Actually, Wrong Way could fly for any of the big airlines and, in fact, he does. Once or twice a month he disappears for a few days and fills in as pilot or copilot for Intercontinental. What’s more, he could do that full time, but he likes it too well here.”
“Do you mean this guy flies jets?”
Lucinda laughed. “Yes, he does. Hawkeye, like everybody, didn’t really believe it until he went to Chicago for that course in vascular surgery a while back. You know how Hawkeye tells stories and blows them up a little, but I guess it was quite a shock to his nervous system.”
“What happened?”
“If you want me to tell you, take your hand off my breast. It distracts me.”
“Of course, my dear.”
“Well, Hawkeye was a little late getting on this flight out of Logan to Chicago. Like every passenger, when he went aboard he peeked into the pilot’s cabin. He was ten feet down the aisle before what he had seen registered. Sitting in the pilot’s seat was, Wrong Way Napolitano.
“‘Oh, no. It can’t be,’ Hawkeye said to the stewardess, and returned for a second look.
“‘It can’t be what, sir?’ asked the stewardess.
“‘Who’s flying this thing?’ Hawkeye asked.
“‘Captain Napolitano, sir.’
“‘Captain Napolitano, my ass,’ said Hawkeye. ‘Lemme off this mother.’
“‘I’m sorry, sir,’ said the stewardess. ‘It’s too late.’
“‘You better believe it’s too late,’ Hawkeye said. ‘Lemme talk to Wrong Way.’
“‘Who?’
“‘Captain Napolitano, if you insist.’
“‘I’m sorry, sir,’ said the stewardess. ‘You’ll have to take your seat.’
“‘Okay,’ said Hawk, ‘but honey, do both of us a favor, I beg you. Will you please go up forward, tell Captain Napolitano that Hawkeye Pierce is a passenger, and that I want to hear, directly from him, where we are going, and whether he’s going to pay me for fixing his hernia or finish me off in a 707 to beat me out of my fee?’
“The stewardess followed instructions and came back with Wrong Way’s Blue Shield card and a note which said: ‘Chicago.’”
Seeing that Lucinda had finished her story. Trapper asked, “And that’s who just ruined my morning love life?”
“Yes, indeed. Let us swim. Of course, Wooden Leg expects us to peddle fish today. I hope Wrong Way got in okay. He hit that tree hard.”
“But not square,” Trapper pointed out. “Let’s get going on Wooden Leg’s fish.”
Wrong Way Napolitano, with fear in his heart and trembling in his hands, landed his traumatized TriPacer at Spruce Harbor International. Nothing gave way, a normal landing. Inspection of the plane revealed no major damage. Relieved, Wrong Way called the Massasoit Inn, a large summer hotel on Sears Point, a few miles east of Spruce Harbor. He asked to speak to the house dick, his best friend and brother-in-law, Tip Toe Tannenbaum. Whenever Wrong Way became overwrought he sought solace, advice and comfort from Tip Toe, a calm, judicious, meditative father of eight children, who was one of Spruce Harbor’s most respected citizens.
Tip Toe, a tall, lean, black-haired, hawk-nosed softhearted middle-aged anachronism and deputy sheriff, had gradually achieved near saint status since his arrival in Spruce Harbor ten years earlier. Every summer he worked as security officer at the Massasoit for five hundred dollars a week, roughly five times the usual wage, because the management knew that Tip Toe was worth it one way or another. He solved all problems. He prevented theft. He protected the Inn from bad publicity. And parents of teen-age females knew that he never allowed teen-age females to get in trouble at the Massasoit Inn. Just having him around made everyone feel good.
During the nine months when the Massasoit Inn wasn’t open, Tip Toe Tannenbaum disappeared every Sunday noon and reappeared the next Thursday noon. His wife Maria, sister of Wrong Way, always explained that he was away on business. “What business?” she was always asked. “He’s a jet pilot,” she would answer.
That was a perfect answer because, beyond the fact that Tip Toe was a great guy, the one thing everyone knew was that he was scared livid of airplanes. He would not go up in one. When his job as security officer at the Massasoit or deputy sheriff of Spruce County called for rapid reconnaissance of the area, Tip Toe chose boats or cars. This indeed occasionally became an embarrassment, but no one made an issue of it. One look at Tip Toe contemplating an airplane was enough.
Mrs. Tannenbaum drew smiles when she referred to “my husband the jet pilot.” Lefty (a name he prefers to Luigi) Tannenbaum, the Androscoggin College quarterback and one of Tip Toe’s sons, gracefully accepted everyone’s disbelief when he alluded to “my father the jet pilot.” Wooden Leg and Jocko, intimate friends of Tip Toe, always hailed Tip Toe in public as the left-handed Jewish jet pilot and explained to all who’d listen that left-handed Jewish jet pilots are scarce everywhere. The public, not fooled by all this foolishness, knew perfectly well that Tip Toe was the head of a large international detective agency.
Every Monday morning, except in summer, the pilot of Intercontinental Airways Flight 507 out of Idlewild to Paris and Rome was Captain Irving Tannenbaum, the house dick at the Massasoit Inn. The only people in Spruce Harbor who really knew this were Wrong Way Napolitano, his sister Mrs. Tannenbaum, the eight Tannenbaum children, Hawkeye, Wooden Leg, Jocko and Dr. Doggy Moore.
Tip Toe’s career as a pilot hit bottom in 1954. The birth of his sixth child brought his fear of flying to a crescendo, so he went to Dr. Doggy Moore seeking help. If he’d gone to a psychiatrist he’d have been in trouble. Tip Toe wasn’t foolish enough for that. A psychiatrist would have racked him up and advised him to find a different job. Not Doggy. “Look Tip Toe,” he said, “you may be a little screwy here and there, but you’re a valuable guy. If you’re scared to fly, ain’t nothin’ I can do about it. Instead of bein’ scared of flyin’, why don’t you concentrate on making your family rich?”
“Go on, Doggy,” urged Tip Toe. “How do I do this?”
“They got them insurance machines in all the airports, don’t they? Every time you go out, grab a million bucks of flight insurance.”
There were initial difficulties because passengers, also seeking insurance, found their pilot camped at the insurance machines like a widow trying to beat a slot in Vegas. Later, a simple deduction from his paycheck provided Tip Toe with the million in insurance each time he went to Rome and back, and thereby avoided passenger discomfort. Tip Toe was able to fly happily with visions of his family rolling in wealth. He became one of Intercontinental’s senior and most trusted pilots.
An hour after Wrong Way’s abortive kamikaze attack on Thief Island an increasingly familiar, titillating spectacle was taking place on Spruce Harbor’s main street. Wooden Leg’s truck, filled with fish which had slept last night in Penobscot Bay, was parked in front of the Depositor’s Trust Company. Trapper John — long-haired, bearded, in the briefest of swimming trunks — exuded charm and goodwill to all mankind as he deftly cut, to the customers’ orders, fillets of- haddock, cod and hake. The audience quivered as the suntanned, blonde Lucinda, draped in the scantiest of bikinis, packaged the ocean delights, made change and bequeathed a mind-blowing smile on each eager, happy customer.
On the edge of the crowd, as the truck emptied, stood Wooden Leg Wilcox and Tip Toe Tannenbaum.
“Business looks good,” observed Tip Toe.
“Jesus, boy, betcher ever-lovin’ A. The way them two move fish is some christly wondrous to behold.”
“You hear what happened this morning?” asked Tip Toe.
“I heard Wrong Way hit a tree. So what else is new?”
“Reason he bit the tree was be saw Trapper and Lucinda working out in that cranberry patch. I guess he was distracted.”
“Jesus Christ, Tip Toe,” said Leg, “if that dumb guinea brother-in-law of yours has a few beers everybody in town will know about -the cranberry patch.”
“And,
” continued Tip Toe, “every darn plane for miles around will be circling Thief Island like gulls around a sardine boat. I think that would be too bad.”
“So, what you gonna do? You gonna make Wrong Way keep quiet? That’ll be -the day.”
“Well,” mused Tip Toe, “I’ve had some thoughts. The new extension on the runway was finished last week. Wrong Way says they just got a supply of jet fuel. I think it’s time for Spruce Harbor International to receive its first jet. Occasionally we need to refuel when Idlewild is stacked up or fogged in. What’s more, the front office asked me to investigate the possibility of picking up two to three hundred pounds of fresh lobster meat if we came in here once a week. We like to feed our passengers the best. What are the possibilities, Leg?”
“Finestkind. I could give you a nice price and still make a bundle. What’s this got to do with Trapper and Lucinda?”
“Leg, the thought has come to my multidisciplined brain that Trapper and the young lady might prefer to perform exclusively for Intercontinental passengers, rather than be harassed by every private pilot on the coast of Maine. A suggestively erotic performance such as theirs would tend to alleviate our passengers’ fear of an unscheduled landing at a small field.”
“Suggestively erotic!” exclaimed Wooden Leg. “You mean if they’ll take a piece when the jet comes in, you’ll keep Wrong Way’s mouth shut?”
“Precisely, Leg. One of our men is sick, so I have to go to Rome next week. Can you have the lobster meat ready about 5 P.M. next Thursday?”
“Betcher ass, Tip Toe. That’ll shake em up. You bringing a 707 in here?”
“You don’t know the half of it. Keep it under your hat, will you, Leg? I must talk to Lucinda.”
“May I have a word with you two?” Tip Toe asked Trapper and Lucinda as the last fish was cut, packaged and paid for.
“Oh, hi,” Lucinda said. “Trapper, this is Tip Toe Tannenbaum.”
“A pleasure, Dr. McIntyre,” said Tip Toe. “I'll just be a minute. I wanted to talk about this morning. Wrong Way told me all about it.”
“Is this a pinch?” demanded Trapper.
“Good heavens, no, Doctor. Actually it’s pure blackmail. I’m prepared to offer one hundred dollars per week for you two to perform exclusively for an Intercontinental Airways jet and if you don’t agree, I’ll let Wrong Way have four beers.”
“What’s that mean?” asked Trapper.
“After four beers,” explained Lucinda, “Wrong Way keeps no secrets.”
“I get it,” said Trapper. “This way, we can hit the cranberries at will, just so we time one workout for Intercontinental. You mean you’re going to bring a jet into that dinky airport? You mean, come to think of it, you’re really a pilot?”
“Yes, sir,” Tip Toe affirmed. “But not one word, understand?”
“Tip Toe,” Lucinda said, “I’m ashamed of you.” Then pausing, and with a coquettish grin, asked, “How high will you be over Thief?”
“Low enough for the passengers to get the idea. Too high for anyone to recognize you. I’m sure you will perform nobly. Your first assignment will be next Thursday at 4:50 P.M., weather permitting.”
The Spruce Harbor fleet was annoyed on Monday when it learned that Wrong Way was not available for fish spotting. He left word that he would have to be away for several days but that he would be on duty Thursday evening. Schools of fish are most visible from the air in late evening when the wind has died down and dusk approaches. Wrong Way’s occasional morning searches had borne no fish, only cranberries.
At 3:15 P.M. on Thursday consternation and havoc broke loose in the Spruce Harbor International control tower. Johnny Kimball, the flight controller, who had never seen a jet on the ground, received word from Air Traffic Control in Boston that Intercontinental flight 518 from Rome, Paris, now over Gander, would land at Spruce Harbor for refueling at approximately 1700 hours.
“Shit a jeezly goddamn,” Johnny muttered, over and over. Everyone was hoping a jet would come, but no one really believed it would happen so soon or with so little warning.
Further information for Johnny was: “The aircraft will establish direct communication with you at approximately 1645 hours. Please be prepared with details of weather and landing instructions.”
“I don’t know what the hell to tell them,” Johnny said, frantically and frankly.
“Have no fear,” answered Air Traffic Control. “The pilot is familiar with your facilities.”
Word spread from Johnny to a waitress in the cafeteria and to here and there. By 4:30 P.M. a crowd of hundreds had appeared to witness Spruce Harbor’s first jet landing. Early arrivals were Maria Tannenbaum and her eight children who sat happily and proudly in, around and on top of the family station wagon. In the same area were Wooden Leg and Jocko Allcock. “Once the word is out, we’re gonna clean up,” Jocko kept saying. “Leg, you work the east side, I’ll take the west.”
At 4:45 P.M. communication was established between aircraft and control tower.
“Hello Spruce Harbor. How do things look? What’s the wind doing?”
Johnny Kimball heard, and looked scared. “Ten to fifteen knots, 320 degrees,” he said in scarcely more than a mumble. -
“Okay,” said the aircraft. “Is Cindy on duty?”
Cindy Howell was a tall redheaded University of Maine senior who’d been hostess and cashier in the cafeteria for the last month.
Johnny Kimball got pale before he turned green.
“To whom am I talking?” he asked in a quavering voice.
“This is the copilot,” answered the aircraft. “I know Spruce Harbor, so I’ll be bringing this one in.”
“What ails you, Johnny?” asked Cindy, who’d come up to bring him a cup of coffee.
“That voice,” said Johnny, “that voice. It can’t be, it just can’t be.”
More determined now, Johnny got back to the flight from Rome and demanded: “May I have the copilot’s name, please?”
“This is the copilot, Captain Napolitano. Is there something wrong?”
Hawkeye Pierce, knowing it all in advance, had rushed through his office and arrived just in -time to see Johnny Kimball running out of the control tower yelling: “Emergency. Get the fire trucks. Get ambulances.
Get these people the hell out of here. Wrong Way’s comin’ in a 707.”
The crowd now was restive but did not panic. Jocko and Wooden Leg circulated among the brave and curious, offering even money that Wrong Way would get in and out without mishap. Aware that Wrong Way had crash-landed something all over Spruce Harbor International, the crowd gave them plenty of action. Meanwhile Hawkeye walked into the deserted control tower where Captain Napolitano at five-second intervals was saying, “May I have landing instructions, please?”
Picking up the microphone, Hawkeye solemnly spoke to Captain Napolitano: “Here are your instructions. I repeat, here are your instructions. I will give them just once before I evacuate the area. Please repeat slowly after me: Our father, who art in heaven, hallowed be thy—”
That was as far as he got before another voice interrupted: “Enough of that. Got off the radio, Hawkeye. Where’s that idiot Kimball?”
“Right here,” said Hawk, as Johnny, barely in control, returned to his post.
“Now listen very carefully, Kimball,” said another voice. “This is Captain Tannenbaum. We will touch down at exactly 1700 hours. The passengers will disembark for one half hour. During that time I will take careful note of any remarks made, in the presence of my passengers, concerning the flying ability, personal habits, religion, other occupations or ethnic backgrounds of any member of my crew. Intercontinental giveth and Intercontinental can damn well taketh away. Is that clearly understood?”
“Huh!” replied Johnny.
“I’ll explain it to him, Captain,” said Hawkeye. “Just tell your copilot to keep his eyes on the runway and not on the cranberry bog.”
“I’ll try,” said Tip Toe.
“Also,�
� added Hawk, “there’s a rifleman in the steeple of the Congo Church. The preach says they can’t take a hit from a 707.”
Aboard flight 518, five minutes before touchdown, a stewardess said over the intercom: “Ladies and gentlemen, shortly before landing at Spruce Harbor International, we will pass over Thief Island. This little island, now deserted, was for nearly two centuries the home of intrepid, hardy Maine fishermen. On the north edge of the island there is a tiny cranberry bog where, according to legend, local Indian tribes performed fertility rites before the coming of the white man. The idea in simple words seemed to be that consummation of the Indian brave’s betrothal in this soft, warm bog assured him a long, happy, fruitful marriage. Intercontinental Airways is proud to present, for the exclusive enjoyment of its passengers, a reenactment of this ancient ritual. We regret that only the window seat passengers will have a clear view. Captain Tannenbaum suggests that a rearrangement of seating will allow for the others to view the ritual, which will be repeated upon our departure.”
As the stewardess completed her commercial and thought that this sort of thing was out of character for Captain Tannenbaum, Hawkeye Pierce was talking to Cindy, the long-legged redhead who was half-engaged to Wrong Way Napolitano.
“What’s that song your boy’s always playing on the jukebox?” he asked.
“Oh, you mean the Blue Water Line.”
“Yeah. Play it as the plane comes in and hook it up to the loudspeaker. The Captain should be greeted by his theme song when he emerges triumphantly from the cockpit, or whatever you call it.”
Flight 518, the passengers soothed by the reenactment of an ancient rite on Thief Island, set down smoothly at Spruce Harbor International Jetport and Captain Napolitano taxied to the terminal. The first thing the passengers heard as the door opened was Captain Napolitano’s favorite line of his favorite song:
“We’ll have William Jennings Bryan stoking coal on number nine.”
The local radio and TV people were there to interview the crew in the terminal lobby. The surprise of the communication industry’s personnel was reflected in their performance. The first landing at Spruce Harbor was the news event of the decade. To discover that its pilots were local men added to its newsworthiness. To discover who they were was something else. The newsmen, of course, had covered previous exploits of Wrong Way and Tip Toe. To their credit they didn’t blow it completely. The heroes, in the uniforms of Intercontinental, commanded automatic respect. Maria Tannenbaum, on TV, put her arm around Tip Toe and said: “Friends and neighbors, this is my husband the jet pilot.” Cindy Howell, also on TV, embraced Captain Napolitano and answered a question which she’d been asked three times in the previous three weeks by announcing: “This is my fiancé the jet pilot.”
M*A*S*H Goes To Maine Page 11
