MASH 06 MASH Goes to Morocco

by Richard Hooker

  “Go back into the V.I.P. cabin,” she said, gesturing, “and then sit down, shorty, and shut up. I don’t want no trouble outa you.”

  “Thank you kindly,” Hawkeye said. “Yes, ma’am.”

  They made their way to the aft cabin, aware of the sound and vibration of starting engines. As they sat down and fastened their seat belts, the plane began to move away from the terminal.

  And then the door to the cabin opened again. Two people stepped into the cabin. One was a small gentleman, rising no more than five feet three from the floor. He carried an enormous attaché case and peered at them from behind large, black-rimmed glasses. The second was M. Sgt. Betty-Lou Williams, who presented each of them with a small, insulated container and a small, waxed paper-wrapped parcel.

  “Good evening, gentlemen,” the little man in the large glasses said. “I am Q. Elwood Potter, III. I am Deputy Assistant Under Secretary of State for North African Affairs. I am your official escort officer and, just as soon as you have eaten your chicken soup and chopped-liver sandwiches, prepared for you as a token of personal friendship by the Secretary himself, I will begin the briefing.”

  At that point, having broken ground, the pilot of the airplane pulled back a little further on his stick, and the nose of the aircraft rose sharply. This occurred at the precise moment that Dr. Pierce, who was always troubled with an extraordinary curiosity, opened the insulated container.

  Hot chicken soup (with lots of noodles and little chunks of white meat) poured into his lap. He closed the container, and then his eyes, and began to weep, softly, but heartrendingly.

  Chapter Seven

  At this precise moment, all across the country, millions of eyes were focused on television sets. It was the Amalgamated Broadcasting System’s “News Hour” and it was reaching its climactic moment. After fifty-five minutes of commercial messages, interrupted briefly , and rarely by thirty-second segments of news, it was time for “The Rhotten Report.” World-famous television journalist, Don Rhotten, was assigned precisely two minutes of time to explain to the viewers just what they had seen on the news portion of the program, and to explain what it meant.

  “Punch in Rhotten,” the director said, and the technicians did just that, electronically speaking. The monitors showed three different angles of Don Rhotten in what looked to the viewer like a newsroom with library. A battery of Teletype printers clacked audibly in the back ground, as yellow paper jerked out of them. Above the teleprinters was a wall of books. The books, actually, were fake, and leftovers from a popular dramatic series. Before that, they had served as a backdrop from touching scenes in which Fatherly Doctor Paul had counseled terminally ill patients about the joys of dying under his gentle care.

  The teleprinters were hooked to nothing but the socket in the wall. They had been rigged so that when the RHOTTEN TWX switch was pushed, they typed line after line of X’s, shifted lines, rang bells and generally gave the impression of legitimate functioning.

  Don Rhotten himself sat at a desk, on which was a typewriter, a telephone, and what looked like a humidor for the tobacco for his ever-present pipe. What it was, actually, when viewed from Rhotten’s position, was a prompting device. Rhotten did not give his nightly little lectures from memory, although it looked that way. What he did was read what had been written for him to say by a staff of writers, and which appeared on a small television screen hidden in the tobacco humidor.

  “Take two,” the director intoned; and that camera, Number Two, “went live.” A little red bulb on the front of it lit up, telling Rhotten that that particular camera was “on the air” and transmitting his image all across the nation.

  “Good evening,” Rhotten said, taking his pipe from his mouth, and flashing his famous modest and unassuming grin at the camera. “I’m Don Rhotten, and this is ‘The Rhotten Report.’ ”

  (It should be noted parenthetically here that Mr. Rhotten is of Dutch ancestry, and that his name is pronounced Row-ten, rather than how it might at first glance, to the uninitiated, appear to sound.)

  Rhotten, who, if nothing else, was an excellent “sight reader” (someone who can read, convincingly, out loud, material which he has never seen before), devoted 85 of the 120 seconds allotted to him to a rather skillful demolishment of the just-issued report of the Presidential Commission on the Problems of Aging, which had taken a bipartisan group of 130 scholars, economists, physicians and clergymen two years to write.

  Rhotten (more precisely, the people who wrote his copy) disapproved. The scholars, economists, physicians and clergymen had wasted their time.

  He took a puff on his pipe, a hooked calabash, to give the viewers five whole seconds to reflect on his profound observations, and then turned to glance at the prompter to read the final thirty seconds of opinions and news from the tobacco humidor.

  “This reporter,” he intoned solemnly, “has exclusively learned of secret United States support of the Sheikh of Abzug. At least one planeload of uniformed men left the United States today for the desert kingdom. The Pentagon flatly denies what my confidential, high-ranking sources saw with their own eyes, and the State Department actually refused to discuss this gravely serious matter with this reporter at all.

  “But I’m not going to let the matter rest with a Pentagon and State Department denial. This reporter’s bags are packed, and a station wagon is waiting at the studio door to rush me to the airport. Next stop, Abzug!”

  His excitement was clearly visible to all his fans. In times of high excitement, his Adam’s apple bobbed, and his voice took on husky timbre.

  “Take three,” the director said. The red light on Camera Two blinked out, and the light on Camera Three came on. Rhotten turned in his leather, upholstered chair to face it.

  “This has been ‘The Rhotten Report,” he said. “Until we meet again, this is Don Rhotten.”

  “Roll the last film clip,” the director said. Don Rhotten’s image blinked off some 11,345,213 screens and was replaced by that of an even more impressive-looking male human being sitting in an even more impressive office. )

  “Good evening,” he said. “I’d like to talk to you, confidentially, for the next few moments, about something of great importance that concerns all of us.” He paused for dramatic effect, and then got to his feet. The camera zoomed in for a tight shot of his handsome, sincere-looking face.

  “Hemorrhoids,” he said, and held up the giant-family-economy-size box.

  Don Rhotten saw nothing of this. The moment the red “on-the-air” light on Camera Three blinked off, he jumped up from behind his desk and angrily snatched the lavaliere microphone from around his neck.

  “I want to see you!” he screamed at three men who had been standing by his set out of camera range. One of them was so startled that he bumped into the flat on which all the book spines had been so realistically painted. It fell down, exposing the concrete-block walls of the studio, a spaghetti maze of wires and cables, and a startled little man in coveralls whose hot dog the falling flat had missed by no more than two inches.

  Rhotten surveyed the damage. He turned and faced the trio again.

  “I’m glad!” he screamed. “Do you hear me? I’m glad!”

  “Now, Don-Baby!”

  “Don’t you ‘Now, Don-Baby’ me, you four-eyed creep!” Rhotten said. “I know when I’ve been sand bagged.”

  He stalked off the set to a door in the concrete-block wall on which his name was painted under a silver, five-pointed star. He stepped inside and slammed the door.

  The three men at whom he had screamed looked at one another, shrugged and went to face the music. Don Rhotten did not answer their knocks and, after a moment, one of them timidly tried the door. It opened a crack, and then the famous Rhotten voice was heard, somewhat louder than usual: “How dare you disturb me when I’m removing my contact lenses?”

  The door was closed again quickly, and this time the trio waited until it was opened from within. The man who answered the door at first didn’t loo
k like the man whose face had just, as he liked to phrase it, “visited” 11,345,213 homes via the television tube. He was wearing glasses, thick-lensed, thick-framed glasses which magnified his eyes, giving him a guppylike glower. The man on television had had a full head of thick black curls. This man displayed a freckled, if spotlessly clean, expanse of light-pink skin covering a somewhat lumpy scalp. His only hair was a sort of monk’s ridge at the level of his ears.

  It was only when he spoke that one could be sure it really was indeed Don Rhotten.

  “All right,” he said, “get in here and figure out some way we can explain why I’m still here instead of wherever the hell I said I was going.”

  “Let’s talk about it, Don-Baby,” the shorter, fatter member of the trio said.

  “There’s nothing to talk about,” Rhotten said. “I ain’t going, and that’s it.”

  “Don-Baby,” the taller, thinner member of the trio said, “think of the exposure!”

  “That’s precisely what I am thinking of. My exposure to a bunch of South Pacific savages who want me for their supper.”

  “Abzug’s in Africa, sweetie,” the third member of the trio said.

  Mr. Rhotten did not immediately reply. He had, literally, his hand in his mouth. He emerged with what appeared to be a perfect, full set of shiny white teeth. It could have been a magician’s illusion, for there was a full set of teeth (not, to be sure, as perfect or as shining White, but a full set) remaining in his mouth. It was not a magician’s illusion. What Mr. Rhotten had removed from his mouth was a device known to the dental trade as “cosmetic prophylactics,” and to their wearers as “caps.” They are artificial teeth whose function is to hide their less attractive natural brothers over which they fit.

  Mr. Rhotten dipped his caps into a glass of mild antiseptic (always kept in the same spot on the same table for this precise purpose) and then placed them carefully into a small leather-and-foam carrying case.

  He ran his tongue over his real teeth for a moment, as if checking to see that they were all still there, and only then replied to the last explanation.

  “That’s even worse,” he said. “I’m not going to Abzug.”

  “It’s all laid on, Don-Baby.”

  “Unlay it off, then,” Rhotten said. “I ain’t going.”

  “You had a good time in Israel, Don,” the second member of the trio said. “Don’t you remember? Her name was Rebecca, or something like that.”

  “And what happened when she left? I had sand all under my rug. Do you know what it’s like to stand there in the hot sun with sand between your rug and your head?”

  “We’ll do all the shooting indoors, Don-Baby, I absolutely guarantee.”

  “I won’t have to leave the hotel?” he asked, doubtfully.

  “My word of honor,” the man said. “Would I lie to you?”

  “Come to think of it, yes,” Don Rhotten said. “What’s the name of the hotel?”

  “The Abzug Hilton,” the short, fat man said, too quickly.

  “You know what my contract says, Seymour,” Dan Rhotten said. “No Hiltons and no Howard Johnson Motels.”

  “Actually, it’s not the Hilton,” the tall one said. “Seymour was mistaken. We wouldn’t violate the terms of your contract.”

  “I’m not a jerk, you know,” Rhotten said. “I’m Don Rhotten. And Don Rhotten’s contract calls for certain things in keeping with my stature and Neilsen rating.”

  “That’s why we think you should go to Abzug, baby,” the short one said. “The ratings.”

  “What do you mean, the ratings?”

  “For the last two weeks, baby, you’ve been number four, after Smith, Rather and Cronkite.”

  “Smith’s got an unfair advantage,” Rhotten said, somewhat petulantly. “He can pronounce all those funny names. He’s even been to most of them.”

  “Well, before he moved into the big time, he used to be a reporter,” the short one said. “Real reporters have to go places all the time.”

  “There ought to be a law,” Rhotten said. “No real reporters in front of the camera.”

  “Smith and Cronkite go way back, baby,” the short one said. “You know that. It’s sort of a grandfather clause. Once they’re gone, that’ll be the end of them. They’re sort of like dinosaurs.”

  “Are Smith and Cronkite going to wherever the hell it is?”

  “It’ll be all yours, baby,” the short one said, “an exclusive.”

  “If it’s such a big story, how come they ain’t going?”

  “They don’t have to go anywhere, Don. They’re Number One and Number Two in the Neilsens.”

  “That’s really disgusting, you know that?” Don Rhotten said. “You spend half your youth in speech and elocution classes, and then half your life getting made up, and what happens? Some lousy reporter beats you out in the ratings.”

  “Well, nobody’s blaming you for that,” the short one said. “We know you do your part, Don. Sincerity-wise, presentation-wise, you’re number one. But you have to get out there where the news is breaking. What people want to see on the news is violence. And, no offense, what did you give them tonight? Old people. Who cares about old people?”

  “That’s not my fault,” Rhotten protested. “I don’t write ‘The Rhotten Report.’ ”

  “I know, I know,” he said. “But the bottom line is the same. No violence, the ratings go splash.”

  “We got a new gimmick for you, Don,” the short one said.

  “What kind of a gimmick?”

  “What you’re going to report from Abzug is that you made a mistake.”

  “Don Rhotten made a mistake?” Rhotten said “You’re right. You are bananas.”

  “Think about it, baby,” the short one said. “Be profound.”

  “Profound, shmofound, Don Rhotten doesn’t make mistakes,” Rhotten said.

  “Hear me out,” the short one said. “From what we hear, this Abzug is loaded with color.”

  “What kind of color?”

  “Desert, mountains, camels, horses, guys in robes running around with rifles and swords …”

  “That’s all I need is some guy running around me with a rifle. You know I’m afraid of guns,” Rhotten said.

  “You don’t have to get near the guys with the guns. We’ll put them on film and run them behind you on rear projection. Like I said, you won’t have to get out of the hotel.”

  “I’m not saying I’m going, Seymour; but if I do, you better count on me holding you to that.”

  “I left out the best part,” Seymour said. “You know how they handle their crime problem?”

  “How would I know something like that?” Rhotten asked.

  “The first time they catch somebody stealing, they cut off his left hand,” Seymour said. “The second time they catch him, they cut off his right hand. And the third time, they cut off his head.”

  “You don’t say?” Rhotten said. “Can you get that on film?”

  “We had Kodak make us up some special film so the blood shows really red,” Seymour said. “It’ll make the competition’s “Blood on the Highways” series look about as gory as an afternoon in kindergarten.”

  “Now you’re cooking with gas, Seymour,” Rhotten said, approvingly.

  “I thought you’d like it,” Seymour said, modestly.

  “What did you mean about me making a mistake? What was that all about?”

  “Well, do you remember what you said on the tube tonight?”

  “You better fill me in, Seymour,” Rhotten said. “I had other things on my mind.”

  “Well, it was sort of a teaser,” Seymour said. “What you said was that your highly placed sources told you that a planeload of uniformed men took off for Abzug tonight. Remember?”

  “Yeah, I think so,” Rhotten said, searching his memory.

  “And then you said that the State Department wouldn’t talk to you…”

  “I remember that,” Rhotten said. “Wasn’t that stretching credibilit
y a little? I mean, I am Don Rhotten, and when I want to talk to somebody, I talk to somebody.”

  “That’s the pitch,” Seymour said. “People are going to be shocked that the State Department would have the chutzpah not to talk to Don Rhotten.”

  “You better believe it,” Rhotten said.

  “So people are already excited,” Seymour went on. “So we go to Abzug. The departure business is all laid on. We got you a bush jacket and a hat with a wide brim from Austria …”

  “That’s Australia, Seymour,” the thin one said. “Austria is Strauss and funny little hats; Australia is kangaroos and funny big hats.”

  “Right,” Seymour said, although it was evident he was annoyed at the interruption. “Like I was saying, we got you this hat with the big brim and a bush jacket…”

  “With a big brim, they won’t be able to see my face,” Rhotten protested.

  “The cameraman will handle that with special lights,” Seymour said. “Don’t worry about it. So, like I was saying, we get fifteen, twenty seconds of you on film leaving the studio here. We got cops on motorcycles to escort the station wagon to the airport.”

  “Station wagon? Station wagon? Why can’t I go to the airport in the Cadillac?”

  “The image, sweetie. You’re dashing off to the far corners of the world. You don’t dash off to the far corners in a limousine.”

  “O.K.,” Rhotten said. “But just to the airport. No station wagon when we get where we’re going.”

  “Agreed. Anyway, we get fifteen, twenty seconds of you here, running out to the station wagon in your bush coat, with the hat, and then taking off for the airport behind the motorcycle cops.”

  “Maybe I could hold the hat in my hand,” Rhotten said.

  “Then you’d have to put the rug back on,” Seymour protested. “I was just trying to think of you, sweetie.”

  “I’ll put the rug back on,” Rhotten said. “I’m prepared to make sacrifices for my career, too, you know.”

  “O.K. Then at the airport, we get another fifteen or twenty seconds of you arriving, behind the motorcycle cops, and rushing out to the airplane.” He paused dramatically, and then went on: “We chartered Hefner’s air plane, sweetie.”