MASH 08 MASH Goes to Hollywood

by Richard Hooker+William Butterworth

  “You’ll make a fine doctor,” Hawkeye said to him. “You lie so easily, and so well.”

  “What brings you up here?” Boris asked.

  “Well, we thought we’d have a look at Antoinette DeBois and her baby, and, well, since we were in the neighborhood, we thought we’d drop in and say hello,” Hawkeye said.

  “Well, there’s more than enough to eat,” Boris said. “Since you’re here,” he pointed an imperious finger at Trapper John, “you may help me carry the rest of the food out,” he said. “We’re lunching al fresco, by the side of the lake.”

  Hawkeye waited until Trapper and Boris were out of earshot, then spoke to Harris:

  “How’s it going, Steve?”

  “Piece of cake,” Harris replied. “Aside from those crazy stories he tells . . . God, you’d have to believe he had scored with every other woman in the world, if you believed those stories . . . he’s really a very nice guy.”

  “And that’s all he talks about?”

  “No. I talk to him too. I told him ... I hope you don’t mind . . . about me wanting to go to medical school next year.”

  “What did he have to say about that?”

  “He told me not to worry about getting in,” Harris chuckled, “or about paying for it. He said that he had friends who would pay for it, and if I had any trouble getting in, he could arrange that, too. He said if nothing else, he would have his friend Hassan buy me a medical school.” Harris paused. “I shouldn’t be smiling, I guess. Anybody who can come up with something like that is really bananas, isn’t he?”

  “And he told you that he was the world’s greatest opera singer?”

  “Yeah,” Harris said, and he was unable to keep from smiling. “He told me that in absolute confidence. He said if the word got out, they’d come looking for him and drag him back to Paris.”

  “I’m sure you can be trusted not to spread the word around,” Hawkeye said.

  “My lips are sealed. What a fantastic idea! Him being an opera singer! I thought for a while this morning that he was about to get in a butting contest with the bull elk. When the lady elk bellowed back at Boris, the bull didn’t like it at all.”

  “There is no explaining the female taste, I suppose,” Hawkeye said.

  “I don’t know what would have happened if the wind hadn’t shifted from the direction of the potato chip factory and made the bull elk sick to his stomach,” Harris said.

  Boris and Trapper came back then, carrying steaming bowls of food, and the conversation had to be cut short. Boris, however, managed to have a moment alone with Hawkeye himself. He sent Trapper and Harris to fetch the beer.

  “I really have to hand it to you, Hawkeye,” he said.

  “For what?”

  “For really being able to pick good friends.”

  “Like Trapper, you mean?”

  “Him, too, I suppose,” Boris replied. “But I was really thinking about me and Steve. He’s really one hell of a guy. He’s never been around much, just in the army . . . things must have changed since we were soldiers, Hawkeye. Would you believe he’s a . . . don’t laugh . . . virgin?”

  Hawkeye didn’t laugh.

  “I told him that as soon as I get my feet on the ground, I’ll have Esmerelda or the baroness fly over and fix that,” Boris said. “But he doesn’t seem interested.”

  “How ungrateful of him,” Hawkeye said.

  “He says he doesn’t have time for sex and won’t until he gets to be a doctor.”

  “The sacrifices that we healers make in the name of Hippocrates are seldom understood by the layman,” Hawkeye replied, solemnly. He changed the subject. “Well, Boris, I am delighted to find that you have found peace and contentment in the deep woods,” he said.

  “I sometimes feel a little sorry for the Paris Opéra and my fans,” Boris said. “But then I ask myself, what did they ever do for me?”

  “I understand. How long do you plan to stay here?”

  “A couple of weeks more,” Boris said. “Maybe a month. A month without me should teach them how abysmally empty life is without me. And more time than a month would really be unnecessarily cruel.”

  “You’re a kind man, Boris,” Hawkeye said.

  “I know,” Boris said. “I think I’ll let Hassan know first . . . say in three weeks ... so that he can arrange my triumphant return. Perhaps with a parade down the Champs Elysees.”

  “At night, of course,” Hawkeye said.

  “Don’t be silly. How could they see me at night?”

  “I was thinking of fireworks, fired from the Arc de Triomphe,” Hawkeye said, “and searchlights sending columns of light into the sky.”

  “You may have something,” Boris said. “I’ll think about it.”

  “And in the meantime, mum’s the word?”

  “Precisely,” Boris said.

  “You wouldn’t want to come by the house for a couple of days?” Hawkeye asked.

  “I hate to tell you this, Hawkeye,” Boris said, “but that wife of yours has a big mouth. She would not be able to restrain herself from boasting before her little friends that I had favored her with a visit.”

  “You’re probably right, Boris,” Hawkeye said. “I would like to thank you for talking with me like this.”

  “Think nothing of it,” Boris said. “But I must tell you this, Hawkeye. If it got out, via you, where I am, our friendship would be placed under a severe strain.”

  “I’ll remember that,” Hawkeye said.

  “It isn’t often, you know, that someone like you is in a position to do a service for someone like me. Don’t blow it.”

  “I’ll do my best.”

  After luncheon, which lasted two hours, Trapper John and Hawkeye got back into the swamp buggy, fired up the diesel engine, played the first six bars of the Colonel Bogie March on the air horns, and drove back into Lake Kelly. They sailed majestically down the lake, sending up huge plumes of water behind them, until they reached another log cabin on the shore.

  They landed again, this time not sounding the air horn, and paid a professional visit, in the guise of a social visit, to Antoinette and Pierre DeBois and their week-old baby. Pierre DeBois, in accordance with what really was what Angelo Napolitano had called the code of the deep woods, produced a five-gallon jug of what might be called the fruit of the deep woods, and the infant, so to speak, was toasted.

  The unmistakable, somewhat piquant odor of the moonshine was still about them when, two hours later, Dr. Pierce and Dr. McIntyre rolled up before the main door of the Spruce Harbor Medical Center in the swamp buggy, shut it down, and marched to the doctor board, where they changed their status from “HOUSE CALL” to “IN.”

  When they turned around, they faced Mr. T. Alfred Crumley, the hospital administrator, who was in the act of sniffing.

  “Ah ha!” he said. “I thought so.”

  “You thought what, Mr. Crumbum?” Trapper John replied.

  “You two have been tippling,” Crumley said. “And that’s Crum ley, Doctor. How many times must I tell you that?”

  “Tell me what? That I’ve been tippling? I know that. I was there when I did it. We just came in to stock up.”

  “As hospital administrator, I have the right to know what you meant when you wrote “House Call” on the Handy-Dandy Executive Model Medical Professional Personnel Locator.”

  “On the what?”

  “On the doctor board.”

  “We were making a house call,” Hawkeye replied.

  “All I can say to you,” Mr. Crumley said, after taking a deep, injured breath and releasing it slowly through pursed lips, “is that you have a very odd sense of humor, if I do say so myself.”

  “Is there any other way we might be of some service to you, T. Alfred?” Hawkeye asked.

  “There have been telephone calls for you,” Mr. Crumley replied.

  “Indeed?”

  “If I am to believe what I strongly suspect to be persons possessed of senses of humor quite as odd a
s your own,” T. Alfred said, consulting a sheath of little yellow slips of paper, “you are asked to call back His Royal Highness Prince Hassan of Hussid, in Paris, France; the secretary of state in Washington, D.C.; the Right Reverend Mother Emeritus of the God Is Love in All Forms Christian Church, Inc., of New Orleans, Louisiana; and a Mr. Waldo Maldemer, who described himself as ‘America’s Most Beloved Television Journalist’ of the Amalgamated Broadcasting System in New York City.” Hawkeye took the slips from T. Alfred Crumley’s hand. He turned them face down and spread them, like a deck of cards, in his hand. “Take a card,” he said.

  Trapper put his hands over his eyes and took two of the four slips of paper. He read them. “I got Tubby and Hot Lips,” he said. “That means you lost. You got Hassan and Waldo Maldemer.”

  Hawkeye turned away from Mr. Crumley and to the hospital telephone operator, whose switchboard was behind the chief nurse’s station.

  “Sweetie,’ he said, handing her all the yellow slips, “would you get all these people for us? Collect, of course. We’ll be in my office.”

  Trapper John stepped up to the doctor board again. He moved the pegs behind his name and that of Dr. Pierce from “IN,” to “IN CONFERENCE.” The chief nurse spoke.

  “Doctor,” she said, “I couldn’t help but overhear the operator. Are you going to call Hot Lips back? Could I say hello to her?”

  “Right,” Hawkeye said. “Come along.”

  “Hot Lips? Who is Hot Lips?” T. Alfred Crumley asked.

  “I fear, Mr. Crumbum,” Dr. Pierce said, “that you have overstepped the line. That information is classified as a medical secret.”

  The chief nurse went to the doctor board and moved her peg from “IN” to “IN CONFERENCE.” Over her shoulder, as the trio marched down the corridor to the office of the chief of surgery, she called out an order to the telephone operator:

  “Get Hot Lips* first,” she said.

  (* Lt. Col. Margaret Houlihan Wachauf Wilson, U.S. Army Nurse Corps, Retired, who had come to be known and loved as “Hot Lips Houlihan” during her service with the 4077th MASH during the Korean War, had become in later life the Right Reverend Mother Emeritus of the God Is Love in All Forms Christian Church of New Orleans, Louisiana. The details of her accession to this exalted ecclesiastical position, from those with an interest in socioreligious phenomena, may be found in M*A*S*H GOES TO NEW ORLEANS (Pocket Books, New York, 1975). Her close friendship with the chief nurse of the Spruce Harbor Medical Center began when they shared the care of His Grace, the Duke of Folkestone. The details of that touching manifestation of hands-across-the-sea have been splendidly recorded for posterity in M*A*S*H GOES TO LONDON (Pocket Books, New York, 1975).)

  Chapter Eleven

  Dr. John Francis Xavier McIntyre, Chief Nurse Esther Flanagan, and Chief of Surgery Benjamin Franklin Pierce worked as a smoothly meshing team of experts, every motion reflecting long hours of experience. Trapper John got out the glasses and the mixing pitcher; Esther scooped both the ice from the refrigerator and the onions from their bottle; and Hawkeye, with a surgeon’s sure hand and skilled eye, quickly added the right amounts, in the precise proportions, of gin and vermouth. In less time than it takes to tell about it, the trio were seated on Dr. Pierce’s soft, wide couch, their feet up on the coffee table, an icy-cold martini in each of three hands.

  “How’s Antoinette and the boy?” Nurse Flanagan inquired.

  “In splendid all-around health,” Trapper John replied.

  “I’ll drink to that,” Hawkeye said.

  “You’ve really got Ol’ Crumbum in a swivet,” Flanagan said. “That ‘House Call’ line really drove him up the wall.”

  “I’ll drink to that,” Trapper John said.

  “What’s Hot Lips want?” Nurse Flanagan inquired.

  “She wants to know if I know where Boris is,” Hawkeye replied.

  “And do you?”

  “I do, but I can’t tell her,” Hawkeye replied. (One tells the truth and the whole truth to chief nurses. This is known as Rule Two.)

  “Then you better not tell me,” Flanagan replied.

  (Registered nurses of long experience do not lie to each other. This is known as Rule Six.)

  At that moment, the telephone on the coffee table rang. Flanagan grabbed it.

  “Office of the chief of surgery,” she said, crisply. “Chief of nursing services speaking.” There was a reply, to which Flanagan responded by extending her lower lip in a gesture signifying that she was either impressed or that she had a piece of martini onion between her teeth and handed the telephone to Hawkeye.

  “Dr. Pierce,” Hawkeye said.

  “This is Edgar Crudd, Doctor,” a smooth, hearty male voice said. “I’m calling on behalf of America’s most beloved newscaster.”

  “And how is Howard K. Smith these days?” Hawkeye replied.

  “We don’t mention that name around here,” Crudd said, quickly. “I refer, of course, to Waldo Maldemer.”

  “You’re not trying to tell me old droopy jowls is America’s most beloved newscaster?” Hawkeye asked.

  “I have to,” Crudd confessed. “Waldo had that written into his contract.”

  “I see. Well, how may I help you, Mr. Mud?”

  “That’s Crudd, Doctor. Edgar Crudd.”

  “Sorry,” Hawkeye said. “What’s on your mind?”

  “It’s actually what’s on Waldo’s mind that I’m calling about, Doctor,” Edgar Crudd said. “We have it on reliable information that you are hiding some singer named Boris A. Korsky-Rimsakov up there. Answer yes or no.”

  “Why do you ask?” Hawkeye replied.

  “The French can’t find him,” Crudd said. “Say, Doc, you’re not supposed to do that.”

  “Do what?”

  “When ABS Television News calls on behalf of America’s most beloved television journalist and tells you to answer yes or no, you’re supposed to do that. You’re not supposed to ask why we’re asking.”

  “Well, why are you?”

  “Because that’s my job, that’s why,” Edgar Crudd said. “We can’t get everything off the news service wire, you know. Sometimes we have to ask people things.”

  “A little less vermouth this time, if you please,” Hawkeye said.

  “I beg your pardon?” Edgar Crudd said.

  “Certainly,” Hawkeye replied.

  “Are you going to answer yes or no or not?”

  “My options are up to three, I see,” Hawkeye said. “Well, Mr. Fudd, it’s been pleasant chatting with you this way, but my martini is getting warm.” He dropped the telephone into its cradle. Almost immediately, it rang again.

  Trapper John grabbed it.

  “I hope this is important,” he snarled into it. “We’re in conference.” There was a snarling sound in his ear, and then Trapper John smiled broadly. “How goes it, Hot Lips?” He covered the microphone with his hand. “It’s Reverend Mother,” he said.

  “Let me talk to her,” Nurse Flanagan said. She snatched the phone from Trapper’s hands. “Margaret, how nice to hear your voice!” she said. The calling party said something, and Nurse Flanagan replied, “Oh, we’re just sitting around Hawkeye’s office having a little martinerooney.” Pause. “Well, we wish you were here, too, dear. How’s things at the nursing school? * Pause. “Well, I don’t suppose you were such an angel yourself, Maggie, when you were a student nurse.” Pause. “Yes, he’s here, but you’re wasting your time, dear. He’s not going to tell you where the big ape is.” She thereupon handed the telephone to Hawkeye.

  (* In addition to her many responsibilities in connection with the God Is Love in All Forms Christian Church, Inc., Right Reverend Mother Emeritus Wilson also serves as chief of nursing education and guidance counseling at the Prudence MacDonald Memorial School of Nursing of New Orleans, Louisiana.)

  “Hello, Hot Lips,” Hawkeye said. “How’s every little thing?” Pause. “I’m sorry, that falls into the category of doctor-patient confidentiality.” Pause. �
��A nice right reverend mother emeritus shouldn’t use words like that, Hot Lips.” Pause. “Or like those, either.” Pause. “I can assure you, Hot Lips, that Boris is in no danger and is enjoying the best of health. I am honor bound not to reveal his whereabouts.” Pause. “I understand your concern, Reverend Mother,” he said, somewhat icily, “but I must tell you that I do too know what honor means. Here’s Esther again.”

  He handed the phone back to Chief Nurse Flanagan. “I told you he wouldn’t tell you,” Esther Flanagan said. Pause. “Oh, I couldn’t tell him that. As a doctor he knows as well as you do as a nurse that it’s physiologically impossible.” Pause. “All I know, Maggie, is that the two of them were off all day in the swamp buggy and just came in here reeking of moonshine.”

  “Thanks a lot,” Trapper John said.

  “No more of my booze for that one,” Hawkeye said. “I have apparently nurtured a viper at my gin bottle.”

  “I’ll meet your plane,” Esther Flanagan said. “And I’ll see what I can find out until you get here.” Pause. “I’ll look forward to seeing you, too, dear.” She hung the phone up.

  “Flanagan, you have betrayed us!” Hawkeye said. “Or am I incorrect in assuming that the right reverend mother is about to descend upon us like an avenging angel?”

  “Hawkeye,” Flanagan said, “Margaret is concerned about Boris.”

  “She can be concerned about him just as well in New Orleans,” Trapper replied. “What does she have to come here for?”

  There was no chance for Trapper to force a reply out of Chief Nurse Flanagan. The telephone rang again, and she snatched it up. “Office of the chief of surgery, chief of nursing services speaking.” Pause. “Why, yes, of course, I recognize your voice,” she said. “Gee, to think of little ol’ me talking to Harry Reasoner!” Pause. “It’s not? Of course, how stupid of me. How are you today, Mr. Chancellor?” Pause. “Now listen here, whoever you are, don’t you dare use language like that to me!” She handed the phone to Trapper John. “It’s some dirty- mouthed old man who says he’s Waldo Maldemer.”

  “Hello?” Trapper John said. “Is this really Waldo Maldemer?” Pause. “Well, how do I know that? You could be anyone calling up here and saying you’re Waldo Maldemer.” Pause. “That funny way you talk, you could be the secretary of state using words like that to a complete stranger. How can I help you, Waldo ol’ pal?”