Hill five twenty three. An important strategic position desired
greatly by both sides. We had it, they wanted it. They came to get
it. The fighting men of the United Nations met them bravely, eager
to fight. It was a glorious stand against Communism, oppression,
and everything wrong with the world. And Major Arnold Judas Rimmer
was having nothing to do with it. He ran. Being at the top of a
hill, he ran for the slope. And slipped. He would have simply
fallen, tumbled, gotten back up. But the hill was home to a grove
of baby banana trees. Major Rimmer slid over half a mile to the
base of the hill, receiving cuts, bruises, and a broken arm on the
way, only to land in a mosquito-infested pond at the hill's base.
Now he sits in the M*A*S*H post-op, covered in insect bites, arm
in a cast, pride wounded most of all, cheating a fellow patient at
poker. It's not too difficult; the poor soldier has bandages over
his eyes. Good ol' Rimmer.

"...I asked my mother, what will I be? Will I be handsome? Will I
be rich? Here's what she saaid to meee..." It's been a good couple
of days, containing a visit to Seoul and the coitus interruptus
(courtesy of that damn Hunnicutt) being resumed, uninterruptus
this time, and Hawkeye is entirely cheerful enough to be singing
as he strolls into post-op. White coat and stethoscope present,
captain's bars absent. He knows there's nobody in here drastically
ill. "Good morning, campers, I hope you're enjoying your stay so
far?"

Rimmer glances up from his card game and gives Hawkeye an annoyed
look. "My good doctor. Before I was taken to this hospital, I was
lying face-down in a pool of rancid water, arm bent in an
excruciating angle no arm should ever know, with thousands of
swallow-sized mosquitoes gnawing at my hitherto unblemished
epidermis. And now that I've been placed in this bed, fed your
food, and shown your charming American hospitality, I know that I
would prefer never to have left that pond." That said, he returns
to his poker game. Private Raynes' cards are all facing the wrong
direction.

There is a moment's pause. Hawkeye blinks at Rimmer. What a
sweetheart. "In which case, you'll be especially pleased to hear
that you need to get a tetanus shot." He gives the Major a broad,
friendly smile.

The Major simply sneers into his hand of cards. "Of course I do."
The world is against him. Of course he needs to have a long needle
plunged into his still-tender posterior. He makes it all go away
by carrying on with the one bright spot he's found in this
hospital. "Discarding my Ten of Diamonds and Eight of Clubs for
a.." He draws two cards, "..curses. One of Spades and Three of
Hearts." He actually discarded a Four of Clubs and a Joker for a
King of Hearts and Jack of Hearts.

"Keep on like that and you'll have a royal flush of fours and
fives," remarks Hawkeye, snagging a chart from the end of Rimmer's
bed and reading over it idly. "If I close my eyes can I play too?"

"No, but I do have three kings." Rimmer slaps his cards down.
Private Raynes, having heard no three cards of the same suit enter
his opponent's hand, looks bewildered. The Major reaches out and
pats his hand. "Don't worry, soldier. Your game will improve.
Perhaps we should try Go Fish?" Raynes mutters something and
shuffles back to his own bed. Arnold frowns. "If there's anything
I can't stand it's a sore loser." Hawkeye wins the honour of
having Rimmer's attention turned upon him again. "If you close
your eyes, your medical talents just might improve." By his
reckoning, a good doctor would give him a cast that doesn't itch.

Oh no, ouch, the rapier wit is cutting. Hawkeye rests Rimmer's
chart against his chest for a moment and looks injured. "That was
uncalled for, Major. See if I ever let you call me your little
cherry-pie again." He scribbles something on the clipboard.

"You should see him when he operates blind," comes BJ Hunnicutt's
cheerful voice from the door, as he's stepping through, hands
shoved in the pockets of his own white coat. "Stone blind or stone
drunk, it's all the same, he's still better than this one guy we
had...what happened to you? Stumble into a chicken pox field?"

"Ha. Hahaha. Ha." Rimmer draws himself up to his full sitting
height. "Just get me something for these insect bites. The itching
is driving me mad, and this cream you gave me smells like old
people." The Major just gives BJ a look. "Another one. Now we've
got a complete Vaudeville act. When you figure out which is the
dummy, let me know."

"I think we've figured that out already." Hawkeye parks the chart
again and sticks his hands in his pockets. "What we gave you is
what we've got, Major." And with that he's moving on to check on
the enlisted man in the next bed over, the British officer
effectively dismissed.

BJ hangs off the frame at the end of the bed, eyeing Rimmer. "Ever
consider maybe it's just your nose that smells like old people?"
He glances off towards Raynes, then back at Rimmer and looks
unimpressed. "You weren't betting on that, were you?"

"How could I? You good doctors have confiscated my money." Rimmer
tries to point an accusing finger at BJ, fails on account of his
cast, and uses his other hand. "And I'd better get every bit of it
back. Three hundred thirty-two pounds." He's half telling the
truth. The thirty-two pounds half.

The enlisted man in question is still asleep. Hawkeye reads the
chart, taps the end of his pen thoughtfully against it for a
moment, and gestures a nurse over. Quiet, murmuring conversation.
She nods and heads off, unhurried. "Three hundred pounds, that's a
lot of tea and scones." Stereotypes are fun.

Beej starts looking a little concerned. "Wait, three hundred
pounds? We were wondering who would make an anonymous donation to
the morale fund in British currency, weren't we, Hawk?" Suddenly,
he looks incredibly pleased. "I don't know how to thank you! With
that kind of money, we can import Hawaii!"

Oh, haha. That's hilarious. Tea and scones. How clever. Major
Rimmer is about to throw a comeback at Pierce, already formulating
something about cowboy hats and baseball cards, when the moustache
man speaks up. Rimmer stammers with indignation, nearly exploding
with rage until he realizes that it's money he doesn't have, so
all he can do is bluster impotently for a moment, make an angry
gesture with his cast, and snatch up a magazine. "Oh just sod
off." He makes a big point of reading his upside-down copy of
TIME, because Hawkeye and BJ are so obviously beneath his caring.
Yeah.

Hawkeye looks to Rimmer. Then he casts BJ a grin, tilting his head
to indicate the misoriented magazine. "Must be the Australian
edition."

"Think they've got racy kangaroo centerfolds? You know those
Australians," replies BJ, accompanying the remark with an
ostentatiously obvious nudge and wink. These two are doctors.
Haven't they got anything better to do than harass a guy with a
name like Rimmer?

The magazine is slapped indignantly down into Rimmer's lap. He
refuses to acknowledge their implication that it was upside down.
And if it was, well, he'll think of a good reason for it in a
minute. Nervously scratching his bites with one hand, the Major
gestures with his cast. "Don't you two have anything better to do
than harass a wounded officer? A war hero shouldn't have to suffer
indignities like this."

"You're right. He's right." Hawkeye is contrite, he's ashamed,
he's - turning to Private Raynes. "I'm really sorry you have to
listen to this, Private."

BJ just turns his head away, shoulders shaking in laughter.

Rimmer purses his lips tightly, raises the magazine, turns it
right side up, and glares into the pages.

Hey, score. Hawkeye wanders back across the room, patting BJ's
shoulder on his way past. "Joking aside, Major, do you want to get
that tetanus shot now, or would that ruin your hindsight?"

The Major considers this. "Do you do it right here, or is there a
special room for it?" He doesn't want anyone to see. If he has to
get the shot in post-op, he'll wait 'til about three in the
morning when everyone else is asleep.

"Careful, make sure you don't accidentally jab his cerebrum while
you're down there." BJ's still turned away, so he does all right
making that -sound- serious, even though he's grinning like a
bastard.

The Major considers this. "Do you do it right here, or is there a
special room for it?" He doesn't want anyone to see. If he has to
get the shot in post-op, he'll wait 'til about three in the
morning when everyone else is asleep. Rimmer glares at the back of
BJ's head, contriving to make a pointed look construe that he's
ignoring him completely. Neat trick.

"Oh, well, I'm sure we could clear out the V.I.P. tent if it'll
make you feel better." Hawkeye is being sarcastic, but his
expression is all innocence. BJ's comment gets no acknowledgement
more than a brief grin.

"Yeah sure," adds Beej cheerfully, face finally under control
enough for him to turn around. He hangs the chart he was just
pretending to re-check back on its hook. "I'm sure the visiting
colonel won't mind a bit." What visiting colonel? "He's probably
not doing anything anyway, I saw a nurse go in about half an hour
ago."

"That suits me just fine. When will the tent be free?" Yes, he
knows they're not serious. And yes, he is serious. He's more
important than anyone. Especially an American Colonel.

This guy can't be serious. Hawkeye grins, uncertainly. "We were
kidding," he says helpfully. "You can't actually use that for
that."

"On the other hand, we *could* - if you asked *really* nicely -
set up one of the back rooms so you don't have to expose your
hindquarters to the entire ward," says BJ thoughtfully, crossing
his arms.

"I don't see why not. I'm a wounded foreign officer. You probably
haven't had this much culture all in one place since you broke in
your latest batch of petrey dishes." Cheered by his own wit,
Rimmer gives BJ a smile. "There's a nice shiny quarter in it for
you."

Hawkeye gasps. "A *quarter*? I'll mow your lawn for a nickel,
mister!"

"We should introduce him to Charles," says BJ to Hawkeye, raising
his eyebrows, then turning back to Rimmer. "Have you had the
pleasure of meeting Dr. Charles Emerson Winchester the Third, yet?
I think you two would have a lot in common." No. Not going to list
said common-ness-es. Thingy.

Rimmer arches an eyebrow. "No, I'm afraid I haven't had the
pleasure. Now, about that room..." He wants to get the whole
painful thing over with before he decides he can live with a
little tetanus.

"My, aren't we in a hurry." Hawkeye relents, though. The guy has
been injured, and if his injuries seem in large part to be the
sort you get fleeing, well, that's all fine as far as he's
concerned. Just shows the man has half a brain. "Just this way, if
it wouldn't be too much trouble. Service charge fifteen percent,
we'll send you the bill."

Still grinning, BJ sticks around the ward. Then he remembers what
he was looking for Hawkeye for. "Hey, when you get a chance, we
need a new batch of rice. The stuff in there is spent," he calls
after the departing doctor.

Rimmer wasn't fleeing. He was strategically falling back. To about
two kilometres. "Thank you, doctor. Now, about my post-tetanus
jacuzzi.." He raises his eyebrows at BJ. "Rice? I didn't know rice
had medicinal value."

The still! Rice spent! No!...Hawkeye hasn't been paying enough
attention, evidently, and he pauses, looking honestly dismayed.
"It does when you finish fermenting it, Major." Jacuzzi. "You do
know you're in Korea, right? Tell me what year it is." He makes a
show of examining Rimmer's eyes.

The Major makes an incredible show of sighing mournfully. "The
American sense of humour. As dry as an all-vermouth martini." He
smiles with clearly mock pleasance at Hawkeye. "It was a joke,
doctor. A simple hot bath will do." Still more humour. He clumsily
get up, cast flailing helplessly as his free hand tries to keep
his paper gown from coming open in the back.

BJ Hunnicutt puts on an exaggeratedly stupid expression, turning
to look back at Rimmer again. "Uhr, gee, an all-vermouth martini
isn't real dry, is it?" He rolls his eyes and picks up someone
else's chart, glances at the patient that goes with it, and looks
satisfied. "Listen," he calls again, "I can go pick more up, it
just means you get the next two turns."

"Suits me, Beej." Hawkeye eyes Rimmer. He wants a hot bath. That's
one of the funniest things he's heard all day. "Oh, don't worry,
Major, only the enlisted men are looking."

The moustachioed doctor has been written into Rimmer's List of
People to Ignore, while Hawkeye has moved up to Rimmer's List of
People to Tolerate. "Oh, that's all right then. Every soldier in
my platoon will feel all the more confident striding into battle
having seen their commanding officer's pale, mosquito-bitten
derrieire." He manages to get his gown to stay closed and tries,
unsuccessfully, to clap his hands together and rub them eagerly.
"Now, if you don't mind, I'd like to get the painful bit behind
me." A cornucopia of straight lines, this guy.

"Every *last* bit...no, that's just too easy." Laughing quietly,
Beej sticks his hands in his pockets. "Look out, this guy's sense
of humor leans toward the tasteless. ...Wow, kind of like Igor's
English muffins." A beat. "Now, mind you don't use that kind of
potty language when the nurses are around, Major," he chides
gently as he heads toward the opposite door.

"I'm sure they have every bit as much confidence in you as they
ever did." Hawkeye reaches to rest a hand on Rimmer's shoulder and
steer him through the appropriate door, casting BJ a grin over his
shoulder.

Major Rimmer lets himself be guided into the room, looking around
for windows, observers, or cameras. And yes, he is that paranoid.
"I think I should warn you, I don't like needles." He lingers
awkwardly in the middle of the room, opting not to sit down.

"That's all right, I don't like haystacks." Hawkeye rummages
around in a cupboard. "You can sit down, I'll be a minute." No
observers, no cameras, the only window is the one built into the
door.

"No, I really mean it. I'll instinctively resist. I can't help it.
You'd better get a few able-bodied MPs in here to restrain me."
Rimmer watches that one window with deepest suspicion even as he
extols his own primal instincts. He still doesn't sit.

A chuckle. "Yeah, sure." Hawkeye doesn't believe him. Vaccine and
syringe located, he makes his way to the worktop. The needle,
revealed, glints in the overhead light. "You'll survive. And if
you're lucky I'll give you a sugarcube for being brave."

Rimmer shakes his head, lips pressed together. "Just remember that
I tried to warn you." He's fidgeting now, scratching with nervous
anticipation as he watches that needle. That really big needle. He
swallows hard. "I really did. I don't want to hurt you."

Still finding Rimmer's protests amusing, Hawkeye flicks the
syringe with a finger to chase away the air bubbles. "I have every
confidence in you, Major, now turn around and lean on the table.
This hurts me more than it hurts you."

The Major does so, gripping the table's edge considerably harder
than necessary. "I have a black belt, you know. I'm a very
dangerous man." This said with absolutely no conviction and a
quavering voice. "Okay, I don't, but I saw a karate show once and
I don't see what's so special about a few kicks. I could do that.
If I wanted to." He's babbling now, eyes squeezing tight as he
prepares for the sticking pain.

This is really bothering the guy, isn't it? Hawkeye pauses, still
amused despite himself, but not entirely devoid of sympathy. "I'd
rather you didn't. I have a date tonight. I'll count to five. One,
two," and in goes the needle.

Rimmer begins to rave even as Hawkeye begins his countdown. "I
haven't got a choice! It's a primal reflex! A remnant of the
primal instincts of my warrior ancestors! I'll go mad! I'll fight
like a lion! I'll--" The pain of the hypodermic silences him for a
moment. Then he utters a squeak. And then he faints, slumped over
the table.