MASH 10 MASH goes to Miami

by Richard Hooker+William Butterworth

  “He’s about fifteen ... no, twelve . . . minutes out.”

  “That’s supposed to be bad news?”

  “You said that I was to say the airport was closed, period, for an indefinite period.”

  “Wrong Way, shame on you!” Hawkeye said. “Did you really think I would risk the wrath of the Vatican itself by denying one of its most distinguished archbishops, theologians, and all around good guys landing privileges at your dinky little airfield? The moment His Eminence is on the ground, pleasure assure him that Dr. McIntyre and I are rushing to meet him.”

  “I thought you’d like to know,” Wrong Way said.

  He did not think this was the right moment, so to speak, to inform Dr. Pierce that the airplane which His Eminence was flying was also carrying Boris Alexandrovich Korsky-Rimsakov.

  Dr. Pierce hung up the telephone.

  “We are saved,” he said to Dr. McIntyre. “Considering the circumstances this must be considered as help from up there.” He pointed skyward, looking a bit pious.

  “You mean,” Dr. McIntyre said, his tone of voice suggesting that he didn’t dare quite believe what he was hearing, “you mean to suggest there is the slightest possibility that we will be denied the pleasure of listening to Miss Strumfeather’s lecture?”

  (* Miss Heloise Strumfeather, A.B., M.A., Ph.D. (Ed.), of the Maine State Parent-Teacher Association’s lecture bureau, was scheduled to deliver herself of a speech entitled “Sticky Fingers. The Joys of Finger-Painting with Your Children, in Theory and in Practice” that very evening. Mesdames Pierce and McIntyre were co-chairpersons of the “Make Sure Hubby Comes Committee” which was even worse.)

  “Ask yourself, Trapper, who is the only one of our boon companions from our years of service to our country whom both your wife-and-helpmeet and my wife-and-helpmeet admire?”

  “I was about to say Radar O’Reilly,” Trapper John replied, “but you said ‘admire.’ That means you are referring to His Eminence John Patrick Mulcahy, Archbishop of Swengchan.”

  “None other,” Dr. Pierce replied, reaching for the telephone. “Mary,” he said a moment later, “this is your loving husband and the father of your children. I’m afraid I have bad news.”

  “You’re going to the P.T.A., Hawkeye, and that’s it!”

  “Whatever you say, of course, my dear, even if that will make me hurt the sensitive feelings of that distinguished prelate, His Eminence John Patrick Mulcahy, sometimes known as the Pope’s strong right arm.”

  “What about him?” Mary Pierce demanded somewhat suspiciously.

  “His Eminence, out of the goodness of his heart, has graciously decided to stop right here in Spruce Harbor for a minute or two, pausing en route to only God knows where, to see us. Of course, if you insist that I go listen to Miss Strumfeather, your wish, my dear, as always, will be obeyed in both letter and spirit.”

  “If you think, Hawkeye,” Mary Pierce said, “that you’re going to get out of the P.T.A. by sneaking onto the archbishop’s airplane, think again. I’ll meet you at the airport.”

  “Splendid, splendid!” Hawkeye replied. “And why don’t you pick up Lucinda on your way? I know the archbishop would love to see her, too.” He had a second thought. “If you can do so tactfully, Mary, see if you can get Lucinda to wear something other than her International Distress Orange bikini, will you? His Eminence, of course, doesn’t mind, but he probably has the monsignor with him, and the monsignor blushes so painfully.” He then took the telephone from his ear and looked at John McIntyre curiously. “Trapper, would you believe that Mary hung up on me?”

  “What’s wrong with my wife’s bikini?” Trapper John snarled in reply.

  “I think we’d better be going,” Hawkeye replied. Meanwhile, back at Spruce Harbor International, Wrong Way Napolitano had had another thought. If there were official personages present, neither Hawk-eye nor Trapper John would be likely to inflict bodily injury upon his person upon learning that Mr. Korsky-Rimsakov had indeed landed in Spruce Harbor. He therefore telephoned the Bide-A-While Pool Hall-Ladies Served Fresh Lobsters & Clams Daily Restaurant and Saloon, Inc., and, after some argument, managed to persuade the proprietor, Mr. Stanley K. Warczinski, Sr., to intrude upon the Honorable Moosenose Bartlett’s game of eight-ball and to summon that politico to the telephone.

  “Moosenose, this is Wrong Way,” he began.

  “This personal or official, Wrong Way?” His Honor replied. “It had better be official. Interruptions destroy my concentration on my game.”

  “Official, Moosenose,” Wrong Way replied.

  “In that case, knock off the ‘Moosenose,’ ” His Honor said. “It’s Mayor Bartlett to you.”

  “Mayor Bartlett,” Wrong Way began. Then he paused. “Moosenose, you might want to come out here. We got an archbishop about to land.”

  “An archbishop?”

  “I figured maybe you’d want to know,” Wrong Way said. “Maybe you could make some Brownie points with Father Cronin.”*

  (*Father Sean Cronin was pastor and chief Bingo umpire of Christ the King Church. In a moment of passion, His Honor the Mayor had lost his temper and publicly suggested that the Christ the King Church Thursday Bingo games, which he had attended faithfully, perhaps even religiously, for sixteen years, were fixed. He had almost immediately apologized, confessing that he had lost control when, with only a G-48 remaining to be covered on his card in order to win a complete simulated wicker picnic set, he had heard one of the nuns cry, “Bingo.” The damage had been done, however, and it had come to the mayor’s attention that Christ the King’s Men’s Bingo and Bowling League intended to field a candidate against him in the next mayoralty election.)

  “Good thinking, Wrong Way,” His Honor said. “I’ll be down there just as soon as I can get a police car to run me home for my top hat and mayor’s sash. I would consider it a personal favor if you could keep the archbishop on the plane until I get there.”

  Wrong Way was then struck with a pang of conscience. He was, after all (though he would have preferred a cleric of Italianate extraction), one of Pastor Sean Cronin’s more or less faithful flock. Therefore, he picked up the telephone once again and dialed Father Cronin’s parish office.

  “Father, this is Wrong Way,” he began.

  “Before you start in, Wrong Way,” Father Cronin replied, “I think you should know that I’m on Mrs. Napolitano’s side. What madness possessed a fine broth of a girl like Mary Margaret O’Shaugnessy when she got tied up with a pizza-eater like you is—”

  “Father, it’s nothing like that,” Wrong Way interrupted.

  “What, then?”

  “Father, Spruce Harbor is about to be honored with a visit from an archbishop.”

  “You been at the chianti again, Wrong Way? There’s been nothing said by the chancellory.”

  “Would I lie to you, Father Cronin?”

  “Yes, I think you would,” Father Cronin replied. “I’m trying to deduce your devious purpose in trying to tell me something as preposterous as this. What would an archbishop be doing in Spruce Harbor?”

  “Don’t say, when the archbishop has come and gone and you didn’t see him, that I didn’t tell you,” Wrong Way said.

  “I’ll be right down,” Father Cronin said. “For your sake, Wrong Way, there had better be an archbishop there when I get there.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  “Spruce Harbor,” the pilot called. “Air Hussid over the outer marker, turning right on final.”

  Spruce Harbor International, its dirt runway measuring all of five thousand feet, came into view.

  “Full flaps,” the pilot called. “Stand by to reverse thrust!”

  It takes about seven seconds for an idling jet engine to develop full power after the throttles are shoved fully forward. In order to get the DC—9 to stop on Spruce Harbor’s main (and only) runway, reverse thrust (in which the engines push backward) was required from the moment the plane touched down, and to get this, it was necessary to start th
e reverse-thrust process seven seconds before touchdown. This was a tricky maneuver requiring the finest depth-and-time judgment.

  “Full reverse thrust,” the pilot called. The engineer threw the thrust lever into reverse and then shoved the throttles full forward. The copilot, seeing that the archbishop was a little busy at the moment getting the bird on the ground, did what he could to help. He crossed himself and began to move his lips in silent prayer.

  In the aisle of the main cabin, Boris Alexandrovich Korsky-Rimsakov (who ignored all signs, including ones reading FASTEN SEAT BELTS, in the belief that they were intended only for people too stupid to figure things out for themselves) stood facing the rear of the aircraft, wondering where everyone, specifically the steward who had been ordered two full minutes ago to deliver a Brandy Alexander, had gone.

  The engines roared, and Boris looked indignant. They were making so much noise that even his shouting would be hard to hear.

  He opened his mouth to shout. At that instant the plane touched down, reverse thrust came into play no more than half a second after touchdown. The airplane immediately began to slow. Boris Alexandrovich Korsky-Rimsakov’s body, obeying certain laws of physics, did not slow down.

  “Jesus Christ!” he shouted, as, in a semi-weightless state, he went flying down the aisle. “Who’s driving this bus?”

  He came to a stop against the bulkhead that separated the pilot’s compartment (or cockpit) from the rest of the plane. It wasn’t an irresistible force meeting an immovable object—just three hundred pounds of bone and muscle meeting reinforced aluminum and thin teakwood paneling. The reinforced aluminum gave. The door to the pilot’s compartment was immediately twisted and warped and generally put out of commission. Boris’ head went through the teak-wood veneer the way ladies’ fingers go through Brand X plastic wrap in television commercials. He was, so to speak, flying straight and level at the moment of impact, and since his shoulders were eight inches wider than the door frame, this brought his flight to a sudden halt.

  The DC-9’s landing was witnessed by a number of people, including the pilot of a Beech Bonanza, one V. D. Evans, who was an itinerant peddler of used aviation radios. He had, moments before, landed on the field, which his aviation charts described as “a submarginal facility, suitable for use only in desperation.” He was so fascinated by the sight of the DC-9 making its approach to the field that he forgot he was also piloting a plane and taxied his Bonanza into a rather odd vehicle that had driven onto the field at about the same time.

  The vehicle, which consisted of wheels two feet wide and ten feet tall, a large diesel engine, and little else, was a familiar sight in the Louisiana marshes, where such devices, known as swamp buggies, were used for travel through swamps. It was something of an understatement to say that it was not the sort of thing Mr. Evans had expected to find on the rock-bound coast of Maine. He got out of the Bonanza, examined his propeller—now twisted into the shape of a pretzel—rubbed his eyes, examined what he had run into, rubbed his eyes again, looked down Spruce Harbor’s five-thousand-foot runway—and saw the DC-9 lumbering in his direction. He then did what any experienced pilot would do in such circumstances. He reached into the cockpit, removed the case marked FOR EMERGENCY USE ONLY, and withdrew a quart bottle of Old Highland Dew Scotch Whiskey.

  He uncapped same and drank deeply. When he put the bottle down, he found himself being examined by two gentlemen who had apparently just descended from the swamp buggy.

  “Under the circumstances,” the taller of the two said, “I think it only fair that you should have a snort of that, Trapper John.”

  “Why should this funny-looking fellow get a snort of my booze?” Mr. Evans demanded suspiciously.

  “I think, if the police should investigate this accident, that you should both reek of spiritous liquors,” the taller man said. “Otherwise, my fine fellow, you’re liable to be charged with taxiing under the influence.”

  “You have a point,” Evans said, after furrowing his brow thoughtfully. He handed the bottle to the gentleman described as Trapper John, who also took a deep draught from its rather shapely neck.

  “What is that thing, anyway?” Evans demanded.

  “It’s a swamp buggy,” the tall man said. “You mean you couldn’t tell?”

  “And now, sir, if you will excuse us, Hawkeye and I have to go greet the archbishop,” Trapper John said. He handed him the bottle. “I expect your insurance company will be hearing from mine.”

  Evans watched as they walked to the side of the runway. In a moment, siren screaming, whooper whooping, red-white-and-blue gumball machine flashing, a two-year-old Ford marked SPRUCE HARBOR POLICE DEPARTMENT came racing up.

  The back door opened. A portly, red-faced man jumped out. With some effort, he wrestled on a purple sash emblazoned with gold letters spelling out MAYOR. When the sash was in place, he reached into the police car and came out with a somewhat dented silk top hat.

  “To what do we owe this alleged honor, Moosenose?” Hawkeye asked.

  “I came to pay my respects to the archbishop,” His Honor replied.

  “I heard about what you said about the Bingo game, Moosenose,” Trapper John said. “But you’re doomed. We Irish hold grudges practically forever.”

  Another car raced up, this one a new Buick.* Father Sean Cronin leapt from behind the wheel.

  (* The vehicle had been presented to Father Cronin as a small token of the respect and affection of his flock a week after the Rev. Casper T. Hollowell, pastor of the Prince of Peace Lutheran Church, which was located next to Christ the King, had been presented with a new Oldsmobile 98 as a small token of the respect and affection of his flock.)

  “I must say that I’m more than a bit disappointed to see two fine surgeons—even though you are a backslider, McIntyre—in the company of the likes of him,” Father Cronin said, by way of greeting. “Where’s the archbishop?”

  Hawkeye and Trapper pointed to the DC-9, which was taxiing up to them.

  Finally a Ford station wagon came racing up and slid to a halt.

  “I do believe that it’s the mother of my children,” Hawkeye said.

  “I know it is,” Trapper John said. “I could tell by the way she slid to a stop.”

  “Are we too late?” Mary Pierce cried.

  The DC-9 stopped. The roar of its engines died to a whine. Wrong Way appeared at the wheel of a somewhat rusty pickup truck that had a flight of stairs mounted on its back end. He backed it up to the airplane. The door opened.

  A slight gentleman in his fifties appeared. He was attired in black trousers and a flaming yellow nylon zipper jacket. He was standing sideways so that the assembled multitudes could read what had been sewn onto the back of the jacket. Purple felt letters spelled out CAJUN AIR FORCE. A yellow-and-purple baseball cap with gold embroidered scrollwork on the bill sat jauntily atop his head.

  As soon as the stairs were in place, he ran down them quickly. As he came closer, what was sewn on the front of the jacket became legible. There were a set of Cajun Air Force wings (wings in which the traditional shield had been replaced by a oil-well drilling rig) on the right breast, and, on the left, the words DAGO RED.

  “It seems to me,” Father Cronin sniffed, “that that airline, whatever it is, could have paid a Little more attention to the uniforms of its crew, since His Eminence is aboard.”

  “Dago Red!” Hawkeye cried, wrapping his arms around the smaller man, hugging him, lifting him off the ground. Finally he set him down, and Trapper John repeated the process.

  “Shame on you, Johnny McIntyre, be glad yer mother couldn’t see that shameful demonstration,” Father Cronin said. “Carousing around like that when, for all you know, His Eminence himself might be looking out the window.”

  “Father Cronin—” Hawkeye began.

  “I trust,” Father Cronin said, interrupting him and addressing Dago Red, “that His Eminence had a nice flight?”

  “Yes,” Dago Red replied. “A nice flight.”


  “Father Cronin—” Trapper John began, and was also cut off.

  “Little fella, would ye be so good as to run back up them steps and tell His Eminence that Father Sean Cronin is here to welcome His Eminence to Spruce Harbor?”

  “That’ll have to wait,” Dago Red said. “Boris ran his head through the cockpit wall, Hawkeye. You’d better go have a look.”

  “Perhaps ye didn’t understand me, little fella,” Father Cronin said. “Or perhaps ye think I’m wearin’ my collar this way because I don’t own a necktie. So I’ll say it slow, and in words of one syllable. I am Father Sean Cronin, a priest of the church for twenty years, and I’m askin’ ye to get back up them steps and tell His Eminence the archbishop that Father Sean Cronin is down here, waitin’ to welcome him to fair Spruce Harbor.”

  “Me, too,” Mayor Moosenose Bartlett said. “You can consider the good Father’s request, Shorty, as an order from the City of Spruce Harbor as well.”

  “Whatever happened to separation of church and state?” Hawkeye asked as he started to trot up the flight of steps.

  “May I say something?” Trapper John inquired.

  “Dago Red!” Mary Pierce cried, running up to the little man and putting her arms around him. “I’m so glad to see you. I thought Hawkeye was making the whole thing up.”

  “How are you, Mary?” Dago Red said. He looked at Lucinda McIntyre. “And Lucinda McIntyre! I didn’t recognize you, my dear, in a dress.”

  Lucinda McIntyre kissed Dago Red on the forehead. Lucinda was given to using large amounts of Blazing Passion Purple Lip Rouge to enhance what she (but practically no one else) thought of as her sexless lips. The result of this was that Dago Red emerged from the embrace with the clear imprint of female lips on his forehead. This was obvious to everyone, including Father Cronin.

  “Little fella,” he said, “be good enough to conceal the marks of your shameless carryin’ on from the eyes of the good archbishop.”