“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.”