MASH 11 MASH Goes To San Francisco

by Richard Hooker+William Butterworth

  “Right,” Radar said. “But only because Aloysius Grogarty knows Hawkeye and Trapper John. Otherwise, you’d probably have to go to the Spruce Harbor Medical Center.”

  Dr. Sattyn-Whiley now steeled himself against a crash. When it never came, he finally opened his eyes again.

  “OK, Colonel,” Radar was saying. “Get the nose up a little and stand by for when I cut power and reverse thrust. I’m going to lower the flaps and the gear.”

  “Got it,” Colonel Whiley said. Dr. Sattyn-Whiley was aware that his father was more excited—and visibly happier—then he had ever seen him before.

  “Flaps down,” Radar called. “Gear down!”

  A runway was suddenly directly in front of them. “Put her down as close to the threshold as you can, Colonel,” Radar said. “There’s only 4,800 feet.”

  The nose dipped to the ground, and, for a moment, Dr. Sattyn-Whiley was sure they were going to crash. But at the last split-second, his father pulled back ever so slightly on the wheel, and the plane seemed to bounce on a cushion of air and then sink through it slowly, so that there was only a slight bump when the wheels made contact.

  “Hold onto your teeth!” Radar called. The engines suddenly roared with power, and Dr. Sattyn-Wiley felt himself thrown against his shoulder straps as the Learjet decelerated; the jet-thrust had been applied in reverse.

  The plane, however, continued to eat up the runway at an alarming speed.

  “Brakes!” Radar called, and there was another horrifying hydraulic noise from the innards of the plane.

  No more than twenty feet from Spruce Harbor International’s control tower, the Learjet finally slid to a halt.

  “Very good for your first time,” Radar said professionally. Colonel Whiley looked at him with quiet pride, some gratitude, and a great deal of satisfaction.

  “My wife didn’t like me to fly,” he said. “So I gave it up.”

  “You should have done what I did,” Radar said.

  “What was that?”

  “I taught my pumpkin how to fly,” Radar said.

  “Madame Korsky-Rimsakov is a pilot?” Dr. Sattyn-Wiley asked incredulously.

  “Well, she busted her Airline Transport Rating exam when she took it,” Radar said. “But she’s still got her multi-engine jet instrument ticket, and she’s checked out in this, of course. And our friend Horsey said she can practice on her vacation on one of his 747’s and then take another shot at the Airline Transport exam.”

  “I never thought of teaching Caroline to fly,” the colonel said wistfully. And then he looked out the window. “Gee, that’s really like old times,” he said. “Looking out the cockpit window and seeing something like that!”

  He referred, of course, to Miss Barbara Ann Miller, who stood beside Wrong Way Napolitano, waiting for the cabin door to open.

  Dr. Sattyn-Whiley was aware that his father was looking at the best-looking female he’d seen in a very long time as a good-looking female, period. He himself was very much aware that the good-looking blonde was in nurses’ whites. And that made him very painfully aware of what they were doing here.

  Chapter Nine

  At just about this time, another member of the healing profession, Francis Burns, M.D., and his wife and helpmate, Sweetie-Baby, were checking into the Mark Hopkins Hotel in San Francisco, California.

  Dr. Burns was attired in a blackish suit and wore a black shirt and a reversed collar.

  “I believe you have a reservation for Dr. and Mrs. Burns,” he said to the desk clerk.

  “Just a moment, Reverend,” the desk clerk said.

  “Just call me ‘Doctor,’ son,” Burns said. “If you please.”

  “Of course, Doctor,” the desk clerk said.

  “What real meaning have earthly titles?” Burns inquired. “Our reward will come later . . . upstairs.”

  “I understand perfectly, Doctor,” the desk clerk said. “Oh, here it is. A nice little suite, and I see that our vice-president for charitable affairs has authorized a fifty-percent discount.”

  “Only fifty-percent?” Frank Burns inquired.

  “I don’t believe that he realized you were a man of the cloth, too, Doctor, so there will be another twenty-percent discount.”

  “That’s better,” Frank Burns said. “God bless you, son.”

  “Is Mrs. Burns with you, Rev—Doctor?”

  “Yes,” Frank Burns said, nodding toward Sweetie-Baby, who was sort of hiding behind a potted palm, holding her purse in front of her face. “There she is, God bless her.”

  The desk clerk banged his little bell and a bellboy appeared to carry the luggage. Frank Burns did not speak to Sweetie-Baby Burns all the way up to their suite. There were times when she annoyed him, and when he didn’t understand her at all, and this was one of these times. She was being unreasonable and annoying about his clerical collar.

  It wasn’t as if he wasn’t entitled to wear the clerical collar. He was a duly licensed minister of the Universal Church of All Faiths, and had a certificate from the Universal Church of All Faiths & Job Printing Company to prove it, a certificate that had cost him ten whole dollars.

  Under the circumstances—since he had, out of the goodness of his heart, given the Universal Church people the ten dollars—it was only right and fair that he take advantage of the twenty-percent discount the airlines gave the clergy. And if it made airline porters and bellboys feel good to refuse a tip from a clergyman, would it be the Christian thing for him to do to deny them that simple pleasure?

  Once they were inside their nice little suite, Sweetie-Baby, her face flushed, fled into the bedroom. Frank was left alone with the bellboy.

  “You with GILIAFCC, Inc., Rev?”

  “Just call me ‘Doctor,’ son,” Frank Burns said. “Odd that you should ask.”

  “Are you?”

  “One of the reasons I am in your charming city is to re-establish a relationship with one of the GILIAFCC, Inc., clergypersons,” Frank Burns said. “Would you be good enough, son, to give me directions to their place of worship?”

  “Certainly,” the bellboy said. “Any cab driver can tell you, of course, but if you’re walking, just head down Market Street until you come to the neon sign.”

  “What neon sign?”

  “It’s a rather large one, Rever—Doctor. It says ‘Welcome Sinner!’ ”

  “I see.”

  “Under the words, there’s the Reverend Mother Emeritus, shooting the first arrow,” the bellboy went on. “From there, just follow the arrows.”

  “I beg pardon?”

  “Not really the Reverend Mother Emeritus, of course,” the bellboy explained. “A sign of her. You can’t miss it. It’s four stories high, and it’s in four colors.”

  “And the arrows?”

  “The sign shows her shooting a bow and arrow. They flash on and off, so it looks like the arrow’s in flight. You understand?”

  “I think so.”

  “And then when you get close to the Temple, actually the First Missionary Church—you can’t miss it.”

  “Why not?”

  “There’s a thirty-foot statue of the Blessed Brother Buck being welcomed into Heaven by Saint Peter and Saint Michelangelo.”

  “Saint Michelangelo?”

  “The GILIAFCC, Inc., thinks of him that way,” the bellboy said. “As one of their own, so to speak.”

  “And you think I could find the Reverend Mother Emeritus there?”

  “Not today,” the bellboy said. “Tomorrow you probably could.”

  “Why not today?”

  “She’s not there today,” the bellboy said reasonably. “Thats why you couldn’t find her there today.”

  “Where could I find her today?”

  “New Orleans, probably,” the bellboy said. “That’s where she lives. But she’s coming here tomorrow. Here, look in the paper.” He handed him a newspaper. There was a story on the front page, beneath a formal portrait of the Reverend Mother Emeritus:

  SA
N FRANCISCO, CALIF. Police Commissioner Boulder J. Ohio today threatened “quick arrest and even speedier trials” for anyone misbehaving during either the arrival ceremonies for the Reverend Mother Emeritus M. H. W. Wilson of the God Is Love in All Forms Christian Church, Inc., or during the annual triumphal Sinner’s Procession tomorrow night.

  “I have cancelled all leaves and off-days for the entire force,” the commissioner said in an interview, “and extra security will be in force both at the airport and all along the procession route. I will not tolerate this year the scandalous behavior that has unfortunately occurred in the past.”

  The commissioner, as an example of the tight security he plans to enforce, said that only bona fide travelers, with tickets to prove it, will be admitted to the terminal building at San Francisco International Airport after 3:00 p.m. tomorrow afternoon. He also said his men in blue will be equipped not only with standard riot gear, but also with cameras to photograph those who throw bottles and other objects -at members of the procession. The photographs will be used as evidence in court.

  “In cooperation with the GILIAFCC, Inc., officials,” the commissioner went on, “we will check the identity of anyone who wishes to march in the procession. Only bona fide members of the GILIAFCC, Inc., will be permitted to march or to enter the picnic grounds on the Embarcadero.”

  Sweetie-Baby Burns walked back into the room just as Frank finished reading this newspaper story.

  “Good news, Sweetie-Baby,” Frank Burns said to her. “The pressing business that brings me to San Francisco can be delayed until tomorrow.”

  “Oh?”

  “And I will thus be able to go with you when you ride the cable cars,” he said. Turning to the bellboy, he said, “Clergymen, I believe, ride for free?”

  “No, Rever—Doctor. They have to pay just like everybody else.”

  “In that case,” Frank Burns said, “we’ll save the cable cars for tomorrow. This afternoon we can just wander around the streets, looking at the sights.”

  About an hour after this fascinating interchange of information took place, Police Commissioner Boulder J. Ohio sat at his desk in the picturesque police headquarters building with two problems on his hands, neither of which he quite knew how to deal with.

  His wife had just been arrested as a “suspicious hippie,” and try as he would not to, he had to agree with the arresting officer that he, too, would have found it suspicious if he had seen the commissioner’s official limousine cruising slowly down Grant Avenue (one of the streets bordering Chinatown) with a scantily dressed young woman riding on top, alternately quoting Confucius and throwing handfuls of rice at passersby.

  The second problem was more pressing, because the pressee was at that moment in his outer office, while his wife was, at least for the moment, safely out of the way in the Chinatown Precinct drunk tank.

  The commissioner was quite sure that he knew what was on the mind of Mrs. C. Edward Sattyn-Whiley, and equally sure that she was going to give him the benefit of her thinking in her own inimitable manner. He had on his desk a copy of the same newspaper the bellboy had shown to Frank Burns. It was obvious to him that the story had come to Mrs. Sattyn-Whiley’s attention, and that she was going to inquire of him what his reasons were for permitting the Reverend Mother Emeritus and her faithful flock to return to San Francisco at all.

  From his past experience with Mrs. C. Edward Sattyn-Whiley, he knew that there was no point in bringing up such Constitutional things as freedom of religion, assembly, or speech. He had been accused of nitpicking before. The bottom line was that the Reverend Mother Emeritus was coming back to town, and Mrs. C. Edward Sattyn-Whiley disapproved.

  The commissioner reached into the drawer of his large and highly polished desk and withdrew from it a small brown paper bag, through the top of which stuck the capped neck of a bottle of spiritous liquor. The commissioner took a healthy pull at the bottle, grimaced, shook his head, looked thoughtful, and then took another pull.

  He then replaced the bottle in the drawer, sprayed his open mouth with some Booze-B-Gone—a patented, rather aptly named product—and, steeling himself for the ordeal, ordered his secretary to show Mrs. C. Edward Sattyn-Whiley in.

  He walked from behind the desk toward the door as the door opened.

  He winced when he saw that Mrs. Sattyn-Whiley was accompanied by her attorney, the dean of the San Francisco Bar, J. Merton Gabriel.

  “Good afternoon, Mrs. Sattyn-Whiley,” the commissioner said. “How good of you to come to see me!”

  “You’ve been drinking again, Mr. Ohio,” she said. “I can smell the Booze-B-Gone.” And then she started to sniffle into her hankie. Somewhat confused at this reaction to his having had a little nip and been caught at it, the commissioner did what any politician does when confused—he smiled at the other party and shook hands.

  “Good to see you, counselor,” he said.

  “We have a bad situation here, Commissioner,” Mr. Gabriel said. “A bad situation.”

  “I’m sure that we, as reasonable people, can reach a reasonable resolution of our differences,” the commissioner said.

  Mrs. Sattyn-Whiley blew her nose, rather loudly, and then spoke.

  “My husband, Commissioner, is missing,” she said. “And I know who’s responsible.”

  “I didn’t know he even knew her,” the commissioner said.

  “Knew who?”

  “The Reverend Mother Emeritus of the God Is Love in All Forms Christian Church, Inc.,” the commissioner said. “Who else?”

  “I was referring to that outrageous Irish charlatan, Aloysius J. Grogarty,” she said. “How dare you suggest that my Edward knows that terrible woman?”

  “Perhaps we had better start at the beginning, Mrs. Sattyn-Whiley,” the commissioner said. “I’m a little confused.”

  “That’s not surprising,” she said.

  “May I offer you a cup of coffee?”

  “I’d rather have some of whatever it is you simply reek of,” she said. “My world has collapsed around me.”

  “You want some of my Booze-B-Gone?” the commissioner asked.

  “I need something to steady my nerves,” she said. Somewhat hesitantly, the commissioner took the brown paper bag from his desk.

  “That’ll do,” Mrs. Sattyn-Whiley said. She took it from him and took a healthy pull from the neck of the bottle.

  The commissioner was now really worried. He would never have dreamed it possible that Mrs. C. Edward Sattyn-Whiley would take a healthy belt from the neck of a bottle in the privacy of her mansion, much less in his office.

  “I come to you, Commissioner,” Mrs. Sattyn-Whiley said, “a lonely and frightened woman with nowhere else to turn.”

  ‘“Tell me what I can do, Mrs. Sattyn-Whiley,” he said. “How may I be of assistance?”

  “You can throw that Irish scalawag in jail,” she said. “Quietly, of course. I wouldn’t want this to get out.”

  “What is it, exactly, that you wouldn’t want to get out?”

  “Never underestimate the Irish, Commissioner,” Mrs. Sattyn-Whiley said. “There is apparently no depth to which they will not sink to gain revenge!”

  “I suppose that’s so,” the commissioner said. “Exactly what has Dr. Grogarty done, Mrs. Sattyn-Whiley?”

  “He’s kidnapped my Edward, that’s what he’s done!” she said. “And my son, too!”

  “Let me see if I have this straight,” the commissioner said. “Dr. Aloysius J. Grogarty, chief of staff of the Grogarty Clinic—that Grogarty?”

  “That one!”

  “Has kidnapped Colonel C. Edward Whiley and your son?”

  “My son the doctor,” she said. “Dr. Cornelius E. Sattyn-Whiley.”

  “And do you have any idea why Dr. Grogarty has kidnapped your son and husband?”

  “You bet I do!” she said. “He’s done it to make a laughing stock out of me before my friends.”

  “Would you mind explaining that?”

  “
You tell him, Merton,” Mrs. Sattyn-Whiley said. “I don’t have the strength.” She uncorked the bottle and took another pull at it.

  “It goes back to the days of World War II,” J. Merton Gabriel said, “when Colonel Whiley, then Major, fell under the evil influence of Dr. Grogarty while in the service.”

  “Oh?”

  “My Edward was nothing more than a boy—in fact, he was known as the Boy Major,” Mrs. Sattyn-Whiley said. “And he was obviously naive, impressionable, and vulnerable to that awful man’s influence.”

  “I see.”

  “Major Whiley made the acquaintance of Dr. Grogarty, then a lieutenant of the medical corps, when he sought his professional services,” the lawyer said.

  “Was he ill?”

  “He was under a great mental strain,” J. Merton Gabriel said.

  “You don’t get to be a nineteen-year-old major with fifteen kills without undergoing a certain strain,” Mrs. C. Edward Sattyn-Whiley said.

  “I see. And he went to Dr. Grogarty for treatment?”

  “And at his hands, received the first liquor that ever passed his innocent lips,” Mrs. Sattyn-Whiley said.“That’s what that charlatan prescribed for my little Eddie.” She began to sniffle again.

  “And when the war was over, and they came home, he insisted on maintaining the relationship. Can you imagine the effrontery of that shanty-Irish charlatan, that Barbary Coast ne’er-do-well, imagining that he could remain friends with C. Edward Whiley, simply because he had saved his life during the war?”

  “He saved his life? By giving him booze?”

  “Eddie was shot down in the jungle behind enemy lines,” Mrs. Sattyn-Whiley explained. “That awful Irisher parachuted into the jungle to set his broken leg. He and some sergeant then carried Eddie back through the lines to safety. But that’s what doctors are for, aren’t they?”

  “I suppose you could look at it that way,” the commissioner replied. “And you say he presumed on this casual wartime acquaintance when they both returned to San Francisco?”

  “I can’t prove it, of course,” Mrs. Sattyn-Whiley said. “It was before we were married and I began to manage my poor little Eddie’s affairs, but I have reason to believe that my poor little Eddie was cajoled into providing Grogarty with the money to start the Grogarty Clinic.”