MASH 06 MASH Goes to Morocco

by Richard Hooker

  “And, if you see her before she goes, please give my best regards to Hot Lips,” the Secretary said.

  “You mean, the Reverend Mother Emeritus, of course,” the Archbishop said. “Good-bye, Mr. Secretary.” He broke the connection with his finger, flashed his secretary and, when she came on the line, he said, “Get me Hot Lips on the phone, will you, please, Sister?”

  Chapter Six

  The Secretary, despite what you might hear from certain soreheads who have wound up, so to speak, with the shorter stick following negotiations with him, is not really cold-blooded, steel-hearted, ruthless and unfeeling.

  Within three days of his appointment of the Hon. Edwards L. “Smiling Jack” Jackson as official Sheikh pro tempore for all American nationals within the Sheikhdom of Abzug, the delighted, even joyous, smile on his face began to pale. On days four and five, there was a further deterioration of the smile and, by day six, his sleep troubled by rather detailed nightmares in which a terrified “Smiling Jack” Jackson was dragged, screaming and weeping, by hooded-and-robed Arabs to a giant guillotine, he was prepared to bite the bullet.

  On the morning of day seven, as the first thing on his schedule, he ordered his secretary to place a person-to-person call to Dr. Benjamin Franklin Pierce, chief of surgery of the Spruce Harbor Medical Center in Maine. The following dialogue transpired:

  “Dr. Pierce.”

  “One moment, please,” the Secretary’s secretary ordered in the grandly imperious manner of a bureaucratic flunky employed by a high-ranking bureaucrat. “The Secretary of State is calling.”

  “He’s not here.”

  “Who’s not here?”

  “Dr. Pierce. The last we heard, he was in the South Seas.”

  “I thought you said you were Dr. Pierce!”

  “Why would I say something like that? I told you, Dr. Pierce is in the Antarctic.”

  “I thought you said the South Seas.”

  “The Antarctic is about as far south as you can get. Didn’t you study geography in school? What kind of a bureaucrat are you, anyway?”

  “Who are you?”

  “Somebody who never heard of the Secretary of State.”

  At that point, the Secretary of State picked up his extension and. recognizing the voice, broke into the conversation. “So, Hawkeye, how’s by you? Lots of nice rich patients, I hope?”

  “Trapped!”

  “Mr. Secretary, this … this person says that Dr. Pierce is in the South Seas, or Antarctica.”

  “What’s on your mind, Tubby?” Hawkeye asked. “Ooops. That slipped out. I should have known better than to ask.”

  “I’m vell, thank you,” the Secretary said. “Your self?”

  “Until the phone rang, I was feeling great,” Hawkeye replied. “Whatever you want from me, Tubby, the answer is no.”

  “And how’s Trapper John? And his charming wife?”

  “On to you, Tubby,” Hawkeye said. “On to you. We’re not going anywhere. Lay that Middle-European charm on somebody else.”

  “A little medical advice,” the Secretary said, entreatingly. “Is dat too much to ask, for old time’s sake, from a dear friend?”

  “Take two aspirin, go to bed and call somebody else in the morning,” Dr. Pierce said. “How’s that, dear old friend?”

  “You been around, Hawkeye,” the Secretary pressed on. “Tell me, vhat do you know about duh guillotine?”

  “Contemplating ending it all, are you?” Dr. Pierce said. For the first time, there was an element of hope in his voice.

  “Actually, I’m vorried about a friend,” the Secretary said.

  “Sure, you are,” Dr. Pierce said. “What do you want to know about a guillotine?”

  “If it cuts right down duh middle,” the Secretary asked, “instead of across the neck, is it still a guillotine?”

  “Interesting question,” Hawkeye said. “Let me think on it, and I’ll get back to you either this year or next.”

  “Hawkeye, please!” the Secretary said. He couldn’t see him over the telephone, of course, but the tremolo in his voice was enough for Hawkeye to have a good, clear mental image of the Secretary’s face.

  Hawkeye, following in the path of the world’s most coldhearted political leaders, gave in rather than have the memory of the Secretary’s mournful eyes, pursed lips and quivering jowls on his conscience for the rest of his life. He told himself there was no shame because the face which had melted Golda Meir’s heart was also melting his, even over the telephone.

  “O.K., Tubby, what’s this all about?” Hawkeye said. And the Secretary began to tell him. It was not a violation of the security of the United States, but rather an act, even a courageous act, taken by the Secretary of State in the interests of the security of the United States, or at least in the interests of keeping alive one of its Congressmen.

  “I’m very much afraid that the Honorable Edwards L. Jackson is in great danger of losing his life by the guillotine,” the Secretary said.

  “Is that the distinguished Arkansasian solon with the wavy silver locks who was with us in England?” Hawkeye asked.

  “Dat’s duh vun,” the Secretary said.

  “The one who told the Queen that although some of his dearest friends were English, he didn’t think he’d want his daughter to marry one?”

  “Vun and duh same,” the Secretary said.

  “And he’s going to be guillotined? In public?”

  “It looks dat way,” the Secretary replied.

  “How many tickets can you get me, Tubby?” Hawkeye asked. “And I’m sure Trapper John will want to be there, too.”

  “Vat I’m trying to do is keep dat from happening,” the Secretary said.

  “There is no finer human quality than mercy,” Hawkeye said piously and then added: “But there’s a time and a place for everything, as I always say.”

  “You gotta minute, Hawkeye? Let me tell you about it?”

  “You’re not going to believe this, Tubby,” Hawkeye said, “but this very minute I was about to leave the office on a very long trip.”

  “A trip? Vhere to?” the Secretary asked, suspicion in every syllable.

  “Would you believe Merry Morocco?” Hawkeye asked, doubtfully.

  “Merry Morocco?” the Secretary replied. “Dat’s vhat you said, Merry Morocco?”

  “It’s in Africa, someplace,” Hawkeye said. “Mary and I won a trip at the State Medical Convention. First time in years that we’ll have a chance to go away alone somewhere together.”

  “Morocco?” the Secretary repeated. “I heard dat right, Morocco?”

  “Merry Morocco is what it says on the tickets,” Hawkeye said. “Maybe they changed the name.”

  “For a million dollars, I vouldn’t think of interfering vith your trip,” the Secretary said. “You should excuse the call at this important time. Travel in good health! Bon voyage! Mazel tov!”

  “What are you up to, Tubby?” Hawkeye demanded, suspiciously.

  “You suspect me, your Secretary of State, of being up to something? Shame on you!” the Secretary said. “Nice talking vith you, Doctor. Have a nice trip.”

  The connection went dead. Hawkeye hung the phone up and stared at it for a long moment, searching his mind (and his mind, frankly, was just about as devious and cynical and wildly imaginative as the Secretary’s) for a logical reason for the Secretary’s delight at the news he was en route to Merry Morocco, and for the Secretary having so suddenly shut off the conversation.

  Then, shrugging his shoulders, he stood up and walked out of his office. He could think of nothing he had ever done and no one he had ever known that had any link at all, however remote, with Merry Morocco. The only thing he knew for sure about Merry Morocco was that it was far away. It was so far away, in fact, that the AAA-1 Handy-Dandy Telephone-Answering Service had told him, somewhat archly, that they hoped he under stood he would be without their service as long as he was there.

  That had been crushing news. For as long as
he could remember, with the notable exception of Korea during the unpleasantness there, the AAA-1 Handy-Dandy Telephone-Answering Service had been part of his life. Over the years, they had acquired a fine skill in contacting him at all hours and in all places—just as he stepped under the shower, for example; or just as he swung the driver over his shoulder on the first tee; or as Stanley K. Warczinski set a pitcher of beer and two chicken lobsters in front of him.

  This thought cheered him. If the AAA-1 Handy-Dandy Telephone-Answering Service frankly confessed they would be unable to reach him while he was in Merry Morocco, it seemed logical to assume that neither would the Secretary of State.

  He underestimated the Secretary of State. No sooner had the Secretary hung up on Hawkeye than he had flashed his secretary again. “Come in wid your liddle book,” he said. “A message to Morocco, I got to send.”

  Hawkeye, knowing none of this, made his way down the corridor of the Spruce Harbor Medical Center until he came to the Doctor-Finding Board. This device, which had a much longer, possibly more accurate nomenclature, consisted of: a long list of the physicians catering to the patients of the medical center; a long line of little, sliding gadgets which slid to one side or the other exposing the words “In” or “Out”; and a greenish blackboard on which the doctors were supposed to write, presuming they were going to be “Out,” where, precisely, they were going to be while “Out.”

  With great pleasure and a certain not unattractive flourish, Hawkeye wrote “gone to Merry Morocco” on the blackboard after his name. He didn’t think anyone would believe it, but he felt sure it would brighten otherwise dull conversations in the Physicians’, Nurses’ and Medical Technicians’ Coffee Shoppe.

  Then he got into his car and drove home. It was his intention to pick up his bride and their luggage, and drive to the Spruce Harbor International Airport where the proprietor, Wrong Way Napolitano, had arranged for their aerial passage between Spruce Harbor and John F. Kennedy International Airport in New York for the connecting flight via Air Mali to the Canary Islands and Merry Morocco.

  When he turned off the road into his driveway, his path was blocked by a barrier consisting of John Francis Xavier McIntyre, M.D., F.A.C.S., who was sitting atop a pile of luggage. When he saw Hawkeye’s car, he rose to his feet and extended his right hand, palm outward, in front of him in the manner of a traffic cop.

  Hawkeye rolled down the window and stuck his head out.

  “I’m very touched that you came to wish me bon voyage,” he said, “but your duty under the Hippocratic oath clearly indicates you should be at the hospital working at your trade. I know that I’m irreplaceable, but you’ll just have to do the best you can.”

  “Why, hello there, Dr. Benjamin Franklin Pierce, M.D., healer of the sick, world traveler, last of the big spenders and father of four kids with the measles,” Dr. McIntyre replied.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “You know,” Trapper John replied, “little, red spots on the skin and a big QUARANTINE courtesy of the County Health Department on the door.” He turned and pointed to the door on which, indeed, was an eight-by-ten sheet of cardboard with the legend QUARANTINE printed on it in big, red letters.

  “If this is your idea of a joke, McIntyre,” Hawkeye said, rather threateningly, “forget it. I’m going to Merry Morocco, period.”

  “Yes, you are,” Trapper John said. “Do you think we’re going to have a good time, sweetie?”

  “What do you mean ‘we’?”

  “Guess whose kids have been playing with whose kids?” Trapper John replied. “The correct reply will get you two weeks with me.”

  “I spent sixteen months with you in Korea,” Hawkeye replied. “That’s enough for a lifetime.”

  “The question is not whether you’re going to spend the next two weeks with me, but where,” Trapper John said.

  “If you think you’re going to weasel out of two weeks’ work simply because your nasty contagious offspring have infested my little angels, you’ve got another think coming.”

  “I’ll lay it out for you, simply,” Trapper John said, picking up the luggage and carrying it to the car. “Mary and Lucinda have decided to pool the kids, so to speak. My kids are there, too. They will do the Florence Nightingale bit on sort of a duty roster. The original idea was that you were going to move into my house.”

  “Whose stupid idea was that?”

  “Your wife’s, as I recall,” Trapper John said.

  “It does have some merit when you consider it carefully,” Hawkeye said.

  “But then my Lucinda suggested that since it was such a shame to waste the Merry Morocco tickets,” Trapper John said, “and since the trip could not be rescheduled, maybe it would be a good idea if you and I went to Merry Morocco together.”

  “It was their idea?”

  “I resisted the suggestion,” Trapper John said, “that you and I would enjoy going off together alone, under the circumstances, far from our feverish, irritable, but not really too sick, offspring.”

  “And they swallowed it?”

  “I was practically pushed out the door,” Trapper John said.

  “And we have two whole weeks?” Hawkeye asked.

  “While you were dawdling at the hospital,” Trapper John said, “I fixed everything. I had our golf clubs sent from the club to the airport. Not only do we have a cottage on the first green at Southern Pines, but Wrong Way knows an airline pilot who’ll mail postcards from Morocco. I even went by the library and checked out some National Geographic magazines so we can report on what we saw.”

  “You’re a genius!” Hawkeye said.

  “Mary and the kids are in the window,” Trapper John said. “Wipe that idiotic grin off your face and wave them a sad good-bye.”

  Five hours later, Eastern Air Lines deposited seventy-eight disgruntled travelers and two widely smiling physicians at John F. Kennedy International Airport. What was an hour-and-a-half’s circling in the stack above the airport compared with the prospect of two uninterrupted weeks on the dark and immaculate greens of Southern Pines?

  Whistling “Count Your Blessings” in duet, which for some reason seemed to displease the other travelers, Drs. Pierce and McIntyre skipped gaily down the unloading ramp, looking not unlike Judy Garland and Bert Lahr heading up the Yellow-Brick Road in The Wizard of Oz.

  And then two sturdy gentlemen in business suits, white shirts, ties and snap-brim hats stepped in front of them, barring their way.

  “Drs. Pierce and McIntyre, I presume?”

  “My name is Camembert,” Hawkeye said immediately, “and this is Professor Roquefort.” It was a technique they had developed on a troopship when returning from Korea. Since it had worked then, to keep them from admitting to being doctors and thus passing the voyage conducting the traditional military function known as “Short Arm Inspection,” Hawkeye had no reason to suspect it would not work now.

  The two men, taken aback, stepped out of their way. But one of them, suspicious by nature, suddenly reached into his pocket and came out with two 5-by-7-inch, black-and-white photographs.

  “Ho, ho, ho,” he said, bubbling over with all the jolly goodwill that the Giant had demonstrated as he watched Jack have at his beanstalk with his ax. “Having your little joke, are you?”

  Each of the sturdy gentlemen in the business suits and snap-brimmed hats took a physician by the arm and propelled him across the terminal with practiced skill.

  “Would it be all right if I asked where we were going?” Trapper John inquired, politely.

  “Aren’t you supposed to take a little card from your pocket and read us our rights?” Hawkeye asked.

  “It’s nothing like that, ho, ho, ho,” the larger of the sturdy gentlemen said. “What we are doing is expediting your departure …”

  “I think I smell a rat,” Hawkeye said.

  “… at the special request of the Secretary of State himself,” the sturdy gentleman went on.

  “One thing abo
ut you, Hawkeye,” Trapper John said. “You got one hell of a smeller.”

  “There has been a slight change in our plans,” Hawkeye said. “We’re not going to Morocco, you see. We’re going to Southern Pines.”

  “If the Secretary of State says we are to expedite your departure to Morocco,” the sturdy gentleman said, “you ain’t going to Southern Pines. You’re going to Morocco.”

  “But we don’t want to go to Morocco!” Hawkeye protested.

  “Here we are,” the sturdy gentleman said, leading them to a departure gate at which large, heavily armed border patrolmen stood in the places normally occupied by attractive women in airlines’ uniforms.

  “Two specials for departure,” the sturdy gentleman announced.

  “We’ve been expecting them,” the border patrolman said. “Which are they? The jewel robbers or the white slavers? How come they ain’t handcuffed? I wouldn’t trust that long, skinny, ugly one as far as I could throw him.”

  “Nah,” the sturdy gentleman said, “these are the two for the special flight to Morocco.”

  “Well, they look like white slavers to me,” the border patrolman said.

  “They’re friends of the Secretary of the State,” the Sturdy gentleman said.

  “That figures,” the border patrolman said. “O.K., you two, follow me!”

  “If it’s all the same to you …” Hawkeye began.

  “I said ‘follow me,’ ” the border patrolman said.

  Drs. Pierce and McIntyre raised their hands above their heads in the manner of prisoners and followed the border patrolman down a corridor, which turned into sort of a tunnel, and finally deposited them inside an airplane.

  A 190-pound Air Force master sergeant, quite as large and nearly as ugly as the border patrolman, smiled at them. “I am Airwoman Betty-Lou Williams,” she said. “Welcome aboard Air Force Three. We will depart momentarily for Casablanca, and I am here to make your trip as enjoyable as possible. Feel free to call upon me for anything that will make this a pleasant flight for you.”

  “Actually,” Trapper John said, “we don’t really want to go to Morocco. Nothing personal, of course …”