Richard Hooker - MASH - A Novel About Three Army Doctors

“I don’t think the goddam thing’s in his heart,” said Hawk-eye, without great assurance.

“Course it isn’t,” affirmed Trapper John, “but let’s not annoy the Congressman. Let us leave for Kokura immediate­ly, with our clubs.”

Delaying only long enough to clear it with Henry, they lugged their clubs to the chopper, boosted them in and climbed in after them. At Seoul, Kimpo airport was shrouded with fog and rain, which did not prevent the chopper from landing but which precluded the takeoff of the C-47 scheduled to take them to Kokura. To pass the time in pleasant com­pany, the two surgeons ambled over to the Officers’ Club where, after the covey of Air Force people at the bar got over the initial shock, they made the visitors welcome.

“But you guys are a disgrace,” said one, after the fourth round. “You can’t expect the Air Force to deliver such items to Japan.”

“Our problem,” Hawkeye explained, “is that right now we’ve got the longest winning streak in the history of military medicine going, so we don’t dare get shaved or shorn. What else can you suggest?”

“Well, we might at least dress you up a little,” one of the others said.

“I’m partial to English flannel,” Hawkeye said.

“Imported Irish tweed,” Trapper said.

The flyboys had recently staged a masquerade party in their club and they still had a couple of Papa-San suits. Papa-San suits take their name from the elderly Korean gentlemen who sport them, and they are long, flowing robes of white or black, topped off by tall hats that look like bird cages.

At 2:00 a.m., Trapper and Hawkeye climbed aboard the C-47 resplendent in their white drapery and bird cages, their clubs over their shoulders. Five hours later they disembarked at Kokura into bright sunlight, found the car with 25th STATION HOSPITAL emblazoned on its side, crawled into the back and awakened the driver.

“Garrada there,” the sergeant said.

“What?” Trapper said.

“He’s from Brooklyn,” Hawkeye said. “He wants us to vacate this vehicle.”

“I said garrada there,” the sergeant said, “or I’ll…”

“What’s the matter?” Trapper said. “You’re supposed to pick up the two pros who are gonna operate on the Congress­man’s son, aren’t you?”

“What?” the sergeant said. “You mean you guys are the doctors?”

“You betcher ever-lovin’ A, buddy-boy,” Hawkeye said.

“Poor kid,” the sergeant said. “Goddam army …”

“Look sergeant,” Trapper said, “if that spleen of yours is bothering you, we’ll remove it right here. Otherwise, let’s haul ass.”

“Goddam army,” the sergeant said,

“That’s right,” Hawkeye said, “and on the way fill us in on the local golfing facilities. We gotta operate this kid and then get in at least eighteen holes.”

The sergeant followed the path of least resistance. On the way he informed the Swampmen that there was a good eighteen-hole course not far from the hospital but that, as the Kokura Open was starting the next day, the course was closed to the public.

“So that means we’ve got a big decision to make,” Trapper said.

“What’s that?” Hawkeye said.

“The way I see it,” Trapper said, for the benefit of the sergeant, “we can operate on this kid and then qualify for this Kokura Open, or we can qualify first and then operate on this kid, if he’s still alive.”

“Goddam army,” the sergeant said.

“Decisions, decisions, decisions,” Hawkeye said. “After all, we didn’t hit the kid in the chest with that grenade.”

“Right!” Trapper said. “And it’s not our chest.”

“It’s not even our kid,” Hawkeye said. “He belongs to some Congressman.”

“Yeah,” Trapper said, “but let’s operate on him first any­way. Then well be nice and relaxed to qualify. We wouldn’t want to blow that.”

“Good idea,” Hawkeye said.

“Goddam, goddam army,” the sergeant said.

Delivered to the front entrance of the 25th Station Hospi­tal, Trapper and Hawkeye entered and approached the recep­tion desk. Behind it sat a pretty WAC, whose big blue eyes opened like morning glories when she looked up and saw the apparitions before her.

“Nice club you’ve got here, honey,” said Hawkeye.

“Where’s the pro shop?”

“What?” she said.

“What time’s the bar open?” Trapper said.

“What?” she said.

“You got any caddies available?” Hawkeye said.

“What?” she said.

“Look, honey,” Trapper said. “Don’t keep saying ’what.’ Just say ’yes’ instead.”

“That’s right,” Hawkeye said, “and you’ll be surprised bow many friends you’ll make in this man’s army.”

“Yes,” she said.

“That’s better,” Trapper said. “So where’s the X-ray department?”

“Yes,” she said.

They wandered down the main hallway, people turning to look at them as they passed, until they came to the X-ray department. They walked in, put their clubs in a corner and sat down. They put their feet on the radiologist’s desk and lighted cigarettes.

“Don’t set fire to your beard,” Hawkeye cautioned Trapper John.

“Can’t,” Trapper said. “Had it fire-proofed.”

“What the …?” somebody in the gathering circle of interested X-ray technicians started to say.

“All right,” Trapper said. “Somebody trot out the, latest pictures of this kid with the shell fragment in his chest.”

No one moved.

“Snap it up!” yelled Hawkeye. “We’re the pros from Dov­er, and the last pictures we saw must be forty-eight hours old by now.”

Without knowing why, a confused technician produced the X-rays. The pros perused them carefully.

“Just as we thought,” said Trapper. “A routine problem.”

“Yeah,” Hawkeye said. “They must have a hair trigger on the panic button here. Where’s the patient?”

“Ward Six,” somebody answered.

“Take us there.”

Led to Ward Six, the pros politely asked the nurse if they might see the patient. The poor girl, having embarked from the States many months before fully prepared in her mind for any tortures the enemy might inflict upon her, was un­prepared for this.

“I don’t know,” she said. “I don’t think I can allow you to see him without the permission of Major Adams.”

“Adams?” Trapper said. “John Adams?”

“Adams?” Hawkeye said. “John Quincy Adams?”

“No. George Adams.”

“Never heard of him,” Trapper said. “Come on now, nice nurse-lady. Let’s see the kid.”

They followed the hapless nurse into the ward and she led them to the patient. A brief examination revealed that, al­though the boy did have a two-centimeter shell fragment and a lot of blood in his right chest and that removal of both was relatively urgent, he was in no immediate danger. His confi­dence and well-being were not particularly enhanced, howev­er, by the bearded, robed, big-hatted character who had dumped a bag of golf clubs at the foot of his bed and had then started to listen to his chest.

“Have no fear, Trapper John is here,” Hawkeye assured him in a loud voice, and then, privately, he whispered in the patient’s ear: “Don’t worry, son. This is Captain Mclntyre, and he’s the best chest surgeon in the Far East and maybe the whole U.S. Army. He’s gonna fix you up easy. Your Daddy saw to that.”

When they asked, the Swampmen were told by the nurse that blood had been typed and that an adequate supply had been cross-matched. They picked up their clubs and, following directions, headed for the operating area where they found their way barred by a fierce Captain of the Army Nurse Corps.