The next thing Colonel Blake did was write Special Services in Tokyo and arrange for the use of two dozen football uniforms, helmets, shoes and pads, all to be airlifted as soon as possible. Then he dictated a notice, calling for candidates to report at two o’clock the next afternoon, and copies were posted in the messhall, the latrines, the showers and in the Painless Polish Poker and Dental Clinic. After that he showed up at The Swamp.
“Now,” he said, after he had finished his report, “when do we start getting our dough down?”
“Why don’t we wait a while, Coach,” Trapper John suggested, “until we see what we’ve got for talent?”
“It doesn’t matter what we’ve got,” Henry responded. “That Hammond doesn’t know anything about football.”
“But if we seem too eager, Coach,” Hawkeye said, “we may tip our hand.”
“I guess you’re right,” Henry agreed.
The following afternoon, at the appointed hour, fifteen candidates appeared on the ball field. The equipment would not arrive for several days, so Henry, a whistle suspended from a cord around his neck, and as previously advised by his neurosurgeon, ran the rag-tag agglomeration twice around the perimeter of the field and then put them through some calisthenics. After that he just let them fool around, kicking and passing the three available footballs, while he and the Swampmen sized them up.
“Well,” Henry said, at cocktail hour that afternoon in The Swamp, “what do you think?”
“Can we still get out of the game?” the Duke said.
“Yeah,” Hawkeye said. “Whose idea was this anyway?”
“Yours, dammit,” Trapper said.
“God, they looked awful,” Hawkeye said.
“They’ll look fine,” Henry said, “once the uniforms get here.”
“Never,” the Duke said.
“Listen,” Spearchucker said. “The coach is right. I don’t mean particularly about the uniforms, but no team ever looks good the first few days. I noticed a few boys out there who have played the game.”
“Besides,” Henry said, “what does that Hammond know about football? It’s like having another man on our side.”
“The first thing we’ve got to do,” Spearchucker said, “is decide on an offense.”
“That’s right,” Henry said. “That’s the first thing we’ve got to do. What’ll it be? The Notre Dame Box?”
Trapper had been a T quarterback at Dartmouth, and Duke had run out of the T as a fullback at Georgia. Androscoggin, where Hawkeye had played end, had still used the single wing, but Spearchucker had played in the T in college and, of course, with the pros. Hawkeye was outvoted, 3 to 1, with Henry abstaining but agreeing.
“Now we’ve got to think up some plays,” Henry said. “Why don’t you fellas handle that while I look after some of the other details?”
Spearchucker diagrammed six basic running plays and four stock pass plays, and that evening presented them to Henry, with explanations. Henry studied these, established a training table at one end of the mess hall and ordered his athletes to cut down on the consumption of liquor and cigarettes. The Swampmen settled for two drinks before dinner and none after, and reduced their inhalation of nicotine and tobacco tars by one half.
For the next days, Henry, with surreptitious suggestions from Spearchucker, had the squad first walk through and then run through the plays. When the uniforms arrived they turned out, to the dismay of the Duke, who had worn the red for Georgia, to consist of cardinal jerseys, white helmets and white pants. As the personnel sorted through the equipment and found sizes that approximated their own, Henry fretted. He could hardly wait to see them suited up.
“Great! Great!” Henry exulted, as they lined up in front of him on the field. “You men look great!”
“We look like a lotta goddamn cherry parfaits,” Trapper said.
“Great!” Henry went on. “Wait’ll that Hammond sees you. He’s in for the surprise of his life.”
“It’ll be the last surprise he’ll ever have,” the Duke said. “He’ll die laughin’.”
Things were not as desperate, however, as the Swampmen seemed to believe. To the practiced eye of their newest member, in fact, it was apparent that his colleagues possessed at least some of the skills needed to play the game. Trapper John, after he took the snap from center, hustled back and stood poised to throw, looked like a scarecrow, but he had a whip for an arm and began to regain his control. Hawkeye, when he went down for passes, exhibited good moves and good hands. The Duke had the short, powerful stride a fullback needs, ran hard, blocked well and, during the few semi-scrimmages, showed himself to be imbued with an abundance of competitive fire. Sergeant Pete Rizzo, the ex-Three I League infielder, was a natural athlete and a halfback. Of the others, the sergeant from Supply named Vollmer, who had played center for Nebraska, was the best. Ugly John made a guard of sorts and Captain Walter Koskiusko Waldowski, the Painless Pole, a survivor of high school and sandlot football in Hamtramck, was big enough, strong enough and angry enough to be a tackle. The rest of the line was filled out by enlisted men, with the exception of one of the end spots to which, over the objections of Trapper John, Dr. R. C. (Jeeter) Carroll was assigned.
The Spearchucker, of course, was kept under cover, except to jog around and catch a few passes. When anyone was watching he dropped them. No one guessed his identity, so scouts from the Evac Hospital could report to General Hammond only that the big colored boy was a clown, that whatever the Swampmen might have been once and were trying to be again, they had partaken of far too much whiskey and tobacco to go more than a quarter. Moreover, there were only four substitutes.
Hawkeye scouted the 325th. He went down one afternoon and tried to look like he was bound on various errands between the Quonsets that surrounded the athletic field, while he eyed the opposition.
“They got nothing,” he reported on his return. “Three boys in the backfield looked like they played some college ball, but they probably aren’t any better than Trapper, the Duke and me. They got a lousy passer, but their line is heavier than ours, and they got us in depth. I think that without the Spearchucker we could play them about even. With the Spearchucker they can’t touch us.”
“Good,” Trapper said. “Then I suggest we do this: We hide the Spearchucker until the second half, and we hold back half our bets. We go into the half maybe ten points or two touchdowns behind, and then we bet the rest of our bundle at real odds.”
“Great!” Henry said. “Everybody get his dough up!”
By the time everyone had kicked in—doctors, nurses, lab technicians, corpsmen, Supply and mess hall personnel— Henry had $6,000. The next morning—five days before the game—he called General Hammond, and when he came off the phone and reported to The Swamp it was apparent that he was disturbed.
“What happened?” Trapper asked. “Couldn’t you get the dough down?”
“Yeah,” Henry said. “I got $3,000 down.”
“No odds?” Duke asked.
“Yeah,” Henry said. “He gave me 2 to 1. He snapped it up.”
“Oh-oh,” Trapper John said. “I think I smell something.” “Me, too,” Henry said. “That Hammond is tighter than a bull’s ass in fly time. Whatever he’s trying to pull, I don’t like it.”
“Tell you what we’d better do,” Hawkeye said. “When I scouted those clowns they didn’t look any better than we do but with them just as anxious to get their money down as we are, maybe I missed something. Spearchucker better go down tomorrow and nose around. He’ll know a ringer if he sees one.”