A/N: One good thing about having the flu — I daresay the only good thing — is that you have plenty of time to write. My thanks to everyone who reviewed my last chapter. I didn't expect many, since the chapter didn't contain any of our beloved M*A*S*H characters. But now the story begins in earnest! And before you start reading, I'd like to issue a warning: all readers seated directly in front of their computers screens will be smothered by Charles's ego.

Disclaimer: Not really needed, but I'll say it anyway. I do not own the 4077th or any of its inhabitants. Anyone you don't remember from the show is my own creation.

The Wind and the Rain

Chapter Two: Anywhere You Live Is Home

Apart from the choppers, the 4077th MASH was a fairly quiet place. There was the occasional low rolling boom of the shelling, sometimes far off in the distance, and at other times a little close for comfort. And there was no possible way of ignoring the growling sound of the ambulances that came in the late hours, bringing with them a load of wounded soldiers and the promise of a long night in the operating room. But for the most part, the area surrounding the village of Uijeongbu was still and tranquil. Some might even call it peaceful. Charles Winchester was not one of those people.

He would sooner die than admit it to any one of the other residents/inmates of the mobile hospital, but it wasn't the violence and death that Charles detested most about the war — although it was a close second. Nor was it the almost crippling reminder of his own mortality. It wasn't even the utter lack of culture and civility, which made it an unending struggle to keep from being stained by the mire of sleaze in which he found himself.

It was the silence.

Others declared that compared to the noisy hubbub of their lives back in the States, the relative quiet was a welcome change. But Charles found it unnerving, even oppressive. To live in it, day after day, hearing nothing but the buzzing of insects and the chirping of the birds, was pure torture.

In short, the quiet was disquieting. It made him think.

To anyone who knew Charles, who was fiercely proud of his intellect, this would be almost impossible to comprehend. It wasn't as if he didn't enjoy brainwork; he reveled in it. It was being alone with his thoughts that he found intolerable. He knew, when it was only him and the silence, that he would inevitably begin to think about how he came to be there in the first place. He would think about the pointless, bloody war that had taken him from his home, his family, his practice. He would dwell on everything he had left behind, and this cheap, drab, dismal imitation for which he had been forced to trade it all. At times like these, his mind was his worst enemy.

This was one of the primary reasons he found such solace in music. As long as he could lose himself in the heavenly strains of Mozart, Bach, and Schubert, he could forget where he was, if only for a moment, and delight in the sheer sound of beauty. It was his refuge, his sanctuary from himself.

It was also why Pierce and Hunnicutt had to die.

The cretins, he thought, frantically rifling through his small collection of treasured belongings with increasingly unsteady hands. The cruel, debased, shameless little cretins.

He straightened and turned slowly, fists clenched, to face his tentmates, who were currently in the middle of a typically pedestrian and uninteresting game of chess. Neither men took the slightest note of him, which only served to fuel his rage.

"What have you done?" he rasped.

"Well," said Benjamin Franklin Pierce, better known as Hawkeye, as he pointed at the chessboard, "I started with your run-of-the-mill Bird's Opening. Then over here I'm trying my own variation of the Poisoned Pawn, which isn't going to work now that everybody knows about it, thank you very much."

"Yeah, Charles," added his mustachioed opponent, B.J. Hunnicutt. "Way to ruin a perfectly boring chess game."

By now, Charles was accustomed to the inane babble of his fellow surgeons and had learned to tune it out. "My records," he continued in a low, dangerous voice. "They are missing. Every last one of them. I reiterate: what have you done with them?"

Pierce shrugged as he placed a long finger on one of his pieces, then reconsidered and drew it back. "Why do you always assume it was us? Maybe they just got restless and went for a spin."

Charles felt his pulse quicken until it resembled a malfunctioning metronome. "I will give you one last chance," he said very calmly, "after which I will no longer be held responsible for my actions. Now, enough prevarication. I demand to know what you prosimians have done with my music."

"There's no need to get touchy," said Hunnicutt, his eyes wide and guileless. "If anything, you should be flattered. Now the music that's brought you so much pleasure will be enjoyed by everyone else in this camp."

With a strangled noise in his throat, Charles dashed out of the aptly named Swamp and into the compound, his stomach twisting in dread. He looked around in panic, having no clue what to expect, but fearing the worst. Heaven only knew the depths of depravity to which his tentmates were capable of sinking. But if anything had happened to his music... Oh, he would make them pay. He would live only to make them pay.

Somewhere off to his right, he heard laughter. He whirled around to see a group of people gathered around the enlisted's latrine. Swallowing hard, he walked slowly toward the object of their amusement. There, hanging from the tin roof of the latrine, was his entire collection of classical and operatic masterpieces. Hung from varying heights, the records rotated slowly in the autumn breeze, making a decidedly unmusical clattering sound as the edges struck each other. As an added creative touch, strips of surgical gauze had been utilized to string the whole conglomeration together. It was, essentially, a mobile of music. Dangling in front of the latrine.

Charles stood staring at this odd form of artistic expression, uncharacteristically at a loss for words. Then, above the laughter, he heard Hunnicutt's signature guffaw, mingled in with Pierce's more strident hyena-like cackle. At that point it was remarkably easy to find his voice.

"You demented idiots!" he roared at the surgeons as they clutched at their sides in sheer hysterics. "By God, I certainly hope you've had your little fun, for it will be your last, I assure you! Now you will take down these records and restore them, unharmed, to their rightful place this instant, or I swear by all that is holy, I will hang you imbeciles by the gauze you've stolen to create this... this abomination!"

Without staying to listen to their rejoinder, he stalked away. He had no particular destination in mind and did not care one way or another, as long as it was far from here. He passed Father Mulcahy's tent, and briefly considered rushing in, grabbing the good priest by his clerical collar, and demanding to know why God didn't just strike him with boils and be done with it. That seemed, however, a tad too melodramatic. A Winchester strived always to conduct himself with dignity.

Bringing the incident to the attention of Colonel Sherman Potter would, of course, be an exercise in futility. The 4077th's commanding officer was more of a kindly father figure than a leader. Heaven forbid he should actually have to discipline any of his children, and Pierce and Hunnicutt were two of his darlings. No, if Charles wanted retribution, he would simply have to seek it at his own hands. It shouldn't be terribly difficult, given the calibre of the minds he was up against.

At that moment he heard a frustrated growl, and was surprised to discover that it hadn't come from him. Curiosity temporarily overriding his thoughts of revenge, he attempted to find the source of the sound.

He didn't have to look far, as it happened. Of course, it was Margaret Houlihan.

The platinum blonde major stood in front of her tent, in intense conversation with one of her nurses. From the sound of it, Margaret was either upset with her, or was practicing her Kodiak bear impersonation.

"How could you let this happen!" she was saying, or more accurately, bellowing.

The nurse — Baker, he believed her name was — looked absolutely terrified. "I'm sorry, Major," she said, trying valiantly to keep her voice steady. "It just sort of happened. It's nobody's fault."

"You're pregnant, and it's nobody's fault?" Margaret shrieked, causing Charles to wince. "Where do you think babies come from, Baker? The stork?"

"With all due respect, ma'am, I haven't done anything wrong," the girl replied, quite bravely, considering the head nurse's eye was starting to twitch. "I am married, after all. Having children comes with the territory."

"Well, not this territory," Margaret said icily. "You're an officer, Baker. You knew the duties you would take on, the responsibilities you would have, when you joined up. You knew there couldn't be any storybook romances and white picket fences when you're halfway across the world, serving your country. But you didn't care. You just had to have it both ways. And now you have to be sent back home, and this hospital has to find another nurse or else try to make do without you. Because of your selfishness, everyone's going to suffer! How's that for 'nobody's fault'?"

Baker's firm lip had begun to quiver during Margaret's tirade, and as Charles watched, her eyes filled with tears. "I'm sorry, Major," she said again, before turning with a sob and dashing headlong for the nurses' tent.

Hands in his pockets, Charles strolled over to join Margaret, clucking his tongue in disapproval. "For shame, Margaret. The poor child has quite enough to vex her, without you springing on her like a tiger. The responsibility of looking after an infant, thousands of miles from its father, comes to mind. I am not overly sentimental, but I find it rather distressing. And I found you rather callous."

Margaret scowled at his sermon. "You're lecturing me about being callous?" she said dubiously. "That's a good one. Who was it, exactly, that hoarded his imported vichy water during the shortage, while the rest of us ripened like imported cheese?"

"Ah," said Charles with a dry smile, "but I have never reduced any young women to tears. Can you honestly say the same?"

She sighed, folding her arms over her chest. After a moment, the pinched expression on her face faded. "I guess I was a little hard on her, wasn't I?" she asked.

"Oh, perhaps a tad," Charles agreed generously.

"But I can't help being angry!" she continued, throwing her hands in the air. "We're already short on nurses as it is! And now that Baker has to be sent back to the States, we'll be dead in the water! We just can't afford to lose her!"

Her voice was beginning to take on that shrill quality which always reminded Charles unpleasantly of a dentist's drill. "Now, remain calm, Margaret," he said, hoping if he behaved rationally, she might follow suit. "The situation isn't nearly as desperate as you seem to think. We shall simply put in a requisition for a transfer from a neighboring unit or some other such place, and then you shall have your replacement nurse. Voila tout! Problem solved."

"Oh, go tout yourself," she said sourly. So ladylike, he mused. "Do you have any idea how much of a hassle it is to break in a new nurse? It can take months! And that's assuming our dear falafel-for-brains company clerk would even remember to send the forms!"

Charles suspected a migraine was surely imminent. "One could argue," he replied, "that it would be considerably less of a 'hassle' to instruct a new nurse than to attempt to manage without one."

His logic was, as always, irrefutable. But if Margaret was grateful, she gave no sign. Instead, she acknowledged his sage advice with an irritated grunt and marched off, heading straight for Potter's office, no doubt to do exactly as he had suggested.

"You're quite welcome," Charles muttered to the air in front of him.

Sighing to himself, he trudged across the dusty compound, his head to the ground and fists deep in his pockets. He didn't relish going back to the Swamp, where his tormentors were surely developing another weapon against his sanity. He had no desire to visit the mess tent, as he had no appetite for dysentery. And it was too early for Rosie's or the Officers' Club. There was, he realized, nowhere to go.

I don't belong here, he thought, with a pang in his chest.

There was that damned silence again.

And it was then, as he stood alone in the compound on that chill autumn morning, that Charles Emerson Winchester the Third did something he very rarely even thought to do. He decided to pray.

Dear Lord... If it is indeed Your will that I should remain in this wretched place, far from my home and my loved ones... I ask that You ease the passing of my time here. I don't... especially care how. Only that You send me something... anything, to make my life bearable. That's all I ask.

He paused for a moment in thought. Something in a beluga caviar would be lovely.

The jeep bounced along the dirt road, nearly jostling Fenella Malone right out of her seat. In the driver's seat beside her, the young sergeant whose task it was to deliver her safely to her destination did not seem the least affected by the jarring ride. Apparently, it was a happy little jaunt he made on a regular basis, and something she would have no choice but to get used to.

At regular intervals, the soldier pointed to some landmark or feature of interest while yelling something in her direction. Nellie assumed he was trying to be a good tour guide, but the effort was completely wasted on her. Even if the roar of the engine hadn't drowned out most of what he was saying, she still would have been incapable of paying attention.

The flight from San Francisco to Tokyo and the immediate hopper to Seoul had worn her out, but not well enough. Nellie had never been able to sleep on an airplane. There was something about being thousands of miles in the air that, for some strange reason, made it difficult for her to relax. Even after landing in Seoul, there hadn't been much time for her to catch her breath. There had been a babel of activity in which her luggage had been taken from her and piled into a jeep, while she was quickly informed about the MASH unit she would be joining and the type of work she could expect to do there. The next thing she knew, she was speeding along an unpaved road, clutching her seat with one hand and her glasses with the other.

From what Nellie remembered of the too-brief debriefing, the mobile hospital to which she had been assigned was not exactly mobile. In fact, barring only a few temporary relocations, it had been situated in the same place, thirty miles north of Seoul outside a small village called Uijeongbu, ever since the war started. She had been told it was in a mountainous region, and so far the description was proving true. For that matter, the entire province of Gyeonggi looked a lot like the Cascades in the Pacific Northwest. As an Oregonian, she had a special fondness for trees and mountains, and though the trees were different in South Korea, the landscape was still an aching reminder of home.

Another trait shared by Oregon and Gyeonggi was that it was damned cold, at least in the fall. At this point, the bitter wind in her face, along with the bone-rattling ride, were the sole factors contributing to her consciousness.

At length the jeep passed through the little town of Uijeongbu, which consisted of a handful of buildings and a significantly larger amount of huts. As they drove down the only road in the village, a little Korean boy paused in a game of fetch with his dog to wave at them. The sergeant waved back, and Nellie smiled and did the same.

The trees were becoming more sparse now. Without them, the terrain and the hills surrounding it were dun-colored and plain. Oddly enough, they reminded her strongly of camping as a child with her uncle in the hills around Malibu.

At last, the jeep began to slow, and a smattering of canvas tents came into view. "There she is," the sergeant told her. "MASH four-oh-double-seven."

Nellie's first impression was that it was very green. And not the lush, verdant, jewel-like green of the vegetation she had seen earlier. This was Army green. Olive drab, they called it. The tents, the vehicles, the few permanent structures in the compound, were all the same dull, depressing pseudo-green. There was not a speck of personality in the whole place.

And then, as they crunched to a halt, she saw something that lifted her spirits and gave her hope. It was a signpost. The names of several cities were painted on it, each pointing in a different direction.

Seoul - 34 miles.
San Francisco - 5,428.
Tokyo - 259.
Toledo - 6,133.

Nellie couldn't help but smile. Now there was some personality.

As she half-fell out of the jeep and successfully restrained herself from kissing the mercifully unmoving ground, she saw a figure emerge from one of the buildings and come running toward them. Her eyes widened as she realized the figure was a man in a woman's pink housecoat and a baseball cap. Oh my, she thought with a twinge of apprehension, maybe a little too much personality.

The man skidded to a stop and saluted. "Lieutenant Malone?"

Nellie returned his salute uncertainly. There was no way to discern his rank. "Yes, uh... sir," she decided. "Second Lieutenant Fenella Malone, reporting for... whatever it is I'm here for."

He smiled, his teeth brilliantly white against his olive skin. "No need to call me 'sir', Lieutenant. I am but a lowly corporal. Maxwell Q. Klinger, company clerk, at your service! May I take your bags, ma'am?"

"Oh!" she exclaimed as he commandeered her belongings. "Thank you, Corporal. Do you know," she continued as she tried unsuccessfully to relieve him of some of her luggage, especially the steamer trunk reserved for her books, "where I might find the commanding officer?"

"At this time of day? Probably — no, no, no assistance needed, ma'am — probably the stable. I'll take you to him, right after we get you settled in with the nurses. Right this way, Lieutenant."

Nellie hastily thanked her driver before hurrying off after the corporal. Klinger, was it? He wasn't much taller than she was, and his dark complexion and prominent hooked nose suggested he was of Middle Eastern descent. He was certainly an odd sight in this nondescript military setting, but there was something friendly and unassuming in his toothy grin that put her at ease. At the very least, the effort to keep up with him had given her a burst of energy.

"Here we are, Lieutenant," he said, stopping outside a modest-sized tent. He gave a perfunctory knock and then pulled the door carelessly open. A second later he was on the ground, reeling from a punch delivered squarely to his nose.

"Klinger! You idiot!"

"You can't just open the door like that!"

"Yeah, what are you thinking? We could've been naked!"

"Well, excuse me!" he said indignantly, still trying to recover his balance. "I'm a busy man! I can't plan my day around your nakedness." Nellie had to bite her lip to keep from laughing as she took the clerk's elbow and helped him to his feet. "At any rate," he continued, dusting himself off with much ceremony, "I've just come to introduce you to your new tentmate. Lieutenants Kellye, Nagel, and Clark, this is Lieutenant Fenella Malone."

Three nurses popped their heads out the door and collectively pulled her inside. At once they began talking over each other, and in her near-comatose state, Nellie was having difficulty paying attention.

"Fenella? What kind of name's Fenella? I guess it's not any stranger than Kealani."

"Don't mind Klinger. He's a doofus, but the kind of doofus you can't do without."

"Have you eaten in the mess tent yet? Don't."

"Wow, what do you know, another redhead! Just like Baker!"

"You don't... snore, do you?"

Nellie had to laugh at the last one. "Not that I know of."

"We should warn you, Kellye does."

"You liar!"

Their chatter was interrupted by the sound of a male throat clearing itself. "Sorry, ladies," said Klinger, leaning casually against the door jamb, "I'm going to have to steal Lieutenant Malone until she's done checking in with the colonel. You can have your sleep-over party later." This quip was rewarded with a pillow to the face. "And count me out," he added, rubbing his nose.

The plight of the enlisted man, Nellie thought as she fell into step beside the harried corporal. It seemed to be an unspoken agreement among many of the higher-ranking officers that the NCOs were a lower species, undeserving of common courtesy. She had seen it more times than she could count, and it always got her dander up. It was up now.

"We're pretty informal, as you can probably tell," Klinger was saying. "The colonel's a great old guy. Been in three wars now, and he's still a heck of an officer. The only one you have to be careful around is Major Houlihan. She's regular Army, and she runs the nurses like a dog-sled team. I don't want to scare you, but I figured you ought to know, since you'll be answering to her now."

"How's your nose?" she asked.

"My—" He stopped in his tracks. "Say what?"

"Your nose," she repeated, tapping the tip of her own for emphasis. "The nurses are pretty pugilistic around here, aren't they?"

"Ohhh, that." A crooked grin spread over Klinger's face. "Don't worry about it. This honker's genetically designed to withstand the attacks of furious females."

Nellie laughed. "Are you sure?"

"Yeah, I'm fine." He smiled again, and this time it reached his dark eyes. "Thanks, Lieutenant."

As they walked, a familiar smell gradually reached her own nostrils: sweet and slightly musty, like damp hay. They passed a couple of permanent structures and rounded a corner, and Nellie was greeted by an unexpected sight. A slapdash stable had been knocked together behind the motorpool, and in the middle of it there was a beautiful mahogany-colored horse. It stood complacently, slowly chewing a mouthful of grain, as a white-haired man in his mid- to late sixties groomed its coat with a soft brush and talked amiably to it under his breath.

"Sir?" Klinger unfastened the gate and ushered Nellie through the fench surrounding the stable. "Colonel, the new nurse is here. You said you'd want to meet her." He gave her a little nudge forward. "Lieutenant Fenella Malone."

"Oh, right!" The commanding officer stuck out his hand in greeting. Nellie was surprised, expecting a salute, but she returned his handshake, touched by the simple, unaffected gesture. "Colonel Sherman Potter. Welcome to the 4077th."

"Thank you, Colonel," she replied, grateful that she wouldn't be serving under some officious, tyrannical despot. Relieved, she absently patted the horse's neck. The animal turned its head and sniffed at her curiously.

"Lieutenant Malone's had a long day, Colonel," said Klinger, affectionately tousling the horse's forelock. "She's probably pretty beat. I was thinking I'd take her to the mess tent for a quick bite, and then let her rest for a few hours before reporting to Major Houlihan."

"Sounds fine to me, as long as you don't let the food bite her back," Potter said easily. "You like Sophie, do you?"

Nellie looked up, startled by the colonel's question. "Me, sir?"

"Boy, you really are bushed." He pointed at the horse. "Sophie. She's a doll, isn't she?"

"Oh! Yes, sir," she replied, stroking the animal's nose. "My neighbors had horses when I was growing up. They'd let us feed them apples whenever they came over to the fence."

"Uh-oh," said Potter. "Don't let Soph hear you say 'apples'. She's never seen one in her life. And she eats better than all of us."

"It'd be funny if it weren't true," Klinger muttered. "Well, after you, Lieutenant. And, uh, mind the horse apples."

As Nellie stepped gingerly out of the stable, Potter spoke again. "Just out of curiosity, Malone, where did you grow up?"

"Bellflower, Oregon, sir," she said. "Just outside of Portland."

"Never been to the Northwest. Heard it's beautiful, though. And how long were you with the 8063rd?"

She paused at the gate. "I'm sorry, sir?"

"The 8063rd MASH. You were stationed there, weren't you?"

"No, sir," she said slowly, confused. "I was with the Letterman Army Hospital in San Francisco."

"San Francisco?" Potter shouted, causing Sophie's ears to flatten in surprise. "Just how long have you been in Korea, Lieutenant?"

Nellie swallowed. This wasn't going so well anymore. "Well, sir," she said hesitantly, "including today... a day."

Klinger was wringing his baseball cap in his hands. "A day!" he repeated woefully. "Oh, God! Lieutenant, why didn't you tell me? Oh, God!"

"I'm sorry, I thought you already knew!" she cried.

"Now, take it easy, son," said Potter, coming forward and putting a hand on the clerk's shoulder. "It probably wasn't your fault... this time. Just a little miscommunication somewhere along the way."

"But I know I sent the right form! I specifically requested a transfer from a neighboring MASH unit! How'd they take that to mean a nurse fresh from the States?" Suddenly he gasped. "Major Houlihan is gonna blame me for this. Oh, God, I'm a dead man!"

"Uh, Lieutenant?" Potter gestured to Nellie over Klinger's ravings. "See if you can get him to calm down long enough to show you to the mess tent. And then make him drink some coffee. Your first duty is to restore his marbles."

"Yes, sir. Come on, Corporal." She tugged gently at his pink sleeve. "Let's go get ourselves some comestibles."

"She's gonna kill me," he was saying in a monotone as they entered the mess tent. "And then she'll have me demoted." He clutched Nellie's arm, looking around in panic. "She's not in here, is she?"

"I haven't the faintest idea," she said wearily. Of all the things she'd expected when she came to Korea, attempting to comfort a terrified company clerk was not one of them. "Look, Corporal. I'm sure everything will work itself out. In the meantime, would it be too much of an imposition to ask you to bring me something to eat? I really need to sit down."

Klinger turned toward her, and for the first time he seemed to notice her flagging eyelids behind her glasses. "Oh, yeah, yeah, of course, Lieutenant," he said kindly. "I'm sorry. Go ahead and have a seat. I'll be right back."

Sweet kid, she thought as she staggered over to the nearest table and collapsed. Of course, she mused idly as she leaned forward and rested her head on her folded arms, the corporal wasn't exactly a kid. In fact, he looked a few years older than her. Funny how those maternal instincts kicked in at the stupidest times.

Speaking of kids, she wondered how Danny was doing. He was stationed down in Pusan, safely away from the fighting, which eased her worry somewhat. From the letters she'd received before her own transfer, he seemed to be adjusting well. His knack for crunching numbers had landed him a job in supplies. Of course, he probably hadn't told his superiors that his big sister used to help him with his math homework.

"Well, well, gentlemen," came a sudden voice, jolting her out of her reverie, "look what the war dragged in."

Nellie raised her head to see three very tall men standing over her table. The man on the left was wearing a tattered purple bathrobe that hung loosely from his lanky frame. He had black hair shot through with gray, and he returned her bleary stare with a pair of very mischievous blue eyes. The man in the middle was taller and had a more athletic build, and he was blond with a funny-looking mustache to match. And the third man was taller still, with a slight paunch and little hair to speak of. He was holding a cup of coffee, and he wore a major's star on his collar and an amused smirk on his face.

Wait a second... a major's star? Oh, crumbs.

She exploded from her seat and stood up straight, giving a hasty salute. "Terribly sorry, sir, it won't happen again."

The major chuckled dryly. "Please," he said, gesturing for her to lower her hand, "let's not be vulgar."

Nonplussed, she put her hand down. "Yes, sir."

The blond man nodded toward the table where she'd been half-dozing. "As you were, Lieutenant. Make yourself uncomfortable."

Nellie gratefully reclaimed her seat, and the three men sat down across from her. "So," the lanky one said, propping his chin on a bony hand, "come here often, Red?"

"Oh, come, use your eyes, Pierce," the major drawled in a curious accent that wasn't quite English. "This is obviously the young lady's first visit to the seventh circle of Hell." He extended his hand across the table. "Charles Emerson Winchester. How do you do?"

She took his hand, intrigued by his old-world manners and all-too-apparent education. "I do tolerably well, Major Winchester," she answered. "Second Lieutenant Fenella Malone."

"Malone." His hand abruptly retreated. "Irish?"

She gamely raised an eyebrow. "Unabashedly."

Winchester made a vague little noise of disappointment and sipped his coffee.

"Ooh, this is going to be fun," said the dark-haired man. He took her outstretched hand and pumped it enthusiastically. "Hawkeye Pierce."

At that moment Klinger returned with a couple of trays of something that resembled peas and mashed potatoes. "Hawkeye?" Nellie repeated as he slid a tray in front of her. "That's from — thank you, Corporal — from The Last of the Mohicans, isn't it?"

Pierce looked exaggeratedly over both of his shoulders, his eyes narrowed. "Who told you?" he said in mock suspicion.

As Klinger sat down beside her, Nellie picked up a forkful of peas and brought it to her mouth. Immediately the utensil fell from her hand with a clatter, and her body gave an involuntary head-to-toe shudder. Pierce began howling with laughter.

"Yeah, that's the general reaction," said the blond man good-naturedly. He shook her empty hand. "Hi. B.J. Hunnicutt."

"Pleased to meet you." She tried the potatoes, and found them to be marginally less offensive. "What does B.J. stand for?"

"Balthazar Jujube," he answered without hesitation.

Nellie laughed, nearly choking on her food. These men were certifiable.

Klinger nudged her. "These three whackjobs are our esteemed surgeons," he told her.

She turned to him in surprise. Surgeons? Looking at Winchester, she could believe it, dripping with professionalism and all. But Pierce and Hunnicutt? The two behaved like a couple of new draftees. Still, maybe it was a good sign. At least they hadn't allowed their regrettable surroundings to kill their sense of humor.

"Ah, yes, whackjobs," Winchester said with a sardonic smile. "How eloquent. And high praise indeed from the man who, on this day last year, was no doubt wearing a cheery house frock and size-twelve heels."

"That's a malicious lie," Klinger exclaimed. "It would've been far too cold for a house frock. My angora sweater, at the very least."

Nellie was beginning to feel a little like Alice at the Mad Hatter's tea party. Hunnicutt must have noticed her bemused expression. "Don't worry," he assured her. "You'll get used to us. It's easier if you just jump right in, instead of dipping one toe at a time."

"That's something Chahhls here has had to learn the hard way," Pierce added.

"On the contrary," Winchester replied with dignity, "I find great comfort in the knowledge that I have thus far remained unsoiled by your debauchery."

"All the more reason you need to soil yourself more often," Pierce rejoined.

Nellie had to hide her smile behind her hand as she watched Winchester raise his blue eyes heavenward. She couldn't help but feel a little sorry for the major; it was clear that he didn't share the other surgeons' irreverent humor. In this strange place, thousands of miles from everything she knew, however, she found their cheeky behavior immensely refreshing. Maybe, she thought, this won't be as horrible as I thought it would be.

It was then that she became cognizant of a distant vibration — a whirring, thumping sound that she felt before she actually heard.

Klinger groaned. "Oh, no."

"What is that?" Nellie asked, curious.

The four men glanced at each other before answering in unison. "Choppers."

A/N: Dang, that was long. Also, I really underestimated how much fun this would be. I've been a M*A*S*H fan for about ten years now, and I love all the characters, with the possible exception of Ferret-face. But actually writing them, and making them speak, is such a kick. Especially with Charles. I absolutely love the way he talks, and it's a sheer joy putting words in his mouth. I suppose it's also pretty obvious I love Klinger, too. But I digress. My hands hurt from typing, so I'm going to take a little break. In the meantime, I'd adore some reviews, hint hint.

Oh, and on another note, to my knowledge, there is no such place as Bellflower, Oregon. I just thought it sounded nice. And I do hope you caught the Malibu reference.

-Octopus