The Great Santini (21 page)

"No, ma'am."

"He's admitting to you that the gap is closing. That he has to practice if he's going to beat you from now on. He's admitting some hard things. He's admitting that he's getting older."

"That doesn't change anything."

"I'm sure it doesn't, son. Because you're angry," Lillian said, walking toward the door," but the real reason he's down on the court tonight is that he knows you'll hear him. You've got a strange father, Ben, but in his own way, that's him down there saying, 'I'm sorry, Ben. I was wrong.'"

Colonel Meecham sat behind the desk, savoring the richness of his first moments as the commanding officer of squadron 367. He was alone for the first time since the change of command ceremony and the forceful chords of the Marine Corps hymn and the proud rhythms of men marching in cadence still sang in his brain: the memory of guidons fluttering and heads snapping to the right to pay homage to the new commander filled him with profound gratification; the pomp of flags and the joy of watching a mass of men on the march because he had shouldered the lonely accoutrements of command caused him a moment of fear, awed by the long files of men who marched to fulfill the demands of ceremony, the long grip of tradition.

His family had stood with him on the reviewing stand. His sons and daughters lined up like a squad, shiny as new dimes, performed their minor functions well. Lillian Meecham had been radiant, a dazzling partner who added charm to a family so drilled and weighted down with the responsibility of obedience that they seemed to function and move together like a machine. It had gone well. The command had passed to him. Yet now that the command was his, the fulfillment of an old and troubled dream, he suffered a hollowness of spirit that had the unmistakable dimension of anticlimax. He had wanted this for so long, scratched his way along the belly of the beast for so many years, fighting off mediocre fitness reports and the rumors that he was too unstable, too volatile to lead a squadron, that the being there seemed less real than the struggle and long ascent to get there. It was a paradox, and Bull Meecham could take anything with more equanimity than paradox. He was, at this very moment, behind this desk, the commander of a fighter squadron, and by some fraudulence or legerdemain of time, all the sweetness had gone out of it, the honey of triumph left his lips dry and his greatest moment with only the memory of what he thought it would taste like to sustain him.

Then he thought," I'm a Marine, not a fucking philosopher."

He rang for Sergeant Latito. A dark, grizzled man with a face that looked as though a war might have been fought over its craggy terrain stood at his desk a moment later.

"Yes, sir," the sergeant said.

"Did all the pilots get the word about the briefing today, Sergeant?" the C.O. asked.

"Yes, sir, all pilots and officers will meet in the briefing room at 1230 hours."

"Good man, Sergeant. Where are you from, by the way?"

"Brooklyn, sir," the man replied.

"You're a Jewish boy, aren't you?" the colonel asked without smiling, but his eyes shined with a mirth the sergeant did not see.

"No, sir, I'm an Italian. My father came from the Old Country."

"Your Daddy's from Israel, eh? It's no crime to be Jewish, Latito. Don't be ashamed of it."

"I beg the colonel's pardon, sir. But I swear that I'm Italian."

"Look, Sergeant," the colonel said, his voice lowering now, the brightness fading from his eyes, fading into a stone and hardness," If I want to think you're Jewish, then you are gonna be Jewish. If I want you to eat matzo balls instead of pizza, then you'll do it. I like men under my command to jump at everything I say. Especially my top sergeant."

"Sir," the sergeant sputtered," I'm proud of being an Italian."

"Sarge, you can learn to be proud of being a Jewboy just as easy. That will be all, Latito."

"Yes, sir," the sergeant saluted.

As the sergeant turned to leave, Colonel Meecham called to him," Does your wife make good lasagna, Latito?"

The sergeant stopped and without turning around, but coming to stiff attention, said," The best, sir. At least in this part of the country."

"I'd sure like to get a little lasagna the next time she fixes a batch."

"You will, sir," Latito said, smiling. "You will."

At precisely 1230 hours, Colonel Bull Meecham strode into the briefing room to meet the officers of his squadron for the first time. He had known several of them in previous assignments and other bases and he had met almost all of them in the days preceding his inauguration as their commander. This would be the first time he addressed them as a group.

He had rehearsed this speech for twelve years. By studying the strengths and weaknesses of commanders he had served under, he had collected shards and fragments of the speech he would one day deliver to men who looked upon him as their commander. He had descanted his theories about leadership and command, his love for the oldest traditions of the Corps, his definition of duty so often and in the tumult of so many crises that he had practically assured himself that whatever came out when he spoke on that appointed day would be the effluent of hard experience, the natural residue of his years in the Marine Corps, and his philosophy of the officer.

He began to speak, aware that he had come to the barricade, that he was mounting it, that this time would never come again—the commander spoke, without notes, but from deep in the hardest, holiest place of him.

"You men," he began," now have the privilege of serving under the meanest, toughest, screamingest squadron commander in the Marine Corps. "He paused, eyed each man in the room, then finished, "Me," he growled. "You also have the privilege of serving the best squadron commander," he said, and paused, then said," Me again.

"Now I am in a very special and very fortunate position. I am the commander of a squadron that has the best goddam pilots ever to put their asses on the seats of a jet aircraft. If you are not the best pilots in the Marine Corps, if you are not the best pilots in the armed forces, if you are not the best pilots in the world, then you will be after spending six months with me as your commander. In the next couple of months you are going to fly like you have never flown before, do things with jet planes you never thought possible, become proficient in phases of aviation you never dreamed of. In the next couple of months you have a tough steak to chew, men, but you are going to get so goddam good at flying a jet, you are going to forget you have wives and children at home and that the White Sox are going to win the American League Pennant.

"Now I don't want you to look at me like I was just your Commanding Officer. I want you to look at me kind of like I was a god. If I say something, you pretend it's coming from the burning bush. If I sneeze, you sneeze. If I catch leprosy, I want to see some noses dropping off. If I wipe my ass, I want to see the hand of every pilot reaching down to clean up his rectum. We are Marines. We are members of the proudest, most elite group of fighting men in the history of the world. There is not a force on earth that can stand up to us, that can defeat us in battle, that can prevent us from performing our duty, that can deny us victory, that can interrupt our destiny. We are Marines. Marine Corps fighting men. Marine Corps fighter pilots. Marine Corps warriors. Marine Corps killers. We will wear our uniforms with pride. We will honor the traditions of the Corps in all things we do as a squadron. As the commanding officer of this squadron, I am going to tell you that this squadron is going to become a legend in the Marine Corps within thirty days, because I am going to lead the toughest, flyingest sons of bitches in the world, or I am going to kick some ass all over this base. "He shouted, his face red, and his eyes affixed on the essential rectitude of his goal. The men of his squadron sat transfixed. There was no shifting, no clearing of throats, no coughing, and no restlessness. They were not bored.

"Now. I want obedience and devotion to duty. But there is one kind of Marine I hate," he said, as all ears in the room waited for the word. "I don't want nobody sniffin' my farts. Fart sniffers become generals unless they happen to get under my command. If you want to suck on some balls, I suggest you buy a pack of marbles because I hate a nut suckin', ball swingin', fart sniffin' bastard worse than I hate all the Russians in the Kremlin. "He roared, looking about the room, rolling now, caught up in the rhythms of his own oratory, the fever and righteousness of his message. "You men are under Bull Meecham now and you're gonna look back at all this as the finest days you spent in the Marine Corps. If a pilot of mine fucks up, then I'll take a pound of his ass, but if anyone outside this squadron tries to nail 'em they will have to nail Bull Meecham too. We are in this together, men. We are members of the Werewolf Squadron 367 and we are going to make history. I would like to welcome you, gentlemen, to the best squadron ever assembled.

"Now," he said, the rhythm broken, the major portion of his address over," I'd like to ask a few general questions. Did anyone in this squadron attend an Ivy League school?"

One pilot raised his hand in the back of the room, raised it hesitantly, like a banner of surrender. "Where did you go, Lieutenant?" Colonel Meecham asked.

"Cornell, sir," the lieutenant answered.

"Cornell," the colonel thundered.

"Yes, sir, Cornell," the lieutenant answered, less sure of himself.

"You proud of it, son?" the colonel asked.

"Yes, sir.

All eyes turned to Colonel Meecham who was leaning forward on the balls of his feet, glowering with unconcealed menace at the Ivy Leaguer. "Sheeeee-iiitt," the colonel hissed," that's what I think of the whole Ivy League. The Ivy League is what's wrong with this country today. Cornell! Cornell! Cornell is a pansy school. Lieutenant, I want you to make me forget you went there by becoming the flying tiger of this outfit. Do I make myself clear, Lieutenant?"

"Yes, sir," the lieutenant shouted.

"Now," the colonel said," is there anybody from the Naval Academy?"

Once again, a single hand went up from the gathering of pilots.

"What class were you in, mister?" the colonel asked.

"Class of 'fifty-seven, sir," the young captain, who rose to attention, answered.

"That's nice, Captain. That's very nice. That's a gentleman's school, sure enough. Why didn't you fly with the pelicans like the rest of your classmates?"

"I wanted to be with the best, sir."

"Good man. But you have to be careful. Pelicans from the Naval Academy have this way of wearing their rings in their noses. Think they're blueblooded. Think their shit smells like Chanel Number 5. They usually don't do very well in the Marine Corps. You know that, don't you, Marine?"

"I've heard that, sir."

"I consider the Navy the cheese between the Marine Corps' toes. The only time we are on the same side is when we're at war and when Army plays Navy. Otherwise, I want the pelicans to water their lilies away from me. Now, men, this is the beginning of this squadron. You're flying with Bull Meecham in the eye of the storm. Three-sixty-seven is born this day. We are going to make it the best and we are going to do it together. If you have a problem, come to me, and we'll kick the shit out of that son of a bitch together. Dismissed."

The pilots filed out. By their lightness of foot and jauntiness of exit, Bull Meecham knew that part of the morale problem in 367 was over. He was new blood and a strong shot of the Old Corps. He was, he thought, just what the doctor ordered.

There was a knock on the door. A diminutive captain cutting an unstalwart figure in his flight suit, walked to the colonel's desk and saluted.

"Captain Johnson reporting as directed, sir," the captain said, his voice as high pitched as a castrato's.

Colonel Meecham looked hard into the little man's eyes before he spoke. The captain's eyes did not waver.

"There's two questions I want to ask you, Captain," the colonel said. "The first is this: How did you ever make it out of Quantico with a voice like that? The D.I.'s must have given you hell."

"They did, sir. When I graduated with my platoon, one of them told me he had never heard a voice like mine in boot camp.

"I thought your wife might be a ventriloquist hiding out in the hall."

"No, sir. This is my voice."

"The next question, Captain. How tall are you?"

"Five feet five inches tall," the man replied.

"Bullshit, Captain, a man five feet five would look like a giant next to you."

"I'm small boned, Colonel."

"You must have the bones of a canary bird. Let me tell you my theory of small men, Captain, then let me hear what you think," the colonel said, leaning back and eyeing the man who stood before him with a bemused admiration. "At ease, Johnson. Have a seat."

When Captain Johnson sat down on the chair in front of Bull Meecham's desk, his head seemed barely to peer over the C.O.'s desk.

"Give me a guy less than five feet eight, Johnson, and I'll give you a real bastard nine times out of ten. It has been my experience that short men get a chip on their shoulders as big as an aircraft carrier. They're pissed off at life and God and everybody else just because they're midgets. They come into the Marine Corps just so they can be proud and tough once in their lives. They like to strut around in their uniforms, flashing their wings around and pretending their dicks are as long as anyone else's. I'm a blunt man, Johnson, and I'll tell you that I always keep my eye out for a little guy because I know he's down there low with his hands around my nuts waiting for a chance to give me the big squeeze. What do you have to say about my theory?"

The small man puckered his lips and narrowed his eyes for a moment. He did not answer immediately. He is not taking the theory lightly, the colonel thought.

"In my case," the captain answered, his high-pitched voice somehow coming up out of his flight jacket like a sacrilege, "your theory is generally correct. I came into the Marine Corps to prove to myself that I could take everything the Marine Corps could dish out. I was always too small to excel in sports and my voice has always been too high pitched to take seriously. That's why I've worked so hard to become the best pilot in the Marine Corps."