The mud in Korea had a way of finding its way into everything, but today, Hawkeye Pierce was trying a new tactic: he was turning the mud into art, or at least a very messy approximation of structural engineering.

The Swamp had developed a leak right over his cot, an aggressive, steady drip that timed itself perfectly to the exact rhythm of his growing insomnia.

With a bucket of stolen dental plaster, an old paintbrush, and a grin that masked three straight days of surgical exhaustion, Hawkeye was deep in his element, his hands caked in white sludge.

“I’m telling you, Beej, if the army won’t give us a new roof, we build one out of sheer determination and oral hygiene supplies,” Hawkeye muttered, his eyes wide with that manic, late-night energy every doctor at the 4077th knew too well.

B.J. Hunnicutt stood just a few feet away, holding a stack of requisition forms that looked heavy enough to anchor a small boat, looking at his tentmate with a mixture of amusement and genuine concern.

“Hawkeye, that’s not dental plaster, that’s high-grade casting compound meant for broken limbs,” B.J. said, shifting the heavy papers in his arms. “And Radar just brought these supply lists by. If Colonel Potter sees what you’re doing with the orthopedic budget, he’s going to have us both cleaning the latrines with toothbrushes.”

Just then, the screen door squeaked open, and the shadow of a regulation army cap fell across the floor.

Colonel Sherman Potter stood in the doorway, his hands resting on the frame, looking in at the chaos with a face that could have been carved out of New England granite.

The silence that filled the tent was sudden, heavy, and thick enough to cut with a scalpel.

Hawkeye froze, his hands dripping white paste back into the galvanized bucket, his goofy grin locked in place as he stared up at the boss, wondering if this was the moment the old cavalryman finally lost his legendary patience.

Colonel Potter didn’t yell; he just slowly shifted his gaze from Hawkeye’s plaster-covered fingers, down to the bucket, over to B.J.’s mountain of paperwork, and then up to the ceiling where the damp canvas hung low.

“Hunnicutt,” Potter said, his voice a low, dry rumble that sounded like wagon wheels on gravel. “Are those the inventory sheets for the morning shipment?”

“Yes, Colonel,” B.J. said, adjusting his grip on the stack, his tone perfectly level but his eyes darting toward Hawkeye. “Every single sheet. Redundant, exhausting, and currently protecting my boots from whatever Pierce is trying to accomplish here.”

Potter stepped fully into the Swamp, the screen door slamming gently behind him, the distant sound of artillery a faint, rhythmic thud somewhere over the mountains.

He walked over to the bucket, looked into it, and then looked at Hawkeye, who was still frozen like a statue of a medic who had spent too much time in the sun.

“Pierce, if I didn’t know any better, I’d say you look like a man who’s trying to bake a cake out of government-issued cement,” Potter remarked, reaching out to tap the edge of the bucket with his thumb.

“It’s a preventative measure, Colonel,” Hawkeye said, his wit finally kicking back into gear as he dropped his hands back into the mush. “A little plaster today keeps the rain out of my dreams tomorrow. Besides, look at the texture. It’s got a very comforting, institutional feel.”

Potter let out a short, quiet sigh—the kind of sigh a father gives when his kids are making a mess but he’s too tired to do anything but love them for it.

He reached into his pocket, pulled out a small, clean rag, and tossed it right onto B.J.’s stack of paperwork.

“Clean your hands, Pierce,” Potter said softly, the sternness melting away to reveal the deep, protective warmth underneath. “The rain’s stopping anyway. And Hunnicutt, leave those damn papers on the desk. We’ve got a fresh pot of coffee in my tent, and I think I’ve got a drop of something from Missouri hidden behind the filing cabinet.”

B.J. let out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding, a warm smile spreading across his face as he dropped the paperwork onto the nearest trunk.

Hawkeye looked down at his messy hands, the manic energy leaving him all at once, replaced by the profound, comforting realization that no matter how crazy the war made them, they were all looking out for each other in this muddy corner of the world.

Sometimes the best medicine the 4077th had to offer wasn’t found in the O.R., but in the quiet understanding of an old soldier who knew exactly when his boys just needed a break.