“God help us,” Trapper said.
“There’s Pete Rizzo.”
“He was a Three-I infielder,” Duke said.
“But he played football in high school.”
“But who do we play?” Duke said.
“Hot-Lips Houlihan’s Green Bay Pachyderms,” Trapper Said.
“I want Knocko McCarthy on our side,” the Duke said.
“Now, wait a minute,” Hawkeye said. “I’m serious. They’ve got some kind of a league over here. The 325th Evac in Yong-Dong-Po claim they’re champions because last year they beat two other teams. I know where we can get a real ringer, and if we can beat them we can clean up on some bets.”
“You’re nuts,” Trapper said.
“Yeah,” the Duke said, “and who’s the ringer?”
“You ever hear of Oliver Wendell Jones?” asked Hawkeye.
“No,” Trapper answered.
“Sounds like a nigra,” said Duke.
“Never mind the racial prejudice. You ever hear of Spearchucker Jones?”
“Yeah,” Trapper said.
“Maybe the best fullback in pro ball since Nagurski,” Hawkeye said.
“Okay,” Trapper said, “but what’s he got to do with us?”
“You haven’t read much about him lately, have you?” Hawkeye said.
“Probably just a flash,” Duke said.
“Flash hell,” Hawkeye said. “You want to know why you haven’t heard about him?”
“Yeah,” Duke said. “Tell us.”
“No, don’t tell us,” Trapper said. “We’d like to spend all our spare time guessing.”
“You haven’t heard of Spearchucker Jones lately,” Hawk-eye said, “because his real name is Dr. Oliver Wendell Jones, and he’s the neurosurgeon at the 72nd Evacuation Hospital in Taegu.”
“Damn,” Trapper said.
“Yeah,” Duke said.
“But how come,” Trapper, mixing the drinks now, wanted to know, “you’re such an expert on all this?”
“Because,” Hawkeye said, “when I was in Taegu before they dragged me kicking and screaming up here I roomed with Spearchucker. He went to some jerkwater colored college, but he did well enough to get into med school. He had played football in college, but no one had ever seen him. When he got out of med school he got married, and he wanted to take a residency. He needed some dough so he started playing semi-pro ball on weekends around New Jersey. Somebody scouted him and the Philadelphia Eagles signed him. He was great even though he couldn’t work at it full time. He kept it a secret about being a doctor, but it would have leaked out fast if he hadn’t been drafted just as he was getting a reputation.”
“And you’re the only one over here who knows this?” Trapper said.
“A few of the colored boys know who he is, but they won’t talk because he’s asked them not to.”
“Good,” Trapper said. “You really think we can get him?”
“Sure,” Hawkeye said.
“Now, wait a minute,” Duke said. “I know how you Yankees think. Y’all wanta get this nigra up here to live in The Swamp. Right?”
“Right,” Hawkeye said.
“OK,” Duke said. “If y’all can live with him, so can I. I’m washed up at home anyway, after living with two Yankees.”
“So how do we get him?” Trapper said.
“Easy,” Hawkeye said. “We tell Henry we can’t exist any longer without a neurosurgeon. If he doesn’t go for that we tell him the truth. There’s a little of the opportunist in Henry, too.”
“Okay,” Trapper agreed. “Let’s make our run at him right now.”
“But is this nigra in shape?” Duke wanted to know.
“This big bastard has to be a long way out of shape before anybody around here will stop him,” Hawkeye assured him. “He’s also a helluva guy.”
Five minutes later Colonel Henry Blake, on his hands and knees on his tent floor, rummaging through his foot locker for some personal papers, was interrupted by the Swampmen who entered without knocking.
“Oops!” Trapper said, as Henry looked up. “Wrong address. This must be some kind of Shinto shrine.”
“Looks like it,” Hawkeye said. “Pardon us, oh Holy Man.”
“Knock it off,” Henry said, getting up. “What do you bastards want now?”
“A drink,” Trapper said.
“You’ve got drinks where you live,” Henry said, eyeing them. “What else do you want?”
“Here,” Trapper said, handing Henry a Scotch, while Hawkeye and Duke helped themselves. “Relax.”
“Henry,” Hawkeye said, “you’re not the only one caught up in this religious revival. We just had a revelation, too.”
“What is this?” Henry started to say. “What … ?”
“Henry,” Trapper said, “it just came to us. We gotta get us a neurosurgeon.”
“Right,” Duke said.
“You’re out of your minds,” Henry said.
“After all we’ve done for the Army,” Trapper said, “is that too much to ask?”
“Please,” Hawkeye said, genuflecting in front of Henry. “Please, oh Holy One, get us a neurosurgeon.”
“We’re serious,” Trapper said.
“Right,” Duke said.
“Okay,” Henry said, still eyeing them. “What’s the game?”
“Football.”
“What?”
“Football.”
“Football, hell,” Henry said.
“We mean it,” Hawkeye said, “and it’s very simple. We want a football team, and we want to challenge the 325th Evac for the championship of Korea, and to do it we need a neurosurgeon. Wouldn’t you like the 4007th MASH to be the football champions of Korea? Who knows? We might be invited to the Rose Bowl!”
“The hell with that,” Trapper said. “Just think of the dough we can make, with a little judicious betting on ourselves.”
“Explain,” Henry said, perking up now. “And what the hell has a neurosurgeon got to do with it?”
“Ever hear of Spearchucker Jones?” Hawkeye said. “Yeah. Colored boy. Plays pro football.”
“So what?”
“He’s not playing pro football right now, and we can get him.”
“We can? How?”
“Tell General Hammond you gotta have a neurosurgeon, and you want Captain Oliver Wendell Jones of the 72nd Evac.”
It took a moment for it to sink in.
“You mean it?” Henry said. “You really mean it?”
“You see?” Hawkeye said to the others. “I told you Henry believes in free enterprise, too.”
“You’re damn tootin’,” Henry said. “You really think we can get him?”
“Sure,” Hawkeye said. “Nobody else over here knows who he is, except a few of his friends who aren’t talking.”
“Good,” Henry said, starting to pace the floor now. “Good thinking. Now you want to know something else?”
“What?”
“That Hammond,” Henry said, pacing. “He flashes that star around and calls himself coach of that 325th Evac. Why, he’s still back in the Pudge Heffelfinger era of football. He doesn’t know the first damn thing about how the game is played today.”
“Good,” Trapper said.
“All he did was pull rank,” Henry said.
“Then we can do it?” Hawkeye said.
“Yes,” Henry said. “On one condition.”
“What’s that?”
“I want to be coach,” Henry said.
“Anything you say, Coach,” they assured him in unison.
“Hammond,” Henry said. “Where’d he ever get the idea he’s a coach?”
The next day Hawkeye composed a letter to Captain Oliver Wendell Jones, apprising him of the plan. He extolled the congenial working conditions at the Double Natural, described in glowing terms the friendly atmosphere of The Swamp, of which he invited Captain Jones to become the fourth member. Then he pointed out the benefits, financial as well as physical, that could accrue from playing a little football against the innocents of the 325th Evac. At the same time Colonel Henry Blake, chuckling to himself all the while, made the proper request to General Hamilton Hammond, and ten days later Captain Jones appeared, filling the doorway of The Swamp.
“My God!” Trapper said. “Darkness at noon. Look at the size of him!”
“And he drinks double bourbon and coke, Trapper,” Hawk-eye said, jumping up and shaking Captain Jones’ hand. “Welcome, Spearchucker, welcome!”
“You sure I’m in the right place?” Captain Jones said, grinning.
“You sure are,” Hawkeye said. “Shake hands with the Trapper. Shake hands with the Duke. Now shake hands with that double bourbon.”