The Great Santini Part 8

"You call that a salute, mister?"

"Yes, sir."

"I call that an abortion. I call that a disgrace. I call that an insult to a Marine Corps officer. I call that a court-martial offense. Now straighten that arm, get that elbow up, and don't bend your neck to the right. You salute like you have no pride, son. Now salute me again. Make it snap. That's it. Old Marines should have arthritic elbows from snapping salutes. Good. That's outstanding. Now if I ever see you give me one of those spaghetti salutes again I'm going to have your arm amputated up to the shoulder. Carry on, Marine, and tell your buddies at the barracks that Colonel Bull Meecham has just reported in and that he will be making his presence known soon."

"Yes, sir."

Bull drove straight to the Operations Building. Like all bases where he had worked the buildings he was pa.s.sing were bleached-out structures of white and gray as though the architect had applied special leeches in the heart of each foundation to bleed off color should it ever appear. The architecture had a spareness and an economy of line that were pragmatic to the point of absurdity.

He drove into the parking lot of the Operations Building. Two Marines saluted him as they left the building. Bull returned the salute and grunted "good morning."

Bull walked down the long polished hall with a bouncing gait that was distinctively unmilitary. Old friends could pick him out of a dismissed battalion, so singular was his walk, so indelibly a part of him, and he could change it no more than he could change his blood type.

He opened the door of the operations officer and entered a spa.r.s.ely furnished anteroom where a hairless sergeant with a mechanical bearing so stiff that he seemed to be composed of metal parts looked up from the typewriter and said, "May I help you, sir?"

"Where is Colonel Hedgepath, Sergeant? Colonel Meecham is here to see him."

"He's indisposed at this moment, sir."

"Oh, he's indisposed," Bull mocked. "I surely would hate to bother anyone who was indisposed." Then, his voice changing, he said, "I asked you where he was, Sergeant, I didn't ask for you to practice your mastery of the English language."

"He's in the latrine down the hall, sir."

"Is he taking a s.h.i.t?"

"The sergeant doesn't know, sir."

"Did he take a magazine with him?"

"Sir?"

"Did he take a magazine with him when he went to the latrine?"

"The sergeant believes he did, sir."

"Then he must be taking a s.h.i.t. I think I'll go make sure he wipes himself good. Does the sergeant know," Bull said bending down conspiratorially, "that Colonel Hedgepath never wipes himself after he takes a s.h.i.t? He says that animals don't have toilet paper and he personally thinks it's unnatural. What is your opinion of that, Sergeant?"

"The sergeant has no opinion, sir."

"You don't believe in toilet paper either?"

"The sergeant does, sir. The sergeant certainly does."

"Then that's an opinion, Sergeant. You are taking a stand for toilet paper. You are on the side of clean a.s.sholes and I, for one, commend you on your vigorous defense of good hygiene. Now I think I'll mosey on down to check on Colonel Hedgepath."

There were two stalls in the latrine. A pair of cordovan shoes gleamed in the stall nearest the door. Bull entered the one next to the wall. He sat on the toilet without taking down his pants although he made noises like undoing his belt and unfastening his zipper. He wanted the sound effects to be natural so the colonel in the next stall would suspect nothing. He bent down and looked at the shoes underneath the part.i.tion. Bull thought to himself that Virgil Hedgepath was one of the best groomed officers in the Marine Corps even when his pants were down below his knees. The shoes were impeccably shined; the pants had a fresh crease.

Finally, the man wiped himself, flushed the toilet, and stood up. Before he could pull his pants up, Bull reached under the part.i.tion and tackled the man by grabbing his pants and jerking them into his stall. Bull heard the man scream and a splash as the man's arm sank into the toilet as he crashed down. Bull, taking advantage of the surprise, yanked the man by the ankles and pulled him into his booth, holding him upside down by the feet. Then with considerable effort, Bull climbed atop the toilet, battling the flailing arms and legs of the desperate, upended officer, and was about to dip the colonel head-first into the toilet when profanity filled the latrine and for the first time Bull realized that the man he held suspended so inelegantly was not Virgil Hedgepath. Skinny arms struck inconsequential blows at Bull's legs. On one of the arms below him, Bull glimpsed the bent wings of a corporal's chevrons.

Bull opened the door to the stall, dragged the corporal out, laid him gently on the men's room floor, then crossed his arms as the corporal pulled up his pants. The corporal clenched his fists and was ready to swing at Bull's face when he noticed for the first time that his attacker held the rank of lieutenant colonel. A moment of indecision pa.s.sed while the two men stared at each other. Bull finally spoke: "Corporal," he said seriously, "do you love the Marine Corps?"

"What?" the corporal half screamed, breath and spit.

"Corporal," Bull roared at the top of his voice, "Corporal, if you ever address me again without using the word 'sir,' I'll make your life in the Corps a f.u.c.king nightmare. Now pop to attention when I talk to you, mister.

"That's better," Bull smiled as the man before him drew rigid. "Now, Corporal, you are probably wondering why I attacked you like that. Am I correct?"

"Yes, sir," the man answered.

"Think about it, Corporal. It should be clear to you."

"I don't know, sir."

"What's your name, son?"

"Atchley, sir."

"The attack was prompted by threefold considerations. First, I wanted to test your readiness in the face of a surprise attack. Do you realize, Corporal, that several Marines were killed by the j.a.panese while they were taking s.h.i.ts at Pearl Harbor? Now that is not exactly a n.o.ble way to die, is it, Atchley? A fighting man can never relax. He must be vigilant to attack no matter where he is. Our nation's survival is dependent on the readiness of Marines all over the world. Where are you from, Atchley?"

"Green Bay, Wisconsin."

"Are you a Packer fan, Atchley?"

"Yes, sir."

"I hate the Packers, Atchley. And I hate Packer fans. That's the second reason I attacked you. Nothing I hate worse than taking a s.h.i.t next to a Packer fan. Now for the third reason, Atchley, and here we come to the crux of the matter. You stink up a latrine worse than anybody it's been my pleasure to sit next to. You also, and I know I'm getting a bit personal, Atchley, but I'm trying to make you a better Marine, you also only wiped your a.s.s twice. I suggest that two times is insufficient. Do you realize the number of germs and the kind of germs that can breed in a human a.s.shole, Atchley?"

"No, sir," the corporal answered.

"Right now, this very moment, Atchley, germs with names you can't even p.r.o.nounce are preparing to launch a devastating attack against your a.s.shole that will render you helpless as a Marine and useless in the defense of your country. I'm gonna let it go this time, Atchley, but if I ever find you neglecting that portion of your anatomy again I'm gonna have you up before a disciplinary board so fast it will make your eyes swim. Now get out of here, Atchley, and if you ever attack a senior officer again I'm gonna jack it up that filthy a.s.s of yours."

"But, sir, you attacked me."

Bull shook his head in patient exasperation. "That's why you're not going to make it, Atchley. You've obviously peaked out as a corporal. Countermanding a statement by a superior officer. Now I want you to forget what happened in here today. Do you read me?"

"Yes, sir."

"Good man, Atchley. I also want you to remember my name. It's Jones, Colonel John J. Jones. I'm only at Ravenel for the day. I fly around the country testing the readiness of troops for combat and what just happened here is part of my duties. I want to impress upon you, Corporal, that this was strictly a confidential test of combat readiness cla.s.sified Top Secret. Tell no one, Atchley, because I may be trying this test on your direct superior. Now, you are dismissed, Corporal, and good luck in your career. Be proud, Atchley, proud of yourself and proud of the Corps."

When Atchley retreated from the latrine, Bull straightened his uniform, winked at the mirror, and spoke again to his reflection. "You silver-tongued b.a.s.t.a.r.d. Shame on you." Then he walked swiftly back to Colonel Hedgepath's office. The sergeant was typing a report with two thumblike fingers.

"For your information, Sarge, Colonel Hedgepath is not in the latrine."

"He's in his office now, sir. If you'll have a seat I'll see if he can receive you."

"Relax, jocko, I want this to be a surprise visit. We have this affectionate way of saying h.e.l.lo," Bull said putting a finger to his lips. He tiptoed to the door that led to the inner office and leaned against it heavily, listening for sounds of movement in the room. The door opened suddenly, and Bull, caught off balance, stumbled forward into the room. A hand caught him by the neck and a foot tripped him. He fell sprawling onto a thin carpet that did little to cushion his precipitous fall to the floor. Colonel Hedgepath was on Bull's back applying a half-nelson and laughing in victory before Bull was ever aware there was a fight.

Virgil solidified his hold and said coolly, "Repeat after me, Colonel. 'Bull Meecham has menstrual cramps.' "

"Kiss me where the skin turns pink," Bull bellowed.

Virgil applied more pressure and said, "Why is it, Bull, that I'm always about five steps ahead of you?"

"Yeah," Bull retorted, his face pressed against the rug. "What kind of p.u.s.s.y is it that jumps a man from behind? You should have been a j.a.p, Hedgepath."

"What kind of man is it that pulls a corporal underneath a latrine stall and a.s.saults him with his pants down?" the colonel answered in a voice remarkable for its softness.

"You heard that?"

"I didn't hear a word of it, Colonel John J. Jones."

"You worthless son of a b.i.t.c.h," Bull said, then broke up laughing. The colonel released his grip and rolled over on his back giggling like a schoolboy. Colonel Hedgepath laughed so hard that he loosened his belt and lay spread-eagled on the carpet. He did not see Bull leap at him. Before Virgil could renew his combativeness, Bull had flipped him on his stomach and bent the colonel's leg back to his b.u.t.tocks where he applied pressure to the colonel's foot. It was Bull's favorite hold in the wrestling matches that breached a twenty-year friendship in the Marine Corps.

"Who's the best G.o.ddam fighter pilot in the Marine Corps?" Bull crowed.

"You're holding his foot, you chicken s.h.i.t b.a.s.t.a.r.d."

Bull bent the foot forward toward the spine. "I'm not a harsh man, Virgil," Bull said apologetically, "so I'm gonna give you one more chance to answer that simple question before I stick this big ol' gun boat of yours into your left ear. Now who's the best G.o.ddam pilot in the Marine Corps?"

"Colonel John J. Jones," Virgil answered, snickering.

Releasing the colonel's foot from the hold, Bull stood up and waited until Virgil finished ma.s.saging his foot and also rose. They faced each other. Then Bull rushed toward Virgil and grabbed him in a violent but amicable bearhug and walked around the office with him. Bull set him down and they pretended to box each other, weaving and feinting with exaggerated aggressiveness, cuffing each other on the head and punching each other on the shoulders.

"Welcome aboard, Bull," Virgil said at last.

"Just tell me one thing, sportsfans. How did you know I was coming out here today?"

"I heard the movers were moving you into that big house in Ravenel today and I knew that Lillian would figure out a way to get you out of the house."

"How's Paige?"

"Fine, she's looking forward to seeing Lillian and the kids."

"Hey, Virge, how do you like flying this large mahogany desk? Do you get much flight time in?"

"I fly the L.M.D. a h.e.l.l of a lot more than I do an F-8. But I like it, to tell you the truth. I'm a little different from you in that respect. I don't get a hard-on every time I get into a c.o.c.kpit. Hey, you're looking good, Bull. It looks like that Med cruise agreed with you."

"A lot of good flying. After going off that carrier for a year, I figure I could land on a match box in case of an emergency."

"I guess I ought to congratulate you on getting a squadron. I know that's a dream come true."

"You said it, sportsfans. Of course you know what's worrying me, Virgil."

"Varney."

"Please be so kind as to inform me what son of a b.i.t.c.h in the Pentagon put me in Varney's group and then tell me why Varney agreed to take me."

Virgil Hedgepath walked around his desk and sat down. With this wordless gesture, Bull thought, Virgil is suddenly a full colonel again.

"Here's the way I understand it, Bull. The squadron's had trouble. It used to be one of the best, as you know, but the past two C.O.'s have let morale slip. The guy there now, Bill Curry, had family problems and it wasn't really his fault but the guy before him, Bear Woods, Jesus, he was bad. You add up all his good qualities and you still come up with absolutely nothing. Now Varney's got a good chance for a star but he's smart enough to know that if he's going to make general, he's going to have to shape up 367. It's that simple."

"He hates my guts, Virgil."

"At least he has one saving grace. I thought he was a complete a.s.shole."

"No kidding, Virge. Do you think he'll leave me alone to do my job?"

"Affirmative. He wants you to do good so he'll look good. Varney's no fool and he knows you can handle men. Even though Varney doesn't like you, he's smart enough to know that you're just what the doctor ordered. There are some crackerjack pilots in 367 and they just need leadership."

"Varney and I were in WW Two together and that's when the bad blood began."

"I've heard rumors."

"I need a good fitness report out of Varney. You heard about my getting pa.s.sed over, Virge."

"Somebody fouled up, Bull. That's all. They obviously think they made a mistake or they wouldn't be giving you a squadron. Just keep your nose clean and don't go terrorizing corporals in the latrine."

"You're coming up for a star soon, aren't you?"

"Yeah."

"You're a cinch. They love promoting sc.u.mbags like you."

"No, that's not true. They rarely promote anyone with my erudition, aristocracy, and style."

"s.h.i.t, you and Varney were cut from the same afterbirth. You like literature and art while ol' Varney sits on his duff yappin' about wine."

"There's nothing inherently wrong with liking wine, Bull."

"Let me tell you something, Virge. The world is divided up into two parts, beer drinkers and wine sippers. In other words, the world is divided into beer drinkers and a.s.sholes. Now I don't mind you putting on a few airs 'cause we go back a long way and you've always sort of been limpwristed, but that Varney: Do you know that guy is starting to have an English accent and the nearest he was ever stationed to England was Arlington, Virginia."

"Varney's not bad, Bull, and you've got no choice. You have to get along with him. He outranks you."

Bull stood up and began pacing the room and hitting his open palm with his left fist. "That's what I find hard to believe. Here I am one of the best f.u.c.king leaders in the Marine Corps. One of the best, Virge, and you know it. You could give me a platoon of Marines and I could make Harlem safe for white people in three days. Give me a squadron and I could turn Havana into a parking lot in a few hours. I'm good and I know I'm good and here I am a G.o.ddam light colonel while you and Varney are bird colonels. Now I'm not saying you shouldn't be a bird, Virge, but you know what I'm saying."

"I think you've had trouble in the Corps, Bull, because you are just too modest about your abilities. You lack self-confidence and motivation. If you weren't such a quiet, timid guy, Bull, I think you would do well when the promotion boards meet."

Virgil Hedgepath threw his head back and laughed. He was thinking that he and Bull Meecham were as different as two men could be, yet there was no one in the Corps that Virgil Hedgepath loved more. The love was based on solid ground, for Virgil believed that it was a very easy thing to love a man who had saved your life. They also had complementary personalities. Bull ruled the men under his command by his physical size and the power of his voice. Bull never understood how Virgil accomplished the same results; he could not fathom the mystery that Virgil speaking quietly but firmly could inspire a quality of fear that men who yelled could never approach. Beneath Virgil's placid surface was a terrible ice. With Bull, volume was the thing, but Virgil could achieve the same results by letting the interior ice harden his eyes or freeze the edges of his voice. Bull, pacing in front of Virgil's desk, brought a restlessness and a fever to command, a yeoman's rigidity, and a genius for inspiration, whereas Virgil had the natural instincts of a general. When both were second lieutenants, Bull had the makings of a good drill instructor while Virgil had the stuff to command many divisions of Marines. As he watched his best friend pace, Virgil thought to himself that Bull still was the best D.I. he had ever met.

"You're right about one thing, Virge. I've got to get Varney on my side. I've got to kiss his a.s.s a little bit or whatever it takes because I need a good fitness report out of him."

"You're both professionals, Bull. Remember that. The only advice I'll give you is to play it low-keyed around Varney. You have one problem with him as I see it from here. Have you ever read Saint Crispin's Day speech by Shakespeare, Bull? It's in Henry V."

"Oh, yes, indeed. Of course, Virgil. I think I read that the other night after I had finished translating Homer from the original Greek. s.h.i.t, no, I ain't ever read Willie except for one J. Caesar when I was a soph.o.m.ore in high school."

"Well, you ought to look at that speech. Ask Mary Anne or Ben. I read it to them one time. One of your problems, Bull, is that your whole life is one long Crispin's Day speech. You never let up. There's never any peaks and valleys for you. Only peaks, and they're always Himalayan or Alpine. Varney is a measured man. That does not mean he is a bad Marine. He's thorough, cautious, and extremely capable. Granted, he is also full of s.h.i.t. But you are going to have to find a way to fit into his style of command. He's like the president of a civilian corporation, not the old type Marine aviator who would drink all night, puke all morning, and fly all afternoon. You'll have to adapt."

"You're right, Virge. Maybe I'll even start drinking a little vino. I'll drop by the liquor store and take him a little Manischewitz as a bribe. You know, start out on the right foot."