Hot Under The Collar

Chapter 1 : Badmood-itis

Hawkeye Pierce pulled at the neck of his shirt and sniffed inside, then hastily let go of the collar and coughed, his blue eyes watering slightly.

"Ah, Korea in the summertime," he said dreamily. "There's no fragrance like it."

"Do you have to do that?" said BJ Hunnicutt, scowling.

"This from the man whose shorts were seen making their own way to the laundry," responded Hawkeye.

"Oh, charming," muttered Charles Winchester, moving his chair slightly further away from the other two.

Experience had taught Colonel Potter, the owner of the office in which they were all sitting, that the smartest course of action was to ignore the entire exchange. He pulled a buff coloured file towards him and opened it.

"Okay, here's the last one," he said, and across the desk his three surgeons looked relieved.

Charles drained the last of his glass of water and made a face. The ice cubes were a distant memory and the drink was now lukewarm and unrefreshing. "While I would never question the value of follow-up reports on the patients we have treated here, I am starting to feel that my brain may actually be melting," he said. "Since this would represent an incalculable loss to both the medical profession and the Winchester gene pool, it is my intention to spend at least the next hour under the diminutive dribble which we laughingly refer to as a shower." He looked hard at Hawkeye and BJ. "And I strongly suggest you both do the same as soon as possible."

"Not me, Charles," said Hawkeye. "I need cold beer poured into me or over me. Preferably both."

"You can go stick your head under the water right now if you want, Winchester" said Potter looking up from the file. "You were in Tokyo when this patient came in."

"Ah Tokyo, the land of civilised manners and air conditioning." Charles pushed back his chair and stood up. "Thank you, Colonel," he said with feeling. "Gentlemen…"

"I wonder if he has a servant back home to scrape the sweat off and anoint him with fragrant oils?" said BJ as the door swung shut behind Charles.

"Winchesters do not sweat, my good man," said Hawkeye in a fair imitation of their colleague's accent. "Like ladies, they merely perspire."

"What about Winchester ladies?"

Hawkeye dropped the accent. "Maybe they're born without pores at all, and they just sit round the dinner table fanning themselves gently, until the heat gets too much and they finally explode over the dessert."

BJ laughed. "Spontaneous combustion – one hell of a party piece."

"But an incalculable loss to the Winchester gene pool," said Hawkeye doing his best Charles impression once again. "Good breeding stock is so hard to come by these days."

"Ahem," said Potter loudly, tapping the folder on his desk. "Come on, boys, we're nearly done here and I have a bowl of cool water waiting for my aching bunions, so I'd appreciate your attention. Besides, this is one you're gonna like – remember Private James Mackenzie?"

The two surgeons looked at each other, then BJ snapped his fingers. "Mackenzie – that's the kid who came in with his leg practically hanging off, isn't it?" He remembered the two of them standing over the table for hours, piecing together muscle and nerve, skin and bone, and all the time calling for more blood. It had seemed to him that the young man was losing blood far faster than they could get it into him, and after an exhausting stint in the OR they still hadn't been certain that the leg could be saved.

"Yeah, I remember him," said Hawkeye, turning back to the Colonel. "What's the news?"

"Nothing but good," said Potter. "The leg is coming along just fine, and there's a note on the bottom for you, Pierce. It says 'Tell Doctor Pierce he won't be getting that trip to Florida after all.' What's that about?"

Hawkeye laughed in delight. "That's great! Mackenzie went through a stage where he was convinced he was going to lose that leg, and I told him if he wasn't out of the wheelchair within six weeks, I'd personally visit him back in the States to remove him from it and apply my own form of physiotherapy."

"Fine motivational skills you have there," said Potter. "Seriously, I know this was a tough one and you both put a lot into it – good job."

"The surgery was only a part of it," said Hawkeye. "The nurses put a hell of a lot of time and effort into Mackenzie."

"Yeah," added BJ. "I know Kelleye sat with him all night once when his temperature was up, even though she was supposed to be off duty. And I saw Margaret talking to him for a couple of hours when he was really low."

Potter closed the file and added it to the heap beside him. "Okay, I'll make sure Margaret gets the news and spreads it. This could be just what the nurses need. Seems like everyone's been a bit cranky lately, and I've heard Margaret having a real set-too with a couple of her team. Not to mention the wingding the two of you had at breakfast – what was all that about?"

"This crumb pushed in front of me and stole the last piece of bacon," said Hawkeye.

BJ looked indignant. "Hey, if you'd tied your boots properly you wouldn't have had to stop."

"You bypassed me and you stole my bacon."

"You don't even have bacon for breakfast."

"Well, I just felt like it this morning and you knew that, and…"

Potter looked from one to the other in amazement. "Hey, can it! Are you two married or something?"

Both men looked sheepish for a moment, then Hawkeye leered at his friend. "Sorry, honey. I'll make it up to you later."

"Oh, you men!" BJ pouted and tossed his head. "You think that makes everything all right, don't you. Well, I feel a headache coming on, so you can just forget it, pal."

Potter raised his eye heavenwards and was about to order them out of his office when there was a knock on the door and Klinger came in carrying a clipboard.

"Sorry to disturb you, sir," he said. "Could you sign this emergency supply order?"

Potter took the clipboard. "Not again," he said, his voice beginning to rise. "Every time we put in a requisition, we have to reorder something they get wrong, or else forget. Can't those idiots ever get an order completely right first time?"

"Cranky," said BJ softly.

"Definitely," agreed Hawkeye.

Potter glared at them for a second, then relaxed. "Sorry, Klinger, it's this damn heat. What did they forget this time?"

"Nothing, sir," said Klinger. "The weirdest thing happened. One of the boxes of surgical gloves has a hole straight through it. Every glove has a hole the size of a fingernail right in the middle of the palm. We reckon the truck must have been hit by a sniper, but the driver didn't hear a thing."

"I can't believe anyone would fire at a medical supply truck," said Hawkeye.

"Yeah, you'd expect them to have the decency to propose glove-to-glove combat," said BJ.

"How many are we talking about, Klinger?" asked Potter wearily.

"Just the one box, sir. Five hundred pairs."

Potter shook his head in frustration. "Well, I guess it's not a complete disaster. We have a fair number in the supply shed, so unless we get an entire battalion of wounded, we should be okay. Once you've put in the emergency order for replacements, get rid of that box of duds so there's no danger of them ending up in the OR."

"Consider it done, oh overheated one," said Klinger, collecting the clipboard and turning to go.

Potter sat back in his chair. "We're done here," he said. "You two go and do whatever it is you do to cool down – no, I don't want to know," he said hastily as Hawkeye opened his mouth. "I'm going to sit here and relax with a glass of bourbon for a while, and then me and my bunions are going to keep that appointment with a footbath."

In the outer office, Hawkeye and BJ found Klinger examining the damaged box of gloves. "Look at that," he said, holding one up. "Right through the middle." He put it back in the box. "Hey, is it my imagination, or is everyone a bit wound up at the moment? The colonel seemed about ready to explode in there. I heard even you two had an argument this morning."

"It's nothing to worry about, Klinger," said Hawkeye, leaning against the filing cabinet. "Once in a while everyone gets Badmood-itis at the same time, that's all."

"Yeah," said BJ. "If it's not the cold and the endless wounded, it's the heat and the endless boredom." He started playing with one of the gloves, snapping the rubber fingers and blowing into it so the air came out of the bullethole. "What we need is a party," he said. "Klinger, you have all the files – does anyone have a birthday coming up?"

"Can't think of anyone," said Klinger. "I'll check." He went over to the filing cabinet. "Excuse me, Captain."

But Hawkeye stayed where he was, leaning against the cabinet. A strange and dangerous gleam had appeared in his eyes as he watched BJ fiddling with the glove.

"Klinger, can I have those?" he asked.

"Sure; they're only going in the garbage. Are you gonna make balloons for the party?"

"Put the party on hold for now," said Hawkeye, smiling slyly. He picked up the box. "Come, on Beej, we have devious plans to make and dirty doings to do."

"I love it when you talk dirty doings," said BJ following him out.