The mud outside the Swamp always found a way inside, but today the air in the tent just felt heavy. It was one of those slow, exhausting afternoons where the guns in the distance were quiet, leaving too much room for a man to think.

Hawkeye Pierce lay stretched out on his cot, still wearing his faded fatigue jacket, his boots dangling off the edge. He didn’t have the energy to take them off, or perhaps he just didn’t want to admit he was done for the day. His eyes were fixed on the canvas ceiling, trailing a water stain that looked vaguely like New Jersey, his mind drifting somewhere far east of Seoul.

A few feet away sat Colonel Potter on the edge of a trunk, the weight of command visible in the slight slump of his shoulders. His silver hair caught the dim light filtering through the tent door, and his hands were folded tightly in his lap. He looked less like a hardened regular army officer and more like a tired father wondering when his kids were coming home.

Between them stood Radar, the eternal center of the 4077th’s fragile universe, still clutching a freshly opened envelope. He wore his trademark woolen beanie squeezed down over his ears, a habit that seemed to keep the harsh realities of Korea from leaking into his head.

“It’s from Iowa, Colonel,” Radar said softly, his voice cutting through the thick silence of the tent. “My mother says the old John Deere tractor finally gave up the ghost in the south pasture.”

Potter didn’t look up immediately, but his jaw tightened just a fraction, a familiar ache settling into his chest. “A good tractor is hard to replace these days, Walter. Especially with all the steel going into artillery shells.”

“That’s not all she wrote, sir,” Radar murmured, looking down at the wrinkled piece of paper in his hands. He held it with an immense, fragile reverence, as if the ink might dissolve if he breathed too hard.

Hawkeye turned his head slowly on the pillow, his usual sharp wit briefly deserting him. There was something in the kid’s eyes that made the jokes dry up in his throat.

“She says the church held a prayer circle for the boys in the district last Sunday,” Radar continued, his eyes scanning the neat cursive lines. “And… she asked if I’d heard anything from Billy Vance.”

The name hung in the damp air of the Swamp like a sudden frost. Billy Vance was a boy from the next farm over, a kid Radar used to catch bullfrogs with in the creek behind the schoolhouse.

Potter finally raised his eyes, looking directly at the young corporal, his expression a mix of deep affection and sudden apprehension. He knew every name on the casualty reports that crossed his desk, and some names stayed with a man longer than others.

Radar looked from the letter to the Colonel, his lower lip trembling just enough for Hawkeye to notice from across the room. “Colonel… Billy was assigned to the 7th Infantry. They were up near the reservoir last month.”

The silence returned, heavier now, suffocating the small space between the three men as Radar waited for an answer he already dreaded.

—

Hawkeye shifted on his cot, the canvas creaking loudly in the quiet tent. He wanted to say something deflecting, something about how the 7th Infantry was probably enjoying a nice, warm steak dinner in Seoul right now, but the words wouldn’t form.

Colonel Potter stood up slowly, the joints in his knees popping like dry twigs. He walked over to Radar, his boots making a soft thudding sound against the plywood floor. He reached out and gently took the envelope from Radar’s hand, looking at the neat, careful handwriting on the front.

“Your mother writes a beautiful hand, Radar,” Potter said, his voice dropping into that low, steady register he used when a soldier was bleeding out on the table. “Reminds me of Mildred’s. Steady. No nonsense.”

“Yes, sir,” Radar whispered, his hands dropping to his sides, suddenly looking very small in his oversized green fatigue shirt. “But about Billy, sir… I checked the morning reports. I thought I saw…”

“You did,” Potter interrupted gently, sparing the boy from having to finish the sentence. He laid a heavy, reassuring hand on Radar’s shoulder. “Billy Vance was processed through the 8055th two weeks ago. He took some shrapnel in the shoulder, Walter. Lost a bit of mobility, from what the report said.”

Radar blinked, his eyes wide behind his thick glasses. “Is he… is he going home?”

“He’s already on a transport ship heading for San Francisco,” Potter said, giving Radar’s shoulder a firm, fatherly squeeze. “He’s out of it. He’s going back to Iowa to help your mother fix that John Deere.”

A collective breath seemed to leave the tent all at once. Hawkeye let out a long sigh, his shoulders sinking back into the mattress, a faint, genuine smile finally touching his lips.

“See there, Radar?” Hawkeye said, his voice returning to its familiar, comforting drawl. “The kid gets a million-dollar wound and a ticket back to the land of chocolate malts and clean sheets. You should be jealous. All you get is to stay here and watch me grow a beard.”

Radar let out a small, breathless laugh, wiping his nose with the back of his sleeve. “I guess… I guess I am a little jealous, Hawk. But mostly I’m just glad he’s okay.”

“We all are, son,” Potter said, handing the letter back to Radar. “Now, you write your mother back. You tell her Billy is on his way, and you tell her to keep praying for the rest of these lunatics. God knows we need the help.”

“Yes, sir. Right away, Colonel,” Radar said, a visible weight lifting from his small frame as he turned toward the tent door, clutching the letter tightly against his chest.

As the screen door banged shut behind the corporal, Hawkeye looked over at Potter, who was staring out the small window toward the helipad. The old horse soldier looked incredibly tired, but there was a quiet peace in the way he stood.

“Nice lying, Colonel,” Hawkeye said softly, his tone completely devoid of sarcasm. “The 8055th didn’t process Vance. He went through Tokyo. I saw the transfer slip yesterday.”

Potter didn’t turn around, but his reflection in the glass showed a sad, knowing smile. “A mother in Iowa doesn’t need to know the geography of a meat grinder, Pierce. She just needs to know her neighbor’s boy is alive.”

Hawkeye closed his eyes again, pulling the blanket up to his chin. “Amen to that, Sherman.”

In a place where tomorrow was never promised, sometimes a little bit of home was the only thing that kept the modern world from falling apart.