The Great Santini (47 page)

They returned to the car. Neither boy said anything. Finally, they both began to giggle uncontrollably. The giggling continued at several Charleston bars and had not stopped completely when Rock Troy left Ben off at his house in Ravenel.

Early Friday afternoon, Bull's office phone rang. He picked it up and heard Lt. Col. Cecil Causey's voice on the other end. Causey was the commanding officer of squadron 234, which had the reputation and history of being one of the best F-8 squadrons in the Marine Corps for the past five years. The two squadrons were locked in an intense competition to win the trophy signifying supremacy among the other squadrons at Ravenel Air Base. Bull's squadron had a long uphill fight to overtake and surpass 234, and he knew it, but a strong bond and rivalry stirred the relationship, not only because the squadrons flew the same type of plane, but also because Bull and Cecil Causey were best of friends.

Bull had flown with Cecil Causey in the Korean War and had great respect for the man both as a commander and a pilot. A gifted raconteur and an indefatigable drinker, Causey was a pilot of unimpeachable courage. He had once flown a burning Corsair away from a densely populated urban area before bailing out. Three quarters of his body had been terribly burned during the ordeal, his face receiving some of the severest damage. Plastic surgeons removed half his nose, and much of the right side of his face after he was rescued at sea. Afterward they constructed a new face for him that gave him a sinister, ferocious appearance. The right side of his face did not move. Causey was a master of half expression, half smiles, and half glowers, for all nuances of expression stopped at the invisible frontier that marked the dead sector of his face. Bull thought Colonel Causey's melted, rebuilt face was a perfect one for a Marine fighter pilot. But Lillian always remarked that the doctors had taken a badly burned, homely man, and with all the advances of modern medicine at their disposal, turned him into a grotesquerie.

"Meecham," Colonel Causey barked into his end of the phone," this is Lieutenant Colonel Causey, the C.O. of the toughest fucking squadron ever to fly jets for the United States Marine Corps."

"No," Bull answered in a toneless voice, "there must be some mistake. This couldn't be the Colonel Causey I know because the Causey I know is the C.O. of the most limp-wristed, lily-livered, dick-sucking squadron in the history of flight. You, sir, are obviously an impostor, but you did happen to call the C.O. of the best squadron in the world. Can I help you?"

"You lowdown son of a bitch, Bull," Colonel Causey said, laughing. "No kidding, I do want to ask a favor of you. I was over at your house last week when you were on deployment to Yuma, and I left my good shoes under Lillian's bed. I wonder if you'd be kind enough to return them as soon as possible?"

"Yeah, Lillian told me you were over, come to think of it. She said she screwed a guy with the smallest dick in the Marine Corps, and I instantly thought of you. How are you doing, No Nose?"

"Pretty good, Bull. Here's why I'm calling. I thought it would be just outstanding if your squadron and mine could meet tonight at the club for happy hour. Let the boys let off a little steam. Let 'em drink together. Insult each other a bit. Maybe have a few fist fights. You know, Old Corps stuff, like when we were young Marines."

"What do you mean when
we
were young Marines. I'm a youngster compared to you, No Nose. By the way, I've always meant to ask you, what was it really like in the Halls of Montezuma?"

"We could start off by having a beer chugging contest," Causey answered.

"You sure your boys could handle beer, No Nose? We could chug mother's milk or something so your boys won't get nauseous or anything."

"Beer's fine, Bull. Tell your boys not to wear nylon stockings and lipstick this time 'cause there's gonna be some real Marines at the bar come 1700."

"This is a damn good idea, Cecil. I'll call a meeting of my troops to get 'em fired up for happy hour. By the way, should you and me start the fisticuffs?"

"Hell, yes. That's great. The last time you and me fought was down at Rosey Roads in 'fifty-eight. Didn't I end up sitting on your face?" Causey asked.

"No, that was the time I punched you in the nose and nearly broke my hand. No one told me those quacks who built you a new nose made it out of cement. Sure, Cece, let's you and me start it off to show the young lieutenants how it's done. By the way, is Varney going to be there at happy hour?"

"Negative, I've already had my scouts turn in intelligence reports. He and most of the other brass punched out this morning for a high level meeting with the Great Kahuna at Cherry Point. They'll probably discuss the implementation of a vital campaign for good dental hygiene among pilots. You know how they do. They'll make it a court-martial offense for pilots not to use dental floss twice a day."

"Ha! Ha!" Bull laughed. "I've missed you, Cecil. Where've you been keeping yourself?"

"I've been flying my L.M.D. ever since the Cuban rift. Everett thinks if you can fly your large mahogany desk as well as you fly an F-8, then you shouldn't command a squadron. I'm lucky to get ten hours of flying time in a week, Bull, and that's no shit. And you remember the days when I'd get in sixty or seventy hours a week with no sweat."

"That was the Old Corps, No Nose, the Old Corps."

"Yeah, Bull. You and I are the last of a great breed."

"I'm the last of a great breed. You are the last of the scum and dross."

"How's Lillian and the kids?"

"Fine. The troops are shaping up, I think."

"I've been reading about Ben. It looks like a chip off the old block as far as basketball is concerned."

"He ain't as good as the block."

"I can vouch for that. I still remember that game against West Point when you were playing for Quantico."

"I scored thirty-two that night," Bull said, "and ate their forward Saleesi alive."

"Naw, you scored two and Saleesi ate you alive."

"You son of a bitch."

"Bull, you still got an ego the size of a battleship. Anyway, get them lace panty pilots over to the club at happy hour and I'll let 'em drink with some men with real hair on their peckers. And one more thing, Bull. I want you to do me a favor."

"Anything, Cecil. You know I'll do anything for you," Bull said, growing serious.

"I've got a real turkey of a lieutenant that I want taught a lesson by one of your studs. Maybe put him out of commission for a little while. Perhaps ten years."

"What's his name, and what does he look like?"

"His name is Beasley. You'll recognize him right away. He'll be wearing an ascot, a Sam Brown cartridge belt, and a Bowie knife. I'm making him leave his pearl-handled revolver at home."

"You're kidding, Cecil," Bull groaned. "Anyone that wears that kind of crap to happy hour either has to be the best pilot in the world, or he's got the biggest set of nads in the southeast.

"You'd think so, wouldn't you? We got a pool goin' at the squadron about when ol' Beasley's gonna kill himself in a plane or kill one of us. This guy already is well on his way to becoming a black ace."

"How many planes has he lost?"

"He's lost three and he's only been in the Marine Corps four years. One of his crashes happened when he punched out on takeoff."

"Is this the same guy flamed out near Jacksonville in December?" Bull asked.

"That's my man Beasley."

"I've heard about him, No Nose. I heard he punches out if he feels a sudden blast of moonlight on his wing."

"I want one of your studs to let him know he is not the most beloved of all pilots. I'd get one of mine to do it, but you know the kind of problems that can cause. Anyway, I'm afraid of something."

"What's that, No Nose?"

"Everytime I see ol' Beasley, it pisses me off royally. It pisses me off when I see him breathing. He's using up oxygen that I could be breathing. Or my kids. Or egg-sucking dogs. Or even you. I'm tired of seeing him breathing, Bull. I even hate it when he blinks. You ever met anybody like that?"

"Yeah," Bull said," I'm trying to think of who it is though. Oh, I know. I felt that way when I first met you."

"Good talking to you, Bull. I'll see you and your squadron at 1700 hours. By the way, I heard Everett say the other day that it's unbelievable what you've done with 367."

"If only it was Varney and not Everett."

"He was saying it to Varney, Big Fella. Now get Beasley for me and for God's sakes, get those shoes under Lillian's bed."

"See you at 1700 hours, No Nose. And do me one favor in return for Beasley."

"Name it."

"Wear a bag over your head. I don't want that shitty looking face of yours scaring any of my young pilots."

"I can't wait to beat on your head tonight. Over and out, turd."

"Outstanding," Bull answered.

Bull replaced the phone on the hook, smiled to himself in anticipation of the coming fracas, then bellowed for Sergeant Latito. "Hebe, get in here for a second, on the double. Your skipper needs you."

"Yes, sir, skipper," Sergeant Latito answered, hurrying through the door with a clipboard in his hand.

"Get Captain Brannon to my office pronto. He's out on the flight line. And pass the word that there'll be a meeting of all officers in the ready room at 1500 hours."

"Yes, sir."

"And Latito, one very important thing," Bull said, the hint of a suppressed smile stealing through the hard lines on his face. "Did you know that the clitoris on a female dinosaur was three feet, four inches long?"

"Yes, sir. Fascinating, sir," Latito answered. "I just talked to Gillespie, and he told me that the radar malfunction of your bird was more serious than first reported."

"Just tell Gillespie that his C.O. is going up first thing Monday morning."

"He's got his best man on it, sir."

"Is it Harter?"

"Yes, sir. He's one of the best radar men in the Corps."

"Then how come Harter's only a PFC?"

"Bad attitude, Colonel. Besides, he gets drunk and picks fights with NCO's all the time."

"Sounds like a good Marine to me. Let's try to get Harter a few stripes. I like a happy man to work on my bird."

"Yes, sir. I'll send Captain Brannon to your office as soon as possible."

"Before you go, Sarge, I want to tell you one thing. You prove the old saw that a good top sergeant runs the squadron for the old man. You're the best I've run across, even if you are just a goddam Jew."

"Thank you very much, sir."

Ten minutes later Captain Brannon stood in front of Bull's desk. Though not as tall or physically commanding as Bull's, Captain Brannon's body was stacked together with the knotted muscles of a stevedore, and an implied menace shadowed his whole appearance. His eyes were dark, coffee-hued, and his jaw was an aggressive promontory. His expression had the insouciance and arrogance of the carnivore, for there was nothing in his demeanor where one could detect a glimmer of civilized ripeness. His entire body had a violent definition, a primal joy in aggression that caused men of equal size to afford him caution, and especially distance.

When Bull had spoken to Captain Brannon after taking over the command of 367, he had asked Brannon why he had chosen the Marine Corps for a career.

"I joined the Corps, sir, so I could help defend white America from all foreign aggression."

Bull had promptly nicknamed him" White America," an appellation that Brannon bristled at to the undiluted joy of his commanding officer.

Each day Brannon ran three miles, worked out on the punching bag in the gym, and boxed a few rounds with anyone he could insult or entice into the ring with him. At lunch, he walked outside the squadron headquarters and pounded a huge iron stake in the ground with a sledge hammer he kept in the trunk of his Jaguar XKE. When he had almost buried the stake, he pulled it from the ground with his massive hands, and repeated the ritual until he felt he had punished his body enough. The enlisted men quaked whenever he was in view. Officers feared his temper. Even Bull had no desire to match his strength with Butch Brannon. As Captain Brannon stood in front of Bull's desk awaiting instructions, Bull thought that it was one of God's minor vices that such an admirable physical specimen was such a mediocre pilot.

Twice Bull had hassled with Brannon in their F-8's, and twice he had come away believing that Brannon was either an incompetent fighter pilot or a coward. There were thresholds of flight that Brannon could not or would not pass.

"At ease, Captain," Bull said, stretching back in his chair. "Does my nickname for you still ruffle your feathers?"

"I've never liked nicknames, sir."

"Well, what's Butch?"

"It's my real name, sir. It's on my birth certificate."

"Well, since I'm the C.O., and I like nicknames for my troops, you'll just have to put up with my nickname for you, White America. Do you read me loud and clear?"

"Yes, sir."

"Outstanding. Now I have a job for you, Butch. A little mop-up job that should just take a couple of seconds. The target will be wearing an ascot, a Bowie knife, and a Sam Brown cartridge belt. He will be a pilot from 234, Colonel Causey's outfit. Beasley's been going around bragging that he can whip your ass, Butch. Some of his fellow pilots have been laying money on the line," Bull said, eyeing Brannon," and the betting has been going pretty heavy against you."

"I could break every bone in his body, sir."

"So you say, Butch. So you say. I've seen you out there hammering in that stake every day like you're practicing up for a job if crucifixion ever comes back in style, but I've never seen you fight anyone. A lot of folks think you're musclebound, Butch. They don't believe you could handle yourself in the real McCoy."

"I could kill Beasley, sir. Or any of those other guys running their mouths."

"Well, if anything starts up at happy hour today when we get together for a little fun with 234, I want you to remember Beasley."

"Yes, sir."

"And one more thing, Captain. My X.O. and I have been talking, and he and I agree you'd get a lot more done if you'd wipe that silly grin off your face that you wear all the time."