"MASH: A Novel About Three Army Doctors" - читать интересную книгу автора (Hooker Richard)

8

Trapper John McIntyre had grown up in a house adjacent to one of suburban Boston’s finest country clubs. His parents were members, and, at the age of seventeen, he was one of the better junior golfers in Massachusetts.

Golf had not played a prominent role in Hawkeye Pierce’s formative years. Ten miles from Crabapple Cove, however, there was a golf course patronized by the summer resident group. During periods when the pursuit of clams and lobsters was unprofitable, Hawkeye had found employ­ment as a caddy. From time to time he had played with the other caddies and, one year, became the caddy champion of the Wawenock Harbor Golf Club. This meant that he was the only one of ten kids who could break ninety.

In college Hawkeye’s obligation to various scholarships involved attention to other games, but during medical school, his internship and his residency he had played golf as often as possible. Joining a club had been out of the question, and even payment of green fees was economically unsound. Therefore he developed a technique which frequently allowed him the privilege of playing some public and a number of unostentatious private courses. He would walk confidently into a pro shop, smile, comment upon the nice condition of the course, explain that he was just passing through and that he was Joe, Dave or Jack Somebody, the pro from Dover. This resulted, about eight times out of ten, in an invitation to play for free. If forced into conversation, he became the pro from Dover, New Hampshire, Massachusetts, New Jersey, England, Ohio, Delaware, Tennessee, or Dover-Foxcroft, Maine, whichever seemed safest.

There was adequate room to hit golf balls at the Double Natural, and with the arrival of spring Trapper and Hawkeye had commissioned the chopper pilots to bring clubs and balls from Japan. Then they had established a practice range of sorts in the field behind the officers’ latrine. The Korean houseboys were excellent ball shaggers, so the golfing Swamp-men spent much of their free time hitting wood and iron shots. They began to suspect that if they ever got on a real course they’d burn it up, at least from tee to green, but that possibility seemed as remote as their chances of winning the Nobel prize for medicine.

The day after The Second Coming of Trapper John, however, a young Army private, engaged in training maneu­vers near Kokura, Japan, had, when a defective grenade exploded, been struck in the chest by a fragment. X-rays revealed blood in the right pleural cavity, which contains the lung, the possible presence of blood within the pericardium, which surrounds the heart, and a metallic foreign body which seemed, to the Kokura doctors in attendance, to be within the heart itself.

Two factors complicated the case: (1) there was no chest surgeon in the area and (2) the soldier’s father was a member of Congress. Had it not been for the second complication, the patient would have been sent to the Tokyo Army Hospital where the problem could have been handled promptly and capably.

When informed immediately of his son’s injury, however, the Congressman consulted medical friends and was referred to a widely known Boston surgeon whose advice in this mat­ter would be the best available. The Boston surgeon told the Congressman that, regardless of what the Army had to say, the man to take care of his son was Dr. John F. X. Mclntyre, now stationed at the 4077th MASH somewhere in Korea. Congressmen make things move. Within hours a jet was flying out of Kokura and then a chopper was whirling out of Seoul, bearing X-rays, a summary of the case, and orders for Captain Mclntyre and anyone else he needed to get to Kokura in a hurry.

Unaware of all this excitement, Trapper John and Hawkeye were hitting a few on the driving range when the chopper from Seoul arrived. They first heard, then saw, it approach­ing, but as they were off duty and it was coming from the south, anyway, they ignored it. Trapper, still taken with his new image, had not gotten around to shaving his beard or having his hair cut, and he was bending over and teeing up a ball when the pilot, directed to them, walked up. “Captain Mclntyre?” the pilot said.

“What?” Trapper John said, straightening up and turning to face his visitor.

“God!” the pilot said, stunned by his first look at the man whose importance had set a whole chain of command from generals down to clerk-typists into action.

“His son,” Hawkeye said. “Would you like to buy an autographed picture for … ?”

“You’re Captain Mclntyre?” the pilot said. “That’s what the Army calls me,” Trapper said. “Take off your shirt, stick out your tongue and tell me about the pain.”

Completely bewildered now, the pilot silently handed over the white envelope containing orders and the explanatory letter from General Hamilton Hartington Hammond and with it the large brown manila envelope containing the X-rays of the chest of the Congressman’s son. Trapper read the first and handed them over to Hawkeye and then, as Trapper held the X-rays up to the sunlight, the two looked at them.

“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.

“Stop, right where you are!” she ordered.

“Don’t get mad, m’am,” Hawkeye said. “All we want is our starting time.”

“Get out!” she screamed.

“Look, mother,” Trapper said. “I’m the pro from Dover. Me and my greenskeeper want to crack that kid’s chest and get out to the course. Find the gas-passer and tell him to premedicate the patient, and find this Major Adams so he can get his spiel over with. Also, while you’re at it, I need a can of beans and my greenskeeper here wants ham and eggs. It’s now eight o’clock. I want to work at nine. Hop to it!”

She did, much to her own surprise. Breakfast was served, followed immediately by Major Adams who, after his initial shock, adjusted to the situation when it developed that all three had a number of mutual friends in the medical dodge.

“I don’t know about the C.O., though,” Major Adams said, meaning the Commanding Officer.

“Who is he?” Hawkeye said.

“Colonel Ruxton P. Merrill. Red-neck R.A. all the way.”

“Don’t worry about him,” Trapper said. “We’ll handle him.”

At nine o’clock the operation started. At nine-oh-three Colonel Merrill, having heard about the unusual invasion of his premises, stormed into the operating room. He was with­out gown, cap or mask, so Hawkeye, deploring the break in the antiseptic techniques prescribed for OR’s, turned to the circulating nurse and ordered: “Get that dirty old man out of this operating room!”

“I’m Colonel Merrill!” yelled Colonel Merrill.

Hawkeye turned and impaled him on an icy stare. “Beat it, Pop. If this chest gets infected, I’ll tell the Congressman on you.”

After that there was no further excitement, and the oper­ation, as the Swampmen had surmised, turned out to be routine. Within forty-five minutes the definitive work was done, and only the chest closure remained.

When the operation had started, the anesthesiologist of the 25th Station Hospital had been so busy getting the patient asleep in order to meet the deadline imposed by the pros from Dover that he had not been introduced. Furthermore, he had not seen them without their masks—nor had they seen him— but when he had a chance to settle down and relax, the shell fragment and the blood having been removed to the percepti­ble betterment of the patient’s condition, he wrote at the top of his anesthesia record the name “Hawkeye Pierce” in the space labeled “First Assistant.” He wrote it with assurance and with pleasure.

The anesthesiologist was Captain Ezekiel Bradbury (Me Lay) Marston, V, of Spruce Harbor, Maine. In Spruce Harbor, Maine, the name Marston is synonymous with ro­mantic visions of the past—specifically clipper ships—and money. The first to bear the name captained a clipper, bought it and built three more. The second commanded the flagship of the fleet and bought four more. Number III was skipper of the Spruce Harbor, which went down with all hands off Hatteras some three years after number IV had been born in its Captain’s cabin forty miles south of Cape Horn. Number V was Me Lay Marston, the only swain in Spruce Harbor High who could say, “Me lay, you lay?” and parlay such a simple, unimaginative approach into significant success with the young females of the area.

Hawkeye Pierce thought of it first, and last, but Me Lay Marston had also gone around for a while with the valedicto­rian of the Class of ’41 at Port Waldo High School. In November, 1941, after Spruce Harbor beat Port Waldo 38-0, Pierce and Marston engaged in a fist fight which neither won decisively. In subsequent years they belonged to the same fraternity at Androscoggin College, played on the same football team, attended the same medical school and, during internship, they shared the same room. Me Lay was an usher when Hawkeye Pierce married the valedictorian, and Hawk-eye provided a similar service when Me Lay did the same for the Broad from Eagle Head, whom Hawkeye had also dated for a while.

During his adolescence and earliest manhood, Me Lay had been proud of his name. Now, circumstances having forced him to correct his behavior, he was merely resigned to it. By 1952, however, he had not been addressed as Me Lay for three years. He had not seen Hawkeye Pierce for three years.

So on a bright, warm day in Kokura the fifth in a series of Captain Marstons looked up from his chart and asked, “May I have the surgeon’s name, please?”

Hawkeye Pierce answered, “He’s the pro from Dover and I’m the Ghost of Smoky Joe.”

“Save that crap for someone else, you stupid clamdigger,” answered Captain Marston.

The surgeons stopped. The first assistant leaned over and looked at the anesthesia chart and saw his name. He knew the writing and recognized the writer. He took it in his stride. “Me Lay, I’d like you to meet Trapper John.”

“The real Trapper John? Your cousin who threw you the pass and went on to greater fame on the Boston amp; Maine?”

“The one and only,” affirmed Hawkeye.

“Trapper, you are in bad company,” said Me Lay, “but I’ll be happy to shake your hand if you’ll hurry up and get that chest closed. You still workin’ the trains?”

“Planes mostly. May take a crack at rickshas. You still employing the direct approach?”

“No, not since I married the Broad from Eagle Head. I’ve been out of action now for four years.”

“Then what the hell do you do around here?” asked Hawkeye. “It doesn’t look like you’re very busy. You mean to tell us you don’t chase the local scrunch?”

“I don’t seem to be interested in it from that angle. The first month I was here all I did was wind my watch and evacuate my bladder. Now I’m taking a course in Whore­house Administration.”

“Under the auspices of the Army’s Career Management Plan?” inquired Trapper. “No, all on my own.”

“It was Yankee drive and ingenuity that built the Marston fortune,” Hawkeye pointed out. “I’m proud of you, Me Lay. Where are you taking the course?”

“At Dr. Yamamoto’s Finest Kind Pediatric Hospital and Whorehouse,” Captain Marston informed him.

“Cut the crap, Me Lay. This sounds like too much even for you.”

“I’m serious. This guy practices pediatrics, has a little hospital and runs a whorehouse, all in the same building.”

“What are you? A pimp?”

“No. I keep the books, inspect the girls and take care of some of the kids in the hospital. Occasionally I tend bar and act as bouncer. A guy needs well rounded training to embark on a career such as this.”

The chest got closed, despite the conversation. In the dressing room the Swampmen got back into their Papa-San suits and continued the reunion with Me Lay Marston.

“What’s with this Colonel Merrill?” asked Trapper.

“Red-neck R.A. all the way,” Captain Marston said. “He’ll give you a bad time if you let him.”

A messenger entered and stated that Captains Pierce and Mclntyre were to report to the colonel’s office immediately. Me Lay gave them the address of the FKPHamp;W and sug­gested that they meet him there at seven that evening for dinner and whatnot.

“OK,” Hawkeye said, and then he turned to the messenger waiting to guide them to the colonel’s office. “Got any caddy carts?”

“What?” the messenger said.

Sighing, they slung their clubs over their shoulders and followed the guide. The colonel was temporarily occupied elsewhere, so rather than just sit there during his absence and read his mail, the Swampmen decided to practice putting on his carpet.

“You men are under arrest,” the colonel boomed, when he stormed onto the scene.

“Quiet!” Trapper said. “Can’t you see I’m putting?”

“Why, you …”

“Let’s get down to bare facts, Colonel,” Hawkeye said. “Probably even you know this case didn’t demand our pres­ence. Be that as it may, your boys blew it. We bailed it out, and a Congressman is very much interested. We figure this kid needs about five days of postop care from us, and we also figure to play in the Kokura Open. If that ain’t okay with you, we’ll get on the horn to a few Congressmen.”

“Or one, anyway,” Trapper John said.

It was mean but not too bold, and they knew it would work. They took their clubs and walked out. At the front door of the hospital they found the car which had brought them from the airport. It was the colonel’s car, and the sergeant was lounging nearby, awaiting the colonel. Trapper John and Hawkeye got into the front seat.

“Hey, wait a minute,” the sergeant said.

“The colonel is lending us his car,” Hawkeye informed the Sergeant. “We’ll give it back after the Open.”

“That’s right,” Trapper said. “He wants you to go in now, and write some letters for the Congressman’s son.”

“Goddam army,” the sergeant said.

They drove to the golf course and parked, unloaded their clubs and walked into the pro shop. Although most of the golfers were members of the American and British armed forces, the pro was Japanese and he greeted the appearance of two Korean Papa-Sans with evident hostility.

“How do we qualify for the Open?” asked Hawkeye.

“There twenty-five dollar entry fee,” the pro informed him, eyeing him coldly.

“But I’m the pro from Dover, and this here is my assis­tant,” announced Hawkeye, handing the Japanese his Maine State Golf Association handicap card.

“Ah, so,” the Japanese hissed.

“We’re just in from visiting relatives in Korea,” Trapper informed him. “Our clothes got burned up. We can’t get any new ones until we win some dough in your tournament.”

“Ah, so,” hissed the pro, much relieved, and he promptly supplied them with golf shoes and two female caddies.

With the wide-eyed girls carrying the clubs, they trekked to the first tee. There, waiting to tee off, they were taking a few practice swings, to the amusement of all in their vicinity, when they observed four British officers, one of them a colonel, approaching. In a matter of minutes two things became evident. Judged by his own practice swings the British colonel was not on leave from his country’s Curtis Cup team, and judged by the disdain evident on his face when he eyed the Swampmen he was not in favor of any Papa-Sans sharing the golf course with him.

“Damn this get-up,” Hawkeye was saying to Trapper. “It doesn’t do much for my backswing.”

“Good,” Trapper said, increasing the awkwardness of his own efforts.

“What do you mean, good?” Hawkeye said.

“Keep your voice down,” Trapper said, “because I think we’re about to hook a live one.”

“See here, you two!” the British colonel bleated, walking up to them at that moment. “I don’t know who you think you are, but I think …”

“Think again,” Trapper said.

“I want you to know I’m Colonel Cornwall …”

“Cornwallis?” Hawkeye said. “I thought we fixed your wagon at Yorktown.”

“I said Cornwall.”

“Lovely there in the spring,” Trapper said. “Rhododendrons and all that.”

“Now see here!” the colonel said, red in the face now. “I don’t know what you’re doing here, but rather than make an issue of it, if you’ll just step aside and allow us to tee off …”

“Look, Corny,” Hawkeye said. “You just calm down, or well tee off on you.”

“I’ll tell you what we’ll do, Colonel,” Trapper said. “You look like a sporting chap, so to settle this little difficulty in a sporting way, we’ll both play you a ten pound Nassau.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“You heard him,” Hawkeye said.

“Excuse me a moment,” the colonel said, and he turned and rejoined his companions to get their opinion of the proposition.

“What do you think?” Hawkeye said.

“We got him,” Trapper said, manufacturing as awkward a swing as he could without making it too obvious.

“Here he comes now,” Hawkeye said.

“All right,” the colonel said. “You’re on, and we’ll be watching every shot you hit.”

The Swampmen hit drives designed to get the ball in play, with no attempt at distance, and they were down the middle about 225 yards. Trapper reached the green in two and got his par four. Hawkeye hit a nice five-iron but misjudged the distance and was long, hit a wedge back but missed a five-footer and took a bogey.

The second hole was a short par three that gave them no

trouble. Both bogied three and four, however, as it became clear that driving range experience at the Double Natural had sharpened their hitting ability but done little for their judg­ment of distance or their putting. Nevertheless, the girl cad­dies were quite impressed, particularly by Trapper John, whose every move they watched with rapt fascination.

Approaching the seventh, a par five, they were both three over par, and as the day was getting warmer, Trapper took off the long, flowing top of his Papa-San suit and his hat. This left him with long hair, a beard, a bare torso, and long, flowing trousers, and seemed to move him up another notch in the eyes of the girls.

On the seventh, he was down the middle a good 260, with Hawkeye not far behind him. Hawkeye’s second shot wasn’t much, however, and he had a full five-iron left. Then Trapper cranked out an awesome two-wood with a slight tail-end hook which hit the hard fairway, bounced over a trap, and came to rest within two feet of the pin.

“Jesus!” exclaimed Hawkeye. The paddies, hearing this, looked knowingly at each other, and it dawned on the Swampmen what their mounting excitement was all about. Happily, Hawkeye had several of the autographed pictures in his wallet and, with a grand gesture, he bestowed complimen­tary copies upon the girls who, their suspicions confirmed, were overcome. Hawkeye had to lead them aside to calm them down, explaining as best he could that the Master’s game was a little rusty and that He wanted to get in at least eighteen holes before making His comeback generally known.

“These bimboes,” he explained to Trapper, approaching the eighth tee, “are on a real Christian kick, so don’t disappoint them.”

Trapper grabbed his driver, winced and looked at his hands. “Goddam nail holes,” he complained.

The rest of the way around, Trapper played even par on the not too difficult and not too long course to finish with a seventy-three. Hawkeye couldn’t figure the greens and found himself needing a ten-footer on the eighteenth for a seventy-eight Trapper blessed the ball and the cup before Hawkeye essayed the putt, which went in like it had eyes. The caddies, bowing their way out, departed to spread the word.

“Now,” Trapper said, “let’s prepare to lighten Corny’s load a little. If that hacker breaks eighty I’ll take it to the World Court.”

The Swampmen, with Trapper back in full uniform, found the bar. They were on their second Scotch when they noticed the Japanese faces peeking through the window and then Colonel Cornwall and his three colleagues pushing their way through the crowd at the door.

“I say now,” the colonel was saying, brushing himself off. “Does anyone know what this is all about?”

“Ah, yes,” Hawkeye said, motioning toward Trapper, who was bowing toward the faces at the window and door. “Mighty High Religious Personage is greeting followers.”

“Of course, of course,” the colonel was saying now, starting to rock with laughter. “I say! That’s rather droll, isn’t it?”

“What’s that, sir?” one of his colleagues asked.

“Chap here,” he said, nodding toward Trapper. “Why, the chap here’s portraying John the Baptist!”

“Colonel,” Hawkeye said, handing him one of the auto­graphed pictures, “you can’t tell the players without a score-card.”

“Oh, I say!” the colonel was roaring now. “That is good, isn’t it? I do get it now. Say, you chaps, do have a drink on me. Oh, I say!”

The Swampmen had several drinks on him and, when they got around to comparing cards, the colonel, who had shot an eighty-two, paid up willingly.

“Corny,” Hawkeye heard himself saying, “how about you and these other gentlemen joining us for dinner at Dr. Yama­moto’s Finest Kind Pediatric Hospital and Whorehouse?”

“Oh, I say!” the colonel said. “That sounds like sport!”

Shortly after 7:00 p.m., Me Lay Marston, idly sipping a martini in the bar of the FKPHamp;W, heard a commotion outside. Going to the door, he found Hawkeye, the British contingent and then Trapper John bringing up the rear. Trapper was trying to disentangle himself from the converts and the just curious.

“Me Lay,” Trapper said, when he got inside, “I’ve had enough of this. Get me a pair of scissors and a razor.”

In time Trapper John was shaved, shorn and showered, and dinner was solicitously served by the young ladies. While the visitors sipped after-dinner cordials, Me Lay excused himself to make his rounds at the adjoining hospital. In a few minutes he returned with a worried look.

“What had you guys planned for tonight?” he asked.

“Well,” answered Trapper, “we thought we’d get some …”

“How about looking at a kid for me?”

“Look, Me Lay,” Hawkeye said, “you’re supposed to be the intern in this …”

“Shut up, and come look at this kid.”

“What’s the story?” asked Trapper.

“Well, one of our girls got careless, and two days ago she gave birth to an eight pound Japanese-American male.”

“What’s wrong with him?”

“Every time we feed him, it either comes right back up or he coughs and turns blue and has a helluva time.”

“We don’t have to see him,” Trapper said. “Call that half-assed Army Hospital and tell them to be ready to put some lipiodal in this kid’s esophagus and take X-rays.”

“But it’s ten-thirty at night. We can’t get everybody out for a civilian. They won’t do it.”

“How much you wanna bet, Me Lay?” inquired Hawkeye Pierce. “Get on the horn and tell them the pros from Dover are on their way with a patient. Better tell the OR to crank itself up, because I got a feeling that you’re going to pass some gas while I help Trapper close a tracheo-esophageal fistula.”

“Oh, I say,” Colonel Cornwall wanted to know, “what’s that?”

“It’s a hole between the esophagus and the trachea, where it doesn’t belong,” Hawkeye explained.

“And you chaps can repair that?”

“Well,” said Me Lay. “We can try.”

At the 25th Station Hospital, the Officer of the Day received a call from Captain Marston saying that an emergen­cy was coming in for X-rays. Soon after, Hawkeye and Trapper, in Papa-San suits and followed by Me Lay carrying the baby, entered the X-ray department.

Captain Banks, the O.D., arrived and asked, “What’s this all about?”

“It’s all about this baby,” Hawkeye informed him. “We want to X-ray him and we want to do it right now, and we do not wish to be engaged in useless conversation by officious military types, of which you look like one to me.”

“But, we can’t …”

Hawkeye sat Captain Banks on fee edge of a desk and handed him the phone.

“Be nice, Captain. Call the X-ray technician. If you give us any kind of a bad time, me and Trapper John are going to clean your clock. We are frustrated lovers and quite danger­ous.”

Captain Banks called. While awaiting the technician, Trap­per and Me Lay placed a small catheter in the baby’s esophagus. A few minutes later, radio-opaque oil was injected through the catheter. It revealed the abnormal opening be­tween the esophagus and the trachea but no significant nar­rowing of the esophagus. This meant that anything the baby ate could go into his lungs but that, happily, once the opening was closed, the esophagus would be able to accommodate the passage of food. It required careful preparation, proper anes­thesia, early and competent surgery and good luck.

“Me Lay, let’s you and me get a needle into a vein,” Trapper said, and then, turning to Captain Banks, he said, “You there, in the shiny shoes, tell the lab to do a blood count and cross-match a pint. We won’t need that much, but it’s a term they’ll understand. Then tell the OR to get set up for a thoracotomy. We’re going to operate in about two hours. Hawkeye, you stick close to Alice, or whatever his name is, and see that he performs efficiently.”

The Officer of the Day had no choice but to perform efficiently. The nurses were routed out, not at all pleased at the prospect of operating a second time with the pros from Dover. There was, in fact, outright grumbling which Hawkeye Pierce brought to a rapid conclusion.

“Ladies,” he said, “we are sorry to get you out at this time of night. However, we stumbled upon this deal, and we can’t walk away from it, no matter whose rules are broken. This baby will die if we don’t fix him, so let’s all be nice and just think about the baby.”

Fortunately, nurses succumb to this kind of pitch. They gave up any show of resistance, particularly after they saw the baby, but Hawkeye caught Captain Banks calling Colonel Merrill.

“Now, Captain,” he chided him, “I may give you a few lumps, but first I must call the Finest Kind Pediatric Hospital and Whorehouse.”

So doing, he talked to Colonel Cornwall, explained their situation and made a few suggestions. Fifteen minutes later, as Colonel R. P. Merrill stormed into the hospital, he was met by four British officers who loaded him unceremoniously into their Land Rover and returned to the FKPHamp;W.

After Captain Banks had been stripped naked, and locked in a broom closet by the two Swampmen, the operation was finally started. Me Lay’s anesthesia was excellent, the nurses cooperated completely, and Trapper and Hawkeye indulged in none of the by-play that had marked their first local appear­ance. After an hour and a half of careful work, Trapper had closed the fistula. They shed their gowns and discussed the postoperative care.

“I think we better leave him here,” said Trapper. “You can’t take care of anything like this in that whorehouse hospital of yours, can you, Me Lay?”

“Not too well, but I don’t see how we can keep him here. Merrill will be all over us in the morning.”

“Leave the kid here,” Hawkeye said. “We’ll be in and out and can look after both him and the boy we did this morning. I know how to keep Merrill off our backs.”

At 3:00 a.m., back at the FKPHamp;W, they had a drink with the British officers who told them that Colonel Merrill was upstairs asleep, having been coaxed into having a drink and a sedative.

“But what about when he wakes up?” asked Me Lay.

“Send a naked broad into his room and take some pic­tures,” suggested Hawkeye.

“Oh, I say!” Colonel Cornwall said.

A few minutes later, Colonel Merrill began to stir and awaken as the girl joined him in bed. Witnesses to the scene filled the doorway while Trapper John leisurely shot a roll of film.

“I told you so! I told you so!” chanted Hawkeye. “He’s a dirty old man. A disgrace to the uniform.”

“The blighter should bloody well be cashiered from the service,” asserted Colonel Cornwall indignantly.

“I’d say that depends on his behavior from now on,” said Trapper John, pocketing the film.

The Swampmen were to tee off in the Kokura Open at ten o’clock the next morning. One of Me Lay’s assistants was instructed to obtain proper clothing, since they did not wish to wear Papa-San suits forever.

Awakening at 8:00 a.m., weary but determined to be ready for the tournament, they drank coffee, ate steak and eggs served in bed by the ladies of the house, and donned sky blue slacks and golf shirts.

On the way to the course, they visited their two patients. The baby was far from out of the woods, but the Congress­man’s son was doing well. Before leaving, they entered the colonel’s office.

“Where’s that dirty old man?” Hawkeye asked the secre­tary.

The colonel came out, but he didn’t roar.

“Colonel,” said Hawkeye, “we’ve qualified for the Kokura Open so we’re going to the course. We expect your people to watch that baby we operated on last night like he was the Congressman’s grandson, which for all we know he may be. We expect to be notified of any change for the worse, and if we find anything wrong when we come back this afternoon, we’ll burn down the hospital.”

The Colonel believed them.

They arrived at the golf course at nine-thirty, practiced putting and chipping, took a few swings and, with their English confreres there to cheer them on, they pronounced themselves ready to go. They weren’t. The activities of the previous days, and nights, had taken too much out of them, and by the end of the third day, what with having to check repeatedly on the Congressman’s son and the baby, they were hopelessly mired back in the pack.

“I guess that does it,” Trapper said, as they sat in the bar at the club. “We might have a chance if three guys dropped dead and a half dozen others came down with echinococ­cosis.”

“What’s that?” Colonel Cornwall wanted to know.

“The liver gets so big you can’t get your club head back past it,” Hawkeye said, “so we’ve got no chance.”

“We’re proud of you anyway,” the colonel informed them. “You gave it a good go, you did. I must say, though, I shouldn’t give up surgery for the professional tour if I were you.”

“I guess we figured that out already,” Trapper said, “but what I can’t figure out is what we’re going to do about this baby we’re stuck with.”

“But you chaps have done all you can,” the colonel said.

“No, we haven’t,” Trapper said. “After the big deal we made saving his life, what do we do now? Leave him in a whorehouse?”

“Leave it to me,” Hawkeye said. “I think it’ll be safe now to take the kid back to Dr. Yamamoto’s Finest Kind Pediatric Hospital and Whorehouse.”

They went to the 25th Station Hospital, said good-bye to the Congressman’s son who was well on his way to recovery, and picked up their small patient. Riding the Land Rover back to the FKPHamp;W, Trapper had a thought.

“We oughta name the little bastard,” he said.

Hawkeye had considered this problem twenty-four hours earlier. He had even laid a little groundwork.

“I have named him,” he said.

“What is it?”

“I’m not sure how much I can con Me Lay Marston into,” Hawkeye said, “but the name is Ezekiel Bradbury Marston, VI.”

“Oh, I say,” Colonel Cornwall said.

“Obviously you are either nuts or you know something,” Trapper John said eventually. “Which is it?”

“I know something. I know that Me Lay and the Broad from Eagle Head have one daughter and that’s all the kids they’re ever going to have. I’ll save you the next question. Remember I was away for a while last night? I went to one of those overseas telephone places and called the Broad from Eagle Head, whom I’ve known longer than Me Lay has. To make a long story short, she agrees that a name like Ezekiel Bradbury Marston must not die!”

“Hawkeye, you are amazing,” admired the Colonel.

“For once, I gotta agree,” agreed Trapper.

At the FKPHamp;W, they placed Ezekiel Bradbury Marston, VI, in a laundry basket, left instructions for his care and returned to the bar where they found the unsuspecting parent, Me Lay Marston.

“What are we going to do with this kid, Me Lay?” asked Trapper.

“I don’t know.”

“Well, Jesus, Me Lay, you’re not much of a whorehouse administrator if you don’t have some ideas on the subject.”

“Good-looking kid,” said Hawkeye. “What’s his mother like?”

“A nice intelligent girl. She asked me this morning what we’d do with the baby. I’ve been looking into a few possibili­ties, but I’ll tell you right now there aren’t any good ones.”

“Too bad. The little chap’s half American,” said Colonel Cornwall. “Any way to get him to the States?”

“Only one way,” said Me Lay.

“What’s that?”

“Get somebody to adopt him.”

Hawkeye said, “Me Lay, why don’t you adopt him?”

Me Lay looked miserable. He lit a cigarette and sipped his drink.

“That idea’s been popping into my head ever since we operated on him,” he said, finally, “but how can I do it? Am I supposed to call up my wife and say I’m sending home a half-breed bastard from a Japanese whorehouse?”

“You don’t have to,” Trapper told him. “Hawkeye called your wife last night. The deal’s set. All you have to do is arrange the details.”

Hesitating only a moment, Me Lay got up, went to the hospital area, picked up the baby and brought him to the bar.

“What’s his name, Me Lay?” asked Trapper.

“Gentlemen, meet my son, Ezekiel Bradbury Marston, VI, of Spruce Harbor, Maine.”

Late that night a flyboy who’d been in Seoul earlier in the day brought word of increasing action on Old Baldy. The next morning the pros from Dover, having withdrawn from the tournament, but still clad in sky blue slacks and golf shirts, boarded a plane for Seoul.