by Pat Conroy
“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. 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, Lut
h, 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 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.
The Death of Santini
Pat Conroy
A Reader’s Guide
My dear friends and fellow lovers of Santini,
You have written so many letters of condolence since my father died that I’ve been overwhelmed at the task of answering them. But know this: All of them meant something, all of them moved me deeply, all were appreciated, and all were read. Don Conroy was larger than life and there was never a room he entered that he left without making his mark. At some point in his life, he passed from being merely memorable to being legendary.
In the thirty-three years he was in the Marine Corps, Colonel Conroy concentrated on the task of defending his country, and he did so exceedingly well. In the next twenty-four years left to him, he put all his efforts into the art of being a terrific father, a loving uncle, a brother of great substance, a beloved grandfather, and a friend to thousands. Out of uniform, the Colonel let his genius for humor flourish. Always in motion he made his rounds in Atlanta each day and no one besides himself knew how many stops he put in during a given day. He was like a bee going from flower to flower, pollinating his world with his generous gift for friendship.
Don Conroy was a man’s man, a soldier’s soldier, a Marine’s Marine. There was nothing soft or teddy-bearish about him. His simplicity was extraordinary. He died without ever owning a credit card, never took out a loan in his life, and almost all the furniture in his apartment was rented. I think he loved his family with his body and soul, yet no one ever lived who was less articulate in expressing that love. On the day the doctor told him that there was nothing more to be done for him, my father told me,
“Don’t worry about it. I’ve had a great life. No one’s had a life like me. Everyone should be so lucky.”
Don Conroy died with exemplary courage, as one would expect.
He never complained about pain or whimpered or cried out.
His death was stoical and quiet. He never quit fighting, never surrendered, and never gave up. He died like a king. He died like The Great Santini.
I thank you with all my heart.
Pat Conroy
Questions and Topics for Discussion
1. Certain members of the Conroy clan viewed Pat’s writings as a betrayal of the family, exposing their dirty laundry to the public and tarnishing their reputation. Do you agree? How would you react if someone close to you novelized your life?
2. How do you think the real-life Conroys compare to their fictional counterparts in the Meecham family?
3. Conroy describes the lessons about love that he learned from his parents’ marriage in startlingly vivid terms, writing: “[Love] was a country bristling with fishhooks hung at eye level, man-traps, and poisoned baits. It could hurl toward you at breakneck speed or let you dangle over a web spun by a brown recluse spider” (this page). How do you evaluate this assessment of love and marriage? Do you think Conroy’s attitude shifts at all throughout the book? How did the example of his parents’ relationship influence his own marriages?
4. Conroy writes of his “high contempt” for literary critics, claiming that “no writer has suffered over morning coffee because of the savagery of my review of his or her latest book, and no one ever will” (this page). How do you reconcile this attitude toward literary critics with the suffering his writing caused the members of his family? Do the two positions contradict each other, or are they compatible? Why?
5. In the Introduction to this book, Conroy claims that other writers often consider autobiographical fiction to be a low form of literature. What do you think of this claim?
6. Conroy writes “I don’t believe in happy families,” going on to explain that “A family is too frail a vessel to contain the risks of all the warr
ing impulses expressed when such a group meets on common ground” (this page). Do you agree with this claim? Is there such a thing as a happy family?
7. Conroy describes his mother as playing the part of Scarlett O’Hara throughout her life. What part does Conroy play? Do we all play a role different from who we really are? If so, what part do you play?
8. Conroy sometimes describes his parents and childhood in mythic terms, comparing his father to Thor and to Ares, the Greek god of war. Is it human nature to make myths of our childhoods and deify our parents? What myths exist in your family lore?
9. The Death of Santini explores the impact of Conroy’s Southern and Irish heritage on his upbringing. Discuss the importance of family heritage and ancestry in Conroy’s life and in your own.
10. Conroy eloquently writes that “Your birthplace is your destiny” (this page). What do you think of this statement?
11. The Conroy children sometimes have very divergent perspectives on their shared childhood memories. What do you think of this phenomenon? Can you think of similar instances in your own life? Is it possible to avoid editorializing memories?
12. In a much-discussed scene from The Great Santini, Bull Meecham’s son chases his father around the Beauford green yelling “I love you!” Why do you think Bull/Dan runs away from this onslaught of affection?
13. Peg stuck with her marriage to Dan through some terrible times, yet the marriage could not survive the publication of The Great Santini. Why do you think that is?
14. In what ways did the filming of The Great Santini change Pat’s relationship with his father?
15. Conroy experiences the rare pleasure of watching his novel come to life on the silver screen. Who would play you in the movie of your life?
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.