11

the temperature at noon, day after day, was between 95° and 100°. The temperature at midnight, night after night, was between 90° and 95°. As the tempo of the war picked up again, the wounded soldiers kept corning by ambulance and helicopter, and the Double Natural was too busy and too hot.

Surgery in the steaming heat beneath the tin roof of the Quonset hut was hard on the surgeons and not good for the patients. Both lost fluids and electrolytes. Captain Ugly John Black, the anesthesiologist, claimed that after any long case the patient, who’d been receiving the appropriate intravenous fluids, was usually healthier than the surgeon. Sleep for the weary workers was absolutely necessary but nearly impos­sible, particularly for the Swampmen, who were working the night shift and trying to sleep during the day. They gave up any idea of sleeping in The Swamp. Instead they went to the river a few hundred yards north, launched air mattresses, and slept half submerged, in the shade of the railroad bridge where the gentle current kept them wedged against the pilings.

Then two things happened. First, the fighting and therefore the surgery slacked off. Second, Colonel Henry Blake was sent to Japan for temporary duty at the Tokyo Army Hospital and replaced for the three weeks by Colonel Horace DeLong, another Regular Army doctor whose permanent assignment was at the Tokyo Army Hospital.

The period of hard work and the heat had put tempers on edge. About midnight, soon after Colonel DeLong arrived, a soldier was brought in with shell fragment wounds involving his belly and chest. The chest wounds weren’t major but still required that a drainage tube be inserted in the chest for re-expansion of the lung. The abdominal wounds were major, but routine for the organization—the kind of case demanding a sensible plan of preoperative preparation, well controlled anesthesia, reasonably rapid, technically careful surgery, and an awareness, as Captain Hawkeye Pierce had learned again in the case of Captain William Logan, of how easy it is to miss one little hole in the bowel when there are ten or twelve.

Hawkeye Pierce was the gunner again in this one. He saw the X-rays, looked at the patient, knew what had to be done and when would be the best time to do it. He and Ugly John figured this would be about 3:00 a.m., after the patient had had some blood, after the closed thoracotomy had had its effect, and after the patient’s pulse and blood pressure had stabilized.

By one-thirty there were indications that the patient was coming around and that 3:00 a.m. was a fairly shrewd call. At one-thirty, Hawkeye Pierce stepped into the Painless Pol­ish Poker and Dental Clinic to pass the time until the knife dropped. At one-forty-five Colonel DeLong entered the Clinic and carried on as became his rank.

“Captain Pierce,” he stated, “you have a seriously wound­ed patient for whom you are responsible. I find you in a poker game.”

Hawkeye knew the Colonel had years and overall experi­ence on him, but he also knew that few people had the reflexes for this kind of surgery unless they’d been doing it day in and day out for a while. He understood the Colonel’s unhappiness but, choosing to be unpleasant and uncooper­ative, he answered, “You betcher ass, Dad.”

“What?” said the Colonel.

“Gimme three,” said Hawkeye to Captain Waldowski.

The Painless Pole gave him three.

“Pierce,” yelled Colonel DeLong, “the soldier requires emergency surgery.”

“You betcher ass, Colonel.”

“Well, Captain, are you going to take care of your patient, or are you going to play poker?”

“I’m going to play poker until 3:00 A.M. or until the patient is adequately prepared for surgery. However, if you’d like to operate on him yourself right now, be my guest, Colonel. I get the same pay whether I work or not.”

The Colonel just stood there. Hawkeye held a pair of aces, didn’t draw anything worth while, waited till the bet came to him and dropped out, knowing by then that the Painless Pole had filled either a straight or a flush.

The Colonel still stood there. Hawkeye lit a cigarette and ignored him. The Colonel said, “Pierce, I want to talk to you.”

Hawkeye said, “Look, Delong, my mood and my tenure of office in this organization add up to I don’t want to talk to you. As far as I’m concerned, you’re just another Regular Army croaker, and you all give me the red ass except maybe Henry Blake. Why don’t you either take the case yourself or join me at three o’clock?”

Ignored by the poker players who were more interested in the game than in the side show, Colonel DeLong retreated. At two-forty-five Hawkeye left the game. The patient was taken into the operating area. Ugly John started putting him to sleep.

“Send for Colonel DeLong,” Hawkeye told a corpsman.

The Colonel arrived and joined Hawkeye at the scrub sink. Hawkeye was beginning to feel a little contrite.

“Colonel,” he said, “at one-thirty this guy had had less than a pint of blood, and he’d lost two or three. His pulse then was 120, and his blood pressure was about 90. Now, at three o’clock, he’s had three pints of blood. His pulse is 80 and his blood pressure 120. His collapsed lung is expanded. He’s had a gram of Terramycin intravenously. We can operate on him safely. We should do it quickly, but we don’t have to do it frantically or carelessly.”

The operation went the usual route. Numerous holes had to be repaired, and one piece of small bowel had to be removed. After an hour all the apparent damage had been corrected.

“Now, Colonel,” said Hawkeye, “I’m going to sandbag you. Do you figure we’re ready to get out of this belly?”

“Obviously you don’t think so, and I don’t know why,” admitted Colonel DeLong.

“Well, Dad, we haven’t found any holes in the large bowel. They’ve all been in the small bowel, but the smell is different. I caught a whiff of large bowel, but it ain’t staring us in the face, right?”

“Right,” the Colonel said.

“So if it ain’t staring us in the face it’s got to be retroperi­toneal,” Hawkeye said, meaning that the perforation had to be in a portion of the large intestine hidden in the abdominal cavity. “Therefore, and from the look of the wounds, I figure he’s got a hole in his sigmoid colon that we won’t find unless we look for it.”

They looked for it and found it. The Colonel was im­pressed. They closed the hole, did a colostomy and closed the belly.

Afterwards, over a cup of coffee, the Colonel said, “OK, Pierce, that was a nice job, but you must realize that I can’t afford to tolerate the rudeness and insubordination you dem­onstrated when I tried to talk to you during the poker game.”

“So don’t afford it,” suggested Hawkeye.

“Pierce, you don’t like me, do you?”

“For Christ’s sake, Colonel,” exploded Hawkeye, “why don’t you go to bed? Right now I don’t even like myself, and all I need to set me off is to be bugged by a Regular Army medical officer.”

The Colonel went to bed. There wasn’t much else he could do.

Two days later there was no work at all. The heat per­sisted. It was too hot to drink. It was too hot to sleep. It was too hot to play baseball. It was too hot to play poker. The Swampmen made a halfhearted effort at rehabilitation. They’d been reading some Somerset Maugham stories about Malayan rubber plantations. At 9:00 a.m. they got their ice cube tray out of the refrigerator in the laboratory. Soon they were sitting in chairs in front of The Swamp holding tall glasses of Pimm’s #1 Punch and making believe they were Malayan rubber plantation foremen. Whenever a Korean houseboy came into sight, they yelled at him to get to work and start turning out the rubber, and they were thus laco­nical­ly passing the time when Colonel DeLong sauntered by.

“Good morning, gentlemen,” he greeted them.

“You just out from home?” asked Trapper John.

“No, I’ve been in Tokyo for some tune.”

“Y’all married?” asked the Duke.

“Yes.”

“Bring your wife with you?” asked Hawkeye.

“Of course not.”

“I say, I wish I knew how you fellows get away with it,” said Trapper. “We three have our brides along, and it’s pure grief. They can’t stand the beastly climate, and they won’t let us commingle with the native girls. You don’t know how lucky you are!”

“I believe I’ll wander down to the pool for a dip,” said Hawkeye. He got his air mattress from the tent and headed for the river. The others followed, leaving the Colonel standing with his mouth open.

“Oh, I say, Colonel,” Trapper called back to him, “perhaps you’d join us for a set or two of doubles later, after the heat has abated?”

So they went to the river, swam a little and slept a little. By 3:00 p.m., Hawkeye Pierce was awake, pensive and bored. He lay belly down and naked on his air mattress, peering into the murky water below.

“Hey, Duke,” he asked, “whadda ya know about mer­maids?”

“Nothin’,” Duke assured him.

Trapper John, a leading authority on many subjects, joined the conversation. “In my opinion, there are mermaids in this river.”

“I’m forced to keep an open mind on that,” said Hawkeye. “Certainly if there are mermaids in this river, we’d be just plain foolish not to grab a few of them.”

“How y’all gonna catch a mermaid?” asked Duke.

“In a mermaid trap, naturally,” said the Hawk.

“How do you make a mermaid trap?”

“Just like a lobster trap, only bigger.”

“Let’s get goin’ on it.”

“OK”

They paddled ashore, dressed, went to the supply tent, where a cooperative sergeant provided material and tools. Hawkeye Pierce, in his boyhood, had built many lobster pots. For a man of his experience and background, the construction of a mermaid trap didn’t seem to present a major problem, and the next morning found the Swampmen well along on their project when again Colonel DeLong dropped by.

“What are you doing here, gentlemen?” he asked.

“Buildin’ us a mermaid trap,” Duke informed him. “Y’all want to help?”

The Colonel was trying to blend into the environment. “I see,” he said. “Where do you expect to catch mermaids?”

“The river’s alive with them,” answered Trapper.

“I see,” said the Colonel again. “Assuming that you are able to catch one of these creatures, what do you propose to do with it?”

Hawkeye gave the Colonel a look of impatience and scorn. “We’re gonna screw the ass off her,” he stated.

The Colonel was desperately trying to hang in there. “Do you have reason to believe that mermaids may be effectively utilized for that purpose?”

“Oh, Finest Kind,” Hawkeye assured him.

“Numero Uno,” said Trapper John.

“Yeah,” said the Duke,

Colonel DeLong retreated to his tent to think. Colonel Blake, before departing for Toyko, had deliberately and perhaps maliciously not briefed him on the Swampmen.

Meanwhile, Hawkeye had words with the Duke and Trap­per John, which went something like this: “I haven’t built a lobster trap in years, and I’ve lost the touch. This mermaid trap has already become bigger than I am. Let’s change the game. We got this guy DeLong buzzing anyhow. Let’s con­vince him we’re nuts, and maybe he’ll ship us out for awhile until Henry gets back and catches on. They got psychiatrists in Seoul, and we’ll be close enough to get back if business picks up.”

Trapper took the cue. He went to the next tent and spoke to Rafael Rodriguez, a lieutenant in the Medical Service Corps.

“Rafe,” he said, “we’d like a little help. Would you be willing to go tell Colonel DeLong we’ve flipped and suggest emergency psychiatric care?”

Rafael Rodriguez had been on The Swamp’s list of nonsur­gical good boys for several months, and now he justified the faith bestowed upon him. He went to Colonel DeLong’s tent, knocked respectfully and was bade to enter.

“Sit down. Have a beer, Lieutenant,” the Colonel urged him.

“Thank you, Sir. Sir, you look troubled. Perhaps I could be of help. I’ve been here for some time, you know.”

“Perhaps you could, Rodriguez,” the Colonel said. “I’m new. This is a strange and unusual situation for me. I’m very worried about three of our surgeons: Pierce, Mclntyre and Forrest. Their work, in the little time I’ve been here, has impressed me, but the last day or two their general behavior has caused me considerable concern.”

“Sir, I don’t blame you. In fact, that’s why I’ve come to see you. I’ve known them since they came. They have been good men, but I’m compelled to say that I’m disturbed about them. Sir, I know them intimately. Something has happened. Sir, I think they need psychiatric care.”

“That’s all I need to hear,” said Colonel DeLong. “I thought so, but I needed the confirmation of a reliable observer who’s been on the scene longer than I. I’ll take the responsibility of telling them about it.”

“Thank you, Sir,” said Rafael Rodriguez. “I don’t think I’d be able to do it.”

“I understand, Lieutenant,” said Colonel DeLong.

Rafe took a back route to The Swamp, poured a Scotch and gleefully informed the occupants that they were to under­go psychiatric evaluation. He left after one Scotch, lest the Colonel catch him there. Half an hour later, Colonel DeLong entered The Swamp.

“Gentlemen,” he said, “I’ll come directly to the point. I am informed that your work here has been of exceptional quality. However, my own observations, confirmed by others, indicate that now you need help. Apparently prolonged responsibility in this situation, along with the heat and the isolation, has taken its toll. I’ve arranged for you to go to the 325th Evac tomorrow for a few days rest and to be seen by the psychiatric service. They will determine what happens next.”

Hawkeye Pierce looked at Trapper John. “I always knew you was foolish,” he said.

Duke Forrest whined, “I cain’t go to no hospital. I gotta get me a mermaid.”

Trapper John rose from his sack. “Colonel, if I could catch a mermaid tonight, you’d let me take her to the hospital with me, wouldn’t you?”

“Of course!” said the Colonel.

“Colonel,” said Hawkeye, “I’ll go along with this for only one reason. A few days down there will give me a shot at the epileptic whore, which has become one of my life’s ambitions, and in this general geographical location that’s the only thing that interests me more than a mermaid.”

Colonel DeLong desperately, all of a sudden, wanted to ask about the epileptic whore but restrained himself. “Transporta­tion has been arranged,” he told them. “You’ll be picked up at 0800 hours.”

“Finest Kind,” agreed Hawkeye, as the Colonel left. Duke and Trapper turned to Hawkeye.

“What’s this about an epileptic whore?” they demanded.

“It just popped into my head. I got a buddy back home who’s a psychiatrist. He had a patient who was an epileptic, and every time her husband tried her she threw a fit. All the guy had to do was plug himself in and the world went crazy. To me it always sounded like a great bit. For all I know, they may have an epileptic whore in Seoul. Anyway we might be able to use the idea. How do we handle the psychiatrist?”

Trapper was thinking, which was vaguely recognized by his colleagues, so silence ensued for several minutes. Finally he spoke.

“We tell the headshrinker nothing except name, rank, serial number, and we want to get fixed up with the epileptic whore.”

Silence again, while Duke and Hawkeye mulled it over. “Whadda you think?” asked Trapper.

“I think Henry’ll be back in four days,” said Duke, “and that’s how long we’ll get away with this crap.”

“I think it’s OK,” said Hawkeye. “Let’s tell the shrink the broad’s at Mrs. Lee’s. I don’t figure to spend four days down there without some psycho-sexual-physiological relief.”

“I believe,” said Trapper John, “that the group is in full accord in that area.”

Trapper mixed another round of drinks. A few moments passed before Hawkeye spoke again.

“I figure we’d better think this over a little more,” he said. “Psychiatrists are never overly troubled with the smarts, but even the dumbest one is going to smell a rat if we all go in and say the same thing. I kind of have a yen for this deal. Why don’t you guys tell the shrink that you’re OK, that you’ve been riding along to protect me, and that I’ve suddenly become much worse. I think I can drive whatever simple son-of-a-bitch we encounter out of his mind.”

“I guess you’re right, Hawk,” Trapper agreed. “You got the ball.”

“How y’all figure to handle it?” asked Duke.

“Easy,” said the Hawk. “I’ll talk gibberish to him. All you guys got to do is be very serious, impress him with your virtue, and emphasize that I’ve been effective and valuable until now, and you love me dearly. After an interview with him I’ll meet you at Mrs. Lee’s.”

As Colonel DeLong had promised, the transportation ar­rived at 8:00 a.m., and the nuts were taken to the psychiatric section of the 325th Evacuation Hospital in Yong-Dong-Po. Duke and Trapper walked in, solicitously leading Hawkeye. They were to see Major Haskell, the Chief of Psychiatry. Fortunately he had only been in Korea for two weeks, and news of the 4077th MASH had not reached him.

Trapper and Duke arranged to meet him first, explained that they had gone along with the mermaid gag in the hope of straightening Captain Pierce out, and that they had submitted to this ordeal themselves in the hope that he would snap out of it at the last moment. However, it was clear, just from his behavior in the last twelve hours, that Pierce’s sanity had deteriorated alarmingly. They hoped that the Major would do everything possible to see that proper treatment was obtained without delay.

“We’ve been close to this man, Major,” said Duke. “He’s been a dedicated surgeon. He’s been a tower of strength to us. Now he needs help. We know you’ll do your best.”

“I appreciate your help, gentlemen,” Major Haskell as­sured them, “and I have some idea of how close the three of you have been. I understand the emotional involvement that men in your situation develop with one another. However, I can tell from the way you’ve presented this story that you have a grasp of the problem. I think you realize, and if you don’t I must warn you, that this is a serious problem. It sounds to me like some form of schizophrenia, and in this sort of case, with the sudden deterioration you’ve described, the prognosis is usually not good.”

“Oh,” the Duke said.

“By the way,” the Major continued, “I have Colonel DeLong’s report here. He mentions something about an epileptic whore. What’s that all about?”

“They got one at Mrs. Lee’s,” Trapper told him. “I hear she’s real wild. We’ll appreciate whatever you can do for Captain Pierce.”

Duke and Trapper left, and Hawkeye was led in. The Major invited him to sit down and offered him a cigarette. “How do you feel today, Captain?”

“I have sounded forth the trumpet that shall never call retreat. I am lifting out the hearts of men. Hey, you got any Harry James records?”

Major Haskell took a deep breath and ignored Captain Pierce’s question.

“Tell me about yourself, Captain. Who are you?”

“Hawkeye Pierce.”

“I know, but beyond that, what are you?”

“I’m the world’s greatest short putter, to say nothing of being a descendant of Robert Ford,”

“Who was he?”

“The dirty little coward who shot Mr. Howard.”

“Why have you come down to see me today?”

“I ain’t come down to see you. I came for the action.”

“Do you mean the epileptic whore?”

“You betcher ever-lovin’ A, Major.”

“Captain, we’re getting away from our subject. Something seems to have happened to you since Colonel DeLong took over your hospital.”

“That’s right, Sir. He’s against me.”

“What makes you think so?”

“The dirty mudder was gonna steal my mermaid.”

“Is there anything else about Colonel DeLong that bothers you?”

“Yeah. He reminds me of my old man.”

“I see,” said Major Haskell. “Now perhaps we are getting somewhere. In what way does he remind you of your father?”

“He doesn’t play tennis.”

“Why doesn’t your father play tennis?” Major Haskell asked, sort of by reflex, and regretted the question even before the answer.

“Because the harpies of the shore have plucked the eagle of the sea,” Hawkeye explained. “He can’t take the ball on the rise no more. They have laid poor Jesse in his grave.”

“I see,” answered the Major. “Captain Pierce, tell me about yourself. Feel free to talk. I want to help you. Perhaps if you’d just relax and open up and let the words come, you’d feel better and I’d be able to help you.”

“Dad, I feel great.”

“Talk to me anyhow, Captain. Just talk about anything that comes into your head.”

“Death is an elephant, torch-eyed and horrible, foam-flanked and terrible,” Hawkeye commented.

Major Haskell lit a cigarette.

“You nervous or something?” asked Hawkeye.

“Not at all,” the Major replied, nervously.

“Hey, Dad, I’ll give you a nice buy on an elephant. Velly clean. Takes penicillim. Finest kind.”

“Captain Pierce, what are you up to? Frankly, I can’t decide whether you’re crazy or just some kind of screwball.”

“Well, why don’t you mull it over for a while. You got anything to trade in?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean you want a clean deal on a clean elephant, or you got some kind of used up elephant you wanta stick me with in return for my best elephant?”

“Look, Captain Pierce—”

“You hate me, don’t you?” said Hawkeye. “Just like Duke and Trapper hate me.”

“I’m sure no one hates you, Captain.”

“They sure as hell do.”

“Why?”

“Because I’m a great mahout. I’m an elephant boy. That’s all I ever wanted to be but because the elephants like me so good, the people all hate me.”

“Captain Pierce, I think we’ll send you to the States for treatment.”

“Finest Kind,” said Hawkeye, rising, and added: “Be swift my soul to answer him, be jubilant my feet,” and cut out on swift, jubilant feet for Mrs. Lee’s where he found Duke and Trapper John at lunch, or rather at pre-lunch martinis. They appeared unusually happy.

“Here’s the nut,” said Trapper. “How do they handle you hopelessly deteriorated schizophrenics nowadays?”

“The shrinker said he was gonna send me back to the States,” Hawkeye informed them. “Maybe I oughta take him up on it. I don’t know how they treat it, and I don’t plan to find out. Now tell me why you guys look so happy.”

“You’ll never believe it, Hawk,” Trapper filled him in, “but Mrs. Lee actually has an epileptic whore, or at least a babe who has some kind of convulsion every time she entertains a client. She’s been scaring the customers silly, but with proper publicity she should go good.”

Duke and Trapper had already told Mrs. Lee of the potential value of her convulsing employee. They had predict­ed that there would be some phone calls before long, inquiring as to her existence and availability. When the phone rang, it was answered by Mrs. Lee, whose round cherubic face broke into a wide smile as she nodded her head rapidly.

“Epileptic whore hava yes,” she assured the party on the other end of the phone. “Velly clean, school teacher.”

Mrs. Lee described all her girls as “velly clean.” Beyond that, they were divided into three subcategories: movie ac­tresses, cherry girls and school teachers. A girl’s status varied with Mrs. Lee’s usually shrewd estimate of the customer’s needs.

There was a commotion at the front entrance as Major Haskell appeared with two M.P.’s. Hawkeye was led to an area of seclusion by Mrs. Lee as Major Haskell and his troops entered the dining room.

“Has Captain Pierce been here?” he demanded of Trapper and Duke.

“Hell, no,” said Duke. “We figured you all had him under wraps. How’d he get away?”

“I don’t know,” said Haskell, “but that boy is way out. It’s imperative that I find him.”

“If I were you, I’d search the waterfront,” suggested Trap­per. “He might be looking for mermaids.”

“How about you fellows helping out? You said he meant everything to you. I should think you’d help me find him before he harms himself or someone else.”

“If he’s all that crazy, the hell with him,” said Trapper. “Yeah,” the Duke said. “We got appointments with the epileptic whore anyway.”

“I’m tired of hearing about the epileptic whore,” stated the Major. “What’s it all about anyhow?”

“Epileptic whore hava yes, Major,” smiled Mrs. Lee. “Velly clean, school teacher. Finest Kind.”

Major Haskell perked his ears at the last expression, but before he could draw any conclusions Trapper started talking.

“Major,” he said, “a guy in your business really should take a crack at this broad out of professional interest. It’s an opportunity that’s unlikely to come your way again. You could make a name for yourself writing papers about her.”

The Major sat down, ordered a drink and excused the M.P.’s. “You may have a point, gentlemen. Can you fix me up? It should be quite an interesting case.”

“The fastest ride in the Far East Command,” Trapper assured him.

“And y’all may have my reservation,” Duke told him. “I was on for three o’clock, but I can see that it’ll mean more to you all.”

“That’s very kind of you, Captain,” replied Major Haskell.

They had a few more drinks, ate an extended lunch, and at 3:00 p.m. Major Haskell went to keep his appointment.

“Good luck,” said Trapper. “Don’t break your stem.”

“Y’all watch out when she sunfishes,” warned Duke.

Within fifteen minutes the Major, looking somewhat pale and drawn, reappeared and nervously ordered a double Scotch.

“That was quick,” said Duke. “Major, y’all must be one of them short-time skivvy boys.”

The Major did not reply.

“Come on, Major,” urged Trapper, “how was it?”

“I don’t think it’s epilepsy. I think it’s a purely hysterical convulsion,” replied the Major.

“Yeah, but how was it?” insisted Duke.

“Tremendous,” said the Major and departed.

For the next two days, business at Mrs. Lee’s was big. The epileptic whore was in popular demand. The Swampmen hung around, observed with interest, interviewed many of the survivors, but did not avail themselves of her services.

On the second day, Hawkeye asked, “When are you guys gonna try her?”

“Maybe tomorrow,” answered Trapper.

“What’s the hurry?” asked Duke. “When y’all gonna try her yourself?”

“Never,” said Hawkeye. “I’m a man of simple needs, which have already been adequately fulfilled for the time being.”

On the third day Colonel Henry Blake, returning to his duties as C.O. of the 4077th MASH, stopped at the 325th Evac, called his outfit and requested transportation. He spoke to Colonel DeLong, who told him that the Swampmen were undergoing psychiatric evaluation at the 325th Evac.

Henry laughed with delight, but to himself. He sought out Major Haskell, who told him that McIntyre and Forrest were at Mrs. Lee’s but that Pierce had dropped from sight.

“Don’t worry, Major, they’re all at Mrs. Lee’s. I’ll go over there. When my driver comes would you be kind enough to send him to pick us up?”

“I’m sorry, Colonel, but even if Pierce can be found, I couldn’t possibly allow him to return to duty. I’m sure, when you see him, you’ll agree with me.”

“Pierce isn’t any crazier now than he’s ever been,” Henry assured him. “Don’t let him worry you, Major.”

“I’ll come with you if I may,” said Haskell.

They found the Swampmen in Mrs. Lee’s bar.

“Hiya, Henry. How they goin’?” asked Hawkeye. “I bet you got plenty in Tokyo, didn’t you?”

“Shut up, Pierce. What’s this all about?”

“I went ape,” said Hawkeye, nodding to Major Haskell. “Ask him.”

“I think you’d better come with me, Pierce,” said Major Haskell.

Trapper joined in. “Henry doesn’t believe you, Hawk. Say something in schizophrenic.”

“My father was the keeper of the Eddy stone light. He slept with a mermaid one fine night. Out of that union there came three—a porpoise and a porgy, and the other was me,” replied Hawkeye.

“See what we mean?” said Duke.

Colonel Blake turned to Major Haskell. “I’ll be responsible for him. Believe me, you’ve been had. Consider yourself lucky. I’ve been putting up with this kind of crap for months. You’re only had a couple of hours of it.”

Hawkeye summoned Mrs. Lee and whispered in her ear. Mrs. Lee asked to see the Colonel in private and led him upstairs to a certain room as Hawkeye ordered drinks for all and spoke to Major Haskell: “I hate to disappoint you, Dad, but I’m not quite as foolish as I led you to believe. I’m going back to the MASH with the rest of them as soon as Henry has enjoyed the Fastest Ride in the Far East Command. Have a drink with me, and let there be no moaning at the bar ere we leave Mrs. Lee.”

“OK,” said Haskell, “but I still don’t think you’re normal.”

“I ain’t. Normal people go crazy in this place.”

While they were all on their second round of drinks, Colonel Blake returned.

“Well?” said Trapper John.

“’Beware the Jabberwock, my son!’” said Colonel Blake, addressing Major Haskell, and then: “’The jaws that bite, the claws that catch! Beware the Jubjub bird and shun the frumious Bandersnatch!’”

“Major,” Hawkeye said to Haskell, “this looks like some­thing right down your alley.”

“Yeah, Major,” the Duke said, “y’all been educated to handle this kinda thing, and we gotta get out of here.”