Mash (11 page)

“Yes,” she said.

“That’s better,” Trapper said. “So where’s the X-ray department?”

“Yes,” she said.

They wandered down the main hallway, people turning to look at them as they passed, until they came to the X-ray department. They walked in, put their clubs in a corner and sat down. They put their feet on the radiologist’s desk and lighted cigarettes.

“Don’t set fire to your beard,” Hawkeye cautioned Trapper John.

“Can’t,” Trapper said. “Had it fire-proofed.”

“What the …?” somebody in the gathering circle of interested X-ray technicians started to say.

“All right,” Trapper said. “Somebody trot out the, latest pictures of this kid with the shell fragment in his chest.”

No one moved.

“Snap it up!” yelled Hawkeye. “We’re the pros from Dover, and the last pictures we saw must be forty-eight hours old by now.”

Without knowing why, a confused technician produced the X-rays. The pros perused them carefully.

“Just as we thought,” said Trapper. “A routine problem.”

“Yeah,” Hawkeye said. “They must have a hair trigger on the panic button here. Where’s the patient?”

“Ward Six,” somebody answered.

“Take us there.”

Led to Ward Six, the pros politely asked the nurse if they might see the patient. The poor girl, having embarked from the States many months before fully prepared in her mind for any tortures the enemy might inflict upon her, was unprepared for this.

“I don’t know,” she said. “I don’t think I can allow you to see him without the permission of Major Adams.”

“Adams?” Trapper said. “John Adams?”

“Adams?” Hawkeye said. “John Quincy Adams?”

“No. George Adams.”

“Never heard of him,” Trapper said. “Come on now, nice nurse-lady. Let’s see the kid.”

They followed the hapless nurse into the ward and she led them to the patient. A brief examination revealed that, although the boy did have a two-centimeter shell fragment and a lot of blood in his right chest and that removal of both was relatively urgent, he was in no immediate danger. His confidence and well-being were not particularly enhanced, however, by the bearded, robed, big-hatted character who had dumped a bag of golf clubs at the foot of his bed and had then started to listen to his chest.

“Have no fear, Trapper John is here,” Hawkeye assured him in a loud voice, and then, privately, he whispered in the patient’s ear: “Don’t worry, son. This is Captain McIntyre, and he’s the best chest surgeon in the Far East and maybe the whole U.S. Army. He’s gonna fix you up easy. Your Daddy saw to that.”

When they asked, the Swampmen were told by the nurse that blood had been typed and that an adequate supply had been cross-matched. They picked up their clubs and, following directions, headed for the operating area where they found their way barred by a fierce Captain of the Army Nurse Corps.

“Stop, right where you are!” she ordered.

“Don’t get mad, m’am,” Hawkeye said. “All we want is our starting time.”

“Get out!” she screamed.

“Look, mother,” Trapper said. “I’m the pro from Dover. Me and my greenskeeper want to crack that kid’s chest and get out to the course. Find the gas-passer and tell him to premedicate the patient, and find this Major Adams so he can get his spiel over with. Also, while you’re at it, I need a can of beans and my greenskeeper here wants ham and eggs. It’s now eight o’clock. I want to work at nine. Hop to it!”

She did, much to her own surprise. Breakfast was served, followed immediately by Major Adams who, after his initial shock, adjusted to the situation when it developed that all three had a number of mutual friends in the medical dodge.

“I don’t know about the C.O., though,” Major Adams said, meaning the Commanding Officer.

“Who is he?” Hawkeye said.

“Colonel Ruxton P. Merrill. Red-neck R.A. all the way.”

“Don’t worry about him,” Trapper said. “We’ll handle him.”

At nine o’clock the operation started. At nine-oh-three Colonel Merrill, having heard about the unusual invasion of his premises, stormed into the operating room. He was without gown, cap or mask, so Hawkeye, deploring the break in the antiseptic techniques prescribed for OR’s, turned to the circulating nurse and ordered: “Get that dirty old man out of this operating room!”

“I’m Colonel Merrill!” yelled Colonel Merrill.

Hawkeye turned and impaled him on an icy stare. “Beat it, Pop. If this chest gets infected, I’ll tell the Congressman on you.”

After that there was no further excitement, and the operation, as the Swampmen had surmised, turned out to be routine. Within forty-five minutes the definitive work was done, and only the chest closure remained.

When the operation had started, the anesthesiologist of the 25th Station Hospital had been so busy getting the patient asleep in order to meet the deadline imposed by the pros from Dover that he had not been introduced. Furthermore, he had not seen them without their masks – nor had they seen him – but when he had a chance to settle down and relax, the shell fragment and the blood having been removed to the perceptible betterment of the patient’s condition, he wrote at the top of his anesthesia record the name “Hawkeye Pierce” in the space labeled “First Assistant.” He wrote it with assurance and with pleasure.

The anesthesiologist was Captain Ezekiel Bradbury (Me Lay) Marston, V, of Spruce Harbor, Maine. In Spruce Harbor, Maine, the name Marston is synonymous with romantic visions of the past – specifically clipper ships – and money. The first to bear the name captained a clipper, bought it and built three more. The second commanded the flagship of the fleet and bought four more. Number III was skipper of the
Spruce Harbor,
which went down with all hands off Hatteras some three years after number IV had been born in its Captain’s cabin forty miles south of Cape Horn. Number V was Me Lay Marston, the only swain in Spruce Harbor High who could say, “Me lay, you lay?” and parlay such a simple, unimaginative approach into significant success with the young females of the area.

Hawkeye Pierce thought of it first, and last, but Me Lay Marston had also gone around for a while with the valedictorian of the Class of ‘41 at Port Waldo High School. In November, 1941, after Spruce Harbor beat Port Waldo 38-0, Pierce and Marston engaged in a fist fight which neither won decisively. In subsequent years they belonged to the same fraternity at Androscoggin College, played on the same football team, attended the same medical school and, during internship, they shared the same room. Me Lay was an usher when Hawkeye Pierce married the valedictorian, and Hawkeye provided a similar service when Me Lay did the same for the Broad from Eagle Head, whom Hawkeye had also dated for a while.

During his adolescence and earliest manhood, Me Lay had been proud of his name. Now, circumstances having forced him to correct his behavior, he was merely resigned to it. By 1952, however, he had not been addressed as Me Lay for three years. He had not seen Hawkeye Pierce for three years.

So on a bright, warm day in Kokura the fifth in a series of Captain Marstons looked up from his chart and asked, “May I have the surgeon’s name, please?”

Hawkeye Pierce answered, “He’s the pro from Dover and I’m the Ghost of Smoky Joe.”

“Save that crap for someone else, you stupid clamdigger,” answered Captain Marston.

The surgeons stopped. The first assistant leaned over and looked at the anesthesia chart and saw his name. He knew the writing and recognized the writer. He took it in his stride. “Me Lay, I’d like you to meet Trapper John.”

“The real Trapper John? Your cousin who threw you the pass and went on to greater fame on the Boston & Maine?”

“The one and only,” affirmed Hawkeye.

“Trapper, you are in bad company,” said Me Lay, “but I’ll be happy to shake your hand if you’ll hurry up and get that chest closed. You still workin’ the trains?”

“Planes mostly. May take a crack at rickshas. You still employing the direct approach?”

“No, not since I married the Broad from Eagle Head. I’ve been out of action now for four years.”

“Then what the hell do you do around here?” asked Hawkeye. “It doesn’t look like you’re very busy. You mean to tell us you don’t chase the local scrunch?”

“I don’t seem to be interested in it from that angle. The first month I was here all I did was wind my watch and evacuate my bladder. Now I’m taking a course in Whorehouse Administration.”

“Under the auspices of the Army’s Career Management Plan?” inquired Trapper.

“No, all on my own.”

“It was Yankee drive and ingenuity that built the Marston fortune,” Hawkeye pointed out. “I’m proud of you, Me Lay. Where are you taking the course?”

“At Dr. Yamamoto’s Finest Kind Pediatric Hospital and Whorehouse,” Captain Marston informed him.

“Cut the crap, Me Lay. This sounds like too much even for you.”

“I’m serious. This guy practices pediatrics, has a little hospital and runs a whorehouse, all in the same building.”

“What are you? A pimp?”

“No. I keep the books, inspect the girls and take care of some of the kids in the hospital. Occasionally I tend bar and act as bouncer. A guy needs well rounded training to embark on a career such as this.”

The chest got closed, despite the conversation. In the dressing room the Swampmen got back into their Papa-San suits and continued the reunion with Me Lay Marston.

“What’s with this Colonel Merrill?” asked Trapper.

“Red-neck R.A. all the way,” Captain Marston said. “He’ll give you a bad time if you let him.”

A messenger entered and stated that Captains Pierce and McIntyre were to report to the colonel’s office immediately. Me Lay gave them the address of the FKPH&W and suggested that they meet him there at seven that evening for dinner and whatnot.

“OK,” Hawkeye said, and then he turned to the messenger waiting to guide them to the colonel’s office. “Got any caddy carts?”

“What?” the messenger said.

Sighing, they slung their clubs over their shoulders and followed the guide. The colonel was temporarily occupied elsewhere, so rather than just sit there during his absence and read his mail, the Swampmen decided to practice putting on his carpet.

“You men are under arrest,” the colonel boomed, when he stormed onto the scene.

“Quiet!” Trapper said. “Can’t you see I’m putting?”

“Why, you …”

“Let’s get down to bare facts, Colonel,” Hawkeye said. “Probably even you know this case didn’t demand our presence. Be that as it may, your boys blew it. We bailed it out, and a Congressman is very much interested. We figure this kid needs about five days of postop care from us, and we also figure to play in the Kokura Open. If that ain’t okay with you, we’ll get on the horn to a few Congressmen.”

“Or one,
anyway,”
Trapper John said.

It was mean but not too bold, and they knew it would work. They took their clubs and walked out. At the front door of the hospital they found the car which had brought them from the airport. It was the colonel’s car, and the sergeant was lounging nearby, awaiting the colonel. Trapper John and Hawkeye got into the front seat.

“Hey, wait a minute,” the sergeant said.

“The colonel is lending us his car,” Hawkeye informed the Sergeant. “We’ll give it back after the Open.”

“That’s right,” Trapper said. “He wants you to go in now, and write some letters for the Congressman’s son.”

“Goddam army,” the sergeant said.

They drove to the golf course and parked, unloaded their clubs and walked into the pro shop. Although most of the golfers were members of the American and British armed forces, the pro was Japanese and he greeted the appearance of two Korean Papa-Sans with evident hostility.

“How do we qualify for the Open?” asked Hawkeye.

“There twenty-five dollar entry fee,” the pro informed him, eyeing him coldly.

“But I’m the pro from Dover, and this here is my assistant,” announced Hawkeye, handing the Japanese his Maine State Golf Association handicap card.

“Ah, so,” the Japanese hissed.