MASH 09 MASH goes to Vienna

by Richard Hooker+William Butterworth

  He expects, at the very least, to be greeted at the door of his airplane by the commanding officer of the facility, the aerodrome officer of the day, a staff car, and, under certain circumstances, by a band, the national colors with an honor guard, and lines of enlisted men standing at attention to have their shoeshines and haircuts examined.

  This is, to reiterate, known as “honors.” Honors are not paid to run-of-the-mill officers (colonels and navy captains down). They have to get off airplanes by themselves and follow the arrows to the gentlemen’s. Since it is obviously impractical to have commanding officers, aerodrome officers of the day, and the rest of it standing by to greet an airplane which might contain two sergeants and a chief petty officer, a rather clever little warning code has been established.

  As soon as the pilot of a military aircraft carrying a general or flag officer aboard establishes radio contact with the military airfield at which he will land, he announces that aircraft so-and-so has a “Code Six Aboard.”

  This is the signal for the control to telephone the commanding officer’s secretary to tell him (or her, as the case may be) to wake the old man up and get him to the airfield; to form the band and the honor guard; and to gather together a sufficient quantity of neatly barbered troops to be inspected.

  The announcement that a “Code Six Is Aboard” serves also to warn the control-tower operator to clear the skies for the arrival of a big shot. Generals and admirals are far too important personages to waste their time holding in the pattern waiting for their turn to land; they are to be given permission to land immediately. Waiting around in the holding pattern is another of the crosses the junior officers have to bear.

  Code Six identifies one- and two-star generals and admirals. Code Seven identifies lieutenant generals and certain senior governmental officials, such as senators and congressmen, who, when dealing with the military, are given what is known as “assimilated rank.” Senators and congressmen get the same fancy treatment, in other words, as lieutenant generals and vice admirals.

  One step above a Code Seven is a Code Eight, which identifies four-star admirals and generals. The only thing that outranks a Code Eight in the honors department is when the pilot is able to identify his aircraft as Air Force One. This means, of course, that the President of the United States is aboard. In ascending order, other cabinet officers, when airborne, have their aircraft identified as Air Force Two (the Vice President); Air Force Three (the Secretary of State); and so on, up through the Secretary of Health, Education and Welfare, who is known as Air Force Sixteen.

  All of this background is necessary to explain what happened that memorable morning thirteen days after Midshipman His Grace Hugh Percival, the Duke of Folkestone and Lieutenant (j.g.) Joanne Pauline Jones, U.S.N., came to Spruce Harbor.

  Wrong Way Napolitano himself was in the Spruce Harbor tower, a rather windblown structure suspended on surplus poles contributed as a public service by the Maine Telephone Company, access to which was by rope ladder which Mr. Napolitano could (on occasion, such as now) pull up after him, thereby giving him refuge from Mrs. Napolitano, whose temper (on occasion, such as now) was another of Maine’s charming legends.

  When the radio burst into life, Mrs. Napolitano had finally faced the cold reality that her husband had no intention of coming down from his aerie and that she stood no chance whatever of going up after him, since he had had the foresight, in addition to pulling the rope ladder up after him, to grease the structure’s four supporting poles.

  He had just settled down for a long session with his collection of Playboyo Italiano Magazine. He had a gallon bottle of Chianti wine, a loaf of bread, and a hunk of cheese to sustain him through the hurricane of her rage, which, from long experience, he judged would last at least until noon of the following day. Mrs. Napolitano had chosen not to believe that Wrong Way’s low passes over a certain section of the rocky beaches had been nothing more than practice in aerial flight. She had been informed that a group of female college students, nature lovers, had chosen that section of beach to commune with nature and without bathing suits (or other garments) to disturb their vibrations.

  “Spruce Harbor International,” the radio said crisply, “Navy Nine-Two-Three, Code Six Aboard, fifteen miles south-southeast your station. Request approach and landing instructions.”

  He stared at the radio for a long minute before picking up the microphone.

  “Navy aircraft calling Spruce Harbor,” he replied. “You sure you got the right place, Mac?”

  The Code Six aboard Navy Nine-Two-Three was Rear Admiral (Lower Half) J. Kingswood Saltee, U.S.N. Admiral Saltee was FOICUSNAGCO* and in the execution of his official duties. Word had reached him via a very reliable source (Admiral Reginald C. “Totter” McSwain, U.S.N., who had been a fellow defensive tackle on the ’48 Naval Academy football team) that the Secretary of State, for reasons Admiral Saltee couldn’t imagine, had privately expressed doubt that FOICUSNAGCO could handle a certain delicate mission he had been assigned.

  (* Flag Officer in Charge, U.S. Naval Academy Governmental Coordination Officc, or FOICUSNAGCO, pronounced Foy-Cus-Nag-Co.)

  “Jake,” Admiral McSwain had said, calling on the scrambler phone, “delay sneaking the broad aboard. You- know-who with the funny accent knows all about it.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Totter,” Admiral Saltee had replied.

  “Listen to me, Jake,” Admiral McSwaine said. “I just happened to be in the executive steam bath over at the State Department, under a pile of towels, when you-know-who came in. I heard him talking on the phone. He knows all about it, I tell you.”

  “All about what?”

  “You sneaking some English broad aboard ship,” Admiral McSwain said. “He doesn’t think you’ll get away with it, Jake. That means he knows. You want to tell me about it?”

  “Totter, I appreciate the call,” Jake Saltee replied.

  “Who’s the broad for, Jake?” Admiral McSwain pursued.

  “What exactly did you-know-who say, Totter?” Admiral Saltee asked.

  “Well, you know, Jake. With that sauerkraut accent, you have a hard time understanding him. The best I could make of it was, ‘You’d think Saltee would be able to get one lady onto a boat without schlepping up the whole operation, but I have my doubts.’ ”

  “He said that, did he?”

  “That’s what he said,” Admiral McSwain confirmed. “What are you up to, Jake?”

  “I’m sorry, Totter,” Admiral Saltee said, “you don’t have a ‘Need to Know.’ ”

  “You embarrass the navy, Jake, and you can forget about getting to be an Upper Half Rear Admiral.”

  “Totter,” Admiral Saltee said, with icy dignity, “you seem to forget that you’re talking to the man who kicked the field goal against Army, winning the game. After, I must point out, you stepped on your shoelace and fell flat on your face on the two-yard line.”

  “You’re never going to let me forget that, are you?”

  “It seems to me that a man who forgot to tie his shoelaces when the honor of the academy was at stake is in no position to talk about duty to me,” Admiral Saltee said.

  “That was thirty years ago,” Admiral McSwain said.

  “As the twig is bent, Totter,” Admiral Saltee said. “As the twig is bent”

  “I didn’t call to criticize, Jake. I called to offer any assistance that you might require.”

  “You really want to help, Totter?”

  “You know I do, Jake.”

  “Then go back to the steam room and keep your eyes and ears open.”

  “I spend so much time in there now I look like a lobster,” Admiral McSwain said.

  “We all must expect to make sacrifices during our careers, Admiral Saltee said. “You get back into the steam room and keep me posted.”

  “Aye, aye, sir,” Admiral McSwain had said and broken the connection.

  Admiral Saltee hung up the scrambler phone and punched his intercom.
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br />   “Yeoman,” he said, “top priority. Lay on an aircraft for an immediate flight to Spruce Harbor, Maine. The fastest thing in the naval academy’s fleet.”

  “Aye, aye, sir,” the yeoman said. “I have to tell you, sir, that the fastest thing available right now is an R-4D.*”

  (* R4D is the navy designation for the Douglas DC-3. It is the navy version of the first really successful transport aircraft. Twin-engined, carrying sixteen to twenty passengers, it travels, presuming a good tailwind, at approximately two hundred miles per hour.)

  “A gooney bird?” the admiral said. “Where’s all the jet transports?”

  “At San Diego Naval Air Station, sir.”

  “What are they doing there?”

  “We’re playing Southern California, sir. I thought you knew.”

  “So, I did, so I did,” Admiral Saltee replied. “Well, to quote myself, ‘We must all expect to make sacrifices during our careers.’ Have it warmed up. I’m on my way to the airfield.”

  “Aye, aye, sir,” the yeoman said.

  “Spruce Harbor, Navy Nine-Two-Three, I say again, Code Six Aboard, request approach and landing instructions,” the pilot of Admiral Saltee’s gooney bird said now.

  Another voice suddenly came over the air, with just a tint of arrogance:

  “Spruce Harbor International, this is Air Force Six- Twenty-Six. I have a Code Seven Aboard. As a matter of fact, I have two Code Sevens aboard. Request approach and landing instructions.”

  “Navy Nine-Two-Three, Spruce Harbor clears you for a direct approach to Runway Number Three-Eight. You are number one to land,” Wrong Way said.

  “Spruce Harbor, Air Force Six-Two-Six. I say again I have two Code Sevens aboard. Request permission for immediate approach and landing.”

  “Six-Two-Six, wait your turn,” Wrong Way said. “Nine-Two-Three got here first.”

  “That’s not the way it works, and you know it. I’ve got two Code Sevens. That lousy Code Six is just going to have to wait.”

  “Spruce Harbor, this is Air Force Three,” still another voice said. “Request immediate approach and landing instructions.”

  “Air Force Three, there’s a navy gooney bird and an air force Sabreliner ahead of .you,” Wrong Way replied. “You’re number three to land. Hold in the pattern.”

  “Spruce Harbor, this is Air Force Three. Say again.”

  “Hold in the pattern,” Wrong Way replied. “You’re number three to land.”

  “Spruce Harbor, are you telling Air Force Three to hold in the pattern?” Air Force Three said, showing shocked, outraged disbelief at this outrageous flaunting of all that the bureaucrats and the military hold dear.

  “You got it, Charley,” Wrong Way said. “Navy Nine- Two-Three, the altimeter is one niner niner, the winds are negligible from the north. You are cleared to land.”

  “Navy Nine-Two-Three over the outer marker,” the gooney bird said, just a trifle smugly.

  “Spruce Harbor,” Air Force Three said, practically shouted. “We have the Secretary of State aboard!”

  “Really?” Wrong Way said. “Navy Nine-Two-Three, Spruce Harbor. Abort your approach and go around.” Navy Nine-Two-Three, when it received this message, had already touched down, but orders from the control tower are orders which cannot be disobeyed. The gooney- bird pilot, who had his hands on the throttles to retard them, now shoved them as far forward as they would go. The engines responded, and Navy Nine-Two-Three, quickly gathering speed, soared off into the sky again.

  Air Force Six-Two-Six, which had been observing Navy Nine-Two-Three land, whooshed in toward Spruce Harbor International’s Runway Number Thirty-eight.

  “Air Force Six-Two-Six over the outer marker,” its pilot said, lowering his wheels.

  “Air Force Six-Two-Six, Spruce Harbor, go around,” Wrong Way said. “Air Force Three, you say you have the Secretary of State on board?”

  Air Force Six-Two-Six, which had lowered its wheels, flaps and speed brakes, now raised is wheels, retracted the speed brakes, and zoomed off into the wild blue yonder again.

  “That is affirmative, Spruce Harbor,” the pilot of Air Force Three said quite smugly. “Air Force Three has the Secretary of State aboard. May I presume that Air Force Three is number one to land?”

  “Hey, Wrong Way,” still another voice said, “how about chasing those creeps down there away so I can land?”

  “That you, Horsey?” Wrong Way replied.

  “Me and Hot Lips,” the voice said.

  “Air Force Three,” Wrong Way said. “Spruce Harbor. Hold in the pattern. Spruce Harbor International clears Chevaux Petroleum Number One as number one to land. Welcome to Spruce Harbor, Horsey!”

  “Spruce Harbor,” Air Force Three said, “I must be having trouble with my radio. I could have sworn you just gave landing priority to a civilian, nongovernmental aircraft!”

  “You heard him, Fat Boy,” said the last voice to call in. “Now get out of the way before I run over you!”

  Air Force Three interrupted its landing approach. The huge, glistening intercontinental DC-8 applied power, gained a little altitude and banked to the left. An almost identical (differing only in the paint scheme) DC-8 came in on its tail, dropped its wheels, touched down and rolled to a stop.

  Wrong Way Napolitano, reasonably certain that Mrs. Napolitano would not make good her threat to cut his throat with a rusty beer can in the presence of the Reverend Mother Emeritus Margaret H. W. Wilson, of the God Is Love in All Forms Christian Church, Inc., tossed the rope ladder leading to the control tower out the door and clambered down after it.

  By the time he reached the ground, the Chevaux Petroleum Corporation aircraft had completed its landing roll, turned around on the runway, and taxied back to the repossessed house trailer which served as the passenger terminus of Spruce Harbor International.

  The door opened. Reverend Mother Emeritus Wilson appeared at the opening. She was wearing her hair differently than Wrong Way remembered. Previously, it had hung down over her shoulders. It was now arranged something like an inverted volcano, rising a good eighteen inches above her head. It was shaped, Wrong Way Napolitano realized, not unlike a bishop’s cappa magna. There were other similarities to a vested prelate of the church. Reverend Mother Emeritus held in her hand a pole with a curved end, a shepherd’s crook, traditional symbol of a bishop. A Christian cross, about ten inches in height, hung around her neck, the chain dipping in the valley between her ample bosoms. She was wearing a navy-blue cape, lined in red, over a purple, ankle-length dress. The cape swirled in the wind, revealing that which was printed on the back, in the manner of that printed on the back of prize-fighters’ dressing gowns, that is to say, in large, sequined letters.

  There was, of course, a cross, signifying her ecclesiastical association. The cross was about four feet high and four inches wide. The word “reverend” was embroidered on the vertical member and the words “mother” and “emeritus” on the two horizontal cross members. Surrounding this, the words arranged so that they could be read (even though they formed a circle) without twisting one’s head, were these words: god is love in ALL FORMS CHRISTIAN CHURCH, INC., WORLD HEADQUARTERS, NEW ORLEANS, LA.

  “Bless you, Antonio!” Reverend Mother Emeritus said, gesturing with her shepherd’s crook.

  “Hiya, Hot Lips!” Wrong Way shouted back at her. “Long time no see!”

  There was a whirring noise and a flight of stairs unfolded smoothly from the belly of the aircraft. Reverend Mother disappeared from the door only to appear a moment later at the head of the stairs.

  “Come, Darling!” she called in her deep and melodious voice, directed to the interior of the aircraft. A large, black Scottish wolfhound, tail wagging, appeared, took one look at Wrong Way, bared its teeth, and started down the stairs after him.

  The shepherd’s crook in Reverend Mother’s hand flashed out quickly, rapping the animal none too gently on the head. The beast stopped and looked back.

  “No, Darling,
” Reverend Mother cooed, “not Wrong Way. He’s a friend!”

  Another animal appeared, this one a male. He, too, brightened at the sight of Wrong Way, the look coming into his eyes like that of a starving man who comes across a banquet. And he, too, started down the stairs. And he, too, took a rap on the top of his head from Reverend Mother’s crook.

  “Behave yourself, Beauregard,” she said. “Wrong Way is Daddy’s buddy.”

  “Wrong Way!” Daddy said, at that moment appearing at the head of the stairs. “How dey hanging?”

  “Horsey! How are you, buddy?” Wrong Way replied. “What brings you to Spruce Harbor?”

  The man whom Reverend Mother referred to as “Daddy” and Wrong Way as “Horsey” was actually Colonel Jean-Pierre de la Chevaux* (Louisiana National Guard), chairman of the board and chief executive officer of the Chevaux Petroleum Corporation, International.

  (* The details of Colonel de la Chevaux’s spectacular business career, following the discovery of “the largest pool of natural gas ever to be discovered” on his property in Bayou Perdu, Louisiana, have been chronicled for students of the petrochemical industry and international finance in M*A*S*H Goes to New Orleans (Pocket Books, 1975), which is available in the better sort of drugstores, five- and ten-cent stores, and bus terminals.)

  He did not look, truth to tell, very much like the captain of industry and finance that he certainly was. He was wearing a purple nylon flight suit on which were embroidered the somewhat spectacular wings and other insignia of the Cajun Air Force. On his head, to protect its somewhat hairless surface from what Colonel de la Chevaux regarded as the icy winds of Maine, was the uniform hat prescribed for the Supreme Assistant Grand Knight of the Golden Fleece & Social Secretary of the Bayou Perdu Council, Knights of Columbus. This item of uniform had been patterned after the hat worn by officers of the Royal Navy at the battle of Trafalgar.

  In his hand he clutched a half-gallon bottle of Old White Stagg Blended Kentucky Bourbon. As he trotted down the stairway, with the Scottish wolfhound trotting along after him, he skillfully twisted the bottle top loose, “Have a little snort,” he said to Wrong Way.