MASH 14 MASH goes to Moscow

by Richard Hooker+William Butterworth

  “That’s the one,” Brother Born-Again Bob said.

  “See you there, Daddy,” she said, and hung up. She then went to the window of her room and peered out. The men’s Bible study class was still draped all over the fire escape and the trees on the lawn, and she could see the sunlight reflected in the telescopes of the Up Yonder astronomy club as they focused on her window.

  She let the curtain fall back in place, and picked up the telephone. It was answered on the second ring.

  “The Reverend Bosworth J. Murray, D.D., speaking.”

  “Brother Bosworth,” Bobby-Sue/Brunhilde said, disguising her voice. “This is Sister Clementine, and I’m ashamed of you!”

  “Ashamed of me? Are you aware that you’re speaking to the Reverend Bosworth J. Murray, D.D., president of the When The Roll Is Called Up Yonder Bible Seminary and Junior College?”

  “Indeed, I am. And you should be ashamed of yourself, Brother Bosworth. Corrupting the morals of our young!”

  “Explain yourself, Sister!” Brother Bosworth said.

  “As if you didn’t know!”

  “Didn’t know what?”

  “That the men’s Bible class, drunk as lords, have climbed into the trees outside the young ladies’ dorm and are reading the risque passages from the Bible to the young ladies!”

  “You don’t mean it!”

  “I do, too, mean it. And the Up Yonder astronomy club, the source of their booze, just had their still blow up in the Divine Sciences Laboratory!”

  “I thank you, Sister, for bringing this matter to my attention,” Brother Bosworth said. “With God’s help, and that of the When The Roll Is Called Up Yonder campus security force, I will instantly, if not sooner, banish Satan, yet once again, from our beloved campus.”

  “I thought you would like to know,” Bobby-Sue/Brunhilde said. “Bye-bye.”

  She hung the phone up, went into her bedroom, made certain the curtains were tightly closed and pulled her size 38-long off-purple dress over her head. Outside, she heard the first wail of sirens on the patrol cars of the When The Roll Is Called Up Yonder Campus Security and Prohibition Enforcement Service.

  In her unmentionables, as she hastily threw clothing into a suitcase, it was easy to see why and how she had affected the male members of the student body when she had made her one-time appearance as a cheer leader. In a word, Bobby-Sue was stacked. For a moment, she considered wearing a dress, but realizing that she would probably have to make a dash for her car, campus security force or not, she decided on other clothing. She pulled, over a pair of hips that would have made Raquel Welch green with envy, a pair of blue jeans which appeared to be at least three sizes too small. Over her head she pulled a gray sweat shirt on which had been placed a likeness of Ludwig von Beethoven. The stitching, and indeed the very fibers of this garment, were stretched near to the breaking point by her mammary development. She slipped her feet into a pair of loafers and examined herself in the mirror.

  “Oh, I almost forgot,” she said aloud. She reached into her mouth and with dainty fingers extracted what are known in the trade as “caps.” Beneath the slimy-green dental appliance were her own teeth—dual, long, perfect rows of gleaming choppers set in bright red gums. She dropped the caps in her purse, and then carefully removed the rubber warts from her forehead, nostrils, and chin. She added these to the choppers in her purse. Finally, she snatched the mousey-gray wig from her head, undid the thick mat of shimmering red hair which had laid beneath, and with just a stroke or two of her brush restored it to its glorious natural state.

  She then closed her purse, picked up the suitcase and went to the door of her room.

  “Farewell, When The Roll Is Called Up Yonder Bible Seminary and Junior College Dorm Room,” she said, and then she began to sing, as she ran past the brawling students and security force to her car.

  “Pourquoi t’occuper encore d’un coeur qui n’est pas a toi? En vain tu dis: je t’adore. Tu n’obtiendras rien de moi. C’est en vain.’’*

  She sang with such brilliance of tone, such sweetness, such command of her voice that momentarily the fighting stopped as security force and student body alike looked at her. For a brief moment, so startling was the beauty of her voice that her startling beauty was forgotten. But only for a brief moment. And then they were after her.

  She beat them to her Volkswagen and locked the door. After a moment’s frightening hesitation, the engine caught. She put the Bug in gear, and, by both weaving from side to side, and by jamming on the brakes unexpectedly, was able to shake from the roof and hood all of her admirers before she shot off the campus.

  She sang one more line from Carmen as she pointed the Bug’s nose toward Spruce Harbor: “Jamais Carmen ne cedera; libre elle est nee, et libre elle moura.”**

  (* Act Three, Scene 26, final duo from Carmen: “Why concern yourself with a heart that is no longer yours? In vain you say, ‘I love you. You’ll get nothing from me. It’s all in vain.”)

  (** “Carmen will never give in; free she was born and free she will die.”)

  Chapter Eleven

  Five minutes after Bobby-Sue/Brunhilde Roberts set out for Spruce Harbor, the telephone rang in the residence of Hawkeye Pierce. Truth to tell, both he and Trapper John were glad to hear the somewhat strident ring.

  “That must be some sort of medical emergency,” Hawkeye said, jumping up from the table where his wife, Born-Again Bob, and Weeping Wilma were toasting Bobby-Sue/ Brunhilde’s future operatic success with a special cocktail, known as a Holy Whippersnapper,* the recipe for which had been provided by Born-Again Bob.

  (* For those with a sick interest in such things, a Holy Whippersnapper is made of equal parts of clam juice, cranberry juice, carrot juice, and the juice of one persimmon. Shake well with ice, pour in glass, and add a spritz of soda water. Hold nose before attempting to drink.)

  “Possibly even a catastrophe,” Trapper John agreed, jumping to his feet and following his old pal into the den.

  As Hawkeye quickly pushed the week’s unironed wash away from the bookcase, and then the books in the bookcase away from the booze, Trapper John answered the telephone.

  “The residence of Hawkeye Pierce,” he said. “Cut-rate gallbladder jerkings, assorted fancy surgery, and advice to the lovelorn. May I help you, sir or madam, as the case may be?”

  By the time he had said all this, Hawkeye had not only removed the top from the bottle, but had had sufficient time to pay close attention to the sacred medical admonition “Physician, heal thyself” by taking what he thought of as a healthy couple of belts from the bottle. At that point, Trapper John snatched the bottle from Hawkeye’s hands and replaced it with the telephone receiver.

  “Have I the privilege of speaking with Dr. Pierce?” the caller said, the English impeccable in every nuance and inflection.

  “Yes, you do,” Hawkeye said, “and I also dabble in psychiatry, which explains how the phone came to be answered in the manner in which it was. I specialize in mad Irishmen.”

  “How interesting,” the caller said. “Doctor, I am Senator George H. Kamikaze.”

  “Of course you are!” Hawkeye said. He covered the mouthpiece and told Trapper John who the caller had said he was. They both grinned broadly.

  “What did you say?” Senator Kamikaze said.

  “I said, ‘Of course you are,’ ” Hawkeye said.

  “Well, now that we have reached agreement on that point, perhaps it would well behoove us to reach, as rapidly as possible, while still maintaining complete comprehension on the part of both parties, the reason I’m calling.”

  “Good idea,” Hawkeye said. He then handed the telephone to Trapper John with the announcement, “Senator Kamikaze wants to talk to you.”

  “How are you, Senator?” Trapper John said. “How’s every little old thing?”

  “Your voice keeps changing,” Senator Kamikaze said.

  “My father used to say that very same thing,” Trapper John said. “What can I do for you?�
��

  “Ask not, Doctor, what you can do for me, but rather what you can do for our Beloved Leader,” Senator Kamikaze replied.

  “I can tell you what I’d like to do to our Beloved Leader,” Trapper John said, and took in a deep breath preparatory to doing just that.

  “The correct active preposition, Doctor, I’m afraid, is ‘for,’ ” Senator Kamikaze said.

  “In that case, Senator, the obvious reply is that there is nothing I would willingly do for that man. You obviously have the wrong number.”

  “Unfortunately, no,” Senator Kamikaze said. “Let me be blunt, Doctor.”

  “Please do,” Trapper John said.

  “You have it in your power, Doctor, to cause to cease and desist two activities presently in progress affecting the security and good name of our beloved country.”

  “Such as?”

  “The Russians moving armored divisions around Poland and East Germany and the Soviet ambassador banging his shoe on his desk at the United Nations and saying unkind things about You-know-who.”

  “Well, I’m all for stopping the Russian armored divisions from moving around, but to tell you the truth, Senator, I find myself rather in agreement with the unkind things the ambassador has been saying about You-know-who. As a matter of fact, I am seriously thinking of writing him a letter pointing out some character deficiencies in You-know-who he has so far overlooked.”

  “That thought ran through my mind, too,” the senator said, “but that was before You-know-who put it to me that my patriotic duty lay in other directions.”

  “Such as?”

  “To get instantly to the bottom line, Doctor,” Senator Kamikaze said, “You-know-who believes that international tension can be greatly reduced if I can get two people—specifically, Shur-lee Strydent and Boris Alexandrovich Korsky-Rimsakov—to go to Moscow.”

  “Shur-lee Strydent, the world’s ugliest movie star? That Shur-lee Strydent?”

  “That is correct.”

  “And Boris Alexandrovich Korsky-Rimsakov?”

  “That is also correct.”

  “That sounds like something You-know-who would think up,” Trapper John said.

  “I would suggest that it behooves us to give You-know-who the benefit of the doubt,” the senator said.

  “We already have,” Trapper John said. “He got elected, didn’t he?”

  “Further sacrifice is demanded of us all, I am afraid.”

  “And where do I fit into this mad scheme?” Trapper John asked.

  “It has been suggested that you have some influence over Mr. Korsky-Rimsakov,” the senator said. “It has been specifically suggested that you ask Mr. Korsky-Rimsakov to go to Moscow.”

  “I see,” Trapper John said. “And where do you fit into this insanity, Senator?”

  “I am, at this very moment, en route in Air Force One to Spruce Harbor International Airport, Doctor, accompanied by, believe it or not, Ms. Shur-lee Strydent.”

  “You’re kidding!”

  “I jest not, sir. The lady is at this very moment regaling the crew with her well-worn rendition of ‘Over the Rainbow.’ ” He paused, and then went on, “Listen.” He apparently took the telephone from his ear and held it up. Trapper John, wincing, took the telephone from his ear when the unmistakable shrill and piercing voice of Ms. Strydent came over the airwaves. “See?” the Senator said. “Or, more accurately, hear?”

  “I think I’m beginning to understand, Senator,” Trapper John said.

  “Then you are willing to cooperate?”

  “Nothing would please me more,” Trapper John said.

  “Then you are prepared to accompany me and Ms. Strydent to Paris, and there to exercise your good offices vis-à-vis Mr. Korsky-Rimsakov in suggesting that he go to Moscow, and go without making reference to his litigation regarding the ownership of the Bolshoi Theatre?”

  “You have my word,” Trapper John said. “If you come here in Air Force One, accompanied by the world’s ugliest movie star, I will go to Paris, or anywhere else in the wide world you’d like me to go, and guarantee that Boris will go with me.”

  “We’ll be there in an hour or so,” the senator said. “Presuming, of course, that the pilot can find it. Apparently, Spruce Harbor International Airport isn’t listed on our aerial navigation charts.”

  “Look under the Napolitano Crop Dusting Service and Garage,” Trapper John said. “Nice to chat with you, Senator.”

  “My pleasure, sir. I realize it’s asking a good deal of someone like you to render a service to You-know-who. But think how I feel!”

  “Sayonara, Senator,” Trapper John said.

  “Auf Wiedersehen, Doctor,” the senator said. The line went dead and Trapper John hung up.

  “What was that all about?” Hawkeye said, passing Trapper John the bottle.

  “For a while, I wasn’t sure,” Trapper John said. “Then I remembered that you said that when Boris called he said he was with Sexy Doc Yancey ...”

  “You refer to Theosophilis Mullins Yancey, M.D., Ph.D., D.D., and D.V.M., chief of staff of the Yancey Clinic of Manhattan, Kansas?”

  “How many Sexy Doc Yanceys do you think there are?”

  “I think there’s another Doctor Yancey, a completely respectable one, in Alabama,” Hawkeye said.

  “One who doesn’t spend all of his time dabbling in odd variations of what is coyly known as the most personal of interpersonal relationships?”

  “I understand the one in Alabama does other things as well,” Hawkeye said.

  “I was, of course, referring to our Sexy Doc Yancey,” Trapper said. “The one with the flair for elaborate practical jokes.”

  “That was a practical joke?”

  “Let me put it to you this way,” Trapper John said. “What would you think if someone called out of the blue, announced he was Senator George H. Kamikaze, and that he was en route here, with Shur-lee Strydent in tow…”

  “That sounds like our Sexy Doc Yancey?” Hawkeye said. “Sick imagination.”

  “It gets better, or worse,” Trapper John said. “The guy who said he was Senator Kamikaze also said he was traveling on Air Force One ...”

  “No kidding?”

  “And traveling at the special request of You-know-who.”

  “The one who eats boiled peanuts and smiles a lot? That You-know-who?”

  “That You-know-who,” Trapper said. “And that the purpose of this insane aerial odyssey was to get you ... or me, I don’t think he knew who he was talking to ... to talk Boris into going to Moscow.”

  “I’d love to know what the punch line of the practical joke was supposed to be,” Hawkeye said. “The preparations for it are fantastic! What did you tell him?”

  “I told him that, sure, if he came here on Air Force One with Shur-lee Strydent in tow, we would be happy to go to Paris with him and talk Boris into going to Moscow.”

  “I suppose that we’re just supposed to sit here and wait, now,” Hawkeye said, “for Air Force One ...”

  The telephone rang again.

  “Is that you again, Senator?” Hawkeye said, by way of greeting.

  “This is Wrong-Way, Hawkeye,” Mr. Wrong-Way Napolitano, proprietor of Spruce Harbor International Airport (formerly, Napolitano Crop Dusting Service and Garage) said.

  “What’s on your mind, Wrong-Way?”

  “I just got an in-flight advisory from Chevaux Petroleum One-One-Seven—that’s that stretched, or Jumbo, 747, you know?”

  “What about it?”

  “He says he’s forty minutes out, Hawkeye. And he says he’s supposed to pick you and Trapper John and some other people up, and would I ask you to be there when he gets there. He said he was en route from South Africa to Alaska, and having to make a detour to carry you guys to Paris is going to make him run a little late.”

  “Tell him we’ll be there,” Hawkeye said.

  “Roger, Wilco,” Wrong-Way said, and hung up.

  Hawkeye did likewise. He returned what was left
(not much) of the bottle to its resting place behind the books, and then he and Trapper John rejoined Mesdames Pierce, McIntyre, and Roberts, and Brother Born-Again Bob in the dining room.

  “It was Wrong-Way,” Hawkeye said. “The plane Horsey sent for us is about forty minutes out. We’ll have to hurry and pack.”

  “It took that long to get that simple a message?” Mary Pierce asked, suspiciously.

  “My sniffer,” Brother Born-Again Bob announced, portentously, “is twitching. It detects booze!”

  “It detects alcohol,” Trapper John said. “Dr. Pierce and myself always wash our hands in alcohol before going abroad don’t we, Doctor?”

  “Without fail!” Hawkeye agreed.

  “You haven’t answered my question,” Mary Pierce said. “It took you that long to get a simple message like that?”

  “Actually, no,” Hawkeye said. “There were two messages.”

  “What was the other one?”

  “What would you say, Mary,” Hawkeye asked, “if I told you that the other caller was Senator George H. Kamikaze?”

  “Benjamin!” she said, a large threat in her tone of voice.

  “And that he called to tell us that he was coming here, on Air Force One ...”

  “Benjamin!” This second warning recitation of his given name was sufficient to get Hawkeye to stop in midsentence.

  Trapper John picked up the narrative: “With Shur-lee Strydent in tow.”

  “Shur-lee Strydent?” Lucinda McIntyre asked. “The actress with the wonderfully tragic face?”

  “That’s one way to put it, I suppose,” Trapper John said. “Anyway, how many Shur-lee Strydents do you think there are?”

  “And that You-know-who, also known as Teeth in the White House,” Hawkeye went on, “had sent him, so that Trapper John and I could talk Boris into going to Moscow?”

  “Humpf,” Mary Pierce snorted.

  “Cross my heart and hope to die!” Hawkeye said, piously. “That’s exactly what happened.”