“All I want is a three-day pass to Tokyo!” Hawkeye exclaimed.  “How can that be so difficult?  It’s not as though there’s a push on.”

This was true.  In fact, the previous fortnight had been almost peace-like (though hardly peace itself since the talks in Panmunjom continued interminably).  The shelling had ceased and the last casualty been treated.  Anyone at the 4077th M.A.S.H. who was not actually on shift returned to the tents, collapsed on their cots, and snored around the clock.  They woke to silence—barring Winchester’s phonograph—and the leisure to catch up on laundry and mail.  Then the wounded were evacuated further from the front; Post-Op emptied; and scuttlebutt suggested it would stay quiet for a while.

Of course, core duties still had to be covered, though the only patients were an elderly Korean man, a pregnant mother, and one of Nurse Cratty’s orphans.  Major Houlihan took petitions from her nurses, worked out her duty rosters, and submitted an annotated list.  “Just routine leave,” she said briskly.  Colonel Potter noted without comment that she had only slipped her own name in at the end.

The staff sergeant also brought in paperwork.  When Radar handed it over to be initialled, he added a few oblique suggestions of his own; and Colonel Potter read between the lines.  The little clerk surfaced a couple of days later to find incomplete forms on every flat surface.  “I might almost have well better have stayed,” he muttered under his breath as he straightened his files, but refused to repeat his words when asked what he’d said.  Nor was he the only enlisted man to get leave:  Goldman covered for Igor; Bryant covered for Zale; Ames covered for Pernelli.  (In their absence, the food in the mess tent did not improve.)

Belatedly, Klinger came by in a crimson silk sari claiming a sob story worth a week in Hawaii.  His time had been well spent togging up the assemblage.  There was a lace veil over his hair, bangles halfway up each arm, and matching heels.  A scarlet bindi had been carefully painted dead centre over his snozz.  Colonel Potter put down his pen and sat back in awe:  the embroidered border was a good three inches deep.  “I tell you what,” he began, but awarded Klinger a temporary transfer to the motor pool.  So the outfit was hung back up to languish unseen in the fleshpots of Honolulu (or even Uijeongbu); and it was Sgt. Rizzo who checked out a jeep and headed for town.

“What do you say?” said Hawkeye.  “Three day pass?”  His eyes begged; his tones were dulcet.

“I’ve had both Hunnicutt and Winchester in here already,” Potter observed mildly.  “I’m surprised it took you this long.”  He took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes.  “You know, Pierce, I can’t let everyone go.  Whose turn is it?  No!”  He raised a quick hand.   “Don’t answer.  B.J. went to that medical conference last month.  Winchester got a couple of days in Incheon.  You took French leave and headed for Panmunjom again.  Wrecked a good jeep, come to think of it; and look-ee, look-ee, the war’s still here.  So whose turn is it?”  Potter shook his head.  “Hell, if anyone’s going to have leave, it probably ought to be me, didja think of that?”  There was no heat in his voice.

Hawkeye looked startled.

“Yeah, I thought you hadn’t considered the old c.o. might like a trip out of Dodge.  Could do with a little r-and-r myself, you know.”

Hawkeye almost looked abashed.

“You’re senior medical officer.  Leave you with the paperwork.”  Potter patted the stack of forms on his desk.  “If Radar hasn’t got caught up yet, you can maybe help him with the filing.  Sounds pretty good to me.”  He grinned, and took a few moments to enjoy Hawkeye’s reaction.  Then he added, with a twinkle, “No, it’s all right, Pierce.  Lack-of-rank has its privileges, or something like that.  I’ll take my own leave after all you youngsters get a fling.  Been there, done that—a couple of wars ago, in fact.”

Hawkeye looked relieved.

“’Course, that still leaves me with the problem of which of my officers does get a pass.”  The colonel sighed.  Then he slapped his desk sharply.  “Right!” he cried, and rose to his feet.  “You talked me into it.  I know who gets the holiday—if only because he’s the only one of you who hasn’t asked.”  He strode to the door, calling “Radar!” loudly.

“Oh, there you are,” he said to his startled clerk, who backed from the door in a hurry.  “Get Father Mulcahy would you?  Tell him I want to see him. Pronto.”

NOTES

This story was written for dandelionblizzard in the Trick or Treat gift exchange, and originally posted to the Archive of Our Own on 24 October 2024, with the reveal on Halloween.