MASH 11 MASH Goes To San Francisco Read online

  When the photograph showing Miss Barbara Ann Miller standing behind the Reverend Mother Emeritus was printed in the evening edition of the Picaroon-Statesman, and the edition, in the quaint cant of the trade, “hit the streets,” there were so many would-be applicants for membership in the GILIAFCC, Inc., milling around Bourbon Street that horse-mounted police were required to maintain order.

  It cannot be said that the Reverend Mother Emeritus did not do her best to dispel the interest in her transfer nursing student and to permit her to pursue her nursing studies in peace and quiet. But even the loan of twelve sturdy Knights of the Bayou Perdu Council, Knights of Columbus, guarding the doors of both the MacDonald School of Nursing and the Gates of Heaven Hospital were of no avail in keeping out the hordes of Miss Miller’s admirers.

  The straw that, so to speak, broke the back of the Reverend Mother Emeritus’ firm intentions was the identification of Miss Barbara Ann Miller as Betsy Boobs. This was made by several New Orleans men whom business had taken to San Francisco.

  It was impossible to continue nursing instruction in, say, “sutures, their application and removal” when the streets outside the classroom were filled with hordes of young (and old) men screaming, “We Want Betsy Boobs!” and “Take it off! Take it off! Take it off!”

  It was at this point that Margaret H. W. Wilson, in her role as chief of nursing instruction, turned again to her old comrades-in-arms, Doctors Hawkeye Pierce and Trapper John McIntyre, and their chief nurse (and her friend), Esther Flanagan, R.N.

  It was not that the young men of Spruce Harbor, Maine, would be immune to Barbara Ann Miller’s charms, but rather that they were all too familiar, from painful experience, with the Scottish wolfhound* owned by Nurse Flanagan, chief of nursing services at Spruce Harbor and semi-official housemother of the nurses’ dormitory there.

  (* This was a litter mate of Prince, Boris Alexandrovich Korsky-Rimsakov’s canine companion. How Mr. Korsky-Rimsakov and Nurse Flanagan came Into possession of these animals has been reported, with careful attention to fact and the principles of animal husbandry, in M*A*S*H Goes to Vienna (Pocket Books, New York).)

  It could be said, and indeed was said, that the virtue of a young woman resident in the Spruce Harbor nurses’ dorm was as safe as (probably safer than) it was at home. Very few fathers, after all, no matter how dark their suspicions, are able to detect their daughter’s foul-intentioned suitors’ presence in the bushes simply by smell, much less to instill the fear of God in them by growling and holding them down with a foot in the middle of their chests.

  And so Senior Student Nurse Barbara Ann Miller, her semi-lurid past known only to Doctors Pierce and McIntyre and Nurse Flanagan, became a member of the Spruce Harbor student nursing body, and within a matter of weeks, despite all their efforts to resist, became the favorite of these three senior staff personnel.

  In fairness, it must be stated that in the professional judgement of all three, Student Nurse Miller showed every indication of becoming, in Dr. Pierce’s words, “the finest kind of cutting-room helper.”

  Nurse Flanagan once confided to Dr. McIntyre (after her fifth martini) that Barbara Ann reminded her very much of herself in her youth, “with all the guys panting after me.”

  So far as Doctors Pierce and McIntyre were concerned, what they referred to as Barbara Miller’s “extracurricular activity” in San Francisco had given her at least one ability not often found in student nurses. She could make a martini of such ice-cold perfection and earth-moving effect that even the master martini makers themselves eventually turned that great responsibility over to her at the regular afternoon staff conferences.

  Martinis, however, were not on the agenda when the telephone rang in Dr. Pierce’s office at ten-thirty this bright morning. He was paying a rare (for him) tribute to a fellow practitioner of the healing arts to whom he referred as a “gas passer,” but whom Student Nurse Miller knew was more formally known as an anesthesiologist. The gas passer on duty during this morning’s jerking of the gall bladder had plied his trade well, in fact better than well, and when the telephone rang, Dr. Pierce was explaining to Student Nurse Miller just how valuable the gas passer’s contribution had been.

  “Grab that, sweetie, will you?” Hawkeye said, and Student Nurse Miller snatched the phone before the first ring had finished.

  “Office of the chief of surgery, Miss Miller speaking,” she said; then, “One moment please.” She covered the phone with her hand. “Some funny-talking broad says she’s the international operator with a call for you from the Royal Hussidic Embassy in Paris. Is it for real? Or is it just Trapper John horsing around again?”

  “Would to God that it were,” Dr. Pierce said, taking the telephone. “Trapper John, at his most fiendish, isn’t up to the Royal Hussidic Embassy in their innocence.” He straightened his shoulders and took a deep breath.

  “Dr. McIntyre,” Dr. Pierce said. “I’m afraid Dr. Pierce is not available . . . oh. So it’s you, Omar. How they hanging?”

  At this point, solely because she considered it her nursely duty to keep herself fully apprised of any situation affecting the chief of surgery, and not in the least because of her female curiosity, Student Nurse Miller pushed the button that caused both ends of the conversation to be amplified through a speaker.

  “Very comfortably, thank you, Doctor,” the caller said, in British-accented English.

  “I’m glad to hear that,” Dr. Pierce said.

  “In the absence of His Royal Highness, Doctor, I am charged with rendering every service at my disposal to His Excellency El Noil Snoil the Magnificent.”

  “Where’s his nibs?” Hawkeye asked curiously.

  “His Royal Highness is in San Francisco, Doctor, on an affair of state.”

  “What kind of affair of state? The kind you write down, or the other kind?”

  “His Royal Highness has not seen fit to make me privy to his agenda, Doctor,” Sheikh Abdullah said.

  “Well, what’s on your mind?”

  “As I said, in the absence of His Royal Highness, I am charged with taking care of El Noil Snoil the Magnificent,” Sheikh Abdullah said. “I am calling at his instruction, Doctor.”

  “I really am reluctant to say this,” Hawkeye said. “But go on.”

  “His Excellency, his two gentlemen friends, and of course, Prince, departed Orly Field two minutes ago for the United States, Doctor. His Excellency asked me to tell you that he regretted not being able to call you himself before he left, but that he felt you would understand.”

  “Well, you just tell Old Bull Bellow that I understand completely, and that I’m sorry that I can’t meet him in San Francisco,” Hawkeye said.

  “Oh, he’s not going to San Francisco, Doctor. His Excellency is going to Spruce Harbor.”

  “Oh, no!”

  “The young gentleman with him requires immediate surgery,” Sheikh Abdullah said. “I am instructed by His Excellency to inform you to do whatever is necessary. Cost is no object. Send the bill to our Washington embassy.”

  “Wait a minute. What young gentleman?”

  “The one with the Russian guitar,” Sheikh Abdullah said.

  “What’s wrong with him?”

  “I do not know the precise medical terminology, Doctor. When he was examined at the Maestro’s apartment, there was no room for me in the Maestro’s bedroom. I do recall what the Maestro said just afterward, however.”

  “And what was that?”

  “I wrote it down,” the sheikh said. “Here it is. Quote, ‘My God, his insides are coming out!’ Unquote.”

  “You don’t happen to have this young man’s name, do you?”

  “Yes, Doctor, I do. His name is Pancho Hermanez.”

  “I thought you said he was a Russian guitar player?”

  “He is.”

  “Well, Abdullah, thank you for calling,” Hawkeye said.

  “I am just doing my duty as Allah and His Royal Highness have given me the light to see that duty,�
�� Sheikh Abdullah said. “It wasn’t really what I had in mind when I was a student at the Georgetown School of Foreign Service.”

  “Well, we all have our cross—in your case, scimitar —to bear, Omar.”

  “One more thing, Doctor,” the sheikh said. “They’re coming in the Royal Le Discorde. That should put them in the United States in three hours. But since the only place Le Discorde is permitted to land is on the salt flats in Utah, that will mean another five hours flying from Utah to Maine in a conventional aircraft.”

  “Got it,” Hawkeye said. “That will give me time to make some arrangements. Thanks again for the warning, Omar. Give my regards to the little women.” He broke the connection with his finger.

  “Women?” Student Nurse Miller asked. “As in more than one?”

  “The sheikh is required to have at least two wives,” Hawkeye explained. “As a gesture of his patriotism, he has four.”

  Student Nurse Miller’s mouth opened, but there was no chance to pursue the matter further, for Dr. Pierce had told the operator to connect him with the hospital administrator, Mr. T. Alfred Crumley.

  “Crumbum?” Dr. Pierce said. “I have some good news and some bad news. The bad news is that your old friend Boris Alexandrovich Korsky-Rimsakov will be with us shortly.”

  “Over my dead body!” Mr. Crumley replied.

  “The bills have been guaranteed by the Royal Hussidic Embassy.”

  “As I’ve always said, Doctor, we must stand prepared to render whatever medical attention is required without regard to race, creed, color, national origin, or the personal, all-around gross and offensive personality of the patient.”

  “I would suggest that we take over the entire isolation ward,” Dr. Pierce said. “But aside from that suggestion, I leave the whole thing in your hands, Crumbum.”

  “Once again, Doctor, that’s Crumley, Crumley, Crumley!”

  “Gotcha.”

  “Is that revolting little prince coming, too?”

  “Not as far as I know. The patient’s name is Pancho Hermanez. The only thing I know about him is that he’s a Russian guitar player whose insides are coming out.”

  “You mean that Boris Alexandrovich Korsky-Rimsakov is not at death’s door?”

  “Not as far as I know,” Dr. Pierce said.

  “Pity,” Mr. Crumley said, and the connection broke. Dr. Pierce replaced the telephone in its cradle, and turned to Student Nurse Miller.

  “Sweetie,” he said, “how do you feel about six-foot-five-inch men generally regarded by the gentle sex as handsome beyond words and utterly devastating?”

  “I understand them,” she said.

  “You do?”

  “The poor things have the same problems that I do,” Barbara Ann said. “You have no idea what a drag it is to be—like Hot Lips and me, now, and Nurse Flanagan in her prime—nothing more than a sex object.”

  “If such a creature,” Dr. Pierce went on, “should, you should excuse the expression, make a pass at you, could you handle it?”

  “I’m sure that such a man would not make a pass at me, but—as painful as the memory is, Hawkeye—I’ve had a good deal of experience in turning away passes. Under the most difficult of circumstances. What are you leading up to, Hawkeye?”

  “We are about to be blessed with a visit from Old Bull Bellow, also known as Boris Alexandrovich Korsky-Rimsakov. He may or may not be the world’s greatest opera singer, but he is without doubt the loudest and largest,” Hawkeye said. “One of his friends ... I didn’t get this too clearly ... is either suffering from a terminal illness or a newly discovered social disease. In any event, Boris and his pal are about to come here.”

  “I’ve heard Hot Lips speak of him,” Barbara Arm said. “Poor fellow.”

  “Poor fellow?” Hawkeye repeated incredulously.

  “Forgive me for saying this, Hawkeye,” Barbara Ann said. “But someone like you simply can’t understand what it is to be a male version of Hot Lips and me.”

  “And I was just starting to like you!” Hawkeye said. He got up and headed for the door. “One more crack like that, sweetie, and it’s back to one-for-the-boys-in-the-back-row for you!”

  As he reached the door, Chief Nurse Flanagan, also in surgical greens, pulled it open from the corridor.

  “I was just coming to get you, Doctor,” she said. “We’re about ready for you. It’s time to scrub.”

  “That’s not all it’s time for,” Hawkeye said. “Guess which six-foot-five 280-pound warbler’s coming to dinner?”

  “There’s nothing wrong with Boris?” Nurse Flanagan hastily inquired.

  “Not with him. One of his friends, however, has a certain unspecified delicate condition that requires our attention. A male friend, I hasten to add.”

  The telephone rang. Hawkeye was closest to it, and picked it up himself.

  “Well, that figures,” he said. “OK, Crumbum, thanks for calling.” He hung up and turned to Barbara Ann Miller. “We at Spruce Harbor, unlike people at some medical establishments, do not normally extend a glad hand to potential customers. But in this case, and since I can’t go myself, I think you had better change clothes, sweetie, and get in my car and go down to the airport. Dr. Grogarty’s patient is about to arrive.”

  “You want me to meet him?”

  “Right, and tell them I’ll be with them just as soon as I can.”

  “But why me?” Barbara Ann asked.

  “Because right now, sweetie,” Hawkeye said, “about the only thing of value this hospital can offer him is a look at a good-looking blonde to take his mind off his troubles.”

  “Boston area control, Learjet Double-O Poppa,” the gentleman occupying the copilot’s seat of the trim little jet said into his microphone.

  “Go ahead, Double-O Poppa,” the Boston air controller replied.

  “Double-O Poppa over the Cambridge Omni at three zero thousand. Request that you close out our instrument flight plan at this time.”

  “Roger, Double-O Poppa. What is your final destination?”

  “Spruce Harbor International, Maine,” the copilot said.

  “Double-O Poppa, say again your aircraft type?”

  “This is an F-Model Learjet aircraft.”

  “Double-O Poppa, are you aware that the main . . . and only . . . runway at Spruce Harbor International is dirt and only 4,800 feet long?”

  “Affirmative,” Double-O Poppa’s copilot replied.

  “You’re going to try to put that Learjet down in that cow pasture?”

  “Affirmative.”

  “Go with God, my son,” Boston said. “Boston area control closes out Learjet Double-O Poppa at heading of zero one five true. Change to frequency 121.9 megahertz at this time.”

  “Understand 121.9 megahertz,” the copilot said. “Thank you, Boston.” He made the necessary adjustments on the radio control panel. “Spruce Harbor International,” he then said. “Learjet Double-O Poppa.”

  “Go ahead, Double-O Poppa.”

  “That you, Wrong Way?”*

  (* The founder, proprietor, and control-tower operator of Spruce Harbor International Airport, Spruce Harbor, Maine, was Mr. Michelangelo Guiseppi Verdi Napolitano, who, after a distinguished career as a PFC gunner-radio operator with the Eighth United States Air Force during World War II (every other gunner-radio operator who had completed seventy-five missions was at least a sergeant), returned to Spruce Harbor to found the Napolitano Truck Garden and Crop-Spraying Service.)

  “That you, Radar?”

  “How are you, Wrong Way?”

  “Where are you, little buddy?”

  “We just passed over Boston, airspeed 480, descending through two-zero thousand, and about to take up a heading of due north.” The copilot turned to the pilot. “Turn a little to the left, Colonel,” he suggested. “I always like to make my approach from the ocean.”

  “Roger, Wilco,” the pilot said. “If I start screwing up, take it, will you, Radar? I haven’t flown since I came home fro
m Korea.”

  “You’re doing fine, Colonel,” Radar said. “Take it right down to the deck. I always like to buzz the clinic when I’m on final.”

  “You still there, Radar?” Spruce Harbor asked.

  “We’re here. We should be on the deck in about five minutes,” J. Robespierre O’Reilly said. “We filed an in-flight advisory about thirty minutes ago, Wrong Way. Did you pass it to Hawkeye?”

  “Yeah,” Wrong Way replied. “And you should see who he sent to meet you.”

  “Who’s that?”

  “Stacked like a you-know-what, Radar,” Wrong Way said. “Oh, she wants to know do you need an ambulance?”

  “No.”

  “Your patient can walk?”

  “Not only can he walk, he’s flying,” Radar replied. “OK, Colonel, there it is, straight ahead. That red barn-like thing. That’s the Finest Kind Fish Market and Medical Center. Don’t get any closer than twenty feet. They’ve got a high TV antenna that you can’t see until you’re right there.”

  “Roger, Wilco,” Colonel Whiley said.

  “Gee,” Radar said. “You sound just like Errol Flynn in Eagle Squadron!”

  Moving at close to five hundred miles per hour, the Learjet, perhaps two hundred feet off the white-capped ocean, faced in toward the rockbound coast of Maine, on which perched a red building.

  Dr. Cornelius E. Sattyn-Whiley, who was, truth to tell, more than a little nervous on several accounts— not the least of which was that, taking into consideration that his father was both a very sick man and hadn’t flown for twenty-five years, his piloting this airplane wasn’t a very good idea—now had something else to trouble him.

  The little red building perched on the rockbound coast they were approaching at five hundred miles per hour had a sign painted on the roof that said, “Finest Kind Fish Market and Medical Clinic.” Although distracting the attention of Mr. O’Reilly under the circumstances was obviously not such a good idea, curiosity got the better of him. “Is that what we’ve flown from San Francisco to go to? That converted barn, surrounded by lobster traps and a mountain of beer cans?”