MASH 11 MASH Goes To San Francisco Read online

  “Yes,” Dr. Sattyn-Whiley replied.

  “Come with me, please, Doctor,” the usher said. He led Dr. Sattyn-Whiley back into the building, through a corridor running parallel to the auditorium, and then held a door open for him.

  “Good luck, Doc,” the usher said. “You’ll need it.”

  He found himself in a small room containing an octagonal table covered with what appeared to be an army blanket. There was only one person in the room—a tall, red-headed, ruddy-faced chap attired in white tie and tails.

  “Do you know who I am, Cornie?” the man asked.

  “Yes, sir,” Dr. Sattyn-Whiley replied. “But only by reputation.”

  “At the risk of challenging all that you hold near and dear, Cornie,” the man said, “there are times when a boy should not listen to his momma.”

  “Oh, I don’t mean that, sir,” Dr. Sattyn-Whiley replied. “I mean the Bergerhorn-Grogarty Upper-Bowel Bypass.”*

  (* Dr. Sattyn-Whiley here referred to a surgical technique devised by Doctors Aloysius J. Grogarty and J. Ferdinand Bergerhorn for treatment of the chronically obese. Briefly, it consists of hooking the bowel to the upper quarter of the stomach, thus cutting off the lower three-quarters of the stomach from the ingestion-digestion process. The fatties can thus eat all they want, but all they want, following the procedure, is about twenty-five percent of what they wanted, preprocedure.)

  “You’re familiar with that?”

  “Oh, yes, sir,” Dr. Sattyn-Whiley said. “I’ve been privileged to learn the technique.”

  “That was one of Ferdie’s better ideas,” the man said. “But I wasn’t talking of medicine, Cornie. I meant to ask if you know who I am, and what our relationship is.”

  “Well, you, sir, are Aloysius J. Grogarty, M.D., F.A.C.S., and chief of staff of the Grogarty Clinic.”

  “More important than that,” Dr. Grogarty replied, “I am your godfather. Before your birth, your father and I were the best of friends. There was an unfortunate understanding with your mother....”

  “Don’t you mean ‘misunderstanding,’ sir?”

  “No, I do not,” Dr. Grogarty said. “Your mother and I understand each other perfectly. But despite that, the fact remains that I am your godfather and have certain responsibilities to you, especially now that you’re about to enter the doctor business.”*

  (* As a matter of information, it should be noted that Dr. Grogarty had discreetly used a good deal of his considerable influence to have Dr. Sattyn-Whiley accepted as a surgical resident at that unnamed medical facility on the banks of the Charles River. He had taken this action in the realization that because of his relationship with Mrs. C. Edward Sattyn-Whiley, Dr. Sattyn-Whiley could not serve his residency in the Grogarty Clinic, and the second-best facility would have to do.)

  “I had hoped, when the time was right, to ask my father to introduce me to you, sir,” Dr. Sattyn-Whiley said.

  “You would have waited a long time, I fear,” Dr. Grogarty said, his voice level. “Your father is an obedient husband.”

  “Well, in any event,” Dr. Sattyn-Whiley said, “whatever medical emergency has arisen tonight, it has at least given me the privilege of meeting you. And speaking of the medical emergency, how can I be of assistance to you, Doctor?”

  “There is no medical emergency,” Dr. Grogarty said. “You were summoned here tonight, Cornie, for two reasons: first, that you are my godson, and second, that you are rich. It has also come to my attention, via the medical grapevine, that when you were at that establishment on the banks of the Charles, you sometimes whiled away the idle hours at a game of chance known as poker.”

  At that moment, the door from the corridor opened and Colonel C. Edward Whiley stepped into the room.

  “Dad!” Dr. Sattyn-Whiley said.

  “Hello, Irish,” Colonel Whiley said. “I hope I’m welcome.”

  “How are you, Charley?” Dr. Grogarty replied. “Frankly, you look awful.”

  “I asked if I’m welcome,” Colonel Whiley said.

  “You’re welcome,” Dr. Grogarty replied. “That’s a steel door, strong enough to repel even your enraged wife. But what are you going to do about her later?”

  “I’ll handle that when I get to it,” Colonel Whiley said.

  “How did you know where we were?” Grogarty asked.

  “Irish, for twenty-five years, every time the conductor raises his baton to begin the overture, number thirteen has flashed on the callboard and you’ve left your seat.”

  “You noticed that, did you?”

  “And tonight, when the conductor raised his baton and number thirteen flashed on, followed by number one, I realized that I had a choice to make. Either I could stay in my seat from now on, while you and my son were playing poker, or I could join you. Or at least I could ask to join you.”

  “What did you tell the old battle—Caroline?”

  “I told her that I was having stomach trouble,” the colonel said.

  “Lying to your wife, I am told, is a sin. But not in this case, Charley, right?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You can stay on one condition,” Dr. Grogarty said. “I want to see you in my office at half-past eight in the morning. I wasn’t kidding before. You look like death warmed over.”

  “There’s nothing—”

  “You see that he’s there, Doctor,” Dr. Grogarty said. “You understand me?”

  “Yes, sir,” Dr. Sattyn-Whiley said.

  “Two against one, Charley,” Dr. Grogarty said. “What do you say?”

  “I’ll be there,” Colonel Whiley said.

  “Well, then, sit down. I hope you brought lots of money.”

  “Who else is playing?” Colonel Whiley said. “I haven’t played in twenty-five years.”

  “I know,” Dr. Grogarty said. “That’s not all you haven’t been doing, either.”

  The door at the opposite end of the room opened and J. Robespierre O’Reilly and His Royal Highness the Sheikh of Abzug, together with two of His Highness’ bodyguards, walked into the room.

  “Sorry to be late,” J. Robespierre O’Reilly said, “but pumpkin always likes me to stay backstage until she goes on.”

  “Sit down, Radar,” Dr. Grogarty said, “and shut up and deal.” He turned to Dr. Sattyn-Whiley. “Take his pulse, Cornie,” said Dr. Grogarty, indicating His Royal Highness, “and give him one of these.” He threw Dr. Sattyn-Whiley a Tums for the tummy. “That way you can truthfully tell your mother that you were summoned to treat His Royal Highness for stomach distress.”

  His Royal Highness seemed a little confused about having his wrist held and being given the foil-wrapped medication. Radar explained what was going on. His Royal Highness reached up and pinched Dr. Sattyn-Whiley on the cheek.

  “What’s this?” Dr. Sattyn-Whiley inquired.

  “Oh, from the looks of it, about three carats,” Radar said. “The one he just gave Kris was a little bigger.”

  His Royal Highness sat down at the table.

  “Deal the cards!” he said. “His nibs is hot tonight!”

  Chapter Two

  “Spruce Harbor Medical Center,” the switchboard operator of that medical facility said, after she had pushed the appropriate button.

  “Dr. Aloysius J. Grogarty of the Grogarty Clinic for Dr. Benjamin Franklin Pierce,” a precise voice announced. “And please stand by for the transmission of EKG and x-ray.”

  Despite what some of its critics alleged, the Spruce Harbor Medical Center was a well-equipped institution, fully capable of both receiving and transmitting, via quite clever and very expensive machines, electrocardiograms and x-ray photographs. It had, in fact, the very latest and most expensive equipment, which had been presented to the medical center some three months before by Mr. Wayne Lussey, chairman of the board of the Spruce Harbor Building & Loan Association, as a small gesture of his affection and respect for Dr. Pierce, the Spruce Harbor chief of surgery, and all the other medical practitioners of the ins
titution.

  Mr. Lussey, who had attended a savings-and-loan chief executives’ association convention in Mexico City while his wife was off on a three-month around-the-world-tour, had returned with a little souvenir of the convention. It was not, however, the sort of souvenir that he would (or could) display on his mantelpiece to recall a happy moment in his life, and certainly not the sort of souvenir he would wish Mrs. Lussey to even hear about.

  When his souvenir was first diagnosed by Dr. Pierce, in fact, Mr. Lussey was reluctant to admit that anything of that sort could possibly happen to him.

  “Hawkeye,” he’d said, in high indignation, “you don’t mean it!”

  “You are speaking, sir,” Dr. Pierce had replied, “to the former social-disease-control officer of the 4077th Mobile Army Surgical Hospital, fondly remembered as the Double Natural MASH. I know a dose of—”

  “Don’t say it!” Mr. Lussey had hastily interrupted.

  “When I see one,” Dr. Pierce had gone on. “Whatever are you going to say to Mrs. Lussey when she returns home from her tour of the world’s cultural capitals and places like that?”

  “Isn’t there anything that can be done?”

  “My diagnosis might possibly be in error,” Dr. Pierce had said. “You could do one of two things. You could seek another opinion. I know a good G&S man in Bangor...”

  “G&S?”

  “Gonorrh—”

  “You said two things,” Mr. Lussey had said quickly. “What was the other?”

  “Well, as I said, my diagnosis might be in error.”

  “It might?”

  “There’s only one way I could tell for sure whether you have what I think you have or whether it’s merely an advanced case of athlete’s foot.”

  “Athlete’s foot?”

  “By an odd coincidence, the treatment for a severe case of athlete’s foot, such as you might possibly have, is just about the same thing . . . massive doses of penicillin ... as it is for that other unmentionable social condition.”

  “It is?”

  “Indeed. And I recall a case quite clearly where a chap who had both was cured of both at the same time.”

  “You don’t say?” Mr. Lussey had said. “I probably caught it at the Spruce Harbor Health Spa. How soon can you start treatment?”

  “That poses a little problem,” Dr. Pierce had said. “I won’t know if it’s athlete’s foot until I run some tests, and our present testing equipment is so old that I consider it unreliable.”

  “Then get some new equipment,” Mr. Lussey had said. “I’ll pay for it!”

  “I thought you’d say that. I just happen to have some literature here in my desk.” Dr. Pierce had opened the drawer and pushed some four-color brochures across his desk to the savings-and-loan executive.

  Mr. Lussey had examined it briefly.

  “This doesn’t say anything about athlete’s foot,” he’d said. “This equipment is an expensive data transmission system. What sort of data do you have to transmit about athlete’s foot?”

  “I sometimes like to seek outside opinions on really bad cases of what you have,” Dr. Pierce had said.

  “Athlete’s foot, you mean,” Mr. Lussey had said.

  “We won’t know that until we have the equipment, will we?” Dr. Pierce had countered.

  “But it costs $21,750!”

  “The G&S man’s name is Carter, but they call him Old Blabbermouth,” Dr. Pierce had said. “He holds office hours every day. I’ll give him a call and make an appointment for you—”

  Mr. Lussey had gotten his checkbook out and begun to scribble furiously.

  “You’re a good man, Mr. Lussey,” Dr. Pierce had said, taking the check from him and blowing on it, “with the interests of your fellow citizens always at heart. Now drop your pants and sort of lean over my desk.”

  And so it came to pass that the Spruce Harbor Medical facility had as good a data transmission system as could be expected under the circumstances And there was no reason why the Spruce Harbor Medical Center in Maine could not stand by for the transmission of x-ray photographs, EKGs, and other medical data from the Grogarty Clinic all the way across the continent in San Francisco. Indeed, the operator immediately pushed the buttons that would permit such data transmission.

  The other part of the request, that Dr. Grogarty be permitted to speak with Dr. Pierce, did pose a problem. A little blue light above Dr. Pierce’s button on the switchboard was illuminated, signifying that Dr. Pierce was in conference.

  Dr. Pierce had, in fact, been in conference since half-past four. With him were Dr. John Francis Xavier McIntyre, a fellow Fellow of the American College of Surgeons; Esther Flanagan, R.N., chief of nursing services and head operating-room nurse at the medical center, and Miss Barbara Jane Miller, an about-to-graduate student nurse.

  It had been a full day in the medical center’s surgical suite, with both a heavy load of previously scheduled surgery and an extraordinary amount of emergency surgery.

  The operator knew that it was Dr. Pierce’s custom in such circumstances to repair to his offices, together with those who had worked with him, to review what had taken place on the operating table, and, as he put it, to “unwind a bit.” When Dr. Pierce was in conference (the operator thought of it as “when the warning light was lit),” he did not like to be disturbed. As a matter of fact, he violently objected to being disturbed in any event save the most pressing medical emergency and had frequently demonstrated a rather violent burst of temper when his conferences had been interrupted by what he considered unimportant matters.

  Therefore, the operator said to the Grogarty Clinic operator, “Spruce Harbor Medical Center is ready to receive your data, but I regret that Dr. Pierce is in conference and cannot be disturbed.”

  “One moment please, operator,” Grogarty Clinic said. There was a pause and then she came back on the line. “We are now beginning the transmission of data.” There was another pause, and then the Spruce Harbor operator spoke.

  “The data transmission is operating satisfactorily,” she reported.

  “Dr. Grogarty advises that in the event Dr. Pierce is in conference and not available, he will speak with Dr. John F. X. McIntyre.”

  “I’m sorry, operator,” the Spruce Harbor operator said, “but Dr. McIntyre is also in conference. I’ll have him call when he is free.”

  “One moment, please, operator,” the Grogarty Clinic operator said.

  And then another voice, a male voice, came on the line.

  “This is Dr. Grogarty,” he said. His voice sort of boomed. “You say that Dr. Pierce and Dr. McIntyre are both in conference?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Is it possible that they are in conference together?”

  “Yes, Doctor.”

  “And is this conference being conducted in Dr. Pierce’s chief of surgery’s office?”

  “Yes, Doctor, it is,” the operator said.

  “Well, then, honey,” Dr. Grogarty boomed, “you get either Hawkeye* or Trapper John** on the line and tell them to put down the gin and pick up the phone ’cause Aloysius J. Grogarty’s on the other end of the line and the boozing will just have to wait.”

  (* Dr. Pierce’s father was a great fan of James Fenimore Cooper, and in particular of his monumental work, The Last of the Mohicans. Although he could not convince his wife that their first-born should be so christened, he had never called his eldest son anything but Hawkeye, and as time passed only Dr. Pierce’s mother, the U.S. Army, and the Maine State Board for the Licensing of Medical Practitioners had continued to insist on calling him by the name on his birth certificate.)

  (** While a college student in Maine, Dr. McIntyre had been discovered, deshabille, as they say, and en flagrante delicto, with a coed in the gentlemen’s rest facility aboard a Boston & Maine Railroad train. With shocking disregard for the facts and with her eye on her reputation, his lady friend, the moment the door had been jerked open on them, had announced that he had “trapped her” in t
he room. From that moment on, John Francis Xavier McIntyre had been known to friend and foe alike as “Trapper John.” )

  Stunned that the caller actually knew what was going on in Dr. Pierce’s office, the operator pressed the button that caused the telephone to ring on his desk.

  When the telephone rang, Dr. Pierce, Dr. McIntyre, Nurse Flanagan, and Student Nurse Miller, still dressed in their surgical greens, were bent over a table in the office. Doctors Pierce and McIntyre each held large hypodermic syringes with large-size needles, and each was, with infinite care and great skill, depressing the plunger of his syringe. What would have struck the casual observer of this otherwise fairly routine medical procedure was that what they were injecting something into the soles of a pair of golf shoes.

  Therein, as they say, lies a tale.

  Hawkeye Pierce and Trapper John McIntyre were, as they frequently admitted, indeed boasted, “two guys who could certainly hold a grudge.”

  One of those against whom the healers, former military surgeons and honorary Knights Commander of the Bayou Perdu (La.) Council, Knights of Columbus, held a long-standing grudge was Francis Burns, M.D., of Hillandale, Ohio.

  Their grudge against Dr. Burns was of the active, rather than latent, variety. That is to say, they didn't merely harbor a resentful memory of Dr. Burns, idly hoping for the day when Lady Luck would put them in a position to, for example, let the air out of his tires on a rainy night. No, their grudge was of the active variety, and they gave some thought to and received a great deal of pleasure from zinging Frank Burns whenever possible.

  And lest time start to heal the wounds, lest they be tempted to put all that Frank Burns had done to them beyond them, as water over the dam, they kept a sort of a memorial to Dr. Burns in Dr. Pierce’s office. At no small cost, they had had a photograph of Dr. Burns, taken during the Korean Unpleasantness, converted into a dart board.

  It had been Major Burns then—or as the Army insists on putting it, Burns, Francis, Major, Medical Corps (as it had been Pierce, Benjamin F., Captain, Medical Corps, and McIntyre, J. F. X., Captain, Medical Corps). And therein had been the germ of the problem. Majors are not only permitted but are actually encouraged by the military establishment to give orders to captains. It was not that Captains Pierce and McIntyre had objected to taking orders from their betters. They had, in fact, regularly taken orders from the hospital commander, Lieutenant Colonel Henry Blake, Medical Corps, U.S. Army.*