MASH 12 MASH goes to Texas Read online

  (*Nurse Flanagan’s snap judgment of Nurse Wilson as a “crazy lady" was more than likely based on Nurse Wilson’s (or, rather, the Reverend Mother Emeritus’) attire. She had been notified of Boris’ accident while presiding over the annual GILIAFFC, Inc., Come to Jesus Revival & Gumbo Boil in New Orleans’ Jackson Square, and she had rushed to the airport still clad in her official vestments. These consisted, for a thumbnail description, of a form-fitting, somewhat translucent, chartreuse ankle-length gown, the bust line of which dipped almost to the navel. Resting between her mammary mounds was a twelve-inch-wide gold cross on which the words “Reverend” (vertically) and “Mother” and “Emeritus” (horizontally) were spelled out in diamonds and rubies, respectively. The same legend had been embroidered in sequins on the back of the purple-and-yellow cape the Reverend Mother Emeritus wore loosely over her shoulders. And she was, of course, carrying her shepherd’s crook (symbolic of her role as shepherdess of her flock) and wearing her chartreuse headgear, patterned after that worn by bishops of the Roman Catholic persuasion, except hers had little battery-powered- bulbs that flashed out, every ten seconds, the message “God Is Love.”)

  “Who are you, calling me ‘crazy lady,’ you overstuffed Irish pill-pusher?” the Reverend Mother Emeritus replied. “It’s a good thing for you that I’m a reverend mother ...”

  “Girls, girls!” Boris said quickly, but not before Esther Flanagan had grabbed the bottle of champagne by the neck and raised it over her head. “We’ll have none of that!”

  They both looked at him.

  “Hot Lips, say hello to Esther,” Boris said. “Esther, say hello to Hot Lips.”

  “You’re really Hot Lips Houlihan, U.S. Army Nurse Corps, retired?” Nurse Flanagan replied.

  “You got it, chubby,” Hot Lips answered.

  “Boris has told me so much about you, Colonel,” Nurse Flanagan said, putting the bottle down and putting out her hand. “Lieutenant Commander Esther Flanagan, U.S. Navy Nurse Corps, retired. Put it there, pal.”

  “Well, Commander,” Hot Lips said, “perhaps I was a little hasty in making a judgment. Boris just showed me the splendid work you did on his tail.”

  “It was nothing, nothing at all,” Esther Flanagan said. “I was glad to be of service.”

  “Don’t he modest,” Hot Lips said. “I’ve seen a lot of chewed-up tails in my day, believe you me, and when I say you did a first-class job on this one, you can take it as fact.”

  “How nice of you to say so,” Esther Flanagan said, blushing furiously. “I like your outfit, a little ... unusual ... but... nice.”

  “One of the founding disciples ran it up for me,” Hot Lips said, pleased by the compliment. “I think it’s a little ... well ... drab. But, after all, it is a vestment, so to speak.”

  “Will you two knock off with the mutual admiration society and pop the cork?” Boris said impatiently from his prone-on-the-belly position on his bed of pain.

  And thus began their friendship. It grew with the passage of time and shared experiences.

  All of this has been to explain why, although it was just after six o’clock in the morning when Chevaux Petroleum Sabreliner Seventeen dropped out of the overcast and made its approach to New Orleans’ Moisant Field, there was a good deal of activity at, in and around the terminal.

  Hot Lips was determined to make Esther aware of the warm welcome she had to the Crescent City, generally, and to her neck of the worlds, as she thought of it, specifically.

  Whatever the Reverend Mother Emeritus wanted, so to speak, around the headquarters temple of the God Is Love in All Forms Christian Church, Inc., the Reverend Mother Emeritus got. In this case what she wanted was a musical welcome, and the GILIAFCC, Inc., a cappella choir had been up since three A.M. getting outfitted in their lavender-and-gold lace robes, and riding out to the airfield, where, on the Reverend Mother Emeritus’ signal, they would break out with “When Irish Eyes Are Smiling,” “The Rose of Tralee,” “Mother Macree” and “My Wild Irish Rose” the moment Esther appeared in the doorway of Horsey’s little plane.

  The choice of musical selection, of course, was obviously based on certain ethnic considerations. Despite the wishes of the federal government in the matter, to strike the blot of ethnicism from the national escutcheon once and for all time, Hot Lips had no intention of welcoming Esther Flanagan with, say, “The Volga Boatman,” “Frere Jacques,” or “Lili Marlene.”

  “Irish she is,” Hot Lips mused. “And Irish she gets.” Once she had made that decision, it occurred to her that her co-practitioner of the healing arts, Reverend Mother Superior Bernadette of Lourdes, M.D., F.A.C.S., Chief of Staff of Gates of Heaven Hospital, was also a fellow Irish ethnic.

  “Bernie, Margaret,” she said once she got the lady she thought of as “the other Reverend Mother” on the horn. “Esther Flanagan’s going to land at Moisant a little after six. I thought you might want to be on hand. The choir’s going to sing some lilting Irish songs. And one of my disciples, who happens to own Unisex Florists, Limited, threw in the most darling floral display. It’s a horseshoe, with the lilies dyed green, and the thing across the middle spells out ‘Top of the Morning!’ ”

  “I wouldn’t miss it for the world,” Reverend Mother Superior Bernadette said, wincing just a little. “I take it we’re going directly from the airport into Dallas?”

  “Right.”

  “See you there, Margaret,” the Reverend Mother replied, broke the connection with her finger and instructed her personal secretary, Sister Piety, to get His Eminence the Archbishop on the lines instantly.

  “Afternoon, Bernie,” His Eminence said. “Now, what can be so important as to take me from the regular Friday Afternoon Upper Hierarchical Conference and Pinochle Game?”

  “Esther Flanagan is arriving at six tomorrow morning at Moisant, en route to Dallas,” Reverend Mother Superior Bernadette said.

  “Well, give her my love, Bernie, and tell her I’m sorry I missed her.”

  “Hot Lips is going to meet her.”

  “How nice.”

  “With that pagan choir of hers,” she added.

  “Oh-oh.”

  “And she’s coming with Horsey on one of Horsey’s planes.”

  “Which means the Bayou Perdu Council K. of C., will also be on hand to welcome him?”

  “Right. And the general idea, as I understand it, is that just as soon as the choir sings its welcome, the entire party will board one of the 747’s and depart for Dallas.”

  “I’m glad you brought this to my attention, Bernie,” His Eminence said. “I’ll take it from here.” He, in turn, had broken the connection with his finger and instructed his personal secretary, Sister Patience, to get His Honor the Mayor on the telephone immediately.

  “Jupiter,” he said, “this is your archbishop. Sit down and take out your pencil.”

  And as soon as His Eminence had explained the problem, His Honor the Mayor, Jupiter Landau, Esq., instructed his secretary, a Miss DuPree, to get Governor Steven Stephens on the line.

  The governor, recognizing the gravity of the situation, instantly agreed to Mayor Jupiter Landau’s request for mobilization of Company A and Company C, 414th Military Police Battalion, Louisiana National Guard, to augment the New Orleans and state police forces, which would be rushed to the airport.

  If they started work now, there would be time enough to erect barbed wire and other barricades strong enough to keep the GILIAFCC, Inc., a cappella choir and congregation separated from the Bayou Perdu Council, K. of C., and its marching band long enough to get one or the other group onto airplanes and off toward Dallas.

  “Once they break ground,” the governor said, “they’re Texas’ problem.”

  “Right, Governor,” the mayor said.

  “You know, Jupiter, I just had another one of my brilliant inspirations,” the governor went on.

  “What’s that, Steve?”

  “Just to put the old cork in the old bottleneck ... I mean to say, w
e should still have the M.P.’s out there and keep the hospitals on alert for riot victims, but as sort of an extra precuation, I’ll tell you what we could do.”

  “What’s that, Steve?”

  “Get to the control tower operator, and have him divert Horsey’s plane directly to Love Field in Dallas.”

  “But they replaced Love Field with that great big airport between Dallas and Fort Worth.”

  “Right,” the governor said. “We send Horsey to Love Field, and then we arrange to have either the God Is Love group, or the Knights of Columbus, to come to the big one. By the time they can find their way out of that place, the game will be over, and our problem will be solved.”

  “Governor, that’s a brilliant idea,” Jupiter Landau said.

  “Of course it is,” the governor replied modestly. “That’s why I’m the governor and you’re just a lousy mayor.”

  “Moisant approach control, Chevaux Petroleum Seventeen requests landing and taxi instructions,” the radio crackled in the control tower.

  “Moisant, approach control, this is Air Force Six-twenty-three on priority governmental mission.”

  “Go ahead, Air Force Six-twenty-three,” the tower operator responded. “Hold one, Chevaux Seventeen.”

  “Moisant approach control, by the authority vested in me, C. Bromwell Fosdick, by the secretary of state, I order you to grant us landing priority so that me and my men can be on the ground to officially welcome and protect from all enemies, foreign and domestic, His Royal Highness, Sheikh Abdullah ben Abzug.”

  “Roger, Air Force Six-twenty-three. You are cleared to land. Change to radio frequency 121.2 at this time.”

  “Air Force Six-twenty-three leaving this frequency for 121.2,” the air force pilot said.

  “Chevaux Seventeen, Moisant.”

  “Go ahead, Moisant.”

  “Chevaux Seventeen, you are ordered diverted to Love Field, Dallas.”

  “Moisant, Chevaux has passengers to debark at Moisant.”

  “Don’t make waves, Chevaux. We have enough problems here as it is. Just go to Dallas like a good guy.”

  “Moisant, Chevaux Seventeen diverting to Dallas at this time.”

  “Moisant ground control, Air Force Six-twenty- three. We are on the ground. Request taxi instructions to where on the field arrangements have been made to disembark the passengers aboard Chevaux Petroleum Seventeen.”

  “Air Force Six-twenty-three, Chevaux Seventeen is not at this field, and ... “

  “Just tell us where they’re supposed to be.”

  “Take taxiway eleven, left. Be on the lookout for barbed wire and armored personnel carriers on both sides of the taxiway.”

  “Thank God,” said C. Bromwell Fosdick, who was riding in the cockpit of Air Force Six-twenty-three. “Someone’s on the ball. Security arrangements have been made.”

  Chapter Eleven

  “Hey, Horsey,” the pilot of Chevaux Seventeen called over the intercom, “we’ve just been diverted to Love Field, Dallas.”

  “Did they say why?” Horsey inquired, lifting his eyes from the green felt table on which cards, poker chips and a small forest of bottles had been placed, and around which sat Doctors Pierce and McIntyre, Nurse Flanagan and a bearded chap in a “Surfers Do It Standing Up!” sweatshirt.

  “No.”

  “Get on the horn to one of the 747’s on the ground and see if they know what’s going on,” Horsey said. “It’s twenty bucks to you, Abdullah.”

  “Your twenty, and twenty more,” His Royal Highness said. “Put up or shut up, Sainted Chancre Mechanic.”

  “Horsey, Lou Wallace—he’s flying number Thirteen—says it’s probably because both Hot Lips’ pansy choir and the K. of C. Marching Band are both waiting for us.”

  “Gees, I forgot all about Hot Lips’ pansies,” Horsey said. “My mistake. I should have remembered I told her she could have a 747. Somebody down there must like us. Get back on the horn and tell Lou I said to load the K. of C. Marching Band on board and take them to that big field, the one between Dallas and Fort Worth. Then tell the pilot of the other 747 to bring Hot Lips and her pansies to Love Field.”

  “Gotcha,” the pilot said.

  “Sorry about this, Esther,” Horsey said to Nurse Flanagan. “But Hot Lips’ll catch up with us soon enough.”

  “I understand the problem, Horsey,” Esther said. “I came down here to watch a football game, not to spend my vacation patching up riot victims.”

  “Shut up and play cards,” Trapper John said.

  Meanwhile, at Parking Lot B of Texas Stadium at Dallas, in the Great State of Texas:

  Having finished his regular morning ritual of an even one hundred push-ups, one hundred sit-ups and one hundred deep knee bends, Bubba Jones (a.k.a. Babcock Burton IV) set out on his ritual three-mile morning run.

  He was alone in the Winnebago, having dispatched Lance Fairbanks and Brucie with orders to find the cowboy and the Indian in the photographs, and not to return until they did. He had, not without difficulty, also finally gotten rid of Fern. She had been reluctant to leave, and it had been finally necessary to tell her that he, as a typical, ordinary, run-of-the-mill ex- Green Beret, liked his women to look like women, which is to say, to have them attired in skirts and blouses, not formless “lounging jumpsuits,” even if the decolletage of same was open to the waist.

  Once he had said this, she had, despite the hour (six antemeridian, or 06:00, as they said in the Berets), immediately set out to find suitable ladies’ apparel, which had finally seen him left alone.

  Bubba stepped outside the lavender Winnebago and did several more deep knee bends to rid his lungs of the somewhat overpowering aura of Brucie’s and Lance’s perfume, which permeated the Winnebago, and then, quickly judging the perimeter of the parking lot to be about three-quarters of a mile, he calculated that he would have to do four laps to complete his self-imposed regimen of three miles a day before breakfast.

  He was attired in nothing but a brief pair of gym shorts and a somewhat battered pair of sneakers, plus, of course, his dog tags, which he wore for auld lang syne.

  The first lap was uneventful, and he saw nothing of interest except for a rather interesting, one might indeed even say “classic,” 1951 Cadillac hearse sort of wheezing out of the parking lot trailing a dense cloud of blue smoke.

  Pity, Bubba thought. A classic machine like that should not be allowed to degenerate and deteriorate; they didn’t make them like that anymore.

  But as he entered lap two, thoughts of the classic hearse left his mind as he encountered a far more interesting sight, one that quickened his senses, even as he broke into a dead run to catch up with it.

  A young lady of attractive dimensions was leading a magnificent buffalo on a rope down the bushes that separated Parking Lot A from Parking Lot B.

  In just a matter of minutes Bubba caught up with them. He slowed slightly, and then, when he was parallel with them, he slowed almost to a complete halt, running in place, so to speak, so that he would not lose the inarguable benefits of healthy exercise.

  He flashed a smile at the young woman, and he was more than a little surprised when it wasn’t answered at all, not even with the coyest signal of acknowledgment. Usually, indeed, inevitably, when he smiled at a young woman of this age bracket, he received a dazzling smile in return.

  ‘Good morning, miss,” Bubba said finally. “I can’t help but admire your buffalo.”

  “Buzz off,” Scarlett replied.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “You heard me, you physical culture freak, buzz off,” Scarlett said.

  “Miss, I meant simply to compliment you on your splendid specimen of Bison Americanus,” Bubba said. “Have him long, have you?”

  She didn’t even reply, which sort of staggered Bubba. He looked at her closely for the first time. She was not, he realized suddenly, just one of your typical healthy young women, with all the parts tastefully arranged in the right proportion in the proper place
, but as splendid an example, biologically and anatomically, of her species as the Bison Americanus was of his. He was so unnerved by this realization that he said so.

  “You’re a splendid specimen yourself,” he said, “now that I think about it.”

  Whereupon Scarlett Jones, without letting go of Teddy Roosevelt’s rope, spun suddenly on her dainty little feet and let him have first a hard little fist in the solar plexus, and then, when he had bent over, the same fist in the right eye.

  “Some people,” she said, “just can’t take a hint.”

  Bubba wheezed, but no coherent sound came out.

  “I’m sorry I hit you so hard,” she said, “but I am up over my ears in broad-chested jocks with the brains of a horsefly.”

  “I don’t suppose you’d be willing to believe that I came all the way from North Carolina in search of a buffalo just like yours?” Bubba finally said.

  “No, but it wasn’t a bad try,” she said. “Now, leave me alone!”

  Bubba watched her go.

  And then he heard himself calling after her. “Miss,” he called, “my name is Bubba Jones. If there is ever anything I can do for you, please do not hesitate to ask. I’m in the lavender Winnebago parked over there by the men’s Porta-Potties.”

  She didn’t even turn her head in acknowledgment, although Bubba thought that he could detect a slight, somewhat disdainful, twitch of her tail.

  He became aware of the sound of music—trumpets, drums, violins and even, he was sure, a couple of matched harps. He was shaken with the realization of what it was.

  Little Momma had told him it would come one day: “One day, Bubba,” Little Momma had said, “when you least expect it, you will hear the sound of heavenly music. It will signal the end of your care-free bachelor days, the end of your damned-fool jumping out of airplanes ... you will be in love.”

  He had, at that time, been of the impression that Little Momma had been hitting the booze, but he knew now that Little Momma had been right all the time. He ran after the little lady with the buffalo and soon caught up with them.