The Death of Santini: The Story of a Father and His Son
Page 39
“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. Hell, I could hold off half the Navy with just a slingshot and six pissed-off, well-trained oysters on the half shell.”
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 assembled 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 ship.”
“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, señor?” he said to Bull. “It will include the broken glasses 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 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 carome
d 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 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.”
“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.
A Note About the Author
Pat Conroy is the author of ten previous books: The Boo, The Water Is Wide, The Great Santini, The Lords of Discipline, The Prince of Tides, Beach Music, My Losing Season, The Pat Conroy Cookbook: Recipes of My Life, South of Broad, and My Reading Life. He lives in Beaufort, South Carolina.
Other titles by Pat Conroy available in eBook format
Beach Music • 978-0-307-80473-0
My Losing Season • 978-0-553-89818-7
My Reading Life • 978-0-385-53384-3
The Pat Conroy Cookbook • 978-0-385-53285-3
South of Broad • 978-0-385-53214-3
Visit: www.patconroy.com
Like: www.facebook.com/PatConroyAuthor
For more information, please visit www.nanatalese.com
Frances (“Peg”) Peek and Donald Patrick Conroy, just married, 1945.
Don Conroy at the time he was selected for the Navy Olympic basketball team, 1947.
Peg Conroy holding her firstborn son, Pat.
Just a small family at the time: Pat; his mother, Peg; and his sister Carol.
The boys with Peg. Left to right: Jim, Tom, Tim, Mike, Pat.
The South Carolina All-Star Team in 1963. Pat is kneeling on the left.
The whole family together in 1965. Back row: Jim, Carol, Pat, Kathy, Mike. Front row: Peg, Tim, Tom, Don.
A commendation.
Pat finally goes to college and attends The Citadel.
Pat graduates from The Citadel in 1967.
Pat and Barbara’s wedding, October 10, 1969.
A family picture taken in 1970 to send to Don, who was overseas.
Pat’s thirtieth birthday in 1975. With him are Marion O’Neill; Cliff Graubart, who owned the Old New York Bookshop; and his sister Carol, the poet.
The Peek family of Alabama. Jasper is Pat’s grandfather.
The Conroy family of Chicago.
Pat at the Old New York Bookshop in 1976. He had just published The Great Santini.
Pat talking with Royce Bemis, a sales rep from Houghton Mifflin, the publisher of his first four books.
Don signing books at the Old New York Bookshop in 1976.
Pat playing one-on-one with Michael O’Keefe during the filming of The Great Santini in 1979.
Pat, Don, and Col. Thomas Courvoise, also known as “The Boo.”
Don, Cliff Graubart, and Pat.
Barbara, Jessica, Megan, and Melissa with Pat during a summer in Minnesota.
The Conroys move to Rome from 1982 to 1984 and live on the Piazza Farnese.
Peg, her granddaughter Susannah, and Pat in Rome, 1982.
Shannon Faulkner and Pat autograph books after speaking at a St. Helena Island art gallery in 1995.
The trip to Ireland, 1996. Kathleen Kennedy Townsend is in the foreground at left.
Pat with his favorite teacher from childhood, Gene Norris.
Don’s last birthday with Pat, Carol, Kathy, Jim, Mike, and Tim on April 4, 1998.
A drawing by Doug Marlette in honor of Don after his death.
Pat and Cassandra’s wedding in May 1998.
Also by Pat Conroy
The Boo
The Water Is Wide
The Great Santini
The Lords of Discipline
The Prince of Tides
Beach Music
My Losing Season
The Pat Conroy Cookbook: Recipes of My Life
South of Broad
My Reading Life
The moving portrait of a son’s struggle to escape the iron fist of his volatile military father
Marine Colonel Bull Meecham commands his home like a soldiers’ barracks. Cold and controlling but also loving, Bull has complicated relationships with each member of his family—in particular, his eldest son, Ben. Though he despera
tely seeks his father’s approval, Ben is determined to break out from the Colonel’s shadow. With guidance from teachers at his new school, he strives to find the courage to stand up to his father once and for all.
More ebooks by Pat Conroy