“Trapper,” Hawkeye called from the top of the stairs, “I’m afraid he’ll live, but we’ll need a hacksaw to cut him free from the door.”
A voice was suddenly heard. It was a voice that had thrilled millions and had caused its owner to be declared a National Treasure of the Republic of France. It caused a tremor to move through the crowd here now—not because of its interpretation of, say, the musical genius of Verdi, Bellini, or Bizet, but because its owner, who had total recall, was recalling all the words* he had learned in the 223rd Infantry.
(* The words Mr. Korsky-Rimsakov used in his pain and anguish cannot, of course, be printed in a morally uplifting tome such as this one. Those whose limited imaginations will not permit them to fill in the appropriate blank spaces should get in touch with a former U.S. Army infantryman, or, in a pinch, a Marine.)
“What the ( ) has happened? Why the (…) am I stuck in this (…)ing door? Why the ( ) isn’t someone doing some (…)ing thing to get me out of this (…)ing door? Hawkeye! You (…)ing chancre mechanic, can’t you see that I’m bleeding grievous! from this wound on my (…)ing nose?”
“Oh, my goodness!” Father Cronin said. “And wit the archbishop on board, where he can hear everything!”
“The archbishop’s not on board,” Dago Red said.
“He’s not?” Father Cronin said.
“Wrong Way, I knew you couldn’t be trusted, Mayor Moosenose Bartlett said.
“Ye can’t trust any of them pizza-eaters,” Father Cronin said. “They’re as crooked as politicians.”
“That’s a terrible thing to say!” Dago Red said. “Shame on you, Father!”
“I can’t believe my ears!” Father Cronin said. “Lay people don’t go around sayin’ things like that to priests of the Church! It works the other way around. “Shame on you, you little heathen! I knew the minute I laid my eyes on you that you were some kind of Protestant troublemaker!”
The Very Reverend Monsignor Pancho de Malaga y de Villa, wearing one of those ankle-length black garments and round-crowned, round-brimmed hats that have, for the last couple of centuries, been considered the height of ecclesiastical fashion for monsignori around Vatican City, appeared at the door of the aircraft.
“Excuse me, Your Eminence,” he called. “Mr. Korsky-Rimsakov asks that you hold his hand while they cut him free from the door.”
“Coming!” Dago Red called, and he bounded back up the stairs.
Father Cronin turned to Mary Pierce. While she wasn’t one of his faithful flock, Father Cronin felt that someone named Mary should have secret religious leanings, and further that someone sharing the life of Dr. Hawkeye Pierce was a likely candidate for sainthood via a lifetime of martyrdom.
“Mary, my girl,” he said, “my old ears must be failing me. Did you happen to catch what that fine-looking monsignor called that little heathen?”
“What little heathen?” Mary Pierce asked.
“The little Protestant one in the yellow-and-purple nylon jacket, that one,” Father Cronin clarified.
“Oh, Father Cronin, Archbishop Mulcahy’s not a heathen,” Lucinda McIntyre said. “He’s an Eminence.”
“Then what’s he dressed up like that for? Whoever heard of an archbishop running around in a yellow-and-purple jacket with ‘Dago Red’ sewed on it?”
“Why don’t you ask him?” Moosenose Bartlett suggested.
“I’m sure His Eminence has his reasons, and very good ones,” Father Cronin said firmly. “Although, at the moment, I can’t imagine what they might be.” They all stood at the foot of the stairs, looking up at the door to the airplane, from which came the sounds of a hacksaw working its way through aluminum. These sounds were punctuated by loud groans. Finally, Monsignor Pancho de Malaga y de Villa appeared in the door and descended the stairs.
“Mary, Lucinda,” he said to Mesdames Pierce and McIntyre, “I’m so glad you’re here. The archbishop was hoping you would be.”
“Anything Dago Red wants, Pancho,” Mary Pierce said. “You know that.”
“Monsignor,” Father Cronin said. “I’m Father Sean Cronin, and I’m a friend of these fine ladies, even though one of them is a Protestant.”
“He thought Dago Red was a heathen,” Lucinda McIntyre offered helpfully. “Isn’t that the funniest thing you ever heard?”
“Not quite,” the monsignor said, giving Father Cronin a somewhat frosty glance.
“What happened to Old Bull Bellow?”
“He was standing in the aisle when His Eminence put the bird into full reverse thrust,” replied the monsignor, who had picked up some aviation lingo. “And he kept flying, so to speak.”
“But he’s going to be all right?” Lucinda asked.
“Oh, yes,” the monsignor said.
“Pity,” Mary Pierce said.
“You say Dago Red wanted to see us?” Lucinda asked.
“We have a small problem,” the monsignor said. “His Eminence hoped that you would be willing to help.”
“As Mary said,” Lucinda replied. “Anything Dago Red wants, Dago Red gets.”
“I felt sure you’d feel that way,” the monsignor said.
“What can we do?” Mary Pierce asked.
“I think His Eminence would rather ask you himself,” the monsignor said. He looked up at the airplane. “And here he comes.”
“Speak of the devil,” Lucinda McIntyre said.
His Eminence the Archbishop of Swengchan came down the stairs.
“Boris’ll be all right,” he said.
“Pity,” Mary Pierce replied. “I was hoping he’d broken his neck or something.”
“Mary, Lucinda,” His Eminence said. “I need a favor from you.”
“As my good friend Mary was just saying, Dago Red,” Father Cronin said. “Anything you want!”
“Now see here, you,” His Eminence said, suddenly flaring. “I’ll stand here and take being called a heathen by you, because you’re obviously not too bright, but only my friends get to call me ‘Dago Red.’ You got that?”
“Yes, of course, Your Eminence,” Father Cronin said.
Boris Alexandrovich Korsky-Rimsakov at that moment appeared at the door of the airplane. He was wearing a sky-blue silk dressing gown with an ermine collar, a Russian-style fur cap, and a Band-Aid on his nose. His right hand held a pint-sized brandy sniffer, recently nearly filled from a half-gallon jug of Courvoisier, which he held in his left hand.
“Dry your tears, Mary and Lucinda,” he cried. “God had heard your prayers—or at least decided on His own that my incomparable voice should not be stilled —and I will live!”
“Whoopee!” Mary Pierce said.
“Where’s your luggage?” Boris asked.
“We’re not going anywhere,” Lucinda McIntyre said. “That’s how come no luggage.”
“You’re sure?”
“Absolutely positive,” Mary Pierce said. “Absolutely.”
“Pity,” Boris said. “Miami, I am told, is rather nice, compared to here, this time of year.”
“We’re not going to Miami,” Lucinda McIntyre said. “And neither are Trapper John...”
“Or Hawkeye,” Mary said to complete the non-negotiable statement of fact.
Another bearded man, almost as large as Boris, appeared beside him at the head of the stairway. He shrank from the light, putting his hands over his eyes. Then he jabbed Boris in the arm. Without looking at him, Boris handed him the half-gallon jug of Courvoisier cognac. The bearded man took a large pull at the neck, handed the bottle back, and peered curiously around him.
“Jesus Christ!” he said. “Where in hell we are? Who dat funny-looking fella in the funny hat?”
“Moosenose,” Mary Pierce said. “Say hello to François Mulligan.”
“On behalf of the City Administration and the Chamber of Commerce of Beautiful Spruce Harbor on the Bay,” Moosenose said sonorously, “sometimes referred to as the Pearl of Maine, welcome. Welcome to our fair city, Mr. Mulligan.”
�
�Jesus, he sure talk funny, don’t he, Boris?” Mulligan said, wrapping an arm around Boris’ shoulders as they descended the stairs. The stairs mounted on the back of Wrong Way’s pickup truck creaked ominously under the burden, but the journey was completed safely.
François took the Courvoisier bottle from Boris, carefully wiped its neck on his shirttail, and extended it to Moosenose.
“Don’t mind if I do,” Moosenose replied.
“Hello dere, pretty Madame Pierce,” François said, finally focusing his eyes on her. “You and Madame McIntyre goin’ to Miami wit us, huh?”
“I think not, François ,” Mary Pierce said. “Thank you just the same.”
“You ought to come along,” François pursued. “We’re going to have a little party.”
“That thought occurred to us, François ,” Lucinda said. “We’ll just have to make that sacrifice.”
“And so will Hawkeye,” Mary began.
“And Trapper John,” Lucinda finished.
“Mary, Lucinda!” said Dago Red. “About that little favor?”
“What about it?”
“May I speak to you privately?” Dago Red asked, taking a lady’s arm in each hand and leading them under the wing and behind the landing gear, where they were concealed from sight and could converse privately.
“Far be it from me, Dago Red, to be even a teensy-weensy bit suspicious of an archbishop, but what, exactly, do you have in mind, favor-wise?” Mary Pierce asked.
“You heard François say that he was going to Miami?”
“Indeed I did,” Mary replied. “That’s why Hawkeye’s not going.”
“And you gathered, I suppose, that Boris is also going to be there?”
“That’s why my Trapper’s going to stay home,” Lucinda replied. “His carcass by the hearth.”
“I wouldn’t be at all surprised if His Royal Highness Whatsisname was also going to Miami,” Mary said.
“You are very perceptive, Mary,” Dago Red said. “Hassan is on the plane.”
“That, to coin a phrase, puts the cork in the jug,” Mary Pierce said. “I’m just surprised, Dago Red, that you’re going too. What if your boss should hear about it?”
“But you don’t know why we’re all going,” Dago Red said.
“Let me make a wild guess,” Mary said. “Horsey and Hot Lips are going to fly over from New Orleans.”
“Just Hot Lips. Horsey’s on the plane too. We went to Alaska to get him.”
“On purpose, you mean? Or was he going to be lynched by the Eskimos, and you saw it as your misguided Christian duty to save his skin?”
The archbishop didn’t reply directly to the question.
“Mary,” he said. “Let me put it to you this way. Could you . . . and Lucinda, too, of course . . . really be so cold, cruel, and callous as to let a man of my age, in the twilight of his years on earth, go to Miami alone with Boris, François , and Horsey?”
“You can stay here while they go to Miami,” Mary replied.
“Oh, but I can’t. I have to go and explain Hot Lips’ holy relic to the family Gomez y Sanchez.” He paused. “What I mean to say is that I will explain that there are holy relics and then there are holy relics.”
“Go over that again,” Mary said. “I’d have sworn you said, ‘Hot Lips’ holy relic.’ ”
He did.
Three minutes later, Mesdames Pierce and McIntyre marched up the stairs mounted on the back of Wrong Way Napolitano’s pickup truck and into the interior of Air Hussid DC-9 Number Twelve behind His Eminence the Archbishop of Swengchan.
Shielding their eyes as they marched past the door to the Royal Cabin, they proceeded to the forward compartment, where Dr. and Mrs. Walter Waldowski and Wanda were having a bite to eat.
“Oh, Your Eminence!” Mrs. Waldowski said. “What an unexpected pleasure!”
“Although you ladies have exchanged Christmas cards,” Dago Red said, “I don’t believe you’ve met. Mary Pierce, Lucinda McIntyre, this is Wilma Waldowski.”
“Oh, how nice!” Wilma Waldowski said.
“Get your bags, dear,” Mary Pierce said. “You’re getting off!”
“I beg your pardon?”
“We’ll explain later,” Lucinda McIntyre said.
“I beg your pardon?”
“Trust me, Wilma,” Dago Red said. “It’s better this way.”
“I don’t quite understand,” Wilma Waldowski said.
“Remember saying ‘for better or for worse’?” Mary Pierce said. “Well, dear, that wasn’t in the ceremony for nothing.”
“You heard the archbishop, Walter,” Wilma said to her husband. “Get up, put that Bloody Mary down, and get our bags.”
“Walter’s not going,” Dago Red said. “Or, more precisely, Walter’s not getting off. I mean, he’s going, and you’re not.”
“What’s he going to do?” Wilma demanded.
“I don’t think, dear,” Mary Pierce said, “that you really want to know.”
“Boston Area Control,” the pilot said. “Air Hussid Twelve on the ground at Spruce Harbor International requests route and altitude for Direct Miami.”
“Air Hussid Twelve, Boston, say again your location?”
“Air Hussid Twelve on the ground at Spruce Harbor International.”
“Air Hussid Twelve, what is your type of aircraft?”
“Boston, Air Hussid Twelve is a DC-9 F aircraft.”
“Boston advises Air Hussid that Spruce Harbor International is a five-thousand-foot dirt runway and will not take an aircraft the size of a DC-9.”
“Boston,” the pilot responded, just a trifle smugly, “that would depend on just who is flying the DC-9. I say again, request route and altitude for Direct Miami.”
“Oh, what the hell,” Boston responded. “Boston Area Control clears Air Hussid Twelve for takeoff from Spruce Harbor. Climb to flight level three zero thousand, take Victor Twelve, and report over Boston.”
“Roger, Boston. Air Hussid understands Victor Twelve at three zero thousand.” The pilot looked out the cockpit window, made the sign of blessing to Father Sean Cronin and the Honorable Moosenose Bartlett (who stood respectfully by the side of the runway), and then shoved the throttles forward. “Air Hussid rolling,” he said into his microphone.
“Let that be a lesson to ye, Moosenose Bartlett,” Father Cronin said as the plane raced down the runway. “A church that can send its archbishop soaring off into the wild blue yonder at the controls of a great jet aircraft like that one doesn’t need to be fixing its Bingo games.”
Chapter Fourteen
Senator J. Ellwood (“Jaws”) Fisch (Radical-Liberal, Calif.) was not really as stupid as his many critics wanted people to believe. He could indeed, despite slanderous suggestions to the contrary, read without moving his lips and walk and chew gum at the same time. He proved this, time and time again, to the enthusiastic applause of his many fans (most of whom were registered lobbyists), at cocktail parties from one end of the District of Columbia to the other.
Objective viewers—of which, it is true, there were very few—found that the senator was actually setting a standard the government might well emulate. That is to say, he was doing a great deal with very little.
He had come to the Senate with only one solid talent, an uncanny (if well-rehearsed) ability to talk like the late President John F. Kennedy. On the other end of the scale was the senator’s unfortunate predilection for nibbling playfully on the lower limbs of his female companions. The affectionate appellation “Jaws” by which he was known did not actually make reference to his well-polished, somewhat outsized teeth, although the senator’s assistant for policy research, who handled his public relations, P. Kenyon Quirtman (GS-18, $36,990 per annum), spent at least half his time buttressing that popular misconception.
The senator actually possessed an ability that few of his fellows in what has been laughingly called “The World’s Most Exclusive Club” possessed. He recognized his own limitations. Whatever else c
ould (and usually was) said about him, Senator Jaws Fisch did not believe that God had selected him to save the country from the foolish ambitions of its citizens. Shortly after being sworn in, he had confessed to the president pro tempore of the Senate that he knew absolutely nothing about finance, international relations, ecology, law, or Indian affairs, and that his knowledge of military affairs was limited to his six-month period of service as a PFC in the Quartermaster Corps.
“We have just the spot for you, Senator,” the president pro tempore had said. “Just the place for someone of your talents.”
Senator Fisch had been assigned, as eleventh ranking member, to the eleven-man Senate Subcommittee on Minorities. He understood, of course, that the important minorities—the Afro-Americans, the Irish Americans, the Jewish Americans, the Polish Americans, the Italian Americans, the Latin Americans, and the American Americans (or “Indians”) naturally were assigned to the more important senators. He was perfectly happy with what he got—the French Americans.
The French Americans, by and large, didn’t require much of his time. For one thing, there weren’t very many of them, and they so far had shown no insatiable hunger to burn the American flag on the steps of our nation’s Capitol to call attention to their plight.
Fisch’s position carried with it certain perquisites. For one thing, he got to go to Paris a lot. And he went free, for Air France had presented him with a pass as a small token of its gratitude for all that he was doing for the oppressed French Americans in what, for some reason the senator didn’t quite understand, they insisted on calling “Les États Unis.”
Soon after arriving for the first time in France, Fisch had met the most charming French diplomat, who had introduced him to a procession of attractive young women, all of whom confessed that their idea of heaven on earth was to be nibbled on the thigh by a handsome and talented U.S. senator. These hadn’t been run-of-the-mill French floozies, either. Each and every one had been well educated, and in their company, he had acquired in addition to other things, quite a bit of knowledge about that magnificent French droop-nosed supersonic aircraft, Le Discorde, and the whole new world of aviation wonders that would open up the minute it was granted U.S. landing rights. . . .
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