“Great! Great!” Henry exulted, as they lined up in front of him on the field. “You men look great!”

“We look like a lotta goddamn cherry parfaits,” Trapper said.

“Great!” Henry went on. “Wait’ll that Hammond sees you. He’s in for the surprise of his life.”

“It’ll be the last surprise he’ll ever have,” the Duke said. “He’ll die laughin’.”

Things were not as desperate, however, as the Swampmen seemed to believe. To the practiced eye of their newest member, in fact, it was apparent that his colleagues possessed at least some of the skills needed to play the game. Trapper John, after he took the snap from center, hustled back and stood poised to throw, looked like a scarecrow, but he had a whip for an arm and began to regain his control. Hawkeye, when he went down for passes, exhibited good moves and good hands. The Duke had the short, powerful stride a fullback needs, ran hard, blocked well and, during the few semi-scrimmages, showed himself to be imbued with an abun­dance of competitive fire. Sergeant Pete Rizzo, the ex-Three I League infielder, was a natural athlete and a halfback. Of the others, the sergeant from Supply named Vollmer, who had played center for Nebraska, was the best. Ugly John made a guard of sorts and Captain Walter Koskiusko Waldowski, the Painless Pole, a survivor of high school and sandlot football in Hamtramck, was big enough, strong enough and angry enough to be a tackle. The rest of the line was filled out by enlisted men, with the exception of one of the end spots to which, over the objections of Trapper John, Dr. R. C. (Jeeter) Carroll was assigned.

The Spearchucker, of course, was kept under cover, except to jog around and catch a few passes. When anyone was watching he dropped them. No one guessed his identity, so scouts from the Evac Hospital could report to General Ham­mond only that the big colored boy was a clown, that whatever the Swampmen might have been once and were trying to be again, they had partaken of far too much whiskey and tobacco to go more than a quarter. Moreover, there were only four substitutes.

Hawkeye scouted the 325th. He went down one afternoon and tried to look like he was bound on various errands between the Quonsets that surrounded the athletic field, while he eyed the opposition.

“They got nothing,” he reported on his return. “Three boys in the backfield looked like they played some college ball, but they probably aren’t any better than Trapper, the Duke and me. They got a lousy passer, but their line is heavier than ours, and they got us in depth. I think that without the Spearchucker we could play them about even. With the Spearchucker they can’t touch us.”

“Good,” Trapper said. “Then I suggest we do this: We hide the Spearchucker until the second half, and we hold back half our bets. We go into the half maybe ten points or two touchdowns behind, and then we bet the rest of our bundle at real odds.”

“Great!” Henry said. “Everybody get his dough up!”

By the time everyone had kicked in—doctors, nurses, lab technicians, corpsmen, Supply and mess hall personnel— Henry had $6,000. The next morning—five days before the game—he called General Hammond, and when he came off the phone and reported to The Swamp it was apparent that he was disturbed.

“What happened?” Trapper asked. “Couldn’t you get the dough down?”

“Yeah,” Henry said. “I got $3,000 down.”

“No odds?” Duke asked.

“Yeah,” Henry said. “He gave me 2 to 1. He snapped it up.”

“Oh-oh,” Trapper John said. “I think I smell something.” “Me, too,” Henry said. “That Hammond is tighter than a bull’s ass in fly time. Whatever he’s trying to pull, I don’t like it.”

“Tell you what we’d better do,” Hawkeye said. “When I scouted those clowns they didn’t look any better than we do but with them just as anxious to get their money down as we are, maybe I missed something. Spearchucker better go down tomorrow and nose around. He’ll know a ringer if he sees one.”

“Maybe I’d better go at that,” Spearchucker said.

The next night Captain Jones returned from his scouting trip to Yong-Dong-Po. He didn’t look any happier than Henry had the day before.

“What’s the word?” asked Trapper John.

“They got two tackles from the Browns, and a halfback played with the Rams.”

“That’s not fair!” Henry said, jumping up. “Why, this game is supposed to be …”

“Wait a minute,” Hawkeye said. “Are these guys any good?”

“Anybody ever ask you to play pro football, boy?” Spear­chucker said.

“I get your point,” Hawkeye said.

“My arm is sore,” declared Trapper. “I don’t think I can play.”

“What do we do?” asked Henry.

“Y’all are the coach,” Duke said. “How about it, Coach?”

“I guess we have to play,” Henry said, his dreams of gold and glory gone.

“The bastards outconned us,” Hawkeye said.

“Maybe not,” Spearchucker said. “We’ll think of some­thing.”

“Like what?” Duke said.

“Like getting that halfback out of there as soon as we can,” Spearchucker said.

“You know him?” Duke said.

“No,” Spearchucker said, “but I’ve seen him. He played only one year second-string with the Rams before the Army got him. He’s a colored boy who weighs only about 180, but he’s a speed burner and one of those hot dogs.”

“What does that mean?” Henry said.

“I mean,” Spearchucker said, “that when he sees a little running room he likes to make a show—you know, stutter steps and cross-overs and all that jazz. He runs straight up and never learned to button up when he gets hit, so I think that, if you can get a good shot at him, you can get him out of there.”

“Then let’s kick off to them,” the Duke said, “and get him right away.”

“Good idea,” Henry said.

“No,” Spearchucker said. “He’ll kill you in an open field. You’ve got to get him in a confined situation, where he hesitates and hangs up.”

“Good idea,” Henry said.

“Sure,” Hawkeye said, “but how do we do that?”

“They’ll run him off tackle a lot from strong right,” Spear­chucker said, “or send him wide. Hawkeye has to play him wide and turn him in, and when he makes his cut to the left he’s gonna do that cross-over and Duke has to hit him high and Hawkeye low.”

“Great idea!” Henry said. “That’ll show that Hammond.”

“Yeah,” Duke said, “but can we do it?”

“It’s the only way to do it,” Spearchucker said. “If you don’t get him the first time, he’ll give you plenty of other chances.”

“But when we unload him, if we can,” Hawkeye said, “we’ll have to break his leg to keep him from coming back in.”

“Not necessarily,” Trapper John said. “I got an idea.”

“What is it?” Henry said.

“Tell you later,” Trapper said, “if it works.”

Trapper John excused himself, left The Swamp, walked over to Henry’s tent and made a phone call. He talked for five minutes, and when he came back his teammates and their coach were dwelling on the problem presented by the two tackles from the Browns.

“We run nothing inside until I get into the game in the second half,” Spearchucker was explaining. “These two big boys must be twenty or thirty pounds overweight. We run everything wide, except for maybe an occasional draw for Duke up the middle to take advantage of their rush on Trapper when he passes.”

“God help me,” Trapper said.

“And me, too,” Duke said.

“In other words,” Spearchucker said, “the idea is to run the legs off ’em that first half. I think that will be all the edge I will require, gentlemen.”

“Right,” Henry said. “Imagine that Hammond, trying to pull something like that.”

On the day of Thanksgiving the kick-off was scheduled for 10:00 a.m., so shortly after the crack of dawn the 4077th MASH football team, the Red Raiders of the Imjin, all fifteen of them, plus their coach, their water boy and assorted rooters, took off in jeeps and truck. The Swampmen rode together in the same jeep and in silence. No bottle was passed and no cigarettes were smoked, and when they arrived in Yong-Dong-Po and headed for the Quonset assigned to the team as dressing quarters Trapper John excused himself and disappeared.