During his adolescence and earliest manhood, Me Lay had been proud of his name. Now, circumstances having forced him to correct his behavior, he was merely resigned to it. By 1952, however, he had not been addressed as Me Lay for three years. He had not seen Hawkeye Pierce for three years.
So on a bright, warm day in Kokura the fifth in a series of Captain Marstons looked up from his chart and asked, “May I have the surgeon’s name, please?”
Hawkeye Pierce answered, “He’s the pro from Dover and I’m the Ghost of Smoky Joe.”
“Save that crap for someone else, you stupid clamdigger,” answered Captain Marston.
The surgeons stopped. The first assistant leaned over and looked at the anesthesia chart and saw his name. He knew the writing and recognized the writer. He took it in his stride. “Me Lay, I’d like you to meet Trapper John.”
“The real Trapper John? Your cousin who threw you the pass and went on to greater fame on the Boston & Maine?”
“The one and only,” affirmed Hawkeye.
“Trapper, you are in bad company,” said Me Lay, “but I’ll be happy to shake your hand if you’ll hurry up and get that chest closed. You still workin’ the trains?”
“Planes mostly. May take a crack at rickshas. You still employing the direct approach?”
“No, not since I married the Broad from Eagle Head. I’ve been out of action now for four years.”
“Then what the hell do you do around here?” asked Hawkeye. “It doesn’t look like you’re very busy. You mean to tell us you don’t chase the local scrunch?”
“I don’t seem to be interested in it from that angle. The first month I was here all I did was wind my watch and evacuate my bladder. Now I’m taking a course in Whorehouse Administration.”
“Under the auspices of the Army’s Career Management Plan?” inquired Trapper. “No, all on my own.”
“It was Yankee drive and ingenuity that built the Marston fortune,” Hawkeye pointed out. “I’m proud of you, Me Lay. Where are you taking the course?”
“At Dr. Yamamoto’s Finest Kind Pediatric Hospital and Whorehouse,” Captain Marston informed him.
“Cut the crap, Me Lay. This sounds like too much even for you.”
“I’m serious. This guy practices pediatrics, has a little hospital and runs a whorehouse, all in the same building.”
“What are you? A pimp?”
“No. I keep the books, inspect the girls and take care of some of the kids in the hospital. Occasionally I tend bar and act as bouncer. A guy needs well rounded training to embark on a career such as this.”
The chest got closed, despite the conversation. In the dressing room the Swampmen got back into their Papa-San suits and continued the reunion with Me Lay Marston.
“What’s with this Colonel Merrill?” asked Trapper.
“Red-neck R.A. all the way,” Captain Marston said. “He’ll give you a bad time if you let him.”
A messenger entered and stated that Captains Pierce and Mclntyre were to report to the colonel’s office immediately. Me Lay gave them the address of the FKPH&W and suggested that they meet him there at seven that evening for dinner and whatnot.
“OK,” Hawkeye said, and then he turned to the messenger waiting to guide them to the colonel’s office. “Got any caddy carts?”
“What?” the messenger said.
Sighing, they slung their clubs over their shoulders and followed the guide. The colonel was temporarily occupied elsewhere, so rather than just sit there during his absence and read his mail, the Swampmen decided to practice putting on his carpet.
“You men are under arrest,” the colonel boomed, when he stormed onto the scene.
“Quiet!” Trapper said. “Can’t you see I’m putting?”
“Why, you …”
“Let’s get down to bare facts, Colonel,” Hawkeye said. “Probably even you know this case didn’t demand our presence. Be that as it may, your boys blew it. We bailed it out, and a Congressman is very much interested. We figure this kid needs about five days of postop care from us, and we also figure to play in the Kokura Open. If that ain’t okay with you, we’ll get on the horn to a few Congressmen.”
“Or one, anyway,” Trapper John said.
It was mean but not too bold, and they knew it would work. They took their clubs and walked out. At the front door of the hospital they found the car which had brought them from the airport. It was the colonel’s car, and the sergeant was lounging nearby, awaiting the colonel. Trapper John and Hawkeye got into the front seat.
“Hey, wait a minute,” the sergeant said.
“The colonel is lending us his car,” Hawkeye informed the Sergeant. “We’ll give it back after the Open.”
“That’s right,” Trapper said. “He wants you to go in now, and write some letters for the Congressman’s son.”
“Goddam army,” the sergeant said.
They drove to the golf course and parked, unloaded their clubs and walked into the pro shop. Although most of the golfers were members of the American and British armed forces, the pro was Japanese and he greeted the appearance of two Korean Papa-Sans with evident hostility.
“How do we qualify for the Open?” asked Hawkeye.
“There twenty-five dollar entry fee,” the pro informed him, eyeing him coldly.
“But I’m the pro from Dover, and this here is my assistant,” announced Hawkeye, handing the Japanese his Maine State Golf Association handicap card.
“Ah, so,” the Japanese hissed.
“We’re just in from visiting relatives in Korea,” Trapper informed him. “Our clothes got burned up. We can’t get any new ones until we win some dough in your tournament.”
“Ah, so,” hissed the pro, much relieved, and he promptly supplied them with golf shoes and two female caddies.
With the wide-eyed girls carrying the clubs, they trekked to the first tee. There, waiting to tee off, they were taking a few practice swings, to the amusement of all in their vicinity, when they observed four British officers, one of them a colonel, approaching. In a matter of minutes two things became evident. Judged by his own practice swings the British colonel was not on leave from his country’s Curtis Cup team, and judged by the disdain evident on his face when he eyed the Swampmen he was not in favor of any Papa-Sans sharing the golf course with him.
“Damn this get-up,” Hawkeye was saying to Trapper. “It doesn’t do much for my backswing.”
“Good,” Trapper said, increasing the awkwardness of his own efforts.
“What do you mean, good?” Hawkeye said.
“Keep your voice down,” Trapper said, “because I think we’re about to hook a live one.”
“See here, you two!” the British colonel bleated, walking up to them at that moment. “I don’t know who you think you are, but I think …”
“Think again,” Trapper said.
“I want you to know I’m Colonel Cornwall …”
“Cornwallis?” Hawkeye said. “I thought we fixed your wagon at Yorktown.”
“I said Cornwall.”
“Lovely there in the spring,” Trapper said. “Rhododendrons and all that.”
“Now see here!” the colonel said, red in the face now. “I don’t know what you’re doing here, but rather than make an issue of it, if you’ll just step aside and allow us to tee off …”
“Look, Corny,” Hawkeye said. “You just calm down, or well tee off on you.”
“I’ll tell you what we’ll do, Colonel,” Trapper said. “You look like a sporting chap, so to settle this little difficulty in a sporting way, we’ll both play you a ten pound Nassau.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“You heard him,” Hawkeye said.
“Excuse me a moment,” the colonel said, and he turned and rejoined his companions to get their opinion of the proposition.
“What do you think?” Hawkeye said.
“We got him,” Trapper said, manufacturing as awkward a swing as he could without making it too obvious.
“Here he comes now,” Hawkeye said.
“All right,” the colonel said. “You’re on, and we’ll be watching every shot you hit.”
The Swampmen hit drives designed to get the ball in play, with no attempt at distance, and they were down the middle about 225 yards. Trapper reached the green in two and got his par four. Hawkeye hit a nice five-iron but misjudged the distance and was long, hit a wedge back but missed a five-footer and took a bogey.