MASH Goes to Morocco

by Richard Hooker

  Lieutenant Mohammed looked at François Mulligan and François Mulligan looked back at him.

  “How y’all?” François Mulligan inquired politely, formed as much of a smile as he was capable of, and walked up toward Lieutenant Mohammed. The only camel which François Mulligan had previously seen was printed on a cigarette package; and it is not, therefore, surprising that he was unaware that camels not only spit but do so frequently and with great accuracy.

  “There is but one God, and Mohammed is His Prophet,” Lieutenant Mohammed said, in the traditional Islamic greeting. He spoke, of course, in Arabic, and François Mulligan didn’t understand what he said, of course. Actually, it wouldn’t have mattered much for, even as the lieutenant spoke, his camel let fly with what was known in Bayou Perdu as a “goober,” which “goober” struck François Mulligan in the forehead.

  François Mulligan, who had been many places and done many things and was generally unflappable, was now, as they say, shocked to the quick. His mouth fell open, closed long enough for him to say, “Merde!“ (which is an impolite term in French, to which language, the mother tongue of the Bayous, Mulligan in his shock and surprise reverted) and then fell open again. Then, as if he had suddenly regained complete control of himself, he took four steps forward, cocked his fist, swung it in a brief arc and connected with the camel’s temple.

  He moved with such surprising grace and speed for someone of his bulk that Lieutenant Mohammed, who had his finger on the trigger of the submachine gun beneath his flowing robes, did not have time to react. One moment, a smile was forming on his face at the sight of an infidel bastard with a camel “goober” dripping down his face; and the next moment, his camel was collapsing, unconscious, under him.

  He had the presence of mind, however, to yell to his platoon that all was right, and that they should not fire. He scrambled off the collapsing camel onto his feet and, for lack of something better to do, bowed deeply, remembering that he had been ordered to lay the charm upon the infidel bastards.

  “It’s all right, Jack,” François Mulligan said, magnanimously. “Just don’t let it happen again.”

  He turned his back to Lieutenant Mohammed, put his fingers to his mouth, emitted a shrill, piercing whistle, and then, raising his hands above the level of his shoulders, made circling motions with his index fingers.

  Lieutenant Mohammed, after a moment’s thought, decided this was an infidel-bastard religious rite of some sort, probably a prayer of thanksgiving for having been returned to earth safely. He bowed his head reverently to show his goodwill.

  A whining noise came from within the great, silver bird. Lieutenant Mohammed raised his eyes. The great, silver bird was coming apart. Just behind the enormous wheels, part of the skin was separating from the body. For a moment, until he saw the shining-steel cables along the edges, he thought that it was magic, for the piece of airplane moved very slowly downward to the ground.

  Then a vehicle, a large, bright-yellow bus, came into sight—first the wheels, then the body itself, on the top of which sat seven enormous chrome-plated horns. When the platform on which the bus was riding reached the ground, the bus engines started, and the bus rolled off the platform. Immediately, the platform rose again into the aircraft.

  The bus pulled up in front of the airplane, stopping where François Mulligan and Lieutenant Mohammed stood side by side. The door opened. A very tall, very blonde, quite amply endowed female wearing her vestments as the Reverend Mother Emeritus of the God Is Love in All Forms Christian Church, Inc., stepped from the bus.

  “I come in peace!” she said, raising both arms dramatically over her head.

  That was the cue for the bus driver, with whom she had rehearsed her entrance, to hit the keys. The air horns on the roof of the bus sounded off, and the familiar hymn “Onward, Christian Soldiers” boomed out, reverberating and echoing against the canyon walls.

  It was at this point that Lieutenant Mohammed’s command disintegrated. Approximately half of his force were scattered down the valley, aboard hysterical, quite uncontrollable camels. The other half were thrown off their camels and found themselves on the salt lake’s dry surface. They naturally looked to their leader for guidance. Lieutenant Mohammed, his eyes focused on the blonde goddess in the off-pink vestments, was obviously in rapture, as if he had seen a vision of Heaven as promised by the Prophet to the faithful.

  First one, and then another, and finally all the troopers of the First Platoon of “Omar ben Ahmed’s Own” Second Cavalry Squadron who had not been carried off on their camels dropped to their knees in the Islamic fashion, touching their foreheads thrice to the ground in reverent humility.

  “Watch out for the camels, Hot Lips,” François Mulligan said. “One of ’em just spit at me!”

  Chapter Fourteen

  At five-fifteen the previous evening, Miss Penelope Quattlebaum, riding with dignity if some discomfort in the rear seat of an official U.S. Embassy Pinto, an American flag flapping from the front fender and CORPS DIPLOMATIQUE stickers seriously impairing the driver’s front-and-rear views out the windows, had rolled up to the rather elegant villa housing the United States Consulate General, Casablanca.

  After some initial confusion (the embassy staff, not quite willing to believe that a well-stacked blonde with light-blue eyes was actually a bona fide member of the Diplomatic Corps, had mistakenly gotten the idea that she was simply one more well-stacked blonde in a long line of well-stacked blondes summoned to the consulate for “consultation” by the previous Consul, and that she had not, so to speak, gotten the word that the Consul had been forcibly sobered up and loaded on a plane for the States), she gained admission to the building.

  She located her personal quarters and, after examining them and ordering the staff to immediately clean out the three months’ accumulation of beer and spirits bottles, went through the rest of the consulate.

  It was quite a facility, and she was thrilled with the prospect that it was hers alone (in the name of the American taxpayer, of course) over which to reign. There was a large dining room, a library, and a reception room (complete with photographs of the President, the Secretary of State and, for a nice touch, of Uncle Amos in, of course, his official, rather than familial position). There were two bars, one in the house proper, and one by the tennis courts to quench the thirst of those too fatigued from diplomatic tennis to make it inside. There was also a large official office, complete with American flag, another picture of Uncle Amos, a solid-mahogany desk, telephones, couches and the like. She also found the Code Room, a bank-vault-like affair in which the consulate Teletype and code machines were located.

  Penelope was thrilled as she opened the Code Room door with the interim combination provided her by the Ambassador, and then reset the combination with a series of numbers which would be known only to her. She had been taught at the Foreign Service School that when selecting a safe combination, it was best to use numbers which were familiar (and thus would not be forgotten when it came time to open the safe) and yet of a quite personal nature, not known to others.

  The numbers Penelope set on the combination lock fit those criteria: 38-24-36. Those figures were known only to Penelope and to a middle-aged lady of impeccable reputation who earned her living as a foundation-garment consultant and who would be very unlikely to think of using them to crack the Code Room safe of the U.S. Consulate in Casablanca, Morocco.

  The telephone rang as Penelope was about to climb the wide stairs to her second-floor living quarters to see how the housekeeper and gardener were doing with regard to the removal of the empty bottles.

  She answered it herself, taking a deep breath as she savored the very words.

  “This is the Consulate of the United States,” she said.

  “Is the Consul sober?” a rather tough male voice asked, in French.

  “I am Miss Penelope Quattlebaum,” Penelope said, icily, “Consul of the United States of America, and I am quite sober.”

  “Zut alors!”
her caller said. “So it is true!”

  “So what is true?”

  “They have replaced Lushwell with a female.”

  “If you are referring to my predecessor, the Honorable C.T. Lashzwell, that is so. How may I be of service?”

  “This is Inspector Gregoire de la Mouton, mademoiselle, of the Gendarmerie Nationale. We have one of your compatriots, one Matthew Z. Gonzales, under arrest.”

  “Is that so?”

  “He is charged with an assault against the peace and dignity of the Kingdom of Morocco, mademoiselle, a very serious charge.”

  “What, precisely, did this countryman of mine allegedly do?” Penelope asked.

  “He became involved in an altercation, mademoiselle, with some British seamen.”

  “Can you be more specific, Monsieur L’inspecteur?”

  “Specifically, Mademoiselle, he sang along with the British as they sang their national anthem. When it came to the line, “God save the Queen,” your countryman, mademoiselle, substituted certain words which a gentle man cannot repeat over the telephone. The altercation followed.”

  “How much is his bail?”

  “Twenty dollars in American money.”

  “And what is the usual fine in a case of this nature?”

  “Twenty dollars in American money.”

  “I shall be down directly, Monsieur L’inspecteur, with the money. Is Mr. Gonzales a tourist?”

  “No, mademoiselle, he is an oiler from the tanker S.S. Hoboken, which arrived from New York today.”

  “To remove any possibility of further difficulty with Mr. Gonzales, Monsieur L’inspecteur, could you furnish me with an escort so that I may take my countryman back to his ship and place him in the custody of his captain?”

  “With the greatest pleasure, mademoiselle.”

  Penelope’s fears were groundless. Once Mr. Gonzales laid eyes upon her, he became as tame as a lamb. He allowed himself to be led docilely back to his ship, where Penelope placed him in the custody of his captain, to whom she gave a little lecture concerning the absolute necessity for Americans on foreign shores to comport themselves in a manner to bring credit upon their home land.

  The captain was so taken by her speech that he insisted she repeat it for the ship’s company, which Penelope did, quite touched and flattered by the wild applause and cheers that followed. She was then forced, by protocol, to join the captain and his officers in a series of toasts to the United States of America, Morocco, the U.S. merchant marine, the Diplomatic Corps and a long list of other toastable subjects. It could quite possibly have gone on all night, had not one of the officers, a tall, blond-headed first engineer of Scandinavian ancestry, made what Penelope considered an improper advance toward her.

  What he said, in all innocence, was that he had the midnight-to-eight-in-the-morning shift, but would consider it a deep personal honor if he might be permitted to buy the Consul General breakfast after that hour. Unfortunately, he made this suggestion after the eleventh toast (“to Christopher Columbus, and other distinguished navigators”), by which time Miss Quattlebaum had again fallen victim to her unsuspected malady. The first engineer received a kick in the shin and a small, bony fist in the eye for his invitation. But he was a sturdy son of the sea, who passed it off with a smile and waved cheerfully at Miss Quattlebaum as she made her way somewhat unsteadily down the ship’s ladder and to her Pinto.

  A Rolls-Royce was sitting in the consulate driveway when Penelope (after some difficulty finding her way home) rolled in. It bore CD plates, and the British flag hung limply from a small pole on the right front fender.

  Her caller was Sir Desmond Farquaite, O.B.E., Her Britannic Majesty’s Consul General in Casablanca. Sir Desmond’s announced purpose at the American Consulate was twofold, he told her. (Actually, he had been put onto the well-stacked blonde by M’sieu L’inspecteur Gregoire de la Mouton when he had called at the local bastille to spring from durance vile the British seamen with whom Mr. Gonzales had been involved.)

  “I am here, my dear Consul General,” he said, stroking his guardsman’s mustache, “both to accept the pro forma apologies of your government to my government about Mr. Gonzales’s unfortunate choice of words …”

  “You may,” Penelope said, hiccuped, and then went on, “assume our apologies to your gracious Queen.”

  “And also, my dear Consul General,” Sir Desmond said, “to offer whatever services I may to help you get started in your new post.”

  “As a matter of fact, Sir Desmond,” Penelope said, “I do need a little information.”

  “If I don’t have the answer, my dear, I will find the answer.”

  “How do I get from here to Abzug?”

  “What in the world do you want to go to Abzug for?” he asked, his surprise destroying his normal savoir-faire. “They’re nothing but a bunch of cutthroat savages!”

  “Be that as it may,” Penelope said, severely, “I have been appointed Deputy Assistant Secretary of my Embassy for Abzugian Affairs, and I wish to present my credentials to the Abzugian Chef de Protocol as soon as possible.”

  The last declaration was interrupted several times by Penelope’s unsuccessful attempts to stifle hiccups, and Sir Desmond had sufficient time to consider the options open to him, diplomatically speaking.

  “I applaud your devotion to duty, Madame Consul General.”

  “That’s Mademoiselle Consul General, Sir Desmond,” Penelope corrected him, but she was pleased.

  “My Land-Rover and my services as guide, Mademoiselle Consul General,” Sir Desmond said, “are at your disposal. Hands across the sea and that sort of thing, don’t you know?”

  “That’s very good of you,” Penelope said. “When could you fit taking me to Abzug into your busy schedule, Sir Desmond?”

  “How about right now?” Sir Desmond replied. “We could pop by the British Consulate, pick up the Land-Rover and leave immediately.”

  “How far is it? How long a trip?” Penelope asked.

  Sir Desmond had no idea whatever. He had never been to Abzug and, from what he’d heard of those bloody savages, had no intention of going.

  “Some distance, I fear,” he said, solemnly.

  “In that case, Sir Desmond,” Penelope said, “I think it would be best if we scheduled our departure for first thing in the morning. Would oh-six-hundred hours be too early for you?”

  He was disappointed, of course; but, on reflection, it wasn’t so bad an idea after all. Certain preparations would have to be made.

  “Not at all,” Sir Desmond said. “Until that hour, Mademoiselle Consul General.” He bowed from the waist, clicked his heels and, taking Penelope’s hand in his, raised it to be kissed. Something went wrong. Either he had bowed too deeply, or Mademoiselle Consul General had raised her hand too quickly in anticipation of the courtly gesture (which Sir Desmond had used with success ever since he had watched Helmut Dantine, playing an SS officer in a World War II movie, do it to Bette Davis), for, instead of contacting her fingers with his lips, he contacted her somewhat-bony knuckles with his eye.

  Keeping a stiff upper lip, Sir Desmond made his exit from the American Consulate General, pausing at the door to wave gaily and call out, “Until oh-six-hundred, my dear!”

  Penelope then retired to her private living quarters. The bottles were all gone, and that struck her as a good omen. She found that her luggage had been unpacked, and that the maid had turned down the bed and laid her peignoir and dressing gown on it. She carried these garments to the bathroom, and took a long shower. She noted with pleasure that the official Consulate General’s bathroom was equipped with the same special footbath she had found in her hotel in Paris. Her feet didn’t need washing after the shower, of course, but it was nice to know that it was there in case she needed it in the future; and it seemed logical that if one was in the bathroom, she would probably be able to find one in a store to send home to Daddy. She thought a moment about that, and decided she would buy two footbaths—one for Daddy
and one for Uncle Amos. She owed Uncle Amos something for living up to his promise not to use political influence in her behalf. One of the special footbaths would be just the thing for Uncle Amos. Aunt Gertrude had complained more than once (in the intimate family circle only, of course) that Uncle Amos’s feet stank.

  Then she went to bed, rather savoring the notion that this was her first official, diplomatic bed. She fell asleep almost immediately, but her sleep was disturbed by dreams, more precisely three dream vignettes, each merging into the next, as in television soap opera. In the first segment, Matthew Z. Gonzales pressed his unwanted attentions upon her. At the last moment, before her pearl of great price was about to be lost forever, the tall, blond, handsome first engineer from the S.S. Hoboken rushed up, clasped Penelope to his massive chest (he was not, in her dream, for some reason, wearing a shirt—just his uniform cap with the gold braid, and a tight pair of pants, like a ballet dancer) with his left and dispatched Matthew Z. Gonzales with a right cross to the jaw.

  There was sort of a station break, and then she found herself alone with the first engineer in his cabin. He kept trying to shove waffles, bacon and scrambled eggs at her with his left hand, crying “everybody eats breakfast,” as he tried to work his wicked way with her with his right hand.

  Virtue was about to go down to defeat again, when Sir Desmond Farquaite, O.B.E., crashed through the cabin door on a horse, wearing a full suit of armor and skewering the first engineer with a long, sharp-pointed lance.

  There was another station break, and then Penelope found herself with Sir Desmond. Sir Desmond was chasing her around an ancient castle, having, in the interim, divested himself of his armor. He was now wearing only a kilt and a T-shirt on which was lettered precisely what Matthew Z. Gonzales had sung and which had so annoyed the British seamen—IN HER SLEEP, PENELOPE BLUSHED.