“I went ape,” said Hawkeye, nodding to Major Haskell. “Ask him.”
“I think you’d better come with me, Pierce,” said Major Haskell.
Trapper joined in. “Henry doesn’t believe you, Hawk. Say something in schizophrenic.”
“My father was the keeper of the Eddy stone light. He slept with a mermaid one fine night. Out of that union there came three—a porpoise and a porgy, and the other was me,” replied Hawkeye.
“See what we mean?” said Duke.
Colonel Blake turned to Major Haskell. “I’ll be responsible for him. Believe me, you’ve been had. Consider yourself lucky. I’ve been putting up with this kind of crap for months. You’re only had a couple of hours of it.”
Hawkeye summoned Mrs. Lee and whispered in her ear. Mrs. Lee asked to see the Colonel in private and led him upstairs to a certain room as Hawkeye ordered drinks for all and spoke to Major Haskelclass="underline" “I hate to disappoint you, Dad, but I’m not quite as foolish as I led you to believe. I’m going back to the MASH with the rest of them as soon as Henry has enjoyed the Fastest Ride in the Far East Command. Have a drink with me, and let there be no moaning at the bar ere we leave Mrs. Lee.”
“OK,” said Haskell, “but I still don’t think you’re normal.”
“I ain’t. Normal people go crazy in this place.”
While they were all on their second round of drinks, Colonel Blake returned.
“Well?” said Trapper John.
“’Beware the Jabberwock, my son!’” said Colonel Blake, addressing Major Haskell, and then: “’The jaws that bite, the claws that catch! Beware the Jubjub bird and shun the frumious Bandersnatch!’”
“Major,” Hawkeye said to Haskell, “this looks like something right down your alley.”
“Yeah, Major,” the Duke said, “y’all been educated to handle this kinda thing, and we gotta get out of here.”
12
With the end of summer, the baseball that the Swampmen had tossed and batted around occasionally to get some exercise and kill some time, took on air and a new shape. It became a football and an object of pursuit as, in their idle moments, they passed and kicked it back and forth and ran one another from one end of the ball field to the other to cries of: “How to go!”—“Nice grab!”—“Hawk, this time I’ll fake to the Duke and you fake the block on the tackle and I’ll hit you with it over the middle.”—“Way to go!”—“Way to throw! Who ever heard of Sammy Baugh?”
“You know what we ought to do?” Hawkeye said, as they came puffing back into The Swamp one afternoon.
“Have a drink,” the Duke said.
“No,” Hawkeye said. “We oughta get us up a football team.”
“And play who?” Duke said.
“The Chicago Bears,” Trapper said. “It’d be a way to get home.”
“No, thanks,” Duke said. “I’d rather get killed over here.”
“Listen, you guys,” Hawkeye said. “I’m serious. We’re all starting to get stirry again. We need something to do. There’s that big guy named Vollmer over in Supply played center for Nebraska. Jeeter was a second string halfback at Oklahoma …”
“God help us,” Trapper said.
“There’s Pete Rizzo.”
“He was a Three-I infielder,” Duke said.
“But he played football in high school.”
“But who do we play?” Duke said.
“Hot-Lips Houlihan’s Green Bay Pachyderms,” Trapper Said.
“I want Knocko McCarthy on our side,” the Duke said.
“Now, wait a minute,” Hawkeye said. “I’m serious. They’ve got some kind of a league over here. The 325th Evac in Yong-Dong-Po claim they’re champions because last year they beat two other teams. I know where we can get a real ringer, and if we can beat them we can clean up on some bets.”
“You’re nuts,” Trapper said.
“Yeah,” the Duke said, “and who’s the ringer?”
“You ever hear of Oliver Wendell Jones?” asked Hawkeye.
“No,” Trapper answered.
“Sounds like a nigra,” said Duke.
“Never mind the racial prejudice. You ever hear of Spearchucker Jones?”
“Yeah,” Trapper said.
“Maybe the best fullback in pro ball since Nagurski,” Hawkeye said.
“Okay,” Trapper said, “but what’s he got to do with us?”
“You haven’t read much about him lately, have you?” Hawkeye said.
“Probably just a flash,” Duke said.
“Flash hell,” Hawkeye said. “You want to know why you haven’t heard about him?”
“Yeah,” Duke said. “Tell us.”
“No, don’t tell us,” Trapper said. “We’d like to spend all our spare time guessing.”
“You haven’t heard of Spearchucker Jones lately,” Hawk-eye said, “because his real name is Dr. Oliver Wendell Jones, and he’s the neurosurgeon at the 72nd Evacuation Hospital in Taegu.”
“Damn,” Trapper said.
“Yeah,” Duke said.
“But how come,” Trapper, mixing the drinks now, wanted to know, “you’re such an expert on all this?”
“Because,” Hawkeye said, “when I was in Taegu before they dragged me kicking and screaming up here I roomed with Spearchucker. He went to some jerkwater colored college, but he did well enough to get into med school. He had played football in college, but no one had ever seen him. When he got out of med school he got married, and he wanted to take a residency. He needed some dough so he started playing semi-pro ball on weekends around New Jersey. Somebody scouted him and the Philadelphia Eagles signed him. He was great even though he couldn’t work at it full time. He kept it a secret about being a doctor, but it would have leaked out fast if he hadn’t been drafted just as he was getting a reputation.”
“And you’re the only one over here who knows this?” Trapper said.
“A few of the colored boys know who he is, but they won’t talk because he’s asked them not to.”
“Good,” Trapper said. “You really think we can get him?”
“Sure,” Hawkeye said.
“Now, wait a minute,” Duke said. “I know how you Yankees think. Y’all wanta get this nigra up here to live in The Swamp. Right?”
“Right,” Hawkeye said.
“OK,” Duke said. “If y’all can live with him, so can I. I’m washed up at home anyway, after living with two Yankees.”
“So how do we get him?” Trapper said.
“Easy,” Hawkeye said. “We tell Henry we can’t exist any longer without a neurosurgeon. If he doesn’t go for that we tell him the truth. There’s a little of the opportunist in Henry, too.”
“Okay,” Trapper agreed. “Let’s make our run at him right now.”
“But is this nigra in shape?” Duke wanted to know.
“This big bastard has to be a long way out of shape before anybody around here will stop him,” Hawkeye assured him. “He’s also a helluva guy.”
Five minutes later Colonel Henry Blake, on his hands and knees on his tent floor, rummaging through his foot locker for some personal papers, was interrupted by the Swampmen who entered without knocking.
“Oops!” Trapper said, as Henry looked up. “Wrong address. This must be some kind of Shinto shrine.”
“Looks like it,” Hawkeye said. “Pardon us, oh Holy Man.”
“Knock it off,” Henry said, getting up. “What do you bastards want now?”
“A drink,” Trapper said.
“You’ve got drinks where you live,” Henry said, eyeing them. “What else do you want?”
“Here,” Trapper said, handing Henry a Scotch, while Hawkeye and Duke helped themselves. “Relax.”
“Henry,” Hawkeye said, “you’re not the only one caught up in this religious revival. We just had a revelation, too.”
“What is this?” Henry started to say. “What … ?”
“Henry,” Trapper said, “it just came to us. We gotta get us a neurosurgeon.”
“Right,” Duke said.
“You’re out of your minds,” Henry said.
“After all we’ve done for the Army,” Trapper said, “is that too much to ask?”