Sleep is optional. Sarcasm is mandatory

by Badger666

Summary:

Dr. John Carter thought becoming a doctor would involve white coats, polite patients, and maybe the occasional cup of bad hospital coffee. Instead, he’s been drafted into the Korean War, shoved through a crash course on “don’t get shot”, and sent straight from med school to a MASH unit thirty miles from the front lines.

Now he’s at the 4077th, where the coffee is strong enough to dissolve scalpels, the nurses run the place better than the officers, and the surgeons range from slightly eccentric to completely unhinged. Between Kerry Weaver barking orders, Peter Benton acting like drill sergeant and trauma god rolled into one, and Doug Ross somehow flirting with literally everyone including the supply tent, Carter is just trying not to pass out, screw up, or cry in front of Carol Hathaway (who, for some reason, keeps calling him baby).

Oh, and there’s also the small matter of keeping wounded soldiers alive while artillery shakes the ground and helicopters rain chaos on the camp. No pressure.

At the 4077th, the motto is simple: “Sleep is optional. Sarcasm is mandatory.”

… what the FUCK!!!

Notes:

Enjoy the crack…

Chapter 1: Welcome to the 4077th

The jeep rattled down the uneven dirt road, bouncing hard enough that John Carter’s teeth clicked together. His hands clenched around the strap of his medical kit like it was a lifeline. Palms were damp against the handle of his medical kit. His knuckles were pale, and his heart thumped so loudly he swore the driver could hear it over the roar of the engine. He tried to ignore the sound of his heart hammering inside his chest, but it was louder than the jeep’s rattling engine. Every bump in the dirt road jolted through him, shaking his bones and his nerves.
The Korean hills stretched around them, dotted with charred trees and thin smoke trails. Somewhere far away, faint pops of artillery rattled in the distance, followed by a low, rolling boom. Carter flinched despite himself.

The driver, a corporal with a toothpick wedged between his lips, glanced back at him and smirked.

“Relax, Doc,” the driver said with a crooked grin, not taking his eyes off the road. “This is the quiet part of the war.”

Carter turned his head slowly, eyebrows arched. “There’s a quiet part?”

The driver snorted. “Compared to the front? Absolutely.” Then he glanced at Carter and smirked wider. “First day at the Four-Oh-Double-Seven?”

Carter nodded stiffly, shifting the kit in his lap. “Yes, sir. Transfer orders. Fresh assignment.”

“Good luck,” the driver said, in that dry, ominous tone Carter had already learned meant anything but luck.
“You’ll need it.”

Carter forced a weak smile, then looked forward again. The barbed wire fences came into view first, then the tents, the makeshift wooden sign that read 4077th MASH – 30 Miles From the Front. The air smelled faintly of smoke, antiseptic, and something metallic he didn’t want to think too much about.

The jeep screeched to a halt in front of a low, sprawling camp surrounded by barbed wire. The sign read:
4077th M.A.S.H. – Mobile Army Surgical Hospital
“Best Care Anywhere”

He wasn’t sure if that was comforting or darkly ironic.

Carter swallowed, climbed out, and adjusted the strap of his bag. He clutched his kit as though it might save him, though part of him knew better. His boots sank into the mud, and the ground felt unsteady beneath him. The camp was oddly calm. No ambulances, no screaming, no choppers. Just quiet, the kind of quiet that made his nerves scream louder. A few nurses hurried between tents carrying charts, a mechanic cursed loudly at a generator, and someone somewhere was laughing at a joke Carter couldn’t hear. There were no helicopters overhead, no ambulances rushing in, no screaming. Just… quiet. He didn’t trust quiet anymore.

His stomach felt like it was full of rocks. He had survived a month on the front lines — barely — and now he was here, 30 miles behind them, but still in the middle of a war.

Carter made his way to the main administrative tent, tugging nervously at the sleeves of his fatigues. The flap was half open, and he hesitated before poking his head inside.

Through the flap of the tent, he caught sight of a group gathered around a table: papers scattered, coffee cups balanced precariously, the faint smell of stale cigarettes in the air.

A tall Black man leaned casually against the table, arms crossed, his dark eyes sharp and focused. Next to him, a balding man slouched in a chair, fiddling with a pencil. Across from them, three women — one blonde, one brunette, and one redhead with a crutch propped against her chair — were deep in discussion. Off to the side, a man spun lazily in another chair, looking like he had nowhere better to be.

The brunette with soft brown eyes noticed Carter first and smiled. “Hey there,” she said gently.

The Black man glanced up, eyes sharp, assessing.
“Lost?” he asked flatly, pushing his chair back and standing.

Carter opened his mouth, shut it, then nodded quickly. “Uh—no. I mean—John Carter. Doctor. I was told to report here.”

The man gave him a long once-over, then extended a hand with surprising firmness. “Dr. Peter Benton. Major.” He motioned around the table with his other hand. “That’s Dr. Mark Greene—Major Greene—” he pointed toward a tall, balding man with tired eyes. Mark gave a small nod and raised his pencil like a salute. Benton jabbed a thumb toward the spinning man.

“That idiot’s Dr. Doug Ross.”
Doug stopped mid-spin, leaned an elbow over the back of his chair, and flashed Carter a lazy grin. “Don’t listen to him, kid. I’m the fun one.”

“You’re the problem one,” Benton muttered under his breath.

Doug was slouched in a chair, spinning lazily. He lifted two fingers in a casual salute. “Welcome to paradise, kid.”

Carter managed a nervous nod before his attention was drawn to the woman leaning back with a crutch resting against her chair.

The redhead straightened in her seat, her crutch clattering softly as she adjusted. Her sharp gaze settled on Carter like a laser beam. “Lieutenant Colonel Dr. Kerry Weaver,” she introduced crisply. “Executive officer here”, she said crisply, her voice cutting through his fumbling nerves. Her gaze was direct, almost surgical.

Before Carter could respond, another woman, blonde with kind but weary eyes, leaned forward. “Susan Lewis, Captain. Nice to meet you.”

Carter blinked rapidly, trying to process the ranks, the names, the sheer presence of them all. His throat felt dry.

Then another voice broke through. A brunette with warm eyes and a nurse’s uniform leaned slightly toward him, giving him the kind of smile one might offer a frightened child.

“Carol Hathaway. Major. Head nurse.”
The brunette, still smiling softly, leaned forward and spoke in a smooth, calming voice that immediately made Carter relax a fraction. She tilted her head slightly and gave him a once-over. “You must be the new kid.”

Carter nodded quickly. “Uh, yes. John Carter. Doctor. Just… transferred.”
“Where from?” Carol asked gently, folding her arms on the table.

“The front lines,” Carter admitted, his voice quieter than he intended.

The room went silent for a moment.
Doug stopped smirking. Mark’s pencil froze mid-spin. Benton raised an eyebrow, studying him with new interest. Susan’s smile softened.

Weaver leaned back in her chair, exhaling sharply. “They sent a brand-new doctor to the front lines fresh out of med school?” she muttered, shaking her head. “Idiots.”

That made the room still. Greene’s brow furrowed. Susan’s ’s eyes narrowed slightly. Benton’s lips pressed into a thin line. Even Ross stopped spinning his chair.

“You were on the front?” Benton asked, skepticism heavy in his tone.

“Yes,” Carter replied, his voice breaking slightly. He cleared his throat. “For the last month. I was—” He stopped. The words caught in his throat. The images flickered: blood, screaming, dirt, the sound of shells overhead. His grip tightened on the kit. “They sent me here.”

A silence lingered. He could see it in their faces, the thought none of them spoke: Too young. Too soft. Too skittish. What the hell is he doing here?

Carol reached out and touched Carter’s arm lightly, her voice soft but firm. “Well, you’re here now, baby. We’ll take care of you.”

Carter blinked at the word baby, cheeks reddening faintly. “Uh, thanks…”

Doug frowned at Carol, his jaw tightening just slightly at her choice of words. Carter didn’t notice.

Carter exhaled like he’d been holding his breath. Carol tilted her head, studying him carefully.

“You’re awfully young,” she said softly, almost to herself, then added with a small grin, “Where you from, baby?”

The word made his ears burn. He stammered. “Uh—Chicago.”

Doug Ross straightened slightly at Carol’s tone, his gaze flicking between them. Carter didn’t notice the faint glare; he was too focused on getting his name out without tripping over it.

Weaver broke the silence with a sharp nod, her crutch thumping against the ground. “Major Benton. Show him around. Get him settled. Make sure he doesn’t get himself killed and make sure he doesn’t faint at the sight of blood.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Benton said, then jerked his chin at Carter. “Come on, rookie.”

Carter forced an awkward smile and followed Benton out of the tent, clutching his med kit tightly against his chest relief and dread knotted together in his stomach.

Outside, the camp stretched around him. Tents flapped in the wind. A group of nurses carried supplies across the yard—Haleh Adams, tall and composed; Lydia Wright with her quick steps; Chuny Márquez laughing at something Wendy Goldman had said. Malik McGrath towered over them, carrying two crates at once like it was nothing.

Benton walked with long strides, forcing Carter to keep up.

“Rule number one,” Benton said as they walked through the camp. “Stay out of Romano’s way.”

“Romano?” Carter echoed nervously.

“Lt. Col. Robert Romano,” Benton explained, pointing toward a separate tent across the compound. “Brilliant surgeon. World-class pain in the ass. He’s like a rabid terrier with a scalpel.”

As if summoned, a short, fiery-haired man stormed out of the tent nearby, shouting into the air. “WHO TOOK MY GODDAMN CLAMPS?! I SWEAR TO GOD, I’M SURROUNDED BY IDIOTS!”

Carter instinctively ducked behind Benton, clutching his med kit like a shield.
Benton sighed and kept walking. “You get used to him. Mostly.”

They passed the nurse’s station next, where Lydia, Haleh, Chuny, Malik, and Wendy were swapping jokes while restocking supplies. Carol was there too, leaning against the counter. When she spotted Carter, she waved him over.

“Hey, baby doc,” she said, using the nickname like it was already set in stone. “You eaten yet?”

“Uh, no, I—” Carter started.

“Mess tent’s that way,” she said, pointing. “Don’t wait too long. Once Luka and Abby get there, the good coffee’s gone in about five seconds.”

“Or,” Malik called over his shoulder, “you could just learn to like battery acid.”

Carter managed a shaky laugh. For the first time since he’d gotten off the jeep, his shoulders loosened a little.

“You ever work in a MASH before?” Benton asked abruptly.

“No,” Carter admitted. “I’ve only—well—I mean, I just finished med school. Barely.”

Benton shot him a look, sharp and cutting. “And they threw you on the front lines?”

Carter’s stomach twisted. “My family… they didn’t pay the deferment. They—didn’t want to.” He swallowed, his throat tight. “So, yeah. They sent me.”

For a moment, Benton’s expression softened, though his tone remained hard. “You’ll learn fast. Or you won’t last.”

Carter didn’t doubt it.

The tour took them through the surgical tents—sterile in theory, chaotic in reality. Instruments laid out in trays, the faint lingering scent of blood clinging to the canvas. Carter’s chest constricted. His mind replayed flashes of the front: bodies, dirt, screams. He forced the images down, gripping his bag tighter.

“You freeze up in there, people die,” Benton said bluntly.

Carter nodded quickly. “I won’t freeze.”

Benton’s eyes lingered on him, skeptical but not unkind. “We’ll see.”

By the time Benton finished showing him the camp — the O.R., the recovery tent, the supply station, and the “luxury” latrines — Carter’s head was spinning. The place was bigger than it looked, a living, breathing organism powered by caffeine, chaos, and exhaustion.

“Get some rest while you can,” Benton said finally, nodding toward the row of cots where the doctors slept. “Because when the choppers come in, it gets ugly fast.”
Carter nodded, swallowing hard. He wanted to ask what Benton meant, but he wasn’t sure he wanted the answer.

That night, Carter lay on his bunk in the officer’s quarters, the sounds of the camp around him—boots on gravel, murmured voices, a distant laugh, the whine of wind through canvas. His stomach twisted with nerves, exhaustion, and something else—anticipation, maybe.

He thought about the front lines, the screams, the smell of blood and dirt and fire. His hands twitched unconsciously, remembering the weight of another soldier’s body.

He thought of Carol’s gentle voice calling him baby. Of Weaver’s sharp eyes, Greene’s tired half-smile, Benton’s relentless stare. Of Ross’s casual smirk, already weighing whether Carter would last the week.
The quiet wouldn’t last. He knew it. Any moment, the sound of helicopters could split the air, and the calm would vanish into chaos.

Somewhere outside, far away, he heard the faint rumble of artillery again.

Carter closed his eyes, praying this place would be different.

He closed his eyes and held onto his kit like a lifeline.

Tomorrow, he’d have to prove himself.

One way or another.

Chapter 2: Baptism by Fire

Notes:

Enjoy

The mess tent smelled like boiled socks.

Carter sat hunched over a metal tray, prodding at the mystery mash on his plate with the blunt edge of his fork. Whatever it was, it had the consistency of wet drywall and the color of something that had died twice. He’d stopped asking what the food was about a week ago, back when he was on the front. Out there, you learned quick: eat it or starve.

So he ate. Quietly.

Across the tent, the other doctors and nurses were clustered around a long table, laughing between bites of the same beige slop. They looked… comfortable together. Like they’d known each other for years. Carter wondered if he’d ever get there. If he’d ever be able to just belong instead of feeling like a ghost floating through someone else’s life.
He was halfway through forcing another spoonful past his throat when he heard Benton’s voice cut across the din.

“Hey, you know our new guy tried to dodge the draft?” Benton announced casually, stabbing at his potatoes with surgical precision.

The table went silent. Every head turned. Carter froze mid-bite, heat rushing up the back of his neck.
“I didn’t try to dodge anything,” he muttered, setting his fork down a little too hard.

Doug Ross grinned around a mouthful of bread. “That right, Junior?” he drawled, leaning back in his chair. “’Cause word going around says your family’s loaded enough to buy a senator, let alone a deferment.”

Mark Greene looked up from his coffee, his brow furrowing slightly. “Doug.”

“What? I’m just saying—”

“Don’t,” Mark interrupted, his voice gentle but firm.
Across the table, Romano snorted, leaning back and folding his arms. “Figures. Rich kid gets tossed out of med school early, Mommy and Daddy don’t cut a check fast enough, and now he’s stuck elbow-deep in intestines with the rest of us.”

Carter’s jaw clenched. He could feel everyone’s eyes on him, waiting for him to break. He swallowed hard, forcing the words out.

“My parents didn’t pay. I didn’t have a choice,” he said quietly, trying to keep his voice steady. “I went where they sent me. Front lines first. Now here.”
Silence.

Carter stared down at his tray, wishing he could sink into the floor, crawl under the tent, and disappear into the mud. The back of his throat burned.
Then a chair scraped loudly against the floor.
“Knock it off,” Carol Hathaway said, standing with her tray in hand. Her voice was sharp enough to cut glass. She turned to Romano first. “That goes for you too, slick.”

Romano smirked but didn’t respond.

Abby Lockhart leaned forward next, her voice lower, softer, but just as cutting. “Seriously, guys, he’s been here for like five minutes. You think maybe you could wait before traumatizing him further?”

Susan Lewis added from her end, “It’s not like we weren’t all terrified our first week.” She shot Doug a glare. “Some of us still are.”

Doug shrugged innocently. “Hey, I was being welcoming.”

“Yeah, sure,” Abby said, rolling her eyes. “Real warm and fuzzy.”

Before Carter could process what was happening, Carol crossed the tent and dropped her tray opposite him, sliding into the seat with a commanding sort of grace. Abby trailed behind her, taking the seat beside Carter like it was the most natural thing in the world. Susan followed suit, setting her cup of coffee down gently before settling in.

Carter blinked at them, bewildered.

“You look like a deer in headlights,” Carol teased softly, her lips quirking upward just enough to ease the tension.

“I—uh,” Carter stammered, his ears burning. “I just didn’t think… you’d…” He gestured vaguely toward the other table.

“Sit with you?” Abby finished for him, cocking an eyebrow.

Carter nodded awkwardly.

“Sweetheart,” Carol said gently, resting her chin on her hand, “those guys are family. You? You’re family now, too. That means we look out for you.”
Carter blinked rapidly, trying to hold back the sudden lump in his throat.

Susan leaned closer, her voice quiet. “Ignore Romano. He pushes buttons for fun. And Doug… well, Doug flirts with everyone and thinks it’s charming.”

“Hey, I heard that,” Doug called from across the tent.

“You were meant to,” Susan shot back without even looking at him.

Abby smirked and nudged Carter’s tray with her fork. “Eat, rookie. You’re gonna need the energy.”

“For what?” Carter asked cautiously.

Abby and Carol exchanged a glance that made his stomach sink.

“You’ll find out,” Carol said finally, sipping her coffee.
The conversation at the table gradually shifted, the hum of voices settling around Carter like a protective wall. Carol asked him about Chicago. Abby asked what med school was like. Susan explained the politics of the camp—who to avoid, who to trust, who had coffee worth stealing.

Carter relaxed, just slightly, until Benton’s voice cut through again from the other table.

“Hey, rookie,” Benton called, not looking up from his tray. “When the choppers come in, you’d better move fast. We don’t have time for hesitation around here..

Carter stiffened

Carol turned in her seat, glaring at Benton. “He’s fine, Peter.”

Benton raised an eyebrow, finally glancing up. “We’ll see.”

Abby leaned toward Carter, lowering her voice so only he could hear. “Don’t take it personally. That’s just Benton’s love language.”

Carter blinked at her. “That’s… terrifying.”

Abby grinned. “Yeah, well. Welcome to the 4077th.”
The loud whup-whup-whup of helicopter blades split the air outside, rattling the tin cups on the tables. The camp seemed to inhale at once, conversations dying mid-word.

Susan set her cup down gently. “Showtime,” she murmured.

Carol stood, grabbing her tray with one hand and Carter’s sleeve with the other. “Let’s go, baby.”
Carter scrambled up, his heart pounding.

The quiet was over.

It was about to get loud.

The blades of the helicopter thumped hard against the wind, the sound pounding straight through Carter’s chest. He stood frozen outside the mess tent for one heartbeat too long, tray abandoned, his stomach turning before he even saw a single stretcher.

Then the shouting started.

“Coming in hot! Let’s move, people!” Romano barked from the edge of the landing zone, his voice cutting sharp through the chaos. His lab coat flapped wildly as he waved orderlies forward. “Benton, take the abdominal cases! Luka, you’re on chest wounds! Greene, triage now!”

“Yes, sir!” Benton barked back, already sprinting.
Carter hesitated, caught in the undertow of bodies rushing toward the choppers. Carol Hathaway brushed past him, barking orders at her nurses. “Lydia! Wendy! Double-check vitals on all incoming! Chuny, get extra blood bags ready—we’ll need ‘em!”
“On it!” Chuny yelled, already gone.

Carol paused long enough to glance back at Carter. “Move it, baby. You’re gonna get trampled standing there!”

That jolted him into motion.

The first helicopter touched down, spraying dust and bits of straw into the air. The noise was deafening, drowning out everything but the shouts of medics and the screams of the wounded. Carter’s boots hit the packed dirt hard as he stumbled toward the chaos, heart hammering so fast it felt like it might break through his ribs.

Stretcher after stretcher came off the bird. Soldiers covered in mud and blood, some unconscious, some moaning, some screaming.

“Three chest wounds, one sucking,” Benton shouted, running past Carter without slowing. “Greene! That’s yours!”

“Got it!” Mark Greene called back, crouching beside a limp body. He glanced up just long enough to spot Carter hovering uselessly. “Carter! Over here! You’re with me!”

Carter jogged over, kneeling awkwardly next to Mark. He tried to focus, tried to see, but the blood… God, there was so much blood. His stomach lurched.
“Eyes up,” Mark said sharply, snapping his fingers in front of Carter’s face. “Listen to me, John. This one’s got a collapsed lung. Chest tube, stat.

“I—I’ve never done—”

“You have now,” Mark cut him off. “Carol! Tube kit!”
Carol shoved a tray into Carter’s shaking hands without missing a beat. “Take a breath, baby. Focus.”
He did, barely. His fingers fumbled, gloves sticking as he ripped open the sterile pack. Mark guided him through it step by step, their voices barely audible over the chaos surrounding them.

“Cut here.”
“Spread.”
“Tube in—yes, good, clamp—”

The soldier gasped wetly, his chest rising.
“Nice job,” Mark said, already moving to the next patient. “Stay on him. Make sure he keeps breathing.”

Carter swallowed hard and nodded, though his vision blurred around the edges.

They moved fast. There wasn’t time to think—just act. One chest wound after another, an abdominal bleed, two amputations. Romano yelled constantly, swearing at Luka in Croatian at one point when a clamp slipped. Weaver’s crutch thumped hard against the dirt as she hobbled from table to table, barking orders with surgical precision.

“Knight, keep that vein open!”

“Chen, I need that artery tied off yesterday!”

“Doug, stay out of my damn OR if you’re gonna flirt with Hathaway!”

“Hey, I was asking for clamps!” Doug yelled back.

“Sure you were,” Carol shot back without looking up, her voice dry as dust.

Even through the chaos, there were flashes of humanity: Susan handing Lucy a new set of gloves with a quick, steadying squeeze to her shoulder; Abby Lockhart sliding quietly between tables, handing Luka clean gauze before he asked; Malik sprinting past with a cooler of blood bags, his shirt already stained through.

Carter kept moving, doing whatever Mark told him to do, clamping, cutting, stitching—but the images blurred together, one wound bleeding into the next.
At some point, he stopped thinking entirely. His body worked on autopilot.

And then… it was over.

The last soldier was wheeled out toward recovery, and the noise began to ebb, leaving only the dull roar of the generator and the occasional low moan from the ward. Carter stood frozen in the middle of the OR tent, blood up to his elbows, gloves sticky, sweat dripping into his collar. His breath came too fast, too shallow.

He yanked his mask down, stumbling out the flap of the tent into the open air. The moment the cool breeze hit his face, his stomach gave out.

He doubled over behind a supply truck and threw up hard, one hand braced against the metal. His whole body shook as he gasped, trying to drag air back into his lungs. He wiped his mouth on his sleeve, smearing blood and bile together, and pressed the heel of his hand to his forehead.

“Hey.”

Carter flinched, looking up to see Mark Greene leaning casually against the truck, peeling off his gloves. His face was pale, his shirt stained, but his eyes were steady.

“You okay?” Mark asked, his voice quiet.

Carter shook his head, throat too tight to speak.
Mark sighed softly and crouched down next to him, resting his arms on his knees. “First one’s rough. Hell, second, third, and hundredth aren’t much better. But you kept your hands steady in there. That matters.”

“I… couldn’t breathe,” Carter admitted, his voice small. “I thought—I thought I was gonna freeze up.”

“But you didn’t.” Mark’s tone stayed even, calm, grounding. “You did the job. That kid’s alive because you didn’t freeze. That’s what matters out here.”

Carter stared at the dirt between his boots, still trembling. “…Does it ever stop feeling like this?”

Mark hesitated, then shook his head slowly. “No. You just… get better at carrying it.”

For a long moment, they sat there in silence, the distant thump of another helicopter echoing over the hills.

Mark finally stood, offering Carter a hand up. Carter hesitated, then took it, his grip weak but steadying.
“Come on,” Mark said softly. “Get cleaned up. Grab some water. We’ve got about fifteen minutes before the next wave hits.”

Carter blinked, his stomach sinking. “…Next wave?”

Mark glanced at the horizon where the faint silhouette of another chopper was growing larger. He gave Carter a small, tired smile.

“Welcome to the 4077th.”