The Great Santini Part 9

"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 b.l.o.w. .j.o.b?" Bull grinned.

"G.o.ddam," 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 pa.s.sed, 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 f.u.c.king 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 b.i.t.c.h quit reading those G.o.ddam 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 sungla.s.ses 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 circ.u.mstances. Therefore, we are faced with a grave problem. Since you are about to a.s.sume 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 a.s.signed 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 p.r.o.nto. 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, Guadalca.n.a.l 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 a.s.s 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 b.u.t.tocks but it seemed to have increased his formidability instead of diminis.h.i.+ng 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, slas.h.i.+ng 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 p.r.o.nunciation 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 G.o.ddam sn.o.b 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 s.h.i.+t. Especially when they've been pa.s.sed 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 reb.u.t.tal. "But lieutenants sometimes. .h.i.t other lieutenants. Is that affirmative, Wilbur?" Varney asked.

Colonel Meecham did not answer.

"I asked you a question, Wilbur. Lieutenants sometimes. .h.i.t 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 G.o.d, 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.

Chapter 7.

A jet pa.s.sed over the river near the Meecham house, its thunder s.h.i.+vering every pane of gla.s.s. 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 relations.h.i.+p 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 s.h.i.+ne, soldier. Hit the deck with your boots on and head for the G.o.ddam trenches. The j.a.ps 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 j.a.p artillery finds out where we're camped." He s.n.a.t.c.hed the pillow from beneath Matt's head and rolled him to the floor. Matt was sleeping in the nude.

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

Bull sprinted for the girls' room where he shook Karen and Mary Anne, yelling, "The women will be raped by the slimy yellow b.a.s.t.a.r.ds if they don't man the trenches; follow me to the ridge in the living room," he cried, plunging out the door and down the stairs in melodramatically elephantine steps.

"I've always wanted to be raped by a slimy yellow b.a.s.t.a.r.d," Mary Anne called after him. "I wouldn't mind a slimy yellow b.a.s.t.a.r.d or a slimy black b.a.s.t.a.r.d either." She turned over to go back to sleep.

"You'd better come on," Karen said.

"I never cared for his childish games," Mary Anne replied.

Karen followed her father out the door and down the steps. She met Matt coming out of his room, holding a broom on his shoulder.

"What's that, Matt?" she asked.

"A bazooka," he answered.

In the living room, Colonel Meecham had overturned the coffee table, his eyes scanning the dining room for troop movement.

"Do you see anything, Sergeant?" the colonel cried to his son Ben, dug in behind the flowered sofa where Okra slept.

"Yes, sir," Ben yelled, sighting Matt and Karen tiptoeing down the stairs, "here come three hundred crack troops from the emperor's own regiment."

"Don't fire," his father ordered, "until you see the yellow of their skins and the slant of their Buddha lovin' eyes."

The Marines fired in delirium, cutting down the first advancing wave of j.a.panese infantry. Death cries of Bonzai, Kamikaze, and Minolta hovered over the battlefield and the carnage of battle stained the beachhead a terrible crimson as the two Marines, employing the courage and wisdom of the Occident, prevailed in the first deadly moments of the a.s.sault.

"Kill those yellow sons a b.i.t.c.hes, Sergeant," the colonel screamed above the din of battle.

"These ain't Mother's Day cards I'm sending 'em," Ben replied toughly while sliding a clip into his automatic.

"G.o.ddammit, Sarge, here they come again. Hundreds of them."

"It looks like curtains for us, Colonel."

"Sarge, I just want to say I've never fought with a braver man."

"Thank you, sir," Ben answered. "And I ain't ever fought with a bigger chicken s.h.i.+t in my whole life."

Before Bull could answer, Matt and Karen charged from the hall. "Here they come," Bull bellowed. "A G.o.ddam yellow horde. It looks like it's gonna be that proverbial hand-to-hand combat. Fix bayonets, Sergeant."

The horde burst into their perimeter. Matt was shouting "Simba Barracuda, Simba Barracuda" as he ran.

Matt lunged at Ben's throat but was disemboweled by a quick thrust of a bra.s.s candlestick by Bull Meecham. Karen lingered in the hallway.

"You're dead, Matt-j.a.p," Colonel Meecham declared.

"No, I'm not," Matt retorted, "you only wounded me. Simba Barracuda. M. Meecham lives." He then laid the broomstick on his shoulder and began pumping bazooka sh.e.l.ls into Bull's midriff.

"Wounded, my a.s.s," Bull said. "I cut your G.o.ddam yellow guts out."

"I guess the big bazooka isn't doing any damage to your beer gut either. Yeah, sure. That's close."

As the argument raged between the two enemies, Colonel Meecham, ignoring a cla.s.sic principle of warfare, left his flank exposed to the sprinting figure of Karen who exploded from the hallway bearing a bathroom plunger in her hands. As Bull debated the state of Matt's ability to continue in the holocaust, Karen stabbed the plunger into the dead center of her father's b.u.t.tocks.

"I killed Daddy. I stuck him in the b.u.t.t," Karen crowed in triumph.

"You only wounded me," the colonel countered angrily.

"Then you only wounded me," said Matt.

"You are dead, Matt-j.a.p," the colonel answered. "I am wounded. A good Marine can be brought down only when his heart stops beating."

"My heart's still beating."

Ben was doubled up on the sofa giggling. "Karen stuck the Great Santini in the b.u.t.t with a plumber's friend." He was easy prey for Karen, who ran him through with no resistance.

"Shut up and fight, jocko," Colonel Meecham shouted at Ben.

"Simba Barracuda," Matt shouted, thrusting his broomstick at his father.

The battle raged on until Mrs. Meecham descended the stairs on her way to the kitchen.

"It's a regiment of Marines come to relieve us," the colonel cheered.

"America's finest coming in the nick of time," Ben shouted as his father hummed the Marine Corps hymn.

"Why do we always have to play the j.a.ps?" Matt whined.

"Yeah, we never get to play the Marines," Karen added.

"That's because you're a bunch of stinking j.a.ps," Ben said grinning and poking Karen with the candlestick.

"If I'm a j.a.p then you're a j.a.p too. 'Cause you're my brother," Matt said.

"None of you are j.a.ps," Colonel Meecham said, entering the argument. "We're just conducting war games. In war games somebody has to be designated as the enemy. When you get older, you'll get to be Marines. You've just got to prove yourself worthy first."

"Simba Barracuda," Matt said, as a form of agreement.

"What's this 'Simba Barracuda' c.r.a.p?" the colonel asked.

"Matt picked that up when you were gone, Pops," Ben said. "He thinks it strikes fear into the hearts of men."

"Any time I'm about to fight someone I yell 'Simba Barracuda' real tough like. It works every time."

"You could yell 'Simba Barracuda' at me until your b.u.t.t fell off and it wouldn't bother me," Bull said.

"Then I'd have to use my other approach. I don't use this one unless it looks like curtains."

"What's that, sportsfans?"

"I say real cool and tough, 'Hey man, you mess with me and you'll have to answer to Angelo Delucci.' "

"Who's he?"

"n.o.body, Dad. But people get scared when Big Matt talks about Angelo Delucci."

"I don't get it, Big Matt," Bull said. "What's so scary about an Eye-talian?"

"Eye-talians have been known to do a little rubbin' out, Pops. You haven't been watching 'The Untouchables' overseas."

"What a bunch of horsec.r.a.p. Ha. Ha. Angelo Delucci."

"Simba Barracuda."

At this moment, her face a portrait of scorn, Mary Anne walked through the middle of the war game and said, "Is the war over, creeps?"

"Uh oh," her father teased, "here comes Miss Hang Crepe, morose as ever."