The Great Santini Part 1

The Great Santini.

Pat Conroy.

This book is dedicated with love and thanks to Frances "Peggy" Conroy, the grandest of mothers and teachers, and to Colonel Donald Conroy, U.S.M.C. Ret., the grandest of fathers and marine aviators.

Chapter 1.

In the Cordova Hotel, near the docks of Barcelona, fourteen Marine Corps fighter pilots from the aircraft carrier Forrestal were throwing an obstreperously spirited going away party for Lieutenant Colonel Bull Meecham, the executive officer of their carrier based squadron. The pilots had been drinking most of the day and the party was taking a swift descent toward mayhem. It was a sign to Bull Meecham that he was about to have a fine and memorable turbulent time. The commanding officer of the squadron, Ty Mullinax, had pa.s.sed out in the early part of the afternoon and was resting in a beatific position on the table in the center of the room, his hands folded across his chest and a bouquet of lilies carefully placed in his zipper, rising out of his groin.

The noise from the party had risen in geometrically spiraling quant.i.ties in irregular intervals since the affair had begun shortly after noon. In the beginning it had been a sensible, often moving affair, a coming together of soldiers and gentlemen to toast and praise a warrior departing their ranks. But slowly, the alcohol established its primacy over the last half of the party and as darkness approached and the outline of wars.h.i.+ps along the harbor became accented with light, the maitre d' of the Cordova Hotel walked into the room to put an end to the going away party that had begun to have the sound effects of a small war. He would like to have had the Marines thrown out by calling the Guardia Civil but too much of his business depended on the American officers who had made his hotel and restaurant their headquarters whenever the fleet came to Barcelona. The guests in his restaurant had begun to complain vigorously about the noise and obscenity coming from the room that was directly off the restaurant. Even the music of a flamenco band did not overpower or even cancel out the clamor and tumult that spilled out of the room. The maitre d' was waiting for Captain Weber, a naval captain who commanded a cruiser attached to the fleet, to bring his lady in for dinner, but his reservation was not until nine o'clock. He took a deep breath, opened the door, and walked toward the man who looked as if he was in charge.

"Hey, Pedro, what can I do for you?" Bull Meecham asked.

The maitre d' was a small, elegant man who looked up toward a ma.s.sive, red-faced man who stood six feet four inches tall and weighed over two hundred and twenty pounds.

Before the maitre d' could speak he noticed the p.r.o.ne body of Colonel Mullinax lying on the long dining table in the center of the room.

"What is wrong with this man?" the maitre d' demanded.

"He's dead, Pedro," Bull answered.

"You joke with me, no."

"No, Pedro."

"He still breathe."

"Muscle spasms. Involuntary," Bull said as the other pilots whooped and laughed behind him. "He's dead all right and we got to leave him here, Pedro. The fleet's pulling out anytime now and we won't have time for a funeral. But we'll be back to pick him up in about six months. And that's a promise. I just don't want you to move him from this table."

"No, senor," the maitre d' said, staring with rising discomfort at the unconscious aviator, "you joke with me. I no mind the joke. I come to ask you to keep down the noise and please not break up any more furniture or throw your gla.s.ses. Some naval officers have complained very much."

"Oh, dearie me," said Bull. "You mean the naval officers don't like to hear us throwing gla.s.ses?"

"No, senor."

Bull turned toward the far wall and, giving a signal to the other pilots in the room, all thirteen of them hurled their gla.s.ses into the fireplace already littered with bright shards of gla.s.s.

"It will be charged to your bill, senor," the maitre d' said.

"Beat it, Pedro," Bull said. "When I want a tortilla I'll give you a call."

"But, senor, I have other guests. Many of the officers in the Navy and their ladies. They ask me what the noise is. What am I to do?"

"I'll handle them, Pedro," Bull said. "You run along now and chew on a couple of tacos while the boys and I finish up here. We should be done partying about a week from now."

"No, senor. Please, senor. My other guests."

When the maitre d' closed the door behind him, Bull walked over and made himself another drink. The other pilots crowded around him and did likewise.

With a strong Texas accent, Major Sammy Funderburk said, "I did a little recon job early this here morning here. And I saw me some strange and willing nookie walking around the lobby of this here hotel here."

"You know me better than that," Bull said. "I'm saving my body for my wife."

"Since when, Colonel?" one of the young lieutenants shouted over the laughter.

"Since very early this morning," Bull replied.

"This here squadron here is the toughest bunch of Marine aviators ever a.s.sembled on this here G.o.d's green earth here," Sammy bellowed.

"Hear ye! Hear ye!" the others agreed.

"I'd like to offer a toast," Bull shouted above the din, and the room quieted. "I'd like to toast the greatest Marine fighter pilot that ever s.h.i.+t between two shoes." He lifted his drink high in the air and continued his toast as the other pilots elevated their gla.s.ses. "This man has lived without fear, has done things with an airplane that other men have never done, has spit in death's eye a thousand times, and despite all this has managed to retain his Christ-like humility. Gentlemen, I ask you to lift your gla.s.ses and join me in toasting Colonel Bull Meecham."

Amid the hisses and jeers that followed this toast, Captain Ronald Bookout whispered to Bull, "Sir, I think we might get into a little trouble if we don't hold it down a little. I just peeked out toward the restaurant and there are a lot of Navy types in there. I'd hate for you to get in trouble on your last night in Europe."

"Captain," Bull said loudly so the other Marines would hear his reply, "there's something you don't understand about the Navy. The Navy expects us to be wild. That's so they can feel superior to us. They think we're something out of the ice age and it is entirely fittin' that we maintain this image. They expect us to be primitive, son, and it is a sin, a mortal sin, for a Marine ever to let a G.o.ddam squid think we are related to them in any way. h.e.l.l, if I found out that Naval Academy grads liked to screw women, I'd give serious consideration to becoming a pansy. As a Marine, and especially as a Marine fighter pilot, you've got to constantly keep 'em on their toes. I can see them out there now mincing around like they've got icicles stuck up their b.u.t.ts. They think the Corps is some kind of a.n.a.l fungus they got to put up with."

"h.e.l.l, I'd rather go to war against the Navy than the Russians," Ace Norbett declared.

"Ace, that's always been one of my dreams that the Navy and the Marine Corps go to war. I figure it would take at least fifteen minutes for Marine aviators to make Navy aviators an extinct form of animal life," Bull said.

"They'd have supremacy on the sea, though," Captain Bookout said.

"Let 'em have it. The thing I want to see is those swabbies storming a beach. I bet three Marines could secure a beach against the whole U.S. Navy. h.e.l.l, I could hold off half the Navy with just a slingshot and six p.i.s.sed-off, well-trained oysters on the half sh.e.l.l."

A long whoop and clamor with whistling and foot-stomping arose in the room. It took an extended moment for the room to fall silent when the maitre d' appeared in the doorway accompanied by an aroused Navy captain. The maitre d' smiled triumphantly as he watched the captain stare with majestic disapproval at the a.s.sembled Marines, some of whom had snapped to attention as soon as the Navy captain had materialized in the doorway. The power of rank to silence military men survived even into the pixilated frontiers and distant boundaries of drunkenness.

"Who is the senior officer in this group?" the captain snapped.

"He is, sir," Lieutenant Colonel Meecham said, pointing to Ty Mullinax.

"Identify yourself, Colonel."

"Lieutenant Colonel W.P. Meecham, sir," Bull answered.

"What's wrong with that man, Colonel?" the captain said, pointing to Colonel Mullinax.

"He's had the flu, sir. It's weakened him."

"Don't be smart with me, Colonel, unless you wish to subsist on major's pay the rest of your time in the military. Now I was trying to have a pleasant dinner tonight with my wife who flew over from Villa France to join me. There are at least ten other naval officers dining with their ladies and we would appreciate your cooperation in clearing out of this hotel and taking your ungentlemanly conduct elsewhere."

"Sir, this is a going away party for me, sir," Bull explained.

"Your departure should improve the image of the fleet considerably, Colonel. Now I strongly suggest you drink up and get back to the s.h.i.+p."

"Could we take one last drink at the bar, Captain? If we promise to behave like gentlemen?"

"One. And then I don't want to see you anywhere near the area," the captain said as he left the room.

The maitre d' lingered after the captain departed. "Do you wish to have the bill now, senor?" he said to Bull. "It will include the broken gla.s.ses and damaged furniture."

"Sure, Pedro," Bull answered. "Better add a doctor bill that you'll have when I punch your taco-lovin' eyes out."

"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 s.h.i.+tless 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 G.o.ddam 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 s.h.i.+mmered 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 s.h.i.+rt 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 pa.s.sed three tables. Two other Navy wives pa.s.sed 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 s.h.i.+very 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, "G.o.ddammit, 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 pa.s.s 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."

"s.h.i.+t, Luth. Ace and Punchy were just a little hungry. G.o.d, I love having fun with those high ranked, tight-a.s.sed squids."

"That's good, Bull. But that tight-a.s.sed 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 horses.h.i.+t."

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

"G.o.d just loves your a.s.s, 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 a.s.s 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 b.l.o.w. .j.o.b."

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

"What in the h.e.l.l 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 a.s.s."

"Baggie and I go back a long way together. He knows great leaders.h.i.+p when he sees it. And Baggie ain't afraid to raise a little h.e.l.l. I've seen him take a drink or two to feed that wild hair that grows up there where the sun don't s.h.i.+ne."

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

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

"This a.s.signment 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 s.h.i.+t. That Boyington s.h.i.+t 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 any more. 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."