Rain. Oh, how the men in Barracks Two hated the rain! Not only did it make their lives miserable in camp, but it put a serious crimp in their business outside the camp as well. Heavy rains meant poor flying conditions; poor flying conditions meant no flights; no flights meant no downed airmen; no downed airmen meant no rescue missions and…well, you get the picture. Even London was conspicuously silent. No espionage missions had come through for the past two weeks. The Underground seemed to have floated away. And the rain continued to fall…and fall…aaaaannd fall.

Colonel Robert Hogan was sorely tempted to grab Sgt. Danny Olsen by the throat and strangle him. Right after he bounced Cpl. Peter Newkirk off the ceiling. The two men, the most quick-tempered of his crew, had been at each other all day. Their latest round of bickering seemed to be over the dubious merits of American moonshine vs. English gin. Hogan decided to go for a walk, despite the rain, just to clear his head, and escape the barracks for a while. He was so desperate; he was willing to scare up a game of chess with Klink.

With their commander's departure, the bickering grew into a full-fledged argument. Cpl. Louis LeBeau didn't help matters, as he would chime in occasionally from his place by the stove, with disparaging comments about how neither man had any taste at all. When he called Olsen something rude in French for the third time, the irate sergeant suddenly turned on the little Frenchman, and a free-for-all erupted in the barracks.

Tech. Sgt. Andrew Carter, who had been asleep at the time, was rudely awakened when LeBeau landed on him after being thrown into his bunk by Olsen. Despite his gentle nature, Carter always enjoyed a good scuffle, and he entered this one with relish; especially as he was actually only half-awake at the time.

He pushed Louis to the floor with a thump and jumped on the closest combatant, who happened to be Sgt. Walt Fitzsimmons, a tall, rangy redhead. Fitz, also a country boy, grinned and obliged Carter by knocking him tail over teakettle across the room. Fitz then moved on and dived back into the mass of bodies.

Now fully awake and sporting a beaut of a shiner, Carter tackled Taffy Matthews, who was crowing with delight as he tossed Newkirk over his shoulder in a Cornish wrestling move. Although Matthews was a lieutenant, he made it a firm policy never to let his rank stand in the way of a good brawl with the men. He reconciled this with his position as camp chaplain by considering brawls as a way to blow off steam, and therefore, therapeutic. If his superiors might not agree, well, they were in London, weren't they?

Because Matthews held black belts in several martial arts, it may have seemed suicidal for anyone to tackle him, but Carter was a different matter. He had grown up wrestling Indian-style, and was just as wily and quick as Taffy himself. He was also much stronger than he looked, so they were not as unevenly matched as it might first appear. In fact, he and Taffy had become good friends, and had often put on exhibition wrestling matches to entertain the camp. Taffy whipped around, attempting to throw Carter off, but the younger man stuck to him like a burr. He flipped onto his back and slammed Carter to the deck, winding him for a moment. The other fights slowly died out in order to watch the show.

Taffy's wolfish grin could have lighted a small city. "Alright then, mate! Let's dance, shall we?"

Carter eyed the little Welshman warily, and suddenly laughed, feeling very good indeed. His blue eyes danced with mischief, and he stepped in quite close to the now confused Matthews. He gently laid his hand on Taffy's arm and asked, "Shall I lead?"

His grip tightened and just as Taffy realized what was happening, he found himself flying through the air and out of the suddenly opened door. The next few moments were a tangle of mud, leather, and one very enraged American Colonel.

Olsen scratched his ear and sized up the sight of Hogan and Taffy sprawled in the mud and rain just outside the barracks doorway quite well: "Well… hell."

Carter stood wide-eyed, completely immobile. And completely speechless.

Hogan struggled to his feet and dragged the lieutenant up with him. Taffy immediately drew himself to his full 5'2" height, ignoring the mud and water that cascaded off him and pooled around his feet. He quickly smoothed his sodden copper hair as best he could and stood at attention before his irate commander. Hogan surveyed the wreckage throughout the room and the disheveled state of a good number of the men. He quickly zeroed in on Carter, since he was the one who had thrown Taffy through the door.

Hogan raised an eyebrow at the slightly battered blond. "Care to explain, sergeant?"

Carter ducked his head sheepishly. "Uhh, well, we were just, ummm…"

Taffy grinned, "Passin' the time, Colonel. It's the rain y'see. Got us all a bit stir crazy."

Hogan looked over the muddy chaplain, "So you decided to hold services in the barracks while I was gone?"

Taffy at least had the grace to blush as the rest of the men chuckled.

Hogan shook his head. "Alright, fellas. Knock it off. Get this place cleaned up. Carter, Taffy, get yourselves to the showers…or go stand out in the rain for a couple minutes. It's coming down in buckets. I'm gonna go hit the shower myself. LeBeau, can you make sure there's lots of hot coffee ready? I have a feeling we're gonna need it. Carter," eying the young man sternly, "I was kidding when I told you to go stand out in the rain. It's a good thing I finagled an extra hour of hot water out of Klink. Take a shower. That's an order. And do NOT, under any circumstances, catch a cold. THAT is also an order."

With that, Hogan rolled his eyes and squished his way muddily through the door into his quarters. Louis LeBeau was right behind him, attempting to mop up the mess left behind, as he muttered colorfully in at least two different languages.

~HH~