It was one of those humid Korean afternoons where even the silence felt heavy. The relentless *thrum-thrum-thrum* of a distant helicopter was the only thing cutting through the thick air of Colonel Potter’s office. On the far side of the room, Radar clutched his clipboard to his chest like a shield, his wide eyes fixed on Klinger. The young company clerk looked as though he was mentally composing his own section eight discharge papers right there.

Klinger was holding court. He had created something remarkable—a large poster board that was less a strategic map and more a fever dream of hopeful geography. Arrows looped wildly. Planes looked like misshapen ducks. And at the bottom, in bold, black letters, were the words: “OPERATION: TOLEDO OR BUST!” Klinger gestured theatrically with one hand, his fingers spread wide, emphasizing the logical flow of his plan as if he were selling real estate, not an impossible, unsanctioned military transport.

In the center, behind the grand wooden desk, was Colonel Sherman Potter. He hadn’t yet looked away from his canvas, a brush suspended in mid-air over a small landscape he was attempting to capture in a fleeting moment of peace. He wore his glasses and the familiar, weathered expression of a man who had seen everything, especially from this particular soldier. Klinger paused his rapid-fire presentation, waiting, breathless. Potter finally set the brush down, his hand steady, and slowly looked up. The room was so still you could hear the *click* of the fan. Klinger met his gaze with a hopeful, desperate energy, and Radar held his breath, the clipboard creaking slightly. A beat of profound silence stretched, and Potter was about to speak, his lips parting.

“Klinger,” Potter said slowly, his voice quiet but echoing in the small room. He looked past the colorful insanity of the poster and straight into the soldier’s earnest eyes. “You do realize that ‘Bust’ is the part of this operation most likely to occur, don’t you?”

Klinger slumped. The energy evaporated instantly. “Colonel, it’s foolproof. I found a supply plane pilot whose brother-in-law once drove a truck through Toledo in 1948. We can use that connection to bypass Seoul and get a plane that’s *destined* for Ohio. All you have to do is sign off on the fuel requisition form. We just call it ‘Project: Midwest Liaison’.”

पोटर turned his head back to his painting. ” प्रोजेक्ट: Midwest Liaison. With a stopover in Pyongyang, no doubt. Klinger, we are in the middle of a war, not the Toledo Chamber of Commerce’s annual picnic planning committee.”

Radar took a tentative step forward. “He just… he really misses his neighborhood, sir. He was telling me about a bakery, the smell of rye bread on Wednesdays…”

Klinger nodded pathetically. “Tony’s Bakery, Colonel. I haven’t seen it in years. I dreamed about their hot dogs last night.”

Potter exhaled, a long sigh that deflated the humor. He capped his bottle of paint thinner and looked at the two young men. He saw the fatigue and the homesickness in their eyes. He’d seen it in the surgeons, the nurses, and even in his own reflection. He turned fully in his chair, facing the ridiculous poster. He read the words aloud, softly. “Toledo or Bust.”

“You want me to commit fuel to a project that has less planning than a fourth-grade science fair, involves imaginary military contacts, and will almost certainly result in us all being court-martialed if it doesn’t fail catastrophically first?” Potter asked.

“Well, when you put it like that, sir…” Klinger said, shifting his weight nervously.

Potter picked up the form Klinger had laid out. He tapped it with his pen. “I cannot sign this, Corporal. The logistics are a pipe dream. The military would have a stroke, and Father Mulcahy would probably have to say special prayers for our souls. It’s impossible.”

He held the pen over the paper. The signature line glared back at him. “However,” he continued, and Radar’s breath hitched again. “This afternoon at 1600, I am expecting a very important, unscheduled phone call with a General at I-Corps about… about specialized medical supplies.” He looked up, his eyes sharp. “A conversation about *procurement priorities*.”

Klinger stared. “A call, sir?”

Potter nodded, a small smile finally playing on his lips. “It would take exactly the time it takes for you to run that poster down to the motor pool and have Sergeant Zale verify it, before returning it here for my final review.” He leaned in. “We need to ensure all protocols were followed, that’s all. It wouldn’t mean anything official was approved, of course.” He turned back to his painting. “But it would show initiative.” He picked up his brush. “Now, both of you, dismissed before I change my mind.”

Klinger didn’t salute, he just scrambled. “Verifying protocol, immediately, Colonel! Thank you, sir!” He snatched the poster and was out the door with Radar scrambling behind him. Potter picked up the brush, looked at his canvas, and smiled. Sometimes, the war didn’t win. In that little office, surrounded by the absurdity of Toledo, there was warmth.

They all carried their own version of Toledo, and sometimes, a little shared hope was the only medicine that worked.