Story Statement: Plain and Simple, this is the easily recognizable ST:TOS "Mirror, Mirror" with the setting and characters changed to M*A*S*H*. This story occurs within my MASH-based FanFiction Universe. Thanks are owed to Paul Gadkizowski, whose amalgam T*R*E*K* inspired this, and to Constable Katie, who gave me permission to post it.

Chapter 1 - Reversing The Charges

The storm overhead rattled so fiercely, Hawkeye Pierce was sure that Kong was about to burst through the trees. He looked again at the Buddhist Monks they had come to see, while Jeep Driver and Chief Worrywart BJ Hunnicutt honked the horn.

"C'mon, Hawk! That storm is looking pre-tee bad, and I'd liked to be back in Camp before it really hits."

Pierce smiled cockily at his best friend.

"Let me give it one last try, Beej. As to the storm, how could it look any worse than that cheesy moustache?"

As Hawkeye knew he would, BJ let the comment go, for time's sake. Fidgeting with him inside the jeep were Head Nurse Margaret Houlihan and Company Chaplain Father Francis Mulcahy. Colonel Sherman Potter had sent them to negotiate for the miraculous herbs this little community of Monks grew. One and all, they brought personalities that Potter felt would net them the herbs that would make a healer's job so very much easier. One and all, they failed. There was a major stumbling block to their acquisition. Despite knowing better, Pierce tried one last time.

"You know, praying for the peace and well-being of others is nice and all, but the stuff you guys grow here is the answer to prayers. Infections, amputations, head injuries, you name it. Everyone could benefit--even you."

The Head Monk looked steadfast but not judgmental. Pierce both envied the man his serenity and despised him for being so polite in saying No.

"Captain, you are a good man. I can tell this about you. Major Houlihan and Captain Hunnicutt are most compassionate, and we respect our fellow Holy Man, Father Mulcahy. But the indisputable fact remains, you would use our herbs to aid soldiers."

"That's kind of what we do."

"And would these soldiers return to war?"

"Some of them. That's kind of what they do."

"Then our resolve is unshakable. We would rather allow our ancient order to pass from the Earth than aid any war that is not fought within the human heart."

BJ honked the horn--this time more loudly, and longer. Pierce spoke through gritted teeth.

"I heaaar you, Beeeej!"

"Captain Pierce. You could simply send in MP's to take them from us. We could offer you no resistance, save to try to destroy our herbs, to spare them warlike use."

As Pierce acquiesced to Hunnicutt's concern, he got the last word-as always.

"Yeah, I guess we could. But we won't. Think about that."

As the jeep drove off, the monks watched the storm overhead. A novice spoke to the Head Monk.

"Master, I dreamed of the storm opening a blood-soaked door to a dark place. The American healers face much peril!"

"They are good people, Novice. The balance will protect them, just as this place of light we dwell in is balanced by the dark place you dreamed upon. Their true peril comes from this storm."

As the monks finally went inside, the Jeep was already half-way back to the 4077th MASH. But the storm was getting worse.

"Father, do you have a prayer to St. Christopher, for this trip's last leg?"

"Actually, BJ, I am currently being very creative with several Novenas I know. I wonder if Lucifer's rebellion looked anything like this?"

Margaret ticked off, "The Devil You Say, Father!"

Pierce shot the grinning Houlihan a warning look about stealing his lines. Then, he noted where the lightning was striking the most.

"Beej! Pull behind those rocks!"

At first BJ wondered why he should even consider this, but then all noticed that the mine field nearby was being struck repeatedly. He swerved.

"Hang On!"

Just as they pulled to safety, it sounded like every single mine in the Korean Theater of Operations went off simultaneously. The bright flash had Father Mulcahy paraphrasing Milton.

"And, as he fell, he gave off a horrible shriek, his beauty burned away. Sorry, folks-just shaken up a bit."

No one, not even the agnostic Hawkeye, disagreed with the sentiment the Padre expressed. BJ got the jeep back on the road. The storm was quieter, but it was still there, and still quite loud on its own merits. Hawkeye looked back.

"Hey, did we get turned around?"

"I--don't think we were. I can sight the camp."

"BJ, why don't you use the walkie-talkie and call ahead? We're in range, and there could be fresh potholes we need to avoid."

Margaret's idea was sound, so long as someone was on the other end, and had theirs on. Luckily, someone did.

"Yes, Captain. Zale here. No new potholes to report, sir. I will remain on call until you are back, sir. Zale out."

In the jeep, there was a bit of confusion. BJ voiced the concern.

"Since when does Zelmo Zale speak like a pre-World War 1 English Aristocrat?"

Margaret shrugged.

"Who knows? Maybe he and Klinger are working together on a Section 8, this time. If they act too intelligent, we'll wonder if they are who they say they are. That one might actually work."

Then, they hit a pothole. They were only inches from the camp gate, so it didn't matter, but they were thrown--and not only by the bump. Hawkeye stood up in the Jeep.

"A Gate? Since when do we have a gate? Margaret, did you order this from Montgomery-Ward?"

"Oh, quit jabbering, and get them to open it!"

"Good idea. Hey, uh---tower guards? How about this gate?!"

"Right away, Commander!"

"Don't try to be funny, guys! That's my job!"

"Sorry, sir! I'll put myself on report!"

Pierce sat back down.

"This guy doesn't know when to quit."

The gate opened, and the jeep was guided in. Awaiting them was Charles Emerson Winchester The Third.

"Ah, Commander Pierce. Any luck with those recalcitrant Monks? We could use those herbs, after all. It would make our appointed task easier."

Trying not to look too perplexed, Pierce avoided asking Charles how he had grown a beard in the last 6 hours.

"Uh, no. They um, still won't cough up."

"A pity that so old an order has chosen to lose its place in Washington's Cultural Pathology Museum. Well, they had to die, anyway, right? That is why we're here, at the behest of our Nipponese "Allies". Shall I send an extermination squad?"

"An extermination squad? For what?"

"Ha-ha, Commander. Once again, we see your rapier wit at work. One generally sends an extermination squad to--Exterminate! If these Holy men wish to have holes drilled in them, Marshal McIntyre and his men only too happy to go at it. Our "Trapper" has been chomping at the bit, lately. Not that I noticed any change from his usual scholarly self."

Hawkeye, Margaret, BJ and the Padre all noticed many changes-none of them good. Now, the quite vicious Winchester spoke to the proper - talking Zale.

"You failed to guide them past the potholes, Lieutenant. Your nightstick, if you would-or even if you would not."

"Sir, it was not my fault. Group Captain Hunnicutt knew of that last pothole. It has been there for two weeks!"

"Two weeks, you say? Any excuse is, Mr. Zale, by definition, 'too weak'. Are you seeking to disgrace this unit still further?"

Zale withdrew the small but solid nightstick from near his perfectly-shined boots. He handed to it to Winchester, who nodded to him.

"I accept my punishment for the American Fatherland. Victory!"

When Zale raised his arm in a sickeningly-familiar salute, Margaret was alarmed. When Winchester, in almost a flourish, proceeded to beat him senseless with the nightstick, she had to turn away. Pierce motioned Winchester away.

"She's still shook up from the pothole. I'll look after her---Winchester. You just-do your work."

"You'll look after her? Oh, DARN, and I thought this was my week with 'the flap that never closes.' Still, I suppose Command must have some prerogatives, else, where's the fun? "

The look in Margaret's eyes was one he had seen only a few times. Once had been when they agreed to suspend their early feud to try and find out the real reason Henry Blake was killed. Somehow, they would find out where the hell they were, and why in God's name the Nazi Swastika flew above this nightmare version of the 4077th MASH.