MASH 12 MASH goes to Texas

by Richard Hooker+William Butterworth

“Confirm. We are to locate and protect from enemies, foreign and domestic, an Arab, answering to the name of Abdullah, who may be dressed in any kind of clothing.”

  “Affirmative,” Fosdick replied. “Fosdick, out.”

  “God loves you!” a voice said, by way of answering the telephone.

  “Thank God someone’s there!” the caller said. “With whom do I have the pleasure of speaking?”

  “This is Brother Tiffany.”

  “Brother Tiffany, this is Brother Lester,” the caller said, “of the headquarters temple.”

  “And how may I be of service, Brother Lester?”

  “Brother Tiffany, there’s been the most awful mix-up. We’ve lost the Reverend Mother Emeritus.”

  “Isn’t that odd? Just a moment or two ago I saw the Reverend Mother Emeritus rolling down Maple Avenue in the most gorgeous Rolls-Royce you ever saw, and she was with two divinely handsome English types.”

  “Well, all I know, Brother Tiffany, is that the a cappella choir and I are simply stranded here in the most lonely airport you ever saw.”

  “That must be Dallas-Fort Worth. Tell me, dear, is there a big statue of a cowboy in the main passenger terminal?”

  “Not that I saw. All that I can see is just miles and miles of corridors.”

  “Well, if you were at Love Field, you couldn’t miss the cowboy,” Brother Tiffany said. “So you must be at Dallas-Fort Worth. Whatever possessed you to go way out there?”

  “The pilot, the one who called me a ‘perfumed pansy’ and who told me to stay out of the men’s room, probably did it to be nasty. But that’s water under the dam, Brother Tiffany. The bottom line is that here we are, and I don’t even know where Texas Stadium is, much less how to get out of this awful airport.”

  “Well, whatever you do, Brother Lester, don’t start roaming around; otherwise we’d never find you. You’d spend the rest of your life out there drinking Dr Pepper and eating cracker-and-peanut-butter sandwiches at a dollar a crack.”

  “I know. I put a quarter in the machine and a tape-recording laughed at me,” Brother Lester said. “And then it kept the quarter.”

  “I’ll see if I can get our bus drivers on the C.B. and have them come get you.”

  “Oh, thank you, Brother Tiffany.”

  “Think nothing of it, Brother Lester. I mean, if we in the GILIAFCC, Inc., don’t care for each other, who will?”

  Chapter Fourteen

  “Howdy, Ida-Sue,” Alamo Jones said. “This here’s your husband.”

  “I would never have guessed,” Ida-Sue replied. “Where are you, Alamo?”

  “At the airport,” Alamo said.

  “And are Tiny Tony and Vibrato Val with you?”

  “Yes and no, Ida-Sue,” Alamo said.

  “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

  “Well, I came with them on the plane, and I gave them the hats and the boots and all they wanted to drink …”

  “And?”

  “They’re on their way out to Texas Stadium,” he said. He had a sudden inspiration, based more or less on the truth. “There wasn’t room for me in the car,” he added.

  “My God!” Ida-Sue said. “You’ve finally done something right.”

  “I have?” he asked, somewhat surprised.

  “I probably shouldn’t tell you this, Alamo, lest you get the idea that I’m turning into a sissy or something, but I really don’t have the heart to face Uncle Hiram.”

  “Have they caught him?”

  “I just this minute got the word that the Texas Rangers finally caught him and one of the others—not that goddamned faithful Indian companion, but the other one, Teddy Roosevelt. The hooker and the Indian are still on the loose.”

  “They’ll catch them, I’m sure,” Alamo said.

  “So what I’ll do, Alamo,” Ida-Sue said, “is go out to the gate and greet them when they arrive. That way, I don’t have to face Uncle Hiram. Fat Jack Stewing, the shrink, and Richard Crochet, the shyster, can handle the dirty business themselves.”

  “I’ll get out there just as soon as I can, my dear,” Alamo Jones said.

  Hawkeye and Trapper John turned from looking through the windshield of the lavender Winnebago.

  “Nice little place you’ve got here,” Trapper John said.

  “Whose nice little place, exactly, is it?” Hawkeye asked.

  “His,” Scarlett said, pointing at Bubba.

  “Theirs,” Bubba said, pointing to Lance and Brucie, who were still under the bed.

  “Hi, there!” Lance called out.

  “Pleased to make your acquaintance, I’m sure,” Hawkeye said. “Hey, chief, how’s the supply of firewater?”

  “Firewater all gone,” Sitting Buffalo said. “Sitting Buffalo will go get more firewater. Will get some firewater for fat, red-haired squaw, too.”

  “Sitting Buffalo, you can’t go out there!” Scarlett protested. It was to no avail. Brushing aside Scarlett and Bubba with absolutely no visible effort, Sitting Buffalo set out to acquire some additional firewater. The good sisters at the reservation school had taught him to read, not too well, to be sure, but well enough to recognize a Budweiser sign when he saw one.

  “Men,” Bubba called out to Green Beret Post 5660, V.F.W., “go with him!” Then he turned to Scarlett. “Put your mind at rest, little lady,” he said. “Sitting Buffalo is as safe with the men who wear the green beret as he would be in his mother’s wigwam.”

  “Thanks a lot,” Scarlett said sarcastically.

  “You’re welcome, I’m sure,” Bubba replied. “Now, is there anything else I can do for you, Scarlett?”

  “Flake off,” Scarlett replied. “No, wait a minute. I forgot all about poor old Teddy Roosevelt.”

  “What about poor old Teddy Roosevelt?”

  “The poor lamb hasn’t had anything to eat since we left the ranch,” Scarlett said, “except for the rosebush he ate at the Dallas Aristocratic Motorcar Emporium, Limited.”

  “Put your mind at rest, little lady,” Bubba began.

  “If you call me ‘little lady’ one more time, you oversized Boy Scout...”

  “I was an Eagle Scout, as a matter of fact,” Bubba said, “as well as a junior assistant scout master.”

  “I’ll feed you to Teddy Roosevelt!” Scarlett concluded.

  “The Bison Americanus is not a carnivore,” Bubba replied. “I should think you would know that. You haven’t been feeding that poor beast hot dogs or anything else unhealthy like that, have you?”

  “Of course not,” she snapped.

  “I’m relieved,” Bubba said. “Generally, those of your sex are not very well versed in animal nutrition.”

  “What am I going to get Teddy Roosevelt to eat?” Scarlett asked.

  “As I was saying just a moment ago, little lady ...” Bubba began, and Scarlett kicked him in the shins. He winced, but otherwise pretended not to notice, and went on. “ ... as one more manifestation of my burning, if newfound, desire to not only satisfy your every little wish, but to anticipate your wishes, you may put your mind to rest. I have just the thing, I hope, for Teddy Roosevelt.”

  “What the hell are you talking about?” Scarlett asked.

  “If you’ll just watch this,” Bubba said, and picked up his pack.

  “What the hell is that?”

  “It’s my luggage, obviously,” Bubba replied. “You mean you’ve never seen a Green Beret Handy-Dandy Rucksack and Marching Pack before?”

  “Neither have I,” Hawkeye said, “but I like it.”

  “I should have known you wouldn’t have had something as simple as a suitcase,” Scarlett said.

  “One has trouble getting through airplane doors with suitcases,” Bubba said. “And then the shock that follows the canopy opening has a nasty way of jerking hand-held suitcases from one’s hand.”

  “Do you have any idea what he’s talking about?” Scarlett asked Trapper John.

  “I gather that he is a parachutist,” Trapper John replied. �
��They’re not like you and me, parachutists aren’t.”

  “What is that thing?” Scarlett asked as Bubba unfolded a collapsed canvas device.

  “It’s a folding bucket,” Bubba explained.

  “And what’s that awful-looking powder?” Scarlett inquired, then gagged at the smell. “If it didn’t smell so bad, I’d think it was laundry detergent.”

  “Nasal beauty is in the nostrils of the beholder,” Bubba said. “This is Soja hispida Burtonosis. It’s dehydrated, of course, and fortified with certain minerals considered necessary for bisonal nutrition.”

  “Do you know what he’s saying?” Scarlett asked Hawkeye.

  “I think he’s going to try to get your buffalo to eat that stuff,” Hawkeye replied.

  “Over my dead body!” Scarlett said.

  Bubba ignored her. He filled the canvas bucket about a third full with the powder, and then he filled the bucket with water from the sink faucet. An even stronger odor now filled the trailer. The stuff in the bucket bubbled and fizzed, then subsided, leaving a thick brown substance.

  “Yuk!” Scarlett said, holding her nose as she looked at it.

  “You’re not really going to let him feed that stuff to your innocent buffalo, are you?” Trapper John asked.

  “I’m going to let him try,” Scarlett said, “and then laugh and laugh as Teddy Roosevelt kicks him back to wherever he comes from.”

  “That’s very cruel of you,” Hawkeye said.

  “He who laughs last laughs best,” Bubba said, stepping to the door, “to coin a phrase.”

  “Been nice knowing you,” Hawkeye said.

  “He probably doesn’t even have hospital insurance,” Trapper John said. “We’re going to have to put him back together for free.”

  Bubba opened the door. Teddy Roosevelt was standing there, snorting and making other buffalo-type noises and pawing the parking lot with his foot.

  “Here you go, old fella,” Bubba said. “Chow-down, as we say in the Green Berets.”

  He extended the bucket to Teddy Roosevelt. Teddy Roosevelt stuck his massive jaw (all that would fit of it, anyway) into the bucket. There was a rather awesome slurping sound, and then the jaw was withdrawn. The bucket had been emptied. Teddy Roosevelt looked at Bubba. His right foot rose off the ground.

  “Watch out, fella!” Trapper John said. “I think he’s about to kick.”

  “No, he’s not,” Scarlett said, wonder and awe in her not unpleasant voice. “He’s giving Bubba his paw. I taught him how to do that. He wants more of that stuff.”

  “Will wonders never cease?” Hawkeye said.

  “What’s in that, anyway?” Trapper John asked.

  “Yeah, what are you feeding my buffalo?” Scarlett said. “Is it good for him?”

  “What you have just seen, little lady,” Bubba said, “is a preview of what will be a virtual revolution in buffalo-feeding in America. It will open a whole new vista of opportunity for buffalo breeders and, coincidentally, solve a minor problem that Little Momma and I have been having.”

  Scarlett was so shaken that she forgot to kick Bubba for calling her “little lady.” She rectified her omission by punching him in the back as he refilled the bucket for Teddy Roosevelt. When he didn’t seem to notice, she punched him again, and then again.

  He finally turned around. “You’ve got a lot of spirit, little lady,” he said. “I like that in girls.”

  She punched him in the stomach, with no visible results at all, and then she punched him two or three more times, equally without any result. Finally, she stood there, puffing, red faced, furious.

  “Ain’t love grand?” Hawkeye said.

  “That’s what makes the world go ’round,” Trapper John philosophized.

  “Something wrong, little lady?” Bubba asked, seeing the confused look on Scarlett’s face.

  “What’s that noise?” Scarlett asked. “What’s that noise?”

  “What noise is that?” Bubba asked.

  “Trumpets, violins, and I think a couple of harps,” Scarlett said. “Can’t you hear it?”

  “Of course I can hear it, little lady,” Bubba said.

  “Did I miss something?” Fern said, coming from the rear of the Winnebago and placing a feminine hand on Bubba’s shoulder. “How goes it, big fella?”

  “Get your ugly paws off my fiancé!” Scarlett said furiously. “You skinny old bag! I’ll pull your hair out!”

  When Ida-Sue Jones arrived at the V.I.P. gate at Texas Stadium, she found the passageway blocked by a Rolls-Royce. The occupants of the vehicle were a lady, in what looked like an evening gown of the type worn by proprietors of establishments with red lights in the window, and, surprisingly, two Englishmen, in dignified bankers’gray suits, complete to derby hats and rolled umbrellas.

  “Get those lousy foreigners and their hooker out of the way!” Ida-Sue screamed. “Congressman Tiny Tony Bambino and Congressman Vibrato Val Vishnefsky will be here any moment!”

  Ida-Sue looked at the lousy foreigners who were interfering with her well-laid plans, and then she did a sudden double take, taking a very close look at the chap with the neatly trimmed regimental-type brush mustache.

  “For your information, lady, them congressmen you mentioned already passed through,” the policeman said.

  “What are you waiting for, you Jackass!” Ida-Sue screamed. “Arrest him!”

  “Beg pardon, ma’am?” the Texas Ranger said.

  “You heard me, you moron! Arrest him!”

  “Arrest who, ma’am?”

  “Hiram Dalrymple! That’s him with the neatly trimmed regimental-type brush mustache.”

  “Now, what would a poor, crazy west Texas rancher be doing dressed up like an Englishman and riding around in the Neiman-Marcus courtesy car?” the Texas Ranger asked reasonably. “But now that you mention it, ma’am, there is an all-points bulletin out for a lady fitting your description.”

  “What do you mean, my description?” Ida-Sue screamed.

  “I got it right here,” the Texas Ranger said, taking out his copy of the Teletype and reading aloud from it: ‘The sort of cheap peroxide-blonde hussy who would trifle with a poor old man’s affections.’ That fits you to a T, lady,” the ranger said. “Grab her, Slim, and put the cuffs on her!”

  “Here’s my card, honey,” Hot Lips said. “When they let you out, look me up. It’s never too late to change your ways, you know.”

  “Uncle Hiram!” Ida-Sue cried in desperation. “You’re not going to let them do this to me, are you? To your very own niece? The mother of Scarlett?” Uncle Hiram took the Corona cigar out from under his neatly trimmed regimental mustache. He sadly shook his head and then gestured, almost regally, with the cigar for the Rangers to take her away.

  “Sorry to bother you folks with our dirty laundry,” the Texas Ranger said.

  “Think nothing of it,” Hot Lips said.

  “Enjoy the game,” the ranger said, waving the Rolls into the parking lot.

  There already was activity in the Texas Rangers’ mobile disaster command post when word came in that the long arm of the law had finally been wrapped around the cheap peroxide-blonde hussy.

  Fat Jack Stewing, M.D., F.A.S.P.P., raised the ten-gallon hat off the head of the taller of the two men suspended between two large Texas Rangers.

  “This is obviously the chap we’ve been looking for,” he said. “He’s visibly quite mad.”

  “I tell you that I’m the Honorable Vibrato Val Vishnefsky, member of Congress,” the fellow protested. “Tell him, Tiny Tony!”

  “He’s the Honorable Vibrato Val Vishnefsky!” Tiny Tony bellowed. “Member of Congress!”

  “Of course he is,” Fat Jack Stewing said. “Put the tall one in the straitjacket, officers, and dump him in the ambulance.”

  “What do we do with the short, fat one?”

  “You have your orders,” Richard Crochet, Attorney and Counselor at Law, said sternly. “Throw him into the slammer until he sobers up, and then
turn him loose after a stern warning about aiding and abetting loonies on the run in the Great State of Texas.” At that point, the word came in about the apprehension of the cheap peroxide-blonde hussy. Wallington T. Dowd ordered that she be locked up with the short, fat guy, and then turned over to Dr. Stewing and Lawyer Crochet.

  “That just about wraps it up, boys,” Wally said with quiet pride, “except for the crazy Indian. And I just got word that they have him surrounded at the Budweiser stand. He was attempting to make off with a keg of beer.”

  “What seems to be the problem? Why haven’t they arrested him?” Richard Crochet said.

  “There seems to be a little misunderstanding,” Wally Dowd confessed. “It’s between my rangers and Green Beret Post 5660, V.F.W., but we hope to have it straightened out just as soon as the national guardsmen can get there.” He paused, then explained: “We have the National Guard Green Beret Company helping us out today. They’re nearly as good as my own rangers.”

  If the end of the “misunderstanding” had really depended on the arrival of the National Guard Green Beret Company, it would have been a long time in coming, for the commanding officer, in order to prepare his men for the ordeal of dealing with Green Beret Post 5660, V.F.W., had ordered his men to take a couple of hours of absolute rest before entering battle.

  But it wasn’t the national guardsmen who brought the affray to a conclusion; it was C. Bromwell Fosdick of the Secret Service. Just as soon as Texas Stadium came into view, Mr. Fosdick had climbed on top of his car, so as to have a better vantage point.

  It was from that vantage point that, as soon as they rolled into the parking lot, he saw the disturbance at the Budweiser stand.

  “You were right, Lenny,” Fosdick called out. “His Royal Highness has changed disguises. Now he’s dressed as an Indian.”

  As he rolled toward the battle scene, the Rolls-Royce carrying Hot Lips, and now Scarlett, Bubba, Hawkeye and Trapper John, as well, rolled majestically toward the battle scene from the other direction. Hot Lips really hadn’t wanted to interfere, but the only way she could talk Uncle Hiram, who had kept his Colt-.45 single-action revolver, out of going himself was to give him her word that she would get Sitting Buffalo out of trouble.