“Now, Doctor Pierce,” he said in righteous indignation, “about that beast...”
The dog, on hearing Mr. Crumley’s voice, had suddenly jumped to his feet. The hair on his back, from his ears down to the tip of his tail, rose. His lips curled back, exposing enormous teeth. A bloodcurdling growl came from his throat.
Inspiration struck Dr. Pierce. “Watch it, Crumbum,” he said. “I don’t think Alfred likes you.”
“Alfred?” Mr. Crumley said. “Alfred? That’s my name.”
“No kidding?” Dr. Pierce said. “What an interesting coincidence! Sit, Alfred!”
Alfred the dog obediently sat on his haunches, still showing Alfred the administrator most of his teeth.
“Doctor,” T. Alfred Crumley said, “certainly you will agree that, for purposes of sanitation and other reasons, that... that... that...”
“You’re going to hurt Alfred’s feelings, Crumbum,” Hawkeye replied. “I’m not sure that would be a good idea.”
“... your dog ...” Mr. Crumley went on.
“Alfred, you mean?”
“Alfred cannot be permitted to roam the corridors of this hospital,” Mr. Crumley went on.
“Right you are,” Hawkeye replied. “Alfred will never leave my office, which we will enter through the French doors.”
“He can’t stay in your office, either!” Crumley said.
“You tell him that,” Dr. Pierce said. “I’m not sure he’d listen to me.”
Momentarily defeated and mustering what dignity he could, Alfred the administrator went one way down the corridor while Alfred the dog and his master went the other. He entered the office of the chief of surgery, circled it twice, sniffing all the while, found a corner with a pleasing aroma, and lay down, his head between his paws, looking with adoration at Dr. Pierce.
He seemed to have an uncanny sense of the rules. He was not permitted to leave the office to go into the hospital and never tried to. Within two days, he understood who was permitted in Dr. Pierce’s office and who was not, and it was no longer necessary to bolt the door against the uninvited presence of Mr. Crumley, who would no more have attempted to swim the Atlantic.
It was not, of course, Dr. Pierce’s intention at first to have the dog accompany him on his daily journey to the hospital. The dog, like other dogs, would make his home at the home of his master. Alfred, however, immediately displayed a certain character failing. While he permitted Mrs. Pierce to feed him, and, indeed, even displayed a certain affection for her when Dr. Pierce was at home, he immediately revealed a mistaken concept of his role as protector of the family. He somehow formed the notion that Mrs. Pierce harbored evil intentions toward the Pierce children and was just waiting for Dr. Pierce to get out of sight before attacking them.
This became apparent on the very first (and as it turned out, only) morning when Alfred was left behind to guard home and hearth while Hawkeye went off at 5:30 a.m. to meet a schedule 6:00 a.m. rendezvous with a gall bladder.
At 6:30, Mrs. Pierce, in her role as a wife and mother, attempted to wake two of her offspring for breakfast. Alfred met her at their bedroom door with bared teeth and one of his unforgettable growls. By that hour, of course, Dr. Pierce was already in the operating room and unreachable, so Mary Pierce had to wait, in mingled rage and terror (dogs did eat children; she had read that somewhere), until the Pierce offspring, in their own good time, woke and came down for breakfast with Alfred trailing along behind.
He was no longer growling. He seemed happy and sat by the table while the children ate and Mary Pierce rehearsed the speech her husband would get on his return to the bosom of his family. After breakfast the children went out to play.
For reasons their mother could not quite comprehend, but which were quite clear to them, it seemed to be a splendid idea to see how deep a hole could be washed in the lawn by spraying it with the water hose turned on full force.
When Mary Pierce, seeing the hole and the mud running down the picture window, rushed from the house with the intention of exercising a little motherly authority and discipline, Alfred got the notion that this crazy woman was about to viciously assault the little darlings Hawkeye had left in his care.
He stepped between her and the children and showed his teeth. She slid to a halt on the wet grass, whereupon (apparently in the belief that this was the traditional canine gesture of submission) Alfred put one of his enormous (and rather muddy) paws on her middle and then bent down and licked her face.
Delighted to see that she had joined in their happy frolic, the Pierce offspring then playfully turned the hose on Mommy.
When Dr. Pierce arrived at his office, still in his surgical greens, and answering the telephoned summons stating that if he wasn’t home within fifteen minutes, he should not come home at all, a somewhat soggy Mary Pierce issued a series of nonnegotiable demands. He returned to the hospital fifteen minutes later with Alfred tagging along behind him. Alfred, thereafter, always joined Dr. Pierce whenever he left his home.
It wasn’t as much of an inconvenience as it might appear. For one thing, despite his bulk, Alfred moved with a certain grace and with surprisingly little noise. His own garbage can was set aside for him outside the hospital, and the remnants of a cuisine which the patients frankly found somewhat wanting proved to be just the thing for a growing dog. His brother and sister were victuled by the Bide-a-While Pool Hall & Restaurant, Dr. Trapper John McIntyre and Nurse Flanagan taking turns running down there in the swamp buggy for remnants from that institution’s dining room.
To everyone’s surprise, and Mary Pierce’s barely concealed fury, the dog presented to Dr. McIntyre fell instantly in love with Mrs. McIntyre and followed her around much as Alfred followed Hawkeye around. Lucinda McIntyre promptly dubbed her pet “Wolf,” which quickly became “Wolfie” and ultimately “Wolfie- Baby,” for he was, as Lucinda pointed out to a somewhat-less-than-enthusiastic Mary Pierce, nothing more than a darling baby.
The bitch given to Nurse Flanagan was instantly installed in the suite of rooms Esther Flanagan occupied in the student nurses’ dormitory. She seemed to fit the name “Duchess” both because she was the gift of a duchess and because she had a certain ducal bearing. Gentlemen callers upon the student nurses quickly learned that it was far better to present large bones to their ladies than boxes of candy. Bones, plural, because the student nurses’ dormitory was already the residence of Wee Black Doggie, given to Miss Chambers by Mr. Angus MacKenzie.
With Wee Black Doggie and Duchess in residence, as Nurse Flanagan quickly began to tell concerned parents, their daughters were safer than they would have been at home. Nurse Flanagan chose to believe “her girls” that young gentlemen discovered within the dormitory had not been invited. Invited or not, with Duchess and Wee Black Doggie patrolling the corridors, tales of young men in the dormitory quickly became faint memories of the olden days.
Lieutenant (j.g.) Joanne Pauline Jones pulled her POV into the parking space with the neatly lettered sign reserving it for the use of the Internal Revenue Service, and as soon as it had stopped, Midshipman His Grace Hugh Percival, the Duke of Folkestone jumped out.
“Hiya, Woody!” Hawkeye Pierce shouted and wrapped his arms around the young nautical gentleman. Alfred sat back on his haunches and barked, somehow sensing that this was a happy occasion.
Turning to quiet the dog, Hawkeye for the first time saw Lieutenant (j.g.) Jones. She was in civvies, and he had no way of telling that she was a naval officer about her country’s business. All he saw was a young, well-stacked blond lady.
“Woody!” he said. “You really are a chip off the old block, aren’t you?”
“I beg pardon?” Woody asked.
Hawkeye turned around. Student Nurse Chambers and Dr. Wilson were coming into the parking lot.
“Cancel my last order!” he cried. “Put her on ice!” But it was too late. Miss Chambers had seen Midshipman His Grace the Duke of Folkestone. They rushed at one another. Hawkeye stepped quickly to the V
olkswagen.
“Duck down on the seat before she sees you,” he said, quickly. “Maybe his uncle could get away with more than his fair share of well-stacked blondes, but in Spruce Harbor that’s a no-no.”
“I beg your pardon?” Lieutenant (j.g.) Jones said indignantly.
“Get down! Get down!” Hawkeye repeated. He had a certain commanding presence, and Lieutenant (j.g.) Jones found herself complying with orders.
There was a rather touching scene of reunion between the duke and the student nurse, and then, finally remembering they were in public, they broke apart.
“Woody, this is Dr. Wilson,” Beverly said. “Hawkeye’s teaching him how to cut.”
“How do you do, sir?” Woody replied, offering his hand. “And I would like to present my good friend ... where is she?”
“Where’s who?” Beverly asked.
“Lieutenant Jones,” Woody said. “She drove me up. She’s our summer-cruise escort officer.”
“Oh, I’m so glad,” Beverly said. She was a great admirer of Lieutenant (j.g.) Jones. She had, after all, smuggled Woody off the Annapolis campus more than once in the trunk of the Volkswagen.
They walked quickly to the Volkswagen. Woody pulled the door open.
“There you are,” Woody said.
“Why is she lying down on the seat?” Dr. Wilson inquired.
“Joanne,” Beverly asked, “are you sick? If you’re sick, I’m sure Dr. Wilson would be happy to take care of you.”
“Perhaps she’s just bashful,” Hawkeye suggested helpfully. “She doesn’t look sick to me.”
“And if Hawkeye says you’re not sick,” Beverly Chambers said loyally and confidently, “you have nothing to worry about.”
“You’re the one with that funny sign? The Welcome-Father-of-the-Navy, Finest-Kind-Fish-Market Hawkeye?” Lieutenant (j.g.) Jones said, sounding far more like an angry naval officer than what she looked like.
“At your service, ma’am,” Hawkeye replied, bowing deeply.
“You think that’s funny, Slim?” Lieutenant (j.g.) Jones snarled. “Making fun of female naval officers?”
“How was I supposed to know you were a female?” Hawkeye replied.
Dr. Wilson examined her curiously. “I could tell right off, Doctor,” he said. “The minute I laid eyes on her.”
“Drop dead,” Lieutenant (j.g.) Jones said. “The both of you. And Beverly, would you please tell me where I can find Dr. Benjamin Franklin Pierce, the chief surgeon?”
Beverly did not, of course, reply instantly. Framing a reply was something of a challenge. There was plenty of time for Lieutenant (j.g.) Jones to turn to face Hawkeye and Dr. Wilson again.
“Get your stories straight, you two,” she said. “I’m reporting you both to Dr. Pierce.”
Dr. Pierce’s face took on a strange appearance. He seemed about to burst out in laughter. Dr. Wilson looked at Lieutenant (j.g.) Jones with an even stranger look on his face. It looked quite familiar to Hawkeye, and after a moment it came to him where he’d seen it before. Dr. Wilson was looking at Lieutenant (j.g.) Jones with exactly the same look in his eyes as Alfred the dog had in his eyes when he looked at Hawkeye.
“I think,” Hawkeye said to Lieutenant (j.g.) Jones, “that he wants you to scratch his ears.”
Lieutenant (j.g.) Jones looked dumfounded. “Take me to Dr. Pierce!” she said. “This instant!”
“Permission to speak, ma’am?” Midshipman Woodburn-Haverstraw asked, in the prescribed manner for a lowly midshipman to speak to an august commissioned officer of the naval service.
This got through to Dr. Wilson.
“I like boats,” he said, “and things like that.”
“Permission granted,” Lieutenant (j.g.) Jones replied, quite as nautically.
“Anything to do with the sea,” Dr. Wilson said. “Maybe we could talk about it sometime. You don’t happen to be free tonight by any chance, Admiral?”
“Ma’am,” Woody said, “may I present Dr. Benjamin Franklin Pierce, Fellow of the American College of Surgeons and Chief of Surgery of the Spruce Harbor Medical Center?”
“We could go to the Bide-a-While Pool Hall,” Dr. Wilson pursued. “They serve lobsters and clams. They even have a fishing net and a steering wheel hanging from the wall. So you’d feel right at home, Admiral.”
“You’re kidding,” Lieutenant (j.g.) Jones replied.
“No, I’m not,” Dr. Wilson said. “Stanley ... he’s the owner ... bought them at an auction.”
“The Finest Kind Medical Clinic & Fish Market is at your command, Lieutenant,” Hawkeye said. “What’ll it be? A nice tonsillectomy, or a couple of dozen clams?”
“Sir,” Lieutenant (j.g.) Jones said, icily, “I transfer herewith into your custody for a fourteen-day leave Midshipman Woodburn-Haverstraw, Royal Navy, on temporary duty, U.S. Naval Academy.”
“A pleasure, I’m sure,” Hawkeye said. “Lieutenant, may I present Dr. Richard Wilson, one of our most promising bachelor physicians?”
At that moment Dr. Trapper John McIntyre and Nurse Esther Flanagan appeared, Nurse Flanagan having somewhat abruptly called off the class in operating procedures in the correct belief that Beverly Chambers had been summoned because Woody had, so to speak, come home.
She wrapped Woody in a motherly hug, then spotted Lieutenant (j.g.) Jones.
“Who,” she demanded, “is the blond?”
“I am Lieutenant (j.g.) J. P. Jones, United States Navy,” the lieutenant announced.
“And what’s your connection, Lieutenant, with our Woody?”
“I am his official escort officer,” Lieutenant Jones said.
“Well, why didn’t you say so?” Esther Flanagan said. “Welcome aboard, Lieutenant.” She put out her hand. “Flanagan, Esther B., Lieutenant Commander, Navy Nurse Corps, Retired.”
Somewhat flustered, Lieutenant (j.g.) Jones put out her hand.
“We’re about to splice the mainbrace, Lieutenant,” Esther Flanagan said. “Come along with us.”
“I think it would perhaps be better if I stayed with Woody ... with Midshipman Woodburn-Haverstraw.”
“What are you, some kind of spoilsport?” Flanagan said. “You come with us, Lieutenant. You may consider that an order.”
“We could go down to the marina and rent a rowboat,” Dr. Wilson said.
“I’m Trapper John,” that healer announced, “since no one is going to introduce us.”
“Watch out for him, honey,” Flanagan said. “If you want to fool around, the only bachelor around here is Wilson, and he’s only a lousy resident.”
Midshipman His Grace Hugh Percival, the Duke of Folkestone and Miss Beverly Chambers heard nothing of this. Hand in hand, cheek to cheek, they had disappeared around the corner of the building.
Trapper John looked at Hawkeye. “I told you I always thought we were in the wrong service,” he said. “The only escort officer I had in the army had been an all-Army fullback.”
At that moment Alfred the dog, having come to the conclusion that Lieutenant (j.g.) Jones was good people, gave her a friendly little nudge with his nose. Since he was somewhat larger than most dogs, his nose was somewhat higher off the ground than the noses of his fellow canines. The nudge thus touched Lieutenant (j.g.) Jones on a portion of her anatomy where she was not accustomed to be nudged. She stiffened and then resumed walking. Alfred the dog nudged her again.
“How dare you?” cried Lieutenant (j.g.) Jones with all the feminine outrage and naval officer’s dignity that she could muster, simultaneously spinning around to, she was quite sure, slap the outrageous Dr. Wilson on his arrogant male chauvinist face. How dare he goose a naval officer in the execution of her official duties?
Dr. Wilson was eight feet away. The slap whistled menacingly but harmlessly through the air. Alfred the dog, however, delighted that he finally had captured her attention, reared back on his hind legs, draped his paws over her shoulders, and affectionately lapped her face.
Lieutenant (j.g.)
Joanne Pauline Jones began to cry.
Chapter Ten
The Spruce Harbor, Maine, International Airfield* is classified as a military auxiliary airfield because the U.S. Coast Guard has had a long-standing deal with the proprietor, one Wrong Way Napolitano, to refuel coast guard aircraft on a reimbursable-in-kind basis.
(* The installation, previously named the Napolitano Crop-dusting Service & Garage, was renamed Spruce Harbor International Airfield by the Spruce Harbor Chamber of Commerce after a DC-3 bound from Bangor, Maine, to Quebec, Canada, had gotten lost and landed by mistake at Mr. Napolitano’s place of business.)
What this meant was that about once each six months, a coast guard patrol plane or a coast guard helicopter would find itself low on fuel and land at Spruce Harbor International to take on enough gas to get them to what they somewhat less than tactfully referred to as “a real airport.” The next time a coast guard truck was headed in the direction of Spruce Harbor, a couple of fifty-five- gallon drums of fuel would be loaded aboard to be dropped off to repay that borrowed from Wrong Way. Mr. Napolitano, who had distinguished World War II service as a PFC-radio operator in the U.S. Army Air Corps, felt it was the least he could do for the coast guard. The coast guard had always been willing to come rescue him from the briny deep when his Boston Whaler ran out of gas between his lobster traps, and turnabout was certainly fair play.
Spruce Harbor International Airfield was a military field, dedicated to the service of the armed forces, and could be presumed to have available certain amenities. Among these amenities (an amenity is a pleasant custom), further, could be expected to those dear to the heart of senior military and naval officers, that of “honors.” When a general or an admiral arrives at a military or naval airfield, he expects far more than having a set of steps rolled up to the aircraft and directions to the gentlemen’s rest facility.
MASH 09 MASH goes to Vienna Page 10
