"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."
The colonel smiled and said," That's why I called you in here. The former C.O. and the exec both told me you were the best young pilot in the squadron. I didn't know who you were, Johnson, and if I'd had to take a pick, you'd have been my last choice."
"Yes, sir," the captain replied," I understand that and that's what makes me even more determined to be the best."
"You're going to have to wait a while before you're the best, Captain," Colonel Meecham said harshly.
"I beg your pardon, sir?"
"You're the second best pilot in the squadron, Johnson. You are talking to the best."
"No, sir," the captain answered, without a change of expression. "I'm still the best."
"Did you hear what I said, Johnson? I said I was the best."
"You are second best, Colonel," the captain said again.
"Ha, ha!" the colonel roared," you cocky, squealy voiced little bastard. You and me are gonna get along, son. I like somebody that don't take no shit. Of course, we're gonna have to fly together someday, so I can find out what you can do."
"Be glad to, sir. I've heard you're good."
"That is affirmative, Captain. That is affirmative. We'll go up at the beginning of next week to see if you're as good with a jet as you are with your mouth."
"I'll be looking forward to it, sir," the captain said, coming to attention.
Still smiling, Colonel Meecham said," I enjoyed talking to you, Johnson. I like your attitude. It's a good attitude. It's a real good attitude to find in such a measly body. Good afternoon.
"Good afternoon, sir.
After Johnson left, Colonel Meecham walked to his window and peeked through the venetian blinds at the jet planes, their wings folded, sitting just outside the hangar. He was thinking about Captain Johnson, a crackerjack pilot, a dedicated Marine who would never go far in the Marine Corps because of his voice. A voice like that cannot sway men, Colonel Meecham thought, a voice like that cannot stir the roots of a man's soul and send him into the fire of combat, a voice like that cannot cause a man to want to die, nor order him to a place where he will have to die. Gary Johnson might be a good pilot, but he would never be a good Marine. Men were needed for that.
He snapped the blind shut and returned to his desk, shouting for Latito in a strong, sure voice," Get in here, Latito, before I call the rabbi on you."
Chapter 13
No matter how sedulously Ben and Mary Anne prepared for the nightmare, nothing could ameliorate their discomfort at entering a new high school for their annual pilgrimage among strangers. They had speculated that growing up in the American military could affect the personality of an individual in one of two ways. One could either brim with hidden reservoirs of counterfeit personality, walk up to mobs of inbred teenagers, say the proper things, smile the winning smile, and enter into the mainstream of high school life without experiencing the painful days of walking the school hallways like unearthed troglodytes. Invariably, it took Ben and Mary Anne months before they could overcome their native diffidence, which actually was an obstinate refusal to make themselves vulnerable. They were afraid of being laughed at, of being the object of derision, of isolating themselves further because of a strategic error that caused them to insinuate themselves too soon into that hostile, unforgiving world where adolescents practice the small atrocities and petty cruelties of adults. It took at least three months before they quit hating to wake up in the morning for school.
Each year before the first day of school, Lillian would deliver a buoyant address that was always a variation on a theme. "I think y'all are among the luckiest children in America. You're always traveling, gaining new insights, learning how different people think and act, and learning how to meet people by putting your best foot forward. If I were you on that first day of school, I'd just pick out somebody that I wanted to meet, walk up to them with my head held high and tell them I was new in town and would appreciate a friend. Now that's how I'd do it. Of course, I'm not you, but instead of moping around with your eyes down, I'd just say to myself that it's a new day and I'm going to make friends with everybody in sight."
"I like moping around with my eyes down," Mary Anne would say.
"Me too," Ben agreed.
Both of them knew how the cycle of friendlessness would end. Eventually someone very ugly or very unhappy would spot a new kid walking around and in tentative, irresolute gestures would offer friendship to you with no ulterior motives except to end their own intolerable loneliness. For a while you would have an ugly, unpopular kid for a friend. Through him you would meet someone else you liked a lot better and gradually your friendship with the first person would erode, then vanish into aggrieved memory. In a new school one had to build a set of friends on the abandoned carcasses of unhappy boys and girls who befriended you during the days when you had no choice. In the middle of the year the new kid would have reached the middle ground. He would begin to unfold, come out, like the moon in half phase. When he regained his equilibrium and began to experiment with the persons he had kept at bay, terrified that someone might steal a peek at the human he actually was, when at best he relaxed and was awash with the beneficent realization that he was a stranger no longer, that he belonged almost as much as anyone else, it was then that the Marine would come home with orders and announce that the family would move again that June.
John C. Calhoun High School was a red brick, two story structure with a statue of the South Carolina statesman pointing a bony twelve-inch finger at the river that curved at a ninety degree angle in front of the school. The school had a colonial facade with a graceful cupola on its roof. Two wings had been added to accommodate the yearly accretions of Mar
ine children who came into town as Ravenel Air Base expanded. A long covered breezeway paralleled the main structure and connected the two wings. In the rectangle created between the wings, the old school, and the breezeway, flowers bloomed beside a stone fountain which did not work. The gymnasium was contiguous to the east wing of the school, and a grassless football field with cracked baked mud harrowed by cleats formed the far boundary of the campus to the north. Both the statue of Calhoun and the front door of the high school looked down-river and by sitting on the front steps one could watch the heavy traffic of yachts and barges work its way past the sandbars and oyster banks of the inland waterway.
Ben and Mary Anne paced the halls of Calhoun High together, deriving strength and comfort from each other's desolation. Both felt that it was a period of high visibility, that their faults and blemishes were sinking into obscurity in an inversely proportional manner. Paranoia was always the first malady to contend with when entering a new school. Ben and Mary Anne felt all eyes were upon them when in actuality no one noticed them at all.
For homeroom, Ben had a large bovine woman named Mrs. Troutman who had an eerie sadness about her face even though she smiled all the time. It was as though tragedy lingered discreetly around her. She had a large pleasant nose that sniffed the air at irregular intervals like a heifer catching the scent of blood in the stockyard. She was also Ben's American Civilization teacher during the last period and read from the textbook word for word, pausing to render editorial commentary whenever a particularly salient point was raised by the author of the text. It was obvious to Ben that she was a lot more interested in the politics of homeroom than the muddled breastworks of state and local government.
On the first day of school Mrs. Troutman had risen in the front of the room for her opening address to the homeroom. "I am Mrs. Troutman," she began imperially. "I would like to welcome all of you to the hallowed halls of John C. Calhoun High School. For those of you who are new at our school, and from my records I see that two or three of you are indeed new, I would like to tell you about some of the traditions we hold sacred. In the front hall, embedded in the floor, you will find a block 'C' generously bestowed by the Class of 1960 to instill pride in our athletic squads and our academic endeavors. No one is allowed to walk on the block 'C.' Try to remember that because if one of our big football players catches you, then there may be the devil to pay. Also, as seniors, you have the privilege of cutting in front of the lunchline. Now I will be passing out a school handbook which has most of this information. If you have any questions, I will always be available to my boys and girls from homeroom 4B."
She paused, cleared her throat, her tone taking on an ever deeper seriousness. "The first order of business is to elect homeroom officers. Now I have a reputation of having homerooms that are the envy of the school. Four-B has always been the best. Four-B is the best. And 4B always will be the best. Therefore it is very important to elect the best people to homeroom office. Now I would like a moment of silence for all of you in here to think about who would make the best leader for 4B. It's not always the most popular person you know. Sometimes the quietest person in the room makes the best leader. Everyone sit still now and think about whom you personally think will serve the interests of 4B best. It's not an easy decision, I know. The qualities of a good homeroom president are these, in my opinion. "Her voice was getting lower and lower. But she continued to whisper her message. "Courage, Prudence, Aggressiveness, Loyalty to 4B, Charity, Faith, an ability to overcome adversity, and Hope."
"No," Ben disagreed silently," no homeroom president has ever had a single good quality. "The other students fidgeted and looked around at each other, searching each other's eyes for indisputable signs and glimmers of leadership.
Finally Mrs. Troutman began to speak again. "Now I've checked the records and I've found to my shock and disappointment that only one boy in this class has the grades to be eligible for homeroom office."
"Oh, gad," Ben groaned, expecting the worst.
"A 'C' average is required and Benjamin Meecham is the only boy in class that has the grades."
"Benjamin!" Ben heard a boy toward the rear of the class laugh.
"Now I am not going to interfere with the elections at all. But I feel that at least one boy should be nominated for each office, otherwise we'll have all girls as homeroom officers. Could Benjamin Meecham stand up and let everyone in the class get a good look at him? Oh there you are. Welcome to Calhoun High, Benjamin. Now there he is. Take a good look at him."
Ben could feel a blush begin at the cuticles of his toes, rush through his entire body, and assault the very roots of his hair. The other students stared at him as though he were a urine sample.
"I am going to put Benjamin's name in nomination for president of 4B. Are there any other nominations?"
Ben later told Mary Anne it had been a banner day in his history as a high school student. In rapid succession he had been defeated for homeroom president, vice president, secretary, treasurer, sergeant at arms, homeroom representative to the Student Council, and homeroom alternate. The most humiliating aspect of his successive defeats was that he had not garnered a single vote. Not even the new kids had voted for him.
"Who wants a zit-face for homeroom president?" Mary Anne had said.
"It wasn't that, sister. They just didn't feel I had any leadership qualities."
On the Thursday of their second week in school, after a lunch of Sloppy Joes, blackeyed peas, apple sauce, coleslaw, and milk, Ben and Mary Anne turned the corner of the breezeway near the shop and were drawn by a surge of bodies toward a central, unseen drama that had an ozone smell of violence about it. A tall freckled boy with carrot-hued hair slicked back was holding a smaller dark haired boy in a headlock as the rest of the crowd laughed at the smaller boy's efforts to free himself.
"Let me go, Red," the smaller boy pleaded.
"Sammy. Now you and me are good buddies, ain't that right?" Red said.
"That's right, Red. So why don't you let me go?"
"I want to let you go, Sammy. But you've got to say what I told you to say."
"I won't say that," Sammy answered.
"Then I'm goin' to keep on squeezing your scrawny little Jewboy neck," Red said, tightening his hold. "Now say it, Sammy. Say it before I start gettin' pissed."
"Heil Hitler," the boy said quietly.
"Louder, Jewboy," the other boy commanded. "I want everybody to hear how much you love ol' Adolf."
"Heil Hitler," the boy said louder.
"That ain't loud enough, Sammy," Red said, winking and smiling at the crowd.
Mary Anne turned to Ben and whispered harshly," Help that boy, Ben."
"Hell no, Mary Anne. Let's get out of here. Hell let him go in a minute."
"If you don't then I will," she said, starting to weave through the crowd.
"Goddammit, Mary Anne, stop," Ben pleaded. "Let's just walk down the hall and mind our own business."
"They're humiliating that boy," Mary Anne said, pressing forward. "He's crying."
Sobs erupted from beneath the jacket of the red-headed boy and Ben knew he had a quick decision to make. Mary Anne would try to scratch Red's eyes out if she reached him and Ben would have a dilemma explaining to his father how he had sided with discretion and prudence while his sister defended the principles of honor and courage by fistfighting a bully at the noon break. Mary Anne was much braver than Ben but he reasoned it was because she had never been punched in the mouth and had no conception of how it hurt.
Ben caught Mary Anne by the arm and said as he went by her, "I ought to punch you, turd."
"Heil Hitler," Sammy said again.
"Any teachers comin', Lee?" Red asked one of his friends.
"Naw, I'm watchin'," Lee answered.
"Now then, Sammy. One more thing and I'll let you go. I love Jesus Christ."
"Leave him alone," a voice said.
Red looked up and saw Ben glaring at him. Several of Red's friends shifted to
ward Ben, keeping to the edges of the crowd. Ben noticed that Red was a good two inches taller than he was, but he also was certain that he outweighed Red by twenty pounds. Of course, Ben thought, Red has ten or twenty of his buddies surrounding him which gives the battle of poundage back to Red by several thousand pounds.
"Who in the fuck are you, buddy?" Red snarled.
"Just let the guy go and try someone your own size."
"And just what if I don't let go, bubba," Red said, aware that he was losing part of the crowd to this newcomer.
"If you don't let my good friend Sammy go, Red, I'm going to make you say how much you love Martin Luther King," Ben said, and much of the crowd laughed.
"You think you could, bubba. What's the matter with you? Are you a Jewboy too?"
"Yeah, Red. I'm a Jewboy too. And I don't like seeing other Jewboys being picked on by red-headed punks."
"He's a Marine brat," someone shouted to Red. "He ain't no Jew."
"Twinkie, you a Marine brat?" Red asked.
"Yeah."
"I hate Marine brats, Twinkie."
"You're gonna hate 'em a lot worse in a minute," Ben fired back.
"How would you like a fist where your mouth used to be?" Red asked.
"He's a goody goody, Red. Stomp his butt," a voice said from behind Ben. Ben was becoming aware of the voices of satellite greasers moving in and around the perimeter of the fight.
"Hit 'em, Ben," Mary Anne cried out. She was directly behind Ben.
"Who's your fat friend, Twinkie?"
"That's my sister, you red-headed fart, and you say anything about her they're gonna have to clean you up off this breezeway."
"Whip his ass, Red," someone called. By this time, Red had released Sammy and turned to concentrate his full attention on Ben. Sammy slipped out of Red's grip and disappeared, leaving Ben to face the menacing crowd alone. Red and his friends began to close in on Ben. Mary Anne was pushed back deeper into the group of spectators. Someone pushed Ben from behind. He turned and pushed his assailant back. When he did, Red reached into his dungarees and pulled a switchblade from his back pocket. When Ben turned around, the blade of the knife was up against his throat.