"God watches over fools," smiled BJ as he scanned the skies. "And we're the biggest fools of all."
Hawkeye Pierce wasn't having a great day. Not that any day in Korea could be considered great, wonderful or even just middling. This was one of the ones that would remain in his mind after the war, not molded together with most of the rest.
Major Winchester decided to open up a can of expensive kippers at four in the morning, three hours after all of them wrapped up two days straight of surgery. If there's one smell Hawkeye hated, it was those miserable canned fish.
"Charles! What the hell is wrong with you! The whole tent smells like low tide!" he screeched upon getting a whiff of this late night snack.
Charles chuckled. "It is overpowering the stench from your feet, something I have to abide on a daily basis. This is a mere inconvenience."
Outside a cat began to meow. Pretty soon, a group of them were howling and fighting, trying to get into the tent to track down where the scent was coming from.
"Goodnight, gentlemen," Charles yawned, placing the open can on ground and climbing back into bed. Hawkeye was deep in his covers, trying to mask the scent. One of the cats, an orange tabby known around the camp as Buzzard, managed to squeeze in through a crack in the tent door. As all the denizens of the Swamp dozed, Buzzard found the tin, ate what was left and curled up between BJ's feet. BJ, being allergic to cats, woke up stuffed to the rafters and covered in orange fur. He was not in the best of moods. Neither was Charles when he found his cologne had been replaced with syrup.
The weather. It was hot like Hades. The sky boiled and Potter said there were cyclone warnings coming in from HQ. Potter was used to weather like this. Hawkeye wasn't. Oh, give him a blizzard and he'll out shovel everyone, but tornados? Several of the enlisted men were digging trench shelters just in case.
Margaret Houlihan. She was making Hawkeye downright chilly with her cold shoulder. And he worried about her. She was drinking much more than usual since "the red party". They danced a lot that night. They talked a lot too. She wanted to hear about Crabapple Cove, so he told her everything his drunk mind could recall.
But then asked about her childhood. Somewhere in Margaret's mind a door slammed shut. She left, presumably to get some sleep, but sightings of her outside the OR and the Mess Tent were few and far between. He missed her. Somewhere in the deep recesses of Hawkeye Pierce's heart a match light had been struck and was burning non-stop. If you asked, he'd deny it.
Only BJ knew it was there. He was just too good to say anything about it. He saw the way they looked at each other.
The two of them went to breakfast, where they heard about the cyclones and heard Charles yell about his cologne all the way across camp.
"I'm a New Englander. Syrup smells so much better than woman repellant he normally uses," Hawkeye frowned, sniffing his oatmeal.
"Et tu, Brute," said BJ, frowning at his coffee. "I guess we're at the mercy of mother nature…and…"
"Pepto Bismol," Hawkeye finished, pushing his tray away. He was feeling deeply unwell. Potter came clomping by, Radar in tow.
"You boys pass word to Charles and Margaret to know where the closest trench is at all times. I don't like this weather one bit."
BJ talked about fools. Hawkeye felt like it was stamped on his forehead. The day was just getting started and about to take a turn for the worse.