Labor Pain

(Thanks to Chickadilly for the assistance!)

Hawkeye poured himself another gin from the still and literally threw himself onto his cot, somehow managing to not spill a single drop in the process. "Monday is Labor Day," he said to B.J., who was sipping his own gin on his own bed.

"So?"

"So… I want to have Labor Day off work," he stated matter-of-factly, as if it were a perfectly reasonable request.

B.J. laughed one of his typical hearty Hunnicutt laughs. "Good luck with that, Hawk."

"What?" Hawkeye was indignant. "It's only fair. I've worked all the other holidays, even Christmas. On Labor Day, I think I should be exempt from labor."

"Unfortunately, you don't get a say in when you work and when you don't. The enemy has a tendency to determine that."

"Well phooey on the enemy," he replied in one of his more petulant tones. Then he launched himself off his cot and went to the door of the Swamp, opened it, and called out to the world at large: "Oh, enemy? Monday is Labor Day, a national holiday in the U.S. of A. Please cease and desist all shooting, killing, and maiming for that 24-hour period, thank you." He shut the door and calmly returned to a reclining position on his cot.

B.J. only looked at him and shook his head. Suddenly the Swamp door opened again and Frank came in, still dripping from his shower. "What are you yammering about, Pierce?" he wondered.

"I want Monday off," Hawkeye informed him. "It's Labor Day." He took off one of his filthy socks and, just for kicks, threw it in Frank's direction. The major let out a yelp and jumped away from it as if it were dangerous. Which, come to think of it, it could be.

"Hmmph!" was his reply to Hawkeye's declaration. "We'll all be working if we have to, mister. We're on call around the clock, holiday or no holiday. That's the way the cookie crumbles."

"Oh Frank, I love it when you get philosophical," Hawkeye leered, teasing.

"Oh buzz off!" And with that, the major whisked a towel through his wet hair and then disappeared into a cloud of baby powder.

The next day, while standing over a patient in the OR, his hands deep in a bloody chest wound, Hawkeye spoke up. "Oh, Colonel? Are you aware that tomorrow is Labor Day?"

Potter, the next table over, replied, "Ahhh, September. The unofficial end of summer, the start of a new school year…"

Radar, passing through with orange juice for the doctors, piped up, "Harvest time."

"The new fall fashion line!" added Klinger.

Margaret, who was assisting B.J., contributed, "Time to start knitting scarves for the cold weather!"

Frank, apparently not wanting to feel left out, remarked, "I always go to the dentist in September."

"Uh, thanks for sharing, Major," Potter said with little sincerity.

"And thank you, one and all," Hawkeye interjected sarcastically. "But I didn't necessarily bring it up to hear everyone waxing poetic about September. The point I wanted to make is, since tomorrow is Labor Day, I expect to have the day off work."

"Oh, not that again, Pierce!" Frank groaned. "Colonel, if we get wounded, he has to work! We all do!"

"I'm well aware of the system we've got here, Major," Potter assured him. "Wounded come in, doctors work. It's pretty basic… even an old codger like me can comprende."

"Well OK then." Frank was already starting to simmer down.

But Hawkeye would not be deterred. "Well, just so everyone knows my position on the subject."

Crickets. Or rather, loud suction. Which Hawkeye figured was even more appropriate.

Somebody was kicking at his cot. Thump… and then thump again. It jostled him. Hawkeye opened one eye and looked up at a tall figure hovering above him, but the sun was shining in and he couldn't see who it was. He supposed it was B.J., but why was Beej kicking him awake? Especially at this hour on a Monday.

Another thump as his cot was kicked once more.

"Stop it already!" Hawkeye forced himself into a sitting position to finally get a look at his tormenter. When he did, he blinked several times to try to make sense of the fact that some portly, balding stranger was the one waking him up. "Who the hell are you?" he wondered, his voice still groggy from sleep.

The tall man sneered down at him. "I am Major Charles Emerson Winchester the Third. I've been summoned from the splendor that is Tokyo to this… cesspool… to act as locum tenens for…" He glanced at a note that he held in his hand, "a Captain B.F. Pierce."

Hawkeye blinked, trying to make some sense out of that convoluted and confusing sentence. "I'm Pierce," he admitted, still cobwebby and puzzled.

"I gathered as much when the hairy corporal in the pink pedal-pushers ushered me into this tent and told me to wake you." He thrust out the note he'd been holding. "Here, you are instructed to read this."

Hawkeye took the note from the verbose man and unfolded it. A grin slowly spread across his face as he read:

Hawk,
You're covered. Now get going to Seoul. Enjoy your Labor Day off!
Col. Potter and B.J.

He leaped up from his cot and started throwing things into his duffle bag. No time to shower or shave or even change clothes—Seoul beckoned.

Hastily packed, he threw on his jacket, grabbed the duffle bag, then looked over his shoulder at the bewildered Winchester. "Good luck, Chuck!"

"Charles," the man drawled.

"OK, if you say so," he said with a smirk as he stepped out the door, heading toward his day of freedom. "Enjoy the asylum. And oh, by the way… Happy Labor Day!"

Desperate to get on the road before Potter had a change of heart, he practically ran to the motor pool, feeling downright giddy. The squeaky wheel gets the grease, he mused… and the squeaky surgeon gets the peace.

Who knew?