A/N: Thanks to the people who pointed out that I marked the story Complete after the first chapter – sorry for the confusion. This really is the last instalment!
Hot Under The Collar
Chapter 2 : This Means War
As they left Klinger's office, Hawkeye and BJ met Father Mulcahy, who beamed at them.
"Another lovely day!" he said cheerily.
"Father, the thermometer's had a nervous breakdown, half of the camp is down with prickly heat and the rest are about ready to kill each other," said BJ. "Why do you always have to be so darn happy?"
"Yeah, how come you don't get hot under the dog collar?" said Hawkeye.
Mulcahy looked embarrassed. "Actually, this is just my professional face," he said. "The truth is, Sunday's sermon is proving to be particularly unco-operative, and the pile of paper on the floor of my tent is reaching what you might call biblical proportions. After breaking the nib of my pen on my last sheet, I thought it might be time to go for a brisk walk before my goodwill to all men vanished completely. I thought I'd see if the mail's in."
"Not yet," smiled Hawkeye. "But if you're looking for a way to let off some steam, we might be able to help." He nodded down at the box he was carrying. "Grab a few boxes of surgical tape and meet us in the scrubroom, and my evil masterplan will be revealed."
It took some time, but after a lot of trial and error (and more than a little horsing about), the three of them came up with the perfect product. Hawkeye examined the twenty or so that they had completed, and then looked over at BJ. That dangerous glint was back in his eyes.
"Practical testing?" he suggested.
BJ rubbed his hands together. "Oh, you bet."
"I believe I'll stay here and keep production going," said Father Mulcahy, who had bought into the whole idea with enthusiasm. "I have a feeling there may be a surge in demand if your tests go well."
"Good thinking," said Hawkeye. "Keep 'em coming, Father."
"One each enough for now?" asked BJ, tossing one over to his friend.
"One each is fine," said Hawkeye, catching it carefully. "Let's go."
It was Hawkeye who identified their first test subject. He nudged BJ and pointed to where Margaret Houlihan was standing in the shade of the supply hut, talking to Nurse Baker. "Oh, this is just too perfect," he breathed.
"Hawk…," started BJ cautiously, but it was too late. From five paces away, the baseball-sized waterbomb smacked against the wall directly above Margaret's head and burst, showering her with ice-cold water.
There was five seconds of complete oh-my-god stillness. Margaret assumed the classic pose of someone who has just been soaked without warning – arms held out from her sides, mouth gaping, eyes wide. Hawkeye's expression was a combination of amazement at what he had dared to do and childish delight at the result. Baker stood with her hand clapped to her mouth. BJ looked from Margaret to Hawkeye, Hawkeye to Margaret and waited for the explosion. It wasn't a long wait.
"PIERCE!" shrieked Margaret, pulling a large piece of wet rubber from her hair. "You…..you…"
"I'll say nice things at the funeral," BJ said into his friend's ear. "Hey, Margaret – catch!"
He gently lobbed his own waterbomb to the startled Margaret, then raced away towards the safety of the mess tent. Hawkeye gazed after his treacherous friend in disbelief, and was caught squarely on the side of the head as Margaret hurled the waterfilled glove at him.
"Thank God we made them soft enough not do any real damage," he thought, shaking the water out of his hair like a spaniel emerging from a river. Margaret had now dissolved with laughter and was clutching Baker to keep from falling over. With as much dignity as he could manage with freezing water dripping down his neck, Hawkeye walked over to her. His face was calm and serious as their eyes met.
"I hope you realise this means war," he said quietly, then spun round and sprinted for the scrubroom, screaming "Ammunition, Father - on the double!"
----------------------------------------
It was about ten minutes later when Colonel Potter heard something thump against the side of his tent and jumped up to investigate. He was met by the sight of whooping, screeching madmen charging round like stampeding cattle, clutching what appeared to be small turnips. The ground beneath his bare feet, which had been baked hard for weeks, was now a glutinous mess.
"What in the name of…?" he said to himself, gazing around the compound in bewilderment. He caught sight of Father Mulcahy over by the OR, red-faced and soaking wet, adding an armful of the turnip-things to a stack in a wheelbarrow. Mulcahy froze when he saw the colonel looking his way and dropped one of his load, which burst on the ground releasing a rush of water. At the same instant, Potter heard a familiar, high-pitched howl of laughter, and the pieces of the puzzle fell into place. Pierce, he thought. And where there's Pierce, there's Hunnicutt.
Damn those two! What the hell did they think they were playing at? This was a clear waste of resources and an almost total breakdown in discipline. It was time for a Command Decision. Potter took a deep breath and marched towards Mulcahy, who remained crouched over the wheelbarrow clutching the incriminating evidence. He looks like a kid caught stealing apples from the orchard, thought Potter, as the mud squelched between his toes.
"Colonel," stammered the padre. "I… I….. well, actually, I don't believe I can explain." As he straightened up, another bomb fell to the ground and burst at his feet.
"No need," growled the Colonel, his face like stone. "It seems perfectly clear to me that" – he relaxed and grinned broadly – "you need a hand here. Let me grab my boots, and then you and I can bring some military organisation to this production line, Father. It looks like demand is exceeding supply."
He clapped the amazed priest on the back and darted back towards his tent, dodging a stray missile with ease.
----------------------------------------
Hawkeye crouched behind a large crate in the motor pool and peered out at the anarchy he had created. He was out of breath, filthy and soaking wet, and he couldn't remember having this much fun in far too long. It was as if someone had given the whole place permission to return to the summers when war had meant games in the woods; when you could point a stick at your enemy and shout bang, and he would be dead for a count of ten before jumping up to join in again. Hawkeye smiled wistfully at the memories. If only, he thought.
The camp was a mudbath, filled with running, sliding, falling mudpeople. He watched a half-protesting Charles being chased round the latrine by four laughing nurses, only to be ambushed by a fifth who stayed back and waited for him. Klinger and Igor were on the roof of one of the ambulances, dropping waterbombs on everyone who passed beneath. And – Hawkeye laughed aloud – could that bedraggled, dishevelled figure over by the Swamp really be Margaret Houlihan? She and Nurse Kelleye were squealing like teenagers and hurling handfuls of mud at each other.
Someone skidded into his hideyhole and crashed to the ground beside him, spattering him with yet more sludge. Hawkeye jumped and groped for his final waterbomb.
"Relax – it's me!" panted BJ.
"Are you sure?" asked Hawkeye, peering at him closely. "It could be anyone under all that. Did you fall into a vat of chocolate cookie mixture?"
"You can talk," said BJ. He wiped a hand across his face, creating a bizarre warpaint effect. "For once your body's as dirty as your mind. Anyone would think you lived in a swamp." He grinned, his teeth brilliant white against his mask of mud. "So, how's your day going?"
"Well, I had planned to spend this afternoon darning my socks and treating some foot fungus," said Hawkeye. "And I was looking forward to another gastronomic adventure in the mess tent to round off the day." He shrugged. "But I guess all that fun can wait until this important stuff is over."
The two of them sat with their backs against the crate, catching their breath and just enjoying the moment.
"Sidney Freedman will be sorry he missed this." said Hawkeye after a few minutes.
BJ slapped a muddy hand on his friend's shoulder. "You don't need an expert to analyse this, Hawk," he said. "People were hot and tired and fed up. They didn't need an organized party or a Sunday picnic - they needed to explode, pure and simple."
"Damn straight," said a familiar voice behind them, and they both leaped up and turned, to see Colonel Potter and Father Mulcahy accompanied seven or eight others. "And just like the fireworks," continued the Colonel, "we've saved the best for last." He turned to his troops. "Forward!"
As the two of them went down under the deluge, laughing and shouting for mercy, it was clear that the Colonel had out-thought them. The last batch of bombs had been lovingly filled with cold custard and gravy left over from lunch, with a few other mystery ingredients added.
----------------------------------------
The Officers' Club was packed and noisy. Instead of the half-hearted conversations and occasional loud arguments which had been the norm for the past few days, the place was buzzing. Several couples were dancing, and laughter could be heard over the jukebox as people relived the events of the afternoon, exaggerating their own deeds and bravery and being shouted down by sceptical colleagues with their own tales to tell.
Hawkeye and BJ had spent the last hour removing flour and food colouring from the far reaches of their bodies and now sat at a table with the Colonel, Charles and Father Mulcahy. Hawkeye was digging in his left ear as if something unpleasant might be lingering there.
"Well," said the Colonel, raising his glass. "I've got to hand it to you boys. The lid was about ready to blow on this place, and you found a way of releasing the pressure without anyone getting hurt."
"Absolutely," said Charles. "A little circus slapstick, orchestrated by our two very own resident clowns. But I have to admit, I'm surprised at their ecclesiastical accomplice."
Father Mulcahy smiled. "Ah, but wait until you hear Sunday's sermon, Major," he said. "I'm thinking of calling it 'Revitalise your soul by revisiting your childhood'."
"Amen to that," said Colonel Potter, chuckling.
"You know, this whole thing might never have happened, if it hadn't been for Margaret," said BJ, looking over to where she sat with a group at the bar. "There was a moment there when she could have gone either way."
"That's right," agreed Hawkeye. "The old Hotlips would have had me up on charges before her hair was dry." He stood up. "I think I'll buy that lady a drink."
He began to make his way through the crowd to the bar, and had just reached Margaret's side when the tannoy announcement came.
"Attention all personnel! Incoming wounded – and they've been hit with more than waterbombs!"
Margaret started to stand up, but a hand took her arm.
"Wait," said Hawkeye, and his gaze held her as firmly as his hand while the room emptied around them. Then he leaned forward and kissed her very gently on the cheek before turning, without a word, to follow the others out.
Margaret stared at his back, her fingers touching the place where his lips had brushed her cheek. For the second time that day, he had taken her breath away. She jumped up and ran after him, grabbing his shoulder.
"Wait," she spluttered, finding her voice. "You can't just……I mean……how could….what the hell was that for?"
Hawkeye held the door open for her. "For letting the child in you out to play, Margaret. You should do that more often - apparently it's good for your soul." He grinned at her. "And if an unexpected soaking is all the encouragement you need, you'd better start looking for me and my bucket around every corner."
Margaret looked at him in a way that suddenly made him very nervous, and his confident smile evaporated.
"What?" he said suspiciously.
"Well," she replied. "If we're talking about soaking, you might want to know that while you were in the shower, I went round and collected every bottle of cheap perfume and cheesy cologne I could lay my hands on." She smiled sweetly. "Your entire wardrobe is currently marinating in a tub in the nurses' tent."
"You didn't!"
"But I did. If you challenge a Houlihan, Pierce, you'd better be prepared for the consequences." As they set off across the compound she added, almost casually, "Oh, and I'd appreciate it if you would stay downwind of me for the next three or four weeks."
The End