rat.” Hawkeye and BJ motioned towards the door, go on, hot stuff. Head held high, Charles walked to the door, swung it open, and immediately jumped back about five feet, letting out an undignified yelp as a hiss erupted from inside the tent. BJ and Hawkeye began howling with laughter.
“Great job, Charles! You sure showed that rat the Winchester spirit!” BJ heaved out between laughs. He was clutching onto Hawkeye for stability while Hawk was clutching onto him for the same reason, so really the two were just slowly sinking to the ground. Charles readjusted himself, his embarrassment hidden by a thin veneer of propriety.
“Well, with the Swamp out, where the hell are we supposed to keep playing?” Al interjected, motioning towards the mess of cards, money, and chips he was currently holding in a makeshift shirt-hammock.
“Why not the motor pool? Some of the other enlisted shoot craps there sometimes,” Klinger offered.
“At least the rats there won’t be full of gin and spite,” Hawkeye grinned as they began to walk over to their next haunt.
⚕️⚕️⚕️
“Sir, there’s no need to raise your voice-”
“Don’t you tell me what is and is not needed, Nurse.”
Margaret had just been reviewing a patient’s chart when the sound of steadily growing voices cut through the silence that had settled in post-op. The din was coming from a bed just a few down from where Margaret was, where a Colonel Abbot was supposed to be recovering from a fairly nasty leg wound. Instead, the colonel had propped himself up on his elbows, seemingly to better scold a frustrated-looking Nurse Lori Burke.
“What seems to be the problem here?” she asked as she walked to join Lori at the foot of the cot.
Burke had barely gotten the first syllable out when Colonel Abbot interrupted, “Are you the head nurse?”
“Yes, sir. Major Margaret Houlihan.”
“A major… career woman?”
“Yes, Colonel.”
“Then you understand. People like us, army all the way down to our bones, we have certain standards, certain morals we must adhere to,” Abbot began, meeting Margaret’s gaze intensely.
Margaret turned to face Lori. She was familiar with the song-and-dance Walker was putting on. She’d first seen her father’s fellow officers use it right before suggesting new tactics. Ever since making Major she’d found herself on the receiving end of the army pathos, often from enlisted men vying for promotion or visiting officers asking her opinion, and once, on one notable occasion, as a clunky pick-up line about “doing your patriotic duty” from a kid in post-op who was clearly just repeating what he’d heard his buddies say without really understanding the meaning. She often let such things run their course, but this late at night her patience was rather thin and she’d rather get to the root of the issue as soon as possible.
“Colonel Abbot has been requesting to have his gun in post-op with him,” Lori explained, frowning.
“A military man should never be without his gun,” Abbot asserted, voice growing louder once again, “It’s a part of him, an added limb. It must always be at his side.”
“Sir, please,” Lori began, trying to keep her voice even, “There’s no need for shouting, you’ll wake the other patients.”
Abbot glared at Burke, his face reddening, “Are you trying to give me orders?” His attention shifted back to the major, “This- this… birdbrained nurse of yours has been refusing to retrieve my gun from your gun locker,” he spat.
Lori flinched at the insult. Her hands flew up to her dog tags, fingers tangling in the chain as her jaw tightened. Margaret gave the colonel a stern look, “We don’t allow patients’ firearms in post-op, Colonel. You’ll get it back when you leave here. Rest assured, our gun locker is extremely secure, it’ll be perfectly safe.”
Abbot glared at the two women, “I’m not about to be caught flat on my back without any way to defend myself. I want my gun.”
Margaret sucked in a breath between her teeth. It was clear there was no point in telling the man ‘no’, she knew stubborn when she saw it. What she really wanted was to buy time until he left, or at least until she’d come up with another solution.
“We’ll see what we can do, Colonel,” she said finally. Colonel Abbot eyed her skeptically for a moment before nodding and laying back down, seemingly mollified for the time being.
“Major Houlihan?” Lori asked as she began to follow Margaret to the desk at the other end of post-op. “What are we going to do about getting him his gun? I mean, we’re not just going to let him have it in here, right?”
“Let me worry about that, Captain. You just worry about your patients,” Margaret responded, eyeing Lori from her clipboard. The captain was still fiddling with her dogtags, squeezing them hard enough that Margaret was sure she’d be able to read her blood type on her palm. “You can still focus on your patients, can’t you?”
Lori’s hands dropped back to her side, “Yes, Major, of course. I’ll be fine.”
“Good. It's time for Private Dunn’s next dose of penicillin, he’s in bed 6, handle it, would you?”
“Yes, Major.”
⚕️⚕️⚕️
It took a bit of time to find enough crates to turn the motor pool into their own personal poker room, but soon enough the group had all gotten settled back into the familiar motions of the game. Those familiar motions did not necessarily include winning. At least, not for Al, who tossed his lousy pair of duces onto the stack of wooden crates currently acting as a table with a dissatisfied grunt.
“Sister Teresa’s Orphanage appreciates your donations, gentleman,” Father Mulcahy said with a soft smile as he drew his winnings towards him, “With this money, they should be able to buy new blankets for each of the children.”
“Does that mean goodnight, Father?” BJ asked.
The good Father chuckled, “Oh heavens, no. After all, if I’m here anyways, I might as well try for pillows too,” he answered.
“I wish I’d grabbed the pretzels before we abandoned Swamp,” Al said, resting his head on his hand. He was getting pretty damn close to having to call it quits for the night (or at least ask for a pause so he could beg Righty or Lo for some money).
“You’re welcome to go back and get them,” BJ pointed out.
“I got enough problems with the cockroaches under my desk without adding your pest problems,” Al answered, laughing a bit as he did. “Swamp rats can deal with the swamp rat.”
Hawkeye clasped his hands together, “C’mon, are we gonna talk or are we going to play?”
Sidney reached for the deck of cards, preparing to shuffle for the next round, “Why the rush, Hawk? Your luck has been so bad tonight, I wouldn’t be surprised if you shattered a mirror with a black cat right before this.”
“C’mon, don’t you realize what’s happened, Sid? Father Mulcahy won the last pot. More than that, BJ lost about 75 bucks. The Hunicutt reign of terror is over! Soon enough my poker skills will return like a bee to the hive.”
Sidney chuckled, “Hey, as long as you’ve got the cash to back it up. What say we do some 7 card stud?” he said as he began to deal. “7 of spades, 2 of diamonds, 5 of clubs, ace of diamonds,” Hawk’s grin faltered at BJ’s ace.
“3 of hearts, 9 of spades, queen of diamonds-”
Al whistled, “Much obliged there, Major.”
“Just make sure to pay your bill, queen’s equal to about 1 and a half therapy sessions.”
“Put it on my tab.”
Sidney placed his own door card down, “8 of diamonds for the dealer. Bet a buck blind.”
“Call,” Mulcahy said, the sentiment quickly echoed by the rest of the group.
Sidney began to deal everyone their next cards
“You know,” Charles began as he rolled around a rock on the ground with his shoe, sporting a rather disgusted expression, “This is possibly the most disgusting place we could have possibly attempted to set up.”
“Don’t say that, Charles. We could always try for the cesspit or the latrine as long as they’re not fully booked,” BJ replied.
“Or worse, there’s the mess tent,” Hawkeye added. “You’d really prefer the Swamp over the motor pool? After we put all that work in to get the bronze in the Most Disgusting Place in Camp competition?”
Charles let the comments slide off like water off a duck, “At least in the Swamp I could play some Tchaikovsky or Shostakovich.”
“That implies that we would’ve let you play Tchaikovsky or Shostakovich,” BJ noted, wagging a finger at Charles.
Charles glared at BJ from across their makeshift table, “How I manage to survive with such boorish and uncultured men, I shall never know.”
“You’re absolutely right, Charles,” Hawkeye exclaimed, setting down his drink definitively. “We could use some more culture. In fact, I’ll hop on a plane right now and catch a show at Carnegie Hall. Sidney, mind if I crash at your place afterwards?”
“I don’t mind, but I think my wife might have some choice words,” Sidney answered.
“Wait a minute… you from New York?” Al asked, flicking his shades down to peer over them. Sidney nodded as a grin spread across the young man’s face “No kidding. Where?”
“Manhattan, born and raised,” Sidney answered.
Al smirked, “Shoulda figured, how the hell else would you be able to keep your head in the middle of this war?”
“Well, it’s certainly no shock the Brooklyn-er’s made it this long either,” Sidney answered with a smile. “What part of Brooklyn are you from?”
“Coney Island,” the corporal responded, thumb tracing the edge of his beer can.
“Born in a funnel cake stand,” Hawkeye supplied from across the table.
“It’s where I got my sweet nature,” Al answered. Then, as if the universe wanted to get in on the joke, his finger stuck to the beer can just enough that when he removed it, the whole thing came toppling over, spilling the contents all over Al’s lap. The group laughed as Al began cursing loudly.
“Well, I certainly hope you weren’t planning on betting your clothes once you ran out of money,” BJ heaved out between chuckles.
“All’s I got is army-issued anyways,” Al responded, gathering some of his shirt to wring out, “‘Cept for one pair of socks I brought from home.” It occurred to him after he spoke that they wouldn’t be terrible to bet if the going got any tougher. By the time December rolled around, folks would be willing to kill for civilian socks.
A small ‘oh!’ suddenly drew the attention of the group. A surprised looking Private Righty McGill had just rounded the corner to the motor pool, toolbox in hand.
“I wasn’t expecting guests. What are you sirs doing in the motor pool?”
“Losing money, mostly,” Hawkeye responded.
“What’re you doin’ out here, kid?” Klinger asked, his brows knit in confusion. “It’s almost 12 in the morning?”
“Oh, well… I wasn’t sleeping much so I figured I’d try to get some work done. One of the jeeps has a bit of trouble braking, and uh… well Sergeant Rizzo didn’t exactly get to it today.”
“I thought you were on duty today, too?” Al inquired.
Righty shifted on his feet nervously, “I, uh… got a little distracted today.”
A sly smile formed on Hawkeye’s face, “Oh yeah? Who is she?”
Radar cleared his throat, “Uh, he was with me this afternoon, sir.”
“You crazy kids.”
“Don’t joke like that!”
“I got some new comics in, I was sharing,” Righty explained. “Look it’ll only take me a couple hours to fix, you just keep playing. Ignore me, pretend I’m not here.”
“Wait, before we start ignoring you,” Al said, motioning for Righty to come closer, “Could you spot me 20 bucks for the game?”
“Sorry, Al, I don’t have anything to spare.”
“C’mon, nothing? Really?”
“How’d you think I got the comics? I got the most recent Captain Marvel and Buck Rogers! That ain’t cheap!” Righty explained.
Al grumbled as he turned back to his cards, “Thanks anyways, sunshine.” Righty shrugged as he made his way to one of the jeeps.
“Alright, dealer bets 5,” Sidney said, as everyone’s attention returned to the game.
“See your 5, and raise you another 5,” Mulcahy answered, taking the money out of the small amount he’d put aside to keep playing with.
CLANG
Heads snapped towards the jeep as Righty mouthed a sorry.
Father Mulcahy cleared his throat, “Major Winchester?”
“Fold,” Charles mumbled bitterly at his cards.
“Raise you another 10,” Hawkeye answered, tossing in his chips.
BAM
WHACK
“Kid’s louder than the war is…” Hawkeye muttered. Soon, though, the noise subsided into silent clinks for long enough that it seemed they could continue the game without issue.
BJ shook his head, seemingly trying to regain his focus, “Uh, call.” A pause. “Radar? Don’t tell me a rat is about to drive an ambulance over us.”
“No, sir,” Radar answered. “I think a fly landed in my grape Nehi.”
“Remember, you’ve only got until he goes under the third time to save him.”
Radar nodded, processed what BJ had said, frowned, and said “Call.”
Klinger straightened out his evening gown, “Raise you-”
CLANK
SCREECH
BANG
CLATTER
“Alright! That’s it!” Hawkeye said, throwing up his hands. The rest of the group followed suit, beginning to gather their things for yet another move.
“I’m sorry, sirs, I hope you’re not moving on my account. I can try to be quieter,” Righty said, peering out from the jeep.
“Don’t worry about it, Righty, we’re just in the mood for a new flavor of dust,” Hawkeye responded as he turned to follow the rest of the group out of the motor pool.
⚕️⚕️⚕️
Hawkeye had insisted that the hanger on the door was enough to deter anyone from entering the supply tent while they were playing. After quite a bit of grumbling and stepped-on toes, they’d managed to rather awkwardly circle around the bed and re-start playing… for the fourth time.
“How many cards, Radar?” BJ asked. He’d ended up awkwardly wedged in a corner where the wall and shelves met. If he stayed there any longer his leg would be considered clinically comatose.
Radar squinted into his cards “Uh… two. No, three. Wait actually two.”
“Decide, O’Reily,” Al grumbled. He was similarly cornered, but instead of folding himself like BJ had, he’d chosen to lift his legs so they draped across the bed, his arms resting in between. It didn't look like it was any more comfortable.
“Hey, don’t rush me! It’s a lot to think about…”
“If you’re thinking, you might as well just flip a coin.”
“Oh yeah? Says the guy that took two whole minutes to decide if he wanted toast this morning!”
“Ohhh, that’s some tough talk, shorty.”
“You’re only an inch taller than me!”
“Can someone please bet already? My legs are doing their best Sleeping Beauty impression and I ain’t dressed for it,” Klinger chimed in, motioning to the black evening gown he was wearing.
“We could always pause for a costume change, Klinger,” Hawkeye said.
“Nah, I ain’t got a princess dress,” Klinger answered dejectedly before suddenly perking up like a dog who’d just spotted an unattended ham. “Say, there’s an idea! I could say that the gunfire is dragon’s breath.”
“I’m not sure you’ve got the singing voice for it,” Sidney said with a smirk.
Klinger frowned at the major, “Should’a known better than to workshop with my audience present.”
“Radar-”
“Two! Two cards,” Radar finally answered as BJ flicked the cards his way.
“Klinger?”
He wasn’t able to answer before the door to the supply room suddenly swung open as a giggling nurse stumbled in with a sergeant who seemed to be doing his best leech impression on her neck.
“Oh, sorry! We didn’t know anyone was in here- George, quit that, we’re not alone!” she laughed. “We’ll leave you to it- George, not there!”
“You two kids have fun,” Hawkeye called as the two stumbled back out of the room.
“I thought you said we wouldn’t be disturbed, Pierce,” Charles said, leaning towards Hawkeye accusatorily.
“We won’t! Look, sometimes people get too wrapped up in each other to notice the hanger while they’re on their way to get wrapped up in sheets- if you’ll excuse the comment, Father.”
Father Mulcahy chuckled, “It’s nothing new to me, Hawkeye.”
“Klinger, how many you need?” BJ asked, trying desperately to keep the game on track before another interruption.
“One’ll do fine,” he answered, taking a puff of his cigar.
“Right. Al?”
“I’m good.”
The door swung open again, this time a chopper pilot sauntered in, red-headed woman in tow.
“I thought you said you knew a place where no one would bother us,” The redhead smirked at her date.
“I did. Clearly they did too,” the pilot answered. “Sorry about that, boys. We’ll get outta your hair.”
“Just a moment,” BJ said, holding up a finger. “There wouldn’t happen to be a hanger on the door, would there?”
The pilot leaned back to look at the door, “So there is. Just didn’t notice, I guess,” he said, shrugging as he guided his date out the door.
All eyes turned to Hawkeye.
“It’s a fluke! We’re fine, keep playing.”
“It’s a hell of a coincidence, Captain,” Al said. “You know what they say, three’s a pattern.”
“There won’t be a third time!” Hawk answered indignantly.
“Are you sure, sir?” Radar asked skeptically.
“I swear on the lives of Cary Grant and Ingrid Bergman, no one else is going to interrupt us here.”
The room went silent, waiting for someone to burst in. Nothing.
BJ shrugged “Alright. Sidney, how many cards?”
“Three, BJ-“
At that moment, a drunk looking couple shuffled in, nearly falling as they opened the door. The group groaned, throwing down their cards and beginning to stand.
“Oh come on-“
“Maybe it’s for the best, Hawkeye,” Al said as he gathered the cards. “I think if I sit like this any longer, my tailbone is gonna send me its two weeks' notice.”
“Did Valentine’s Day come early or something?” Hawkeye said as he began to follow everyone out. “Or maybe pheromones in the air? Nurses just that bored?” A sly grin suddenly spread across his face, “Actually, if that’s the case-“
With that, BJ and Charles each grabbed one of Hawkeye’s arms and dragged him out of the room and to their next locale.
⚕️⚕️⚕️
Lori liked to think of herself as a patient person. She had been since she was a child, helping her brother Sammy with his homework in between completing chores around the house that their grandparents couldn’t do anymore. It was what made her a good nurse, she thought, it helped her be thoughtful even when making snap decisions.
But Colonel Abbot was an exception.
He was obviously still sore about having to wait for any updates about his gun and was making it Lori’s problem. He’d demanded new pillows at least 4 times, complained about the lights keeping him up, said his blankets were too scratchy and that he wanted something nicer, all without so much as a kind or polite look to Lori. She was honestly surprised the man hadn’t demanded she reported the crickets outside to the MPs for disorderly conduct.
“Nurse,” he shouted at her from across the room.
Lori grit her teeth before plastering on a fake smile and walking over, “Yes, Colonel?” What would it be this time? she thought, The other patients are sleeping too loud? Or maybe the lightbulb isn’t the right shade of army-regulation yellow?
Abbot’s eyes darted to the side suspiciously, “How are they doing?”
That certainly wasn’t what she expected, “… they, sir?”
He cocked his head to the side, “Those two. Hanson and Fowler.”
She followed Abbot’s gaze to the two sleeping men a few beds down. Privates, if she recalled correctly, from Abbot’s own unit. She’d worked on Fowler with Captain Hunnicutt. They’d removed eleven pieces of shrapnel from him, eight from the gut and three from the chest.
She turned back to Abbot with a sympathetic smile, “Fowler was lucky. All the shrapnel was lodged in the chest wall so none of it was deep enough to puncture the lung. Hanson needed an arterial transplant. If you’d like more details, I can find Doctors Hunnicutt and Winchester for you, but they are expected to make a full recovery.”
“When?” Abbot asked, eyes flashing with an emotion Lori would almost call fear. “Could they walk on their own if they woke up?”
“Well it certainly wouldn’t be recommended,” she responded, frowning. “Any particular concerns, Colonel?”
Abbot eyed Lori skeptically before motioning for her to come closer, “They’re traitors of the United States Army.”
”Traitors?” Lori asked incredulously.
The colonel nodded, “Before our last advancement, I caught them. They were reading one of those pamphlets, filthy commie propaganda,” he shivered. “I marched right over and confiscated it. They tried to claim they were just reading it for laughs, but I saw right through them. Told them I’d be watching them like a hawk from then on.”
“I’m not sure reading counts as traitorous behavior,” Lori responded, taking the opportunity to check the Colonel’s IV. The logic was more than a little ridiculous to her. She remembered being a young girl and, having just read a compendium of King Arthur stories, fighting with her brother over who got to be the dragon. The whole time, their Grandmother watched, shaking her head sadly as she scolded, “Those stories are rotting your brain, gonna grow up thinking monsters are real”. It was a sentiment she echoed every time Lori would insist they were just playing pretend. Granted, Communist propaganda seemed a little more serious than King Arthur, but the attitude felt quite similar.
Walker leaned in, “The very next push, you know what happens? I end up here.”
”You caught some shrapnel in the leg.”
”It was a set-up to bump me off.”
”Ah.”
”Which is why I need my gun with me,” Abbot pleaded. “I refuse to let those damn commie sympathizers get me while I’m down.”
Of course, it always came back to the gun, “Sir, I promise you will get your gun back soon. Major Houlihan will inform you as soon as she comes up with a solution.”
Abbot scowled, then a glint formed in his eyes as he leaned forward from the bed, “Look, uh… Captain, is it? Surely you and I can come to an arrangement. Just between the two of us, no one else needs to know.”
Lori barely stifled a smirk, “Oh?”
The colonel motioned for her to come closer and whispered conspiratorially “Get me my gun and I’ll get you gold oaks leaves faster than you can say yes, sir.”
“Colonel Abbot, even if I wanted to I can’t. The only two people who have keys to the gun locker are our company clerk and our CO. I don’t have access!”
“Well, where is your CO?” Abbot demanded, his face beginning to turn an impressive shade of red (sort of a cinnabar red, she thought. She hadn’t thought that a human’s skin could get that color).
“Medical conference in Seoul,” Lori answered, returning to the foot of the bed, “And he won’t be back for another two days.”
“So what, he took his keys all the way to Seoul?” Lori stared at him blankly. Surely this man, a Colonel in the US army, was not implying that she essentially steal her commanding officer’s keys.
“No, they’re locked in his office, I think. I’m sure Major Houlihan will figure something out soon, until then, just try to rest, sir,” she answered, hurrying away before he could get another word in and lock her in an argument for another 15 minutes.
As she approached another bed- this one containing a young private who’d had a difficult head wound- she caught sight of Major Houlihan leaning into post-op from the doorframe, motioning with her hand for Lori to join her.
“Baker, could you check his vitals for me for a sec?” she asked as she rushed to join the major in Radar’s office. “Major, do you have any updates about the Abbot situation, he’s getting antsy.”
“I’ve been mulling it over and I think I’ve got a solution,” Houlihan answered, hands raised placatingly. “We don’t allow guns for patients in post-op but if we move him out of post-op, I don’t see why he can’t have his gun with him there.”
“But where will we move him to?”
“The VIP tent would be best. Major Freedman is staying there now, but he’ll be leaving tomorrow morning. We can move Colonel Abbot in right after.”
Lori frowned, “He won’t like waiting so long.”
“I know. But he has a definite timeline now, so with any luck it’ll keep him calm for the rest of the night,” Margaret answered. “Now would you like to tell the colonel or should I?”
“You probably should, if I do he’ll probably think I’m stringing him along.”
The major nodded as the two re-entered post-op. Lori’s eyes scanned the room before finally landing on Abbot’s bed. Her face paled.
“Major-”
But Margaret was already rushing over. The two women stood staring at the bed which- unless Colonel Abbot was moonlighting as the invisible man- stood empty.
“Baker! Where did Colonel Abbot go?”
Baker suddenly looked like a deer in headlights, “He was just here, laying down. I didn’t even hear him leave.”
“Oh god…” Lori said weakly, “We lost a Colonel.”
“Baker, go find some MPs and get them searching for the colonel, Burke go tell whoever’s on guard duty the situation. Let’s find him.”
“Someone should check the supply tent,” Lori piped up, “He’s probably going after his gun.”
“I’ll handle that,” Major Houlihan answered. “Now, move!”
⚕️⚕️⚕️
“I dunno, Hawk. Maybe we should just call it quits,” BJ said, as he stopped short behind the group. After some debate between them, they had all finally settled on one of the back rooms at Rosie’s for their next go at saving their poker night, but frankly none of them seemed to be really feeling it anymore. There had simply been far too many interruptions and failed attempts, and none of them had managed to get drunk enough to be having any fun still. BJ was really more preoccupied with figuring out where the hell they were sleeping tonight considering the Swamp was no longer friendly territory.
Hawkeye, however, remained persistent, “C’mon Beej! You and I both know how hard planning these nights are between the 48 hour days and general death and destruction. We’ve got to take advantage of everyone being here while we can.”
“I understand, Hawk, but let’s face it: we’ve tried to play in 4 different locations and each time we’ve either gotten chased out or left because we couldn’t play in peace. Tonight’s just not our night,” BJ said, as the others nodded and muttered affirmations
Hawkeye deflated slightly as BJ spoke, clearly beginning to realize the whole thing was a futile effort. BJ patted the man’s shoulder comfortingly, “Sorry, Hawk. On the bright side, it means your wallet doesn’t have to take anymore beatings tonight.”
Hawkeye suddenly turned to BJ, eyes sharp, “Now what’s that supposed to mean?”
The group groaned. “That was the wrong thing to say,” Sidney said, shaking his head.
Thanks for pointing out the obvious, Sid, BJ thought, Whatever would I have done without you?
“I was only saying that it’s been a bad streak for all of us in different ways.”
“Oh, all of us, huh? I hadn’t realized that all of us had won about 150 bucks tonight,” Hawkeye answered, bristling in a way that always reminded BJ a little of a cat with its hackles raised, or maybe a crow puffing out its feathers to make itself look bigger.
“Hey, I don’t think my lucky streak should have any bearing on-”
“But my bad luck should?”
Al had now buried his face in his hands, sunglasses being pushed slowly into his hair, “Captain, at the risk of disrespecting a superior officer: for god’s sake, please shut up.”
If Al “what do you mean think before you speak” Roberts was telling him to shut up, it really was bad. Leave it to BJ to step on the landmine that was Hawkeye Pierce’s competitiveness.
“Hawk-” BJ said helplessly, but the snowball was rolling down the hill.
“Oh no, you’re not changing the subject here. You think my temporary bad luck makes you the new king of the castle, don’t you? And I’m just some lowly peasant, huh? Well, this Brutus isn’t going to take it lying down, so you just put your money where your mouth is, Caesar.”
Charles rolled his eyes, “Brutus was a senator, not a peasant. One cannot mix metaphors like one mixes their alcohol, Pierce. Frankly, I’m surprised you even know who Julius Caesar is.”
“Sure I do,” Hawkeye responded as they began to enter the bar. “He’s the one who invented the salad.”
Rosie’s was packed, even more so than usual, the ramshackle building stuffed wall to wall with a sea of olive drab uniforms shouting and laughing.
“Marines,” Klinger muttered to the group, which, considering most of the guys looked like they were built in the same lab as Frankenstein, seemed to BJ like a decent guess.
“Rosie!” Hawkeye greeted as he sauntered up to the bar.
“What do you want?” she answered, flatly.
Hawkeye clutched his chest in mock offense, “Who says I want anything? Maybe I just want to say hello to my favorite bartender.”
Rosie didn’t look particularly impressed, “Look, Captain, in case you haven’t noticed, business is booming and I’m hardly keeping up with demand or with damages. So either get to the point or park it somewhere and wait for your usual.”
“Any chance we can use one of your back rooms for our poker night?” BJ asked from over Hawkeye’s shoulder.
“Sure. Just give me ten minutes to clean… and 20 bucks.”
“20 bucks?” Hawkeye sputtered.
“If you ain’t got the dough, there’s plenty of other folks here that’ll pay for it,” Rosie answered.
BJ raised a hand to Hawkeye as he dug in his pockets for his previous winnings, “I’ve got it.”
“Oh, glad you’re feeling charitable,” Hawk answered as BJ tossed the money towards Rosie.
“I’ll let you Captains know once the room’s ready,” Rosie said, grinning as she tucked the money into her pocket. She barked a few words in Korean to one of the waitresses, who hurried to replace her boss’s vigil at the bar while Rosie headed for the back.
BJ and Hawkeye joined the rest of the group at one of the tables, taking their drinks graciously from the waitress who’d already gotten everyone their usuals.
“Rosie needs ten minutes to clear out the trash and we’ll be good to go,” Hawkeye said, flopping into one of the chairs.
“If she’s clearing out all the trash, we’ll be waiting all night,” Charles replied, eyeing the swarm of drunk marines haughtily.
“I don’t know Charles,” BJ began, taking a sip of his beer, “I think if anyone could singlehandedly beat a platoon of Marines into submission it would be Rosie. Her broom ought to be labeled a prohibited weapon by the Geneva Convention.”
“What’d you call me?” a voice suddenly sailed over the chatter of the bar. Heads turned and eyes landed on two very large, very angry looking men.
“You heard me,” the slightly shorter one growled, inching his face closer to the taller man’s.
“Oy…” Hawkeye groaned softly as he dropped his head into his hands.
Radar stared wide-eyed at the scene, “Are those two guys gonna fight?”
“That or the romantic lighting in here is finally getting to them,” Al answered, frowning.
“Better figure out how we’re splitting the bill before we make like bananas ourselves,” Klinger added.
“They might not fight!” Hawkeye exclaimed desperately. “They’re two adult men. I’m sure they can handle their issues logically and maturely.”
“Says you!” By the time the group turned back to look, it was impossible to tell who’d thrown the first punch. The bar full of marines suddenly looked an awful lot like a horde of rabid lions in the jungle.
And that meant that anyone who wasn’t a marine was a gazelle.
BJ felt his survival instincts kick in just in time to dive away from the table as a man crashed into it. Not so lucky were Al and Radar, who were currently pinned under a man who looked like he wouldn’t feel it if you threw a brick wall at him. Al was swearing, trying to shove the man off, while Radar had twisted around, hand reaching blindly. Klinger had pressed himself against the wall, trying to avoid any thrown drinks from getting on his black evening gown.
“Welcome to your first bar fight at Rosie’s, Sid,” Hawkeye shouted, just barely ducking in time to avoid a flying beer bottle. “Eye-gouging and biting are ok, but hair-pulling will get you a penalty.”
“There goes my strategy,” Sidney answered, pulling himself and Hawk to the relative safety that was pressing themselves against the wall. “You know there is something fascinating about a bar fight. Between the drinking and anger, it’s a chance to see man at his most raw and primal state. That being said, I’d really rather not be in one right now.”
Mulcahy had somehow managed to pry a chair from one of the marines (probably only because he’d guilted the marine into relenting by simply existing in the space), and was now standing on it, desperately trying to make his voice heard over the din, “Please! There’s no need for fighting!”
BJ turned his attention back to the now-crushed table and the currently-being-crushed corporals, “Charles, get up and give me a hand here,” he said, grabbing one of the marine’s arms to try to pull him up. The guy was either too drunk to get up on his own or had been knocked out cold.
Charles stumbled up from the spot where he’d fallen onto the floor trying to dodge the flying marine, “Touch one of these drunken pigs? Surely you jest.”
“Charles, if you don’t help, I’ll use one of your records as a breakfast plate. On biscuits and gravy day.”
Charles paled, “We-ell, there’s no reason to get huffy,” he replied as he grabbed ahold of the other arm. The two hoisted up the marine onto his own two feet. He wobbled a moment, stood still, then slowly fell face first onto the floor, but at least he was off of Radar and Al.
“You two alright?” BJ asked as he and Charles helped the two men up.
“I think I’m gonna have a dent where that marine crashed into me,” Al groaned, clutching his stomach.
“Have Righty buff it out for you. Radar, you ok?”
Radar spun around aimlessly, “It’s my glasses, sir they fell off when the marine fell on us and we fell on the floor and I don’t know where they are!”
“Radar!” Klinger shouted, pointing to a spot a little ways away from him. BJ and Radar’s eyes landed on the glasses just in time to watch as a marine’s boot stomped backwards onto them, leaving only dust when it lifted. BJ could swear he heard the crunch over the fighting.
“Oh!” Radar squealed as his hands covered his eyes. “That’s my only pair! I don’t got replacements!”
Hawkeye had now braved the fighting to reach Mulcahy’s chair, one leg dangling precariously as he tried to fit himself and the priest on it, “Anyone who’s not a marine, head for higher ground!” he shouted. He then leapt down, dragging Mulcahy with him as the two made a mad dash for the exit.
BJ watched as a man’s head crashed through the jukebox at the other end of the bar. “Don’t have to tell me twice,” he said as he followed.
Soon they had all escaped outside, joined by whatever other non-marines could escape the fighting.
“Alright,” Hawkeye panted, “Show of hands, who’s still alive?”
“Not me,” Al grumbled, “I am deceased, departed, dead and buried, and I am heading back to my tent and decaying in peace. This night is cursed.”
Muttered agreements rose from the men as they began to plod back to camp, shoulders sagging and eyes barely open.
“Wait! We didn’t even get to play that time,” Hawkeye shouted after them.
“Exactly, sir,” Klinger said. “It’s time to call it quits. Besides, I think I ripped a hole in my nylons.”
The walk back to the compound was oddly silent. At first BJ assumed it was just the exhaustion of the night setting in, but as they re-entered camp BJ realized that Hawkeye wasn’t talking. Instead, he was staring at the ground sullenly, hands shoved deep into the pockets of his robe.
“You really are disappointed, huh?”
“I was looking forward to a night of losing money and getting drunk enough to not care about the money I lost, sue me,” Hawkeye answered with a shrug. “I wasn’t exactly expecting to play musical poker tables. At least if we’d been interrupted by wounded we’d be doing something semi-productive.”
BJ stared at his friend. It had been a rough go the past few days (which, considering his judgement for what was “rough” was now graded on the curve that was Korea, meant that to the average person rough was probably the understatement of the century). They all could use a night of fun, Hawkeye especially. BJ closed his eyes, sighed, and plastered on a smile, “Hey guys, why don’t we give it another go?” The group groaned in protest, turning to BJ fast enough that his hands shot up like he was trying to calm a wild animal baring its teeth at him, “Just one more try, it can be just one round! That way we’re not ending the night on a sour note, huh?”
BJ watched as each of the men silently considered the proposal, and seemingly admitted that they would rather end the poker night with actual poker than barely escaping a bar fight.
“Sorry sirs, even if I wanted to, I couldn’t play,” Radar said, squinting, “Think I’m just gonna head to sleep.”
“That’s fine, Radar,” BJ answered, turning expectantly to the rest of the group. “Well?”
Al threw up his hands, “Why not. What the hell else could happen tonight, anyways?”
⚕️⚕️⚕️
One thing Radar could be thankful for tonight was that he really didn’t need to see to get around camp. He’d been at the 4077 long enough that he knew the camp’s layout like the back of his hand, so making his way back to his office despite the darkness and lack of glasses really wasn’t an issue. He could just let his feet carry him- stopping only once to give whoever was on guard duty the password that night (Goldman was guard, he was pretty sure. He couldn’t make out the face, and after the night he’d had, his thoughts were admittedly a little jumbled)- before tiredly shoving himself through his office doors.
He began to drift to his bed, ready to sleep off his Nehi and lost money, when it suddenly occurred to him that he wasn’t alone. He nearly tripped over himself as he turned off his body’s autopilot so he could scan the office for his unexpected guest as best as he could through the squinting. Sure enough, right outside Colonel Potter’s office doors were a cluster of blurry colored blobs that Radar was sure would make up a person if he could actually see. A patient, he guessed. He was fairly certain one of those colored blobs was one of the blue robes they gave to recovering wounded in post-op.
“Uh… excuse me, sir,” Radar began, shifting awkwardly. He wasn’t sure if this person was a sir or a fellow corporal or maybe a private, but Radar figured it was better safe than sorry. He didn’t particularly feel like getting yelled at at this hour if he was wrong.
The patient seemed to jump three feet in the air, “For god’s sake, corporal, hasn’t anyone ever told you not to sneak up on a superior officer?”
“Oh, sorry, sir, I didn’t mean to. I was just heading to my cot when I realized you were here, sir.”
“Why didn’t you say something as soon as you came in, instead of sneaking behind me?” the patient asked, clearly irritated. Must be an officer of some sort.
“I couldn’t see you, sir. I can’t see much of anything right now, my glasses broke,” Radar answered. “If you were looking for Colonel Potter, sir, he’s not in, but I could grab our temporary CO if you need. Or if you’re in pain I can go find one of the nurses-”
“No!” the man suddenly barked before dropping his voice to a more respectable tone, “No, no nurses needed. I was just… heading back from a trip to the latrine and got a bit turned around.”
A strange feeling passed through Radar’s gut, “By yourself, sir?”
“I didn’t want to be babied by any nurses. A man’s got to have some dignity, even when he’s wounded,” the patient explained. “Your cot you said. I guess that makes you the company clerk, eh, Corporal?”
The feeling in his gut vanished as soon as it arrived. The man’s explanation seemed plausible enough, he supposed.
“Yessir, Corporal O’Reily,” Radar answered, throwing an over-due salute and puffing his chest out in a way that always left him a little off-balance, but without his glasses left him well and truly off-kilter. He stumbled backwards a bit, the patient hopping forwards to help catch him before he fell.
“Careful, Corporal, wouldn’t want to damage army property.”
Radar squinted suspiciously at the white blob attached to the man’s leg before his eyes widened, “Hey! You’ve got a leg wound! You really shouldn’t be walking, sir.”
“You don’t give me orders, Corporal, I’m-” the man bit back the last of his sentence before continuing with a strained friendliness, “-I’m heading back to bed now. Let me just help you to your cot, eh? Make me feel useful while I’m healing up.”
If Radar wanted to protest, he didn’t get a chance. Wounded or not, the patient was bigger than him and surprisingly good at hobbling on a bum leg, and before Radar could process the request, he’d already been guided to bed, and his jacket taken off for him and placed on a peg near his cot.
“You’re heading right back to post-op, right?”
The patient was already heading to the post-op doors. If Radar squinted a little harder, he could make out the man’s hand shoved deep into his robe’s pocket, protectively.
“Scout’s honor, Corporal,” the patient answered as he quietly ducked into post-op. Radar stared at the softly swinging doors as his stomach began twisting itself in knots again. He felt strangely light, that odd sort of feeling you get before you leave the house only to realize you forgot something important after you’re already out. Soon enough, instead of counting sheep, Radar found himself counting tasks in his head as he lay in the darkness of his office.
⚕️⚕️⚕️
If sneaking around with a broken leg was a sport, Colonel Abbot must’ve been an Olympic athlete. After her search of the supply tent came up empty, Margaret had checked in with the MPs, who both confirmed that their search had come up empty thus far, then with the few people who were still out and about for the night, who also reported no signs of their runaway colonel. Really, Margaret would almost be impressed by the amount of skill it was taking the colonel to avoid what he surely saw as hostile enemies if she didn’t happen to be one of those enemies.
“Goldman!” she called as she rounded the corner to the post-op building, “Any news?”
“No, ma’am. I haven’t seen anyone, ‘cept for Radar a few minutes ago.”
“Right, let me know as soon as you see or hear anything, and make sure to take extra care around the supply tent, he’ll probably make his way there eventually,” Margaret answered, turning back to the door to post-op, and almost running headfirst into a more-frazzled-than-usual Captain Burke.
“Oh, Major! I just realized something,” Burke began, one hand tugging on her dog tags. “Before he snuck out, we were talking, he wanted to know about Hanson and Fowler, y’know Hunnicutt and Winchester’s patients? But that’s not the important part. He asked about his gun again, I told him I couldn’t get it, only Colonel Potter and Radar had the keys-”
“Get to the point, Captain,” Margaret ordered, hoping to cut through Lori’s racing thoughts
Lori paused, shook her head, and restarted, “Has anyone checked Colonel Potter’s office yet? I mentioned the keys to the gun locker might be in there, so maybe he tried to get in.”
“I don’t think anyone has yet,” Margaret answered, rushing into post-op almost as soon as Lori was finished speaking. She practically ran past the patients in their bed, loudly bursting through the doors to Radar’s office with Burke close on her heels. While a quick glance reveals the office devoid of any wounded colonels, and the lock on Potter’s door still secure, it did manage to startle Radar upright in his bed.
“Whatever it was I didn’t order enough of, I’m sorry, sirs. Er, ma’ams,” he responded shakily, clutching his teddy bear close.
“Corporal, have you seen anyone come in or out of your office in the past 15 minutes or so?” Margaret asked, hands on her hips as her eyes swept the room for any signs Abbot had been there.
“It’s really important, Radar,” Lori said gently, kneeling to Radar’s level.
Radar’s brows furrowed, “Well, there was a guy in here earlier… but he said he went back to post-op.”
“So he was a patient!” Lori exclaimed, eyes widening. “What did he look like?”
“I couldn’t really tell, I broke my glasses at Rosie’s so everything’s all cloudy and stuff. But I think he had a leg cast?”
“That must’ve been Colonel Abbot," Margaret concluded, shaking her head. “We know where he was, now we just need to figure out where he is.”
Radar’s jaw hung open, “Are you saying that guy was a colonel the whole time?”
The two women nodded.
“And he’s missing?”
“We think he’s after his gun in the gun locker, but if he wasn’t able to get the keys from Potter’s office, maybe he’ll give up soon,” Lori explained, though it seemed to Margaret that she was reasoning more to herself than to Radar. Radar’s eyes widened before he suddenly scrambled to the jacket hanging near his bed. His hands dug through every pocket he could find before he nervously looked up at the two nurses.
“I wouldn’t be so sure he’ll give up. I think he stole my keys.”
“Corporal!” Margaret shrieked, sleeping patients only the next room over temporarily forgotten. “How could you allow a patient to steal your keys from off of you? You have keys to every nook and cranny of this camp! Of all the irresponsible, stupid-”
“Hey I didn’t mean to!” Radar retorted, a nervous edge creeping into his voice. “It’s not like I asked him to take my keys! He offered to help me to bed since I couldn’t see. He said he’d go right back to bed after, he gave me his scout’s honor! Aw geez,” he said as his head dropped into his hands.
“He must be heading for his gun now,” Lori said, springing up to her feet. “If we go now maybe we can beat him there.”
BANG
A gunshot rang out from somewhere outside, in the compound.
“On the other hand…” Lori said weakly as she and Radar followed Margaret out the doors.
The whole camp had clearly heard the shot. Igor and a few of the other enlisted men stood in the doorway of the O-Club, doors swung open just enough to see what was happening, but not so much that they couldn’t be closed at a moment’s notice. The door to the nurse’s tent was open just a crack so they could safely peer out at the scene. Margaret watched as a rather large group piled out of the small VIP tent, looking rather like clowns exiting a clown car (which, considering it was Pierce and Hunnicutt leading the charge, wasn’t that far from the truth).
In the middle of the road stood Colonel Abbot, gun in hand and pointed right at Private McGill, hand up and tools scattered across the ground from where he dropped his toolbox.
“Thought you could sneak up on me, eh?” Abbot sneered at McGill. “Get the drop on the old man, huh? C’mon hands up, punk.”
“My hand is up, sir!” Righty squeaked. “I’ve only got the one to put up!” Abbot still seemed skeptical, raising the gun slightly higher.
“Woah, hey!” Pierce shouted inching slightly closer to the colonel with his hands up. “Can’t you see the kid’s already been disarmed? Why don’t we put the gun away and get back to bed?”
Abbot glared at Hawkeye from his gunsight, “Back to bed, eh? You’d like that, huh? The old bird with his soft underbelly exposed? Maybe get me comfortable enough to get some information outta me? Or maybe just knock off a colonel?”
Hawkeye stared incredulously back to the group that had followed him out of the tent, “He thinks I’m a spy.”
“The man’s clearly deranged,” Charles answered, “Everyone knows you’re not nearly discreet enough to fill the role.”
Sidney stepped forwards slightly, “Sorry gentleman, but ‘deranged’ just so happens to be my cue,” he muttered to the group as they parted to allow him to take his place at the front. “Colonel, is it? My name is Major Sidney Freedman. Do you know where you are?”
Abbot frowned deeply “Of course I know where I am, I’m at a MASH unit. What do you take me for, an idiot?”
“Not at all,” Sidney answered mildly, taking a few steps closer. “I suppose I’m just wondering why you’re pointing that gun at your fellow Americans.”
“How do I know that?” Abbot answered. Margaret could hear a dangerous edge creeping into his voice. “Can’t tell a loyal American from a disloyal one from looking at him. I can’t take that chance, not now, not ever.”
“You’re very right, Colonel. No one can tell who’s truly loyal and who’s not from their looks,” Sidney answered thoughtfully. “So how do you know to point that gun at Private McGill? How do you know he’s disloyal?” Abbot seemed to falter, eyes suddenly turning rather unsure as his gaze drifted back to Righty, who stretched his hand further up into the air.
“They wouldn’t let me have my gun, I thought something fishy might be going on. Then I saw this, this… so-called private. He shouldn’t be here. He’s only got one arm.”
“Believe me, sir,” Righty answered shakily, “I’m not for the idea of me being here either.”
Sidney stared at Colonel Abbot, years of practice schooling his face into a neutral expression, “Are we saying all one-armed men are traitors to the US? Colonel, if you’re suspicious of Private McGill, we can arrange an investigation of some sort, but there’s no need to involve violence.”
Abbot’s surety was cracking.
“Wouldn’t it be terrible if you were wrong? If you shot, and McGill was just as loyal a soldier as you are?”
Margaret could see Abbot’s grip on his gun loosening, slightly. Just another little push… but before Sidney could say anything more, the two MPs that had been searching for the colonel rounded the corner with a shout, pointing at Abbot, “There he is!”
They skidded to a halt as Sidney’s hand shot out to shoo them away, but the damage was done. A hard glint formed in Abbot’s eyes as his grip re-tightened on his gun. “I see it now. This was a set up, all of this.”
“Colonel, we just want to help-”
“No- no, I’m not taking that crock. I don’t care what you say, you’re not getting anything from me-”
“Get him!”
In a flash, the MPs descended on the colonel, one at his back trying to stop any potential escape, the other desperately trying to pry the gun from his hands. The struggle lasted for only a few seconds before another loud BANG rang out, and the gun dropped to the ground. All eyes scanned the scene looking for where the stray bullet went, before landing on the patch of red blossoming from Righty’s stomach.
“Hhhhaaa-” was all that came from his mouth as he collapsed in the dirt, his body quickly overtaken by Al and Lori, followed by the doctors.
⚕️⚕️⚕️
“I’d just like to say, sirs,” Righty began as he stared up at the wooden ceilings of post-op, “I know I got lucky and wasn’t hit anywhere too serious, but I really appreciate you staying with me to make sure I’m alright. I mean you guys are real great doctors and pals-”
“Righty,” Al interjected, “This is real nice and all, but could you tell us a little later? Your talking is moving the chips.”
Righty complied, peeking over his chest at the group of men all circled around him with playing cards in hand.
“Hawkeye?” Father Mulcahy prompted expectantly.
“Call,” Hawkeye answered, eyes shifting to BJ. “Alright, c’mon, show us what you’ve got.”
BJ seemed to be suppressing a guilty smile as he placed his cards on Righty’s leg, “Straight flush.”
And like that, post-op was filled with cards fluttering in the air and the sound of shouting.
⚕️⚕️⚕️
“Hey!” Hawkeye’s voice suddenly rang out as he sat upright in his bunk. He was clutching a package that Radar had just delivered him during his morning mail rotation (with quite a bit of stumbling on the still-blind Radar’s part), “My aunt sent me some goodies from home. Maple cookies,” he said, extracting a bright red tin from the box.
“Ah, some tree sap to wash the taste of the tree bark they call ‘toast’ out of our mouths,” BJ said, pausing his shaving to extract one of the cookies from the tin. Both men took large bites out of the cookies. Their excited faces slowly morphed into ones of sorrow and disgust as they chewed. “I think I prefer the tree bark.”
“I should’ve remembered, my aunt was foodtester by trade. She’d taste food for rich men to see if it was poisoned,” Hawkeye looked down at the full tin of cookies, nose wrinkling in disgust. “Unfortunately she got a taste for cyanide.”
“Well, Hawkeye’s aunt, your cookies will not have been baked in vain,” BJ said as he grabbed the tin from Hawkeye and began to make his way over to the spare bunk. Carefully, he placed the tin on the ground and, using one of Hawkeye’s golf clubs, pushed the tin under the spare bunk. The bunk shook once, twice, then stilled.
“We live to die another day,” BJ said triumphantly as he returned to the tent post to continue shaving.
“Glad to see you boys playing nice with your new bunkmate,” Sidney said as he entered the Swamp, an amused smile forming on his face as he crossed his arms.
“We’ve been thinking of giving him a name, if he’s going to be sticking around,” Hawkeye answered, laying back in his cot. “The difference between pet and pest is really just one letter and your attitude.”
“You heading out, Sid?” BJ asked as he washed off his razor in his helmet.
Sidney nodded, “To Seoul, with Colonel Abbot in tow.”
“Oh yeah? A little extended time off the battlefield?”
“Let’s just say that if we were back in the states, I’d be buying a house upstate and two cars,” Sidney answered, “Anger, paranoia, delusions of grandeur-”
“Oh my!” Hawkeye said, finishing the candance as he balled up the pieces of brown paper from his package.
“It’s going to take a lot of time to work through it all. I’m not sure he could ever be let back into active battle safely.”
“We wouldn’t want to make the war any more dangerous than it already is,” Hawkeye responded as he threw one of the balls of paper across the tent and into the small wastebasket beside Charles’s desk. It made it in effortlessly, earning some approving noises from the other two men. Hawkeye then tossed the next one, which also landed perfectly in the wastebasket. His brow furrowed, tongue sticking out in concentration as he grabbed the next ball and threw it across with a hook shot. Another seamless swish. He turned to BJ
“I think my luck’s back.”
Whatever look Hawkeye was giving him was clearly not what BJ wanted to see as he muttered a soft, “No…”
“I’m just saying it’s only 8:30, that gives us plenty of time to organize another poker game.”
BJ looked helplessly at Sidney, who simply smiled, “You’re on your own with this one.”