S*e*x Comes to Thief Island

Having more or less outlasted the enemy, the Korean War and the U.S. Army, the men of M*A*S*H put on civilian clothes and went their separate ways. From the 4077th Mobile Army Surgical Hospital, Dr. "Trapper" John McIntyre went to New York to practice cardiac surgery; Dr. "Duke" Forrest went south; Dr. Oliver Wendell ("Spearchucker") Jones became chief of neurosurgery at University Hospital in Philadelphia; and Dr. Benjamin Franklin ("Hawkeye") Pierce went home to Maine. They all seemed to have found what they'd wanted--except for Hawkeye. He was restless. There was something missing from life at the Spruce Harbor VA Hospital. He went to the big city for a couple of years of training in thoracic surgery; then, when he went back to Spruce Harbor to start his own practice, a devious scheme began to form in his mind. But how do you lure, entice, decoy or seduce three eminent physicians to the rustic shores of the Pine Tree State? Only (continued on page 158)Thief Island(continued from page 131) Hawkeye would have a clue. Only Hawkeye knew what looniness lurked in the hearts of men.

First he enticed Duke, then he captured Spearchucker--but they were easy compared with an elusive prey like Trapper John. Trapping the trapper was a vast, complicated three-man effort. It required raising (by somewhat dubious means) the sum of $200,000, so that Trapper could have a nice cardiovascular wing on the new Spruce Harbor General Hospital in which to operate. It also required the bait of a bouncy and available blonde named Lucinda Lively. But it worked like a charm. Four months before the completion of Spruce Harbor General and the opening of Hawkeye's new clinic, Trapper John McIntyre arrived. He had left the city forever and would, he said, devote himself to supervising the construction and outfitting of the cardiovascular unit.

Three days after Trapper's arrival, Lucinda Lively, Hawkeye's secretary, submitted her resignation.

"Trapper works fast, I guess," said Hawkeye with an attempt at cheerfulness.

"I like him a lot and I'm going to be with him and work for him and have fun. Do you have any better ideas? If you do, I might listen."

"Vaya con Dios, babe. Trapper got a place to live?"

"Oh, yes," chirped Lucinda. "We're going to live in a tent on Thief Island, where you and I----"

"Yes, I remember," said Hawkeye. "That should be fun for the summer. You'll be sort of tented up, I take it."

"Oh, very funny. And it's not just for the summer. Trapper says he's going to get a stove like you guys had in Korea and a wooden floor and something to cook on and a refrigerator and this and that and we're going to live there the year round."

"Just like that?"

"Just like that, Dr. Pierce," said Lucinda, who kissed him then and walked out without looking back.

Hawkeye Pierce had been working hard and it would take a while to find a new secretary, so he declared himself on vacation. He left word that Trapper John would cover him for necessary chest surgery and that he was going to spend a month at home, on the golf course and on his boat.

Two weeks into vacation, Hawkeye heard that Trapper was growing a beard and frequently appeared at the hospital barefooted and clad only in the briefest of swimming trunks. Furthermore, the word was that Trapper's companion, Lucinda Lively, now wore only a bikini, if that.

One morning, Sue Taylor, the operating-room supervisor, called Dr. Pierce's home and proclaimed, "You've gotta do something about that boy of yours. I won't have him coming into my O.R. in swimming trunks and I won't have him training that floozy as a scrub nurse, either."

"Sue, baby," purred Hawkeye, "you haven't been watching the scoreboard. It's not your O.R. anymore. Duke, Trapper, Spearchucker and Hawkeye have bought you out. We got it going for us, so you and everybody else are going to play our rules. It doesn't matter how Trapper dresses. All that matters is how he works; and if he wants to train Lucinda as a scrub nurse, it's none of your goddamn business."

"I'll resign," said Sue.

"No, you won't. Why don't you get a bikini? If you look good in it, I'll give you a try."

"You're disgusting. He smells like a haddock. That damnfool Wooden Leg Wilcox is teaching him to fillet fish. He could at least wash the scales off before he comes to the hospital."

"I think you may have a point there, Sue. You tell Trapper I say to take a shower before doing surgery, or I'll burn down his tent."

Sue Taylor had the bit in her teeth. An impulsive, determined, capable, well-meaning, somewhat unexposed 40-year-old product of Tedium Cove, she could not cope easily with change. "Do you know what Dr. McIntyre and that blonde are doing when they're not working or cutting fish or making love in that little cranberry bog on Thief Island?" she asked.

"No, what?"

"They're peddling fish. Wooden Leg bought a new truck and they're going around to all the summer places. Leg says everybody wants to get a look at them and to look at them they gotta buy fish. He thinks maybe you oughta get a new heart surgeon and let Trapper just peddle fish."

"Tell me about the cranberry bog."

"You'll hear about it," said Sue. "I'm not one to gossip."

"Of course," said Hawkeye. "Relax, babe. Everything'll be OK." He knew of Thief Island's cranberry bog, guessed what was happening there and grinned.

• • •

Fog in June on the coast of Maine is as inevitable as the tasteless lumps of batter called fried clams in a hundred greasy spoons along U. S. Route 1. Fog is here, it's there, it's everywhere. The Flying Passage, between Hungry Island and Long Island, may be socked in like black-bean soup while the sun sheds its morning glory on everything 300 yards to the east or west. At six A.M. on the morning of June tenth, Wrong Way Napolitano, the Italian kamikaze pilot, the owner and only pilot of the Spruce Harbor and Inter-Island Air Service, arrived in his hangar. Napolitano makes wrong moves now and then, but he usually can find his hangar, which is small, unobtrusive and well away from the action at Spruce Harbor International Airport. The airport acquired its international designation after the glorious day when an Icelandic Airways DC-3 on a flight from Copenhagen via Reykjavík to New York landed and disgorged a mother with a premature viking.

Wrong Way Napolitano started the Spruce Harbor and Inter-Island Air Service in 1953. This was just after his discharge from the Air Force, which, having discovered several of his major problems, had made him a flying instructor rather than a combat pilot. Wrong Way had visions of glory like an earlier Maine hero, Miniver Cheevy of Tilbury Town, almost 50 miles away, who'd dreamed of Thebes and Camelot and Priam's neighbors. Wrong Way had never heard of Miniver Cheevy, but he had read somewhere of Qantas, the Australian airline, which had started as the Queensland and Northern Territory Aerial Service. Wrong Way, as he flew over Penobscot Bay spotting schools of fish for his brothers, uncles and cousins, dreamed of the Spruce Harbor and Inter-Island Air Service becoming an international airline, with lots of big jets. But he could never figure out how to pronounce SHAIIAS, so he just dreamed.

Wrong Way Napolitano, long before this sunny, foggy morning, had earned his name and fame as an Italian kamikaze pilot for three quite good reasons: one, he was Italian; two, he often flew in the wrong direction; and, three, he was even money to run into something. Such as the Eagle Head Lighthouse, the Pemaquid Point Lighthouse, the mast on The Maria and Luigi, a well-known gill-netter owned by Maria and Luigi, and the steeple of the Spruce Harbor Congregational Church.

The fact that Wrong Way Napolitano was still alive intrigued many observers but could be explained with clarity and insight by Wooden Leg, who, when asked for his opinion, said, "The dumb guinea can't hit anything square."

Wrong Way, in rebuttal, declared that his precarious longevity was due to "a great set of reflexes." This declaration was usually made in the Bay View Café and united the customers in a feeling of togetherness that no other declaration, on any subject, by any man, could bring to pass. As one voice, they chorused: "Bullshit."

• • •

At six o'clock on the morning of June tenth, the Spruce Harbor International (continued on page 266)Thief Island(continued from page 158) Airport was shrouded in fog. Whether Wrong Way knew this or not was questionable, but, undaunted, he took off in his new Piper Tri-Pacer and, finding the sun, flew toward it. As luck would have it, he found himself where he was supposed to be, above Matinicus Island and the early-morning blue-green calm of the surrounding waters. Left behind was the fog that obscured the mainland. He proceeded, from 1000 feet up, to look for schools of fish; if he saw any, he would report their whereabouts by radio to his relatives in the trawlers below.

By 9:15 the fog had redistributed itself so that Wrong Way could see nothing below. An uncle on the radio said, "Time to go home, Wrong Way. Which way you headin' in?"

"Guess I'll aim her for Eagle Head Light and from there I can pick my way in over Thief Island."

"Finestkind, Wrong Way," said the voice on the radio. "We know you can find the Light. The question is, can you get past it?"

"Go to hell," replied Wrong Way. "Over."

Another voice chimed in: "Hey, Wrong Way, if you don't run into Eagle Head Light within seven minutes, keep your eyes peeled for the Eiffel Tower."

Wrong Way Napolitano uttered a crude suggestion and headed for home.

• • •

At this approximate time, on Thief Island, Trapper John McIntyre and Lucinda Lively finished breakfast and luxuriated in the warmth of the sun that had begun to penetrate the fog. On all sides, there was gloom, but Thief Island was blessed with an ethereal sunlit haze that, like almost everything else, turned the highly suggestible mind of Trapper John to thoughts of love. He and Lucinda had discovered (actually, Lucinda had led him to) a tiny cranberry bog in one corner of the island's central clearing. In June, a cranberry bog is no good for cranberries but, with a blanket placed upon it, provides a soft, secluded area in which to express one's tenderest sentiments.

Trapper John preferred indirection in these matters, so, instead of saying, "Let's go over to the cranberry bog and get laid," he said, "How about a swim?"

Lucinda countered with, "Cranberry bog first, hon. Then a swim."

Fifteen seconds before consummating their tenderest sentiments, the lovers heard a sound that became a noise and then an all-consuming roar. Wrong Way Napolitano, flying at 50 feet, spotted Thief Island, breathed a deep sigh of relief, skimmed the treetops on the south shore, looked down, saw the action in the cranberry bog and reacted instinctively. Wrong Way's instinct often takes over when the call is for judgment. In this case, one must suppose that he instinctively wanted to participate rather than watch. Convulsively, he pushed forward on the controls, took dead aim for the cranberry bog, missed it but sheared off the top of a scrub pine 20 feet beyond. Somehow (great reflexes?), he regained control and headed for Spruce Harbor International in his scarred but still functional aircraft.

As Lucinda told Hawkeye later, she and Trapper were somewhat shaken by this experience. They lay naked, confused, scared and apart, looking up into the fog. "What happened?" Lucinda asked hesitantly, fearful of the answer.

"I'm not sure," replied Trapper. "Does the Church of the Nazarene have an air force?"

"I don't think so," mused Lucinda, recovering somewhat. "That was Wrong Way Napolitano. I guess he must have seen us and had a muscle spasm or something. Let's not worry."

"Speak to me of Wrong Way Napolitano," urged Trapper. "I know of him, vaguely, but fill me in."

"Well, Hawkeye fixed a hernia for him a few months back and I got to know him. He's sort of a legend around here. He's really a very intelligent guy."

"That sounds like something Hawkeye told you."

"Well, yes. Hawk calls him a flaky dreamer, but everyone else laughs at him. They think of him as just a guy who runs a dinky little air service and spots schools of fish and flies people around the islands. Actually, Wrong Way could fly for any of the big airlines and, in fact, he does. Once or twice a month, he disappears for a few days and fills in as pilot or copilot for Intercontinental. What's more, he could do that full time, but he likes it too well here."

"Do you mean this guy flies jets?"

Lucinda laughed. "Yes, he does. Hawkeye, like everybody else, didn't really believe it until he went to Chicago for that course in vascular surgery a while back. You know how Hawkeye tells stories and blows them up a little; but I guess it was quite a shock to his nervous system."

"What happened?"

"If you want me to tell you, take your hand off my breast. It distracts me."

"Of course, my dear."

"Well, Hawkeye was a little late getting on this flight out of Logan to Chicago. Like every passenger, when he went aboard, he peeked into the pilot's cabin. Then he went ten feet down the aisle before what he had seen registered: Sitting in the pilot's seat was Wrong Way Napolitano.

"'Oh, no. It can't be,' Hawkeye said to the stewardess and went back for a second look.

"'It can't be what, sir?' asked the stewardess.

"'Who's flying this thing?' Hawkeye asked.

"'Captain Napolitano, sir.'

"'Captain Napolitano my ass,' said Hawkeye. 'Lemme off this mother.'

"'I'm sorry, sir,' said the stewardess. 'It's too late.'

"'You better believe it's too late,' Hawkeye said. 'Lemme talk to Wrong Way.'

"'Who?'

"'Captain Napolitano, if you insist.'

"'I'm sorry, sir,' said the stewardess. 'You'll have to take your seat.'

"'OK,' said Hawk, 'but, honey, do both of us a favor, I beg you. Will you please go up forward, tell Captain Napolitano that Hawkeye Pierce is a passenger and that I want to hear, directly from him, where we are going and whether he's going to pay me for fixing his hernia or finish me off in a 707 to beat me out of my fee?'

"The stewardess followed instructions and came back with Wrong Way's Blue Shield card and a note that said, 'Chicago.'"

Trapper asked, "And that's who just ruined my morning love life?"

"Yes, indeed. Let us swim. Of course, Wooden Leg expects us to peddle fish today. I hope Wrong Way got in OK. He hit that tree hard."

"But not square," Trapper pointed out. "Let's get going on Wooden Leg's fish."

• • •

Wrong Way Napolitano, with fear in his heart and trembling in his hands, landed his traumatized Tri-Pacer at Spruce Harbor International. Nothing gave way; it was a normal landing. Inspection of the plane revealed no major damage. Relieved, Wrong Way called the Massasoit Inn, a large summer hotel on Sears Point, a few miles east of Spruce Harbor. He asked to speak to the house dick, his best friend and brother-in-law, Tiptoe Tannenbaum. Whenever Wrong Way became overwrought, he sought solace, advice and comfort from Tiptoe, a calm, judicious, meditative father of eight children, who was one of Spruce Harbor's most respected citizens.

Tiptoe, a tall, lean, black-haired, hawknosed softhearted middle-aged anachronism and deputy sheriff, had gradually achieved near-saint status since his arrival in Spruce Harbor ten years earlier. Every summer, he worked as security officer at the Massasoit. He earned $500 a week, roughly five times the usual wage, because the management knew that Tiptoe was worth it one way or another. He solved all problems. He prevented theft. He protected the inn from bad publicity. And parents of teenage females knew that he never allowed teenage females to get into trouble at the Massasoit Inn. Just having him around made everyone feel good.

During the nine months when the Massasoit Inn wasn't open, Tiptoe Tannenbaum disappeared every Sunday noon and reappeared the next Thursday noon. His wife, Maria, sister of Wrong Way, always explained that he was away on business. "What business?" she was always asked.

"He's a jet pilot," she would answer.

That was a perfect answer, because, beyond the fact that Tiptoe was a great guy, the one thing everyone knew was that he was scared livid of airplanes. He would not go up in one. When his job as security officer at the Massasoit or as deputy sheriff of Spruce County called for rapid reconnaissance of the area, Tiptoe chose boats or cars. This occasionally became an embarrassment, but no one made an issue of it. One look at Tiptoe contemplating an airplane was enough.

Mrs. Tannenbaum drew smiles when she referred to "my husband, the jet pilot." Lefty (a name he prefers to Luigi) Tannenbaum, the Androscoggin College quarterback and one of Tiptoe's sons, gracefully accepted everyone's disbelief when he alluded to "my father, the jet pilot." Wooden Leg Wilcox and Jocko Allcock, intimate friends of Tiptoe, always hailed Tiptoe in public as the left-handed Jewish jet pilot and explained to all who'd listen that left-handed Jewish jet pilots are scarce everywhere. The public, not fooled by all this foolishness, knew perfectly well that Tiptoe was the head of a large international detective agency.

Every Monday morning, except in summer, the pilot of Intercontinental Airways flight 507 out of Idlewild to Paris and Rome was Captain Irving Tannenbaum, the house dick at the Massasoit Inn. The only people in Spruce Harbor who knew this for certain were Wrong Way Napolitano, his sister, Mrs. Tannenbaum, the eight Tannenbaum children, Hawkeye, Wooden Leg, Jocko and Dr. Doggy Moore.

Tiptoe's career as a pilot hit bottom in 1954. The birth of his sixth child made his fear of flying even worse, so he went to Dr. Doggy Moore, seeking help. If he'd gone to a psychiatrist, he'd have been in trouble. Tiptoe wasn't foolish enough for that. A psychiatrist would have racked him up and advised him to find a different job. Not Doggy. "Look, Tiptoe," he said, "you may be a little screwy here and there, but you're a valuable guy. If you're scared to fly, ain't nothin' I can do about it. Instead of bein' scared of flyin', why don't you concentrate on makin' your family rich?"

"Go on, Doggy," urged Tiptoe. "How do I do this?"

"They got them insurance machines in all the airports, don't they? Every time you go out, grab a million bucks of flight insurance."

There were initial difficulties, because passengers, also seeking insurance, found their pilot camped at the insurance machines like a widow trying to beat a slot in Vegas. Later, a simple deduction from his pay check provided Tiptoe with the $1,000,000 in insurance each time he went to Rome and back, and thereby avoided passenger discomfort. Tiptoe was able to fly happily, with visions of his family rolling in wealth. He became one of Intercontinental's senior and most trusted pilots.

• • •

An hour after Wrong Way's abortive kamikaze attack on Thief Island, an increasingly familiar, titillating spectacle was taking place on Spruce Harbor's main street. Wooden Leg's truck, filled with fish that had slept the night before in Penobscot Bay, was parked in front of the Depositor's Trust Company. Trapper John, long-haired, bearded, in the briefest of swimming trunks, exuded charm and good will to all mankind as he deftly cut, to the customer's orders, fillets of haddock, cod and hake. The audience quivered as the sun-tanned, blonde Lucinda, draped in the scantiest of bikinis, packaged the ocean delights, made change and bequeathed a mindblowing smile on each eager, happy customer.

On the edge of the crowd, as the truck emptied, stood Wooden Leg and Tiptoe.

"Business looks good," observed Tiptoe.

"Jesus, boy, betcher ever-lovin' A. The way them two move fish is some Christly wondrous to behold."

"You hear what happened this morning?" asked Tiptoe.

"I heard Wrong Way hit a tree. So what else is new?"

"Reason he hit the tree was he saw Trapper and Lucinda working out in that cranberry bog. I guess he was distracted."

"Jesus Christ, Tiptoe," said Wooden Leg, "if that dumb guinea brother-in-law of yours has a few beers, everybody in town will know about the cranberry bog."

"And," continued Tiptoe, "every darn plane for miles around will be circling Thief Island like gulls around a sardine boat. I think that would be too bad."

"So what you gonna do? You gonna make Wrong Way keep quiet? That'll be the day."

"Well," mused Tiptoe, "I've had some thoughts. The new extension on the runway was finished last week. Wrong Way says they just got a supply of jet fuel. I think it's time for Spruce Harbor International to receive its first jet. Occasionally, we could refuel here when Idlewild is stacked up or fogged in. What's more, the front office asked me to investigate the possibility of picking up 200 to 300 pounds of fresh lobster meat if we came in here once a week. We like to feed our passengers the best. What are the possibilities, Leg?"

"Finestkind. I could give you a nice price and still make a bundle. What's this got to do with Trapper and the broad?"

"Leg, the thought has come to my multidisciplined brain that Trapper and the young lady might prefer to perform exclusively for Intercontinental passengers, rather than be harassed by every private pilot on the coast of Maine. A suggestively erotic performance might alleviate our passengers' fear of an unscheduled landing at a small field."

"Suggestively erotic!" exclaimed Wooden Leg. "You mean, if they'll take a piece when the jet comes in, you'll keep Wrong Way's mouth shut?"

"Precisely, Leg. One of our men is sick, so I have to go to Rome next week. Can you have the lobster meat ready about five P.M. next Thursday?"

"Betcher ass, Tiptoe. That'll shake 'em up. You bringing a 707 in here?"

"You don't know the half of it. Keep it under your hat, will you, Leg? I must talk to Lucinda."

"May I have a word with you two?" Tiptoe asked Trapper and Lucinda as the last fish was cut, packaged and paid for.

"Oh, hi," Lucinda said. "Trapper, this is Tiptoe Tannenbaum."

"A pleasure, Dr. McIntyre," said Tiptoe. "I'll just be a minute. I wanted to talk about this morning. Wrong Way told me all about it."

"Is this a pinch?" demanded Trapper.

"Good heavens, no, doctor. Actually, it's pure blackmail. I'm prepared to offer one hundred dollars per week for you two to perform exclusively for an Intercontinental Airways jet; and if you don't agree, I'll let Wrong Way have four beers."

"What's that mean?" asked Trapper.

"After four beers," explained Lucinda, "Wrong Way keeps no secrets."

"I get it," said Trapper. "This way, we can hit the cranberries at will, just so we time one workout for Intercontinental. You mean you're going to bring a jet into that dinky airport? You mean, come to think of it, you're really a pilot?"

"Yes, sir," Tiptoe affirmed. "But not one word, understand?"

"Oh, Trapper," said Lucinda, bubbling with delight, "just think, getting paid for making love." Then her mood changed abruptly. "Tiptoe," she said, "I'm ashamed of you. How high will you be over Thief?"

"Low enough for the passengers to get the idea. Too high for anyone to recognize you. I'm sure you will perform nobly. Your first assignment will be next Thursday at four-fifty-nine P.M., weather permitting."

• • •

The Spruce Harbor fleet was annoyed on Monday when it learned that Wrong Way was not available for fish spotting. He left word that he would have to be away for several days but that he would be on duty Thursday evening. Schools of fish are most visible from the air in late evening, when the wind has died down and dusk approaches. Wrong Way's occasional morning searches had sighted no fish--only cranberries.

At 3:15 P.M. on Thursday, consternation and havoc broke loose in the Spruce Harbor International control tower. Johnny Kimball, the flight controller, who had never seen a jet on the ground, received word from Air Traffic Control in Boston that Intercontinental flight 518 from Rome via Paris, now over Gander, would land at Spruce Harbor for refueling at approximately 1700 hours.

"Shit a jeezly goddamn," Johnny muttered over and over. Everyone had been hoping a jet would come, but no one really believed it would happen so soon or with so little warning.

Further information was transmitted from Boston: "The aircraft will establish direct communication with you at approximately sixteen-forty-five hours. Please be prepared with details of weather and landing instructions."

"I don't know what the hell to tell them," Johnny said frantically.

"Have no fear," answered Air Traffic Control. "The pilot is familiar with your facilities."

Word spread from Johnny to the whole town. By 4:30 P.M., a crowd of hundreds had appeared to witness Spruce Harbor's first jet landing. Early arrivals were Maria Tannenbaum and her eight children, who sat happily and proudly in, around and on top of the family station wagon. Nearby were Wooden Leg and Jocko. "Once the word is out, we're gonna clean up," Jocko kept saying. "Leg, you work the east side, I'll take the west."

At 4:45 P.M., communication was established between aircraft and control tower.

"Hello, Spruce Harbor. How do things look? What's the wind doing?"

Johnny Kimball heard and looked scared. "Ten to fifteen knots, three hundred and twenty degrees," he said in scarcely more than a mumble.

"OK," said the aircraft. "Is Cindy on duty?"

Cindy Howell was a tall, redheaded University of Maine senior who'd been hostess and cashier in the cafeteria for the past month.

Johnny got pale before he turned green. "To whom am I talking?" he asked in a quavering voice.

"This is the copilot," answered the aircraft. "I know Spruce Harbor, so I'll be bringing this one in."

"What ails you, Johnny?" asked Cindy, who'd come up to bring him a cup of coffee.

"That voice," said Johnny, "that voice. It can't be, it just can't be." Johnny got back to the flight from Rome and demanded, "May I have the copilot's name, please?"

"This is the copilot, Captain Napolitano. Is there something wrong?"

Hawkeye Pierce, knowing it all in advance, had rushed from his office and arrived just in time to see Johnny running out of the control tower, yelling, "Emergency! Get the fire trucks! Get ambulances! Get these people the hell out of here! Wrong Way's comin' in a 707!"

The crowd was restive but did not panic. Jocko and Wooden Leg circulated among the brave and curious, offering even money that Wrong Way would get in and out without mishap. Aware that Wrong Way had crash-landed with fair frequency at Spruce Harbor International, the crowd gave them plenty of action. Meanwhile, Hawkeye walked into the deserted control tower, where Captain Napolitano at five-second intervals was saying, "May I have landing instructions, please?"

Picking up the microphone, Hawkeye solemnly spoke to Captain Napolitano. "Here are your instructions. I repeat, here are your instructions. I will give them just once before I evacuate the area. Please repeat slowly after me: 'Our Father, who art in heaven, hallowed be thy----'"

That was as far as he got before another voice interrupted: "Enough of that. Get off the radio, Hawkeye. Where's that idiot Kimball?"

"Right here," said Hawk, as Johnny, barely under control, returned to his post.

"Now, listen very carefully, Kimball," said another voice. "This is Captain Tannenbaum. We will touch down at exactly seventeen hundred hours. The passengers will disembark for one half hour. During that time, I will take careful note of any remarks made, in the presence of my passengers, concerning the flying ability, personal habits, religion, other occupations or ethnic backgrounds of any member of my crew. Intercontinental giveth and Intercontinental can damn well taketh away. Is that clearly understood?"

"Huh?" replied Johnny.

"I'll explain it to him, Captain," said Hawkeye. "Just tell your copilot to keep his eyes on the runway and not on the cranberry bog."

"I'll try," said Tiptoe.

"Also," added Hawk, "there's a rifleman in the steeple of the Congo Church. The preach says they can't take a hit from a 707."

Aboard flight 518, five minutes before touchdown, a stewardess said over the intercom: "Ladies and gentlemen, shortly before landing at Spruce Harbor International, we will pass over Thief Island. This little island, now deserted, was for nearly two centuries the home of intrepid, hardy Maine fishermen. On the north edge of the island, there is a tiny cranberry bog where, according to legend, local Indian tribes performed fertility rites before the coming of the white man. The idea seemed to be that consummation of the Indian brave's betrothal in this soft, warm bog assured him a long, happy, fruitful marriage.

"Intercontinental Airways is proud to present, for the exclusive enjoyment of its passengers, a re-enactment of this ancient ritual. We regret that only the window-seat passengers will have a clear view. Captain Tannenbaum suggests that a rearrangement of seating will allow for the others to view the ritual, which will be repeated upon our departure."

As the stewardess completed her commercial, Hawkeye was talking to Cindy, the long-legged redhead who was half engaged to Wrong Way Napolitano.

"What's that song your boy's always playing on the jukebox?" he asked.

"Oh, you mean The Blue Water Line."

"Yeah. Play it as the plane comes in and hook it up to the loudspeaker. The captain should be greeted by his theme song when he emerges triumphantly from the cockpit, or whatever you call it."

Flight 518, the passengers enlivened by their view of the bog-shaking, primitive rite on Thief Island, set down smoothly at Spruce Harbor International Jetport and Captain Napolitano taxied to the terminal. The first thing the passengers heard as the door opened was Captain Napolitano's favorite line of his favorite song: "We'll have William Jennings Bryan stoking coal on number nine."

The local radio and TV people were there to interview the crew in the terminal lobby. The surprise of the communication industry's personnel was reflected in their performance. The first jet landing at Spruce Harbor was the news event of the decade. To discover that its pilots were local men added to its newsworthiness. To discover who they were was something else. The newsmen, of course, had covered previous exploits of Wrong Way and Tiptoe. To their credit, they didn't blow it completely. The heroes, in the uniforms of Intercontinental, commanded automatic respect. Maria Tannenbaum, on TV, put her arm around Tiptoe and said, "Friends and neighbors, this is my husband, the jet pilot."

Cindy Howell, also on TV, embraced Captain Napolitano and answered a question that she'd been asked three times in the previous three weeks by announcing, "This is my fiancé, the jet pilot."

Just before flight 518 took off for Idlewild, Wrong Way's uncle Pasquale, who'd stayed home with a hangover, approached his nephew and said, "Wrong Way, you sedda you was agonna spotta da fish tonight. You a very unreliable----"

"No, I'm not. Get on the radio. We got time to kill. Idlewild is stacked up. Tell the boys I'll give them fifteen minutes."

As 518 took off over Thief Island, Trapper John and Lucinda, stark-naked, were running across the little field.

The stewardess then announced: "Ladies and gentlemen, we have just received word that our landing at Idlewild, due to circumstances beyond our control, will be delayed by twenty minutes. Captain Tannenbaum suggests that a look at the beautiful islands of Penobscot Bay from a height of twelve hundred feet rivals any scenery in the Bay of Naples. Accordingly, we will spend a few minutes in this delightful area, rather than join the crowd and smog over New York."

Ten minutes later, although Wrong Way had spotted three large schools of herring, the word came from below: "Heya, Wrong Way. You getta that bigga noisamaka the hell outa here. You gonna scara da fish."

Later, when the weekly Intercontinental jet flight to Spruce Harbor became a regular thing, Wooden Leg Wilcox, enjoying a beer at the Bay View Café with the two fliers, said, "I gotta admit, for a guinea kamikaze pilot and a left-handed Hebe, you guys have done OK."