The Great Santini (2 page)

"You Marines are nothing but trouble," the maitre d' said, easing toward the door.

"I'd sure like to take me a dead maitre d' home from this here party here," Major Funderburk said.

"We'll be at the bar, Pedro," Bull called to the retreating maitre d'. Then he turned to the Texan and asked," Hey, Sammy, did you bring that can of mushroom soup?"

"Got it right here, Colonel."

"You bring something to open it with?"

"Affirmative."

"Ace," Bull called across the room," you got the spoons?"

"Aye, aye, sir."

"Now, young pilots," Bull said, gathering the whole squadron around him," yes, young pilots, innocent as the wind driven snow, us old flyboys are going to show you how to take care of the pompous Navy types when the occasion arises. Now that used jock strap of a captain that was just in here thinks he just taught the caveman a lesson in etiquette and good breeding. He's bragging to his wife right now about how he had us trembling and scared shitless he was going to write us up. Now I want all of you to go to the bar, listen to the music, and act like perfect gentlemen. Then watch Bull, Ace, and Sammy, three of the wildest goddam fighter pilots, steal the floorshow from those cute little flamingo dancers."

The band was playing loudly when the Marines entered the restaurant and headed as decorously as their condition permitted for seats at the bar. Their appearance was greeted with hostile stares that shimmered almost visibly throughout the room. The captain's wife leaned over to say something to her husband, something that made both of them smile.

When the band took a break, Bull slipped the opened can of mushroom soup into his uniform shirt pocket. He winked at Ace and Sammy, drained his martini, then rose from his bar stool unsteadily and staggered toward the stage the band had just left. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the captain and the other naval officers shaking their heads condescendingly. Their wives watched Bull in fascination, expecting him to fall to the floor at any moment, enjoying the spectacle of a Marine wobbling toward some uncertain and humiliating rendezvous near the band platform more than they had the music itself. When Bull reached the lights of the stage, he fell to one knee, contorted his face in the pre-agony of nausea, then threw his head forward violently, pretending to vomit. The sound effects brought every fork in the restaurant down. As he retched, Bull spilled the mushroom soup out of the pocket, letting it roll off his chin and mouth before it dripped onto the stage. Bull heard Weber's wife say," My Lord. "She left the captain's table running but threw up before she passed three tables. Two other Navy wives passed her without so much as a glance as they sprinted toward the ladies' room. On stage, Bull was still retching and puking and burping, lost completely in the virtuosity of his performance. Bull rose up on shivery legs, and staggered back to the bar, his eyes uncomprehending and dulled with alcohol. Ace and Sammy, taking their cue, pulled out their spoons and in a desperate foot race with each other dove onto the stage as soon as Bull ceased to throw up. Their faces were twisted hideously as they grunted their way to the stage and began spooning the mushroom soup into their mouths. Ace and Sammy began to fight each other over the soup. Sammy jumped on Ace's back as Ace tried to spoon more of it into his mouth. Finally, Sammy pushed Ace off the platform and screamed at him," Goddammit, it just ain't fair, Ace. You're gettin' all the meat."

The next morning Bull Meecham was ordered to report to the office of Colonel Luther Windham, the commanding officer of the Marine group attached to the
Forrestal.
Colonel Windham was hunched over a report when Bull peeked through the door and said," Yes, sir, Luther?"

Luther Windham looked up with a stern, proconsular gaze that began to come apart around his eyes and mouth when he saw Bull's bright and guiltless smile. "As you may have guessed, Bull, this is a serious meeting. Captain Weber called me up last night, woke me up, and read me the riot act for fifteen minutes. He wants to write you up. He wants me to write you up. And he wants to get Congress to pass a law to make it a capital offense for you to cross the border of an American ally."

"Did he tell you his wife blew her lunch all over the Cordova?"

"Yes, Bull, and he still thinks that Ace and Sammy chowed down on your vomit. He said that he had never seen such a spectacle performed by officers and gentlemen in his entire life."

"Shit, Luth. Ace and Punchy were just a little hungry. God, I love having fun with those high ranked, tight-assed squids."

"That's good, Bull. But that tight-assed squid is going to have fun writing a conduct report on you that could end your career if I don't figure out a way to stop it."

"No sweat then, Luth. You're the best in the Corps at that sneaky, undercover kind of horseshit."

"Why did God put you in my group, Bull? I'm just an honest, hard-working man trying to make commandant."

"God just loves your ass, Luth, and he knows that no flyboy is ever gonna make commandant anyway."

"Do you know how many times I bailed you out of trouble since this Med cruise began, Bull? Do you know how many times I put my ass on the line for you?"

"Hey, Luth," Bull answered," don't think I don't appreciate it either. And for all the things you've done for me, I'm going to do something nice for you."

"You're going to join the Air Force?"

Bull leaned down, his arms braced on Colonel Windham's desk, looked toward the door to make sure no one was listening, then whispered, "You been so good to me, Luth, that I'm gonna let you give me a blow job."

Bull's laugh caromed off the walls as Luther joined him with a laugh that was as much exasperation as mirth.

"What in the hell are you going to do without me, Luth?" Bull said.

"Prosper, relax, and enjoy your absence. Now, Bull, here's how I think I'll handle Weber. I'll talk to Admiral Bagwell. He knows Larry Weber and he knows you. He outranks Weber and for some unknown reason he loves your ass."

"Baggie and I go back a long way together. He knows great leadership when he sees it. And Baggie ain't afraid to raise a little hell. I've seen him take a drink or two to feed that wild hair that grows up there where the sun don't shine."

"Bull, let Papa Luther give you a little advice."

Pulling up a chair, Bull sat down and said," Shoot, Luth."

"This assignment in South Carolina is a big chance for you. Somebody thinks the last promotion board blew it and this is your chance to prove him right. Don't screw it up with your old Corps, stand-by-for-a-fighter-pilot shit. That Boyington shit is dead. Let the young lieutenants play at that. You've got to start acting like a senior officer because I'm not going to be there to cover for you when you pull some of your shenanigans."

"Luther," Bull said, suddenly serious," I hope and pray I never start acting like a senior officer."

"Well, if you don't, Bull, you might have to learn how to act like a senior civilian. And it's up to you to choose which one you'd rather be. Now you're going to be C.O. of a strategically important squadron if this rift with Cuba heats up anymore. A lot of people will be watching you. Give it your best shot."

"May I have your blessing, father?" Bull said.

"I'm serious, Bull."

"You may not believe this, Luther, but I plan to have the best squadron in the history of the Marine Corps."

"I believe it, Bull. You can fly with the best of them. You can lead men. But you've got to become an administrator. A politician even."

"I know, Luther. I'll be good."

"When are you leaving, Bull?"

"Thirteen hundred."

"Your gear ready?"

"Affirmative."

"Will you give Susan a call when you get to Atlanta, Bull? She's down in Dothan, Alabama, with her folks and she sounded a little depressed in her last couple of letters. You could always cheer her up."

"I can't do that, Luth. I don't want to break up your marriage. Susan's always been crazy about my body and I don't want to torture her by letting her hear my John Wayne voice over the phone. No kidding, Luth, I'll be glad to call her. Any other last minute directives?"

"Give Lillian a kiss for me."

"Roger."

"Same for Mary Anne and Karen. Tell Ben and Matt I can still whip both their tails with one hand tied behind my back."

"I wouldn't mess with Meecham kids. They'll find a way to beat you."

"O.K., Bull," Luther Windham said, rising to shake hands with Bull. "Keep your nose clean and fly right. And remember what I said."

"Did you say something, Luth? I must have been having a wet dream."

"You son of a bitch. You're living proof of the old saying, 'You can always tell a fighter pilot, but you can't tell him much.'"

"I'm gonna miss you, Luth," Bull said. "It's been great being stationed with you on this tub."

"Well, we started out in the Corps and we finally got back together after nineteen years."

"With you a colonel and me a light colonel. You're living proof of another old saying, Luth. 'The shit rises to the top.'"

"Have a good flight. What time are you due in?"

"Tuesday at 1530, Zulu time. I got a hop to Wiesbaden. Then one to Charleston Air Force Base."

"Give that squadron hell in South Carolina. I'll take care of the admiral for you."

"Come see me when you get Stateside, Luth."

"You ol' bastard."

"You cross-eyed turtle-fucker."

"Adios, amigo.

"Sayonara, Luth."

And the two fighter pilots embraced fiercely.

Ben watched for the plane. His father was coming home. For much of his youth, Ben had strained to see black and silver fighter planes coming out of cloud banks or winging down like huge birds of prey from heights where an eye could not go unless it was extraordinarily keen or the day was very clear. He had lost count how many times he had waited beside landing strips scanning the sky for the approach of his father, his tall, jacketed father, to drop out of the sky, descending into the sight of his waiting family, a family who over the long years had developed patient eyes, sky-filled eyes, wing-blessed eyes. As a child, Ben had not understood why he had to stare so long and hard into a sky as vast as the sea to cull the mysterious appearance of the man who had fathered him, the man who could do what angels did in the proving grounds of gods, the man who had fought unseen wars five miles above the earth. But Ben's eye had sharpened with practice and age. By instinct now, it responded to the slanting wing, the dark, enlarging speck, growing each moment, lowering, and coming toward Ben and his family, whose very destinies were fastened to the humming frames of jets.

Now, as he watched, Ben wondered how much his father had changed in a year or how much his father could change in a year or a lifetime. He lowered his eyes and looked around at his mother, his brother, and two sisters. All of them were looking up toward the north where the transport plane would come; the plane bearing the father who had flown off an aircraft carrier in the Mediterranean for a year. A sense of excitement flowed through the family like a common blood. Ben's mother stroked her hair with a nervous, raking motion of her hand. She caught Ben's eye and smiled.

"You look beautiful, Mama," Ben said, winking at her.

"Thank you, darling," his mother answered. "Get your shoulders back. You're slouching again. That's it. Now you're standing like a soldier. All right, children, let's say another Hail Mary that Dad's plane will have a safe flight."

"We've already said five Hail Mary's, Mom," Mary Anne Meecham said to her mother. "This is turning into a novena fast."

Lillian Meecham disregarded her daughter's objection and in a clear, lyrical voice filled with the soft music of southern speech, prayed to the Virgin," Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee. "The voices of her children joined her in an uneven chorus that lacked some of the fire and fervor of the first five prayers for their father's safe and punctual return.

A steady breeze came from the south. The family stood huddled outside the control tower of Smythe Field, a washed-out naval air station outside of Atlanta, Georgia. A windsock at the end of the field, swollen with moderate gusts, pointed like an absurd finger past the control tower and to the far runway. As lifetime students of windsocks and their essential reliable messages, the family knew from which direction the plane would be coming, knew that planes and pilots were bound by simple laws of physics, and would land according to the wind. The windsock reminded Ben of one of his father's sayings," If you ever meet a man as truthful as a windsock, you have just met a hell of a man. "Then he would add," You've also met a real dumb ass."

"If Dad's plane crashed, we'd never forgive ourselves for not having said that one extra Hail Mary," Mrs. Meecham said.

"I don't really think it works that way, Mom," Mary Anne said.

"Well, I'm glad we said it anyway," her mother answered, eyeing the men working in the hangar.

"You can tell this isn't a Marine base. There's no spirit here. No esprit de corps."

"That's what I like about this base," Mary Anne said.

"What is that supposed to mean, young lady?"

"It's relaxed here. Marines aren't good at relaxing."

"But they're the best at some very important things," Mrs. Meecham said.

"Like hitting," Ben said," they're great at hitting their kids."

"Ben," Mrs. Meecham said sternly.

"I was joking, Mom. That was just an attempt to add a little levity."