M*A*S*H

by Richard Hooker

  Golf had not played a prominent role in Hawkeye Pierce's formative years. Ten miles from Crabapple Cove, however, there was a golf course patronized by the summer resident group. During periods when the pursuit of clams and lobsters was unprofitable, Hawkeye had found employment as a caddy. From time to time he had played with the other caddies and, one year, became the caddy champion of the Wawenock Harbor Golf Club. This meant that he was the only one of ten kids who could break ninety.

  In college Hawkeye's obligation to various scholarships involved attention to other games, but during medical school, his internship and his residency he had played golf as often as possible. Joining a club had been out of the question, and even payment of green fees was economically unsound. Therefore he developed a technique which frequently allowed him the privilege of playing some public and a number of unostentatious private courses. He would walk confidently into a pro shop, smile, comment upon the nice condition of the course, explain that he was just passing through and that he was Joe, Dave or Jack Somebody, the pro from Dover. This resulted, about eight times out of ten, in an invitation to play for free. If forced into conversation, he became the pro from Dover, New Hampshire, Massachusetts, New Jersey, England, Ohio, Delaware, Tennessee, or Dover-Foxcroft, Maine, whichever seemed safest.

  There was adequate room to hit golf balls at the Double Natural, and with the arrival of spring Trapper and Hawkeye had commissioned the chopper pilots to bring clubs and balls from Japan. Then they had established a practice range of sorts in the field behind the officers' latrine. The Korean houseboys were excellent ball shaggers, so the golfing Swamp-men spent much of their free time hitting wood and iron shots. They began to suspect that if they ever got on a real course they'd burn it up, at least from tee to green, but that possibility seemed as remote as their chances of winning the Nobel prize for medicine.

  The day after The Second Coming of Trapper John, however, a young Army private, engaged in training maneuvers near Kokura, Japan, had, when a defective grenade exploded, been struck in the chest by a fragment. X-rays revealed blood in the right pleural cavity, which contains the lung, the possible presence of blood within the pericardium, which surrounds the heart, and a metallic foreign body which seemed, to the Kokura doctors in attendance, to be within the heart itself.

  Two factors complicated the case: (1) there was no chest surgeon in the area and (2) the soldier's father was a member of Congress. Had it not been for the second complication, the patient would have been sent to the Tokyo Army Hospital where the problem could have been handled promptly and capably.

  When informed immediately of his son's injury, however, the Congressman consulted medical friends and was referred to a widely known Boston surgeon whose advice in this matter would be the best available. The Boston surgeon told the Congressman that, regardless of what the Army had to say, the man to take care of his son was Dr. John F. X. Mclntyre, now stationed at the 4077th MASH somewhere in Korea. Congressmen make things move. Within hours a jet was flying out of Kokura and then a chopper was whirling out of Seoul, bearing X-rays, a summary of the case, and orders for Captain Mclntyre and anyone else he needed to get to Kokura in a hurry.

  Unaware of all this excitement, Trapper John and Hawkeye were hitting a few on the driving range when the chopper from Seoul arrived. They first heard, then saw, it approaching, but as they were off duty and it was coming from the south, anyway, they ignored it. Trapper, still taken with his new image, had not gotten around to shaving his beard or having his hair cut, and he was bending over and teeing up a ball when the pilot, directed to them, walked up. "Captain Mclntyre?" the pilot said.

  "What?" Trapper John said, straightening up and turning to face his visitor.

  "God!" the pilot said, stunned by his first look at the man whose importance had set a whole chain of command from generals down to clerk-typists into action.

  "His son," Hawkeye said. "Would you like to buy an autographed picture for … ?"

  "You're Captain Mclntyre?" the pilot said. "That's what the Army calls me," Trapper said. "Take off your shirt, stick out your tongue and tell me about the pain."

  Completely bewildered now, the pilot silently handed over the white envelope containing orders and the explanatory letter from General Hamilton Hartington Hammond and with it the large brown manila envelope containing the X-rays of the chest of the Congressman's son. Trapper read the first and handed them over to Hawkeye and then, as Trapper held the X-rays up to the sunlight, the two looked at them.

  "I don't think the goddam thing's in his heart," said Hawk-eye, without great assurance.

  "Course it isn't," affirmed Trapper John, "but let's not annoy the Congressman. Let us leave for Kokura immediately, with our clubs."

  Delaying only long enough to clear it with Henry, they lugged their clubs to the chopper, boosted them in and climbed in after them. At Seoul, Kimpo airport was shrouded with fog and rain, which did not prevent the chopper from landing but which precluded the takeoff of the C-47 scheduled to take them to Kokura. To pass the time in pleasant company, the two surgeons ambled over to the Officers' Club where, after the covey of Air Force people at the bar got over the initial shock, they made the visitors welcome.

  "But you guys are a disgrace," said one, after the fourth round. "You can't expect the Air Force to deliver such items to Japan."

  "Our problem," Hawkeye explained, "is that right now we've got the longest winning streak in the history of military medicine going, so we don't dare get shaved or shorn. What else can you suggest?"

  "Well, we might at least dress you up a little," one of the others said.

  "I'm partial to English flannel," Hawkeye said.

  "Imported Irish tweed," Trapper said.

  The flyboys had recently staged a masquerade party in their club and they still had a couple of Papa-San suits. Papa-San suits take their name from the elderly Korean gentlemen who sport them, and they are long, flowing robes of white or black, topped off by tall hats that look like bird cages.

  At 2:00 a.m., Trapper and Hawkeye climbed aboard the C-47 resplendent in their white drapery and bird cages, their clubs over their shoulders. Five hours later they disembarked at Kokura into bright sunlight, found the car with 25th STATION HOSPITAL emblazoned on its side, crawled into the back and awakened the driver.

  "Garrada there," the sergeant said.

  "What?" Trapper said.

  "He's from Brooklyn," Hawkeye said. "He wants us to vacate this vehicle."

  "I said garrada there," the sergeant said, "or I'll…"

  "What's the matter?" Trapper said. "You're supposed to pick up the two pros who are gonna operate on the Congressman's son, aren't you?"

  "What?" the sergeant said. "You mean you guys are the doctors?"

  "You betcher ever-lovin' A, buddy-boy," Hawkeye said.

  "Poor kid," the sergeant said. "Goddam army …"

  "Look sergeant," Trapper said, "if that spleen of yours is bothering you, we'll remove it right here. Otherwise, let's haul ass."

  "Goddam army," the sergeant said,

  "That's right," Hawkeye said, "and on the way fill us in on the local golfing facilities. We gotta operate this kid and then get in at least eighteen holes."

  The sergeant followed the path of least resistance. On the way he informed the Swampmen that there was a good eighteen-hole course not far from the hospital but that, as the Kokura Open was starting the next day, the course was closed to the public.

  "So that means we've got a big decision to make," Trapper said.

  "What's that?" Hawkeye said.

  "The way I see it," Trapper said, for the benefit of the sergeant, "we can operate on this kid and then qualify for this Kokura Open, or we can qualify first and then operate on this kid, if he's still alive."

  "Goddam army," the sergeant said.

  "Decisions, decisions, decisions," Hawkeye said. "After all, we didn't hit the kid in the chest with that grenade."

  "Right!" Trapper said. "And it's no
t our chest."

  "It's not even our kid," Hawkeye said. "He belongs to some Congressman."

  "Yeah," Trapper said, "but let's operate on him first anyway. Then well be nice and relaxed to qualify. We wouldn't want to blow that."

  "Good idea," Hawkeye said.

  "Goddam, goddam army," the sergeant said.

  Delivered to the front entrance of the 25th Station Hospital, Trapper and Hawkeye entered and approached the reception desk. Behind it sat a pretty WAC, whose big blue eyes opened like morning glories when she looked up and saw the apparitions before her.

  "Nice club you've got here, honey," said Hawkeye.

  "Where's the pro shop?"

  "What?" she said.

  "What time's the bar open?" Trapper said.

  "What?" she said.

  "You got any caddies available?" Hawkeye said.

  "What?" she said.

  "Look, honey," Trapper said. "Don't keep saying 'what.' Just say 'yes' instead."

  "That's right," Hawkeye said, "and you'll be surprised bow many friends you'll make in this man's army."

  "Yes," she said.

  "That's better," Trapper said. "So where's the X-ray department?"

  "Yes," she said.

  They wandered down the main hallway, people turning to look at them as they passed, until they came to the X-ray department. They walked in, put their clubs in a corner and sat down. They put their feet on the radiologist's desk and lighted cigarettes.

  "Don't set fire to your beard," Hawkeye cautioned Trapper John.

  "Can't," Trapper said. "Had it fire-proofed."

  "What the …?" somebody in the gathering circle of interested X-ray technicians started to say.

  "All right," Trapper said. "Somebody trot out the, latest pictures of this kid with the shell fragment in his chest."

  No one moved.

  "Snap it up!" yelled Hawkeye. "We're the pros from Dover, and the last pictures we saw must be forty-eight hours old by now."

  Without knowing why, a confused technician produced the X-rays. The pros perused them carefully.

  "Just as we thought," said Trapper. "A routine problem."

  "Yeah," Hawkeye said. "They must have a hair trigger on the panic button here. Where's the patient?"

  "Ward Six," somebody answered.

  "Take us there."

  Led to Ward Six, the pros politely asked the nurse if they might see the patient. The poor girl, having embarked from the States many months before fully prepared in her mind for any tortures the enemy might inflict upon her, was unprepared for this.

  "I don't know," she said. "I don't think I can allow you to see him without the permission of Major Adams."

  "Adams?" Trapper said. "John Adams?"

  "Adams?" Hawkeye said. "John Quincy Adams?"

  "No. George Adams."

  "Never heard of him," Trapper said. "Come on now, nice nurse-lady. Let's see the kid."

  They followed the hapless nurse into the ward and she led them to the patient. A brief examination revealed that, although the boy did have a two-centimeter shell fragment and a lot of blood in his right chest and that removal of both was relatively urgent, he was in no immediate danger. His confidence and well-being were not particularly enhanced, however, by the bearded, robed, big-hatted character who had dumped a bag of golf clubs at the foot of his bed and had then started to listen to his chest.

  "Have no fear, Trapper John is here," Hawkeye assured him in a loud voice, and then, privately, he whispered in the patient's ear: "Don't worry, son. This is Captain Mclntyre, and he's the best chest surgeon in the Far East and maybe the whole U.S. Army. He's gonna fix you up easy. Your Daddy saw to that."

  When they asked, the Swampmen were told by the nurse that blood had been typed and that an adequate supply had been cross-matched. They picked up their clubs and, following directions, headed for the operating area where they found their way barred by a fierce Captain of the Army Nurse Corps.

  "Stop, right where you are!" she ordered.

  "Don't get mad, m'am," Hawkeye said. "All we want is our starting time."

  "Get out!" she screamed.

  "Look, mother," Trapper said. "I'm the pro from Dover. Me and my greenskeeper want to crack that kid's chest and get out to the course. Find the gas-passer and tell him to premedicate the patient, and find this Major Adams so he can get his spiel over with. Also, while you're at it, I need a can of beans and my greenskeeper here wants ham and eggs. It's now eight o'clock. I want to work at nine. Hop to it!"

  She did, much to her own surprise. Breakfast was served, followed immediately by Major Adams who, after his initial shock, adjusted to the situation when it developed that all three had a number of mutual friends in the medical dodge.

  "I don't know about the C.O., though," Major Adams said, meaning the Commanding Officer.

  "Who is he?" Hawkeye said.

  "Colonel Ruxton P. Merrill. Red-neck R.A. all the way."

  "Don't worry about him," Trapper said. "We'll handle him."

  At nine o'clock the operation started. At nine-oh-three Colonel Merrill, having heard about the unusual invasion of his premises, stormed into the operating room. He was without gown, cap or mask, so Hawkeye, deploring the break in the antiseptic techniques prescribed for OR's, turned to the circulating nurse and ordered: "Get that dirty old man out of this operating room!"

  "I'm Colonel Merrill!" yelled Colonel Merrill.

  Hawkeye turned and impaled him on an icy stare. "Beat it, Pop. If this chest gets infected, I'll tell the Congressman on you."

  After that there was no further excitement, and the operation, as the Swampmen had surmised, turned out to be routine. Within forty-five minutes the definitive work was done, and only the chest closure remained.

  When the operation had started, the anesthesiologist of the 25th Station Hospital had been so busy getting the patient asleep in order to meet the deadline imposed by the pros from Dover that he had not been introduced. Furthermore, he had not seen them without their masks—nor had they seen him— but when he had a chance to settle down and relax, the shell fragment and the blood having been removed to the perceptible betterment of the patient's condition, he wrote at the top of his anesthesia record the name "Hawkeye Pierce" in the space labeled "First Assistant." He wrote it with assurance and with pleasure.

  The anesthesiologist was Captain Ezekiel Bradbury (Me Lay) Marston, V, of Spruce Harbor, Maine. In Spruce Harbor, Maine, the name Marston is synonymous with romantic visions of the past—specifically clipper ships—and money. The first to bear the name captained a clipper, bought it and built three more. The second commanded the flagship of the fleet and bought four more. Number III was skipper of the Spruce Harbor, which went down with all hands off Hatteras some three years after number IV had been born in its Captain's cabin forty miles south of Cape Horn. Number V was Me Lay Marston, the only swain in Spruce Harbor High who could say, "Me lay, you lay?" and parlay such a simple, unimaginative approach into significant success with the young females of the area.

  Hawkeye Pierce thought of it first, and last, but Me Lay Marston had also gone around for a while with the valedictorian of the Class of '41 at Port Waldo High School. In November, 1941, after Spruce Harbor beat Port Waldo 38-0, Pierce and Marston engaged in a fist fight which neither won decisively. In subsequent years they belonged to the same fraternity at Androscoggin College, played on the same football team, attended the same medical school and, during internship, they shared the same room. Me Lay was an usher when Hawkeye Pierce married the valedictorian, and Hawk-eye provided a similar service when Me Lay did the same for the Broad from Eagle Head, whom Hawkeye had also dated for a while.

  During his adolescence and earliest manhood, Me Lay had been proud of his name. Now, circumstances having forced him to correct his behavior, he was merely resigned to it. By 1952, however, he had not been addressed as Me Lay for three years. He had not seen Hawkeye Pierce for three years.

  So on a bright, warm day in Kokur
a the fifth in a series of Captain Marstons looked up from his chart and asked, "May I have the surgeon's name, please?"

  Hawkeye Pierce answered, "He's the pro from Dover and I'm the Ghost of Smoky Joe."

  "Save that crap for someone else, you stupid clamdigger," answered Captain Marston.

  The surgeons stopped. The first assistant leaned over and looked at the anesthesia chart and saw his name. He knew the writing and recognized the writer. He took it in his stride. "Me Lay, I'd like you to meet Trapper John."

  "The real Trapper John? Your cousin who threw you the pass and went on to greater fame on the Boston & Maine?"

  "The one and only," affirmed Hawkeye.

  "Trapper, you are in bad company," said Me Lay, "but I'll be happy to shake your hand if you'll hurry up and get that chest closed. You still workin' the trains?"

  "Planes mostly. May take a crack at rickshas. You still employing the direct approach?"

  "No, not since I married the Broad from Eagle Head. I've been out of action now for four years."

  "Then what the hell do you do around here?" asked Hawkeye. "It doesn't look like you're very busy. You mean to tell us you don't chase the local scrunch?"

  "I don't seem to be interested in it from that angle. The first month I was here all I did was wind my watch and evacuate my bladder. Now I'm taking a course in Whorehouse Administration."

  "Under the auspices of the Army's Career Management Plan?" inquired Trapper. "No, all on my own."

  "It was Yankee drive and ingenuity that built the Marston fortune," Hawkeye pointed out. "I'm proud of you, Me Lay. Where are you taking the course?"

  "At Dr. Yamamoto's Finest Kind Pediatric Hospital and Whorehouse," Captain Marston informed him.

  "Cut the crap, Me Lay. This sounds like too much even for you."

  "I'm serious. This guy practices pediatrics, has a little hospital and runs a whorehouse, all in the same building."

  "What are you? A pimp?"

  "No. I keep the books, inspect the girls and take care of some of the kids in the hospital. Occasionally I tend bar and act as bouncer. A guy needs well rounded training to embark on a career such as this."