A/N: Thank you to Signy1 for allowing me to drop my tuppence on the table on this one…and to MoonyEstelChase for her awesome contribution as well. And the lunacy rolls on…

~HH~

Newkirk deposited Carter at the table, which he promptly began dusting uselessly, and complaining it was dirty. He then began grinning foolishly and making exploding noises and motions with his hands. Next, he mimed pinning a flower to his lapel and babbled something about meeting Mary Jane after the dance.

Hogan growled in frustration and turned his attention to the others. Taffy handed LeBeau a pair of his own trousers. They were RAF blue, but LeBeau was in absolutely no mood to be picky. Foster knelt next to Olsen, poking him soundly in the ribs to bring him around after he had passed out laughing.

Newkirk sat down next to Carter, and vainly attempted to brush the scorch marks and soot off his trousers. He was going to have a quite a repair job fixing the tear in the right trouser knee. He was freezing due to the fact his white undershirt had been torn up and pressed into service as makeshift bandages…on of which was around his knee. His right boot was missing altogether. His garrison cap was the only thing that had come through unscathed. It was perched atop his head jauntily, as if taunting them.

LeBeau spread Newkirk's red handkerchief on the table with the remains of the two walkie-talkies they had managed to salvage. The third one had passed on to walkie-talkie heaven. Kinch looked pained as he sifted through the pieces. He muttered darkly in a mixture of English, French and Russian. When the others looked at him he glanced up. "What? Sam taught me!" *

Carter looked up. "How'd a Russian guy get a name like Sam anyway? Shouldn't it be Vladi-Vlid-Vidi—"

Automatically, everyone in the room replied, "Shut up, Carter!"

Hogan frowned. His curiosity finally got the better of him. "What happened?"

LeBeau took a deep breath. "Well. The bridge is no more. But the mission…" he shrugged and trailed off, looking over at Carter who was back to giggling and staging his own fireworks show with his hands. He then looked at Newkirk, who sighed, and finally spoke.

"Look, guv. We set the charges. Everythin' was fine. We waited till they went off, like always." He stopped speaking and stared at his hands.

Hogan got impatient. "And?"

Andrew piped up. "How were we supposed to know somebody hid a still under the bridge?"

"What?"

Carter grinned. "Yep! Doubled the size of the explosion. That's how Newkirk got kinda cooked. He was last in line." He went back to playing with his hands as if that explained everything. It didn't.

"Go on."

Carter looked up. "Hmmm? Oh, well, then he got shot."

"What?"

"Leave off, ya git! No, I got shot at. Barely grazed me knee. Doubt it'll even need stitching. Though I can't say the same for me trousers."

"Who shot at you?"

"Owner of the still, I expect."

"Do you think he saw any of you clearly?"

"Only LeBeau. An' I don't think he'll be anxious to be tellin' his mates about that."

"Oh?"

LeBeau shot his English friend a furious glare, and growled, "tais-tois, Pierre!" *

Carter erupted into near-hysterics, and Kinch grinned.

Hogan rubbed the bridge of his nose. Kinch looked at Hogan. "This must be the part where Louis lost his pants…"

The little Frenchman practically vibrated with indignation. They waited out another string of French invectives. Newkirk's grin grew even wider the whole time.

"Now, now, Louis. That part was your fault. You know you're supposed to go before we leave home!" He turned back to Hogan. "Bloke was hidden in the grass next to the bridge, prob'ly waitin' to check on his still an…" he broke off with a snort, his green eyes dancing madly.

The others had gathered around during the telling of the tale, and Taffy piped up, "The man took exception to LeBeau's choice of…"

Newkirk nodded and grinned. "Yep! Yanked his trousers right off 'im. Dumped 'im in the dirt. Took the ruddy things with 'im!" By the time we got ourselves sorted out, he was gone…or we thought he was. He shot at me after we blew the bridge."

Hogan said carefully, "and you didn't see the still?"

"Not then. We saw it when we watched parts of it flyin' through the air." He paused. "We figured it out for sure when Carter got clocked in the head with a bottle. That's why he's so loopy."

Hogan resumed pacing. He ticked off his points on his fingers as he spoke. "So, let me get this straight. Louis, you were in civvies. The other man was there because of his still. He never got a clear look at the rest of you. So, after Louis ummm…yeah, after the guy left, you fellas blew the bridge. He probably thought Louis blew his still out of revenge." He paused. "Not that far-fetched."

He shrugged, looked around at his men and grinned. "Mission accomplished, gentlemen. Good job!"

They watched in amazement as he strode into his office and shut the door.

On the other side of the door, Robert Hogan walked straight to his footlocker and pulled out his bottle of 12-year-old Scotch. He poured a stiff shot, and downed it. He started to replace the bottle, considered, and poured another.

Someday, he thought. Someday, this will all be funny.

~The End~

A/N: Okay, who's next? Anyone want to take a crack at the 1993 bar scene? You are more than welcome to borrow Peter Newkirk's pub, The Cap and Crown for the occasion, if you don't own one yourself.

*Sam was the Russian tailor who appeared only in the pilot episode, "The Informer."