MASH 11 MASH Goes To San Francisco Read online

  Nurse Flanagan’s mouth, and that of Miss Miller, dropped open in shock.

  “Yes, sir,” Trapper John said, coming to attention. “Quite sober, sir. And how are you, Doctor?”

  “As well, to coin a phrase,” the gruff and hearty voice replied, “as can be expected under the circumstances, the circumstances being that I celebrated my sixtieth birthday last Thursday.”

  “Happy Birthday, Doctor!” Pierce and McIntyre said in duet.

  “I got your presents,” the caller said. “Considering all the money you two blots on the Hippocratic escutcheon are stealing from your patients, it seems to me that you could have done better than two lousy cases of twelve-year-old Scotch.”

  “It’s all we could get here, sir,” Hawkeye said. “We’ll do better next time.”

  “Next week,” Trapper John corrected.

  “Tomorrow!” Hawkeye said.

  “How can we be of service, Doctor?” Trapper John asked.

  Both Dr. Pierce and Dr. McIntyre had spent (at different times) several years as surgical residents at the Grogarty Clinic. Dr. Grogarty’s classroom and operating-amphitheater instruction had been of such high quality that both Hawkeye and Trapper John felt they owed a large part of whatever skill they had to him.

  “I need an outside opinion,” Dr. Grogarty said.

  “From us, sir?” Hawkeye asked, visibly surprised.

  “You mean you actually want an opinion from one of us?” Trapper John asked.

  “This patient’s pretty important to me,” Dr. Grogarty said. “I’ve already got half a dozen opinions, each one from a surgeon who makes you guys look like first-year residents, but I figured, what the hell, why not ask. Wisdom from the mouth of babes, so to speak.”

  “Anything we can do, sir,” Hawkeye said. “We’re honored that you would ask.”

  “Don’t let it go to your head,” Dr. Grogarty said. “I’ve had my girl send some x-rays and an EKG and some other stuff over the line. Are you sober enough to look at it, or should I call back in the morning?”

  “We’ll look at it right now, sir,” Hawkeye said. Trapper John was already on his way out the door toward the data room.

  The diagnosis did not take long, and the prognosis was not favorable.

  “I’m afraid your patient, in my judgement,” Hawkeye said, very formally, “is in trouble.”

  “What I’m trying to find out, Hawkeye,” Dr. Grogarty said, “is how bad you think that trouble is?”

  “There’s no question in my mind about the cancerous lung. A two to three pack a day smoker, I’d say. For at least twenty years.”

  “You think the lungs are too far gone?”

  “No, I could jerk the right and take out about half the left,” Hawkeye said. “If I could operate. But not with that heart. That heart’s about to let go. The trauma of surgery ...” He left the rest unsaid.

  “Trapper John?” Dr. Grogarty asked.

  “I concur,” Trapper John said formally. “I don’t think he’d last three minutes on the table.”

  “Well, think of some gentle way to break the news to him,” Dr. Grogarty said.

  “Sir?”

  “He’s on his way to see you,” Dr. Grogarty said. “Flying by private plane, and accompanied by his personal physician . . . who happens to be his son.”

  “I don’t quite understand, sir,” Hawkeye said.

  “It’s very simple, Hawkeye,” Dr. Grogarty said. “I don’t have the guts to tell a guy I’ve known all my life, who has just found out that he’s wasted the last twenty-five years of his life, what his life expectancy is. And I think he’d rather get it from total strangers.”

  “Jesus Christ!” Hawkeye said.

  “His name is Charley Whiley,” Dr. Grogarty said. “And don’t worry about professional courtesy about your bill because of his son. He’s loaded.”

  “Thanks a lot,” Hawkeye said.

  “You’re welcome,” Dr. Grogarty said. “I never thought I’d say this to you two, but I owe you one.” And with that, the telephone went dead.

  Hawkeye pushed the button and shut the telephone off. Esther Flanagan, R.N., a lady of generous proportions, a formidable appearance, and very gentle eyes, went to the martini mixer and from it poured two large fresh martinis.

  She gave one each to Hawkeye and Trapper John, and then picked up the telephone and dialed a number.

  “Esther Flanagan calling for Dr. Pierce. We’ll need a private room for a Mr. Whiley. And call down to the Spruce Harbor Home-Away-From-Home Motel and Barbecue and reserve a room . . . away from the pool and bar ... for a Dr. Whiley.”

  “Thanks,” Hawkeye said.

  “I was about to say ‘my pleasure,’ ” Esther Flanagan said. “What did the x-rays show?”

  “An embolism,” Hawkeye said. “One that could let go any minute.”

  “Like now, when he’s flying here in his own airplane?”

  “Like now, when he’s flying here in his own airplane,” Trapper John said. “Let’s hope that his son is one of those flying doctors you hear about.”

  “Whatever was Dr. Grogarty thinking of? Wasn’t that sort of playing God?” she asked.

  “I think it falls into the category of putting it in God’s hands,” Hawkeye said. “I just figured out who this guy is.”

  “Who is he?” Trapper John said.

  “There is—or was—a picture of him on Grogarty’s office wall. Shows the two of them in China during World War II. He was one of those dashing young men in the silk scarves and leather jackets . . . Flying Tigers.”

  “I remember the picture,” Trapper John said.

  “Maybe Grogarty figures the way he’d like to go is playing birdman,” Hawkeye said. “Off we go—and keep going—into the wild blue yonder!”

  “He may have a point,” Trapper John said. “I’ve always thought I’d like to go, at ninety-eight or so, by shooting at the hands of a jealous-with-reason husband.”

  “There’s no hope at all, Hawkeye?” Student Nurse Miller asked.

  “There is always hope,” Hawkeye replied. “Or that, at least, is the popular folklore.”

  “I guess this all seems pretty silly, doesn’t it?” Barbara Ann Miller said, gesturing at the golf shoes on the desk.

  “How wrong you are, my little chickadee,” Hawkeye said. “At moments like these, if it weren’t for the prospect of wreaking oh-so-sweet revenge on Frank Burns, I would go quite bananas. Where were we?”

  “I was just about to finish the letter. How should I sign it?”

  “Let me think,” Hawkeye said. “How about ‘tenderly’?”

  “How about ‘shyly’?”

  “How about,” Esther Flanagan said, “ ‘with shy and tender passion’?”

  “You’ve missed your calling, Flanagan,” Hawkeye said. “ ‘With shy and tender passion’ it is.”

  Barbara Ann Miller wrote the words on the paper with some difficulty. Her eyes were rather watery.

  At this very moment, at the Burns Vasectomological Clinic of Hillandale, Ohio, Francis Burns, M.D., was also in touch with San Francisco, California, also known as “The City by the Bay,” through the facilities of Ma Bell.*

  (* The attentive reader will recall that the time is after six. Since Ma Bell, out of the bottomless goodness of its corporate heart, reduces rates after that hour, it was Dr. Burns’ custom to make all of his longdistance calls after six. He had never forgotten the profound wisdom, courtesy of Benjamin Franklin, that he had picked up in the second grade—“A penny saved is a penny earned.” Unfortunately, each time he called it to mind he was reminded, very painfully, of a chap named Benjamin Franklin Pierce.)

  By bending the truth just a little (he had informed the vice-president for charitable affairs of the Mark Hopkins Hotel that the organization with which he was connected provided care, free of charge, to impoverished orphans, and that his purpose in traveling to San Francisco was to participate in a medical conference), he had arranged for rooms at a great discount.
**

  (** There was a germ of truth in what he said and how he said it. He had innocently dropped the descriptive word “ vasemological”from the name of his institution, and it was perfectly true that the “Burns Institute” would offer it’s services, free of charge, to any impoverished orphan who asked for them. The hook here was that, because of the nature of vasemological procedures, it was illegal to perform them upon minors, and Dr. Burns would never knowingly break the law. And he was, indeed, going to confer on medical matters while in San Francisco. He had every intention of conferring with Mrs. Burns, of asking her right out if the aspirin he had prescribed for her headache a week before had been effective in reducing her distress.)

  “God bless you, sir!” Frank Burns now said to the vice-president for charitable affairs. “I’m sure our little ones, when they are physically able, will remember you in their prayers!”

  Then he hung up and telephoned Mrs. Burns, to whom he referred—depending on the circumstances—as either “Sweetie-Baby” or “the little woman.”

  “Well,” he said, with just a touch of pride in his somewhat nasal voice, “we’re fixed up at the Mark Hopkins. All you have to do now is arrange for your mother to care for the kids while we’re gone. You get on the telephone and ask her to come. And don’t forget to stress the fact that travel by bus is really better than flying for someone her age. It’s only thirty-six hours on a nonstop bus from her house to ours.”

  Frank Burns, as incredible as it might sound and as difficult as it might be to accept, actually had a devious purpose in going to San Francisco. He had, several months before, while unwrapping some medical equipment he had purchased at a very good price from a dealer in military surplus, come across something in a newspaper (the World War II vintage scalpels and forceps, which were a little rusty but would clean up nicely, had been wrapped in old newspapers) that had set his heart aflutter.

  In the old newspaper there had been a photograph of a statuesque lady, dressed in a long gown and a cape, her hands raised in a gesture of blessing. The caption with the picture had confirmed what Frank Burns had thought, with a quickening of his heart, the moment he saw the lady’s mammiform protuberances straining against the gown. It was his beloved Margaret!

  “GOD IS LOVE IN ALL FORMS CHRISTIAN CHURCH PRELATE RETURNS HOME TO SAN FRANCISCO,” a line over the picture had read, and beneath the photograph there had been this caption:

  SAN FRANCISCO, CALIF. Shown as she blessed the welcoming crowd that surrounded her arriving aircraft this afternoon at San Francisco International Airport is Rev. Mother Emeritus Margaret H. W. Wilson, of the God Is Love In All Forms Christian Church, Inc. The Reverend Mother Wilson and several members of her staff returned home to San Francisco today. The GILIAFCC, Inc., was founded here by the Reverend Mother’s late husband, the Blessed Reverend Buck Wilson.

  She was greeted at the airport by San Francisco Police Commissioner Boulder J. Ohio, and immediately went by motorcade to the GILIAFCC, Inc....

  At that point, the story had ended. Some callous and unthinking person had ripped the newspaper, and although he’d searched diligently through all the rusty scalpels and forceps, Frank Burns had not been able to find the rest of it.

  He came to realize, however, that what he had was enough. Margaret, his beloved Margaret, his bosom pal of his war years, his fellow field-grade officer and gentleperson, whom he had seen but once (and then all too briefly) since the war, was not only in San Francisco, but also a widow.

  While he was, of course, profoundly sorry that whatshisname had kicked the bucket, he could not help but consider that if she was a widow, that meant there was no need to worry about a jealous husband.

  Furthermore, Frank Burns knew (from two experiences) that he was very good when it came to consoling widows, and he’d always felt that he could have gotten even better at it had it not been for buttinsky neighbors and relatives who for some reason never seemed to be willing to leave him alone with the bereaved.

  The only thing that stood between him and the resumption of what he fondly remembered as a splendid relationship with Margaret was getting to San Francisco. He dwelt on the mental image of what would happen when she saw him again.

  “Margaret!” he would say.

  “Frank,” Margaret would say.

  “Margaret,” he would repeat.

  “Frank!” she would say again. And then she would rush into his arms.

  And this time, of course, there would be no Benjamin Franklin Pierce or John F. X. McIntyre around to remind Margaret about Sweetie-Baby and the kids.

  The only problem, then, was getting to San Francisco—soon, and alone. This proved more difficult than he expected. Sweetie-Baby pointed out that in the long years of her marriage she had been away with him only three times. On their honeymoon, all the way to Chillicothe; to Columbus, when he’d left for the Army; and, just two years ago, to New Orleans. None of these journeys had really been pleasant, she pointed out to him. He certainly (she said) could not forget what had happened on their honeymoon, and even if what he said about that happening to a lot of newlyweds was true, he did have to agree with her (she said), that it hadn’t been much fun.

  And when she’d gone to Columbus with him, to see him off to the Army, that hadn’t been much fun for her either. He had cried the night through in the Econo-Cheap Motel. And in New Orleans, he had gotten sick.*

  (* In New Orleans, he had modestly informed a newspaper reporter that he had been General McArthur's personal physician while in the Far East—an innocent little exaggeration. He had fallen sick immediately upon learning that Doctors Pierce and McIntyre were also in New Orleans; they had not only been in the Far East with him, but also were about to talk to the same reporter. The details are available, told without fear or favor, and in a style described as “certainly odd" in M*A*S*H Goes to New Orleans (Pocket Books, New York).)

  “So I made up my mind, Francis,” Sweetie-Baby said, “after talking it over with mama, of course, that the next time you leave town, I’m going with you.”

  Nothing he said or did could make her change her mind. Finally, in desperation, he decided he would have to take her along and worry about how to get rid of her once he was in San Francisco. He could he thought, send her out to ride the cable cars—they were cheap enough—while he pleaded a sick headache. Anyway, he would think of something. Nothing could be permitted to come between Margaret and him.

  When he hung up on Sweetie-Baby, he went to the mirror and examined himself with quiet pride. What woman could ask for more?

  And far across the wide Atlantic in Paris, France, at just about this same time, something else was happening that would in a short time also have an effect on San Francisco, California.

  The balalaika player at the Casanova, a well-known long-established night club (or boite de nuit, which translates literally as “box of night” for those interested in such things) on Rue Pierre Charron, was smashed out of his mind.

  What had brought him to this state of senselessness was not known, nor indeed will it ever be known. All that is remembered of the incident is that as the “witching hour” approached* and the assistant undermanager went to summon him from his room in order to tune up before making an appearance, he found the balalaika player, previously a responsible, respectable, near teetotaler, sitting on the window ledge of his dressing room clutching a bottle of brandy to his chest and singing bawdy songs to an appreciative audience of hookers who stood below on the sidewalk.

  (*In Paris, France, the “witching hour,” or midnight, means, among other things, that musicians required to ply their trade go on overtime, or time-and-a-half. This is why the Casanova has eight fiddlers playing from eight to midnight, and one balalaika player from midnight on.)

  The clientele of the Casanova had come, over the years, to expect that their musical entertainment would consist of soft, moody, and above all romantic numbers, suitable background for the gentle burbling noise champagne makes when being poured into fine cr
ystal glasses. Ladies and gentlemen came to the Casanova, frankly, with romance on their minds. Neither seductors nor seductees would, the assistant undermanager instantly realized, be at all happy with a balalaika player who was not only unable to stand up without assistance but who was bellowing, at the top of his lungs, in rather dreadful English, all the verses of “Roll Me Over, Yankee Soldier,” which he had learned in the closing days of World War II (when he had accompanied a unit of the Second Armored Division in its dash across France).

  He brought the problem to the attention of his immediate superior, the undermanager himself, who personally left his post to see for himself, and promptly had hysterics. The assistant undermanager took it upon himself to inform the manager himself.

  “Pierre,” the manager said, “the honor of the Casanova is at stake! In its hour of crisis, I call upon you to shoulder the responsibility!”

  “Just tell me what I can do,” Pierre replied.

  “Go get me a balalaika player, you idiot! And immediately!”

  “Yes, sir!”

  “And hurry! Every minute I have to keep the fiddle players past midnight, they’re getting time-and-a-half!”

  One cannot, of course, even in Paris, France, call up the friendly musicians local at midnight and ask them to send a balalaika player right over. For one thing, the musicians union is closed at that hour, and for another, balalaika players in Paris are about as common as they are in, say, Hillandale, Ohio.

  The assistant undermanager, faced with this problem, did what any Parisian would do under the circumstances. First he had a strong cognac, and then he sought the assistance of a taxi driver.

  The cab driver shrugged his shoulders helplessly. “I know of no at-liberty balalaika players,” he said finally. “Perhaps m’sieu would settle for a trumpet player? Or perhaps a guitar player?”

  A trumpet player was obviously out of the question, but there were possibilities in a guitar player. If nothing else, a guitar player, starting fresh, would not be on time-and-a-half for overtime.