Richard Hooker - MASH - A Novel About Three Army Doctors

This was all to the good, except that Duke Forrest became somewhat bothered. Protestantism was strong in him, and close association with an accredited representative of the opposition caused occasional qualms.

“Y’all seem to be a mighty effective bead-jiggler, Dago,” he said one night, “but how do I know one of my boys couldn’t do as well?”

“I’m sure he could,” Red answered calmly.

“Tell y’all what I’m gonna do,” Duke said. “I’m gonna get Shaking Sammy to put in a fix the next time I need one,”

Shaking Sammy was the Protestant chaplain. His head­quarters were in an engineering outfit down the road. He was called Shaking Sammy because he so dearly loved to shake hands. Whenever he hit the hospital, Shaking Sammy started shaking hands as soon as he came in and kept right on shaking. On one great morning, people whose hands were shaken by Sammy as soon as he entered the compound maneuvered into his path again and again as he made his rounds and shook his eager hand again and again. It took Sammy two hours to make the circle, and he had shaken hands three hundred times with fifty people.

Despite repeated warnings, Shaking Sammy also had the bad habit of writing letters home for wounded soldiers with­out inquiring into the nature of their wounds. One day, before Duke had a chance to invite him in for a fix, Sammy wrote a letter for a boy who died two hours later. The letter told his mother that all was well and that he’d be home soon. It had been written with no investigation of his surgical situation. The nurse had managed to see the letter, and she told Duke and Hawkeye. They escorted Shaking Sammy out of the hospital and, as he left, they shot all four tires of his jeep with their .45’s. That was the last of Shaking Sammy for a while.

“Guess I’ll have to stick with the bead-jiggler,” said the Duke that afternoon. “Do you suppose we could convert him?”

Discussion of conversion was cut short by the arrival of a chopper with two seriously wounded soldiers. One of them, it seemed clear from the wound of entrance, the disten­ded abdomen, and the severe degree of shock, had a hole in his inferior vena cava or possibly in the abdominal aorta. Since the inferior vena cava and the abdominal aorta drain blood from and supply blood to the lower half of the body, he was not long for this world.

Hawkeye, Duke and Trapper John went to work. They got blood going, and they gave him Levophed to raise his blood pressure. Ordinarily they would have waited for things to stabilize, but now there was no time.

Ugly John Black, the anesthesiologist, placed the tube in the trachea, through which he gave and controlled the anes­thesia. Hawkeye Pierce was at the knife, and in they went. They tied off the vena cava faster than would have been considered proper in civilian surgery. Hawkeye jammed a large bore needle into the aorta so that they could pump blood through the real main line.

“Get Dago Red quick,” yelled Hawkeye at the first lull.

Father Mulcahy was already entering the OR.

“What will it be, boys?” he said.

“All the Cross Action you got, plain or fancy, but make it good,” said Hawkeye.

With continued blood replacement and with Levophed, hope began to emerge from what had been desperation and chaos. The patient’s youth and vigor, plus rapid surgery and the remarkably effective Cross Action from Dago Red, added up to a virtual miracle.

Duke and Hawkeye were off duty the following Saturday night, and they had, perhaps, a few more than were neces­sary.

“We got to do something for Dago Red,” said Duke. “I mean to show our apprecia­tion for all the good fixes, bead jiggling, and skillful Cross Action.”

“There’s no doubt about it,” replied Hawkeye. “Did you have anything in mind?”

“Ain’t nothing jelled exactly, but it’s gotta be something impressive.”

“How about a human sacrifice?”

“Hawkeye,” said the Duke, “y’all are purely a genius. Let’s get Shaking Sammy.”

“A wise choice,” replied the Hawk. “You get a jeep, and I’ll round up Trapper John.”

Within minutes they were streaking through the darkness down the road toward the engineer outfit where Shaking Sammy made his home. Sammy was taken in his sleep, bound, gagged and tossed into the back of the jeep.

At six o’clock on Sunday morning, as Dago Red appeared at the chaplain’s tent to conduct early Mass, a frightening sight confronted him. He saw a cross. Lashed to it was his Protestant colleague, Shaking Sammy. Surrounding him on the ground was a pile of hay, assorted flammable junk and a couple of old mattresses. Lying on the mattresses were Cap­tains Pierce, Forrest, and Mclntyre.

“What’s going on here?” asked Father John Patrick Mul­cahy.

“It’s something we gotta do,” answered Trapper John.

“You guys are drunk!” the Father bellowed.

“We had a drink or two,” the Duke said.

“Break this up before you get in trouble,” the Father said, and then he saw the fifth ’in Duke’s hand. “Give me that bottle, Duke.”

“This ain’t no bottle, Red,” said Duke, showing him the rag stuffed in the neck of the bottle. “I’m chairman of the Fiery Cross Committee, and this here’s a Molotov cocktail.”

“This is in your honor, Red,” said Hawkeye. “Step back and enjoy it. The time has come.”

He lifted a gasoline can and poured the contention the debris surrounding Shaking Sammy and some on Sammy himself. By now a crowd had gathered, sleepy, perplexed, but beginning to take interest.

“Dr. John Francis Xavier Mclntyre will say grace,” an­nounced Hawkeye Pierce, “or whatever the hell you call it.”

“I don’t care if it rains or freezes,” intoned Trapper John, “Sammy’ll be safe in the arms of Jesus.”

Although several people lunged at the Duke, he lit the wick of the Molotov cocktail and hurled it into Shaking Sammy’s funeral pyre. Sammy screamed, and the Swampmen took off for The Swamp. As the crowd surged forward the Molotov sizzled and went out.

Pouring three shots, Hawkeye said, “You know, the silly bastard really thought it was gasoline we poured on him. After that letter and God only knows how many others he’s written, I’m kinda sorry it wasn’t.”

“This is going to mean trouble,” said Trapper John. “No­body will put up with that kind of crap.”

“Not ordinarily,” said Hawkeye, “but we’ll get away with it.”

“Why?” asked Duke.

“Because at seven o’clock tonight three companies of Cana­dians are going for Hill 55. When they do, this place will be flooded with casualties. Personally, I don’t plan to work if I’m under arrest.”

“Who says?” said Trapper.

“The Canadian colonel told me last night.”

“Well, we’ll see,” said Trapper. “Barricade that door, and let’s go to bed.”

When they awakened at four o’clock in the afternoon, all was quiet. Duke peeked out the door and closed it quickly.

“What do the initials M.P. stand for?” he inquired.

“Shore Patrol,” answered Trapper John.

Hawkeye peeked through the rear of the tent and saw that the back was unguarded. He washed, combed his hair, put on clean clothes, a hat, captain’s bars and all the appurtenances of military costume he had hardly ever worn. He went under the rear tent flap, and his tentmates quickly tied things back in place. A few moments later, a smiling Captain Pierce approached the two M.P’s and returned their salutes.

“Colonel Blake says you can go back to your outfit, boys,” he told them. “It’s all blown over. You’d better get going before it’s too dark.”

The day was cold, and they took off gratefully. An hour later, after one leisurely martini apiece, the men of The Swamp strolled into the mess hall and sat down. The Colonel stared at them, spluttered, and pounded his fist on the table.