MASH 06 MASH Goes to Morocco

by Richard Hooker

  “Right now seems like a good time,” Hawkeye said. “The airplane has stopped moving.”

  As a purely routine precaution, the Rabat Airport Authority had dispatched a security guard in a jeep to the arriving U.S.A.F. aircraft. Purely by coincidence, he had stopped his jeep precisely at the spot where the emergency egress chute unfolded and, from which, moments afterward, two golf bags and two doctors emerged.

  “What’s going on here?” the security guard demanded.

  “Thank God you’re here, officer,” Trapper John said. “There’s a wild egress loose inside that airplane.”

  “A wild egress?” the security guard asked. Simultaneously shaking his head sadly and making a circular motion with his index finger in the vicinity of his temple, Hawkeye said, “Tragic case. He thinks he’s an American diplomat named Potter.”

  “Who is Potter?” the guard asked.

  “I am,” Trapper John said. “And if you will let us borrow your jeep while you keep the poor, tragic egress aboard the airplane, we will arrange with the U.S. Embassy for the men in white coats to come for him.”

  At that moment, Q. Elwood Potter appeared at the now-open aircraft window.

  “You can’t use this egress,” he screamed.

  “Who are you?” the security guard screamed back.

  “I am Q. Elwood Potter of the United States Department of State,” Potter announced.

  “What did I tell you?” Trapper John said. “A classic case.”

  “I would hate to think what would happen if an egress like that one,” Hawkeye said, “should somehow manage to get off the plane and be allowed to run loose around this fine airport.”

  “Fear not,” the security guard said, jumping out of the jeep and pointing his rifle at Q. Elwood Potter, “Mustapha ben Ali is in command.” Hawkeye jumped behind the wheel as Trapper John threw the golf bags into the back seat. “Tell the embassy to hurry,” Mustapha ben Ali added.

  Q. Elwood Potter let out a scream of rage as he saw the jeep carrying Hawkeye and Trapper John race off. Mustapha ben Ali made menacing gestures with his rifle. Suddenly, the face of Airwoman Betty-Lou Williams appeared at the window beside his. She immediately saw what was going on and nimbly hopped into the egress chute. Moments later she was nose-to-nose with Mustapha ben Ali.

  “Au secours, an secours!”*6 Mustapha ben Ali screamed. “I am being attacked by two American egresses, one of them female.” He pointed his rifle at Airwoman Betty-Lou Williams. She snatched it from his hands with a smile of disdain and broke it over her knee. Then she started running after the jeep.

  (*6 Au secours is how the naturally loquacious French say “Help.”)

  Hawkeye, of course, really had no idea where he was going. He drove aimlessly, if rather rapidly, away from the airport and, ten minutes later, found himself in downtown Rabat.

  “Now what?” Trapper John asked, looking around at burnoosed natives, small-sized jackasses and other native fauna. “This doesn’t look like a golf course to me.

  “When in doubt, take a taxi,” Hawkeye replied, slamming on the brakes and pulling to the curb behind a line of one-horse fiacres, each bearing little signs reading TAXI.

  The driver unfortunately did not speak English, and the distinguished surgeons did not unfortunately speak Arabic; so there was something of a communications problem until Trapper John, in desperation, snatched his driver from his golf bag and addressed an imaginary ball.

  “A-ha-ha,” the fiacre driver said, recognition dawning. “Le Golf.”

  Trapper John and Hawkeye smiled broadly and nodded enthusiastically,

  “But, gentlemen,” the fiacre driver said, “there is but one place where full-grown men beat upon small white balls with sticks such as yours.” He said this in Arabic, of course, and although they hadn’t the foggiest idea of what he said, Trapper and Hawkeye nodded even more enthusiastically in agreement.

  “That is Le Club Royal de Golf de Maroc,” the driver went on. Since the phrase “Royal Golf Club of Morocco” does not readily translate into Arabic, he used the French words. They were close enough to English so that Hawkeye and Trapper understood them, which caused them to smile at each other triumphantly and nod their heads even more enthusiastically.

  “Only the King of Morocco and his guests are permitted to play at Le Club Royal de Golf de Maroc,” the fiacre driver went on. “It is absolutely forbidden on pain of imprisonment for anyone else to play there.”

  “You got it, pal,” Trapper John said. “Le Club Royal de Golf de Maroc—that’s for us.”

  These two strangers did not look like royalty, the fiacre driver thought. But then again, they had arrived in an official jeep, and they seemed to know where they wanted to go. He would give them the benefit of the doubt. He bowed deeply, a gesture he reserved only for royalty and, with great dignity, climbed into the driver’s seat.

  After some prodding, the horse started to move, very slowly. It wasn’t very far to the club but, at the speed they were going, the fiacre driver had plenty of time for second thoughts. He decided that discretion was the better part of valor. Instead of taking them to the club house proper, where there were bound to be all sorts of police and other officials, he decided that he would drive them along the road which ran beside the golf course and discharge them there.

  Five minutes later, the fiacre creaked to a halt. The driver stood up in his seat, turned around, bowed deeply in the direction of what turned out to be the sixth tee and held out his hand for his fare.

  Trapper put dollar bills into his hand, one at a time, until the fiacre driver’s face changed from outrage through hurt to reluctant acceptance. And then, their bags over their shoulders, Hawkeye and Trapper John marched onto Le Club Royal de Golf de Maroc.

  They liked what they saw. It was a well-tended course, and there was no one else, so far as they could see, playing on it. They played, in fact, five holes before they even saw anyone else on the links, another twosome, two holes ahead of them. One seemed to be a pretty decent golfer; the other, while enthusiastic, was not likely to be asked to play in the Masters.

  “Probably the pro and a student,” Trapper John suggested, and Hawkeye nodded his agreement.

  “The pro’s got his work cut out for him,” Hawkeye said. “Look at that! The duffer just broke his club—probably the number-three iron—over his knee.”

  “Temper,” Trapper John said solemnly, “has no place on the fairway.” Then he missed his putt and threw his putter high into the air.

  Two holes later, as they began to tee up, they saw that they had caught up with the pro and his student, mainly because the student had played his ball into the largest sand trap (it had dunes) that either Hawkeye or Trapper had ever seen.

  “Fore!” Hawkeye called, the traditional warning of a ball about to be driven in the direction of other players on the course.

  The duffer looked back in their direction in apparent shock and surprise.

  “Well, what did he expect?” Hawkeye said. “As slow as he’s playing, he’d need the whole course to himself, if he expected to complete a round without letting anybody play through.” He addressed the ball again, called “Fore!” again and swung. It was a good drive, landing about twenty yards from the duffer.

  “I never saw such bad manners,” Trapper said, as he teed up. “Look at him! Screaming and shouting and waving his arms around like that!”

  “If the membership committee sees him behave like that,” Hawkeye agreed, “they’ll never let him join.”

  They caught up with the duo ahead, two strokes later. “Nice little course you’ve got here,” Trapper John said.

  The man they assumed to be the pro smiled at them. “Are you gentlemen members? I don’t recall seeing you on the links before.”

  “Pierce is my name,” Hawkeye said. “Call me Hawkeye.” He put out his hand and the pro shook it. The student did not. Hawkeye interpreted this as bashfulness, the beginner meeting two experienced golfers. “Don’t worry, slim,”
he said, “you’ll catch on after a while. We all looked pretty bad when we started off.”

  His little attempt to cheer up the duffer apparently failed. If anything, the poor guy’s face got even redder with embarrassment.

  “You’re guests, then?” the pro said. Hawkeye and Trapper exchanged significant glances. They were right: this guy was the pro, and he was checking to see whose guests they were.

  “Right,” Trapper John said. A light clicked on, so to speak, simultaneously, in their brains.

  “I’m sure you know,” Hawkeye began, and Trapper interrupted him.

  “Good ol’ Hassan ad Kayam?”

  “Ol’ Lard-Belly?” Hawkeye added.

  “You are guests of His Royal Highness Prince Hassan ad Kayam of Hussid?” the pro said.

  “Ol’ Lard-Belly himself,” Trapper John repeated. “You know him, I guess?”

  “I have that privilege,” the pro said.

  “What is that you called him?” the duffer asked. “Old Lard-Belly?” A smile crossed his face, which broadened. A delighted laugh came out of him. “How delightful. I shall have to remember that!”

  “And is Prince Hassan coming here today?” the pro asked.

  “He told us if he wasn’t here when we got here,” Hawkeye said, “that we should start without him.”

  “And where is he coming from?” the pro asked.

  “Either from New York or Paris,” Trapper said. “Just between us, fellas, Ol’ Lard-Belly’s out on a toot.”

  “A toot? What is a toot?” the duffer asked.

  “Well… I didn’t get your name?”

  “I am the King,” the King said. His Majesty’s English, while, of course fluent, was understandably accented. Phonetically, what he said sounded like this: “I am zee Kink.” Understandably, Trapper John heard this as Zeekink which, to his alien ears, sounded like a perfectly ordinary Moroccan name.

  “How are you, Zeekink?” he said. “My name’s Trapper John McIntyre, and this is my pal, Hawkeye Pierce.”

  This time His Majesty shook hands. “And this is my pal,” he said, glad to have learned another English word, “Omar ben Ahmed. You were telling me about a ‘toot,’ Trapper John.”

  “Well, Zeekink,” Trapper John said, “I don’t know how it is here, of course, but where I come from, every once in a while, a man just has to get away from the job, and the wife and kids, you know what I mean? Nothing against the job or wife and kids, of course. Just a little too much of a good thing.”

  “I find that very interesting,” the King said. “I’ve never heard it expressed quite that way before, but I certainly know what you mean. And when a man does find the opportunity to get away from his job, as you put it, and his wife and children, and has a little party, this is called a ‘toot’? Do I understand the term correctly?”

  “Right on, Zeekink,” Trapper said.

  “And that is what Hassan is doing at the moment?” Omar ben Ahmed asked.

  “Right,” Hawkeye said. “He’s having a toot with another Arab fella—Abdullah something.”

  “Abdullah ben Abzug, by any chance?” Omar ben Ahmed offered, icily.

  “That’s right. Hassan, Abdullah and another friend of ours.”

  “Let me guess,” Omar ben Ahmed said. “Boris Alexandrovich Korsky-Rimsakov?”

  “Well, I see we’re among friends,” Hawkeye said. “You know old Foghorn, too, do you?”

  “The Mr. Korsky-Rimsakov of whom I speak is an opera singer,” Omar said.

  “Finest kind,” Hawkeye said.

  “And old Bull-Bellow really knows how to throw a toot, too,” Trapper John said, helpfully.

  “And they are coming here on their toot?” the King asked.

  “That’s the way we understand it,” Trapper John said.

  “I don’t know the singer, unfortunately,” the King said. “But I do know Abdullah ben Abzug and Hassan ad Kayam very well. Do you think that they would permit me to join them on their toot?”

  “Any pal of Hassan’s is a friend of ours, Zeekink,” Trapper John said, clapping His Majesty on the back.

  “Tell me, Trapper John,” His Majesty asked, “is it necessary for a man to have a wife and children from whom to get away in order to go on a toot?”

  “Not at all,” Trapper replied. “You appreciate it more if there is a wife, children and a job to get away from, but I have been on some perfectly satisfactory toots in my life before I had any of those things.”

  “In that case,” His Majesty said, “with your permission, I will ask Omar ben Ahmed to join us as well.”

  “Glad to have him, Zeekink,” Hawkeye said. “The more the merrier.”

  “That’s very nice of you,” Omar ben Ahmed said, “but as I was saying just before we met you gentlemen, as much as I like a good game of golf, I must meet my responsibilities. I have an important errand to run for my father. He is expecting guests, and I have to go prepare for them.”

  “You know, Omar,” His Majesty said, “there’s a streak of party-pooper in you that I never noticed before.”

  “Perhaps I’ll be able to join you in Marrakech,” Omar said. “You haven’t forgotten about the party you’re going to give for the President of France and my father’s guests, have you?”

  “It slipped my mind,” His Majesty said. “But my word, as you know, is my bond. I will give a party. I probably won’t be able to make it myself, as I will be tooting with these gentlemen, but you will have your party.”

  “It won’t be the same thing if you’re not there,” Omar ben Ahmed said.

  “Gentlemen,” His Majesty began.

  “Call me Hawkeye, Zeekink,” Hawkeye said.

  “Hawkeye, then,” the King said. “I don’t suppose that you and Trapper John could possibly see your way clear to tooting with me in Marrakech?”

  “Is there a golf course in Marrakech?” Trapper John asked.

  “Yes, there is,” the King said.

  “In that case, Zeekink,” Hawkeye said, “fine. Just between you and me, this course here isn’t the finest course I’ve ever played.”

  “You don’t think so?” the King asked, disappointed. “You tell me what you don’t like about it, and it will be corrected. I am, after all, the King.”

  “You told us that before,” Trapper said. “Me Trapper, you Zeekink!”

  “You may go, Omar,” the King said. “We shall see you in Marrakech.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  There was a considerable degree of embarrassment in the Moroccan Foreign Ministry in Rabat concerning the unfortunate incident at Rabat International Airport. There had been a misunderstanding during which the airfield security-guard detachment, not without effort, had placed under protective custody two Americans: an Amazon who insisted she was a master sergeant in the United States Air Force; and a small, semi-hysterical male who insisted he was the United States Deputy Assistant Under Secretary of State for North African Affairs.

  After an unfortunately rather lengthy period of detention in the Rabat Home for Mentally Disturbed Nomads, it turned out that the strange pair were, in fact, who they represented themselves to be. Not all of the delay, to be sure, was the fault of the Moroccan Foreign Ministry. If the American Ambassador had not chosen this precise time to take a vacation from his duties, a vacation under an assumed name, it would have been much easier to establish the identity of Master Sergeant Williams and Deputy Assistant Under Secretary Potter.

  As it was, it had been necessary to contact the individual who was apparently the only American diplomat on duty in the whole country. This functionary turned out to be in Casablanca. A long telephone conversation, during which Mademoiselle Le Consul General insisted that the Deputy Assistant Under Secretary prove who he was by describing in detail the interior of the Secretary of State’s office and giving the nickname (“Schatzie”) of the Secretary’s secretary, finally cleared the matter up.

  By the time that had been accomplished, however, and an official apology offered and
accepted, the two men (described by the Hon. Mr. Potter as “two maniacs masquerading as doctors”) who had arrived on the aircraft and escaped from it by use of the egress chute had vanished in Rabat. Most probably, the police felt, they had disappeared into the maze of narrow corridors in the souk (or bazaar) of the Ancient City itself. The stolen jeep had been found nearby.

  All exits to the souk were immediately barred, of course; and, against the improbable chance that the two maniacs might be elsewhere within the capital, roadblocks on all other routes of possible departure were set up.

  The Foreign Minister, who had passed this information onto the Deputy Assistant Under Secretary, was rather surprised at his response. “My dear Mr. Potter,” he said, “I wish to assure you that egress from Rabat is now impossible.”

  “If I thought for one moment,” Mr. Potter had replied, “that you were mocking me with the use of the word ‘egress,’ I would recommend to my government that we institute a state of war.”

  In the belief that he had been, misunderstood, the Foreign Minister had rephrased his statement.

  “At the moment, my dear Mr. Deputy Assistant Under Secretary,” he said, “the only way the men you seek could possibly get out of Rabat would be, ha-ha, in the back seat of His Majesty’s Rolls-Royce, and even then, His Majesty would have to vouch for them, personally.”

  “You may take this whole affair as something of a joke, Mr. Foreign Minister,” Q. Elwood Potter said, “but I do not. How would your government react if you landed in Washington and we threw you in the booby hatch while we aided and abetted two Moroccan maniacs to escape?”

  “It could not happen, my dear Mr. Deputy Assistant Under Secretary,” the Foreign Minister said, “for the very good reason that the Government of Morocco does not conduct wholesale exportations of those … of …” Unable to find the proper words, he paused, visibly frustrated, and then described circles with his index finger at his temple. “You know what I mean.”

  “I do not know what you mean,” Potter replied tartly. “It is only when their services are required in matters of the gravest diplomatic importance that we send mad men outside our country’s borders.”