MASH 09 MASH goes to Vienna Read online

  “I'm speaking to the dog, you idiot,” Boris said. “I suppose it’s too much to expect that you have thought about providing this helpless puppy with something to eat?”

  “The duchess, Maestro, sent a recommended formula for its feeding. One of my men is acquiring the ingredients and will take them to your apartment.”

  “And in the meantime, this motherless waif is supposed to go hungry?” Boris said. “You are really a cold and callous person, Hassan. I don’t know why I put up with you.”

  With that, he pushed the dog’s paws off his chest and walked to the Cadillac. The dog, without being told, followed him. Hassan followed the dog. Boris sat on the far side of the seat. The dog got up and sat in the middle of the seat. Somewhat nervously, Hassan got in beside them. The dog turned to look at Hassan. His tongue came out and licked His Royal Highness’ ear.

  “See there?” Boris said. “Prince likes you. God knows why!” He leaned forward on the seat to speak to the chauffeur. “Take us to Maxim’s,” he ordered. “Phone ahead and tell them to lay out a large buffet of their best edible garbage ... meat only, no crepes suzette or anything unhealthy like that... for my puppy dog.”

  “Yes, Maestro,” the chauffeur replied.

  The singer sat back on the velour upholstery of the seats. The dog nuzzled him.

  “God, I hope you’re housebroken,” Boris said.

  “Maestro,” His Royal Highness said, “might I presume to ask two questions?”

  “That would, of course, depend on the questions,” Boris replied. “You’ll have to take your chances.”

  “You address the animal as ‘Prince,’ ” His Royal Highness said. “Might I have the temerity to inquire why?”

  “When I was just a wee tyke,” Boris replied, his eyes watering at the memory, “in Hoboken, New Jersey, my only true pal was my dog. His name was ‘Prince,’ and when the other guys laughed at me for singing all the time, Prince would make them stop.”

  “I see,” His Highness said, sympathetically.

  Prince licked Boris’ ear. His Royal Highness withdrew a silk handkerchief from his robes and blew his nose rather loudly.

  “Oh, how I missed that dog!” Boris said, his chest heaving. “After he was gone, that bully Curly Chris made my life miserable!”

  As Boris’ friend of long standing, His Highness knew that it was time to change the subject.

  “Dear Maestro,” he said as the limousine rolled majestically across the Place de la Concorde and up the Avenue des Champs Elys6es, “you mentioned before that you had had splendid news?”

  “So I did,” the singer said. He sat up. “I don’t suppose you’ve got another handkerchief, do you? Prince, in demonstrating his boundless affection for me, has slobbered all over my neck.”

  A fresh handkerchief was produced from within the crown prince's billowing robes, and the singer mopped at his neck and ear.

  “You were mentioning the splendid news you had received?” Hassan pursued.

  “So I was,” Boris said. “The sainted guru of Manhattan, Kansas, is coming to Vienna!” His delight in this happening was evident in his voice.

  “You don’t say?” the crown prince replied. The singer was referring to Theosophilus Mullins Yancey, M.D., Ph.D., D.D., D.V.M., founder and director of the Joyful Practice Institute and Foundation of Manhattan, Kansas. After long and painstaking research, Dr. Yancey had concluded that one form of exercise was clearly superior to jogging, deep knee bends, weight lifting, deep breathing, swimming, horseback riding ... indeed, all other exercise. After publishing his findings,* he soon found himself rather lionized by those who realized he had uncovered a deep and profound truth. One of his first disciples was Boris Alexandrovich Korsky-Rimsakov, who had, he said, been thinking along those lines himself, although he of course had not the background or education to do anything but conduct the most rudimentary experiments.

  (*See Sexual Intercourse as Exercise, 245 pp. (illustrated), $8.95, and Strength and Health Through Constant Coitus, 235 pp., $7.95, both by Theosophilus Mullins Yancey, M.D., Joyful Practice Publishing Company, Manhattan, Kansas.)

  Upon reading the first volume, the singer had written to Dr. Yancey, offering the most flattering appraisal of the work and volunteering, for the doctor’s files, some of his own experiences with healthful exercise. Some of these (for example, “Some Aspects of Exercise Within a Pressurized Aircraft Cabin at Altitudes Over 30,000 Feet”) were published (pseudonymously of course) in the foundation’s monthly journal Joyful Practice and others (for example. “Too Much Is Bad for You? Nonsense!”) as separate, paperbound monographs, at $1.95.

  The singer, absolutely convinced that his dedicated adherence to Dr. Yancey’s theories had been of unquestioned value to his singing career, to the superb timbre and range of his voice itself, had graciously endorsed his royalty checks over to the Joyful Practice Institute. He had moreover, recommended Dr. Yancey without reservation for membership in the Matthew O. Framingham Theosophical Foundation, of Cambridge, Massachusetts, into which body the philosopher-physician had been readily accepted.

  They had not, however, (although they had spoken at length on the telephone), ever had the opportunity to meet face-to-face.

  “Indeed. I do say,” Boris replied. “The beloved physician will, of course, be my guest.”

  “In Vienna?”

  “I said he was going to Vienna. Some sort of shrinks’ convention, I gather.”

  “But you took a solemn vow never to go to Vienna again as long as you lived.”

  “I did no such thing!”

  “Maestro, forgive me, but I seem to remember you saying those exact words just before you removed your bust from the lobby and carried it out of the opera house.”

  “I don’t recall it at all,” Boris said. “Are you sure?”

  “The Wiener Kourier’s opera critic had suggested that you weren’t quite up to form, as I recall.”

  “It’s a little vague in my memory.”

  “You don’t recall throwing your bust at the music critic, either? Through the plate-glass window at Demel’s?”

  “I wondered what had happened to it,” Boris replied blandly. “Well, no matter. I have chosen to forgive them. Find out when the Albert Schweitzer of the Plains will be in Vienna, then get in touch with the opera house and tell them I will sing, no more than twice, during that period. And make sure they have my suite in Sacher’s Hotel redecorated. We want nothing but the best for the doctor, right?”

  “I’ll do what I can, of course,” His Royal Highness said.

  “That’s what you’re for, Hassan, after all, isn’t it?” Boris said.

  “As soon as I return from the United States.”

  “Why are you going to the States?”

  “I volunteered to deliver the other puppies for the duchess,” Hassan replied.

  “What other puppies? I was given to believe I was the only one getting one of these splendid beasts and all- around friends of man.”

  “There are five others on the plane now, Maestro,” Hassan said. “I thought you knew.”

  “How could I possibly know? With you and the duchess in a nefarious conspiracy to keep me from finding out? Who gets the others?”

  “Dr. Hawkeye and Dr. Trapper John get one each, as does Nurse Flanagan.”

  Nurse Flanagan did not rank high in Boris’ esteem. She had once laughed at him in a time of great pain and anguish. (On a fishing trip Prince Hassan had hooked Boris in what was medically described as the epidermal covering of the gluteus maximus. Nurse Flanagan had found what she called “fishhooks in the can” amusing; she had actually laughed.)

  “That Irish harridan gets one? And Hot Lips does not?”

  “Hot Lips, too, of course, Maestro. Each of the ladies gets a bitch.”

  “You said five others?”

  “And Horsey de la Chevaux the last,” Prince Hassan said. “The duchess has kept the runt of the litter, as she put it.”

  “Mine, of course, must
be the pick of the litter,” Boris said. “Angus MacKenzie would have seen to that.”

  “I believe the selections were made by the dowager duchess herself, Maestro. At least her handwriting was on the tags.”

  “And what did Prince’s tag say?”

  “This is the meanest of the lot.”

  “She obviously meant to say finest,” Boris replied. “Well, here we are at Maxim’s.”

  “So we are.”

  “You will, of course, leave the limousine for me and go to Orly Field in one of those ugly Frog cars,” Boris said as the chauffeur opened the door.

  “I had hoped that we might have supper before I left for the States.” His Highness replied.

  “Don’t be absurd! How could you possibly sit in here and stuff your face, knowing that all the time five motherless puppies are sitting all alone on the La Discorde? Get going!”

  “You’re right, of course,” His Royal Highness said.

  “Hassan,” Boris said as an afterthought, “be sure to invite everyone to hear me sing in Vienna. They won’t come, of course, but simply being invited brings a ray of sunshine into their dreary little lives.”

  “Of course, Maestro, as you wish,” His Highness said.

  Hassan changed cars. Boris Alexandrovich Korsky-Rimsakov and Prince marched into Maxim’s. They marched past the riffraff in the tables on the sidewalk, and in the inside restaurant, Boris acknowledging the applause, ooohs, aaahs and hotel-room keys which his feminine fans threw in his direction with a gracious wave of his hand. The maitre d’hotel bowed them to a table in the section reserved for royalty, and the sommelier rushed up with a freshly chilled magnum of Piper Heidsieck ’50.

  The proprietor himself appeared.

  “Maestro!” he called, clapping his hands together before him in ecstasy. “How good of you to favor my humble establishment.”

  “It was an emergency,” Boris replied. “Stop standing there looking as if you are about to wet your pants and bring on the garbage.”

  Chapter Six

  Lieutenant (Junior Grade) J. P. Jones, United States Navy, having been summoned to appear before Rear Admiral (Lower Half) J. Kingswood Saltee, U.S.N., at 1615 hours Zulu Time (11:15 a.m. Maryland time), had dressed in the proper uniform with extra care.

  The navy had officially decreed the arrival of spring, and although there was a freezing drizzle outside, the summer white uniform was prescribed. The white uniform of Lieutenant (j.g.) Jones was crisp and spotless, from hat cover to shoes. The gold on the epaulets glistened. The knot in the tie was absolute perfection.

  At 1616 Zulu, the admiral’s yeoman spoke.

  “The admiral will see you now, Lieutenant.”

  “Thank you, yeoman,” Lieutenant (j.g.) J. P. Jones replied in a crisp naval manner, and marched into the admiral’s office. Lieutenant Jones stopped the prescribed five feet from the admiral’s desk and came to attention.

  “Lieutenant (j.g.) Jones, J. P., reporting to the admiral as ordered, sir,” Lieutenant (j.g.) Jones said.

  “So I see, my dear,” the admiral replied, getting to his feet and fixing a broad smile on his ruddy, nautical face. “And, if I may say so, my dear, you are a sight to really brighten the day of any sailor.”

  Lieutenant (j.g.) Joanne Pauline Jones, U.S.N., said nothing. After all, lieutenants, even lady lieutenants, are not permitted to shout rude things at rear admirals (Lower Half).

  “Please sit down, my dear young woman,” the admiral said, “and make yourself comfortable. Is there anything I can get you? Cigarette? Coffee? How about a little martinerooney?”

  “No, thank you, sir.” Lieutenant Jones said. “I make it a practice, sir, never to hoist the mainbrace, sir, either on duty, sir, or before the sun has passed over the yardarm sir.”

  “Commendable attitude, Lieutenant,” the admiral said, visibly disappointed. “But as your naval career progresses, you will come to understand that there are those occasions upon which it is entirely appropriate to bend navy regulations.”

  “Yes, sir,” Lieutenant (j.g.) Jones replied, without much enthusiasm. She had joined the navy to see the world; to tread the bridge of a man-of-war; to feel the sea spray against her face; to chart new courses for women through previously male chauvinist pig seas. So far, all she had done was man a typewriter. And worse, been a uniformed baby-sitter.

  Admiral Saltee turned from his bar and handed her a martini.

  “Anchors aweigh, Lieutenant!” he said, extending a martini.

  “I beg your pardon, sir.” Lieutenant (j.g.) Jones said, not taking the martini.

  “Make all preparations to get under way!” the admiral went on. “Cast off, fore and aft! All ahead full!”

  “I’m afraid I don’t follow you,” Lieutenant (j.g.) Jones said.

  “The sailor’s lingo will, I’m sure, my dear, come to you in time. In ladies’ language then, what I’m telling you is that you’re going to sea!”

  “I’m going to sea?” Lieutenant (j.g.) Jones asked, unable to believe what she was hearing.

  “You’re going to sea,” the admiral confirmed. Lieutenant (j.g.) Jones practically snatched the martini glass out of his hand. She tossed it down.

  “Yes, sir,” she said.

  “And not, I hasten to add, on some hospital ship or some supply ship or some transport.”

  “On a man-of-war, sir?” Lieutenant (j.g.) Jones asked, afraid to trust her great good fortune.

  “Better than a man-of-war,” the admiral said, leaving her dangle in suspense while he refilled her glass and only then adding, “on a nuclear sub!”

  “On a nuclear sub,” Lieutenant (j.g.) Jones repeated, almost reverently.

  “Anchors aweigh, Lieutenant!” the admiral replied.

  “Thank you, sir,” Lieutenant Jones replied, blushing prettily and then raising her glass again.

  “I have every confidence, my dear,” the admiral said, “that you will discharge your extraordinary duties in a manner which will bring credit upon those other females whose names at the moment escape me, but who, I’m told, have, from time to time, been called upon to lend their peculiar female talents to the support of the navy’s mission.”

  Lieutenant (j.g.) Jones somehow didn’t like the sound of that. It didn’t sound as if her duties aboard the nuclear submarine were going to be much different from what they were here at the U.S. Naval Academy. A “peculiar female talent” would not be necessary, she realized, if she were going to be assigned, for example, as navigator, or even mess officer.

  “Sir,” she asked, gathering her courage, “might I inquire as to the exact nature of my duties aboard the submarine?”

  “For the moment, my dear, suffice it to say that you will be making a contribution of great value to the efficacy of the Nuclear Submarine Force, North Atlantic.”

  “Yes, sir,” she said. “And what does that mean, Admiral?”

  “A contribution of more than mere naval importance,” he said, “a contribution with grave diplomatic-political implications which normally ... forgive my bluntness ... would not be entrusted to a naval officer, particularly a lady naval officer, of such junior rank and short service.”

  “I don’t quite follow you, Admiral,” she said.

  “In good time, my dear,” the admiral said. He punched the transmit button on his intercom. “Yeoman, is the chopper standing by?”

  “Yes, sir,” a somewhat metallic voice replied.

  “I’ll bet,” the admiral said, “when you woke this morning, when you looked in the mirror at your pretty little face, it would never have occurred to you that you would be lunching with the secretary of state?”

  “No, sir,” she said, somewhat confused, “it would not have. It did not.”

  “Come with me, my dear,” the admiral said. He took her arm and led her out of his office and out of the building. A Sikorsky helicopter, the type normally employed , to circle an aircraft carrier during aircraft launch and recovery operations, to pluck those pilots who had mad
e piloting errors from the briny deep, sat on the lawn, its pilot and crew chief leaning against the fuselage.

  The engine started, and even as the admiral and Lieutenant (j.g.) Jones strapped themselves into rather elegant, plushly upholstered armchairs (the helicopter was normally assigned to the commandant of the naval academy, and he, of course, could not be expected to sit on aluminum pipe and nylon cloth seats like some common swabby), the rotor began to turn. It began to make a fluckta-fluckta noise and then suddenly leapt into the air.

  The helicopter was equipped with a public address system, and the voice of the pilot came over it.

  “Annapolis, Chopper Two-One off the ground at 1650 Zulu. VIP direct flight to the Department of State.”

  “Roger, Annapolis Departure Control clears VIP Chopper Two-One to the roof to the State Department.”

  Now this, thought Lieutenant (j.g.) Joanne Pauline Jones, was more like it. This is what she had in mind, flying in a navy helicopter, when she had left behind her a tearful mother, an apoplectic father and a somewhat cynical sixteen-year-old brother to don navy blue. And this was only the beginning. The admiral had said she was going to sea on a nuclear submarine, and admirals never lie.

  In a very short time, the helicopter made a steep banking motion in the air. “State Department, Navy VIP Two-One for landing on the roof,” the loudspeaker announced.

  “Navy VIP Two-One is cleared to land on the roof,” a voice replied. The helicopter stopped forward movement, hovered in the air for a moment, and then fluttered, leaflike, to a helipad on the roof of the State Department Building.

  The crew chief slid the door open, jumped out, put the pipe to his lips and blew mightily.

  “Juniors first, my dear,” the admiral said, bowing Lieutenant (j.g.) Jones off the aircraft. She jumped to the roof. A short, rather plump, curly-haired gentleman was standing there, his fingers in his ears.

  “Enough with the tweet-tweet already,” he said rather impatiently.

  “Belay the piping,” the admiral said, then, “Mr. Secretary,” he went on, saluting crisply, “it was unnecessary for you to personally meet us.”