Title: Unlikely
Fandom: MASH (TV Show continuity)
Wordcount: 1037
Rating: PG
Timeline: Takes place a couple years following the end of the war and television series--so figure, 1955.
Summary: Charles needs some help when his staff is short-handed, and decides to call in some old friends. (I'm counting AfterMASH as canon, so if you're wondering where Klinger, Father Mulcahey and Col. Potter are, they're down in Missourah. As for Frank…come now, do you think Charles became a man of such intelligence without using an ounce of common sense:) )
Disclaimer: As MASH ended a year before I was born, I don't own it…nor do I plan on making any money off this. SHOOP DA WOOP.
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Charles Emerson Winchester, the Third, sat behind a large, oakwood desk in his office at Boston Mercy Hospital, which overlooked uptown Boston from the 30th floor.
As head of Thoracic Surgery, Charles had risen on the political ladder over the last two years, since the Korean War--and his service at the 4077th Mobile Army Surgical Hospital unit--came to a close. No more meatball surgery, no more suffering through abysmal operating conditions. No more threat of a sudden death than what one would expect on a normal day's venture from the foot of his bed. And (thank god) no more operating feverishly, endlessly, without rest for sometimes days at a time.
Still, that didn't mean his newer, war-free life didn't come with its own set of troubles. Sometimes he'd arrive at the hospital and the can of imported French caviar would have exploded in his lunch sack, drenching the contents with unsalvageable sticky mess. He'd have to go down to the hospital's cafeteria on those days and the food was dreadful and bland--not inedible, as the food at the 4077th had been, but it came close. Those were the "good-bad days."
A "bad-bad day" would be a patient under his care dying. No surgeon worth his salt and with an ounce of humanity in their blood (rare as this kind of doctor was) felt anything less than utmost remorse for such a loss. He'd met plenty of surgeons in the past two years that had been as arrogant and uncaring as Charles himself had once been (again, something that had changed with his time in Korea), and on a personal level they disgusted him. However, his job didn't permit much in the way of personal relationships, and the surgeons under his purview held strictly to a professional attitude. They had skills, no doubt, but when one of their patients died, they didn't give a damn about it.
The past two days--well, they fell between "good-bad" and "bad-bad." No personal trauma was involved, but a lot of professional stress--yes, there was plenty of that in abundance. For he had entered the doctor's lounge two floors below only to find that a good portion of those working for him had unceremoniously quit. Charles didn't know or care why--any attempts to get in touch with the alienated 70 of his staff had failed.
So, drastic measures had to be taken; fortunately, Charles had not been the only surgeon to work in a MASH unit.
"Gentlemen...and lady," he said, nodding in the direction of the four people standing before his desk. "I want to take this time to say how much I appreciate you coming to cover for me. Especially to you, B.J. and Margaret, for flying out all this way so suddenly."
B.J. Hunnicutt, with his comely, dapper moustache still covering his upper lip, shrugged and grinned. "Hey, Charles, when I got your call in Mills Valley, I thought--what better way to celebrate old times, right?"
"Not just old times, but really old times!" The man next to B.J. said. Tall, lanky and with peppered hair, Benjamin "Hawkeye" Pierce grinned from one ear to another--a sight, Charles admitted only to himself, he missed sorely. Hawkeye slung his arm around the neck of third man of the guest party, pulling him in close and laughing. "Ladies and gentlemen, may I present to you 'Trapper' John McIntyre, a Beantown local and apparently first in Charles' phone book."
Trapper, standing taller than Hawkeye with curly brown hair, laughed and pushed Hawkeye away, a childlike glimmer in his eyes. "Hey--you must'a said an awful lotta nice things about me after I left, Hawk, cuz ole Charles here gave me a shining review when he called."
The last member of their party--the blonde, shapely Margaret Houlihan--stood to the side, silent yet smiling. Something about her seemed off; it took Charles a second to register that she didn't look quite the same out of the olive-green Army fatigues.
"It's really a pleasure to see everyone again," Margaret said, nodding in Charles' direction. "But I think we have business to attend...?"
"Quite right," Charles said, interlocking his fingers and resting his hands on his desk. "As much as I appreciate...as Father Mulcahey would have said, the 'jocularity' of this gathering...I'm afraid social matters must wait. As I explained over the telephone, I've been working my fingers to the bone with most of my staff gone. I need your help to keep Boston Mercy in tip-top performance until I can hire new surgeons to replace the missing ones."
"And you thought, 'Who better than my old MASH buddies,' right?" Hawkeye flashed his infamous knowing smirk and waggled a finger.
"In a sense, yes. That is what I thought." Charles nodded, allowing the interpretation to go through. "From our time together...and from what I've heard...I trust you three implicitly. I know you are more than capable."
"Charles, that's almost sweet!" B.J. grinned, showing his even, shiny white teeth. "Are you sure you haven't contracted diabetes while we were gone? Because you couldn't have said that any better without insulin at the ready."
"But if all five of us are doing the horizontal tango--no offence, Margaret--who'll you have interviewing your new surgeons?"
Charles regarded Trapper with a confident smile. "That, gentlemen, you'll find is well in hand. Now, I'll take you on a quick tour of the facilities before we, ah, plunge in as it were."
He pushed up from the desk and walked around to join the other three doctors and the nurse, and before they could exit the double doors of his office, they opened almost on their own accord; in the entryway stood a short young man with a round face and a pair of wire-rim glasses resting on his nose.
"Ah! Just in time. If I may introduce to you fine medicos the person heading up my interviewing process: one Walter, formerly 'Radar' O'Reilly." Charles gestured to the newcomer. Walter gave his old friends a wave and a grin.
There would be time for pleasantries and catching up later, Charles thought, giving Walter a slight nod. He led them all from his office.