Trapper threw it. Hawkeye caught it. When he caught it he lugged it to the enemy forty-nine. That was about as far as that drive went, and with fourth and five on the forty-four, Duke went back to punt.
“Don’t try for distance,” Hawkeye told him. “Kick it up there so we can get down and surround that sonofabitch.”
“Yeah,” Duke said, “if I can.”
He kicked it high and, as it came down, the halfback who had played a year of second-string with the Rams, waiting for it on his twenty, saw red jerseys closing in. He called for a fair catch.
“A hot dog,” Spearchucker said, on the sidelines. “A real hot dog.”
“A hot dog,” Hawkeye said to Duke as they lined up. “Spearchucker had him right.”
“Yeah,” Duke said. “Let’s try to take him, like the Chucker said.”
When the play evolved, it was also as Spearchucker had called it. The halfback who had played a year of second-string with the Rams went in motion from his left half position, took a pitch out, turned up through the line off tackle and tried to go wide. When he saw Hawkeye, untouched by blockers, closing in from the outside, he made his cut. He made that beautiful cross-over, the right leg thrust across in front of the left, and just at the instant when he looked like he was posing for the picture for the cover of the game program, poised as he was on the ball of his left foot, the other leg in the air and one arm out, he was hit. From one side he was hit at the knees by 200 pounds of hurtling former Androscoggin College end, and from the other he was hit high by 195 pounds of former Georgia fullback.
“Time!” one of the former Brown tackles was calling. “Time!”
It took quite some time. In about five minutes they got the halfback who had played a year of second-string with the Rams on his feet, and they assisted him to the sidelines and sat him down on the bench.
“How many fingers am I holding up?” General Hammond, on his knees in front of his offensive star and extending the digits of one hand, was asking. “Fifteen,” his star replied.
“Take him in,” the General said, sadly. “Try to get him ready for the second half.”
So they took him across the field and into the 325th Evac. As the Swampmen watched him go, Trapper John was the first to speak.
“That,” Trapper John said, “takes care of that. Scratch one hot dog.”
“Y’all think he’s hurt that bad?” the Duke asked.
“Hell, no,” Trapper said, “but we won’t see him again.”
“I suspect something,” Hawkeye said.
“Explain.”
“An old Dartmouth roomie of mine,” Trapper explained, “is attached to this cruddy outfit. I called him the other night, after Spearchucker outlined the plot, and told him to put in for Officer of the Day today.”
“I’m beginning to get it,” Hawkeye said.
“This morning,” Trapper went on, “I paid him a visit and cut him in for a piece of our bet. Right now Austin from Boston is going to place that hot dog under what is politely called heavy sedation, where he will dwell for the rest of the game and probably the rest of the day.”
“Trapper,” Hawkeye said, “you are a genius.”
“Y’all know something?” the Duke said. “I think we can beat these Yankees now.”
“Time!” the referee was screaming, between blasts on his whistle. “Do you people want to play football or talk all day?”
“If we have a choice,” Hawkeye said, as they started to line up, “we prefer to talk.”
“But you ain’t got a choice,” one of the tackles from the Browns said, “and you’ll get yours now.”
“What do y’all mean?” the Duke said. “It was clean.”
“Yeah,” Hawkeye said, “and you’ll have to catch us first.” On that drive the enemy was stopped on the seven, and had to settle for the field goal that made it 10-0. For their part, the Red Raiders devoted most of their offensive efforts to pulling the corks of the two tackles, running them from one side of the field to the other. Midway in the second quarter they managed a score after Ugly John had fallen on a fumble on the enemy nineteen. Two plays later Hawkeye caught a wobbling pass lofted by a still fleeing Trapper John and fell into the end zone. Just before the end of the half the home forces rammed the ball over once more, so the score was 17-7 when both sides retired for rest and resuscitation.
“Very good, gentlemen,” Spearchucker, who had been pacing the sideline helmeted and wrapped in a khaki blanket, told them as they filed in. “Very good, indeed.”
“Yeah,” Trapper John said, slumping to the floor, “but I gotta have a …”
“… beer, sir?” said Radar O’Reilly, who had been serving during the time-outs as water boy.
“Right,” Trapper said, taking the brew. “Thank you.”
“Tell you what,” Hawkeye said. “They got us now by ten, so we ought to be able to get two to one. Coach?”
“Yes, sir?” Henry said. “I mean, yes?”
“You better get over there quick,” Hawkeye said, “and grab that Hammond and try to get the rest of that bundle down at two to one.”
“Yes, sir,” Henry said. “I mean, yes. What’s the matter with me, anyway?”
“Nothin’, Coach,” Duke said. “Y’all are doing a real fine job.”
Henry was back in less than five minutes. He reported that he had failed to get as far as the other team’s dressing room. Halfway across the field he had been met by General Hammond who, having just checked on the health of his offensive star, had found him still under sedation. As Henry described him, the General was extremely irate.
“He was so mad,” Henry said, “that he wanted to know if we’d like to get any more money down.”
“Did you all tell him yes?” Duke wanted to know. “He was so mad,” Henry said, “that he said he’d give us three to one.”
“And you took it?” Trapper said. “I got four to one,” a gleeful Henry said. “Great, Coach!” they were shouting now. “How to go, Coach!”
“But,” Henry said, the elation suddenly draining from his face, as he thought of something, “we still have to win.”
“Relax, coach,” Spearchucker assured him. “If these poor white trash will just give me the ball and then direct ’their attentions to the two gentlemen from Cleveland, Ohio, I promise you that I shall bring our crusade to a victorious conclusion.”
Henry gave them then a re-take of his opening address. He paced the floor in front of them, waving his arms, exhorting, praising, pleading until, once more, his face and neck were of the same hue as their jerseys and once more, and for the last time, he sent them out to do or die.
As the Red Raiders of the Imjin distributed themselves to receive the kick-off, Captain Oliver Wendell Jones took a position on the goal line. The ball was not kicked to him, but the recipient, Captain Augustus Bedford Forrest, made certain that he got it. Without significant Interference, Captain Jones proceeded to the opposite end zone. Captain Forrest then kicked the extra point, bringing the score to 17-14, and while the teams dragged themselves back upfield, the two tackles from the Browns were seen loping over to their sideline. There they were observed in earnest conversation with General Hamilton Hartington Hammond who, as the two lumbered back onto the field, was seen shaking his fist in the direction of Lieutenant Colonel Henry Braymore Blake.
“Those two tackles, sir,” Radar O’Reilly informed his colonel, “told General Hammond that they recognize Captain Jones, sir.”
“Roll it up!” Henry, ignoring both his corporal and his general, was screaming. “Roll it up!”
“Keep it down,” advised Hawkeye. “We may want to do this again.”
“We may not have to worry about that,” Spearchucker, still breathing heavily, informed them. “I guess I’m not in the shape I thought I was. This may still be a battle.”
It was. It was primarily a battle between the two tackles and Spearchucker, with certain innocent parties, such as Ugly John and the Painless Pole and Vollmer, the sergeant from Supply and center from Nebraska, in the middle. When the Red Raiders got the ball again they went ahead for the moment, as Spearchucker scored once more on a forty-yard burst, but then the enemy surged back to grind out another and, with three minutes to play the score was Hammond 24, Blake 21, first-and-ten for the home forces on the visitors’ thirty-five-yard line.