MASH: A Novel About Three Army Doctors

by Richard Hooker

  “Right,” the Colonel said.

  “So if it ain’t staring us in the face it’s got to be retroperi­toneal,” Hawkeye said, meaning that the perforation had to be in a portion of the large intestine hidden in the abdominal cavity. “Therefore, and from the look of the wounds, I figure he’s got a hole in his sigmoid colon that we won’t find unless we look for it.”

  They looked for it and found it. The Colonel was im­pressed. They closed the hole, did a colostomy and closed the belly.

  Afterwards, over a cup of coffee, the Colonel said, “OK, Pierce, that was a nice job, but you must realize that I can’t afford to tolerate the rudeness and insubordination you dem­onstrated when I tried to talk to you during the poker game.”

  “So don’t afford it,” suggested Hawkeye.

  “Pierce, you don’t like me, do you?”

  “For Christ’s sake, Colonel,” exploded Hawkeye, “why don’t you go to bed? Right now I don’t even like myself, and all I need to set me off is to be bugged by a Regular Army medical officer.”

  The Colonel went to bed. There wasn’t much else he could do.

  Two days later there was no work at all. The heat per­sisted. It was too hot to drink. It was too hot to sleep. It was too hot to play baseball. It was too hot to play poker. The Swampmen made a halfhearted effort at rehabilitation. They’d been reading some Somerset Maugham stories about Malayan rubber plantations. At 9:00 a.m. they got their ice cube tray out of the refrigerator in the laboratory. Soon they were sitting in chairs in front of The Swamp holding tall glasses of Pimm’s #1 Punch and making believe they were Malayan rubber plantation foremen. Whenever a Korean houseboy came into sight, they yelled at him to get to work and start turning out the rubber, and they were thus laco­nical­ly passing the time when Colonel DeLong sauntered by.

  “Good morning, gentlemen,” he greeted them.

  “You just out from home?” asked Trapper John.

  “No, I’ve been in Tokyo for some tune.”

  “Y’all married?” asked the Duke.

  “Yes.”

  “Bring your wife with you?” asked Hawkeye.

  “Of course not.”

  “I say, I wish I knew how you fellows get away with it,” said Trapper. “We three have our brides along, and it’s pure grief. They can’t stand the beastly climate, and they won’t let us commingle with the native girls. You don’t know how lucky you are!”

  “I believe I’ll wander down to the pool for a dip,” said Hawkeye. He got his air mattress from the tent and headed for the river. The others followed, leaving the Colonel standing with his mouth open.

  “Oh, I say, Colonel,” Trapper called back to him, “perhaps you’d join us for a set or two of doubles later, after the heat has abated?”

  So they went to the river, swam a little and slept a little. By 3:00 p.m., Hawkeye Pierce was awake, pensive and bored. He lay belly down and naked on his air mattress, peering into the murky water below.

  “Hey, Duke,” he asked, “whadda ya know about mer­maids?”

  “Nothin’,” Duke assured him.

  Trapper John, a leading authority on many subjects, joined the conversation. “In my opinion, there are mermaids in this river.”

  “I’m forced to keep an open mind on that,” said Hawkeye. “Certainly if there are mermaids in this river, we’d be just plain foolish not to grab a few of them.”

  “How y’all gonna catch a mermaid?” asked Duke.

  “In a mermaid trap, naturally,” said the Hawk.

  “How do you make a mermaid trap?”

  “Just like a lobster trap, only bigger.”

  “Let’s get goin’ on it.”

  “OK”

  They paddled ashore, dressed, went to the supply tent, where a cooperative sergeant provided material and tools. Hawkeye Pierce, in his boyhood, had built many lobster pots. For a man of his experience and background, the construction of a mermaid trap didn’t seem to present a major problem, and the next morning found the Swampmen well along on their project when again Colonel DeLong dropped by.

  “What are you doing here, gentlemen?” he asked.

  “Buildin’ us a mermaid trap,” Duke informed him. “Y’all want to help?”

  The Colonel was trying to blend into the environment. “I see,” he said. “Where do you expect to catch mermaids?”

  “The river’s alive with them,” answered Trapper.

  “I see,” said the Colonel again. “Assuming that you are able to catch one of these creatures, what do you propose to do with it?”

  Hawkeye gave the Colonel a look of impatience and scorn. “We’re gonna screw the ass off her,” he stated.

  The Colonel was desperately trying to hang in there. “Do you have reason to believe that mermaids may be effectively utilized for that purpose?”

  “Oh, Finest Kind,” Hawkeye assured him.

  “Numero Uno,” said Trapper John.

  “Yeah,” said the Duke,

  Colonel DeLong retreated to his tent to think. Colonel Blake, before departing for Toyko, had deliberately and perhaps maliciously not briefed him on the Swampmen.

  Meanwhile, Hawkeye had words with the Duke and Trap­per John, which went something like this: “I haven’t built a lobster trap in years, and I’ve lost the touch. This mermaid trap has already become bigger than I am. Let’s change the game. We got this guy DeLong buzzing anyhow. Let’s con­vince him we’re nuts, and maybe he’ll ship us out for awhile until Henry gets back and catches on. They got psychiatrists in Seoul, and we’ll be close enough to get back if business picks up.”

  Trapper took the cue. He went to the next tent and spoke to Rafael Rodriguez, a lieutenant in the Medical Service Corps.

  “Rafe,” he said, “we’d like a little help. Would you be willing to go tell Colonel DeLong we’ve flipped and suggest emergency psychiatric care?”

  Rafael Rodriguez had been on The Swamp’s list of nonsur­gical good boys for several months, and now he justified the faith bestowed upon him. He went to Colonel DeLong’s tent, knocked respectfully and was bade to enter.

  “Sit down. Have a beer, Lieutenant,” the Colonel urged him.

  “Thank you, Sir. Sir, you look troubled. Perhaps I could be of help. I’ve been here for some time, you know.”

  “Perhaps you could, Rodriguez,” the Colonel said. “I’m new. This is a strange and unusual situation for me. I’m very worried about three of our surgeons: Pierce, Mclntyre and Forrest. Their work, in the little time I’ve been here, has impressed me, but the last day or two their general behavior has caused me considerable concern.”

  “Sir, I don’t blame you. In fact, that’s why I’ve come to see you. I’ve known them since they came. They have been good men, but I’m compelled to say that I’m disturbed about them. Sir, I know them intimately. Something has happened. Sir, I think they need psychiatric care.”

  “That’s all I need to hear,” said Colonel DeLong. “I thought so, but I needed the confirmation of a reliable observer who’s been on the scene longer than I. I’ll take the responsibility of telling them about it.”

  “Thank you, Sir,” said Rafael Rodriguez. “I don’t think I’d be able to do it.”

  “I understand, Lieutenant,” said Colonel DeLong.

  Rafe took a back route to The Swamp, poured a Scotch and gleefully informed the occupants that they were to under­go psychiatric evaluation. He left after one Scotch, lest the Colonel catch him there. Half an hour later, Colonel DeLong entered The Swamp.

  “Gentlemen,” he said, “I’ll come directly to the point. I am informed that your work here has been of exceptional quality. However, my own observations, confirmed by others, indicate that now you need help. Apparently prolonged responsibility in this situation, along with the heat and the isolation, has taken its toll. I’ve arranged for you to go to the 325th Evac tomorrow for a few days rest and to be seen by the psychiatric service. They will determine what happens next.”

  Hawkeye Pierce looke
d at Trapper John. “I always knew you was foolish,” he said.

  Duke Forrest whined, “I cain’t go to no hospital. I gotta get me a mermaid.”

  Trapper John rose from his sack. “Colonel, if I could catch a mermaid tonight, you’d let me take her to the hospital with me, wouldn’t you?”

  “Of course!” said the Colonel.

  “Colonel,” said Hawkeye, “I’ll go along with this for only one reason. A few days down there will give me a shot at the epileptic whore, which has become one of my life’s ambitions, and in this general geographical location that’s the only thing that interests me more than a mermaid.”

  Colonel DeLong desperately, all of a sudden, wanted to ask about the epileptic whore but restrained himself. “Transporta­tion has been arranged,” he told them. “You’ll be picked up at 0800 hours.”

  “Finest Kind,” agreed Hawkeye, as the Colonel left. Duke and Trapper turned to Hawkeye.

  “What’s this about an epileptic whore?” they demanded.

  “It just popped into my head. I got a buddy back home who’s a psychiatrist. He had a patient who was an epileptic, and every time her husband tried her she threw a fit. All the guy had to do was plug himself in and the world went crazy. To me it always sounded like a great bit. For all I know, they may have an epileptic whore in Seoul. Anyway we might be able to use the idea. How do we handle the psychiatrist?”

  Trapper was thinking, which was vaguely recognized by his colleagues, so silence ensued for several minutes. Finally he spoke.

  “We tell the headshrinker nothing except name, rank, serial number, and we want to get fixed up with the epileptic whore.”

  Silence again, while Duke and Hawkeye mulled it over. “Whadda you think?” asked Trapper.

  “I think Henry’ll be back in four days,” said Duke, “and that’s how long we’ll get away with this crap.”

  “I think it’s OK,” said Hawkeye. “Let’s tell the shrink the broad’s at Mrs. Lee’s. I don’t figure to spend four days down there without some psycho-sexual-physiological relief.”

  “I believe,” said Trapper John, “that the group is in full accord in that area.”

  Trapper mixed another round of drinks. A few moments passed before Hawkeye spoke again.

  “I figure we’d better think this over a little more,” he said. “Psychiatrists are never overly troubled with the smarts, but even the dumbest one is going to smell a rat if we all go in and say the same thing. I kind of have a yen for this deal. Why don’t you guys tell the shrink that you’re OK, that you’ve been riding along to protect me, and that I’ve suddenly become much worse. I think I can drive whatever simple son-of-a-bitch we encounter out of his mind.”

  “I guess you’re right, Hawk,” Trapper agreed. “You got the ball.”

  “How y’all figure to handle it?” asked Duke.

  “Easy,” said the Hawk. “I’ll talk gibberish to him. All you guys got to do is be very serious, impress him with your virtue, and emphasize that I’ve been effective and valuable until now, and you love me dearly. After an interview with him I’ll meet you at Mrs. Lee’s.”

  As Colonel DeLong had promised, the transportation ar­rived at 8:00 a.m., and the nuts were taken to the psychiatric section of the 325th Evacuation Hospital in Yong-Dong-Po. Duke and Trapper walked in, solicitously leading Hawkeye. They were to see Major Haskell, the Chief of Psychiatry. Fortunately he had only been in Korea for two weeks, and news of the 4077th MASH had not reached him.

  Trapper and Duke arranged to meet him first, explained that they had gone along with the mermaid gag in the hope of straightening Captain Pierce out, and that they had submitted to this ordeal themselves in the hope that he would snap out of it at the last moment. However, it was clear, just from his behavior in the last twelve hours, that Pierce’s sanity had deteriorated alarmingly. They hoped that the Major would do everything possible to see that proper treatment was obtained without delay.

  “We’ve been close to this man, Major,” said Duke. “He’s been a dedicated surgeon. He’s been a tower of strength to us. Now he needs help. We know you’ll do your best.”

  “I appreciate your help, gentlemen,” Major Haskell as­sured them, “and I have some idea of how close the three of you have been. I understand the emotional involvement that men in your situation develop with one another. However, I can tell from the way you’ve presented this story that you have a grasp of the problem. I think you realize, and if you don’t I must warn you, that this is a serious problem. It sounds to me like some form of schizophrenia, and in this sort of case, with the sudden deterioration you’ve described, the prognosis is usually not good.”

  “Oh,” the Duke said.

  “By the way,” the Major continued, “I have Colonel DeLong’s report here. He mentions something about an epileptic whore. What’s that all about?”

  “They got one at Mrs. Lee’s,” Trapper told him. “I hear she’s real wild. We’ll appreciate whatever you can do for Captain Pierce.”

  Duke and Trapper left, and Hawkeye was led in. The Major invited him to sit down and offered him a cigarette. “How do you feel today, Captain?”

  “I have sounded forth the trumpet that shall never call retreat. I am lifting out the hearts of men. Hey, you got any Harry James records?”

  Major Haskell took a deep breath and ignored Captain Pierce’s question.

  “Tell me about yourself, Captain. Who are you?”

  “Hawkeye Pierce.”

  “I know, but beyond that, what are you?”

  “I’m the world’s greatest short putter, to say nothing of being a descendant of Robert Ford,”

  “Who was he?”

  “The dirty little coward who shot Mr. Howard.”

  “Why have you come down to see me today?”

  “I ain’t come down to see you. I came for the action.”

  “Do you mean the epileptic whore?”

  “You betcher ever-lovin’ A, Major.”

  “Captain, we’re getting away from our subject. Something seems to have happened to you since Colonel DeLong took over your hospital.”

  “That’s right, Sir. He’s against me.”

  “What makes you think so?”

  “The dirty mudder was gonna steal my mermaid.”

  “Is there anything else about Colonel DeLong that bothers you?”

  “Yeah. He reminds me of my old man.”

  “I see,” said Major Haskell. “Now perhaps we are getting somewhere. In what way does he remind you of your father?”

  “He doesn’t play tennis.”

  “Why doesn’t your father play tennis?” Major Haskell asked, sort of by reflex, and regretted the question even before the answer.

  “Because the harpies of the shore have plucked the eagle of the sea,” Hawkeye explained. “He can’t take the ball on the rise no more. They have laid poor Jesse in his grave.”

  “I see,” answered the Major. “Captain Pierce, tell me about yourself. Feel free to talk. I want to help you. Perhaps if you’d just relax and open up and let the words come, you’d feel better and I’d be able to help you.”

  “Dad, I feel great.”

  “Talk to me anyhow, Captain. Just talk about anything that comes into your head.”

  “Death is an elephant, torch-eyed and horrible, foam-flanked and terrible,” Hawkeye commented.

  Major Haskell lit a cigarette.

  “You nervous or something?” asked Hawkeye.

  “Not at all,” the Major replied, nervously.

  “Hey, Dad, I’ll give you a nice buy on an elephant. Velly clean. Takes penicillim. Finest kind.”

  “Captain Pierce, what are you up to? Frankly, I can’t decide whether you’re crazy or just some kind of screwball.”

  “Well, why don’t you mull it over for a while. You got anything to trade in?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean you want a clean deal on a clean elephant, or you got some kind of used up elephant you want
a stick me with in return for my best elephant?”

  “Look, Captain Pierce—”

  “You hate me, don’t you?” said Hawkeye. “Just like Duke and Trapper hate me.”

  “I’m sure no one hates you, Captain.”

  “They sure as hell do.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I’m a great mahout. I’m an elephant boy. That’s all I ever wanted to be but because the elephants like me so good, the people all hate me.”

  “Captain Pierce, I think we’ll send you to the States for treatment.”

  “Finest Kind,” said Hawkeye, rising, and added: “Be swift my soul to answer him, be jubilant my feet,” and cut out on swift, jubilant feet for Mrs. Lee’s where he found Duke and Trapper John at lunch, or rather at pre-lunch martinis. They appeared unusually happy.

  “Here’s the nut,” said Trapper. “How do they handle you hopelessly deteriorated schizophrenics nowadays?”

  “The shrinker said he was gonna send me back to the States,” Hawkeye informed them. “Maybe I oughta take him up on it. I don’t know how they treat it, and I don’t plan to find out. Now tell me why you guys look so happy.”

  “You’ll never believe it, Hawk,” Trapper filled him in, “but Mrs. Lee actually has an epileptic whore, or at least a babe who has some kind of convulsion every time she entertains a client. She’s been scaring the customers silly, but with proper publicity she should go good.”

  Duke and Trapper had already told Mrs. Lee of the potential value of her convulsing employee. They had predict­ed that there would be some phone calls before long, inquiring as to her existence and availability. When the phone rang, it was answered by Mrs. Lee, whose round cherubic face broke into a wide smile as she nodded her head rapidly.

  “Epileptic whore hava yes,” she assured the party on the other end of the phone. “Velly clean, school teacher.”

  Mrs. Lee described all her girls as “velly clean.” Beyond that, they were divided into three subcategories: movie ac­tresses, cherry girls and school teachers. A girl’s status varied with Mrs. Lee’s usually shrewd estimate of the customer’s needs.