“Hawkeye,” Captain Forrest said after a while. “Do y’all realize that this is amazing?”
“What’s amazing?”
“I mean, I come from Forrest City, Georgia, and y’all are a Yankee from that Horseapple …”
“Crabapple.”
“… Crabapple Cove in Maine, and we’ve got so much in common.”
“Duke,” Hawkeye said, holding up the bottle and noting that its contents were more than half depleted, “we haven’t got as much of this in common as we used to.”
“Then maybe we’d better push on,” the Duke said.
As they drove north, only the sound of the jeep breaking the silence, a cold rain started to fall, almost obscuring the jagged, nearly bare hills on either side of the valley. They came to Ouijongbu, a squalid shanty town with a muddy main street lined with tourist attractions, the most prominent of which, at the northern outskirts, was The Famous Curb Service Whorehouse.
The Famous Curb Service Whorehouse, advantageously placed as it was on the only major highway between Seoul and the front lines, had the reputation of being very good because all the truck drivers stopped there. It was unique for its methods of merchandising and outstanding for its contribution to the venereal disease problem faced by the U.S. Army Medical Corps. It consisted of a half dozen mud and thatch huts, prefaced by a sign reading: “Last Chance Before Peking” and surmounted by an American flag flying from its central edifice. Its beckoning personnel, clad in the most colorful ensembles available through the Sears Roebuck catalogue, lined the highway regardless of the weather, and many drivers who made frequent trips to the front and back fastidiously found their fulfillment in the backs of their trucks, rather than expose themselves to the dirty straw and soiled mattresses indoors.
“You need anything here?” asked Hawkeye, noting the Duke saluting and nodding as the jeep chugged through the waving, cooing colorama.
“No,” the Duke said. “I shopped in Seoul last night, but something else bothers me now.”
“You should know better, doctor,” Hawkeye said.
“No,” Duke said. “I’ve been wondering about this Colonel Blake.”
“Lieutenant Colonel Henry Braymore Blake,” Hawkeye said. “I looked him up. Regular Army type.”
“You need a drink?” Duke said.
Out of sight of the sirens now, Hawkeye pulled the jeep to the side of the road once more. By the time they had finished the bottle the cold, slanting rain was mixed with flat wet flakes of snow.
“Regular Army type,” the Duke kept repeating. “Like Meade and Sherman and Grant.”
“The way I see it, though, is this,” Hawkeye said, finally. “Most of these Regular Army types are insecure. If they weren’t, they’d take their chances out in the big free world. Their only security is based on the efficiency of their outfits.”
“Right,” the Duke said.
“This Blake must have a problem or he wouldn’t be sending for help. Maybe we’re that help.”
“Right,” the Duke said.
“So my idea,” Hawkeye said, “is that we work like hell when there’s work and try to outclass the other talent.”
“Right,” the Duke said.
“This,” Hawkeye said, “will give us enough leverage to write our own tickets the rest of the way.”
“Y’all know something, Hawkeye?” the Duke said. “You’re a good man.”
Just beyond a collection of tents identified as the Canadian Field Dressing Station, they came to a fork in the road. The road to the right led northeast toward the Punchbowl and Heartbreak Ridge; the road to the left took them due north toward Chorwon, Pork Chop Hill, Old Baldy and the 4077th MASH.
About four miles beyond the fork, a flooded stream had washed out a bridge, and a couple of M.P.’s waved them into a line with a dozen other military vehicles, including two tanks. They waited there for an hour, the line lengthening behind them until the line ahead began to move and Hawkeye guided the jeep down the muddy river bank and across the floorboard-deep stream.
As a result, darkness was settling on the valley when, opposite a sign that read “THIS IS WHERE IT IS— PARALLEL 38,” another, smaller marker reading “4077th MASH, WHERE I AM, HENRY BLAKE, LT. COL. M.C.” directed them to the left off the main road. Following directions, they were confronted, first, by four helicopters belonging to the 5th Air Rescue Squadron and then by several dozen tents of various shapes and sizes, forlornly distributed in the shape of a horseshoe.
“Well,” Hawkeye said, stopping the jeep, “there it is.”
“Damn,” Duke said.
The rain had changed to wet snow by now, and off the muddy road the ground was white. With the motor idling, they could hear the rumble of artillery.
“Thunder?” Duke said.
“Man-made,” Hawkeye said. “They welcome all newcomers this way.”
“What do we do now?” Duke said.
“Find the mess hall,” Hawkeye said. “It figures to be that thing over there.”
When they walked into the mess hall there were about a dozen others sitting at one of the long, rectangular tables. They chose an unoccupied table, sat down, and were served by a Korean boy wearing green fatigue pants and an off-white coat.
As they ate they knew they were being looked over. Finally one of the others got up and approached them. He was about five feet eight, a little overweight, a little red of face and eye, and balding. On the wings of his shirt collar were silver oak leaves, and he looked worried.
“I’m Colonel Blake,” he said, eyeing them. “You fellows just passing through?”
“No,” replied Hawkeye. “We’re assigned here.”
“You sure?” the Colonel asked.
“Y’all said you all needed two good boys,” Duke said, “and we’re what the Army sent.”
“Where you guys been all day? I expected you by noon.”
“We stopped at a gin mill,” the Duke told him.
“Let me see your orders.”
They got out their papers and handed them to the Colonel. They watched him while he checked the papers and then while he eyed the two of them again.
“Well, it figures,” Henry said finally. “You guys look like a pair of weirdos to me, but if you work well I’ll hold still for a lot and if you don’t it’s gonna be your asses.”
“You see?” Hawkeye said to Duke. “I told you.”
“You’re a good man,” Duke said.
“Colonel,” Hawkeye said, “have no fear. The Duke and Hawkeye are here.”
“You’ll know you’re here by morning,” Henry said. “You go to work at nine o’clock tonight, and I just got word that the gooks have bit Kelly Hill.”
“We’re ready,” Hawkeye said.
“Right,” Duke said.
“You’re living with Major Hobson,” Henry said. “O’Reilly?”
“Sir?” Radar O’Reilly said, already at the Colonel’s side, for he had received the message even before it had been sent.
“Don’t do that, O’Reilly,” Henry said. “You make me nervous.”
“Sir?”
“Take these officers …”
“To Major Hobson’s tent,” Radar said.
“Stop that, O’Reilly,” Henry said.
“Sir?”
“Oh, get out of here,” Henry said.
Thus it came about that it was Radar O’Reilly, who had been the first to know they were coming, who led Captains Pierce and Forrest to their new home. At the moment, Major Hobson was out, so Hawkeye and Duke each selected a sack and lay down. They were just dropping off to sleep when the door opened.
“Welcome, fellows,” a voice boomed, followed by a medium-sized major, who entered with a warm smile and offered a firm handshake.
Major Hobson was thirty-five years old. He had practiced a good deal of general medicine, a little surgery, and every Sunday he had preached in the Church of the Nazarene in a small midwestern town. The fortunes of war had given him a job for which he was unprepared, and associated him with people he could not comprehend.