A jet flew over the camp while a jeep skidded in the mud. The camp was so quiet it seemed deserted. The compound whistled with a soft Korean wind, but other than that, there was silence. Just past the compound, however, a long, brown building was exploding with activity. Men and women in white were bustling around each other and barking orders acrossan operating room. Tension was flying through the room with each word. As usual at the 4077th Mobile Army Surgical Hospital, the doctors were overloaded with patients,while losing their patience. They had worked through the entire night before and now they were working away the morning. The only person who seemed to be keeping his cool was Captain Benjamin Franklin Pierce--Hawkeye to his companions.

"I'm gonna take a Sentimental Journey…" Sang Hawkeye's deep voice over the mayhem around him.

"Cut it out, Pierce!" Shouted Major Frank Burns in his usual whiny, nasal voice. "Some of us are trying to operate." His masked face bent down to look at his patient, beads of sweat glistening on his brow. "We shouldn't have to work in these deplorable conditions: No sleep, rats in our cots, singing in the OR…It's very hard to operate when I'm this tired!"

Hawkeye rolled his gray eyes. "I'm sorry, Frank." Frank's mask stretched as he grinned. "I'm sorry for waking you up while you were operating." The grin disappeared. "What's the matter?" Hawkeye continued,"Hotlips not tucking you in at night anymore?" Frank's brow furrowed as the head nurse, Major Margaret—"Hotlips"—Houlihan's steely eyes opened in wide shock over her surgical mask.

"How DARE you!" She shrieked. "You perverted filth! I NEVER…"

"Cool it, Major." Colonel Henry Blake's calm—yet annoyed—voice sounded over the shouting. The operating session went on for 36 hours.

And so goes life at MASH

After the session, the surgeons and nurses stumbled into the sunlight, squinting, aching, yawning, and stretching. It was 0700 hours and they were exhausted. Captain Trapper McIntire led the surgical staff out of the hospital and Hawkeye followed, scratching his stomach. When the sunlight hit Trapper's face, he groaned loudly, stopped walking, and turned to Hawkeye. "What is that?" Hawkeye continued walking past Trapper. "What's what, what?"

"That bright yellow ball in the sky? It burns! It burns!" Hawkeye smiled, familiar with this light-hearted bantering.

"That, my dear son, is the sun." He replied. "The star of the day, the separation from night, the symbol of summer, apple pie, and picnics with local lovelies. It gives us warmth when no one of the female persuasion is willing and it conveniently hides itself so we can sleep at night." Trapper grinned back at Hawkeye as they reached their tent. Trapper grabbed the handle of the door and swung it open for Hawkeye, bowing as his friend entered. Their tent was aptly called "the Swamp". That particular day, the swamp looked as though it had barely survived a hurricane: olive drab clothingwas draped on every piece of furniture, Hawkeye's worn and stained red robe hung over their distillery, and Trapper's hat lay on the floor, gathering dust next to his "specially made" pin-striped suit.

Hawkeye fell like a dead weight on to his cot, but jumped up howling in pain. Apparently, he had forgotten that before the helicopters came, carrying wounded, he and Nurse Baker had tried to have a romantic meal in the swamp. When the PA system announced the choppers were on their way, Hawkeye and Baker threw their forks and canned peaches haphazardly on his cot. One of the forks decided to forcefully remind Hawkeye's rump of the failed interlude.

"Wasn't there a nurse here?" Hawkeye asked as he rubbed his abused rump.

"Nope, just a figment of your imagination." Trapper answered, moving over to the still—a contraption made of wires and flasks that poured out homemade gin.

"My figment just pierced my derriere with a fork."

"That's what you get for getting fresh with your imagination." Trapper poured gin for himself in a dingy martini glass. He tipped the jar filled with gin in Hawkeye's direction. "Can I buy you a drink?"

Hawkeye wrestled with himself for a second or two, but ended up saying "No thanks, I don't like being drunk and dead at the same time. It takes the fun and flavor out of randomly falling on an unsuspecting nurse." Hawkeye carefully stretched out on his cot and closed his eyes. Trapper shrugged his shoulders and sipped on his drink. He slowly moved over to his cot, trying not to step on the odds and ends strewn about the floor. He sat down and gradually swung his legs over the side of his cot, groaning like an 80-year-old man. He slugged back the rest of his gin and glanced at Hawkeye—who was effectively falling asleep.

"Ferret-face isn't home yet." He said, somewhat loudly.

Hawkeye moaned. "Trapper, I'm going to suture your trap shut if you don't shut it! I haven't slept in three days…I really don't want to spend a fourth monitoring Frank's every move. I'd rather give myself an appendectomy."

"I was just wondering where he was." Trapper said, trying to defend himself.

"Oh," Hawkeye muttered. "I'm sure Margaret is hearing a wonderful tantrum about how 'degenerate' we are." Hawkeye sighed. "Now shut up and let me sleep!"