The Great Santini (49 page)

"Start your engines," the A-4 pilot's voice resounded through the room. "Taxi down the runway, and take the fuck off."

Bull finished his first beer a full second faster than Colonel Causey, stepped quickly aside for Reynolds, who had sucked down three large swallows before his opponent's hand had touched glass. The din created by the two squadrons was deafening, and it rose in volume as each bottle was emptied and the new man stepped in to attack a full bottle of beer, his neck muscles straining as the liquid horizon in the bottle plunged downward like a thermometer thrust in cold water. Soon, foam flecked upper lips of all eight men and thin lines of beer and saliva ran like threads of light from mouths to flight jackets. The lieutenants received the loudest hosannas, for the veterans knew these contests were won and lost through the lips of these lieutenants. But 367's most puissant weapon in this frothy olympiad was the prodigious guzzling powers of Butch Brannon. An audible hiss of disbelief arose from the pilots of 234 every time he assaulted a beer.

Beasley grew more animated as it became apparent that 367 was pulling into a tenuous lead. He pointed his arms behind him like the wings of a plane and made stacatto sounds like a jet on a strafing run, shooting imaginary bullets at the pilots outdrinking his comrades.

Three-sixty-seven won by a single beer. The A-4 judge poured the contents of the twenty-four bottles into a shot glass, and it did not overflow. The winning squadron broke into a chant of victory. Whistles stung the air. Hand clapping and rebel yells filled the room. With a stiff sense of formality, but with a flair for ceremony, his carriage soldierly, his demeanor proud, Cecil Causey walked up to Bull Meecham and poured the last beer over Bull's head.

On cue, Bull punched Cecil in the stomach, and drove his shoulder into his chest, knocked him over a table, and onto the floor. In that instant, lieutenants dove for lieutenants, and captains clawed their way toward captains. In the first tumult of bodies, the first instinct was to punch someone of your own rank. But soon fists were swinging without making discreet distinctions of rank, and a simple desire to throw a memorable punch and to survive the melee became the common standard. Fists flew at any visible jaw. Every unpinned arm flailed away at every visible assailant. Beer bottles broke at intervals around the room. Two captains fell across a chair, and splintered it. A man screamed in the center of the fray and tried to free his arms to pound the man biting his thigh.

In the first seconds of the brawl, Captain Brannon had pulled Beasley from the table where he was making his strafing runs and tried to strangle him with his ascot. Pilots from the other squadron were pulled into the center of their fight simply by their proximity to the maelstrom. The X.O. of 234 found himself punching the genitalia of his own wingman. A body flew over an unused bar at the back of the room, and disappeared from view. Bull and Cecil had rolled under the heaviest table in the room and watched the fight without being devoured by the fury in the storm's center. They took turns getting on top of each other, trading ineffectual blows with inharmonious sound effects that made it seem as though they were fighting to the death. Once Bull was kicked in the side of the head by a free-swinging captain from 234 who had gone beserk and was teeing off on anything that moved. Bull excused himself from Cecil's embrace long enough to send the captain directly over an indistinguishable pile of flight jackets with a backhand across the mouth. Then he dove at Cecil again, both of them giggling like schoolboys.

The fight lasted less than a minute and a half. The sirens of M.P. trucks heading for the club ended the brawl. Bull barked orders at 367 to straighten up quickly. Cecil shouted for the lieutenants to get brooms and for every officer to clean the blood off himself or fellow officer.

"Get rid of the broken glass, the broken chairs, and all the dead men killed by the studs of 367," Bull shouted.

"I want this room in inspection order when those M.P.'s barge through that door," Cecil snapped to his men. "And I want everyone to be at the bar enjoying a drink."

Bleeding pilots disappeared into the head. Others handled brooms and sent shards of glass leaping across the room. Two pilots were carrying a dazed pilot out the back door.

"Who's that?" Cecil asked one of the lieutenants.

"It's Captain Beasley, sir. He got coldcocked pretty good."

"He must have slipped on this waxed floor, don't you think, Colonel?" Bull asked.

"No doubt about it, Colonel, this floor is slippery as hell," Cecil replied.

When the M.P.'s arrived, they discovered the classic scene of pilots hovering around a bar, drinks in hand, enjoying the fellowship and camaraderie of their fellow officers. The M.P.'s looked for the senior officers in charge. They found them sitting at the bar smoking cigars and seemingly deep in conversation with a well built captain who was wearing an ascot, a Bowie knife, a cartridge belt, and World War I flying cap.

"Typical flyboys," the M.P.'s thought. "They're not really Marines at all. No discipline."

A group of pilots had gotten together around the piano of the bar and were singing their squadron song. Soon every member of the squadron was singing, turning toward each other with lifted glasses, their voices rising powerfully on the last four lines:

Bull Meecham had grown fond of being in Hobie's restaurant in those early morning hours before the sun had time to penetrate the deep winter shadows that hung between the buildings of River Street. Only in its external serenity was life abnormal there, but Bull felt comfortable as he claimed the middle stool each weekday morning and entered into the matrix of warm wood colors, breakfast odors, and a glass window where the history of Ravenel could be unobtrusively charted on any given day by the voluble fauna who formed its early morning cadre. He had been a regular for over six months now and as he drove toward Hobie's at 0710 hours, he knew the ceremonies that had taken place only minutes before. Ritual had a tang of divine law and was strictly adhered to by the boys of Hobie's.

At seven
a.m.
, Ed Mills entered the restaurant the moment Hobie Bawls turned the lock. The two men nodded to each other ceremoniously, a wordless salutation that had not changed in twenty years. Ed walked to the first stool nearest the window and sat down. Even though he was not carrying his mailbag, he listed to his right as though he were. It was unwritten protocol that neither of the men would speak until Ed had consumed his first cup of coffee.

At five after seven Zell Posey, the one-legged lawyer, walked through the door, the bells announcing his entry. He walked slowly with a constrained dignity, hoping to conceal the presence of his artificial limb. He was followed by Johnnie Voight, Cleve Goins, and Doc Ratteree but the order of their entry was subject to caprice and alteration. A man could set his watch by the arrival of Ed and Zell; he could sort of set his watch by the arrival of the next three.

Bull was dressed in his dark green winter uniform when he parked his squadron car in front of the bank and walked the six storefronts to Hobie's. It was the first Tuesday in February and his breath was visible as he tightened the belt around his blouse.

"Good morning, grits," Bull roared as he entered the restaurant and proceeded to the middle stool.

"Oh, Jesus. Here comes Douglas MacArthur," Ed Mills said.

"Smiley, how you doing? Ed, your face is sunshine itself, but that's because you're just a slaphappy southern boy."

"A man used to be able to enjoy a cup of coffee in here, Hobie. Before the General came to town, that is," Ed lamented.

"Good morning, Colonel," a couple of men said.

"Hey, Doc," Johnnie Voight said," I been having a bad cough for about a week. What expert advice do you recommend?"

"For you, a frontal lobotomy, you god-blessed dimwit."

"Doc's just sore because Willis Taylor strangled to death in Doc's office the other day. The Doc killed him by checking his throat with a tongue depressor," Hobie said pouring Bull a cup of coffee.

"By the way, you guys going to the big game tonight?" Bull asked.

"What game?" Ed Mills asked.

"Is there a game tonight?" Doc Ratteree said, smiling.

"I don't know about no game," said Hobie.

"O.K., sportsfans, don't give me a hard time. But you better get there early if I'm gonna be able to save any seats around my family. A couple of pilots from my squadron will be at the game, too."

"Does Ben think Calhoun's got a chance?" Cleve asked.

"Chance? Calhoun's gonna eat 'em alive tonight."

"Peninsula's got some tall boys coming down here tonight. Built like Marsh birds," Johnnie added.

"Zell, you ain't seen the general's boy play yet, have you?" Hobie asked.

"I've never liked spectator sports."

"He prefers opry and ballerine shows," Cleve teased.

"Zell's a man of culture."

"Zell, it'd do you good to come to that game tonight," Bull said. "You're starting to get the smell of stacks about you. You've been hanging around that law office too long."

"General, you know ol' Poyster at the hardware store?" Ed Mills asked.

"He comes in here some mornings, doesn't he?" Bull said.

"Yeah, the tow-headed so-and-so with two busted A-holes for eyes. Well, he was in here the other day running his mouth about how good Peninsula was and how they were gonna beat the stuffing out of Calhoun."

"What'd you say to him, Ed?"

"I just walked up to Poyster and gave him a chance to shine his butt in front of everybody. I said, 'Poyster, I'd like to make you a little bet about that Peninsula-Calhoun game.' He looked at me kind of funny and said, 'How much you willing to bet, Mills?" I looked back at him and without blinking an eye I said, 'One hunnert damn dollars' and you can ask anyone in here if that ain't the New Testament Truth."

"It's true, O.K.," voices said.

"What'd he say then?" Bull asked.

"He put the emergency brake on that motor mouth of his."

"What would you have done if he'd taken the bet?" Bull asked.

"They'd had to clean that stool Ed was sitting on," Cleve Goins laughed.

"See you boys at the game tonight. I've got to go and keep the world safe for democracy."

"Hey, Colonel," Slinkey yelled at Bull. "Why don't we just go ahead and nuke the hell out of Moscow, Havana, and Peking? We're gonna have to do it someday anyhow, so why don't we just get on with it so we won't have to worry about it?"

"Sure thing, Slinkey. I'll send out three lieutenants this afternoon to get the job done. There's no sense in procrastinating any longer."

"This kitchen is filthy," Bull said sternly as he walked in the door.

"What you mean, Captain?" Arrabelle snapped from behind the stove. "The whole kitchen clean as a co-llection plate. What you talkin' about?"

Bull did not answer. Rather, he continued into the dining room inspecting corners and wiping his index finger across furniture. When he returned to the kitchen, he sighed heavily then sat down on a chair next to the stove. "The whole house is one big garbage dump."

"Cap'n, you just talkin' stuff. You just pleasurin' yourself by runnin' your mouth about nothin'."

"Don't listen to him, Arrabelle," Mary Anne said. "Dad is so juvenile sometimes."

"It's gettin' gone time anyhow. I'll see you folks with the sun."

"Bye-bye, Arrabelle," Lillian said.

"Say hi to Toomer for me," Ben called as the maid walked out the back door. He then began to take imaginary jump shots against the kitchen wall.

"Get off your feet, jocko," Bull said to Ben, "you don't want to wear yourself out before the game. Go on upstairs and take a nap. I'll give you a yell before we have to leave for the game."

"It so happens, sugah, the whole family was having a very pleasant conversation before you barged in and insulted Arrabelle."

"That's great," Bull answered," but you're going to continue it without Ben. I want his mind to be on the game and nothing else. I hear there are going to be college scouts all over the stands tonight."

"This helps me relax, Dad," Ben said. "Just sitting and talking."

"Who asked you? Get upstairs and into the rack on the double. I didn't ask you for a speech."

"I think you're more nervous than Ben," Lillian said after her son had left the kitchen.

"This is the big game, Lillian. The big game. If he screws up in this game, Calhoun doesn't go to the tournament and he blows his chance for a scholarship. So I want everybody in this family to cut the yappin' and start thinking about the big game."

"It's so pleasant to have you home early, darling," Lillian said lightly.

"I couldn't sleep last night I was so worried about the big game," Mary Anne said. "I woke up with a cold sweat. And fever. And three different types of cancer. And a touch of rabies."