MASH 12 MASH goes to Texas Read online

  “Pigman, this is the commanding officer of the 8th Special Forces Company, Texas National Guard. Inasmuch as we have been ordered here by our beloved governor to aid and assist the Texas State Troopers in maintaining order, we cannot, of course, come to your assistance. On the other hand, of course, we don’t have to assist the Texas Rangers with a whole lot of enthusiasm, either, and if our good buddies in Post 5660 can’t handle the situation, give us another yell. Seventy-threes to you, good buddy. Eighth Special Forces going Ten-ten.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  When the Honorable Alamo Jones spoke to his little Ida-Sue on the telephone to tell her that the Honorable Vibrato Val Vishnefsky had just told him he was going home to Texas with him and the Honorable Tiny Tony Bambino, Ida-Sue wasn’t exactly beside herself with joy.

  “Ida-Sue,” Alamo said, “do you really think that an F.U.T.M.B.P.P.G. and future First Lady of our beloved nation should be using language like that?”

  “Shut your fat mouth, Alamo,” Ida-Sue replied, “and listen carefully. Not only haven’t I been able to find Scarlett, but I can’t find Uncle Hiram and his goddamned faithful Indian companion, either.”

  “I thought you had the Texas Rangers looking for them, Ida-Sue, and I know the Texas Rangers always get their man.”

  “That’s the Northeast Mounted Police who always get their man, dummy,” Ida-Sue said. “The Texas Rangers get their man and then let him go.”

  “You mean they had poor Uncle Hiram and he got away?”

  “You got it, Alamo. Slipped right through their fingers.”

  “Well, I’m sure they’ll be able to find him again soon, Ida-Sue,” Alamo Jones replied. “I mean, how many bearded old men with faithful Indian companions are running around Texas loose?”

  “At last count, according to Wally ...”

  “Who’s Wally, Ida-Sue? I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure...”

  “Wally Dowd, the head Texas Ranger, dummy,” Ida-Sue said. “At last count, Wally said his men had arrested one hundred thirty-eight bearded old men running around with Indians. Not one of them was Uncle Hiram.”

  “Well, I’m sure something will turn up, Ida-Sue,” Alamo said soothingly.

  “Yeah, like you and those two dummies are going to.”

  “I really don’t think you should refer to members of Congress in quite those terms, Ida-Sue.”

  “You’re right,” she said. “But as a dutiful wife, I’m not using the only language that really describes them.”

  “What do you want me to do, Ida-Sue?”

  “We can’t let Vibrato Val and Tiny Tony get near the ranch, Alamo,” Ida-Sue said. “Even as dumb as they are, they can tell the difference between an oil rig and no oil rig, so we’ll just have to keep them busy.”

  “How should I do that, Ida-Sue?”

  “Texas hospitality,” Ida-Sue said. “Deck them out in ten-gallon hats and cowboy boots, and get and keep them drunk.”

  “Good thinking, Ida-Sue,” Alamo Jones said.

  “One more thing, Alamo. You ever hear of Teddy Roosevelt?”

  “Of course I’ve heard of Teddy Roosevelt!” Alamo replied. “I am, after all, a United States Congressman. Teddy Roosevelt was our beloved president all through World War II. I believe he was a Yankee. What about him? I thought he was dead.”

  “I mean somebody alive now named Teddy Roosevelt.”

  “Maybe he had a son or something.”

  “I mean somebody named Teddy Roosevelt who would be running around with Uncle Hiram and that damned Indian.”

  “Can’t say that I do, Ida-Sue,” Alamo replied after a moment’s thought. “Why do you ask?”

  “‘Wally tells me that some guy with that name plus ... and I didn’t tell you this yet ... some blonde bimbo are with Uncle Hiram and the Indian.”

  “I gotta go, Ida-Sue. I can hear the horn on the congressional bus. It’s playing ‘The Washington Post March.’ ”

  “Don’t fail me, Alamo,” Ida-Sue said with just a hint of menace in her voice. “Do something right for a change.”

  And so it came to pass that when Air Force Congressional V.I.P. flight 103, a Sabreliner, touched down at Dallas’ Love Field, and the band of the 114th Quartermaster Battalion, Texas National Guard, began to play “The Eyes of Texas,” two rather odd-appearing individuals fell out of the airplane and had to be assisted to their feet.

  Despite the high-heeled cowboy boots with which they were shod, they managed to stay erect during the playing of what is de facto the Texas national anthem, with their ten-gallon hats held reverently over their hearts. It was only when the musical rendition had been concluded, and they replaced their hats, that one could say with any degree of certainty that they’d been at the sauce. Their headgear had apparently been swapped when they fell out of the airplane, for the hat that the Honorable Vibrato Val Vishnefsky placed on his flowing silver locks was obviously designed for a man with a larger head; it came down over his ears, blinding him.

  “Gimme back my cowboy hat, you miserable, sawed-off spaghetti-eater,” the congressman said somewhat thickly.

  Congressman Tiny Tony Bambino replied, none too clearly, “That’s the trouble with you lousy, pinheaded Polacks—you can’t hold your booze.” Then he kicked Congressman Vishnefsky in the shins with the pointed toe of his cowboy boot.

  They were finally separated, but only after they had rolled around the somewhat greasy surface of the parking area, and loaded into the official limousine by four husky Texas Rangers. In the confusion, however, Congressman Alamo Jones was left behind at Love Field.

  By the time the congressmen arrived at Texas Stadium, each with two large Texas Rangers on their laps, the swamp buggy-bus convoy bearing the Bayou Perdu Council, K. of C., Marching Band had already arrived (less, of course, the Reverend Mother Emeritus and His Royal Highness, Sheikh Abdullah ben Abzug, who were off shopping, but including Doctors Pierce and McIntyre, Reverend Mother Superior Bernadette of Lourdes and Sitting Buffalo).

  Upon their arrival, the Bayou Perdu Council, K. of C., Marching Band had formed ranks and, to the delighted applause of football fans in the parking lot, they had marched off to their reserved seats while playing “When the Saints Go Marching In.”

  Horsey de la Chevaux remained behind to assure Reverend Mother Superior Bernadette of Lourdes that, although Hot Lips and Abdullah were among the missing, there was nothing to worry about. Hot Lips, in more ways than one, was a big girl.

  Sitting Buffalo, who had more or less sobered up, was following Reverend Mother Superior Bernadette around like some outsized, befeathered cocker spaniel and telling her of his happy childhood under the good sisters at the reservation school, a subject in which, truth to tell, Reverend Mother Superior Bernadette was somewhat less than fascinated.

  Moreover, since Sitting Buffalo persisted in referring to Esther Flanagan, R.N., as “fat, red-haired squaw,” the Reverend Mother suspected that it was just a matter of time before Esther forgot that she was a retired officer and gentlewoman and gave him another belt in the snoot.

  “Dr. Pierce,” Reverend Mother Superior Bernadette of Lourdes said, ever so sweetly, “I would be ever so grateful if you would take Tonto, here, someplace else, even if it means that he won’t be able to tell me any more about what Sister Mary Agnes taught him in school.”

  “Dr. Pierce?” Hawkeye inquired. “I thought we were on a first-name basis; I thought we were friends.”

  “Friends? Friends?” Reverend Mother Superior Bernadette inquired incredulously. “I hold you responsible for this whole affair, you lousy heathen-healer. Now, get this besotted red man out of here, and take backsliding McIntyre with you!”

  Dr. Pierce took Sitting Buffalo’s left arm and Dr. McIntyre his right, and they led him off through the parking lot.

  “Hey, Hawkeye,” Trapper John said, “take a look at that lavender Winnebago.”

  “I see it, but I don’t believe it,” Hawkeye said.

  “We go to wigwam on whe
els,” Sitting Buffalo announced. “I know wigwam on wheels. Wigwam on wheels has firewater in refrigerator.”

  “I don’t think that’s such a good idea, chief,” Hawkeye protested, but his objections were to no avail. Dragging them behind him, Sitting Buffalo strode purposefully over to the lavender Winnebago. Teddy Roosevelt, who hadn’t very much liked being left alone tied to the bumper, and who, indeed, was unaccustomed to being tied up at all, saw him and started out to meet him. The rope that held him was a strong rope, and something had to give. The Winnebago moved sideways toward Dr. Pierce, Dr. McIntyre and Sitting Buffalo, knocking a Buick, two Toyotas and a Honda 750 motorcycle out of the way, rather noisily, as it did so.

  “Oh, my God!” Brucie said. “It’s the end of the world!”

  “What the hell?” Bubba said.

  “It’s your damned buffalo—that’s what it is!” Fern said to Scarlett.

  Scarlett ran to the door and jumped out, with Bubba right behind her.

  “Teddy Roosevelt!” Scarlett shouted. “Bad boy! Come here!” Teddy Roosevelt stopped and hung his massive head. And then Scarlett saw Sitting Buffalo. “Oh, Sitting Buffalo, I’m so glad to see you!”

  “How!” Sitting Buffalo said. “Firewater still in wigwam on wheels?”

  “Quick, get in the Winnebago before someone sees you,” Scarlett said.

  “My friends,” Sitting Buffalo said, indicating Drs. Pierce and McIntyre by picking them two feet off the ground one at a time.

  “Bring them along,” Scarlett said. Sitting Buffalo did just that.

  The sound of the rending metal and breaking windshields brought Green Beret Post 5660, V.F.W., which had already been en route, on the run. It also attracted the attention of the law enforcement officers on the scene, who came running from the other direction, blowing whistles, shouting and making other police-type sounds and noises.

  Dr. Pierce, whom Sitting Buffalo had placed, like a housewife placing a can of beans on her kitchen shelf, on the little ledge behind the windshield of the Winnebago, turned to Dr. McIntyre, who had been similarly installed on the engine cover.

  “Trapper John,” he said, speaking from vast experience in matters of this kind, “it would appear that the battle is about to be joined.”

  “Finest kind,” Trapper John said.

  A hearty cry, “Remember Fayetteville!” floated through the air.

  “Last one in is a lousy paratrooper!” another stalwart in a beret called.

  “What sort of green hat is that the fat chaps are wearing?” Trapper John inquired.

  “That’s not a hat, Trapper John,” Hawkeye replied. “It’s a beret. The fat fellows are obviously some sort of French affiliate of some Masonic order akin to the Tall Cedars of Lebanon or the Shrine.”

  “Firewater,” Sitting Buffalo said, handing each of them a bottle. “Tickles the nose.”

  Hawkeye examined the bottle. “Oh, domestic bubbly, San Joachim Valley, ’76,” he said. “An amusing little wine, as I recall.” He ripped off the gold foil at the neck, untwisted the wire and gave the bottle a little tap with the heel of his hand. The cork flew out with a loud pop.

  “My God!” Brucie cried from where he and Lance Fairbanks huddled together under the bed. “They’re shooting at us!”

  Trapper John opened his bottle and turned with anticipation to witness the meeting of the opposing forces.

  “I wonder what it’s all about,” Hawkeye inquired rhetorically.

  “Never look a gift horse in the mouth, Doctor,” Trapper John replied. “I’ll bet you three-to-five on the fat guys in the berets. They have a certain something, a certain je ne sais quoi, about them.”

  But then something astonishing happened. At the very last moment, as the advance elements of the opposing forces warily advanced the last few feet toward one another, a whistle blew, three shorts and longs. But it was not the signal Trapper John and Hawkeye naturally assumed it to be, the signal to charge. It was quite the reverse. With obvious reluctance, but with good discipline, the law enforcement officers lowered their nightsticks, cans of Mace and blackjacks and withdrew.

  Green Beret Post 5660, V.F.W., was so surprised by this tactic that they did not exploit the withdrawal. They simply stood there, fists cocked and mouths opened in surprise, as the police sort of melted away through the parked cars and then formed ranks in one of the driveways fifty yards from the front line.

  What had happened was that a bulletin had come in by radio from the Texas Rangers’ mobile disaster command post: “Attention, all police forces! Attention, all police forces!” the message began. “Stand by for a personal bulletin from beloved Wally Dowd himself!”

  In a moment, the somewhat gravelly voice of head Texas Ranger Wallington T. Dowd himself came over the air.

  “Men,” he began, “this is your commanding officer, Wallington T. Dowd. I have just received word that the loony we have all been looking for has been taken into protective custody, together with one of the three persons with whom he was known to be traveling, and this despite the fact that he had cleverly disguised himself by cutting off his beard. To preclude a reoccurrence of that unfortunate incident at the Republic National Bank, during which the loony and his faithful Indian companion got away, all law enforcement officers under my command, which means everybody with a badge, are ordered to form a line around my command post. The loony shall not get away again, or my name isn’t Wallington T. Dowd! That is all!”

  But it wasn’t quite all. Thirty seconds after that another message flashed over the airways.

  “Men, this is Wallington T. Dowd again,” the head Texas Ranger said. “Here is an update on my last bulletin. While we have not yet determined which of the two scoundrels we have in custody is the loony, we have determined that neither of them is that lousy Indian. Neither of them is wearing a feather, and both of them have rather pasty-looking pale faces. So continue to be on the lookout, men, for that lousy Indian and the blonde hooker! Wally Dowd, out!”

  There being no police radio in the lavender Winnebago, there was, of course, no way for its occupants to become aware of what had transpired. All they knew was that the police had withdrawn, leaving behind them a very disappointed group of fat fellows in green berets.

  “Cheer up, men!” one of these called to his fellows. “Those crazy Cajuns are around here somewhere. I see their yellow buses. We’ll have our little fun yet!”

  At about this time a convoy of automobiles, all equipped with flashing lights and sirens, raced toward Texas Stadium from the Dallas-Fort Worth airport.

  In the front seat of the first car, a somewhat ashen-faced C. Bromwell Fosdick turned to the driver, one Leonard J. Watson, who was the Secret Service agent in charge of the Dallas office.

  “Lenny,” he said, then was unable to go on.

  “What is it, Bromwell?” he asked gently. “There should be no secrets between us of the Secret Service.”

  “Lenny,” C. Bromwell Fosdick blurted out, “I would consider it a personal favor if you didn’t tell anybody about what happened out there.”

  “Put your mind at rest, Bromwell,” Leonard J. Watson replied. “It happens all the time.”

  “It does?”

  “Why, only last week the mayor of Fort Worth got lost in there. They had to mobilize the whole Dallas-Fort Worth district of the Boy Scouts to go in and find him.”

  “Really?”

  “Really,” Lenny said. “He was hysterical when they finally got to him. He’d been living for three days on nothing but Dr Pepper and those little cracker-and- peanut-butter sandwiches you get out of the vending machines for a dollar.”

  “Don’t you mean a quarter, Lenny?”

  “They’re a dollar at Dallas-Fort Worth,” Lenny explained. “But don’t worry, Bromwell, my lips are sealed. Washington will never hear about it—at least not from me.”

  “You’re a true brother of the Secret Service, Lenny.”

  “Thank you, Bromwell,” Lenny said.

  “No
w, what about our little problem with this Arab chap? There’s going to be a bunch of people at Texas Stadium.”

  “How many Arabs are there going to be in cutoffs and sweatshirts with naughty writing on them?”

  “Far be it from me to tell you how to handle your foreign dignitary, Bromwell, but I would like to offer a teensy-weensy little thought I had.”

  “By all means, Lenny,” C. Bromwell said. “I’m always open to suggestions.”

  “It occurred to me, Bromwell, that if His Royal Highness changed his royal robes for cut-offs and a sweatshirt, it’s within the realm of possibility that he might exchange his cut-offs and sweatshirt for some other clever disguise.”

  “I was thinking along the same lines myself, oddly enough,” C. Bromwell Fosdick replied, but not very convincingly.

  “I’m sure you were, Bromwell,” Lenny said. “And what conclusion did you reach?”

  “You first,” Fosdick said.

  “Well, if I were you, Bromwell, I wouldn’t confine my efforts to searching for someone in cut-offs and a sweatshirt. I mean, you have to consider the possibility, as terrible as it is, that you might not find him. How would it look back at headquarters, in our nation’s capital, if it got out that you had chased His Royal Highness from Maine to Louisiana to Texas without even catching up to him, much less protecting him from all enemies, foreign and domestic?”

  “I appreciate your suggestion, Lenny,” Fosdick said. “You’re really a very nice chap.”

  “You’re welcome, I’m sure,” Lenny said.

  Fosdick picked up the two-way radio-microphone. “Fosdick of the Secret Service speaking,” he said. “A change to my bulletin 404 is announced. In the sentence that reads, ‘Be on the lookout for an Arab sheikh dressed in cut-offs and a sweatshirt with naughty words on it,’ delete ‘in cut-offs, et cetera,’ and substitute, therefore, ‘in any kind of clothing, and who answers to the name of Abdullah.’ Confirm.”