The Great Santini (12 page)

"Varney's not bad, Bull, and you've got no choice. You have to get along with him. He outranks you."

Bull stood up and began pacing the room and hitting his open palm with his left fist. "That's what I find hard to believe. Here I am one of the best fucking leaders in the Marine Corps. One of the best, Virge, and you know it. You could give me a platoon of Marines and I could make Harlem safe for white people in three days. Give me a squadron and I could turn Havana into a parking lot in a few hours. I'm good and I know I'm good and here I am a goddam light colonel while you and Varney are bird colonels. Now I'm not saying you shouldn't be a bird, Virge, but you know what I'm saying."

"I think you've had trouble in the Corps, Bull, because you are just too modest about your abilities. You lack self-confidence and motivation. If you weren't such a quiet, timid guy, Bull, I think you would do well when the promotion boards meet."

Virgil Hedgepath threw his head back and laughed. He was thinking that he and Bull Meecham were as different as two men could be, yet there was no one in the Corps that Virgil Hedgepath loved more. The love was based on solid ground, for Virgil believed that it was a very easy thing to love a man who had saved your life. They also had complementary personalities. Bull ruled the men under his command by his physical size and the power of his voice. Bull never understood how Virgil accomplished the same results; he could not fathom the mystery that Virgil speaking quietly but firmly could inspire a quality of fear that men who yelled could never approach. Beneath Virgil's placid surface was a terrible ice. With Bull, volume was the thing, but Virgil could achieve the same results by letting the interior ice harden his eyes or freeze the edges of his voice. Bull, pacing in front of Virgil's desk, brought a restlessness and a fever to command, a yeoman's rigidity, and a genius for inspiration, whereas Virgil had the natural instincts of a general. When both were second lieutenants, Bull had the makings of a good drill instructor while Virgil had the stuff to command many divisions of Marines. As he watched his best friend pace, Virgil thought to himself that Bull still was the best D.I. he had ever met.

"You're right about one thing, Virge. I've got to get Varney on my side. I've got to kiss his ass a little bit or whatever it takes because I need a good fitness report out of him."

"You're both professionals, Bull. Remember that. The only advice I'll give you is to play it low-keyed around Varney. You have one problem with him as I see it from here. Have you ever read Saint Crispin's Day speech by Shakespeare, Bull? It's in
Henry
V.
"

"Oh, yes, indeed. Of course, Virgil. I think I read that the other night after I had finished translating Homer from the original Greek. Shit, no, I ain't ever read Willie except for one J. Caesar when I was a sophomore in high school."

"Well, you ought to look at that speech. Ask Mary Anne or Ben. I read it to them one time. One of your problems, Bull, is that your whole life is one long Crispin's Day speech. You never let up. There're never any peaks and valleys for you. Only peaks, and they're always Himalayan or Alpine. Varney is a measured man. That does not mean he is a bad Marine. He's thorough, cautious, and extremely capable. Granted, he is also full of shit. But you are going to have to find a way to fit into his style of command. He's like the president of a civilian corporation, not the old type Marine aviator who would drink all night, puke all morning, and fly all afternoon. You'll have to adapt."

"You're right, Virge. Maybe I'll even start drinking a little vino. I'll drop by the liquor store and take him a little Manischewitz as a bribe. You know, start out on the right foot."

"That's not a bribe, Bull. That's cruel and unusual punishment. No, don't take any wine."

"You think I should just drop below the desk and give him a real low-keyed blow job?" Bull grinned.

"Goddam," Virgil said quietly. "Changing you, Bull, is not even in the sphere of possibility. Let's get together for a drink after you see Varney. How about the "O" Club at 1700?"

"It's good to see you, Virge."

"Welcome aboard, Bull."

Bull Meecham strode into Colonel Varney's office, snapped to attention when he stood directly in front of the colonel's desk, clicked his heels cleanly, and waited for Joe Varney to welcome him into his air group. Instead of looking up, Varney perused some papers on his desk as though some imminent life or death decision was upon him and he could not spare a single moment's intrusion on his time. Bull stood at attention a full thirty seconds before Colonel Varney even looked up. When he did, he grunted at Bull that he would be with him in a moment. Another sixty seconds passed, and Varney still studied the papers with unhurried concentration. "The little pimp," Colonel Meecham thought. "You'd think he was getting ready to sign the fucking Declaration of Independence."

"What are you thinking, Colonel?" Varney asked suddenly, looking up at the man who stood before him. Varney had narrow, undemonstrative eyes, gray eyes, as though they were issued by the Marine Corps.

"Nothing, sir," Bull answered.

"Yes, you are, Wilbur," Varney said using a given name known by very few Marines. "You are thinking," Why doesn't that little son of a bitch quit reading those goddam papers and welcome me aboard this base?' Isn't that what you were thinking?"

"Yes, sir," Colonel Meecham answered," that's exactly what I was thinking, sir."

"Don't get smart with me, Wilbur. You can't afford to. Have a seat. I want to have a long talk with you."

As Bull sat down, he spotted a picture on the wall behind Varney's desk of a squadron lined up in two rows in front of a Corsair. In the back row, he and Joe Varney stood beside each other, their arms draped around each other's shoulders. In the photograph, they both wore sunglasses and neither of them smiled. Fighter pilots rarely smiled in group pictures.

"Wilbur," Varney said, emphasizing the name that Bull despised being called," you and I entered the Marine Corps at about the same time. We have been stationed together on two previous occasions and we have had bad blood between us on two previous occasions. Is that not correct?"

"Affirmative, sir," Bull agreed, aware of a stickiness under his arms and behind his knees.

"We have had professional and personal difficulties that have made it almost impossible for us to meet and talk civilly under any circumstances. Therefore, we are faced with a grave problem. Since you are about to assume command of a squadron under my jurisdiction and since I am determined to be the finest group commander in the Marine Corps, it is essential that we forget the past and carry on as though there were nothing between us. Do you agree, Wilbur?"

"Yes, sir."

"Well, it's very hard for me to forget some things. I personally find you a bit nauseating. So I want to tell you why I agreed to let you take over the command of 367. There are other pilots that I think can do a far superior job, but none of them were available. So I agreed to take you because you were the best of the dregs. You are being assigned to this particular squadron because the present commander of the squadron is a poor leader, a mediocre pilot, an inept administrator, an alcoholic, and a disgrace to the Marine Corps. I say this confidentially, of course, Wilbur. Now in your case, you are very close to being an alcoholic, you are a disgrace to the Marine Corps, but you are a fair leader and a crackerjack pilot. I've always admired the way you handled an airplane."

"Thank you, sir."

"I didn't ask for your thanks, Wilbur. You just sit there and listen," Colonel Varney snapped. "Things are beginning to happen in this world that make it necessary, Wilbur, for you to shape this squadron up pronto. Cuba is hot, very hot as you know, and if something happens there we will be right in the middle of it. So I want you to shape this squadron up, Colonel. I want you to walk into that squadron and give those pilots one of your Cro-Magnon, Guadalcanal pep talks that is the Pablum of young minds. You have inherited a serious morale problem, Wilbur, and even though I need you to improve that squadron, I'm hoping you can't do it. I'm going to be watching over you night and day praying that you make a mistake so I can have your ass in the palm of my hand and end your career with a poor fitness report."

Here, Colonel Varney pushed himself away from his desk and eyeballed Bull Meecham, who stared at him with cold blue eyes that registered nothing. He studied the silver leaves that shone dully on Bull's hard shoulders. Joe Varney saw clearly that the body before him proclaimed an easy confidence and that Bull still retained the violent frame of his youth. Bull was thicker around the waist and buttocks but it seemed to have increased his formidability instead of diminishing it. But Varney also perceived something else: the silver eagles on his collar rendered all the muscles of all the light colonels in the Marine Corps impotent.

As Colonel Varney studied him contemptuously, Bull caught secret glimpses of the man he would serve under for the next year. "He hasn't changed much," Bull thought. "The same bantam rooster. The same adder eyes. "Yet he had to admit that Joe Varney was an impressive looking Marine. His short, powerful body took to a uniform well. Varney used his head and nose when he spoke, slashing the air with his sharp aquiline face as though it were an ax chopping at some invisible woodpile just below his eyes.

But it was not his appearance that grated against Bull Meecham's sensibilities, rather it was his aristocratic posturing: the clipped, slightly British pronunciation of words, the carefully manicured nails, the bloodless smile, the natural condescension, the refined air of the aristocrat. To Bull, it was as if Varney were an exiled prince slumming it among the foot soldiers of the world. "Varney is a goddam snob and he always will be," Bull thought. They would work together under siege, enemies bound by treaties, and a professional ethic.

"Another thing, Wilbur, and I know I don't have to say this, but I really want to. Lieutenant colonels do not hit colonels without being court-martialed. Nor do light colonels frown at colonels or talk back to colonels or even think bad thoughts about colonels. To put this parlance directly on your level, light colonels ain't shit. Especially when they've been passed over once by the promotion board. "Varney said this smiling, but he was driving in nails now, attacking deep and hard, sensing that the man in front of him could not even blink an eye in rebuttal. "But lieutenants sometimes hit other lieutenants. Is that affirmative, Wilbur?" Varney asked.

Colonel Meecham did not answer.

"I asked you a question, Wilbur. Lieutenants sometimes hit other lieutenants. Isn't that right? Answer me. That's an order."

"Yes, sir. Will that be all, sir?"

"No, that's not all. I don't want anyone on this base to hear about our previous run-ins, Wilbur. That's between you and me. I don't ever want to hear any rumors about it or so help me God, I'll run you straight out of the Corps. "He paused, then looked closely at the hands of the man who sat before him, and said," Clean your fingernails, Colonel. They look like they belong to an enlisted man. That's all."

Colonel Meecham rose and turned to leave. Varney halted him before he reached the door. "Incidentally, Wilbur," he grinned, "welcome aboard."

It was the angle of the light or something in the way the face spread out with the smile, but Bull caught a glimpse of a crooked nose. He had forgotten that the nose was awry because he had once broken it.

A jet passed over the river near the Meecham house, its thunder shivering every pane of glass. Bull awoke and tried to identify the plane by listening to its pitch. The plane sang in a deep tenor and Bull decided that it was an F-8 in the morning sky, though he was not certain. He turned his wrist to the sun coming through the blue curtains into his room. It was seven o'clock. He would give his family fifteen more minutes of sack time, he thought, before he would wake them up. There was still a lot of policing up to be done around the yard and house. It would be a good day for the work detail. He reached into his night table drawer and pulled a fresh cigar from it. He lit the cigar and blew a long pennant of smoke to the ceiling. It hit the ceiling, broke up, and fell disembodied back into the room.

Lillian stirred in a half sleep, caught the smell of cigar smoke, and smiled.

The smoke filled the room, commingling with the warm scent of the river that spilled into the marsh seventy yards from their window.

Colonel Meecham appreciated the eminence of ritual in relationship to the morale of troops in peace and war. He also understood its essential importance in giving his family a feeling of place and belonging in a new town. A family without ritual and order was a rootless tribe subject to boredom and anarchy, lowered heads, pouting mouths, and sorrowing memories of friends left behind. At the center of the dilemma, it was a family whose leader had failed to provide the requisite guidance. He did not tolerate sadness or regret over a move in any member of his family, just as he did not tolerate poor morale among Marines in his squadron.

He shaved and showered quickly, then put on his most faded and beloved fatigues, pulled his swagger stick from a top drawer, laced up his combat boots, and strode toward Ben's room.

"Ta-
ta
-ta-ta-ta-, ta-
ta
-ta-ta-ta-," he played on an imaginary bugle. "It's time to get up, it's time to get up. It's time to get up in the morning. Rise and shine, soldier. Hit the deck with your boots on and head for the goddam trenches. The Japs are overrunnin' the camp."

"What?" Ben said, coming out of a heavy sleep. Then he remembered the game and rolled off his bed fingering a machine gun. By this time his father had stolen into Matt's room, crawling on all fours. He shouted at Matt," We got to get these soldiers moving before the Jap artillery finds out where we're camped. "He snatched the pillow from beneath Matt's head and rolled him to the floor. Matt was sleeping in the nude.

"The little homo's sleeping naked," Bull roared. "Get your skivvies on and hit the battle stations on the double."