The new boy opened the beer, and for the first time he looked at his new tentmates.

"It's a small place," he said, "but I think I'm going to love it."

"My name's Pierce, and this is Duke Forrest," Hawkeye said, getting up and offering his hand.

The newcomer didn't budge.

"Seen you before, haven't I?" asked Hawkeye.

"I don't know. Have you?" answered Mclntyre.

"For Chrissake, Mclntyre, are you all this friendly all the time?" demanded the Duke.

"Only when I'm happy," answered Mclntyre.

Hawkeye went out, filled a bucket with snow and mixed martinis. He poured two, thought a moment, shrugged his shoulders, and asked the new boy if he would like one.

"Yep. Got any olives?"

"No."

The hand disappeared into the parka and came out with a bottle of olives. An olive was removed and placed in the martini.

"You guys want an olive?"

"Yeah."

An olive was doled out to each. The Duke gave a contented sigh.

"Mclntyre," he said, "you're a regular perambulatin' PX."

Hawkeye laughed loudly. The martini and the head came out of the parka, looked at him, then disappeared again.

Duke and Hawkeye were on night duty, and the new boy was assigned to their shift. A Canadian unit had spent the day getting shot up a few miles to the west, so the night was a busy one, and there were several chest wounds. About all Duke or Hawkeye or anyone else at the Double Natural knew about the chest was what they had learned by bitter and difficult experience in recent weeks. The new boy didn't say much, but he did come out of the parka and show them what to do.

In the third chest that he opened he went right to and repaired a lacerated pulmonary artery, and he did it like Joe D. going back for a routine fly. When morning came the night shift went to the mess hall, their curiosity aroused more than ever by the new chest surgeon from Boston. At breakfast, another can of beer materialized from the recesses of the parka and, once opened, disappeared back into it.

At the Double Natural a rag-tag squad of Korean kids waited on tables, and one of them placed a bowl of oatmeal and a cup of coffee in front of Dr. Mclntyre. The head shot out of the parka, and two glaring eyes focused on the boy.

"What's that?"

"Oatmeals, sir."

"I don't want oatmeals. Bring me bean."

"Bean hava no."

"OK. The hell with it."

Breakfast was quiet after that, and, as soon as the three had made it back to Tent Number Six, they went to bed, the new boy still in his parka.

At 4:00 p.m., Duke and Hawkeye got up, dressed and washed. From deep down in the parka, which had shown no previous signs of life, came the words:

"How about a martini?"

Hawkeye mixed, and again the olives were produced. After the first martini the new boy got up, took off the parka for the first time, washed his face, combed his hair, and got back into the parka. This look at him confirmed the impression Duke had formed the night before in the OR that Dr. Mclntyre was about as thin as a man could get, and for the second time he addressed his new associate.

"Hey, boy, y'all got the clap?"

An immediate answer was not forthcoming. The head did come out of the parka, however, and look vaguely interested.

"What in hell makes you think he's got the clap?" Hawkeye asked. "Even a clap doctor can't diagnose it through a parka."

"What y'all don't know," replied Duke, "is that I'm a graduate of the Army Medical Field Service School at Fort Sam Houston, Texas, where I won high honors. I learned that the only thing that can go wrong with a soldier is for him to get shot or get the clap. He ain't bleeding so he's gotta have the clap."

"Well, when you put it that way," Hawkeye said, "it does make sense. However, he may be an exception to the rule."

"I don't have the clap," said the parka.

"See? What did I tell you?" said Hawkeye.

In the days that followed, John Mclntyre continued to be an enigma. He and Hawkeye Pierce talked a little and looked each other over a little, and Hawkeye continued to have the nagging thought that he had seen him somewhere before.

One afternoon, about a week after the new doctor's arrival, with the snow temporarily gone, some of the boys were throwing a football around. As Hawkeye and Mclntyre emerged from their tent, a wild throw brought the ball to rest at the latter's feet. He leaned over very, very slowly and picked up the ball. With a lazy wave of his hand he motioned Hawkeye downfield.