The mud never slept, and apparently, neither did the war. After a grueling thirty-hour surgery, the *Swamp* looked less like an Officer’s Quarters and more like a recovery ward itself.

Cots were in shambles, the still was humming with a dangerous lack of supervision, and the air smelled faintly of formaldehyde and old coffee. It was quiet. Too quiet.

Hawkeye Pierce had collapsed onto his cot, his long frame barely contained by the canvas, while B.J. Hunnicutt sat staring at his boots as if they held the answer to the universe’s cruelty. Both were still wearing the exhaustion of a hundred procedures.

“You know,” Hawkeye mumbled, his voice gravelly, “if I close one eye, I can still see the operating table. If I close both, I see Margaret’s face when we ask for more sponge.”

B.J. finally cracked a smile. It was a weak, tired smile, but it was there. He rubbed his face with a hand that still felt the phantom pulse of a dozen patients.

They had been at it so long they were vibrating with the strange energy that comes right before the crash. Just when they thought the world might have finally slowed down, the tent flap flew open.

Radar stood there, framed by the light from the compound, looking slightly panicked. His clipboard was clutched against his chest like a shield. He didn’t enter immediately; he rarely did. Instead, he just hung there by the tent pole, his signature posture, as if he needed physical support just to deliver the news.

B.J. and Hawkeye both instantly sat up. Their internal clocks, tuned to the sound of choppers and artillery, skipped a beat. If Radar was here with *that* look, it wasn’t good.

“Fellas,” Radar began, his voice higher than usual, “we’ve got a situation.”

Hawkeye closed his eyes and let out a long, dramatic sigh. “If it involves more surgery, I’m changing my name to Hawkeye O’Shea and defecting.”

Radar shook his head. “No, sir. This is worse. We’re out. Colonel Potter is already heading to Supply. We have no anesthesia.”

A silence far heavier than the fatigue settled over the *Swamp*. B.J. looked blankly at Hawkeye. Hawkeye looked at Radar, his eyes searching for the smallest sign of a joke. Radar wasn’t joking.

“You’re telling me,” B.J. said slowly, “that we have patients in post-op and incoming wounded, and the cupboard is bare?”

Radar nodded solemnly. “Yes, sir. He thinks there was a clerical error at the last supply drop.”

“A clerical error?” Hawkeye jumped up, his exhaustion momentarily forgotten, replaced by a surge of nervous energy. “In Korea, that’s just a fancy way of saying someone stole it, right? Maybe to run a black-market sleep clinic?”

He began pacing the narrow space, brushing past the hanging lanterns that were the only source of warmth. “Well, that’s just grand. We are officially the world’s most advanced prehistoric surgical unit. We’ve gone full Caveman.”

B.J. stood and joined him. “Hawkeye, we have a chopper due in twenty minutes. What are we going to do?”

The image captures the shift in mood. Radar is looking up, his expression a mix of nervousness and earnest concern, trying to explain the reality to Hawkeye. Hawkeye, still tired, is giving Radar a steady look, his brain already working, but his face hardened by the immediate problem. B.J., slightly behind Radar and mostly out of frame, is still processing the full impact.

For a moment, they were just three tired men in a canvas tent, facing an impossible reality. The simple tent sign ‘SWAMP’ seemed to mock their current situation.

Hawkeye looked from Radar to B.J., and the wit was gone. The humor that was his primary defense vanished. “Alright, Radar. Call the orphanage. They might have something. B.J., you and I are going to check every footlocker and every personal medical kit in the camp. There has *got* to be something.”

Radar nodded and turned to leave. Just as he reached the tent flap, Hawkeye stopped him. “And Radar? Make sure no one leaks this to the patients. Especially not the newly arrived. They don’t need the extra pain of knowing their doctor is flying by the seat of his pants.”

B.J. slapped Hawkeye on the back. It was a reassuring gesture, full of the silent language they had built over months of shared adversity. “Caveman, eh? I guess that makes you Fred and me Barney.”

Hawkeye managed a genuine smile again. “You got that right. Let’s get to work.” They had their humor back, but this time, it was a weapon they were using for a much more desperate fight.

Some nights, the laughter was just an echo of the tears.