Part 35 (1/2)
”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 sc.u.m 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 b.i.t.c.h.”
”Bull, you still got an ego the size of a battles.h.i.+p. 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 p.e.c.k.e.rs. 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 c.r.a.p 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?”
”Every time I see ol' Beasley, it p.i.s.ses me off royally. It p.i.s.ses 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 G.o.dsakes, 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 s.h.i.+tty looking face of yours scaring any of my young pilots.”
”I can't wait to beat on your head tonight. Over and out, t.u.r.d.”
”Outstanding,” Bull answered.
Bull replaced the phone on the hook, smiled to himself in antic.i.p.ation of the coming fracas, then bellowed for Sergeant Lat.i.to. ”Hebe, get in here for a second, on the double. Your skipper needs you.”
”Yes, sir, skipper,” Sergeant Lat.i.to answered, hurrying through the door with a clipboard in his hand.
”Get Captain Brannon to my office p.r.o.nto. He's out on the flight line. And pa.s.s the word that there'll be a meeting of all officers in the ready room at 1500 hours.”
”Yes, sir.”
”And Lat.i.to, 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 c.l.i.toris on a female dinosaur was three feet, four inches long?”
”Yes, sir. Fascinating, sir,” Lat.i.to 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 att.i.tude, 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 G.o.ddam Jew.”
”Thank you very much, sir.”