Night-time. The private on guard duty paces ceaselessly around the
camp, fuelled by several cups of incredibly bad coffee. He's not a
draftee, but a volunteer, and he's beginning to wonder just what
the hell he was thinking. It's not as if anything's gonna happen,
after all. Nothing ever happens around here. Why he could patrol
this camp with his eyes closed!

It's only as he passes the Swamp that he discovers the utter
stupidity of actually trying that out. There is a yelp, a startled
yell, a heavy, muffled thud as of a falling human being impacting
on an already-fallen human being, and a clatter of a rifle falling
to the floor. There follows a steadily-louder argument as the
private tries to gain his feet. The other party seems reluctant to
help, not to mention incapable of helping. The general muttering
resolves itself into loud, off-key singing. "Sshhhow me the way to
go hoooooome! I'm tiiired and I wanna go to beed! Had a little
drink...just a little one...bout an hour ago, and it's gone right
to my heeeaaaad.."

There's a yell from inside the Swamp now. "I *meant* it about the
refrain from 'Singing', Hawk!" Damned lucky Charles isn't in bed.
God knows where he is. BJ Hunnicutt has a decision to make - go
outside and make life harder for the people currently making his
life hard (by not letting him keep sleeping), or turn over and kid
himself into thinking he can fall asleep. Two seconds after
choosing the latter, he rolls out of bed and tugs on his bathrobe,
looking about as hung over as Hawkeye's going to be in a few
hours. And that's still the way he looks when he pulls open the
door and squints. And yawns.

The now extremely disgruntled private snatches his rifle up off
the floor, and it's probably only the presence of BJ that prevents
him taking a kick at the surgeon currently occupying the floor
just outside the door. "Cap'n Hunnicutt," he mutters darkly, and
stalks off.

Much more pleased to see BJ, Hawkeye rolls onto his back and
flings his arms wide. "BJ! Finest kind! The mud's beautiful, take
the weight off!" It's rather too cold to be lying around in the
mud, but he hasn't apparently noticed.

BJ Hunnicutt keeps squinting. What the hell? Oh. That was the
guard, wasn't it? "Hey, whaddya doin', patrolling with your eyes
closed? Watch where you're going!" You might step on a soused
doctor in the mud. Then he looks down at Hawkeye and raises his
eyebrows, yawning again. He prods the guy gently with a muddy
slipper, then holds his hand out to help him up. "C'mon, Hawk,
let's get you inside before you get sick."

The guard ignores BJ. He doesn't have to listen to officers,
dammit. "I'm not sick," Hawkeye points out, "I'm a *doctor*. I
think I would *know* if I was *sick*." He lets his head fall back
into the mud and stares in glazed, unfocussed manner at the stars.
Which are all wrong anyway. "...fly me to the moon, and let me
play among the stars!" His singing improves with alcohol. "Let me
see what spring is like on Jupiter and Mars!"

Dammit. He's going to make BJ dig him out, isn't he. "How about a
martini, Hawk?"

"Perfect, and one for me, if you would be so *very* kind." Hawkeye
makes a half-hearted attempt to get up, fails, slips, lands in the
mud again and frowns as if trying to do very difficult calculus.
"The service around here stinks."

Ahh, bribery, what a lovely modus operandi. BJ holds his hand out
again, wry look on his face - he doesn't even WANT to know what
time it is. He was sleeping soundly, dammit. "Come on, I'll give
you a hand. And then I'll make you a martini. I'd hardly be a
gentleman if I didn't help a lady out of the mud, would I?"

"I'm not going in there with you, I don't know where you've been."
Hawkeye does, however, reach for BJ's hand, snagging it on the
third pass and scrabbling in the mud for purchase. At least it's
not actually raining, he'd have drowned. "And it's *up* she goes,
up she goes..."

"Yeah, *whoops*-a-daisy," grins BJ, grabbing the side of the door
for a little stability, hauling the inebriated Hawkeye to his
feet. "My god, you're disgusting," he says cheerfully, supporting
as needed, "you could compete in the greased pig contest. If it
had surgeons instead of pigs and mud instead of grease, and
provided we were holding such a contest. You'd be the pig!" Ew ew,
drip drip. Mug.

He's as stable as a one-legged tightrope walker. "No, *you'd* be
the pig," Hawkeye informs his best friend cheerfully, "because
everyone knows California is sunny and pigs like the sun and
that's why they wear those hats." Apparently.

"That so?" grins BJ, mostly to himself, supporting his friend into
a chair which is going to have to be hosed down. "Guess you're
right. I see pigs wearing hats all the time. You, on the other
hand, weren't just rolling around in the mud like pre-bacon
bacon." He yawns again, but the drive to sleep has left him. Which
is just great, because ten to one Hawk's gonna pass out soon. He
brushes some sediment out of a couple of martini glasses and sets
to work.

Muddy and freezing and unaware of it because he's utterly,
hopelessly drunk, Hawkeye grabs hold of the backrest of the chair
in an attempt to stop the world spinning around. "I was following
the signpost," he says with immense dignity, "and I got a little
lost."

"The one that says Coney Island? You didn't get -too- lost. Ended
up in the puddle - a few feet over and you'd've been on the
coast." Oho, aha. There're the martinis, then, but there aren't
any olives left. BJ turns again, holding the drinks, and raises
his eyebrows. "It would help a lot if you sat down, y'know. And
changed into something less likely to keep you cold and wet."

Hawkeye gestures dismissively and very nearly loses his balance.
"I'm *fine*. This isn't *cold*. Back home this is T-shirt weather.
That's my drink, I'll take that now if you don't mind." Haughty.

"Oho! His Majesty deigns to grace me with his demand!" The look on
BJ's face is classic BJ, yes, eyebrows up somewhere near his
receding hairline, expression of faint amusement tugging at the
corners of his mouth as he speaks. He hands Hawkeye a martini and
flourishes a bow. "Would his Majesty be so kind as to grant a
boon?"

"Anything, Hunnicutt, just name it." Hawkeye is of a mood to
proclaim, hanging onto the tentpole while he downs his martini.
It's a really good thing Charles isn't home.

"Okay, get outta your wet clothes and siddown. You're the drunk
doctor, I'm the sober doctor, and I'm not gonna stay that way, so
do it before I drag you back out in the mud -with- me," grins BJ,
downing his own drink and kicking his muddy slippers under his
cot.

"You only want me for my body," Hawkeye accuses, and looks around
with a helpless air for somewhere to put his glass.

"How'd you guess?" Ahaha. BJ gracefully turns slightly away so
Hawkeye doesn't see him rolling his eyes as he sets his own glass
down. "Here, you give it to me and I'll consider filling it
again."

Ooh, that's a good idea. Hawkeye passes his glass over, sways
dangerously, and begins the long process of getting out of his
almost-soaked shirt. Mud, water and alcohol combine to make this
extraordinarily difficult. "Hey, where's Frank? Charles. Where's
Charles?" He looks around as if he might have overlooked the guy.

"Oh my god, you're drunker than you look. There's no *way* Charles
is as bad as Frank," is the conversational reply, as BJ makes
Hawkeye another martini and looks dubiously over his shoulder.
"And I dunno. He left sometime this afternoon. I've been enjoying
the peace."

"That's good," Hawkeye decides, and sits heavily on Charles' bunk.
It happened to be nearest. And now, it's muddy. "Hey you know I
did my resi- my res- I was in Boston for a while. Biggest city I
saw in my life. What's keeping the martini, there?" He claps his
hands together briskly, which is more of a feat than might be
obvious.

From outside the tent is the drone of a prop plane - not a
helicopter, at least - passing overhead somewhere. It doesn't
sound like a bomber - more like a crop duster.

"Oh, just adding some extra hemlock," says BJ mildly, turning back
to Hawkeye and stepping over the pile of so-far, and handing him
the martini. Then he looks up - you know, at the tent ceiling -
and sees nothing. "It's not five o'clock, is it?"

"It's a quarter to three," responds Hawkeye, musically, "there's
no-one in the place, except you and me..." He can't summon up the
energy to stand again in order to take off his pants.

And from outside, there's a sudden loud thud, followed by a groan,
and some truly impressive swear words. The impressiveness is kept
from being majestic, however, thanks to the word 'cripes' being
used. The plane noise diminishes, fading away as it grows more and
more distant.

"Oh, good lord. If you think I'm going to help you take your pants
off..." starts BJ, finally getting a *little* irritated, when the
thud and the cussing and the groan and the 'cripes' float in from
outside. And he straightens, blinking. "What, are they shelling us
with wounded now?" Hawkeye can make his own way out. BJ is already
gone, door falling shut behind him.

Bah, I'm not going out there. Hawkeye downs his drink and
announces loudly and off-key, "But BJ, it's *cold* outside!"

A middle-aged man in relatively good shape - except for being
covered in mud, and likely in bruises - is crawling around in the
mud looking for something. "Bastards! I can't find my hat!"

"Yeah? You're just noticing that now? Boy, are you ever swift.
You're brilliant when you're drunk, you know that, Hawk?" calls BJ
through the side of the tent, approaching the muddy crawling man
in bare feet and tattered bathrobe. "Hey, you all right, pal?
Sounds like you got dropped out've a plane." "I'm always
brilliant! Ever prepared. Ever-ready. I'm like a battery." Hawkeye
rambles on.

The man looks like he's not so convinced of anyone's brilliance.
"Very perceptive of you," he says dryly. Well, some part of him
has to be dry - it's certainly not his body. He finds a battered,
mudcoated hat - it's hard to tell what kind - and puts it on his
head. Mud drips out and into his eyes, and he sits down, looking
like he's almost ready to cry, but goddammit, he's a man, and not
going to.

Hey, it doesn't make you less of a man if you cry. There's a war
on. If you don't cry ever, you're not human. "Come on, buddy. If
you're okay enough to make fun of a defenseless man in a bathrobe,
you're okay enough to get up outta the mud. If you're hurt, I can
take you to the hospital tent. If you're supposed to be here, it's
too damn early in the morning to sort out just where, and we've
got an extra bunk tonight." Once more, he holds his hands out to
help a guy outta the mud, and he turns his head to call back into
the tent, "Shove off Charles' bunk, Hawkeye, we got someone
dirtier than you to put there."

Get off the bunk? Easily done. Hawkeye abandons his martini glass
to the floor and after a moment's procrastination, joins it,
grunting at the impact.

The man slowly stands up, wincing. All parts seem within normal
operating parameters, if a bit stiff - tomorrow, he'll be a lot
stiffer. Mud drips from a bundle at his side. "Dammit. Well... at
least I got out when I did. - You got anything to drink in there?"

BJ Hunnicutt says "Gin," answers BJ promptly, wincing at the thud
from inside. He starts squelching through the cold mud again, just
giving up on all pretenses of cleanliness inside the tent. "Lots
and lots of gin. I hope you like martinis. In fact, I hope you
have olives. It'd be nice if you had some vermouth, too." He opens
the door to the tent and sighs inwardly, glancing at the doctor on
the floor. "The thing curled up next to the incredibly unbroken
glass is Hawkeye; I'm BJ. What do they call you when you're at
home?"" "Gin," answers BJ promptly, wincing at the thud from
inside. He starts squelching through the cold mud again, just
giving up on all pretenses of cleanliness inside the tent. "Lots
and lots of gin. I hope you like martinis. In fact, I hope you
have olives. It'd be nice if you had some vermouth, too." He opens
the door to the tent and sighs inwardly, glancing at the doctor on
the floor. "The thing curled up next to the incredibly unbroken
glass is Hawkeye; I'm BJ. What do they call you when you're at
home?"

"Olives!" Hawkeye starts an unco-ordinated scramble for his feet.
"Never saw anything like it, he had the jar right in his pocket."
He goes to search his own pockets, discovers he isn't wearing a
shirt or jacket, and blinks in confusion.

"I've got a flask of whiskey, but that's it. Assuming, of course,
those bastards didn't take it away - I was out cold. They didn't
get the package, though. Or my other stuff. So there's hope." The
man grins a little. Feeble, but it's a grin. He enters the tent,
and blinks at Hawkeye. In fact, it could reasonably be termed a
double-take. Introductions, clearly, will have to wait. "Out of
all the mud-soaked fields and tents in all of Korea, I ended up
back -here-?!"

"Ooh. Hawkeye owes me whiskey but hasn't paid up yet. You
wouldn't've believed it - apparently this guy came through camp
with an entire trunk full of Jame--" What? BJ pauses, looking from
the guy with the mud-soaked hat to the guy with the mud-soaked
brain, back and forth a couple of times. And his eyes narrow -
this's gotta be the guy. This's gotta be the guy! Fell out of a
plane? Has whiskey? Knows Hawkeye, knows this MASH unit? Gotta be
the flyboy that screwed with Hawk's head! But dammit, he just fell
out of a plane! He can't sock a guy who might have a concussion
anyway! Voice low and even, he asks, "You didn't hit your head,
did you? Let me see your eyes."

"Jones!" Hawkeye points dramatically in the man's general
direction. Generally. "Where's my ancient pottery?"

Covered in mud, and as luck would have it, he -did- hit his head.
He ignores Hawkeye's demands for ancient pottery, turning to BJ.
"You can't kill me by hitting me over the -head-. It's the
thickest part of my body." He turns said head, and spits mud out
of his mouth, before duly presenting his eyes for examination.
"I'm fine. You a doctor too?"

"Yeah. I'm a doctor, too," says BJ distantly, checking Jones'
pupils. "So...how do you guys know each other?" The guy's probably
right, he probably doesn't have anything wrong with his head - but
even if he's not the jerk who broke Hawkeye, it'd be good to
-know-.

"God damn get away from my patient, I told him," Hawkeye remarks
to nobody in particular, lurching across the Swamp in the
direction of his own bunk.

"And I didn't listen to you then, and you were drunk then, too."
He manages not to twist round as he makes the comment to Hawkeye,
busily having his eyes checked by BJ. "Jones, Indiana Jones, call
me Indy. I drove a flyboy and Doc Pierce, there, in my jeep to
here. Got paid back in coffee." Mud slowly drips off his whip to
plop onto the floor.

Oh! Oh, that's all right, then. BJ's suddenly all sunshine and
roses again. He grins, "You're all right. How about we pay you
back better with a little bit of what kicked Hawk in the head?"
He's Mr. Bartender again, isn't he. Mixing up another martini, he
calls back to Hawkeye, "Were you kidding about those olives? And
you say that a lot."

"Course I'm not kidding! Would I make something like that up?"
Hawkeye has found his bunk and is about seventy-percent on it,
feet hanging over the edge and grazing the ground. He's not
particularly tall, he just missed. "Jones, who shelled us with
you?"

"The Nazis, of course. Who else?" He limps over to the indicated
bunk - the one that already has mud on it - and sits down,
dripping slowly. Charles will have kittens. "And if you wanna
prescribe anasthetic in the form of booze, doc, I'm all in favour.
What do I call you, anyhows?" Escaping from Nazis always makes
Indy thirsty.

The who? And before you say it, no, they're not a band yet. "What?
Nazies? You're a section eight, aren't you." BJ turns to Hawkeye
again and looks pained. "We can't let him near Klinger." Looking
back at Jones and handing him a completely-gin martini, he shakes
his head. "Like you mentioned earlier - you're in Korea. We've got
Chinese communists here. And I'm BJ."

"Hunnicutt." Hawkeye is quite definite on that, anyway. "They're
*leftover* Nazis, Beej, try and keep up here. Set me up," he adds
hopefully. Another martini would be good, preferably without
sitting up.

Indy takes a swallow of gin, and winces as he finds out that yes,
it's gin all the way down. "Right, what he said. And I'm not
section eight, BJ. I doubt you want the whole song and dance about
where they're from and what they want. I'm also not in the
military." Oh, didn't you know? Latest side arm for officers is a
bull whip. "Leftover group of particularly crazy loons who want to
bring the Fuhrer back to life."

"Uh...right." Okay. Sure. Not a section eight. Whatever, pal.
Obligingly, he fixes Hawkeye another, and makes one for himself,
too - he's gonna need it. Handing his friend Yet Another Drink,
and taking a sip of his own, he eyes Indy. "How do I know you
aren't military? Look at us. Would you guess we were?"

Hurray, yet another drink. "Birds do it," Hawkeye informs the
ceiling of the tent in an enthusiastic and tuneful baritone, "bees
do it, even educated fleeeeeeeeeas do it..."

"Yeah, but I'm an archeologist, not a medical doctor. Though I
have, I admit, been known to work for the government in the name
of national defense." He's not drunk, he's just banged up and
tired of being chased by Nazis. Indy sighs, and hunkers over his
drink. "I'm getting too old for this."

"All these old people tramping through the M.A.S.H. Well, feel
better, most of the time there's more old people in hospitals than
young people; you can feel more like you're a unique snowflake."
BJ's cranky again, pouring himself some more gin. 'Getting too old
for this' - that's right. Young men are the ones in war zones.
"Hawkeye, at least sing something you know all the words to, will
you?"

Hawkeye is nothing if not obliging. "If you were the only girl in
the world, and I was the only boy," he begins.

"I meant this chasing after lost artifacts to keep them out of the
hands of the Nazis, actually." Oh, and Indy knows nothing about
warzones. Well, less BJ and Hawkeye know about that, the more
comfortable he'll be. He sets the muddy parcel down on the bunk
next to him. "Isn't it always the way, though. I get out of an
ancient temple, and get jumped. I just wish it were by pretty
blondes who aren't out to kill me, more often."

"Woah, no," starts BJ, tossing back his gin and flinching, then
holding his hands out. "No, no no no. You keep insisting I'm the
pig. If I'm the pig, then you're the girl, and we can pretend
Catherine the Great was involved, and...god, I'm not drunk enough
for this." More gin. More gin! He follows his own order and pours
some more, then looks back to see if anyone else is willing and/or
eager. "There's a pretty blonde in camp who'd be just *dying* to
meet you if she found out you were, um, an archaeologist. We can
set you up with her."

Heh heh heh. "Digging tunnels," remarks Hawkeye in an unusually
crude moment.

BJ Hunnicutt immediately cracks up. "HAH! Hah, aw, oh...hahaha!"
No. There shall be no spittaking. "Ahahaha!"

Indy doesn't look like he even pretends to follow that one, though
he accepts more gin. "Sorry, I kinda swore off blondes after
Marianne. Now, there was a girl." Who's probably dead or married a
Nazi or killed someone by now. He leans back in the bunk, propping
the parcel up next to him, one arm around it protectively. "You
can keep your blondes. But I'll have another drink."

"Your loss," shrugs BJ with a grin, taking Indy's glass back.
Chuckling still, he drinks his own gin, then pours himself one
more, pours Hawkeye another without even asking, then just hands
Indy the milkbottle of alcohol. "Bathtub gin without the bathtub.
And be grateful - at least you know ours isn't watered down."

Drink! Hawkeye manages to make it to a sitting position, the
better to down the latest gift from the still. Good old Trapper.
"What's that?" he enquires bluntly of Indiana.

Drink, indeed. He drinks half his in one go. "What, you mean
this?" Indy looks at the parcel. "Uh, you don't wanna know that,
really." His arm tightens around it slightly.

BJ Hunnicutt tsks, shaking his head. "We take you in, you drink
our gin, and you don't trust us enough to satisfy our collective
curiosity? Have pity on us poor army surgeons, cut off from
civilization with nary a book or a restaurant, forced to look at
the same ugly faces day in, day out, doing nothing but drinking
gin from an impressive still in our times of boredom?" We're not
going to talk about our times of not-boredom. No, we're not.
There's a pause anywar, and BJ raises an eyebrow at Hawkeye. "He
keeps himself busy, but me - I want to know what's in there, too."
Then the alcohol hits him. Like a ton of bricks. Stupid, silly
doctor, you didn't wait long enough between doses...weave! Sit.
Bed good. Ahhh-haha.

Keep myself busy indeed. "Come on," Hawkeye is prepared to get
stubborn about this, "let's see it. We're not gonna take it. I'm
not gonna take it, are you gonna take it, BJ? He's not gonna take
it. Let's see it." Indy sighs. "Listen, guys, if you don't know
what serial number nine-nine-oh-six-seven-six-three is... " He
hefts the package, waiting for an answer before he does anything.
That number being, of course, the serial number given to the Ark
of the Covenant, by the US government.

Nodding, then shaking his head, then nodding again, Beej is very
suddenly very dizzy. Whee! Hey mom, can I go on the roller-coaster
again? But then Indy's saying things with numbers in, and BJ is
nodding again, "'Course we do. We know what that number is, don't
we, Hawkeye? That's definitely a number we know."

"Oh yeah. We know that number. Better than our own serial numbers,
in fact, it's a number that we dream about at night. That number
is very close to our hearts." Hawkeye is determined.

Indy isn't convinced, but... well, they're grown doctors, after
all. And that gin hurt. It bruised his bruises. "Okay, then, but
don't say I didn't warn you." He unwraps the muddy oilskins from
the thing he's got, dropping the wrappings onto the mattress.
Closing his eyes, he holds up a clay statue, vaguely woman-shaped.
Some sort of asian idol-statue, it'd appear.

"I almost got it tattooed on my chest, it's so close to my heart,"
says BJ, head handing over the edge of his bed now - he's looking
at the statue thingy upside-down. "Huh. Nice. Looks kinda like
what Peg said Erin made in the mud in the backyard. Except this
probably looks more like a horsie than that did."

"Yeah, I think my dad has one of those on the mantelpiece at
home." Hawkeye is even less whelmed than BJ. "You got dropped out
of a *plane* for that?"

"..." Indy starts to speak, and almost opens his eyes for
emphasis, but no. "You guys done looking at it yet? And are you
-sure- you guys know about the Ark?"

"'Course we do! That was the thing all the animals went in, right?
Two by two. I read the newspapers just as much as the next guy,"
answers Beej, then looks vaguely ill from being upside down.
Carefully, he rights himself. Ah, much better.

"The Ark of the *Covenant*," says Hawkeye crossly, flopping back
onto his bunk. He asked Father Mulcahy about it after the last
conversation he had with Jones. "You're Catholic, aren'tcha?" No,
it's not directly relevant, but it seems like it should be.

"Me? A Catholic?" Indy doesn't even remotely think of himself as
Catholic. But it does distract him, even as he rewraps the statue
with his eyes closed. Sensitive fingers - archeologists work with
too much fragile stuff, after all. "I'm not entirely sure I
believe in God. Though I admit the Ark was a pretty compelling
argument. I had no idea you were attached to that office, Doctor
Pierce." Hawkeye gets a look of mingled exasperation and respect,
now that no clay is visible.

"Oh, *that* Ark," says BJ like he knows what he's talking about.
Which he vaguely does. "I remember something about that. Moses,
right? Smashing some tablets? I don't know why he didn't just give
'em to the people that way, tablets are just as good in pieces as
they are whole..." Sorry, oh-suddenly-serious one, BJ is happily
drunk. "I dunno, too much Latin involved. Ita missa est." He
blinks at Indy, "What office? Next you'll be saying he's a
gentleman."

"I am no gentleman, how dare you." Hawkeye rolls onto his front,
finds that he's at the wrong end of the bunk, and uses the
opportunity to lift his head and give Jones a muzzy stare. "And my
*name* is *Hawkeye*."

"You told me to call you Pierce. But if you'd rather be called
Hawkeye, who'm I to argue?" The man shrugs. He's tired, they're
drunk. "And, well... let's just say there's some very dangerous
artifacts still hanging round. The Nazis damn near got that one...
if it hadn't been for Marianne..." Indy closes his eyes. He must
be getting old, he keeps dwelling on her.

Nah, he's in the Swamp and Hawkeye and BJ are drunk and apparently
somewhat tetchy, which makes them get maudlin, and when their
state of being maudlin spreads to visitors it turns into angst.
Tragic syndrome, really. But then Beej snickers. "He told you to
call him Pierce? Boy, you musta really ticked him off."

"I *told* him to get away from my patient." Hawkeye hiccups
solemnly, and there is a pause. "Plenty more girls in the world."

Indy looks wearily at Hawkeye, then speaks to BJ. "Yeah. He didn't
like the fact that I was being chased by Nazis. I didn't get away
from his patient because he had two wounded guys, and a broken
jeep. Rather than have their deaths and maybe his on my
conscience, I stuck around and gave them a lift back here, and
incidentally gave the Nazi spies enough time to wake up and track
me down." He grimaces. "Of course, they waited for me to come out
with the idol so they could just knock me over the head and kidnap
me."

"But they didn't get the idol, and you're alive and only a little
bruised," points out BJ, ever sensible, even when he's halfway to
plastered. "And the mud'll come out a lot easier than the coffee.
How were you afterwards, by the way? I heard about that." A beat.
Oh, that doesn't feel good. That's going to come back up in a few
minutes. His timing, he has to work on his timing. "What'd you
*do* to the guy? That guy, boy, if I ever meet him I'm punchin'
his lights out. No - no, I'll get Father Mulcahy to do it. He's
got a better right hook. Hawk, what'd he *do* to the flyboy?"

"He upset him and got him agitated and I'd just put in a chest
drain, and don't you try and make this my fault," Hawkeye is
getting loud rapidly, pushing himself up and pointing a wavering
finger at Indy, "this is not my fault!" Guilt, no, back, get away,
that's what the booze is for.

...and BJ starts giggling, because Indy's so unimpressed with
Hawkeye's anger that he's literally snoring. "I don't think he
thinks it was your fault. I think he's...hee hee, look at him! Boy
is Charles gonna be mad."

Well now, that's one way to derail a loss of temper. Nonplussed,
Hawkeye drops back to a semi-alert, propped-on-elbows position and
frowns. "Well he *said* it was." Charles. The thought elicits a
faint smirk. "I bet Charles already *has* three or four Arks of
the Covenant at home."

"Yeah, and six or seven original Rosetta Stones," agrees BJ. He
peers at the still, contemplates his stomach for a moment, glances
over to Indy, and appears to be seeking out the remainder of the
collected gin. It requires less effort than banging around over
there. "I think I have to...um..." Okay, forget complaining about
effort. Door. DOOR. There is a stumbling rush of panicked motion
somehow involving BJ and the door to the tent.

Oops, there he goes. "Careful, I think I threw up out there
earlier." Hawkeye rolls onto his back and contemplates the
ceiling. After a moment he starts humming 'Mack The Knife'.

There's the reasonably distant sound of whorrffing from somewhere
outside. A minute passes. Another minute. The time stretches for
what seems an inordinately long period. There're a few hapless
squelching sounds, and a giggle, and then an immense smacking
soung, and then nothing.

Oh, now what. Hawkeye hauls himself to his feet with immense
effort, weaves his way the several long feet to the door and looks
out, leaning heavily on the doorframe. "Beej?"

Absolute silence. Well, no, there're some crickets and peepers
outside, but that's about it.

Huh. Hawkeye exits the Swamp, very nearly loses his balance,
pauses, recovers and moves on. He never quite got around to taking
off his shoes, that's one small mercy. "BJ?" He circles the tent
carefully.

Silent but deadly! An extremely cold, icky, sticky ball of mud
sails into Hawkeye's back, and the unmistakable sound of BJ
cracking up entirely comes from behind him.

Now that is just *cruel*. And it would meet with swift and instant
justice if it wasn't for the fact that Hawkeye's balance, tenuous
already, completely deserts him at the impact. "Uf," he remarks on
hitting the mud. I miss Trapper. Grumble.

"Ahaha, aha, haha, *huff*," gasps BJ, nearly doubled over, hands
on his knees, teetering on the brink of eating mud himself. "Aw,
Hawk, you shoulda seen the look on your face...!" A beat. "*I*
shoulda seen the look on your face, come to think of it." Another
beat. "Oh, no, I'm gonna pass out..."

"I think I'll just sleep here," Hawkeye decides, because it seems
more sensible than trying to get up again. "Wake me in nineteen
sixty."

"When the war's...uh...over, h'bout?" comes BJ's voice again, and
then he falls over into the mud, too. But once he's horizontal and
no longer hyperventilating, he's okay. For the most part. But
sleepy. Damn Hawkeye waking him up! Damn archaeologist rain! Damn
ancient mud pies! Damn gin! Damn *war*. This mud is cold but damn
comfortable. What was that about passing out? "Hey Hawk?"

"Ayuh?" Mmmm. Mud.

Mud is so fantastic. "You okay?" You *did* go out and get drunk.
And then came back and got more drunk.

"Never...never better, Beej. Sleeping. Finest kind." He must be
incredibly tired judging by the ratio of Maineisms to normal
speech.

"'Kay. G'night, Hawk." The mud's probably going to be dry when
they wake up. It's going to be like cement.

Meanwhile, inside the tent, Indiana Jones, archeologist supreme,
snores on. Safe, warm, and by now, relatively dry, on Charles'
bunk.

-- Next morning!

The bright morning sun is what wakes the hungover surgeons in the
rapidly-trying mud out back of the Swamp. The incredibly irate and
loud yell from inside the aforementioned tent also helps. BJ
blinks blearily, then squints, then looks panicked. Very.
"Hawkeye! HAWK!" he hisses, still stuck to the ground. "Can you
move? Oh, nuts, if Charles finds us out here he's gonna...uh..."
Thinking is an effort. There's all this cotton in his head. "Step
on us."

There is only silence from the other doctor for a long moment.
Step on us? "Good," opines Hawkeye. He feels like his head is
coming to bits.

"It'll hurt worse," adds BJ. He's silent for a second, listening
to Charles, and then to Indy, and then to Charles and Indy. "Pain
is bad."

Pain is bad. That's an idea Hawkeye can just about get his brain
around, and he hauls himself out of the sticky, almost-dry mud
with a Herculean effort. Luckily he wasn't wearing his bathrobe,
which would have Velcroed to the ground given half a chance.
"Uuuhhhh, let's go sleep in the minefield." He staggers.

BJ Hunnicutt is unfortunately wearing his. And his is no longer
the cheery yellow it once was. "Let's go sleep in the laundry." He
tries to get up. He tries. He sticks. "Nguh. Hawwwwwkeye..."

"Just a second..." Hawkeye needs to throw up. It occurs to him at
the last minute that perhaps right here outside the tent is not
the best place, and he manages to swallow it back. Ugh. "Okay.
Come on." He staggers over to BJ and offers a hand.

If Hawkeye doesn't lean back, or brace himself, he's going to end
up back on the ground. If he does, then a couple of seconds later,
there's a BJ-shaped intendation in the ground and a halo of dried
mud around BJ himself.

Leaning back is an option, but Hawkeye exercises it a moment too
late and hangs on to BJ as they engage in a brief game of
who's-got-the-least-stable-centre-of-gravity. It comes down to the
fact that BJ is slightly heavier, and they gain uprightness. More
or less. "Wow, look at your bathrobe, Peg's gonna kill you."

Beej looks down, then looks very surprised. Some mud crumbles off
his head. The fact that Peg got him this bathrobe and would be
very disappointed indeed runs through his head. For a second he
looks like he could cry, but then he gets a better idea. "I'm
going to shower," he says with dignity, "with it on."

Hawkeye smirks. Then grins. Then contracts a serious case of the
giggles. Sure, he's muddy too, but he's more-or-less wearing Army
clothing, which lends itself to mud. BJ looks funny. "It's...it's
good for your skin..." No, he's gone, laughing so hard he has to
lean on his friend in order to stay on his feet.

BJ tries to maintain the dignity of his delivery in the face of
Hawkeye's laughter, but...well. The corner of his mouth quirks up,
and he keeps trying to suppress it, but then he's grinning at the
ground, scratching some of the mud off the back of his neck. And
then he starts laughing. "Oh god, my head...we need to get outta
here. He'll hear us..."

"We'll just push him down and run like hell." Hawkeye clambers up
BJ's bathrobe to get back to vertical again and pushes off,
staggering around randomly for a moment while he tries to orient
himself. Shower tent, shower tent. It's here somewhere.

BJ staggers as Hawkeye lets go, and giggles a little. "What, a
Winchester? In the mud? Surely you jest!" He follows after,
holding his head, the mud all over him still. "I have an idea, you
go to the laundry and get us some clothes."

"Yeah, I'll go to...wait, why don't *you* go to the laundry,"
Hawkeye would like to know. "I'm gonna have a shower as soon as I
can find it."

"Because Peg won't kill *you* for being covered in mud in the
bathrobe she bought," says BJ reasonably, "but she'll kill me. So
I'm going to take a shower." A beat. "Besides, I found it first."
He darts past Hawkeye toward the shower tent, laughing like a
madman. Which hurts. But hell, he's getting his shower first!

"Hey! I got sen...seny...I was here before you!" Too late, he's
gone. Hawkeye glares after BJ for a moment, then a bellow from
within the Swamp galvanizes him into action and he heads for the
laundry at a swift trot.

When Hawkeye approaches the shower tent once more, there'll be
dirty water pooling on the floor and a singing BJ in the shower.
Hee hee, what, Hawkeye didn't remember there were multiple stalls?
He's scrubbing his head and bubbling through the water, "...happy
again, I'm laughing at clouds, so dark up above! The sunnnn's in
my heart, I'm ready for love..."

Let the stormy clouds chase everyone from the place - Hawkeye
slams moodily into the shower tent and dumps a pile of randomly
acquired clothing onto the low bench by the door. Yes, he
remembered that, but he also remembered that they would need
cleaner clothes to change into. He's Being Helpful. "Don't you
have a headache?"

"Yes, but I'm going to be cleeeeean," says BJ, sopping wet
terrycloth arms hanging over the side of the stall with BJ's
dripping, grinning face leaning on them. "We should've set up the
PA microphone under Charles' bed for when he woke Indy just then."

Filthy and hungover and tasting something absolutely disgusting,
Hawkeye is rather pale underneath his mud coating. "I would pay
real money for a recording of that. We could put it on the
phonograph and listen to it going around and around and around..."
Whoa, dizzy.

Uh, oh. And, well, Hawkeye *did* drink a hell of a lot more than
BJ did. That doesn't look at all good. Turning off the water, the
beheadached doctor opens the stall door, and dripping, guides
Hawkeye over to sit on the bench next to the new clothes. "Don't
faint. It's conduct unbecoming an officer and a gentleman."

"I'm no gentleman. How dare you." Hawkeye allows himself to be
steered, stumbling somewhat, but pauses just before he would have
sat down, gripping BJ's arm rather tightly. "I'm gonna throw up."
And yet I can't really walk all that fast. Move your shoes.

"Oh god," blinks BJ, then starts snickering again. He steers
Hawkeye over toward the drain, "Here! Here, at least you can wash
it away...or leave it for Margaret..."

Technicolor yawn! Is that phrase in use yet? Doesn't really
matter. Hawkeye loses a lot of what he took in last night, relying
entirely on BJ for support as he coughs afterwards. There's only
so much alcohol anyone can take in without getting drastically
sick the next day.

Beej oohs and points. "I see...a tequila sunrise, and a candy
cane, and a black and blue, and...oh, you didn't. That's a
half-digested three wise men, isn't it? You reprobate!" He's
supporting Hawkeye, yeah. Fairly steadily. He's just hung over. It
seems Hawk's still drunk. BJ asks quietly during a lull in the
coughing, "You gonna need to do this again over whatever this
was?"

Oh, boy, that was fun. Hawkeye is still at least partly drunk, not
having slept anywhere near long enough to detoxify. He spits,
winces, and shakes his head *very* slightly. "As long as there's
world enough and time, Beej." Poetry aside, he's not moving much,
convinced he'll need to throw up again shortly.

Damn. "All right. But I'm comin' with you this time, all right?"
BJ manages to say he's worried without saying he's worried. "I
can't let you have all the fun. I'm not *that* generous."

Ooh, but the idea of a drink right now...Hawkeye makes the mistake
of thinking too deeply about it and his stomach turns over again.
He's a little too hot and a little too shivery to be strictly
healthy. "Let's get away from the camp," he suggests, a hint of
pleading. "Let's sign out a jeep and just go around the mountain.
Just for an hour or two."

"Sounds good. Take a quick shower. I promise you'll feel a little
better, at least," replies BJ, steering his friend toward the
stall now. "Besides, it'll give me time to finish mine."

Oh, yeah, shower. Hawkeye allows himself to be steered, not
bothering to get undressed at all - he turns the water on and just
lets it run, hands rested to the front of the stall for support.
He closes his eyes under the flow. Oh yeah. That's the stuff.
"They owe me a day. For Yossarian."

"The bastard. I'm gonna break his face. Is *HE* still what's got
you all...all..." Trailing off, BJ heads into the stall over
there, finally taking off his disgusting clothes and slops them
over the side, where they fall in a wet heap on the floor and
positively *splat*. "All worked up."

"What?" Hawkeye opens his eyes again and turns his head, blinking
at BJ. "No, not really. He was wrong." See, I'm fine, stop
worrying so much.

Uh-huh, sure. "You hear Radar yesterday?" Ooh, a change of
subject. "He was completely off his rocker. Apparently that pig he
adopted a few weeks ago grew wings." BJ gives Hawkeye a *look*.
"If you want, I can wait until we're actually in the jeep to worry
it out of you."

Ahaha, that's funny, BJ is a funny guy. Hawkeye half-smiles and
faces front again to let the water run down his face. Feels good.
He closes his eyes. "I'm all right, BJ."

"Whatever you say," replies the other man, rinsing off, neutral
expression on his face. What he says is neutral, too. It mostly
says, 'I don't believe you, and you can't make me believe you, but
until you get all screwed up again I'll let it be'. "Just around
the mountain? Or you think they can spare us both for long enough
to go to Seoul?"

Water runs. "I'm tired," Hawkeye mutters, head bowed under the
shower. It's doubtful if he even realizes that was out loud. "Just
around. Just for the afternoon. Probably be choppers later."

Yes. Yes, you are. "You're right, there probably will be." BJ's
started getting dressed, soaking wet because he forgot about
towels and probably so did Hawkeye - oh. Damn. Look, towels. Oh
well. "I'm gonna drop this stuff off at the laundry and steal some
lemonade from the mess tent. Want me to bring your clothes? I'll
be back after."

That's a good idea. BJ is a good guy. What a nice guy. What's he
doing in a place like this, anyway, he should be at home with his
family. It's just ridiculous. "No, I'll meet you at the
motorpool." Hawkeye will steal a jeep if he can't get one legally.

"Sure thing," replies the nice guy, stopping in front of the door
with an armful of soaking clothes. "Y'know, I can't bring your
clothes there with you in them. You'll get starched."

"Help with the whole standing up thing." Hawkeye takes the point,
though, and it takes him quite a long time to get out of his
clothes simply because his boots are still laced and dexterity is
required.

BJ Hunnicutt would laugh, but he's not really in a laughing mood
at the moment, and it's not funny. He just waits patiently until
Hawkeye sorts himself, then takes the clothes and adds them to the
dripping pile in his arms. "Ho-kay, see you at the motorpool in
ten or fifteen minutes." He offers a grin, and heads out the door.
"Don't pass out and drown. It'd ruin my day..."

Wouldn't want to ruin BJ's day. Lord no. It's actually a good
twenty minutes before Hawkeye turns up at the motorpool, and he's
as unscruffy as he ever gets. Except for the minor point that the
shirt he wears unbuttoned is two sizes too big and is therefore
evidently not actually his. Hair ruffled from a brisk towel-dry
which made him throw up again, eyes circled with shadows, he still
looks better than he did half an hour ago. At least now he's
clean. "I had to dodge Charles by hiding in Father Mulcahy's tent.
I heard him go by like Paul Revere. 'My roommates are coming!'"

"What a dirty, dirty man," returns BJ primly, as crude as *he'll*
ever get. "What'd Father Mulcahy say about you hiding out in
there? Or was he saying the Mass that no one ever goes to? I
should go sometimes." Ah, the beautiful dutiful guilt of the
Catholic. He's loading a big thing of icy lemonade into the back
of the jeep he's actually managed to sign out. "You better let me
drive."

"Yeah, you should, I go more often than you." Some of the very
prettiest nurses are, technically speaking, Catholics. Hawkeye
scrambles into the passenger seat. "By all means. Drive me to
Australia!"

Ahh, technicalities. Well, it's presupposed that the raciest
Catholic schoolgirls should become the most Hawkeyeable Army
nurses. No, really. "Peg went to a Catholic school," muses BJ,
pulling this interesting nonsequitur right out of the clear blue
sky. "I bet she still fits in her high school uniform." Oh, oh end
this. End this now. He starts up the engine and hollers, "You want
us for a movie?"

Peg went to a Catholic school?...whoa, okay, end that line of
thought *right* there, there are some places you should not go,
Benjamin Pierce. "I don't watch those kinds of movies!" Because I
can't because I am in the Army dammit. "Come on, let's go."
Hawkeye wants to be out of this damn compound.

Yeah, that's easier done than said. BJ steps on the gas and they
head outta the camp as fast as...well, as fast as an Army jeep
that's had Rizzo under it all week can start up. "No no, you
philistine. Listen to more George and Gracie, for pete's sake. By
the way, the lemonade's not spiked yet. Igor caught me stealing it
and gave me a bottle of vodka because I looked so pathetic. I
figured you'd appreciate the lack of kick better, though."

Urgh, drink, no. Not for at least another half hour. Hawkeye is
still more than a little drunk from last night. He holds onto the
top of the windshield with one hand, for balance. "You know one
time I almost thumped Igor, that was kinda interesting."

"No, I don't! You did? What'd he do, try and wake you up after a
Mexican Hat Trick?" asks BJ, eyes on the road.

"He tried to serve liver again," says Hawkeye darkly. Uh-oh, food
thoughts... "Hey, pull it over."

"I heard about -that- one from the guy out by..." Pull over?
"Pulling over. Out! Out!" Beej is all heart - he keeps talking
even through the unpleasantness. "I mean, the liver thing, and the
ribs. That guy, he's still complaining he wants more ribs. Think
you can do it again?"

Never did anyone exit a jeep with more alacrity. At least they're
barely out of sight of the camp. Hawkeye deposits the water he
drank from the shower, dry-retches a few times, coughs, and rubs
his sleeve across his mouth. Ugh. "Yeah, anytime," is the airy
reply as the Mainer retakes his seat, feeling somewhat
lightheaded. "Bring em on."

"Wanna try some lemonade, or you wanna wait?" asks BJ, looking
over as he pulls back onto the 'road', expression concerned.

A dismissive gesture. "I'll wait." Oh lord. Today isn't going at
all well. Hawkeye clears his throat, swallows, and winces. "It's
days like this I wish I'd listened to what Mom always told me."

BJ Hunnicutt knows this one. But Hawkeye's unwell. Very. So
goodnaturedly, he plays the straight man on purpose this time,
"What'd she always tell you?"

"I don't know, I didn't listen," says Hawkeye, fulfilling the
comedy destiny of that particular joke. A moment's pause.
"Actually she usually said things like 'where have you been?'"

"Very sensible question," says Beej mildly, turning a corner and
heading for the side of the mountain. "The kind of question I
would ask sometimes if I thought you wouldn't just growl and pull
the pillow over your head." A beat. "Or start singing..."

"Yeah, well I was only seven at the time. I wasn't *that* preco-
pre- I wasn't that much of an early starter." Hawkeye hangs on for
dear life as they round the corner, even though it wasn't a very
dramatic one. He's glad to be away from the camp. "Everyone
sings."

"Ohh, you didn't become a lush until you learned how to build a
still, huh?" Yeah. BJ thinks Hawkeye built it. Rrr-rrrr-rrr, the
jeep happily purrs along, not caring whether it's in Korea, Wales,
South Africa, or Toronto. It's a jeep, for pity's sake. "And yeah.
And you actually sing better when you're drunk."

"Why thank you." Hawkeye is silent for a moment, watching the
beautiful, hated landscape. "Trapper John built it, not me. He was
good at that kinda thing."

"Ah," says BJ. He drives. Then finally, with a grin in his voice,
"So *Trapper* turned you into a lush, eh?"

"I am not a lush. I can give it up any time I like. I just don't
want to." Hawkeye says this with great dignity which suggests he's
only half-serious. "I think Trapper just helped me to articulate
that which was already within me."

All this talk of Trapper. "Nice of him to leave the still for you,
then. And Frank. As if he'd ever deign to use it..."

"He left it for me." Hawkeye stretches his legs as far as
possible, bracing his boots against the footwell. "You better
think what you'll leave." 

"You were here first, Hawk, I'm sure you'll go home first,"
replies BJ quietly, only barely audible over the motor and the
wind. He's silent a second, then adds cheerfully, "Unless the war
ends. Then it'll be moot."

Ha, yeah, right. That's how it works, Mr Idealist. "You've got a
family. Like Trapper. They'll let you go home." Hawkeye glances
over at BJ. "You should be at home."

"You've got a dad to keep track of," points out BJ, eyebrows up.
"Besides, I'm nowhere near as spectacular as Trapper apparently
was. Being spectacular lets you go home." He glances at Hawkeye,
then turns his gaze back to the road.

"You're better than he was." Hawkeye *must* still be drunk or he'd
never have made a comment like that. "You, you would never, uh."
Into perfectly serious mode, he's stammering. "I, that is, you
don't...never mind."

This answer is very quiet indeed. And hesitant. And more of a
question than an answer. "I am? I would never what?" asks BJ, eyes
straight ahead of him. A beat. "No," he continues in a normal
voice, "nevermind. Have some damn lemonade, Hawkeye, your breath
smells like wet camel even from here."

"And Klinger told me he loved me." It's amazing, it must be
automatic or something. Quip centre hooked up to mouth without
apparent intervention from the emotional areas of the brain.
Hawkeye scrambles to get hold of the lemonade from in back.

What, us? Emotional? Jokes are good, jokes let you stop thinking.
Plus they annoy the mundanes. "Get me a cup, too, willya?" calls
back BJ, sparing a glance back to make sure the words get heard.
"Igor said he put real fake lemons in it."

"Great. Life gave him cheese, he made lemonade." That's Igor for
you.

"Do they make promenades out of real proms?" And for God's sake,
Hawkeye, I'm going to burst if you don't tell me what the hell is
eating you.

"And if vegetarians eat vegetables, what do humanitarians eat?"
Hawkeye passes lemonade to BJ and sits back down again with a
grunt.

BJ Hunnicutt drives one-handed, carefully sipping his lemonade
with the other. "And why do hot dogs come in packages of ten, and
hot dog buns come in packages of eight?"

"Ah, I know that one." Hawkeye pauses, snapping his fingers a
couple of times. "It's something to do with a one-legged trombone
player."

"Oho! All right, wise guy, how about this - what'd the Buddhist
monk say when he got to the hot dog stand?"

"Make me one with everything."

"Damn!" grins BJ, shaking his head, gulping back the last of his
lemonade. He turns again, heading down a smaller road, off toward
the other side of the mountain. "Right, so explain to me why we
drive on parkways and park in driveways."

-- After an inexplicable pause...

Around the mountain, out of sight of the 4077th, it's quiet.
Having departed the jeep as soon as possible, Hawkeye waits till
BJ isn't really looking and wanders into the knee-high gress,
helmetless and half-sober and entirely likely to step on a
landmine. "Come, Beej, let us hunt the tiger."

"Wh-- god *dammit*, Hawkeye!" He vaults over the side of the jeep
and sprints over, equally helmetless but a little more sober (if
no more sensible), going to grab Hawk and drag him back. "Now, I
know you want to go home, but I'd rather you didn't do it in a
box, all right?"

Yerk. "BJ!" Hawkeye is indignant, trying to shake his friend off.
"Will you get off me? I'm not going on safari, for crying out
loud."

"No, you're just going for a refreshing constitutional through a
*mine field*, dummy. Come on, I don't want to have to stitch your
legs back on," BJ replies, not letting himself be shaken off,
trying to keep his voice even. "Back to the jeep, Hawk..."

If it's a fight he wants it's a fight he'll get. Though typically,
Hawkeye confines his resistance to struggling rather than actual
violence. "All right, all right!" he snaps, not relenting at all.
"Get off me! Get off me!"

All right, if you're going to be *that* way about it. BJ throws
his arms down and *glares* at his friend. "*Dammit*! Hawkeye, what
the hell's the matter with you? What's gotten into you?"

"Nothing!" This is such a blatant lie that Hawkeye can't even meet
BJ's eyes, taking two quick steps back, breathing hard and angry.
"I just want to go home! I've had enough of this, BJ, how much
longer, how much more of this is there?!" Warning, incoming rant.

"Yeah, *sure*, nothing's wrong." He can't help the sarcasm. This
is frustrating. "And how'm I supposed to know? You're not the only
one wants this to end. But for God's sake, would you get OUT of
the tall grass and back in the damn jeep?" BJ knows very well
there's a rant coming. He knows approximately how long it'll last,
and he doesn't care - he's been trying to worry it all out of
Hawkeye anyway. But he also knows from previous experience how
much pacing's likely to go on during it, which is why he'd rather
they stood on the road.

"I can't go back there! I can't do it any more!" Hawkeye is
already ranting, volume raised, and he points back towards the
4077th. "If I have to walk into that OR one more time I'll go
crazy!"

"You -are- crazy!" explodes BJ, throwing his arms in the air. "For
the last time, Hawkeye, you're *standing* in a *minefield*! At
least go stand in the road, for cryin' out loud."

"I DON'T CARE!" Hawkeye's roar silences the nearby insects, and in
the ensuing silence there can be heard, faint but unmistakable,
the sound of the front line several miles away. It could be
distant thunder, but they both know better.

"Well, *I* *DO*!" BJ practically screams back, almost on his
tiptoes, throwing his arms in a matching gesture. Now he's damned
*ready* for a tussle. He reaches forward to grab Hawkeye's shirt
again, this time to bodily drag him back if he has to. "I'm *NOT*
going to *LOSE* you, Hawkeye! Get the hell BACK HERE!"

And again Hawkeye tries to resist, but he still won't actually
fight and BJ is that bit bigger. "Let GO!" This is not the high
point of their relationship.

"Not on your life!" And yes. BJ bodily drags Hawkeye back to the
jeep. "Do I have to strap you *in*?"

"I said let GO!" Hawkeye's struggles kick up a notch once they're
safely out of the grass. He'll stay away from the mines but he
doesn't want to get back in the jeep.

"FINE!" BJ lets go again and turns away, crossing his arms so he
doesn't end up doing something retarded like hitting Hawkeye for
being a stupid jerk. And besides, he doesn't care if Hawkeye gets
in the jeep or not, as long as he stays out of the tall grass. He
won't look at Hawkeye. Just stands there with his back to him.
Sure, it's immature, but he can't look at him.

"I am *sick* of *this*." Hawkeye kicks the jeep. "What now, are
you *angry* with me? You want an apology? I'm SORRY, I'm sorry I
dragged you out here, all right?" Diversionary tactics of the
mind.

Finally turning back, but with a withering glare, BJ shakes his
head. "No, I'm not *angry* with you," he says, the last bit
mimicking Hawkeye's tone. "Not for dragging me out here. I'm
angry, all right. I'm angry about this damned war, I'm angry it's
made you crazy enough to go walkin' through a minefield for fun,
I'm angry it's killing so many people, I'm angry it's keeping me
away from Peg and Erin, I'm angry about that jerk with the
whiskey, I'm angry that Trapper messed you up when he left..."
This all spills out fast, heartfelt, and *angry*, until it trails
off at the end and BJ looks away again. I'd go nuts if something
happened to you. I'd go nuts if I *let* something happen to you.
And you're being such a jackass, too.

Trapper? Hawkeye blinks. This isn't about Trapper John McIntyre
who apparently cared so much that he was happy to just run off
without a word of a goodbye. Lord no. "I'm not crazy. I have a
note from Sidney to prove it." There's that automatic
mouth-running again. "I just..." He exhales. BJ has enough of his
own problems here. Falling silent, Hawkeye crosses his arms and
leans on the jeep.

"Just what?" asks BJ, still not looking. "And this time you better
tell me, or I'll tell Father Mulcahy you've been stealing the
sacramental wine and he'll come after you with his boxing gloves."

Wow, don't want that. Hawkeye smiles, but it's fleeting. "I don't
know," he says, enunciating carefully, "if I can keep going back
in there every time. It's too much blood, BJ. Too much blood and
too many dying. They're just kids."

Oh. Yes. Well. Yes, well. Hm. "I know, Hawk," says BJ quietly,
dropping his arms to his sides, then shoving his hands in his
pockets for lack of anything better to do with them. "I know it
is. And I know they are. But they're not gonna just disappear if
you don't go back. You know they'd die without us." Sometimes they
die even when we're there. "You know that." But rant away -
ranting makes you feel better. If you need someone to yell at,
I'll gladly piss you off again.

"I *know*." It's barely above a whisper, the most heartfelt thing
Hawkeye has said all day. He *knows* they'll still be there,
they'll always be there and without him they'll die, and the
responsibility is crushing. "They need us here. I *know* that." He
runs a hand through his hair, expression pure misery.

There's a lengthy pause, and then BJ starts to speak. "When I was
in school, I had a friend who was brilliant. Much smarter than I'd
ever be, could pick things up like lightning. But I got better
grades than he did." He leans against the jeep now, his arms
crossing loosely over his stomach. "Much better. He was always on
the brink of failing. And one time I asked him why he didn't hand
anything in, why he never did any studying, why he was always
reading dime novels in class. You know what he said?"

"What?" Hawkeye drops his hand to his side and looks over at BJ.

"He said if he tried, if he actually gave it his best effort,
people would always expect the best from him. That if he kept
getting Cs and Ds and a few Fs, people were always pleasantly
surprised if he ever got a B or an A, but if he got all As like we
both knew he could, the teachers and his family would make him do
all kinds of things he didn't want to do because they'd know he
*could*." BJ's voice is matter-of-fact, his expression once more
neutral, eyes distant and looking into the past. And then suddenly
he focuses on Hawkeye. "The thing about that kid was, he didn't
have any morals. No compassion, no conscience. He didn't feel at
all bad about not doing his best, about skipping class. All he
cared about was himself. It's kinda different when you actually
care about people, isn't it. You *are* the best at what we do, and
people always expect the best, because you always deliver it." His
voice gets really quiet, almost gentle. "And you always deliver it
because you know those kids deserve it. It's not much of a help, I
know, but..."

As BJ speaks, Hawkeye's gaze wanders to the hills, glazing
somewhat. It's not that he's not listening. It's that very
specific stare that happens when people are trying not to cry.
"...yeah..." he whispers, eventually. It's not really much of a
help, but it's still nice to hear. "But...when do I get off,
Beej?"

"I dunno, Hawk," says BJ quietly. "I dunno. You want someone who
can see your future, I can get Radar on the horn." There's a faint
smile attached to that, but it's sad. "Meantime, those kids need
you. Charles needs you, or he'd get way too full've himself.
Margaret needs you, or she'd think it was safe to take a shower,
and no one wants that, least of all her. Potter needs you, even if
he says he needs you like a hole in the head. Father Mulcahy needs
you or he'd get too used to the idea of performing Last Rites." A
beat. "I need you or Sidney'd have to move in bed with me."

Mmmmmf. Hawkeye bows his head, closing his eyes, and for a moment
he just stands there, feeling the weight. Position of
responsibility. Oo, yes please. What a joke. "Thanks, BJ." It's
quiet and genuine, and heartbroken.

Yeah, thanks. BJ knows what that did to Hawkeye. You can't take
the liberty of going nuts when your friends are letting you know
they need you there and reasonably stable. Reasonably. He sighs,
staring at the dirt. "I'm sorry. I'd tell you, sure, go nuts, take
your section eight. But you couldn't even if I did."

"It's okay." Hawkeye lies, softly and ineffectively, and raises an
arm to swipe at his eyes with his sleeve. "Beej..." A pause. "I'm
glad you're here."

Ineffectively. Yeah, BJ knows it'll only be okay when this madness
is over and everyone can go home. He doesn't wanna see what he
just did to Hawkeye. "Yeah, ya need me like you need a hole in the
head," he laughs, with something funny in his voice. No. No, he's
not crying. "I should set you up with that redhead from the
8063rd."

Whatever he did, it's a good deal better than a landmine. Hawkeye
clears his throat and lifts his head, squinting thoughtfully at
the mountains. "Now *her* I could spend some time with. She has
the most amazing set of...records I've ever seen."

"Morgan over that way owes me from the last conference," says BJ
somewhat smugly. "I'm sure he can be persuasive. Not, of course,"
he amends, "that she'll need any persuasion when she hears she's
being set up with Hawkeye Pierce."

"Oh, no, perish the thought. Why I'm beating them off with a
stick." Hawkeye grins, briefly. "You really want to know why we
called Margaret 'Hotlips'?"

"Will she ever forgive me if I find out?" grins BJ back, and it's
more solid this time.

A moment's consideration. "No."

"Then tell me, for the love of God, *tell* me!" exclaims BJ,
waving his hands in the air. "You said it had to do with Radar and
the microphone?"

Ahaha. Ahahaha. Ahem. Hawkeye cheers visibly, clearing his throat
and pushing off the jeep to stand straight. "Yeah. Radar hooked up
the microphone to the PA system. So we all heard Margaret and
Frank, well...we heard. Everything. That they were saying to each
other." Brr.

BJ Hunnicutt blinks. "Everything? Everything. Did he call her 'Hot
Lips' or something?"

This is funny. Even despite everything, this is genuinely funny.
Hawkeye grins broadly at the nearest mountain. "Not exactly."

BJ's eyebrows are, once more and against all probability,
approaching his hairline. "_Well_? Are you going all inscrutible
on me?"

"*He* didn't call her that." Hawkeye grins at BJ, and clambers up
into the jeep again. He's got a headache now.

Finally, a hangover! Praise the lord and pass the gin. And
Hawkeye's getting in the jeep voluntarily. Will wonders never
cease? BJ blinks, climbing into the driver's seat. "Wait. Hold the
phone. Did she call *Frank* that?" He's got it stuck in his head
that it's a name.

BJ could probably keep guessing all night. Hawkeye tries to ignore
the fact that his brain is inconveniently caving in. "Oh, Frank,"
he murmurs, pitching his voice high, "my lips are hot, kiss me..."
Margaret would not be amused. But then she's not here. Ahaha.

BJ Hunnicutt normally never goggles. But he goggles now. "She
*said* that? To *FRANK*?" His immediate gut reaction? "EWWWW!"
Ick! Ick ick ick! Ew. Ugh. God, cooties. "I knew they were...I
mean, I knew it was...but..." Start the car, Beej. Start the damn
engine.