The supply shack was always a battlefield of cardboard and dust. Radar sat cross-legged, buried up to his neck in a box clearly labeled “4077th SUPPLY”. His knitted cap looked more like a distress signal.

For ten minutes, Margaret had been on a search-and-destroy mission. A mission involving inventory and a missing shipment of socks. Her clipboard was a weapon, and her index finger a precision laser locked onto a stack of blankets on the top shelf.

Charles stood by, impeccable in his pressed uniform. He looked less like a soldier and more like a bored antique appraiser. He fiddled casually with his pocket watch chain, checking the time and perhaps his blood pressure.

“Radar, I don’t see them. If those socks are missing, they must be in *this* box!” Margaret’s voice had that high-decibel quality that could curdle paint.

Radar peered over the edge of the box, holding up a single, muddy boot like it was the Holy Grail. “This isn’t a sock, Major.” He blinked innocently. “And there’s a small turtle living in the bottom. He likes celery.”

Margaret’s clipboard tapped ominously. Charles just sighed, clicking the lid of his watch closed. “One simply cannot run an army on turtles and celery, Pierce. Or on a lack of socks, for that matter.”

The tension in the cramped shack was higher than a mortar round. This wasn’t about socks. It was about losing another small piece of order. The final stack of ‘C-RATIONS’ boxes was the last place they could possibly be. If they weren’t there, they’d have to tell Colonel Potter that the 4077th would be going into winter with frozen toes.

“Radar,” Margaret said, her voice dropping to a dangerously calm whisper, “Please move the turtle.”

Radar gently scooped up the turtle and placed it on a nearby crate. “Sorry, Major. It’s cold.”

Charles leaned against a tall stack of MEDICAL SUPPLIES crates. “And it’s about to get colder. These boots you are holding, Corporal. They seem to belong to the wrong feet. My feet, to be exact.”

Radar looked confused. “You wear single boots, Major?”

Charles closed his eyes as if counting to ten. “They are… spare pairs. I had them shipped separately. The correct pair is in that corner over there.” He pointed vaguely.

Margaret whipped around to look where Charles was pointing. It was an empty corner. No crates. No boots.

“Major,” Margaret hissed, “are you saying you ordered *two different shipments* of single boots?”

“Precision is paramount, Major. A custom-made left boot cannot be rushed by the whims of logistics.”

While they argued over the geography of custom-made footwear, Radar had stood up in the box, reaching over the top, pulling a large burlap sack free from behind a box labeled ‘BANDAGES’.

“Major… I think I found them.”

He held up the sack. It was filled to the brim with gray, woolen army-issue socks. Every single pair.

Silence fell in the shack. Margaret slowly lowered her finger. Charles let go of his pocket watch chain.

Radar climbed out of the box and carefully placed the turtle back in its nest of celery. “He was guarding them. I think we can still get these to the O.R. by nightfall.”

The relief washed over Margaret. Her stiff shoulders relaxed. “Excellent work, Radar. And Major… order your boots *together* next time.”

“It simply wasn’t logical,” Charles retorted, taking a long look at the sock sack and then at the small turtle. “But I suppose even logistics must submit to the absurdity of this place.”

Margaret took the sock sack and turned to leave. At the door, she stopped and looked back at the small, bundled figure checking his clipboard. “Thank you, Radar.”

“Don’t mention it, Major,” he said, already back in his box, checking the inventory sheet. “The celery is very good.”

Sometimes the only light you find is at the bottom of a cardboard box.