“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 Kokura 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.”
The chest got closed, despite the conversation. In the dressing room the Swampmen got back into their Papa-San suits and continued the reunion with Me Lay Marston.
“What’s with this Colonel Merrill?” asked Trapper.
“Red-neck R.A. all the way,” Captain Marston said. “He’ll give you a bad time if you let him.”
A messenger entered and stated that Captains Pierce and Mclntyre were to report to the colonel’s office immediately. Me Lay gave them the address of the FKPH&W and suggested that they meet him there at seven that evening for dinner and whatnot.
“OK,” Hawkeye said, and then he turned to the messenger waiting to guide them to the colonel’s office. “Got any caddy carts?”
“What?” the messenger said.
Sighing, they slung their clubs over their shoulders and followed the guide. The colonel was temporarily occupied elsewhere, so rather than just sit there during his absence and read his mail, the Swampmen decided to practice putting on his carpet.
“You men are under arrest,” the colonel boomed, when he stormed onto the scene.
“Quiet!” Trapper said. “Can’t you see I’m putting?”
“Why, you …”
“Let’s get down to bare facts, Colonel,” Hawkeye said. “Probably even you know this case didn’t demand our presence. Be that as it may, your boys blew it. We bailed it out, and a Congressman is very much interested. We figure this kid needs about five days of postop care from us, and we also figure to play in the Kokura Open. If that ain’t okay with you, we’ll get on the horn to a few Congressmen.”
“Or one, anyway,” Trapper John said.
It was mean but not too bold, and they knew it would work. They took their clubs and walked out. At the front door of the hospital they found the car which had brought them from the airport. It was the colonel’s car, and the sergeant was lounging nearby, awaiting the colonel. Trapper John and Hawkeye got into the front seat.
“Hey, wait a minute,” the sergeant said.
“The colonel is lending us his car,” Hawkeye informed the Sergeant. “We’ll give it back after the Open.”
“That’s right,” Trapper said. “He wants you to go in now, and write some letters for the Congressman’s son.”
“Goddam army,” the sergeant said.
They drove to the golf course and parked, unloaded their clubs and walked into the pro shop. Although most of the golfers were members of the American and British armed forces, the pro was Japanese and
he greeted the appearance of two Korean Papa-Sans with evident hostility.
“How do we qualify for the Open?” asked Hawkeye.
“There twenty-five dollar entry fee,” the pro informed him, eyeing him coldly.
“But I’m the pro from Dover, and this here is my assistant,” announced Hawkeye, handing the Japanese his Maine State Golf Association handicap card.
“Ah, so,” the Japanese hissed.
“We’re just in from visiting relatives in Korea,” Trapper informed him. “Our clothes got burned up. We can’t get any new ones until we win some dough in your tournament.”
“Ah, so,” hissed the pro, much relieved, and he promptly supplied them with golf shoes and two female caddies.
With the wide-eyed girls carrying the clubs, they trekked to the first tee. There, waiting to tee off, they were taking a few practice swings, to the amusement of all in their vicinity, when they observed four British officers, one of them a colonel, approaching. In a matter of minutes two things became evident. Judged by his own practice swings the British colonel was not on leave from his country’s Curtis Cup team, and judged by the disdain evident on his face when he eyed the Swampmen he was not in favor of any Papa-Sans sharing the golf course with him.
“Damn this get-up,” Hawkeye was saying to Trapper. “It doesn’t do much for my backswing.”
“Good,” Trapper said, increasing the awkwardness of his own efforts.
“What do you mean, good?” Hawkeye said.
“Keep your voice down,” Trapper said, “because I think we’re about to hook a live one.”
“See here, you two!” the British colonel bleated, walking up to them at that moment. “I don’t know who you think you are, but I think …”
“Think again,” Trapper said.
“I want you to know I’m Colonel Cornwall …”
“Cornwallis?” Hawkeye said. “I thought we fixed your wagon at Yorktown.”
“I said Cornwall.”
“Lovely there in the spring,” Trapper said. “Rhododendrons and all that.”
“Now see here!” the colonel said, red in the face now. “I don’t know what you’re doing here, but rather than make an issue of it, if you’ll just step aside and allow us to tee off …”
“Look, Corny,” Hawkeye said. “You just calm down, or well tee off on you.”
“I’ll tell you what we’ll do, Colonel,” Trapper said. “You look like a sporting chap, so to settle this little difficulty in a sporting way, we’ll both play you a ten pound Nassau.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“You heard him,” Hawkeye said.
“Excuse me a moment,” the colonel said, and he turned and rejoined his companions to get their opinion of the proposition.
“What do you think?” Hawkeye said.
“We got him,” Trapper said, manufacturing as awkward a swing as he could without making it too obvious.
“Here he comes now,” Hawkeye said.
“All right,” the colonel said. “You’re on, and we’ll be watching every shot you hit.”
The Swampmen hit drives designed to get the ball in play, with no attempt at distance, and they were down the middle about 225 yards. Trapper reached the green in two and got his par four. Hawkeye hit a nice five-iron but misjudged the distance and was long, hit a wedge back but missed a five-footer and took a bogey.
The second hole was a short par three that gave them no
trouble. Both bogied three and four, however, as it became clear that driving range experience at the Double Natural had sharpened their hitting ability but done little for their judgment of distance or their putting. Nevertheless, the girl caddies were quite impressed, particularly by Trapper John, whose every move they watched with rapt fascination.
Approaching the seventh, a par five, they were both three over par, and as the day was getting warmer, Trapper took off the long, flowing top of his Papa-San suit and his hat. This left him with long hair, a beard, a bare torso, and long, flowing trousers, and seemed to move him up another notch in the eyes of the girls.
On the seventh, he was down the middle a good 260, with Hawkeye not far behind him. Hawkeye’s second shot wasn’t much, however, and he had a full five-iron left. Then Trapper cranked out an awesome two-wood with a slight tail-end hook which hit the hard fairway, bounced over a trap, and came to rest within two feet of the pin.
“Jesus!” exclaimed Hawkeye. The paddies, hearing this, looked knowingly at each other, and it dawned on the Swampmen what their mounting excitement was all about. Happily, Hawkeye had several of the autographed pictures in his wallet and, with a grand gesture, he bestowed complimentary copies upon the girls who, their suspicions confirmed, were overcome. Hawkeye had to lead them aside to calm them down, explaining as best he could that the Master’s game was a little rusty and that He wanted to get in at least eighteen holes before making His comeback generally known.
“These bimboes,” he explained to Trapper, approaching the eighth tee, “are on a real Christian kick, so don’t disappoint them.”
Trapper grabbed his driver, winced and looked at his hands. “Goddam nail holes,” he complained.
The rest of the way around, Trapper played even par on the not too difficult and not too long course to finish with a seventy-three. Hawkeye couldn’t figure the greens and found himself needing a ten-footer on the eighteenth for a seventy-eight Trapper blessed the ball and the cup before Hawkeye essayed the putt, which went in like it had eyes. The caddies, bowing their way out, departed to spread the word.
“Now,” Trapper said, “let’s prepare to lighten Corny’s load a little. If that hacker breaks eighty I’ll take it to the World Court.”
The Swampmen, with Trapper back in full uniform, found the bar. They were on their second Scotch when they noticed the Japanese faces peeking through the window and then Colonel Cornwall and his three colleagues pushing their way through the crowd at the door.
“I say now,” the colonel was saying, brushing himself off. “Does anyone know what this is all about?”
“Ah, yes,” Hawkeye said, motioning toward Trapper, who was bowing toward the faces at the window and door. “Mighty High Religious Personage is greeting followers.”
“Of course, of course,” the colonel was saying now, starting to rock with laughter. “I say! That’s rather droll, isn’t it?”
“What’s that, sir?” one of his colleagues asked.
“Chap here,” he said, nodding toward Trapper. “Why, the chap here’s portraying John the Baptist!”
“Colonel,” Hawkeye said, handing him one of the autographed pictures, “you can’t tell the players without a score-card.”
“Oh, I say!” the colonel was roaring now. “That is good, isn’t it? I do get it now. Say, you chaps, do have a drink on me. Oh, I say!”
The Swampmen had several drinks on him and, when they got around to comparing cards, the colonel, who had shot an eighty-two, paid up willingly.
“Corny,” Hawkeye heard himself saying, “how about you and these other gentlemen joining us for dinner at Dr. Yamamoto’s Finest Kind Pediatric Hospital and Whorehouse?”
“Oh, I say!” the colonel said. “That sounds like sport!”
Shortly after 7:00 p.m., Me Lay Marston, idly sipping a martini in the bar of the FKPH&W, heard a commotion outside. Going to the door, he found Hawkeye, the British contingent and then Trapper John bringing up the rear. Trapper was trying to disentangle himself from the converts and the just curious.
“Me Lay,” Trapper said, when he got inside, “I’ve had enough of this. Get me a pair of scissors and a razor.”
In time Trapper John was shaved, shorn and showered, and dinner was solicitously served by the young ladies. While the visitors sipped after-dinner cordials, Me Lay excused himself to make his rounds at the adjoining hospital. In a few minutes he returned with a worried look.
“What had you guys planned for tonight?” he asked.
“Well,�
�� answered Trapper, “we thought we’d get some …”
“How about looking at a kid for me?”
“Look, Me Lay,” Hawkeye said, “you’re supposed to be the intern in this …”
“Shut up, and come look at this kid.”
“What’s the story?” asked Trapper.
“Well, one of our girls got careless, and two days ago she gave birth to an eight pound Japanese-American male.”
“What’s wrong with him?”
“Every time we feed him, it either comes right back up or he coughs and turns blue and has a helluva time.”
“We don’t have to see him,” Trapper said. “Call that half-assed Army Hospital and tell them to be ready to put some lipiodal in this kid’s esophagus and take X-rays.”
“But it’s ten-thirty at night. We can’t get everybody out for a civilian. They won’t do it.”
“How much you wanna bet, Me Lay?” inquired Hawkeye Pierce. “Get on the horn and tell them the pros from Dover are on their way with a patient. Better tell the OR to crank itself up, because I got a feeling that you’re going to pass some gas while I help Trapper close a tracheo-esophageal fistula.”
“Oh, I say,” Colonel Cornwall wanted to know, “what’s that?”
“It’s a hole between the esophagus and the trachea, where it doesn’t belong,” Hawkeye explained.
“And you chaps can repair that?”
“Well,” said Me Lay. “We can try.”
At the 25th Station Hospital, the Officer of the Day received a call from Captain Marston saying that an emergency was coming in for X-rays. Soon after, Hawkeye and Trapper, in Papa-San suits and followed by Me Lay carrying the baby, entered the X-ray department.
Captain Banks, the O.D., arrived and asked, “What’s this all about?”
“It’s all about this baby,” Hawkeye informed him. “We want to X-ray him and we want to do it right now, and we do not wish to be engaged in useless conversation by officious military types, of which you look like one to me.”
“But, we can’t …”
Hawkeye sat Captain Banks on fee edge of a desk and handed him the phone.
“Be nice, Captain. Call the X-ray technician. If you give us any kind of a bad time, me and Trapper John are going to clean your clock. We are frustrated lovers and quite dangerous.”
MASH: A Novel About Three Army Doctors Page 8
