Ben turned down the dirt road that led to Toomer's, braking the car hard when he hit some holes that sent the car airborne. He passed the tomato field on his left, then entered the dark overhang of oak that would take him to Toomer's bus. His hands still trembled violently and he squeezed the steering wheel as tightly as he could. Then he heard the dogs, and the headlights caught a body lying to the side of the road.
It was only because of the hair that Ben recognized Red Pettus. The face was torn in a dozen places. The entire corpse was covered with blood. Ben rolled down the window to get a closer look, fascinated by the first dead man he had ever seen. He did not see the Gray appraising him in silence and coming up from behind him, stalking him.
The Gray sprang and came halfway through the window, catching Ben's arm and tearing at the flight jacket. Ben punched at the dog with his right fist, punched at the throat, feeling the dog's teeth go through the jacket and sink into the sinew of his forearm. Then, he remembered the car was running and he stomped the accelerator and the dog slid off him but not before the teeth had torn up the sleeve of the flight jacket and raked through muscles and veins as the dog was jerked from the arm by the sudden acceleration of the car.
Ben drove to the bus, past the fallen hives and parked his car flush against the side of the bus, making sure that there was no way for a dog to challenge his presence again. He rolled down the window on the passenger side and climbed into the bus. He saw Toomer lying on his back, his two large hands clamped over a stomach wound.
"Toomer, Toomer, Toomer!" Ben cried, rushing over to the man.
"Hey, white boy," Toomer said. "L-l-l-looks like we can't go shrimpin' on F-f-friday."
"Sure we can, Toomer. You promised," Ben said.
"Dead men don't make too good a fishermen."
"We're going to the hospital. Doe Ratteree's gonna make you well, Toomer," Ben said, grasping Toomer under his arms and pulling him toward the door. Toomer screamed with pain and the dogs began to gather as a pack outside the school bus.
"I'm sorry, Toomer, but I got to get you to the hospital," Ben said. "Jesus Christ, you've lost a lot of blood!"
"I hurt," Toomer moaned. "Gawd, I hurt."
Ben backed into the car window, then struggled to pull Toomer down the steps of the bus and through the window without hurting him. He was sweating from the effort and grunting from bearing the weight of the injured man. But he was glad that Toomer was no longer moaning.
Finally he pulled Toomer into the front seat and propped him against the front door. Toomer's eyes were wide open but there was a strange depth to his stare. In a moment of measureless agony, Ben Meecham knew he was staring into the face of a dead man. He fumbled for a pulse, felt for a heart beat, prayed for a stutter, or a limp, or a song of flowers. He placed his hand against Toomer's stomach and covered it with Toomer's blood. There was nothing to do now, nothing to hurry for. He rolled up the window of the car, Toomer's side of the car, he thought. He removed the flight jacket and covered Toomer's wound with it. Then, very slowly, he drove back down the dirt road, the pack hurling themselves at the car, appearing before the headlights, snapping at the wheels, demonic and carnivorous once again.
He drove down that road he had come down so many times before and would never come down again. His brain flooded with images and memories. But the images broke up of their own accord, weightless chimeras routed by a numbness that ran through him unchallenged. It took several moments for it to register that there were headlights blocking off access to the highway. He slowed down and stopped in front of the car.
All fear had left him now and the numbness identified itself as a beleaguered, voiceless resignation. There was a disenfranchisement from both the present and the past, from the body beside him and the headlights in front of him; he was enclosed in a timeless realm without margins, outlines, or tense. And he saw a large man with a pistol walk between both cars.
Ben opened the car door, put his feet on the ground, and stood up.
"Dad," he said.
Bull rushed forward and stood before his son for a full five seconds before he slapped him with the back of his hand. The blow caught Ben on the mouth and small capillaries exploded against the teeth and Ben could taste almost instantly the salt liquor of blood, a marsh taste, like the aftertaste of oysters when Toomer would open them fresh.
"Hey, jocko," Bull screamed," when I tell you to stay in one goddam place, you better let grass grow out of your asshole before you move without my permission! You got it?"
"Yes, sir.
"You disobeyed a direct order, hog. A direct order issued by the head honcho."
"Yes, sir."
"You knew you were in deep trouble if you were caught, didn't you, hog?"
"Yes, sir."
"Therefore you expected to be punished if you were caught."
"Yes, sir."
"Why'd you do it?"
"I didn't think I was going to get caught, sir."
"I want the real reason, sweet pea. Because you've never had the guts to go against me before and I goddam want to know why the fuck you came out here tonight in defiance of Santini."
"Because I promised Arrabelle and I thought Toomer might be in trouble. And . . ."
"And what, sweet pea?"
"And because I was your son," Ben said, almost bitterly.
"What's that got to do with it?"
"Because you'd have done it. Santini would have done it."
"Santini doesn't go around disobeying direct orders."
"You just did, Dad. Remember that you made me memorize the guard orders? I've always had trouble remembering them. But I never had trouble remembering the most important one. You deserted your post."
"I didn't desert my post. I was worried you would step into some deep shit coming out here. You made me come out here."
"No, sir, I didn't."
"I thought you might be in trouble, Ben. Can you get that through your thick goddam little southern boy skull?"
"I thought Toomer might be in trouble."
"I told you Toomer could take care of himself."
"Yes, sir. That's what you told me."
"Is that Toomer in the car?" Bull said, looking for the first time into the interior of the car but looking through the front window at the silhouette propped against the door.
"Yes, sir."
"Hey, Toomer. How you doin', sportsfans?" Bull said, walking to the other side of the car and peering into the window.
"Jesus Christ! Jesus H. Christ! Is he dead?" Bull asked his son.
"Yes, sir."
"Well, that's a good way to ruin a flight jacket, sweet pea. Jesus Christ. Jesus Christ. You better take him to the hospital, sportsfans. You got it? Jesus Christ. I'll go get the sheriff and tell Arrabelle. Jesus Christ. Why didn't you tell me? Why didn't you say something?"
"It wouldn't have made any difference, Dad," Ben said, getting back into the car. "It just wouldn't have made any difference."
Chapter 32
Mess night was a formal dinner, a rigidly proper genuflection toward the stiffest and most chivalrous origins of the Marine Corps and one that Bull Meecham believed to be the single most efficacious ceremony for stimulating esprit de corps that a commanding officer had at his disposal. It was a night when Marines could celebrate their identity and their origins as Marines; it was a night to sustain and honor the transcendence of their history by a return to the essences, to the latticework of ritual that tied them to the brotherhood of warriors that had gone before them and the men who would bear the scarlet and gold in their wake. Mess Night was a testament of linkage, an evening that allowed for the lyrics of both form and ferocity. Mess Night for the thirty-eight pilots of 367 began at 1920 on the first Friday in March.
The aviators were resplendent in full dress as they drank cocktails in the anteroom before the call to dinner. Part of the Marine Band from Biddle Island played light classical music as the pilots mingled and took their first drinks. Several of the pilots had m
ade a Coors run to the West Coast the previous week and many of the Marines were beginning the long evening of institutionalized drinking by slowly sipping on a Coors beer. In the Marine Corps a passionately articulate school of thought had arisen that Coors was the finest American beer; its unavailability on the East Coast made it de riguer for any Marine aviator who made it to the Coast to return laden down with all the Coors an F-8 could carry. It was an unwritten law in Bull Meecham's squadron that anyone who neglected to bring back a shipment of Coors from the West Coast would be court-martialed upon his return and probably shot.
There was a caution to the early evening drinking, almost an abstemiousness, for the Mess Night that began with the dignity of a coronation often ended with the survival of the species as a major concern. Many of the younger lieutenants and several of the captains had never attended a Mess Night; they had only heard.
But in this beginning hour, there was only a glittering retinue of officers and gentlemen, a low and decent murmur of conversation, an uncommon restraint among the slim, muscular, seemingly invulnerable men who, slightly titillated by the light that could dazzle off cordovan and the understated correctness of the full dress uniform, seemed to Bull Meecham to represent everything that was right with the United States.
The wives of the 367 braced themselves for the uncertain homecoming of their spouses. They were neither invited nor welcome at Mess Night. Since its origins in the deckrooms of British warships, the Mess Night had evolved as a gathering of men. At the Meecham house, Lillian told Ben that if necessary he might have to ride out to the air station to drive his father home. Bull had promised Lillian that he would not get drunk, but she was not a young wife and she had heard such promises before.
At 2000 a drummer and fifer began to play" The Roast Beef of Old England" and pilots began filing into the dining room where gleaming candelabra reflected off both the silver service and the finely polished mahogany tables. But before any pilot entered the dining room, he made a last strategic run to the head, for the Mess Night dinners sometimes lasted over two hours during which time wine was consumed in a limitless flow. But one of the most entrenched traditions of Mess Night was that a man could not exit to relieve himself until the dinner was completed unless the president of the Mess granted permission. As President of this Mess Night, Bull Meecham had spread the word that he would grant permission for no head runs during the course of the evening, knowing full well that this one arbitrary rule would become a serious test of manhood before the ceremony was done.
Bull had gone over the menu with the chef of the Officers' Club weeks in advance. He wanted the finest roast beef possible; he wanted the wines to be superb. He wanted to throw a Mess Night that would worm its way into the oral history of the Marine Corps. His normal intolerance of affectation did not extend to the elegant symmetry of Mess Night. The ceremony itself was one which began in refinement, in a spirit of proper felicity.
He had issued a call to the most legendary aviators he had known in the Marine Corps, the ones who had combined uncanny abilities as pilots with the personalities of carnival barkers and exhibitionists. On the invitations he had sent out he wrote personal notes to the six Marines who were stationed as far away from Ravenel as El Toro and as near as Cherry Point. He had written that he wanted to show the sweet peas in his squadron what the Old Corps was like. He wanted to dredge up some of the old dinosaurs that Bull Meecham came up with in the late days of World War II. Three out of the six officers he had invited had flown in for the occasion and now occupied the head table with him. He had not told a single person in the squadron who he was inviting. Instinct told him that if Colonel Varney had discovered who the men Bull had invited were, then Varney would have done his best to cancel the whole event. But Bull felt an obligation to his men that they be exposed to some of the true wild men who still inhabited the ranks of the Corps.
The meal proceeded with a stateliness and underplayed grandeur. Bull had sent Ben out the day before to gather enough fresh oysters for the oyster cocktails. The French onion soup was hot when it arrived, a rarity, all noted, at the Officers' Club. The head waiter marched into the room flanked by the drummers and fifers, rolling a huge roast before him. Stopping behind the Mess President, he cut a small piece of the beef and laid it on Bull's plate. Bull ate it slowly with all eyes on him. Finally he announced as Mess Presidents before him had done as long as there had been Mess Nights, "This beef is tasty and fit for human consumption."
When the dinner was over, the waiters cleared the tables quickly and bottles of port were brought out for the traditional toasts. After the glasses had been filled, Bull rapped a gavel on the head table for silence. He then rose and, lifting his glass, he said with feeling," Gentlemen, the President of the United States."
All Marines in the room rose as one and lifting their glasses they said in unison," The President," as the band played the national anthem. When the band had finished playing the officers took their seats. After a minute had passed Bull rose again and, lifting his glass of port, this time he stared at Lieutenant Snell who was serving as Vice President of the Mess at the far end of the table.
"Mr. Vice," Bull said in a voice that rang through the dining room," Corps and Country."
Lieutenant Snell stood and with his glass at eye level returned the toast by saying," Long live the United States, and success to the Marines."
The other Marines, lifting their glasses, thundered, "The Corps!" and the band struck up the Marine Corps hymn.
The old hymn, Bull thought, as the band played" Semper Fidelis. "In it were contained all the old poetry and stern cadences of what the Marine Corps embodied and embraced. It was a song that offered more goosebumps per square inch than any song he had ever heard. He mouthed the words to the song. Montezuma. Tripoli. And felt himself nourished by the plasma of letters and syllables that had come to denote a commitment to gallantry among the men with whom he had chosen to spend his life. In the room were close to fifty men who would die for this flag, this country, this service, and this song. It was a worthy song, and it could stir the embrasures and battlements of a strong man's soul.
When the hymn was over, the waiters brought coffee and Bull rapped with his gavel once again and announced," The smoking lamp is lighted. "Cigars were passed around the tables, contraband from Cuba that had been commandeered while the squadron was at Guantanamo. Bull grinned and motioned for his guests to watch as he spotted Captain Brannon urinating into a water glass beneath the table as he carried on a conversation with the officers who sat across from him.
Then Bull rose to introduce the guests.
"Gentlemen," he said," before we begin the fun and games portion of the evening, I'd like to introduce our honored guests and give a brief biography of each of them. I think the biography will explain why I invited these particular men to our Mess Night.
"First, on my right is Colonel John 'Blue Balls' Conners," Bull said, motioning his hand toward a thin, rangy man who had worn a constant smile the whole evening. "Blue Balls is one of the best dogfighters in this man's Marine Corps. He is also one of the sloppiest, grossest Marine aviators ever to make the rank of bird colonel. I would like to explain his nickname. For some reason which I will never be able to explain a flight of four of us Marine types got snowbound in South Dakota one winter and, sportsfans, you ain't never been snowbound till you been snowbound in South Dakota. The blizzard lasted for five days and being men not afraid to take a drop of liquor we proceeded to get as drunk as humanly possible. One of our companions lapsed into a state that resembled rigor mortis, but the rest of us just kept drinking. The snow kept falling and piling up in huge drifts around the BOQ where we traded war stories with some pussy Air Force types," Bull said, pausing for the derisive roar he knew would come at the mention of the Air Force.
"Tempers were growing short because Blue Balls had started punching out promising young Air Force pilots because he didn't like the fact that they claimed to have legitimate fathers. Well, one
of the Air Force pilots bet John over there that he couldn't run naked around that BOQ through all that snow. John, a man not known for his moderation, started tearing his clothes off his body and before we could stop him, he raced out the front door and was in the snow. Now it was ten below zero outside and the snow had piled up in drifts of seven and eight feet in some places. We ran to the windows on the second floor and began a reconnaissance mission of following Conners around the building, 'cause we thought sure the boy was gonna die before he got ten feet. All we could see was the top of Conner's head charging through the snow like a plow, busting his ass for the pride and honor of the Marine Corps. The boys in the Air Force started making bets about how long it would take for Conners to die out there in the snow, but we knew he had been drinking for three days and that the alcohol was acting as an antifreeze in his body. We also knew Conners wouldn't dare die and leave us humiliated in that Air Force BOQ. Well, on he charged around that building, disappearing from sight in a ten-foot drift on one occasion, freezing his skinny little ass off, and kept on charging until he collapsed in our arms at the front door. His whole naked ugly body was as red as a strawberry, except for his two balls which were the brightest blue you have ever seen. It was also on this occasion that we discovered that Blue Balls had the smallest pecker in the Marine Corps. Gentlemen, I present to you Colonel Blue Balls Conners."
Colonel Conners arose to a tumultuous ovation which he finally calmed by raising a muscular arm in the air to signal for quiet.
"Gentlemen," he said in a mellifluous voice, "your C.O. is the most notorious liar in the Marine Corps. It has also been proven beyond the shadow of a doubt that he is a homosexual. He goes down on generals and statues in parks. The story he just told you is pure fabrication. There was only a touch of frost on the ground and what slowed me up on that particular occasion was the prodigious size of my member. As I raced around the BOQ, my member dragged a full three feet behind me as I ran. I finally just had to pick the thing up, hurl it over my shoulder, and continue to run. My nickname is not Blue Balls, as your lying C.O. asserts. Gentlemen, my nickname is Python Penis."