The Great Santini Part 4

"Why don't you help your poor old husband stay awake, honey?"

"You taught me never to volunteer for anything too. Besides I'll perish if I don't get a little sleep. Tomorrow's a long day with the movers coming and everything."

"Ben," Bull cried out to his son in the darkness behind him. "Ben, don't pretend you're asleep already."

"I was asleep."

"Get up here. Right behind me. You've got guard duty first."

"Yes, sir," Ben said, moving lightly over Matthew, and pushing Okra to the back of the car. He rested his arms on the front seat and leaned forward so he could whisper to his father without disturbing the sleep of the others.

"We'll have a little man-to-man talk while the leathernecks get some sack time."

"Sure, Dad," Ben said hesitantly. "What do you want to talk about?"

"Let me ask you a question first, sentry. What are the responsibilities of a man on guard duty?"

"I don't know them all, Dad. I forgot some of them."

"Yeah, yeah. Your mother always slacks up on you when I go overseas. Give me the ones you know."

"To walk my post in a military manner, keep always alert, and observing everything that takes place within sight or hearing. To spread the alarm in case of fire or disorder."

"You skipped about a hundred of 'em. You ought to know those if you're going to be on duty. I'll give you a week to relearn 'em once we get to Ravenel."

"I haven't looked at them for a long time, Dad."

"Never make excuses."

"Yes, sir."

For the next ten miles the car was silent. Colonel Meecham chewed gum belligerently and Ben watched the white lines until he was mesmerized by their repet.i.tiveness. Both of them wanted to speak but could find no common ground to bridge the abyss that separated them as father and son.

"The Red Sox won," Bull said finally.

"How did Williams do?" Ben asked.

"Knocked three runs in with a double."

"Good."

"I flew with Ted Williams in Korea. You knew that didn't you?"

"Yes, sir. Dad?" Ben said, beginning a conversation he had fantasized when his father was flying from the carrier off the French coast. "Are you ever afraid when you fly?"

"That's a good question. Yeah. I'm always a little afraid when I fly. That's what makes me so d.a.m.n good. I've seen pilots who weren't afraid of anything, who would forget about checking their instruments, who flew by instinct as though they were immortal. I've p.i.s.sed on the graves of those poor b.a.s.t.a.r.ds too. The pilot who isn't a little bit afraid always screws up and when you screw up bad in a jet, you get a corporal playing taps at the expense of the government."

"What are you most afraid of when you fly?"

"Most afraid of. Hmmm," Bull whispered, plucking at his left ear lobe. "Good question, sportsfans. When I'm flying a jet, the thing I'm most afraid of is birds."

"Birds?" Ben said letting a quick girlish giggle escape in his surprise.

"Yeah, birds," his father answered defensively. "You hit a bird going five hundred knots and it's like being hit with a bowling ball. Do you remember when Rip Tusc.u.m was killed in a plane crash about five years ago?"

"Yes, sir."

"Well, he had his head taken off when he hit a buzzard."

"Birds, eh, Popsy," Ben intoned. "I can see the headlines now. Bull Meecham killed by a parakeet. War Hero Brought Down by a Deadly Sapsucker."

"Go ahead and laugh, jocko, but I break out into a cold sweat when I spot a flock of birds up yonder. The bad thing is that they're usually past you by the time you see 'em. I mean they are behind you before your brain registers that you've just pa.s.sed a bird. You'll know what I mean some day."

"How, Dad?"

"When you're a Marine pilot flying your own plane."

Ben knew he was in familiar terrain now, old territory where the teasing had grooves and furrows of ground that had been plowed before.

"I think I'm going to be an Air Force pilot, Dad."

"If you want to fly with p.u.s.s.ies it's O.K. with me," Bull flared, then remembered that his son had teased him about the Air Force many times before. "But if you want to fly with the best, you'll fly with the Corps, simple as that."

"What if I really decide not to go in the Marine Corps, Dad?"

"I want you to go in for a four-year hitch at least. If you decide not to make a career out of it, it's your decision. But I want to pin the wings of gold on you after flight training. You'll be a good pilot, son. You're athletic and have the quick reflexes. The coordination. The only problem I see is you have a little too much of your mother in you, but Quantico will ream that out of your system."

"I'll have plenty of time to decide whether to go into the Corps or not when I'm in college, Dad."

"That's negative," his father replied. "I've already made that decision. You'll decide whether to stay in after four years."

"That's not fair, Dad."

"Who said your ol' Dad's ever been fair? Look, Ben, you'll thank me one day. Christ, the way the world's going now you may even luck out and get your wings when there's a war going on."

"That's lucking out?" Ben exclaimed.

"Shh, not so loud. If you're trained as a fighter pilot you'll never be happy until you test your skills against an enemy pilot. That, boy, is a law."

"What if I get killed?"

"Then you're a lousy pilot. Only lousy pilots get killed in combat. That's another law."

Ben thought for a moment, then said, "What about Uncle Dan? Your brother, the one killed in the Solomons. Was he a lousy pilot?"

The ma.s.sive shoulders tensed beside him. Then slowly they relaxed, but the car lurched forward, moving faster and faster until Bull answered by saying, "Yes, Dan was a lousy pilot. But he was a brave one and he earned that K.I.A. on his tombstone. He earned it."

"Would you like to be killed in action, Dad?"

"If he has to go, every pilot would like to be killed in action. It's better than dying of the piles."

"But only lousy pilots are K.I.A., Dad. It's a law."

"That's right, sportsfans. Good thinking. That's why I'm telling you that I'm more afraid of birds than enemy pilots."

"It would have to be a great pilot who shot you down, wouldn't it, Dad?"

Bull turned toward his son and winked. "Inhuman, Ben. The b.a.s.t.a.r.d would have to be inhuman. Now go on and get some sleep. I'm wide awake now. I'll get Mary Anne or your mama up if I need company."

"Good night, Dad."

"Good night, sportsfans."

Alone now, the car voiceless, Bull strained to follow the white lines of the highway snaking through Georgia. b.u.t.terflies by the thousands fluttered maniacally before the headlights then exploded like tiny half-angels on the windshield leaving a scant yellow paint and the dust of broken wings as a final signature. The further into the journey Bull went, the harder it became for him to see through the windshield that was stained with the prints of so many inconsequential deaths.

Periodically, Bull would spot a turtle crossing the highway and with an imperceptible movement of his arm he would position the car expertly and snap the animal's sh.e.l.l, which made a scant pop like the breaking of an egg. It kept him from getting bored on the trip; it kept him alert. He always did it when his wife and children were asleep. But when he pulled clear into the other lane to kill a turtle almost on the shoulder of the other side, Lillian awoke.

She whispered at him, her eyes still closed but her lips tightened in a thin line, "It takes a mighty brave man to run over turtles."

"Who's running over turtles?" Bull asked innocently.

"I've been on enough trips to know when you're getting your jollies running over turtles. I think it's sick."

"Well, they shouldn't be on the road. They're a safety hazard."

"Sure they are, darlin'. You're always reading about car wrecks caused by marauding box turtles attacking defenseless Chevrolets."

"It's my only sport when I'm traveling. My one hobby."

"And you're such an all-American at it, darling. Maybe I should dress in a cheerleader's costume and shake a pom-pom every time you run over one of those dangerous turtles."

"Ah, Saint Lillian. Do you think I should drive real slow so I won't kill any b.u.t.terflies?"

"I don't care what you do."

"Thanks, Saint Lillian. I'll be a good boy as soon as I pick off this next turtle. OOOOeeeee. He's a big mother." Then Bull laughed as the wheel made a short pop. "Yeah, we're in Georgia sure enough, sportsfans, I'm starting to see a lot of dead dogs on the highway. That ought to be the nickname of this horses.h.i.t state. The Dead Dog State. Now I'm gonna quit yappin' and start makin' some time."

"Making time." The phrase came back to Ben as he entered into an unsteady threshold of sleep, a sleep that wasn't quite, the groaning of a truck that pa.s.sed them by in a vision of light, pa.s.sed them in a momentary a.s.sault as the car ate its way through Georgia, consuming miles as Bull Meecham carried on imaginary conversations with phantoms only he could see. Ben saw his father stabbing the air with his fingers, saw his lips move and his face grimace as someone responded to his interrogation improperly. Making time. Yes, as this inch of highway is past now, or then, as the sea draws nearer, smelling the sea, while sleep comes during the dying hours, the corpses of miles past, the pale memories of towns seen dimly-the pilot is moving, moving, moving toward a home they have never seen.

Chapter 4.

An hour before dawn, a long, timber-loaded train that smelled sweetly of pine resin stopped them at a country crossing. Colonel Meecham got out of the car and stood watching the train, silently reciting the names of the railroad lines tattooed on the sides of the freight cars. Trains released strange lyrics in Colonel Meecham and though he could not articulate what he felt as he watched the great trains roll in pa.s.sage along warm, silver rails, his children knew that whatever poetry might lurk in their large, often unreadable father, it surfaced whenever he heard a train whistle. The destiny of his family in Chicago was wedded to the movement of trains through the Midwest. If the potato was symbolic of the Meecham family's flight from Ireland, then the freight train was the lucky talisman of their redemption in the new world.

The children stirred slowly out of their sleep. Lillian groaned into awakeness with a loud, feline stretch. Bull walked back to the open door and said, "Pit stop. Head run. Get the dog out and let him lift his leg. Everybody out who needs to pee."

"Sugar," Lillian said, "I know this is an outrageous request, but the girls and I feel more comfortable powdering our noses and doing our business in a clean well-lighted bathroom."

"It's good for you to get a little night air. C'mon, Mary Anne and Karen, you two go over there behind those trees."

"Don't you dare make a move, young ladies. We will keep our dignity."

"O.K., then let's get Matt awake. You too, Ben. Here, Okra, I want you to pee on the track while the train's moving there."

"That's not funny, Dad. That's why Okra hates your guts," Karen retorted.

"I don't need to go," Matt said, only half awake and pulling his pillow tightly over his head to cut out the noise of the train.

"You better go now, son. You know your father doesn't stop often."

"He only stops for three reasons: trains, the death of someone in the car, or if he has to go to the bathroom," Ben said climbing out of the car over Matt.

As Ben walked toward his father, he was surprised to look up and see the universe shivering with starlight. Cotton grew in the field that bounded the railroad tracks and the air was laden with the opulent smells of greening crops and leafy forests. Approaching the sea the land had begun to slope gently, the hills were brushed downward, the earth was smoothing itself, and the rivers straightened for the final run to the sea.

Ben and the colonel were urinating in the ditch that paralleled the highway. Bull commented on each car that flickered past like a single frame on a long roll of film. His voice was excited. As always, Bull felt euphoric and princely in the company of trains. "There's the Illinois Central. The Southern Pacific. And right there goes the queen of them all, the Rock Island Line. That's the one that half your Chicago relatives work on, Ben. Watch where you're whizzin'. You almost hit my foot. Aim high and away. There's the Southern. Probably carryin' a box car full of grits to some southern pansy living in New York." Then in the regionless drawl of a conductor, the half-intelligible patois belonging to no country that Bull had learned by imitation as a child riding free on the Rock Island Line, he began to chant, "Davenport, Ioway. Next stop. Ioway City, yes Ioway, Ioway, Ioway City. Dee Moynes. Dee Moynes. Dee Moynes, Ioway. All off for Davenport." The voice of the conductor resided with great constancy just below the customary pose of the fighter pilot. "All aboooooard," he said, climbing back into the car as the caboose flashed by and the thunder of the train diminished gradually into the darkness.

Bull barked out at Ben as the car moved across the tracks in first gear, "Did Okra whizz?"

"I think so, Dad," Ben answered.

"You're not paid to think, mister. I asked you a question."

"Yes, sir. He did," Ben said.

"You'd better be right. That was the last head stop before Ravenel. Ravenel. Rav-e-nel. Next stop, Rav-e-nel, South Car-oli-na."

At dawn and according to the strict schedule Colonel Meecham had plotted in Atlanta, they had come within sixty-five miles of the Marine Corps air station at Ravenel. The sun filled the car and the children, sleeping in the back, began to stir heavily against the new day. Colonel Meecham reached for his aviator's sungla.s.ses which rested among the other paraphernalia of the journey on the dashboard. "Best sungla.s.ses in the world," he told his wife. "Civilian shades can't touch 'em."

"Isn't it a shame military doctors couldn't be as good as military sungla.s.ses," Lillian said.

"Hey, not bad, sportsfans. That was a good line."

"Bull, there's nothing in this road, not even a pig. Are you sure we're going the right way?"

"Affirmative. The navigator has never made a mistake in his career."

"Oh, I don't know about that. I seem to remember a night when the navigator took a wrong turn and we ended up in eastern Tennessee instead of western North Carolina."

"Ah, the grits who put up road signs in the South never got past second grade."

"Just to change the subject, sugah, you haven't told me the gossip on the old squadron. Where are all the Cobras now and what are they doing?"