Rain. Rain and mud. Rain, mud, and casualties. The latter have
finally trickled off, but the former just keeps on coming. No
doubt Colonel Potter would have something to say about how it's
nothing compared to the rain they get in Hannibal Emm-Ohh, but at
present he's in the sunny city of Tokyo. Busy for the next couple
of days with a conference on the effects of cigar tobacco and
sipping whiskey on the poker centre of the brain, the Colonel has
left his Saddle of Command to a certain Benjamin Franklin Pierce.
We lay our scene in the clerk's office, outside of which the
skidding of jeep tires in mud can be heard. The door slams open
and in slogs Colonel Flagg, trailing mud in his wake. He's in
uniform, including regulation issue poncho, having left the top
down on his waterlogged jeep. Ignoring any who may be present in
the room, he saunters in, squints at nothing in particular, and
proceeds to shuffle casually through the filing cabinets.

Klinger is at his desk, in a lovely little ensemble that would do
Donna Reed proud. Unfortunately, it's being worn by a Brooklyn boy
with an italian-romanian beak nose, shaggy eyebrows, and knobby
knees instead. He gives off straightening the piles of papers to
stand and salute casually, though not sloppily. "Afternoon,
Colonel. I hope you had a good trip?" He bats his eyelashes at the
colonel as he salutes.

>From Potter's office, the distinctive and cheerful sound of a
doctor who's actually had some sleep and a shower and a drink and
doesn't have to go out in the rain again unless there's some
emergency. Which there's bound to be. "It had to be yooooouuu...it
had to be yoooouuuu! I wandered aroouund, and finally fooooound,
the somebody whoooo.."

The runner up for the Miss Lebanon Beauty Pageant doesn't get so
much as a blink from Flagg. He merely looks up from the file he's
perusing to squint in Klinger's general direction. He drops the
file onto the now-muddy floor, tucks his thumbs into his belt
loops, and does his best John Wayne mosey over to the door to
Colonel Potter's office. Pushing it slowly open, he fixes yet
another squint on the yodeling surgeon within. "Captain.. Price."
He inclines his head, squint tightening subtly. "What have you
done with Colonel Potter and who is this man?" He cocks a thumb
over his shoulder at the company clerk. Yes, he's met Klinger on
numerous occasions. You expected that to matter?

"And not even a word for my stockings, and I had to send all the
way to Tokyo for them. Real silk, too!" Klinger sniffs through his
prodigious beak, crossing round the desk to go fetch the dropped
folder, adding it to the rest of the pile. "You might be an
officer, sir, but you're no gentleman."

Feet up on the desk, chair tilted back, Hawkeye is actually
reading something which looks like work, flipping pages on a
clipboard. He looks up and blinks once at Flagg, taking his feet
off the table to sit straight. "I had to have him shot, sir," he
explains seriously, "he was asking too many questions. And that's
Corporal Klinger, current Company Clerk. Colonel."

The colonel reaches into his poncho and produces a clipboard.
Pausing to make note of Hawkeye's confession, he decides to look
into this apparent act of mutiny later. He writes for a long
moment. He's having trouble with the Cherokee syntax. Finally he
looks up at Hawkeye. "Wrong, Price. That is not Corporal Klinger."
He again alters the angle of his head, which is intended to demand
that people take note of his high credibility. "At least.. not
Corporal Maxwell Klinger." He turns on his heel, fast enough that
he nearly collides with that profound probuscus. "Perhaps it's Qan
Ho Klinger. Or Maxwell Ping." He carefully enunciates a question
in Chinese. 'What colour are your underpants?'

Klinger blinks, but registers no recognition of chinese. "Sorry,
sir, but if you try it in a higher key, I'll try to hum along." He
minces daintily back to his seat, settling into it, perching on
the edge. "If you're looking for the duty roster, Colonel, it's
posted on the back of the closet door, over there. And I assure
you, my mother always told me I was strictly one of a kind."

Hawkeye likewise blinks, getting to his feet. "Pierce - " His
correction is overridden and he wanders around the desk, highly
amused and grinning broadly. "Colonel, this is Corporal Maxwell Q
Klinger. Believe me, he's the only one like that around here."

Flagg glances warily toward the indicated closet. With this Commie
sicko running the office, the log either contains North Korean
Brainwashing Contraband, or is somehow cleverly booby-trapped. He
wisely chooses not to attempt to read it, in either case. Instead
he turns and leans against the filing cabinet, arms crossed
tightly. He moves slowly but tensely, like a sloth on cocaine.
"That's Flagg. Not Pierce, Price. And I'm afraid I have some
disturbing news for you." His squint makes a circuit of the room,
checking for bugs, spies, or other such Commie trickery. "Corporal
Maxwell Q. Klinger died two weeks ago from wounds received while
taking a hill twenty kilometres south of Ho Nan. This man is
obviously an impostor, planted by the Communists."

Klinger's reaction is immediate. "If I'm dead, does that mean I
can go home?"

"No, *I'm*.." Once again Flagg manages to stop Hawkeye in
mid-correction and he blinks. And points at Klinger with the
clipboard he's still holding. "Not on your life. Colonel, that's
impossible, Klinger's been here the whole time. Hasn't even had a
day pass. No," he adds in anticipation of the corporal's next
question.

"If by home you mean Red China, soldier, then no." Pierce's logic
is ground under the wheels of Flagg's runaway train of thought.
"This man may have, but the real Corporal Klinger was KIA on an
HPA south of the MFL. But," he asides to Pierce, "that's strictly
NTK."

"Do you know how hard it is to get good knishes in Red China?
Hunh. Even this looks good in comparison." Klinger does indeed
open his mouth to ask the anticipated question, then drops back
into a sulk. "Come on, Captain, I'm dying here. At least let me go
get new pantyhose. I just got a run in my last good pair!"

There's a half-hearted knock, since, you know, there's talking in
the room - and then BJ Hunicutt pushes the door open. "There you
are. Charles has been trying to convince me all day that there's
been a change and we're not allowed to--" Belatedly, it registers
that there's a...who the hell? He stops mid-sentence and stares at
Flagg, then glances at Klinger, then looks back at Hawkeye. "--er.
I'll get back to you on that, huh?"

"BJ!" Hawkeye fixes his friend with a stare. *Stay*. "You just
missed the initial report from the Colonel. Apparently Klinger
here is dead, I must've missed the memo."

"I still say if I'm dead, I should get to go home." Klinger's
complaint is said in his usual voice, and usual vibrant volume.
Pulling a lace-trimmed hanky out of the delicate purse which
complements his outfit so well, he blows his nose with a
stentorian, trumpet blast. Then he drops the hanky. "Oh, -man-.
Captain, sir, please, you gotta let me make an emergency call. My
-mom-!"

A Colonel-esque hand swipes stiffly through the air as if to sever
all attempts at levity. "You can make all the jokes you like,
Price, but you can't change the facts. Corporal Maxwell Q. Klinger
(deceased) has been reported as deceased, and this man has been
sending in requisitions under the identity of Corporal Maxwell Q.
Klinger (deceased)." Flagg squints smugly. "Devious scams like
this never get past CID. They've sent me here to gain
intelligence."

Ack. Stay. Right. BJ raises his eyebrows and looks at Klinger
again. "You're dead? You promised me you'd leave me the recipe to
your orange poppyseed muffins in your will. Hand it over, you
welshing na-" But then Flagg says something he just *can't* leave
alone. Even as it's coming out of his mouth he's praying it's
acurrate. "Those're some smart guys, over in CID. I'm sure we can
spare some..."

We're in trouble, Beej, says Hawkeye's glance to his friend, the
guy can pronounce parantheses. "Yeah, you've come to the right
place, sir." What's Klinger on about now?...oh, hell. "Yeah,
Klinger, go ahead, call her, now." Argh. "Colonel Flagg, who
reported this man deceased? He's right here!"

Klinger dives for the phone with an indecent haste. Oh, goody - he
has permission to make long-distance state-side calls! "Thanks,
Hawk, you're a pal." Crossing his legs inelegantly and smoothing
the wrinkled hose, he begins rapidly cranking the rotary dial.
"Yeah, clearance oh-one-two-one-one-three-seven. What? Yes, I'm
sure I want to call. No, don't reverse the charges, mom'd kill me
if I weren't already dead. Never mind that, just put me through."
A pause. "Hello, mom?" Putting his hand over the phone, "She wants
to speak to whichever one of you is God."

"That's classified, Captain. I can only tell you that his infantry
battalion reported him Killed In Action two weeks ago." That
Klinger is a desk clerk for a M*A*S*H unit and not, in fact, a
member of the front-lines infantry appears not to have occurred to
Flagg. Or perhaps he simply thinks it's a Communist Plot. He
blinks himself out of a moment of thought in time to catch Klinger
talking to someone codenamed 'mom'. With a full volume 'HAYAAAH!'
and a well-trained movement, Flagg's thrown combat knife embeds in
the clerk's desk, having severed the phone cord.

"Oh, for cryin' out loud...!" exclaims BJ, flinching back from the
explosive man and his Knife of Deadly Accuracy. He looks some
bizarre mixture of annoyed and amused as he takes a step forward
and indicates Klinger with a vague gesture in his general
direction. "Look at him! Does he look like infantry to you? Now
see what you've done, his poor mother'll think we were bombed or
something, maybe have a heart attack, and it'll be all your
fault!" Whoever you are. "Sir."

"Right," Hawkeye chimes in, "he's no more dead than I am." Though
when Potter gets back and sees what's happened to the phone..
"Klinger, go get on the phone in the other room, see if you can
get her back. Colonel, he's our *desk* clerk."

Klinger is left holding the phone, literally. "Hey!" He looks down
at the knife, blinking. "You better watch it, or somebody might
get hurt!" He stands up awkwardly, and says with great dignity,
"May all your girdles come unsnapped. And I mean that sincerely,
Colonel." He turns to take himself and his indignation into the
other office.

Colonel Flagg squints at Hawkeye, then at BJ. Beneath the hood of
his poncho, an olive drab brain cell sputters to life. He rubs his
hand thoughtfully, as if working out a cramp. "If.. Corporal
Klinger has been here.. then he couldn't have been with that
battalion.. and wouldn't have been killed in action. It's all
coming together like a Swiss jig-saw puzzle." He nods slowly,
having finally gained full understanding of the situation. He
draws his gun and levels it on the retreating Lebanese Donna Reed.
"Hold it, Corporal. I'm onto your game. You're AWOL from your
infantry unit. Did you think CID wouldn't notice you hiding behind
a desk? You're coming with me."

BJ just *stares* at Flagg. He defines the stereotypes, doesn't he.
He's the one that put 'Military Intelligence' into the big book of
oxymorons. "He's been here *all along*!" He gives Hawkeye a
pleading glance. This guy is making his head hurt. "For Pete's
sake, put your gun down. Don't you think it's even remotely
possible there could be *two* Klingers? _Neither_ an impostor?"
God help us all, two Klingers.

Hah, he's making *your* head hurt. Hawkeye is so outraged he's led
to sputter. "...Colonel, with all due respect, are you COMPLETELY
out of your mind?! He was never *in* an infantry unit!"

Klinger puts his hands up with an air of cynical, weary
resignation. "Do I at least get to spend the rest of the war in
Leavenworth?" He turns around, carefully, not really wanting to
get shot. "And of course I was never in an infantry unit. I can't
run in these heels."

The Colonel frowns at BJ's insinuation. "In order for that to be
the case, there would have to be a mistake with CID's files." His
squint intensifies. "CID doesn't make mistakes." His pistol
remains trained on the accused while he holds out his clipboard to
Pierce. "That document clearly identifies this man as Corporal
Maxwell Q. Klinger, a member of the 208th battalion since he first
arrived in Korea." Also notable in the clipboard's facts about the
Corporal are that he's six foot seven, wears a size sixteen boot,
and is, apparently, a negro.

"...and Klinger's been *here* since he's been in Korea," says BJ
again, exasperated. He reaches over for the clipboard. "Let me see
that. Can I see that?" He looks at Hawkeye again, eyebrows up.
"No, you should see it, because you're Potter."

"Hey, I realise there's some snow on the moun- oh, for crying out
loud. Colonel Flagg!" Hawkeye practically thrusts the clipboard
under the man's nose. "It says here the guy you're looking for is
a Negro."

Klinger looks down at himself, keeping his arms up, then over at
Hawkeye. "Does this mean I can lower my arms now?" He doesn't
-quite- lower them. "Or at least sit down? My corns are killin'
me."

Flagg squints at Hawkeye for a long moment before snatching the
clipboard away. He inspects the clipboard. "Captain, it says here
that the man I'm looking for is a Negro." He makes the observation
as if it's an entirely new fact to the discussion. He doesn't
lower his gun, and until he does it would probably advisable for
Klinger not to lower anything so much as his voice. Flagg's squint
holds on Pierce. "Just what are you getting at?"

You can -see- BJ's trying not to laugh. Trying desperately not to
laugh. I mean, well. Well. Good grief. "...er, Colonel, sir..."
Let's see if he can spell it out without being obvious about the
fact he's spelling it out. But no, he shouldn't have to worry
about that. It looks like 'obvious' is as subtle as the Shadow to
this guy. "If the guy you're looking for is a Negro, and Klinger
here's L--" He might think Lebanon's in Africa. "--isn't a Negro,
then this Klinger you're currently *pointing a gun at* isn't the
guy you're looking for." A beat. "Right? Hawkeye, am I making
sense here? I think I'm making sense."

"Yeah, you're making sense. See, Colonel? Now will you put the gun
away before we have an accident and I have to call Klinger's
mother back and tell her the mistake was a mistake and I'm not God
after all?" Hawkeye's brain hurts.

Klinger complains. "My arms hurt, my corns hurt - listen, Colonel,
my dad was pretty dark, but I think mom would've mentioned by now
if I were supposed to checking off the box marked 'Negro' on my
forms. If I promise not to run away, will you at least move the
gun long enough to work on my paperwork? That stack of files isn't
getting any smaller, you know."

The enlightenment fairy sprinkles her magic dust on Colonel
Flagg's poncho'd head. He nods slowly, squinting with deep
thought. "You have a point, Hunnicutt." He eyeballs Klinger for a
moment, then lowers his gun and tucks it back into its holster.
His clipboard gets a wounded, almost reproachful look. You lied to
me. After years of faithful service. Damn commie clipboards.
"Clearly this situation has been the result of North Korean
misinformation tactics. This is, of course, not CID's fault, and
will be investigated thoroughly." That's intelligence talk for
'I'm sorry'.

"...clearly. Those commie bastards," says BJ evenly, running a
hand over his face so *no* one sees him rolling his eyes. He would
clap Flagg on the back and usher him out of the room, but he's
afraid the man'll go off again.

"That's okay, sir." Hawkeye shifts a step back and reaches to pat
Klinger's shoulder. "Go call your mom. Colonel, I'm sure you'll
get to the bottom of this thing with all your usual efficiency and
insight." Which is the absolute truth.

Klinger lowers his arms with evident relief, turning to bustle
towards the other room. He says darkly, "I said it before, I'll
say it again. Colonel, you are no gentleman. Thanks, Hawk.
Hopefully my aunt's got mom coming round with the smelling salts
by now and they haven't decided to exorcise the telephone."

"You can count on that, Captain." Colonel Flagg stows his
clipboard beneath his poncho and meanders slowly across the office
floor. Turning sharply, he points a loaded finger at Pierce. "I'll
be watching you, Price. Keep this up and you'll go down. Then I'll
step forward to take you back so fast you won't know your left
from your right. You can play wild West all you like, but we're in
the East, and when things go South you'll head North, and I'll be
close behind, way ahead of you. And don't you forget it." He
squints hard at Pierce, then turns and strides out to his puddle
of a jeep.

"...Price?" BJ looks blankly at Hawkeye. Then he grins. "Hey,
Price, howabout we pick the lock on Potter's liquor cabinet? I
think that earned us a drink. Or two." A beat. "Or five."

"Maybe if I drink enough the world will stop spinning around."
Hawkeye is in total agreement.