Richard Hooker - MASH - A Novel About Three Army Doctors

“Y’all know something?” the Duke said. “I think we can beat these Yankees now.”

“Time!” the referee was screaming, between blasts on his whistle. “Do you people want to play football or talk all day?”

“If we have a choice,” Hawkeye said, as they started to line up, “we prefer to talk.”

“But you ain’t got a choice,” one of the tackles from the Browns said, “and you’ll get yours now.”

“What do y’all mean?” the Duke said. “It was clean.”

“Yeah,” Hawkeye said, “and you’ll have to catch us first.” On that drive the enemy was stopped on the seven, and had to settle for the field goal that made it 10-0. For their part, the Red Raiders devoted most of their offensive efforts to pulling the corks of the two tackles, running them from one side of the field to the other. Midway in the second quarter they managed a score after Ugly John had fallen on a fumble on the enemy nineteen. Two plays later Hawkeye caught a wobbling pass lofted by a still fleeing Trapper John and fell into the end zone. Just before the end of the half the home forces rammed the ball over once more, so the score was 17-7 when both sides retired for rest and resuscitation.

“Very good, gentlemen,” Spearchucker, who had been pac­ing the sideline helmeted and wrapped in a khaki blanket, told them as they filed in. “Very good, indeed.”

“Yeah,” Trapper John said, slumping to the floor, “but I gotta have a …”

“… beer, sir?” said Radar O’Reilly, who had been serving during the time-outs as water boy.

“Right,” Trapper said, taking the brew. “Thank you.”

“Tell you what,” Hawkeye said. “They got us now by ten, so we ought to be able to get two to one. Coach?”

“Yes, sir?” Henry said. “I mean, yes?”

“You better get over there quick,” Hawkeye said, “and grab that Hammond and try to get the rest of that bundle down at two to one.”

“Yes, sir,” Henry said. “I mean, yes. What’s the matter with me, anyway?”

“Nothin’, Coach,” Duke said. “Y’all are doing a real fine job.”

Henry was back in less than five minutes. He reported that he had failed to get as far as the other team’s dressing room. Halfway across the field he had been met by General Ham­mond who, having just checked on the health of his offensive star, had found him still under sedation. As Henry described him, the General was extremely irate.

“He was so mad,” Henry said, “that he wanted to know if we’d like to get any more money down.”

“Did you all tell him yes?” Duke wanted to know. “He was so mad,” Henry said, “that he said he’d give us three to one.”

“And you took it?” Trapper said. “I got four to one,” a gleeful Henry said. “Great, Coach!” they were shouting now. “How to go, Coach!”

“But,” Henry said, the elation suddenly draining from his face, as he thought of something, “we still have to win.”

“Relax, coach,” Spearchucker assured him. “If these poor white trash will just give me the ball and then direct ’their attentions to the two gentlemen from Cleveland, Ohio, I promise you that I shall bring our crusade to a victorious conclusion.”

Henry gave them then a re-take of his opening address. He paced the floor in front of them, waving his arms, exhorting, praising, pleading until, once more, his face and neck were of the same hue as their jerseys and once more, and for the last time, he sent them out to do or die.

As the Red Raiders of the Imjin distributed themselves to receive the kick-off, Captain Oliver Wendell Jones took a position on the goal line. The ball was not kicked to him, but the recipient, Captain Augustus Bedford Forrest, made certain that he got it. Without significant Interference, Captain Jones proceeded to the opposite end zone. Captain Forrest then kicked the extra point, bringing the score to 17-14, and while the teams dragged themselves back upfield, the two tackles from the Browns were seen loping over to their sideline. There they were observed in earnest conversation with General Hamilton Hartington Hammond who, as the two lumbered back onto the field, was seen shaking his fist in the direction of Lieutenant Colonel Henry Braymore Blake.

“Those two tackles, sir,” Radar O’Reilly informed his colonel, “told General Hammond that they recognize Captain Jones, sir.”

“Roll it up!” Henry, ignoring both his corporal and his general, was screaming. “Roll it up!”

“Keep it down,” advised Hawkeye. “We may want to do this again.”

“We may not have to worry about that,” Spearchucker, still breathing heavily, informed them. “I guess I’m not in the shape I thought I was. This may still be a battle.”

It was. It was primarily a battle between the two tackles and Spearchucker, with certain innocent parties, such as Ugly John and the Painless Pole and Vollmer, the sergeant from Supply and center from Nebraska, in the middle. When the Red Raiders got the ball again they went ahead for the moment, as Spearchucker scored once more on a forty-yard burst, but then the enemy surged back to grind out another and, with three minutes to play the score was Hammond 24, Blake 21, first-and-ten for the home forces on the visitors’ thirty-five-yard line.

“We gotta stop ’em here,” Spearchucker said.

“We need a time-out,” Trapper John said, “and some information.”

“Time-out!” Hawkeye called to the referee.

“Radar,” Trapper John said, when Radar O’Reilly came in with the water bucket and the towels, “do you think you can monitor that kaffee-clatch over there?”

He nodded toward the other team, gathered around their quarterback.

“I think I can, sir,” Radar said. “I can try, sir.”

“Well, goddammit, try.”

“Yes, sir,” Radar said, fixing his attention on the other huddle.

“What are they saying?”

“Well, sir,” Radar said, “the quarterback is saying that they will run the old Statue of Liberty, sir. He’s saying that their left end will come across and take the ball off his hand and try to get around their right end.”

“Good,” Spearchucker said. “What else are they saying?”

“Well, sir,” Radar said, “now the quarterback is saying that, if that doesn’t work, they’ll go into the double wing.”

“Good,” the Duke said.

“Ssh!” Hawkeye said. “What are they gonna do out of the double wing?”

“Well, sir,” Radar said, “they’re having an argument now. Everybody is talking so it’s confusing.”

“Keep listening.”

“Yes, sir. Now one of the tackles is telling them all to shut up. Now the quarterback is saying that, out of the double wing, the left halfback will come across and take the hand-off and start to the right. Then he’ll hand off to the right halfback coming to the left.”

“Radar,” Hawkeye said, “you’re absolutely the greatest since Marconi.”

“Greater,” Trapper John said.

“Thank you, sir,” Radar said. “That’s very kind of you, sir.”

“Time!” the referee was calling. “Time!”

It was as Radar O’Reilly had heard it. On the first play the enemy quarterback went back, as if to pass. As he did, the left end started to his right, and the Red Raiders, all eleven of them, started to their left. The left end took the ball off the quarterback’s hand, brought it down, made his cut and met a welcoming committee of ten men in red, only Ugly John, temporarily buried under 265 pounds of tackle, failing to make it on time.

“Double wing!” Spearchucker informed his associates as the enemy lined up for the next play. “Double wing!”

“Hut! Hut!” the enemy quarterback was calling. “Hut!”

This time the left halfback took the hand-off and started to his right. The eleven Red Raiders started to their right and, as the right halfback took the ball from the left halfback, ran to his left and tried to turn in, he, too, was confronted by ten men wearing the wrong colors. This time it was the Painless Pole who, tripping over his own feet, kept the Red Raiders from attaining perfect attendance.