Richard Hooker - MASH - A Novel About Three Army Doctors

“Undoubtedly a good boy,” said Hawkeye.

He arrived on a cold and snowy morning about nine o’clock. Henry brought him to the mess hall for coffee and introduced him to the other surgeons, most of whom, because the gooks had been quiet for three days, were there.

The new boy was six feet tall and weighed about a hundred and thirty pounds. His name was John Mclntyre. The fatigue suit and parka he wore prevented anyone from getting much of a look at him. He acknowledged introductions with non­committal grunts, he sat down at a table, pulled a can of beer out of a pocket and opened it. Then his head disappeared into the parka like a turtle’s into its shell, and the beer followed it.

“Seems like a nice fella,” Duke said, “for a Yankee.”

“Where you from, Dr. Mclntyre?” someone asked.

“Winchester.”

“Where did you go to school?”

“Winchester High,” from somewhere inside the parka.

“I mean medical school.”

“I forget, I guess.”

“That,” said Hawkeye to the Duke, “ought to stop the conversation for a while. I got a feeling I’ve seen this thing before. Wish he’d come out of the cocoon.”

Captain Ugly John Black, the chief anesthesiologist, appar­ently decided to smoke him out. During his long working hours, when operating-room technique required that the anes­thesiologist attending the patient be separated from the rest of the operating team, Ugly John was often lonesome for con­versation. The new man’s laconic responses were at least more talk than Ugly John could get back from his anesthetized patients.

“Have a good trip over?” he asked.

“Nope.”

“Fly?”

“Nope.”

Ugly scratched his head and figured he’d play the guy’s own game.

“So what did you do, walk?”

“Yep.”

“Great idea,” Ugly said. “I wonder why I didn’t think of it.”

The head came out of the parka and looked Ugly over with great care.

“I don’t know,” it said.

By now it seemed fairly obvious to the group that they had some kind of a nut on their hands, and all, including Duke and Hawkeye, departed with haste. During the day, while the new boy was being oriented and supplied with this and that, most of the outfit went to Henry and asked him not to put Captain Mclntyre in any of their tents—all except Duke and Hawkeye.

“Let’s see what happens,” Hawkeye said.

“Yeah,” Duke said.

Late that afternoon it happened. The door of the tent swung open, and in came the new boy, bag and baggage. The baggage was dumped on one of the empty cots, and the new boy lay down. A hand went into the depths of the parka, came out with a can of beer, went back in and came out with an opener. The new boy opened the beer, and for the first time he looked at his new tentmates.

“It’s a small place,” he said, “but I think I’m going to love it.”

“My name’s Pierce, and this is Duke Forrest,” Hawkeye said, getting up and offering his hand.

The newcomer didn’t budge.

“Seen you before, haven’t I?” asked Hawkeye.

“I don’t know. Have you?” answered Mclntyre.

“For Chrissake, Mclntyre, are you all this friendly all the time?” demanded the Duke.

“Only when I’m happy,” answered Mclntyre.

Hawkeye went out, filled a bucket with snow and mixed martinis. He poured two, thought a moment, shrugged his shoulders, and asked the new boy if he would like one.

“Yep. Got any olives?”

“No.”

The hand disappeared into the parka and came out with a bottle of olives. An olive was removed and placed in the martini.

“You guys want an olive?”

“Yeah.”

An olive was doled out to each. The Duke gave a contented sigh.

“Mclntyre,” he said, “you’re a regular perambulatin’ PX.”

Hawkeye laughed loudly. The martini and the head came out of the parka, looked at him, then disappeared again.

Duke and Hawkeye were on night duty, and the new boy was assigned to their shift. A Canadian unit had spent the day getting shot up a few miles to the west, so the night was a busy one, and there were several chest wounds. About all Duke or Hawkeye or anyone else at the Double Natural knew about the chest was what they had learned by bitter and difficult experience in recent weeks. The new boy didn’t say much, but he did come out of the parka and show them what to do.

In the third chest that he opened he went right to and repaired a lacerated pulmonary artery, and he did it like Joe D. going back for a routine fly. When morning came the night shift went to the mess hall, their curiosity aroused more than ever by the new chest surgeon from Boston. At breakfast, another can of beer materialized from the recesses of the parka and, once opened, disappeared back into it.

At the Double Natural a rag-tag squad of Korean kids waited on tables, and one of them placed a bowl of oatmeal and a cup of coffee in front of Dr. Mclntyre. The head shot out of the parka, and two glaring eyes focused on the boy.

“What’s that?”

“Oatmeals, sir.”

“I don’t want oatmeals. Bring me bean.”

“Bean hava no.”

“OK. The hell with it.”

Breakfast was quiet after that, and, as soon as the three had made it back to Tent Number Six, they went to bed, the new boy still in his parka.

At 4:00 p.m., Duke and Hawkeye got up, dressed and washed. From deep down in the parka, which had shown no previous signs of life, came the words:

“How about a martini?”

Hawkeye mixed, and again the olives were produced. After the first martini the new boy got up, took off the parka for the first time, washed his face, combed his hair, and got back into the parka. This look at him confirmed the impression Duke had formed the night before in the OR that Dr. Mclntyre was about as thin as a man could get, and for the second time he addressed his new associate.

“Hey, boy, y’all got the clap?”

An immediate answer was not forthcoming. The head did come out of the parka, however, and look vaguely interested.

“What in hell makes you think he’s got the clap?” Hawkeye asked. “Even a clap doctor can’t diagnose it through a parka.”

“What y’all don’t know,” replied Duke, “is that I’m a graduate of the Army Medical Field Service School at Fort Sam Houston, Texas, where I won high honors. I learned that the only thing that can go wrong with a soldier is for him to get shot or get the clap. He ain’t bleeding so he’s gotta have the clap.”

“Well, when you put it that way,” Hawkeye said, “it does make sense. However, he may be an exception to the rule.”

“I don’t have the clap,” said the parka.

“See? What did I tell you?” said Hawkeye.

In the days that followed, John Mclntyre continued to be an enigma. He and Hawkeye Pierce talked a little and looked each other over a little, and Hawkeye continued to have the nagging thought that he had seen him somewhere before.

One afternoon, about a week after the new doctor’s arrival, with the snow temporarily gone, some of the boys were throwing a football around. As Hawkeye and Mclntyre emerged from their tent, a wild throw brought the ball to rest at the latter’s feet. He leaned over very, very slowly and picked up the ball. With a lazy wave of his hand he motioned Hawkeye downfield. When the Hawk was thirty yards off, Mclntyre whipped a perfect pass into his arms. They contin­ued their walk to the mess hall in silence, but Hawkeye was bothered again by memories he couldn’t quite bring into focus.

“Where’d you go to college, John?” he asked over a cup of coffee.

“It was a small place, but I loved it. Where’d you go?”

“Androscoggin.”

Mclntyre grinned, but he didn’t say anything.