Some days in Korea don’t start with the sound of incoming choppers or the frantic shouting in the OR. Sometimes, the loudest sound in the entire valley is just a single, sharp *crack* that echoes through the morning mist, freezing everyone right in their tracks.

It was just past dawn when the stray round found its way into Radar’s clerk station, tearing clean through the canvas wall and shattering the glass face of the shortwave radio with a sickening pop.

For a second, the entire room held its breath. The typewriter carriage stopped mid-line, a tiny puff of dust settled over the patient records, and the world seemed to stand completely still.

Radar sat frozen at his desk, the telephone receiver glued to his ear, his fingers hovering over the keys like a pianist who had suddenly forgotten the next note. His eyes were wide behind his round spectacles, locked onto the jagged, spiderweb fracture that had just blossomed across the radio panel right in front of his nose.

Just a few feet away, Klinger stopped dead in his tracks by the door, a thick stack of incoming mail clutched tightly against his chest. He wore his favorite olive-drab headscarf and matching skirt, but all the theatrical flair had completely drained from his face, leaving his mouth hanging wide open in pure, unscripted shock.

Hawkeye was leaning against the desk, a chipped white mug of lukewarm coffee cradled in his hand. He didn’t jump, and he didn’t run; he just stared at the fresh bullet hole with a heavy, tired sort of amusement, his dog tags dangling against his chest as he took a slow, deliberate sip.

“Well,” Hawkeye murmured, his voice breaking the heavy silence with that familiar, dry sarcasm. “I’ve always said the music on that station was killer, Radar, but I didn’t think the critics would take it this literally.”

Radar didn’t laugh. He slowly lowered his left hand, his voice trembling as he looked up at the jagged glass. “S-sir… that was less than six inches from my ear. I think I felt the breeze.”

“It’s a sign!” Klinger gasped, finally finding his voice and clutching the letters even tighter to his chest. “That’s it, I’m a target! First the sniper in the hills last month, now they’re shooting up the mailroom! I’m a non-combatant, Hawkeye! My mother is waiting for me in Toledo, she can’t take this kind of stress!”

“Relax, Klinger, if they were aiming for you, they would have hit the wardrobe department,” Hawkeye said, though his eyes remained fixed on the shattered glass, tracing the thin fractures that reached out like frozen lightning.

Radar’s hand began to shake as he set the phone down. The reality of how close the metal had come was finally catching up to the young clerk from Iowa, his chest heaving as he stared at the tiny crater in the center of the radio.

That was when the door swung open, and Colonel Potter stepped into the office, his brow furrowed as he took in the scene.

“What in the name of General Pershing’s ghost is going on in here?” Potter barked, his eyes darting from Klinger’s pale face to the typewriter, and finally settling on the ruined shortwave radio.

He walked over, his boots clicking softly on the floorboards, and inspected the damage. He poked a thick, weathered finger near the center of the shattered glass, his expression hardening into that stern, fatherly scowl the camp knew so well.

“Stray round from the ridge,” Potter muttered, shaking his head. “Some trigger-happy kid practicing out in the hills. You alright, Walter?”

Radar swallowed hard, nodding quickly, though his voice was barely a whisper. “Yes, sir. Just… it just came out of nowhere, Colonel. One minute I was typing up the weekly laundry report, and the next…”

“The next minute, the war decided to remind us it’s still out there,” Hawkeye said softly. The humor was gone from his eyes now, replaced by that deep, bone-weary gravity that always surfaced when the jokes ran out. He set his coffee mug down on the desk and reached out, gently patting Radar on the shoulder.

Klinger stepped closer, the mail forgotten for a moment as he looked at Radar. “You’re really okay, kid? No flying glass? No scratches?”

“I’m fine, Klinger. Really,” Radar said, adjusting his glasses with a trembling hand. “Just surprised me, is all.”

Father Mulcahy entered a moment later, having heard the commotion from the mess tent. He took one look at the shattered panel, let out a soft sigh, and instinctively placed a comforting hand on Radar’s back, offering a quiet, unspoken prayer of thanksgiving.

For the next few minutes, the clerk’s station became the center of the 4077th’s universe. BJ Hunnicutt strolled in, took a look at the radio, and quietly checked Radar’s pulse while making a terrible joke about needing a better dental plan. Margaret walked in to complain about supply forms, saw the bullet hole, stopped mid-sentence, and gently touched Radar’s arm before reminding everyone to get back to work.

Even Winchester wandered by, looked at the jagged glass, sniffed, and remarked that the radio’s audio quality would likely improve now that it had some ventilation—but he didn’t leave until he was sure the kid from Iowa wasn’t going into shock.

They didn’t make a big production out of it. There were no medals, no dramatic speeches, and no tears. In a place like the 4077th, danger was just another roommate you had to learn to live with.

An hour later, the office had gone quiet again. The others had drifted back to their tents, their shifts, or their thoughts, leaving just the core crew in the room.

Radar looked at the radio, then up at Hawkeye, who was still leaning against the desk, staring out the window into the dusty compound.

“Think we can fix it, Captain?” Radar asked quietly.

Hawkeye turned, a soft, nostalgic smile playing on his lips. He looked at the spiderweb design in the glass, beautiful and terrible all at once.

“We don’t need to fix it, Radar,” Hawkeye said softly, his voice full of a quiet, protective warmth. “Leave the glass just like it is. It’s a reminder.”

“A reminder of what, sir?”

Hawkeye looked at Radar, then at Klinger, who was carefully sorting the letters into the bins, his usual dramatic energy replaced by a quiet, steady focus.

“A reminder that out here, we’re all held together by a few fragile threads,” Hawkeye said, picking up his coffee mug again. “But as long as those threads hold, we’re going to be just fine.”

Radar looked back down at his typewriter, took a deep breath, and hit the carriage return. The sharp *clack* of the keys filled the room once more, sounding an awful lot like home.

Behind the jokes and the canvas walls, it was the quiet strength of friendship that kept the pieces from falling apart.