“So that means we’ve got a big decision to make,” Trapper said.

“What’s that?” Hawkeye said.

“The way I see it,” Trapper said, for the benefit of the sergeant, “we can operate on this kid and then qualify for this Kokura Open, or we can qualify first and then operate on this kid, if he’s still alive.”

“Goddam army,” the sergeant said.

“Decisions, decisions, decisions,” Hawkeye said. “After all, we didn’t hit the kid in the chest with that grenade.”

“Right!” Trapper said. “And it’s not our chest.”

“It’s not even our kid,” Hawkeye said. “He belongs to some Congressman.”

“Yeah,” Trapper said, “but let’s operate on him first any­way. Then well be nice and relaxed to qualify. We wouldn’t want to blow that.”

“Good idea,” Hawkeye said.

“Goddam, goddam army,” the sergeant said.

Delivered to the front entrance of the 25th Station Hospi­tal, Trapper and Hawkeye entered and approached the recep­tion desk. Behind it sat a pretty WAC, whose big blue eyes opened like morning glories when she looked up and saw the apparitions before her.

“Nice club you’ve got here, honey,” said Hawkeye.

“Where’s the pro shop?”

“What?” she said.

“What time’s the bar open?” Trapper said.

“What?” she said.

“You got any caddies available?” Hawkeye said.

“What?” she said.

“Look, honey,” Trapper said. “Don’t keep saying ’what.’ Just say ’yes’ instead.”

“That’s right,” Hawkeye said, “and you’ll be surprised bow many friends you’ll make in this man’s army.”

“Yes,” she said.

“That’s better,” Trapper said. “So where’s the X-ray department?”

“Yes,” she said.

They wandered down the main hallway, people turning to look at them as they passed, until they came to the X-ray department. They walked in, put their clubs in a corner and sat down. They put their feet on the radiologist’s desk and lighted cigarettes.

“Don’t set fire to your beard,” Hawkeye cautioned Trapper John.

“Can’t,” Trapper said. “Had it fire-proofed.”

“What the …?” somebody in the gathering circle of interested X-ray technicians started to say.

“All right,” Trapper said. “Somebody trot out the, latest pictures of this kid with the shell fragment in his chest.”

No one moved.

“Snap it up!” yelled Hawkeye. “We’re the pros from Dov­er, and the last pictures we saw must be forty-eight hours old by now.”

Without knowing why, a confused technician produced the X-rays. The pros perused them carefully.

“Just as we thought,” said Trapper. “A routine problem.”

“Yeah,” Hawkeye said. “They must have a hair trigger on the panic button here. Where’s the patient?”

“Ward Six,” somebody answered.

“Take us there.”

Led to Ward Six, the pros politely asked the nurse if they might see the patient. The poor girl, having embarked from the States many months before fully prepared in her mind for any tortures the enemy might inflict upon her, was un­prepared for this.

“I don’t know,” she said. “I don’t think I can allow you to see him without the permission of Major Adams.”

“Adams?” Trapper said. “John Adams?”

“Adams?” Hawkeye said. “John Quincy Adams?”

“No. George Adams.”

“Never heard of him,” Trapper said. “Come on now, nice nurse-lady. Let’s see the kid.”

They followed the hapless nurse into the ward and she led them to the patient. A brief examination revealed that, al­though the boy did have a two-centimeter shell fragment and a lot of blood in his right chest and that removal of both was relatively urgent, he was in no immediate danger. His confi­dence and well-being were not particularly enhanced, howev­er, by the bearded, robed, big-hatted character who had dumped a bag of golf clubs at the foot of his bed and had then started to listen to his chest.

“Have no fear, Trapper John is here,” Hawkeye assured him in a loud voice, and then, privately, he whispered in the patient’s ear: “Don’t worry, son. This is Captain Mclntyre, and he’s the best chest surgeon in the Far East and maybe the whole U.S. Army. He’s gonna fix you up easy. Your Daddy saw to that.”

When they asked, the Swampmen were told by the nurse that blood had been typed and that an adequate supply had been cross-matched. They picked up their clubs and, following directions, headed for the operating area where they found their way barred by a fierce Captain of the Army Nurse Corps.

“Stop, right where you are!” she ordered.

“Don’t get mad, m’am,” Hawkeye said. “All we want is our starting time.”

“Get out!” she screamed.

“Look, mother,” Trapper said. “I’m the pro from Dover. Me and my greenskeeper want to crack that kid’s chest and get out to the course. Find the gas-passer and tell him to premedicate the patient, and find this Major Adams so he can get his spiel over with. Also, while you’re at it, I need a can of beans and my greenskeeper here wants ham and eggs. It’s now eight o’clock. I want to work at nine. Hop to it!”

She did, much to her own surprise. Breakfast was served, followed immediately by Major Adams who, after his initial shock, adjusted to the situation when it developed that all three had a number of mutual friends in the medical dodge.

“I don’t know about the C.O., though,” Major Adams said, meaning the Commanding Officer.

“Who is he?” Hawkeye said.

“Colonel Ruxton P. Merrill. Red-neck R.A. all the way.”

“Don’t worry about him,” Trapper said. “We’ll handle him.”

At nine o’clock the operation started. At nine-oh-three Colonel Merrill, having heard about the unusual invasion of his premises, stormed into the operating room. He was with­out gown, cap or mask, so Hawkeye, deploring the break in the antiseptic techniques prescribed for OR’s, turned to the circulating nurse and ordered: “Get that dirty old man out of this operating room!”

“I’m Colonel Merrill!” yelled Colonel Merrill.

Hawkeye turned and impaled him on an icy stare. “Beat it, Pop. If this chest gets infected, I’ll tell the Congressman on you.”

After that there was no further excitement, and the oper­ation, as the Swampmen had surmised, turned out to be routine. Within forty-five minutes the definitive work was done, and only the chest closure remained.

When the operation had started, the anesthesiologist of the 25th Station Hospital had been so busy getting the patient asleep in order to meet the deadline imposed by the pros from Dover that he had not been introduced. Furthermore, he had not seen them without their masks—nor had they seen him— but when he had a chance to settle down and relax, the shell fragment and the blood having been removed to the percepti­ble betterment of the patient’s condition, he wrote at the top of his anesthesia record the name “Hawkeye Pierce” in the space labeled “First Assistant.” He wrote it with assurance and with pleasure.

The anesthesiologist was Captain Ezekiel Bradbury (Me Lay) Marston, V, of Spruce Harbor, Maine. In Spruce Harbor, Maine, the name Marston is synonymous with ro­mantic visions of the past—specifically clipper ships—and money. The first to bear the name captained a clipper, bought it and built three more. The second commanded the flagship of the fleet and bought four more. Number III was skipper of the Spruce Harbor, which went down with all hands off Hatteras some three years after number IV had been born in its Captain’s cabin forty miles south of Cape Horn. Number V was Me Lay Marston, the only swain in Spruce Harbor High who could say, “Me lay, you lay?” and parlay such a simple, unimaginative approach into significant success with the young females of the area.

Hawkeye Pierce thought of it first, and last, but Me Lay Marston had also gone around for a while with the valedicto­rian of the Class of ’41 at Port Waldo High School. In November, 1941, after Spruce Harbor beat Port Waldo 38-0, Pierce and Marston engaged in a fist fight which neither won decisively. In subsequent years they belonged to the same fraternity at Androscoggin College, played on the same football team, attended the same medical school and, during internship, they shared the same room. Me Lay was an usher when Hawkeye Pierce married the valedictorian, and Hawk-eye provided a similar service when Me Lay did the same for the Broad from Eagle Head, whom Hawkeye had also dated for a while.