They parked in the shadows beneath a live oak directly in front of B barracks. Beside them, a parade ground stretched for two miles until it stopped at a cluster of buildings that Ben could barely identify as the PX and commissary. Bull extinguished his lights, lit a cigarette, passed it to Ben, lit one for himself, and began to smoke in silence.
"I don't smoke, Dad," Ben said.
"Shhh! Not too loud. We aren't even supposed to be here, sportsfans. Go ahead and try it. You've probably been sneaking smokes on your mother for years."
"No, I really haven't. I thought you'd kill me if you ever caught me smoking."
"That's affirmative," Bull said, grinning at his son who fingered the cigarette without a trace of expertise. "I'd have had to ruin your whole day. Take a few heavy drags. Wait a minute. Put it out. Here comes Hicks and the boys."
Shouts and obscenities poured out of the windows of B barracks, a two story shingled building that had the unmistakable appearance of military architecture circa 1945. More shouts and more curses cut out the windows and traveled across the parade ground, dying out somewhere across the dark pavement.
"That sounds like our house when you get home," Ben said.
"Quiet," Bull growled, but he broke into a half-suppressed giggle.
By now, frantic shadows were running out the front door of B barracks. A voice of overbred brutality roared from an invisible source within the building.
"That's Hicks," Bull whispered. "He's one of the last of the great cannibals. They've cracked down so hard on the D.I.'s in the past couple of years that it's like they're running Aunt Fanny's Finishing School for Young Girls."
The drumming of feet down wooden stairs continued unbroken as recruits with their shaved heads, vulnerable necks, combat boots, fatigue hats and pants, and new white military issue T-shirts, spilled out into the night and lined up without skill or finesse at the edge of the parade ground, not fifteen yards away from the Meecham car.
A Drill Instructor appeared in the doorway, his distinctive, somewhat ludicrous hat pulled low over his eyes. He was carrying a swagger stick and had a revolver strapped to his hip. The man wore malevolence and formidability as though they were part of the uniform of the day. There was something so incarnately evil in the man's expression that Ben looked toward his father for assurance that they were indeed supposed to be there. Sergeant Hicks seemed to be laid out in squares as though he were constructed out of cinder blocks. There was a hardness to his body that made his uniform appear to be little more than a paint job. He walked as if each step he took was driving a hated enemy toward a precipice.
In the car, Ben removed the flight jacket and folded it on the seat beside him.
"Can you hear me, turds?" Sergeant Hicks said in a malefic whisper that seemed to hiss out of his bowels.
"Yes, Sergeant," the recruits screamed as one.
"That's good, turds. Because I want you to hear me real ood this morning."
"There he is!" Bull whispered to Ben in the car and pointed toward someone in the platoon of rigid, faceless men.
"Who?" Ben asked.
"Sergeant Blakeley," Bull answered.
"Who's Blakeley?"
"Another D.I. Look in the fourth row. Third one back. You can't see his face very good but I saw him waving at us."
"What's he doing there?"
"You'll see."
"Why's he dressed like a recruit?"
"Just watch and quit your yappin'."
The voice of Sergeant Hicks silenced Ben instantly as the D.I. screamed," Look at me, turds. Look at me because I want you to stare at me when I talk to you this morning. Now it makes me sick to my stomach that shit-eating maggots like you can pollute an elite group of fighting men like the United States Marine Corps. So I look upon it as my sacred duty to run as many of you fart blossoms out of the Marine Corps as I can. Because when I look over you bunch of turds and when I think about you wearing the uniform of the Corps, I want to walk up and down each rank and strangle the guts out of every fucking one of you abortions. "Hicks paused to catch his breath, then walked up to a small, rotund recruit who stood in the front of the second squad.
"What do you think the sergeant had for dinner last night, fat maggot?"
"The recruit doesn't know, Sergeant," the boy answered.
"Would the recruit believe it if the sergeant informed the recruit that he dined on shit sandwiches."
"No, Sergeant."
"Are you calling me a liar, turd?"
"No, Sergeant."
"I told you I ate shit sandwiches, turd, and you're standing there calling me a liar in front of my turds."
"No, Sergeant."
"Then what did I eat last night, turd?"
"You ate shit sandwiches, Sergeant."
"Why you fat maggot. You disgusting piece of blubber shit. If you ever tell me I eat shit again, I'm going to run this swagger stick so far up your ass, they're gonna find my wedding ring in your small intestine. I'm gonna remember you, fat maggot, and if you make it through this camp alive then I'm gonna turn in my uniform."
Then Sergeant Hicks began to address the entire platoon again. To Ben, his father's voice was the most fearsome he had ever heard, could inspire the most panic per decibel. But Bull's voice, at its worst, was reassuring and soothing compared to the D.I.'s. And Hicks's whisper was, if anything, worse than his scream, for the whisper carried with it a quality of institutional menace, even fiendishness, that the scream lost in its projection across the parade ground and through the ranks of bald men.
"You turds probably heard about the Pennant Creek incident before you joined the Corps," the D.I. barked. "That was the event in which an overanxious D.I. drowned a couple of turds in a force march. They ran that D.I. out of the Corps but I just want to let you maggots know that I personally feel they should have given that sergeant the Congressional Medal of Honor. Any D.I. who drowns a couple of turds who would further fuck up the U.S. Marine Corps is a man who deserves the highest honor this country can bestow. Do you maggots agree with me?"
"Yes, Sergeant."
"That's good, turds. Because I'm gonna take you for a hike across that same creek. Only, I'm gonna make you tie anvils and boulders to your feet right before we cross. I'm gonna sink every goddam one of you turds, because this sergeant ain't gonna leave no witnesses. Do I make myself clear, turds?"
"Yes, Sergeant."
Suddenly, Sergeant Hicks broke toward the first rank and began screaming at a large, well built recruit who took a step backward in surprise, so sudden was the attack. "You think you can whip my ass, don't you, maggot? You're sitting there thinking to yourself, 'If that little fucking fag sergeant gives me any lip I'll tear him apart limb by limb,' isn't that what you're thinking, you overgrown piece of shit?"
"No, Sergeant."
"Don't lie to me, you brainless sack of Kotex. You told your bunkmate last night that I was the biggest asshole you've ever seen. Isn't that right, turd?"
"No, Sergeant."
"You don't think I'm an asshole, turd?" Sergeant Hicks said, his voice forming into a whisper again.
"No, Sergeant."
"Well what am I? Do you think I'm a ballerina? Or a violinist? Or a goddam Army general? I'll tell you one thing, turd. It's my job to be an asshole. I'm paid by the U.S. Marine Corps to be the biggest asshole in the world for twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, fifty-two weeks a year for the rest of my goddam life. Now, turd, I want you to tell me and the rest of these maggots what the sergeant is."
"The Sergeant is an asshole," the boy said, his voice breaking on the final word.
The howl that Sergeant Hicks emitted was demonic enough to startle Ben, who watched from his anonymous vantage point in the car.
"You scum sucking son of pig shit. If you ever call me an asshole again I'll make sure they send you home to your maggot mother in no fewer than a hundred boxes. You and fat maggot are going to be my special project these next couple of weeks. I'm gonna be all . . ."
&nb
sp; Someone in the platoon coughed loudly. Stopping in mid-sentence, Sergeant Hicks stepped back, his face contorted with disbelief and fury. He began to slap the swagger stick into the open palm of his left hand again and again. It was the only sound Ben could hear. The platoon was motionless, soundless. They waited for the D.I.'s wrath to descend upon them collectively, in a truculent visitation as though the whole platoon had sneezed together. "Which one of you turds coughed?" Hicks asked in a baleful whisper. "I want to know which one of you worthless nits had the brass balls to cough when I was talking. I will tell you this, turds. No one in this goddam platoon coughs, farts, shits, pisses, or beats off without my permission. Is that clear, turds?"
"Yes, Sergeant."
Then the cough came again. Ben heard it and froze. He looked to his father for some sign of affirmation. But Bull was smiling, leaning back, and enjoying the performance.
"I see you, maggot," Hicks screamed. "I see you, maggot. Beat feet it up here, scumbag. You. Yes. You, scumbag. You beat feet it up here before I tear your fucking legs from your putrid body."
The third man in the fourth rank ran to the front of the platoon and stood trembling at attention before Sergeant Hicks. Circling the man, Hicks began muttering and shaking his head, saying," What am I gonna do, turds? I try to be fair. I try to do my best to produce the best goddam Marines in the Corps. But I got to prove to you turds that I mean what I say. I don't want you maggots to draw a breath without asking my permission. I am pissed off, turds. I am really pissed off. And when I get pissed off, really pissed off, I become a goddam homicidal maniac. "His voice was rising again. "I want to kill this piece of shit. I want to kill this piece of shit because he's hurting the Marine Corps. I want to take this swagger stick and poke his eyes out, to mutilate him. I told you not to cough, turd. I warned you. I told you not to cough. And I don't waste my time with any turd more than once."
Very slowly, Sergeant Hicks transferred the swagger stick to his left hand, unsnapped his holster, and slowly drew his pistol. "I hate to do this to you, turd. But you pissed me off bad. "Hicks began shooting bullets into the chest of the recruit, firing in a calm synchronized salvo that had a violent harmony to it. Bull was convulsed on the driver's side of the car. "It's Blakeley," he whispered to Ben.
Blakeley lay writhing at the edge of the parade ground, his agony sounding out of him in excruciating groans. Replacing his pistol with extraordinary calm, Hicks screamed out," Fat Maggot, you and that other turd beat feet it out here on the double!"
The two recruits departed their ranks with terrific haste and stood before Hicks, both of them visibly shaking. "Take this dead maggot," Hicks said, pointing to Blakeley whose chest was now soaked in blood. "Take him over there and throw his ass into that Dempster-Dumpster."
The recruits lifted Blakeley by the arms and legs and carried him rapidly to the Dempster-Dumpster which sat behind B barracks. As they passed the car in which he sat, Ben could hear Blakeley moaning to the recruits who bore him toward the garbage," Help me. Please help me. I'm only wounded. "But his pallbearers did not lose a step as they hustled to the Dempster-Dumpster, opened the steel door, and hurled the man toward the fetid dark interior where cans rattled and a bottle broke. The pleas of the grievously wounded man reverberated through the steel walls enclosing him, but the fat recruit closed the door quickly and both recruits sprinted back to their place in line.
"Good work, maggots. Now Sergeant Taylor will march you off to breakfast. I got to stay here and finish this turd off with my bayonet. It wouldn't be humane to let the poor bastard suffer."
Another D.I. materialized from behind the barracks, issued some sharp, resonant orders and soon the platoon was moving toward the mess hall. Not a single head turned in the entire platoon. Not one man looked back.
Sergeant Hicks walked over to the car, a broad smile on his face. The smile was an incongruity on such a formidable man. Bull Meecham got out of the car and both men shook hands warmly. Then they fell against the hood of the car laughing. Ben ran to the Dempster-Dumpster and unhooked the latch. Climbing out, Sergeant Blakeley immediately peeled off his stained T-shirt. He hurled the T-shirt back into the interior of the dumpster. He saluted Colonel Meecham, blew Sergeant Hicks a kiss, then walked toward the barracks to take a shower.
"Catsup is stickier than blood, son," Sergeant Blakeley said to Ben as he passed him.
Sergeant Hicks walked up to Ben and said," Happy Birthday, Ben."
"Thank you, sir."
"You're old enough to be part of this platoon now. You want to sign up today? I'll see what I can do about gettin' you in."
"No, sir. I think I'll wait."
"I saw your jacket in the car. Your dad told me he gave it to you as a present. You'll have to be a hell of a man to come up to the Marine that first wore it."
"That'll be a piece of cake," Ben, said, grinning at his father.
"You don't remember this, Ben, but I first saw you on the flight line in Cherry Point when you used to come down there with your dad. He used to ride you around on his shoulders on top of that same flight jacket. That was a long time ago, wasn't it, Colonel?"
"It doesn't seem like that long ago. You still got that same ugly puss that would scare God, Hicksie."
"Well, I scared some boys this morning, sure enough. Now, Ben, you know that this little exhibition today is just between us girls. They'd hang me up by my thumbs if they heard about this little training technique. I've already been busted once for having a little fun and games with my turds."
"Do you ever have any trouble from your troops after one of these performances?" Bull asked.
"Colonel, that platoon you just saw will win almost every award for excellence when they graduate from this island as full-fledged Marines; they'll also be tough enough to hold off half the Russian army. What they learned this morning was just play-acting. Right now, they think they're in the clutches of a wildass killer. It makes my job a lot easier."
"I won't say anything, Sergeant," Ben said.
"Good. That's fine. That's real fine," Sergeant Hicks said, stepping back to salute Bull Meecham. "Excuse me, sir. I've got to get back to my turds and kind of detraumatize them. Happy Birthday again, Ben."
"Thank you, Sergeant."
As they drove back toward Ravenel, the sky was beginning to loosen up in the east, fingers of pink and mauve light touched the rim of the earth, enlarging imperceptibly with each moment passed. Bull asked his son what he had extracted from the morning exercises.
"I'm glad I'm not a recruit on Biddle Island."
"Here's what I want you to take away from this morning," Bull said. "I want you to know that the Marine Corps could get along without its officers just fine. A lot of officers are a bunch of dingle berries going along for the ride. But the NCO's. Those guys are the cream de the cream. You get rid of the sergeants and there is no Marine Corps. There's just a bunch of guys walking around wearing funny green suits."
"Then why aren't you a sergeant, Dad?" Ben asked.
"I am," Bull said. "That's my secret; I am."
Bull dropped Ben off near the kitchen door. Before Ben could reach the step, Bull called to him," Don't forget, jocko, I want you to meet me at the club at 1700 hours. Tell your mama we'll be home at about 1830 for a little dinner and cake cutting."
"See you at five, Dad," Ben said. "Thanks again for the jacket."
"Just don't wear it to costume parties. You could get your sweet ol' Dad into all kinds of hot water if the wrong guy sees you walking around in it."
"I'll just wear it around the house. Can I show it to Toomer?"
"Yeah. Toomer don't know shit from Shinola anyway. See you at the club, sportsfans. Wear a coat and tie."
"Yes, sir."
Bull drove downtown for his morning coffee at Hobie's Bar and Grill. Since he had begun to show up regularly at Hobie's, he had found a minor addiction to the small talk among the regulars who drifted in after the grill opened after seven in the morning. Already he knew that
Ed Mills would be working on his first cup of coffee, occupying the stool nearest the door and casting dark, scowling salutations at all who entered after him. It was a matter of intense pride to Bull that the regulars had accepted him after a brief period of trial and initiation.
Lillian had risen and was sitting at the kitchen table reading the Charleston News and Courier and finishing her first cup of coffee. Walking softly, Ben entered the kitchen.
"How does it feel to be eighteen, sweetheart?" Lillian said, rising and going over to kiss her son on the cheek.
"It feels good. I can now get married without my parents' permission, buy liquor in South Carolina, and die in any war that comes up. Dad told me this morning that he thought I'd win some air medals in either Cuba, the Middle East, or Southeast Asia."
"I was just nineteen when you were born. I was eighteen when I married your father."
"I hope you were eighteen when you married him."
"Hush, sugah."
"It's hard to believe, Mama, that you were my age almost exactly when you married Dad. I can't imagine myself married right now. I guess you got to date a little bit before you decide to get married."
"I was a child when I got married," Lillian said, returning to her coffee. "My mother should have known better but she grew up in a generation where girls married the first man who could provide real security. You know, of course, that some of the boys who proposed to me in Atlanta are some of the richest, most prominent men in the South right now. But the war was going on and the future was so uncertain. Then your father showed up. The handsomest thing you have ever seen in your life in that uniform of his. And all those medals. He was also the most charming talker I had ever run across. I had always thought that southern boys could outtalk any race of living creatures until I met your father. Mother was a little worried about his being a Yankee and she almost died when she found out he was Catholic, but he charmed her faster than he had me. Your daddy's tongue was all honey and cotton candy when he went courtin'. If I hadn't married Bull, I think mother would have disowned me. Your father can still do no wrong in your grandmother's eyes. When I complain about Bull, she tells me that I don't know what a mean man is and to thank my lucky stars I don't have to live with one."