The Great Santini Part 23

"No, Sergeant."

"Then what did I eat last night, t.u.r.d?"

"You ate s.h.i.t sandwiches, Sergeant."

"Why you fat maggot. You disgusting piece of blubber s.h.i.t. If you ever tell me I eat s.h.i.t again, I'm going to run this swagger stick so far up your a.s.s, they're gonna find my wedding ring in your small intestine. I'm gonna remember you, fat maggot, and if you make it through this camp alive then I'm gonna turn in my uniform."

Then Sergeant Hicks began to address the entire platoon again. To Ben, his father's voice was the most fearsome he had ever heard, could inspire the most panic per decibel. But Bull's voice, at its worst, was rea.s.suring and soothing compared to the D.I.'s. And Hicks's whisper was, if anything, worse than his scream, for the whisper carried with it a quality of inst.i.tutional menace, even fiendishness, that the scream lost in its projection across the parade ground and through the ranks of bald men.

"You t.u.r.ds probably heard about the Pennant Creek incident before you joined the Corps," the D.I. barked. "That was the event in which an overanxious D.I. drowned a couple of t.u.r.ds in a force march. They ran that D.I. out of the Corps but I just want to let you maggots know that I personally feel they should have given that sergeant the Congressional Medal of Honor. Any D.I. who drowns a couple of t.u.r.ds who would further f.u.c.k up the U.S. Marine Corps is a man who deserves the highest honor this country can bestow. Do you maggots agree with me?"

"Yes, Sergeant."

"That's good, t.u.r.ds. Because I'm gonna take you for a hike across that same creek. Only, I'm gonna make you tie anvils and boulders to your feet right before we cross. I'm gonna sink every G.o.ddam one of you t.u.r.ds, because this sergeant ain't gonna leave no witnesses. Do I make myself clear, t.u.r.ds?"

"Yes, Sergeant."

Suddenly, Sergeant Hicks broke toward the first rank and began screaming at a large, well built recruit who took a step backward in surprise, so sudden was the attack. "You think you can whip my a.s.s, don't you, maggot? You're sitting there thinking to yourself, 'If that little f.u.c.king f.a.g sergeant gives me any lip I'll tear him apart limb by limb,' isn't that what you're thinking, you overgrown piece of s.h.i.t?"

"No, Sergeant."

"Don't lie to me, you brainless sack of Kotex. You told your bunkmate last night that I was the biggest a.s.shole you've ever seen. Isn't that right, t.u.r.d?"

"No, Sergeant."

"You don't think I'm an a.s.shole, t.u.r.d?" Sergeant Hicks said, his voice forming into a whisper again.

"No, Sergeant."

"Well what am I? Do you think I'm a ballerina? Or a violinist? Or a G.o.ddam Army general? I'll tell you one thing, t.u.r.d. It's my job to be an a.s.shole. I'm paid by the U.S. Marine Corps to be the biggest a.s.shole in the world for twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, fifty-two weeks a year for the rest of my G.o.ddam life. Now, t.u.r.d, I want you to tell me and the rest of these maggots what the sergeant is."

"The sergeant is an a.s.shole," the boy said, his voice breaking on the final word.

The howl that Sergeant Hicks emitted was demonic enough to startle Ben, who watched from his anonymous vantage point in the car.

"You sc.u.m sucking son of pig s.h.i.t. If you ever call me an a.s.shole again I'll make sure they send you home to your maggot mother in no fewer than a hundred boxes. You and fat maggot are going to be my special project these next couple of weeks. I'm gonna be all..."

Someone in the platoon coughed loudly. Stopping in midsentence, Sergeant Hicks stepped back, his face contorted with disbelief and fury. He began to slap the swagger stick into the open palm of his left hand again and again. It was the only sound Ben could hear. The platoon was motionless, soundless. They waited for the D.I.'s wrath to descend upon them collectively, in a truculent visitation as though the whole platoon had sneezed together. "Which one of you t.u.r.ds coughed?" Hicks asked in a baleful whisper. "I want to know which one of you worthless nits had the bra.s.s b.a.l.l.s to cough when I was talking. I will tell you this, t.u.r.ds. No one in this G.o.ddam platoon coughs, farts, s.h.i.ts, p.i.s.ses, or beats off without my permission. Is that clear, t.u.r.ds?"

"Yes, Sergeant."

Then the cough came again. Ben heard it and froze. He looked to his father for some sign of affirmation. But Bull was smiling, leaning back, and enjoying the performance.

"I see you, maggot," Hicks screamed. "I see you, maggot. Beat feet it up here, sc.u.mbag. You. Yes. You, sc.u.mbag. You beat feet it up here before I tear your f.u.c.king legs from your putrid body."

The third man in the fourth rank ran to the front of the platoon and stood trembling at attention before Sergeant Hicks. Circling the man, Hicks began muttering and shaking his head, saying, "What am I gonna do, t.u.r.ds? I try to be fair. I try to do my best to produce the best G.o.ddam Marines in the Corps. But I got to prove to you t.u.r.ds that I mean what I say. I don't want you maggots to draw a breath without asking my permission. I am p.i.s.sed off, t.u.r.ds. I am really p.i.s.sed off. And when I get p.i.s.sed off, really p.i.s.sed off, I become a G.o.ddam homicidal maniac." His voice was rising again. "I want to kill this piece of s.h.i.t. I want to kill this piece of s.h.i.t because he's hurting the Marine Corps. I want to take this swagger stick and poke his eyes out, to mutilate him. I told you not to cough, t.u.r.d. I warned you. I told you not to cough. And I don't waste my time with any t.u.r.d more than once."

Very slowly, Sergeant Hicks transferred the swagger stick to his left hand, unsnapped his holster, and slowly drew his pistol. "I hate to do this to you, t.u.r.d. But you p.i.s.sed me off bad." Hicks began shooting bullets into the chest of the recruit, firing in a calm synchronized salvo that had a violent harmony to it. Bull was convulsed on the driver's side of the car. "It's Blakeley," he whispered to Ben.

Blakeley lay writhing at the edge of the parade ground, his agony sounding out of him in excruciating groans. Replacing his pistol with extraordinary calm, Hicks screamed out, "Fat Maggot, you and that other t.u.r.d beat feet it out here on the double!"

The two recruits departed their ranks with terrific haste and stood before Hicks, both of them visibly shaking. "Take this dead maggot," Hicks said, pointing to Blakeley whose chest was now soaked in blood. "Take him over there and throw his a.s.s into that Dempster-Dumpster."

The recruits lifted Blakeley by the arms and legs and carried him rapidly to the Dempster-Dumpster which sat behind B barracks. As they pa.s.sed the car in which he sat, Ben could hear Blakeley moaning to the recruits who bore him toward the garbage, "Help me. Please help me. I'm only wounded." But his pallbearers did not lose a step as they hustled to the Dempster-Dumpster, opened the steel door, and hurled the man toward the fetid dark interior where cans rattled and a bottle broke. The pleas of the grievously wounded man reverberated through the steel walls enclosing him, but the fat recruit closed the door quickly and both recruits sprinted back to their place in line.

"Good work, maggots. Now Sergeant Taylor will march you off to breakfast. I got to stay here and finish this t.u.r.d off with my bayonet. It wouldn't be humane to let the poor b.a.s.t.a.r.d suffer."

Another D.I. materialized from behind the barracks, issued some sharp, resonant orders, and soon the platoon was moving toward the mess hall. Not a single head turned in the entire platoon. Not one man looked back.

Sergeant Hicks walked over to the car, a broad smile on his face. The smile was an incongruity on such a formidable man. Bull Meecham got out of the car and both men shook hands warmly. Then they fell against the hood of the car laughing. Ben ran to the Dempster-Dumpster and unhooked the latch. Climbing out, Sergeant Blakeley immediately peeled off his stained T-shirt. He hurled the T-shirt back into the interior of the dumpster. He saluted Colonel Meecham, blew Sergeant Hicks a kiss, then walked toward the barracks to take a shower.

"Catsup is stickier than blood, son," Sergeant Blakeley said to Ben as he pa.s.sed him.

Sergeant Hicks walked up to Ben and said, "Happy Birthday, Ben."

"Thank you, sir."

"You're old enough to be part of this platoon now. You want to sign up today? I'll see what I can do about gettin' you in."

"No, sir. I think I'll wait."

"I saw your jacket in the car. Your dad told me he gave it to you as a present. You'll have to be a h.e.l.l of a man to come up to the Marine that first wore it."

"That'll be a piece of cake," Ben, said, grinning at his father.

"You don't remember this, Ben, but I first saw you on the flight line in Cherry Point when you used to come down there with your dad. He used to ride you around on his shoulders on top of that same flight jacket. That was a long time ago, wasn't it, Colonel?"

"It doesn't seem like that long ago. You still got that same ugly puss that would scare G.o.d, Hicksie."

"Well, I scared some boys this morning, sure enough. Now, Ben, you know that this little exhibition today is just between us girls. They'd hang me up by my thumbs if they heard about this little training technique. I've already been busted once for having a little fun and games with my t.u.r.ds."

"Do you ever have any trouble from your troops after one of these performances?" Bull asked.

"Colonel, that platoon you just saw will win almost every award for excellence when they graduate from this island as full-fledged Marines; they'll also be tough enough to hold off half the Russian army. What they learned this morning was just play-acting. Right now, they think they're in the clutches of a wilda.s.s killer. It makes my job a lot easier."

"I won't say anything, Sergeant," Ben said.

"Good. That's fine. That's real fine," Sergeant Hicks said, stepping back to salute Bull Meecham. "Excuse me, sir. I've got to get back to my t.u.r.ds and kind of detraumatize them. Happy Birthday again, Ben."

"Thank you, Sergeant."

As they drove back toward Ravenel, the sky was beginning to loosen up in the east, fingers of pink and mauve light touched the rim of the earth, enlarging imperceptibly with each moment pa.s.sed. Bull asked his son what he had extracted from the morning exercises.

"I'm glad I'm not a recruit on Biddle Island."

"Here's what I want you to take away from this morning," Bull said. "I want you to know that the Marine Corps could get along without its officers just fine. A lot of officers are a bunch of dingle berries going along for the ride. But the NCO's. Those guys are the cream de the cream. You get rid of the sergeants and there is no Marine Corps. There's just a bunch of guys walking around wearing funny green suits."

"Then why aren't you a sergeant, Dad?" Ben asked.

"I am," Bull said. "That's my secret; I am."

Bull dropped Ben off near the kitchen door. Before Ben could reach the step, Bull called to him, "Don't forget, jocko, I want you to meet me at the club at 1700 hours. Tell your mama we'll be home at about 1830 for a little dinner and cake cutting."

"See you at five, Dad," Ben said. "Thanks again for the jacket."

"Just don't wear it to costume parties. You could get your sweet ol' Dad into all kinds of hot water if the wrong guy sees you walking around in it."

"I'll just wear it around the house. Can I show it to Toomer?"

"Yeah. Toomer don't know s.h.i.t from Shinola anyway. See you at the club, sportsfans. Wear a coat and tie."

"Yes, sir."

Bull drove downtown for his morning coffee at Hobie's Bar and Grill. Since he had begun to show up regularly at Hobie's, he had found a minor addiction to the small talk among the regulars who drifted in after the grill opened after seven in the morning. Already he knew that Ed Mills would be working on his first cup of coffee, occupying the stool nearest the door and casting dark, scowling salutations at all who entered after him. It was a matter of intense pride to Bull that the regulars had accepted him after a brief period of trial and initiation.

Lillian had risen and was sitting at the kitchen table reading the Charleston News and Courier and finishing her first cup of coffee. Walking softly, Ben entered the kitchen.

"How does it feel to be eighteen, sweetheart?" Lillian said, rising and going over to kiss her son on the cheek.

"It feels good. I can now get married without my parents' permission, buy liquor in South Carolina, and die in any war that comes up. Dad told me this morning that he thought I'd win some air medals in either Cuba, the Middle East, or Southeast Asia."

"I was just nineteen when you were born. I was eighteen when I married your father."

"I hope you were eighteen when you married him."

"Hush, sugah."

"It's hard to believe, Mama, that you were my age almost exactly when you married Dad. I can't imagine myself married right now. I guess you got to date a little bit before you decide to get married."

"I was a child when I got married," Lillian said, returning to her coffee. "My mother should have known better but she grew up in a generation where girls married the first man who could provide real security. You know, of course, that some of the boys who proposed to me in Atlanta are some of the richest, most prominent men in the South right now. But the war was going on and the future was so uncertain. Then your father showed up. The handsomest thing you have ever seen in your life in that uniform of his. And all those medals. He was also the most charming talker I had ever run across. I had always thought that southern boys could outtalk any race of living creatures until I met your father. Mother was a little worried about his being a Yankee and she almost died when she found out he was Catholic, but he charmed her faster than he had me. Your daddy's tongue was all honey and cotton candy when he went courtin'. If I hadn't married Bull, I think mother would have disowned me. Your father can still do no wrong in your grandmother's eyes. When I complain about Bull, she tells me that I don't know what a mean man is and to thank my lucky stars I don't have to live with one."

"Dad puts on the biggest act I've ever seen around Mamaw," Ben said.

"Your father is one of the great actors of the world, Ben, but he is a child actor and his role hasn't changed or developed since I've known him. I sometimes wonder what would have happened to your father if he had left the Marine Corps and become an insurance salesman or a used car dealer. I wonder what that would have done to his self-image. I see the need for a fighter pilot to maintain an enormous ego because without it his life might be endangered."

"I don't believe that, Mama," Ben said with sudden seriousness.

"It's true, Ben. Every time your father goes up in a plane, there's a chance he won't come back. There's a chance that something will go wrong with the plane or some horrible accident will occur. I think your father brags and struts and pretends he's the greatest pilot in the world because he's covering up something. He's covering up his fear."

Ben walked to the stove and poured himself a cup of coffee. "What do you think you're doing, mister?" his mother asked. "You're not old enough to drink coffee."

"Dad let me drink some this morning," Ben answered. "I drank it black."

"If you want to drink it when you get away from my house, then drink it. But in my house you won't touch it. The caffeine's bad for you."

"The reason I don't believe that fighter pilot stuff, Mom," Ben said, pouring the coffee back into the pot, "is that I remember Major Finch."

"You barely even knew Lamar. He was a prince of a man."

"I went to school with his son and I used to play pick-up basketball games with Marines who worked on his plane. Do you know what was different about him?"

"There was a lot different about Lamar Finch."

"I heard over and over again that he was the best pilot in the Marine Corps. And he never said a single word to anybody. He was quiet and polite and just a nice guy. Billy Lamar told me that his father didn't drink, cuss, smoke, or brag, or anything. That's what everybody said. But the story I loved the best was that Major Finch whipped Dad's f.a.n.n.y when they ha.s.sled together on maneuvers. So if Major Finch didn't have to drink and brag and kick his kids around, why do Dad and some of his other Marine buddies have to?"

"Major Finch was the exception. He was not seduced by the myth of the Marine Corps."

"What do you mean?" Ben asked.

"Your father has taken the whole mythology of the Corps, or what he interprets as the mythology, and entwined it with his own personality. Sometimes your father acts like a living, breathing recruitment poster. I don't know if he was like that when I married him because I don't really know what I was like when I married him. I just think the ego is bloated into something monstrous when a man decides to make the Marine Corps a career. Had your father become something in the civilian world, our lives would have been very different. Major Finch didn't need the Marine Corps. He had the quiet confidence of a man who believes in himself and who doesn't need a structure to reinforce that belief."

"No. With Dad it doesn't make any difference, Mama," Ben said. "He could be an insurance salesman and still be the same type of guy. I can see him coming home from work, kicking a door down, and shouting, 'Stand by for an insurance salesman!' He's the way he is because he can't be anything else."

"You're wrong, Ben. The Marine Corps is a stronger force than you know. It can take a stupid, spineless man and make him feel like he could face the armies of G.o.d and stand a fifty-fifty chance of winning. If the Corps gets a strong man in the beginning, then it can make him feel that the armies of G.o.d are kamikazes for having the nerve to challenge him in the first place. The Marine Corps takes a small ego and makes it gigantic; it takes a large ego and then steps back to see how large it can grow. Your father's is still growing even though I feel it now dwarfs a few small Alps."

"Well, ol' Ben will be out of it next year."

"Have you been thinking about college?"

"Sure. I've narrowed it down to Harvard and Yale."

"Don't be ridiculous."

"Seriously, I'd like to go to Chapel Hill."

"You can't go there for two reasons. It's too expensive for out-of-state students and your father heard that it was a training ground for Communists when we were stationed at Cherry Point."

"Dad thinks every college is a training ground for Communists."

"He heard this from an impeccable source. General Whitehead. His son went there for a year until the Communists drove him out."

"He flunked out, Mom. And you know as well as I do that General Whitehead is an idiot. Dad thinks he's an idiot too."

"Anyway, it's too expensive."

"Where can I go, Mom?"

"Well, if you don't win a scholarship for basketball, you could try to get an appointment to the Academy."

"No."

"Well, it was just a thought. I think your grades have slipped too much for that anyway."

"I make good grades in English and history," Ben said.

"You only study things that come easy to you. There's nothing character-building in doing something where there's no struggle. If you made A's in math and science, the subjects you detest, I would be certain that you were made of something tough and indestructible and that you would go far in life. I've taught you to love literature and love language but I often think I made a mistake by emphasizing it too much. A man needs to know math and science if he's going to be a pilot."

"Who said anything about being a pilot, Mom?"