CHAPTER ONE

He knew it was bad.

Before even chancing a glance, Sherman Potter knew the throbbing wound to his leg was bad. When he finally steeled his courage to look down at his olive-drab pants leg, he watched momentarily transfixed as several day's worth of dried mud became increasingly darker and wetter, his own blood beginning to seep through the coarse fabric. He'd seen blood before, far too much blood, but knowing it was his own was a completely new and disquieting experience.

"At least it missed the femoral", he muttered to himself as he focused his attention away from the injury, knowing the possibility of going into shock would be greatly lessened if he concentrated on survival. He turned onto his other hip, hoping to hoist himself back to his feet, adding, "Else she'd be a'gusher right now."

Only two things could've conspired to force Potter back to a prone position... unfortunately, both occurred simultaneously. First, upon placing the smallest amount of weight on the injured limb, he felt chilling, overpowering pain shoot through him like a jagged icicle had been rammed through his thigh. This was immediately followed by small clumps of dirt exploding from the ground on both sides of him as enemy fire attempted to send him to a more permanent supine state. Potter collapsed as a wave of nausea washed over him and he quietly, calmly resigned himself to his fate.

"Looks like I'll be the first, boys." he thought aloud, remembering a pledge taken in the last "war to end all wars". What was it they called it? A tauntine? He smiled as he resigned himself to the sudden clear memory of a cache of fine brandy found by a group of young warriors, consumed amidst laughter and affection while death rained around them. The last remaining bottle was preserved and pledged... whoever survived would one day use it to toast his fallen friends.

"Remember me, fellas." he said with a wistful smile. "I'll never forget you."

Another stray round flung dirt into Potters face, blinding him for the moment. As he sputtered and spit, trying to wipe his eyes with the back of his filthy hand, he sensed rather than saw a shadow fall across him. He struggled to find his weapon, then heard an all too familiar voice say, "As you were, lieutenant."

Young Lieutenant Sherman Potter's eyes cleared to find the tall, dark handsome form of a friend. "Clark? What in Sam Hill do you think you're doing?! You're gonna get yourself killed!"

"Somebody's gotta run guard for you, Hoops", the young officer replied, bending beside Potter and placing both arms gently beneath him. "Especially if you're determined to do a lay-up in the direct line of fire."

"Get out of here, man!" Potter barked, trying vainly to push himself out of the other man's steely grip. "Save yourself! You can't carry....." Before he could finish the thought, much less the statement, Sherman Potter felt himself lifted as though he were made of cotton and carried at quite a clip across the erupting landscape. His savior, Lieutenant Kent, dodged and ducked a veritable hailstorm of artillery without sacrificing a moment of speed and Potter rode dumbfounded, cradled in the large man's arms.

Potter then felt the impact as surely as if someone had clapped him on the shoulder, but it wasn't he who was hit. He knew Kent had caught one in the back and suffered immediate sorrow, pain, remorse for being the eventual, unmistakable cause of his friend's death. Kent, however, showed absolutely no signs of distress... no pain in his eyes, no tardiness in his step, as he jumped, fairly flew over the sandbag embankment and into the relative safety of the bunker.

"Let me see it!" Potter struggled, ignoring his own pain.

"See what?" Kent asked simply while the wounded lieutenant pushed and prodded to turn him around.

"You took a round in your back, Clark! Let me see what can be done!" But as he searched Kent's broad back, he could merely find holes in the fatigues, several holes at that, but positively no blood. "I was... I was sure you were shot back there... while you were running. I was sure of it....."

"Nah... probably just caught a piece of rock", Clark shrugged. "Rounds were kicking up a bit of debris back there. Anyway, I'm fine, Sherm, but you... we gotta get your leg looked at!" Kent stood and scanned the area until he found his commanding officer standing a ways off. "Colonel?" he called out.

"Don't make such a fuss... looks t'me like a clean exit. All I need is....." Potter protested.

"Colonel?!" Kent called out again.

"Clark, I told'ja, I'm fine! Quit yer catterwallin'!"

"Colonel?!" Kent's voice was different this time, changed, higher pitched and nasal, with a distinctive accent that Potter had never noticed before... but, was somehow, strangely familiar.

"Colonel!"

Colonel Sherman Potter's head snapped up from his desk, causing a spasm of pain to jolt through his neck. "Kent?" he asked, his voice raspy from rest.

"Kent? No thank you, sir." Maxwell Q. Klinger replied through teeth clamped onto a foul-smelling cigar. "I don't smoke."

"Then what d'ya call THAT?" Colonel Potter asked, rising to his feet, faintly expecting his "injured" leg to protest, and pointing at the smoldering stogie.

"Personally, I call it 'a little piece of heaven', oh colonel, my colonel." the Lebanese corporal replied. "Although less endearing, yet more colorful phrases containing the word 'piece' have been bandied about the camp."

"I can well imagine. I take you came in to tell me my two, new surgeons have arrived." Potter stated, crossing to the double doors that separated his office from that of the company clerk's.

"Well, yes and no, sir."

"Put one of them in the 'Swamp' and....." Potter drew up short and turned around, the look on his face alone asking, "Yes and no?"

"We have two new arrivals, colonel, but neither of them are surgeons... sir." Klinger replied apologetically.

"Specialists?" Potter asked hopefully, a growing edge to his voice. Klinger shook his head, a weak smile on his face. "GPs?" Potter tried again, drawing the same response. "Veterinarians?!" Potter growled.

"A... 'gear-jockey' and a 'gas-passer', sir." Klinger offered meekly.

"An engineer and an anesthesiologist?" Potter bellowed. "What're those idiots at I-corps using for brains?! I asked for doctors! We need doctors, dammit!"

Klinger held his hands up in mock defense, pleading, "Don't kill the messenger, sir!" adding, "I'll get I-corps on the phone" just as Potter was saying, "Get me I-corp on the phone!" After "Yes, sir" and "Good!" were uttered simultaneously, Potter added, "Before I ship 'em back, what're these soldiers' names?"

"Captains Bruce Wayne and Kent Clark, sir."

"Kent Clark?"

The taller, broader officer smiled in reply as they carried their dufflebags across the compound. "Well, I used 'Clark Kent' in WWI, Bruce. And, not knowing if I might run into someone from way back then....."

"...who wouldn't know a Kryptonian's lifespan would be so long..." the other added.

"...I figured it'd be best to 'doctor' the name a bit!"

"Cute." Bruce Wayne snorted. "And I thought I left my punster back in Gotham."

"Four!"

The cry came a split second before the golfball rocketed towards the two new arrivals. Without conscious thought, Wayne snatched the ball from the air a full foot short of his face. Two men carrying golf clubs came running towards him, each was dressed in something less than government issue... one sported a ragged bathrobe over his fatigues while the other wore a wide-brimmed straw hat and an even wider grin.

"Nice catch!" the decidedly taller of the two offered.

"Mean slice." Bruce Wayne replied, tossing the golf ball back.

The man in the robe, dark, unkempt hair and distinctive profile offered his hand to Kent, saying, "Hawkeye Pierce. Welcome to the four-oh-seven-seven. The man who just tried to crease your cranium here is B.J. Hunnicutt."

B.J. shook hands all around, including Hawkeye's. "Pleased t'meet'cha!"

Hawkeye took on a pose of false modesty, adding, "We're thought of as 'The Dynamic Duo' around here."

"You don't say!" Wayne smiled.

"Well, no, WE don't", Hunnicutt shrugged. "But who are we to fly in the face of public opinion?"

"I try never to fly there myself!" the powerhouse finally spoke up. "Kent. Kent Clark. The target here beside me is Bruce Wayne. We were told one of us was to report to 'the Swamp'....."

"...but we would prefer to bunk together, if at all possible." Bruce concluded.

"You're in luck!" Hawkeye beamed. "The esteemed Captain Hunnicutt and myselves just happen to be the proud proprietors of said 'Swamp' and there's room enough for both of you!"

"Until Monday." B.J. added.

"Until Monday." Hawkeye agreed.

"Until Monday?" Clark asked.

"Charles is in Tokyo until Monday. One of you can have his bunk until then."

"...and then?" Bruce asked.

"Well," B.J. grinned, "We'll blow up that bridge when we come to it!"

As they all turned and made their way Swampward, Clark Kent was heard to state, "I take it this 'Charles' is a giving, understanding individual."

0200 hours, the dead of night, found Kent and Wayne on the outskirts of the compound dressed in a even less "government issue" than the two captains who greeted them. Wayne, shrouded in gray and black, fairly melted into the darkness while Kent, arrayed in primary colors, stood out like a circus performer.

"Did you get any rest?" Superman whispered, preparing to lift his compatriot.

"Enough." was the terse reply. Superman knew that, when the hooded cowl went over his friend's face, all traces of Bruce Wayne vanished, replaced by a grim, dark knight.

"Alright... tonight is merely recon. Infiltrate the enemy stronghold at TaQwi, evaluate their status, and report back to I-corp. No, I repeat, NO heroics!"

"Physician heal thyself." Batman murmured.

"A joke?" Superman grinned boyishly. "A joke from the Batman?!"

"Shut up and fly." came the grim reply and they both lifted from the ground and disappeared in the dark, Korean skies.

"Where do you think they sneaked off to?" B.J. asked in the dark, stillness of the "Swamp".

"Rosie's?" offered Hawkeye, yawning.

"Maybe....."

"First day jitters?" Hawkeye added. "Insomnia?"

"Maybe....."

"You worried, Mom?"

"Maybe." B.J. smiled. "You know how I fret until all my chicks are back in the roost."

"Then suffer no further, Hunnicutt." a third voice entered the conversation. "And suffer me not with further conversation. I long to languish in the arms of Morpheus."

"Charles!" Hawkeye sputtered. "You're back!"

"From Tokyo!" B.J. stammered.

"Early!" concluded Hawkeye.

"Very good." Major Charles Emerson Winchester III sneered. "Now, if you can tell me what I had for dinner, you'll both move on to the bonus round! I require rest, gentlemen... and I use the term loosely."

"But, Charles..."

Winchester collapsed onto his bunk fully clothed, his dufflebag dropping unceremoniously beside it. "Sleep now. Endure your pedantic prattlings on the morrow."

"But, Charles...!"

Any further sound escaping Winchester's mouth could in no way be interpreted as conversation as exhaustion claimed him.

"Well, this is a fine 'how-do-you-do'!" Hawkeye quipped.

"And he hasn't even met Bruce yet!" B.J. grinned broadly.

"I get the feeling that oversight is soon to be rectified."

"'Rectified' might be an unfortunate choice of phrase!" B.J. laughed.