Articles liés à Great Santini
L'édition de cet ISBN n'est malheureusement plus disponible.
Afficher les exemplaires de cette édition ISBN
Extrait :
Chapter One
In the Cordova Hotel, near the docks of Barcelona, fourteen Marine Corps fighter pilots from the aircraft carrier Forrestal were throwing an obstreperously spirited going away party for Lieutenant Colonel Bull Meecham, the executive officer of their carrier based squadron. The pilots had been drinking most of the day and the party was taking a swift descent toward mayhem. It was a sign to Bull Meecham that he was about to have a fine and memorable turbulent time.
The commanding officer of the squadron, Ty Mullinax, had passed out in the early part of the afternoon and was resting in a beatific position on the table in the center of the room, his hands folded across his chest and a bouquet of lilies carefully placed in his zipper, rising out of his groin.
The noise from the party had risen in geometrically spiraling quantities in irregular intervals since the affair had begun shortly after noon. In the beginning it had been a sensible, often moving affair, a coming together of soldiers and gentlemen to toast and praise a warrior departing their ranks. But slowly, the alcohol established its primacy over the last half of the party and as darkness approached and the outline of warships along the harbor became accented with light, the maitre d' of the Cordova Hotel walked into the room to put an end to the going away party that had begun to have the sound effects of a small war.
He would like to have had the Marines thrown out by calling the Guardia Civil but too much of his business depended on the American officers who had made his hotel and restaurant their headquarters whenever the fleet came to Barcelona. The guests in his restaurant had begun to complain vigorously about the noise and obscenity coming from the room that was directly off the restaurant. Even the music of a flamenco band did not overpower or even cancel out the clamor and tumult that spilled out of the room. The maitre d' was waiting for Captain Weber, a naval captain who commanded a cruiser attached to the fleet, to bring his lady in for dinner, but his reservation was not until 9 o'clock. He took a deep breath, opened the door, and walked toward the man who looked as if he was in charge.
"Hey, Pedro, what can I do for you?" Bull Meecham asked.
The maitre d' was a small, elegant man who looked up toward a massive, red-faced man who stood six feet four inches tall and weighed over two hundred and twenty pounds.
Before the maitre d' could speak he noticed the prone body of Colonel Mullinax lying on the long dining table in the center of the room.
"What is wrong with this man?" the maitre d' demanded.
"He's dead, Pedro," Bull answered.
"You joke with me, no."
"No, Pedro."
"He still breathe."
"Muscle spasms. Involuntary," Bull said as the other pilots whooped and laughed behind him. "He's dead all right and we got to leave him here, Pedro. The fleet's pulling out any time now and we won't have time for a funeral. But we'll be back to pick him up in about six months. And that's a promise. I just don't want you to move him from this table."
"No, senor," the maitre d' said, staring with rising discomfort at the unconscious aviator, "you joke with me. I no mind the joke. I come to ask you to keep down the noise and please not break up any more furniture or throw your glasses. Some naval officers have complained very much."
"Oh, dearie me," said Bull. "You mean the naval officers don't like to hear us throwing glasses?"
"No, senor."
Bull turned toward the far wall and, giving a signal to the other pilots in the room, all thirteen of them hurled their glasses into the fireplace already littered with bright shards of glass.
"It will be charged to your bill, senor," the maitre d' said.
"Beat it, Pedro," Bull said. "When I want a tortilla I'll give you a call."
"But, senor, I have other guests. Many of the officers in the Navy and their ladies. They ask me what the noise is. What am I to do?"
"I'll handle them, Pedro," Bull said. "You run along now and chew on a couple of tacos while the boys and I finish up here. We should be done partying about a week from now."
"No, senor. Please, senor. My other guests."
When the maitre d' closed the door behind him, Bull walked over and made himself another drink. The other pilots crowded around him and did likewise.
With a strong Texas accent, Major Sammy Funderburk said, "I did a little recon job early this here morning here. And I saw me some strange and willing nookie walking around the lobby of this here hotel here."
"You know me better than that," Bull said. "I'm saving my body for my wife."
"Since when, Colonel?" one of the young lieutenants shouted over the laughter.
"Since very early this morning," Bull replied.
"This here squadron here is the toughest bunch of Marine aviators ever assembled on this here God's green earth here," Sammy bellowed.
"Hear ye! Hear ye!" the others agreed.
"I'd like to offer a toast," Bull shouted above the din, and the room quieted. "I'd like to toast the greatest Marine fighter pilot that ever shit between two shoes." He lifted his drink high in the air and continued his toast as the other pilots elevated their glasses. "This man has lived without fear, has done things with an airplane that other men have never done, has spit in death's eye a thousand times, and despite all this has managed to retain his Christ-like humility. Gentlemen, I ask you to lift your glasses and join me in toasting Colonel Bull Meecham."
Amid the hisses and jeers that followed this toast, Captain Ronald Bookout whispered to Bull, "Sir, I think we might get into a little trouble if we don't hold it down a little. I just peeked out toward the restaurant and there are a lot of Navy types in there. I'd hate for you to get in trouble on your last night in Europe."
"Captain," Bull said loudly so the other Marines would hear his reply, "there's something you don't understand about the Navy. The Navy expects us to be wild. That's so they can feel superior to us. They think we're something out of the ice age and it is entirely fittin' that we maintain this image. They expect us to be primitive, son, and it is a sin, a mortal sin, for a Marine ever to let a goddam squid think we are related to them in any way. Hell, if I found out that Naval Academy grads liked to screw women, I'd give serious consideration to becoming a pansy. As a Marine, and especially as a Marine fighter pilot, you've got to constantly keep 'em on their toes. I can see them out there now mincing around like they've got icicles stuck up their butts. They think the Corps is some kind of anal fungus they got to put up with."
"Hell, I'd rather go to war against the Navy than the Russians," Ace Norbett declared.
"Ace, that's always been one of my dreams that the Navy and the Marine Corps go to war. I figure it would take at least fifteen minutes for Marine aviators to make Navy aviators an extinct form of animal life," Bull said.
"They'd have supremacy on the sea, though," Captain Bookout said.
"Let 'em have it. The thing I want to see is those swabbies storming a beach. I bet three Marines could secure a beach against the whole U.S. Navy. Hell, I could hold off half the Navy with just a slingshot and six pissed-off, well-trained oysters on the half shell."
A long whoop and clamor with whistling and foot-stomping arose in the room. It took an extended moment for the room to fall silent when the maitre d' appeared in the doorway accompanied by an aroused Navy captain. The maitre d' smiled triumphantly as he watched the captain stare with majestic disapproval at the assembled Marines, some of whom had snapped to attention as soon as the Navy captain had materialized in the doorway. The power of rank to silence military men survived even into the pixilated frontiers and distant boundaries of drunkenness.
"Who is the senior officer in this group?" the captain snapped.
"He is, sir," Lieutenant Colonel Meecham said, pointing to Ty Mullinax.
"Identify yourself, Colonel."
"Lieutenant Colonel W.P. Meecham, sir," Bull answered.
"What's wrong with that man, Colonel?" the captain said, pointing to Colonel Mullinax.
"He's had the flu, sir. It's weakened him."
"Don't be smart with me, Colonel, unless you wish to subsist on major's pay the rest of your time in the military. Now I was trying to have a pleasant dinner tonight with my wife who flew over from Villa France to join me. There are at least ten other naval officers dining with their ladies and we would appreciate your cooperation in clearing out of this hotel and taking your ungentlemanly conduct elsewhere."
"Sir, this is a going away party for me, sir," Bull explained.
"Your departure should improve the image of the fleet considerably, Colonel. Now I strongly suggest you drink up and get back to the ship."
"Could we take one last drink at the bar, Captain? If we promise to behave like gentlemen?"
"One. And then I don't want to see you anywhere near the area," the captain said as he left the room.
The maitre d' lingered after the captain departed. "Do you wish to have the bill now, senor?" he said to Bull. "It will include the broken glasses and damaged furniture."
"Sure, Pedro," Bull answered. "Better add a doctor bill that you'll have when I punch your taco-lovin' eyes out."
"You Marines are nothing but trouble," the maitre d' said, easing toward...
Présentation de l'éditeur :
In the Cordova Hotel, near the docks of Barcelona, fourteen Marine Corps fighter pilots from the aircraft carrier Forrestal were throwing an obstreperously spirited going away party for Lieutenant Colonel Bull Meecham, the executive officer of their carrier based squadron. The pilots had been drinking most of the day and the party was taking a swift descent toward mayhem. It was a sign to Bull Meecham that he was about to have a fine and memorable turbulent time.
The commanding officer of the squadron, Ty Mullinax, had passed out in the early part of the afternoon and was resting in a beatific position on the table in the center of the room, his hands folded across his chest and a bouquet of lilies carefully placed in his zipper, rising out of his groin.
The noise from the party had risen in geometrically spiraling quantities in irregular intervals since the affair had begun shortly after noon. In the beginning it had been a sensible, often moving affair, a coming together of soldiers and gentlemen to toast and praise a warrior departing their ranks. But slowly, the alcohol established its primacy over the last half of the party and as darkness approached and the outline of warships along the harbor became accented with light, the maitre d' of the Cordova Hotel walked into the room to put an end to the going away party that had begun to have the sound effects of a small war.
He would like to have had the Marines thrown out by calling the Guardia Civil but too much of his business depended on the American officers who had made his hotel and restaurant their headquarters whenever the fleet came to Barcelona. The guests in his restaurant had begun to complain vigorously about the noise and obscenity coming from the room that was directly off the restaurant. Even the music of a flamenco band did not overpower or even cancel out the clamor and tumult that spilled out of the room. The maitre d' was waiting for Captain Weber, a naval captain who commanded a cruiser attached to the fleet, to bring his lady in for dinner, but his reservation was not until 9 o'clock. He took a deep breath, opened the door, and walked toward the man who looked as if he was in charge.
"Hey, Pedro, what can I do for you?" Bull Meecham asked.
The maitre d' was a small, elegant man who looked up toward a massive, red-faced man who stood six feet four inches tall and weighed over two hundred and twenty pounds.
Before the maitre d' could speak he noticed the prone body of Colonel Mullinax lying on the long dining table in the center of the room.
"What is wrong with this man?" the maitre d' demanded.
"He's dead, Pedro," Bull answered.
"You joke with me, no."
"No, Pedro."
"He still breathe."
"Muscle spasms. Involuntary," Bull said as the other pilots whooped and laughed behind him. "He's dead all right and we got to leave him here, Pedro. The fleet's pulling out any time now and we won't have time for a funeral. But we'll be back to pick him up in about six months. And that's a promise. I just don't want you to move him from this table."
"No, senor," the maitre d' said, staring with rising discomfort at the unconscious aviator, "you joke with me. I no mind the joke. I come to ask you to keep down the noise and please not break up any more furniture or throw your glasses. Some naval officers have complained very much."
"Oh, dearie me," said Bull. "You mean the naval officers don't like to hear us throwing glasses?"
"No, senor."
Bull turned toward the far wall and, giving a signal to the other pilots in the room, all thirteen of them hurled their glasses into the fireplace already littered with bright shards of glass.
"It will be charged to your bill, senor," the maitre d' said.
"Beat it, Pedro," Bull said. "When I want a tortilla I'll give you a call."
"But, senor, I have other guests. Many of the officers in the Navy and their ladies. They ask me what the noise is. What am I to do?"
"I'll handle them, Pedro," Bull said. "You run along now and chew on a couple of tacos while the boys and I finish up here. We should be done partying about a week from now."
"No, senor. Please, senor. My other guests."
When the maitre d' closed the door behind him, Bull walked over and made himself another drink. The other pilots crowded around him and did likewise.
With a strong Texas accent, Major Sammy Funderburk said, "I did a little recon job early this here morning here. And I saw me some strange and willing nookie walking around the lobby of this here hotel here."
"You know me better than that," Bull said. "I'm saving my body for my wife."
"Since when, Colonel?" one of the young lieutenants shouted over the laughter.
"Since very early this morning," Bull replied.
"This here squadron here is the toughest bunch of Marine aviators ever assembled on this here God's green earth here," Sammy bellowed.
"Hear ye! Hear ye!" the others agreed.
"I'd like to offer a toast," Bull shouted above the din, and the room quieted. "I'd like to toast the greatest Marine fighter pilot that ever shit between two shoes." He lifted his drink high in the air and continued his toast as the other pilots elevated their glasses. "This man has lived without fear, has done things with an airplane that other men have never done, has spit in death's eye a thousand times, and despite all this has managed to retain his Christ-like humility. Gentlemen, I ask you to lift your glasses and join me in toasting Colonel Bull Meecham."
Amid the hisses and jeers that followed this toast, Captain Ronald Bookout whispered to Bull, "Sir, I think we might get into a little trouble if we don't hold it down a little. I just peeked out toward the restaurant and there are a lot of Navy types in there. I'd hate for you to get in trouble on your last night in Europe."
"Captain," Bull said loudly so the other Marines would hear his reply, "there's something you don't understand about the Navy. The Navy expects us to be wild. That's so they can feel superior to us. They think we're something out of the ice age and it is entirely fittin' that we maintain this image. They expect us to be primitive, son, and it is a sin, a mortal sin, for a Marine ever to let a goddam squid think we are related to them in any way. Hell, if I found out that Naval Academy grads liked to screw women, I'd give serious consideration to becoming a pansy. As a Marine, and especially as a Marine fighter pilot, you've got to constantly keep 'em on their toes. I can see them out there now mincing around like they've got icicles stuck up their butts. They think the Corps is some kind of anal fungus they got to put up with."
"Hell, I'd rather go to war against the Navy than the Russians," Ace Norbett declared.
"Ace, that's always been one of my dreams that the Navy and the Marine Corps go to war. I figure it would take at least fifteen minutes for Marine aviators to make Navy aviators an extinct form of animal life," Bull said.
"They'd have supremacy on the sea, though," Captain Bookout said.
"Let 'em have it. The thing I want to see is those swabbies storming a beach. I bet three Marines could secure a beach against the whole U.S. Navy. Hell, I could hold off half the Navy with just a slingshot and six pissed-off, well-trained oysters on the half shell."
A long whoop and clamor with whistling and foot-stomping arose in the room. It took an extended moment for the room to fall silent when the maitre d' appeared in the doorway accompanied by an aroused Navy captain. The maitre d' smiled triumphantly as he watched the captain stare with majestic disapproval at the assembled Marines, some of whom had snapped to attention as soon as the Navy captain had materialized in the doorway. The power of rank to silence military men survived even into the pixilated frontiers and distant boundaries of drunkenness.
"Who is the senior officer in this group?" the captain snapped.
"He is, sir," Lieutenant Colonel Meecham said, pointing to Ty Mullinax.
"Identify yourself, Colonel."
"Lieutenant Colonel W.P. Meecham, sir," Bull answered.
"What's wrong with that man, Colonel?" the captain said, pointing to Colonel Mullinax.
"He's had the flu, sir. It's weakened him."
"Don't be smart with me, Colonel, unless you wish to subsist on major's pay the rest of your time in the military. Now I was trying to have a pleasant dinner tonight with my wife who flew over from Villa France to join me. There are at least ten other naval officers dining with their ladies and we would appreciate your cooperation in clearing out of this hotel and taking your ungentlemanly conduct elsewhere."
"Sir, this is a going away party for me, sir," Bull explained.
"Your departure should improve the image of the fleet considerably, Colonel. Now I strongly suggest you drink up and get back to the ship."
"Could we take one last drink at the bar, Captain? If we promise to behave like gentlemen?"
"One. And then I don't want to see you anywhere near the area," the captain said as he left the room.
The maitre d' lingered after the captain departed. "Do you wish to have the bill now, senor?" he said to Bull. "It will include the broken glasses and damaged furniture."
"Sure, Pedro," Bull answered. "Better add a doctor bill that you'll have when I punch your taco-lovin' eyes out."
"You Marines are nothing but trouble," the maitre d' said, easing toward...
The Astonishing Autobiographical Bestseller By The Author Of Beach Music
Today his family would be called dysfunctional. Bull Meecham -- fighter pilot, warrior, juggler, clown and bully -- a hard-drinking terror of a man who calls himself The Great Santini -- actually hides behind his misnomer. His swaggering mask is all Marine, and entitles him to be the absolute ruler of his family, which he handles with all the tenderness and understanding of a drill sergeant shaping up a class of new recruits.
Bull's wife, Lillian, is a beautiful steel magnolia -- without her cool head and infinite patience, the family would fall apart. Ben, at eighteen the oldest of Bull and Lillian's three children, is a natural athlete whose best never satisfies his father. As Ben struggles to become his own man against the intimidation of his father, he's forced to stand up, even fight back, against a man who refuses to give in.
Bull Meecham is undoubtedly Pat Conroy's most explosive character -- a man you should hate, but a man you'll come to love, in this stingingly authentic production.
Today his family would be called dysfunctional. Bull Meecham -- fighter pilot, warrior, juggler, clown and bully -- a hard-drinking terror of a man who calls himself The Great Santini -- actually hides behind his misnomer. His swaggering mask is all Marine, and entitles him to be the absolute ruler of his family, which he handles with all the tenderness and understanding of a drill sergeant shaping up a class of new recruits.
Bull's wife, Lillian, is a beautiful steel magnolia -- without her cool head and infinite patience, the family would fall apart. Ben, at eighteen the oldest of Bull and Lillian's three children, is a natural athlete whose best never satisfies his father. As Ben struggles to become his own man against the intimidation of his father, he's forced to stand up, even fight back, against a man who refuses to give in.
Bull Meecham is undoubtedly Pat Conroy's most explosive character -- a man you should hate, but a man you'll come to love, in this stingingly authentic production.
Les informations fournies dans la section « A propos du livre » peuvent faire référence à une autre édition de ce titre.
- ÉditeurHarperCollins Distribution Services
- Date d'édition1977
- ISBN 10 0002222620
- ISBN 13 9780002222624
- ReliureRelié
- Nombre de pages535
- Evaluation vendeur
Acheter D'occasion
état : Satisfaisantthe book is a bit edge worn. one... En savoir plus sur cette édition
EUR 28,84
Frais de port :
EUR 17,50
De Afrique du sud vers Etats-Unis
Autres éditions populaires du même titre
Meilleurs résultats de recherche sur AbeBooks
Image d'archives
The Great Santini
Edité par
COLLINS
(1977)
ISBN 10 : 0002222620
ISBN 13 : 9780002222624
Ancien ou d'occasion
Couverture rigide
Edition originale
Quantité disponible : 1
Vendeur :
Evaluation vendeur
Description du livre Hardcover. Etat : Good. No Jacket. None (illustrateur). First Edition. the book is a bit edge worn. one inscription. some foxing and markings. sound binding. fairly good copy. [SK]. Our orders are shipped using tracked courier delivery services. N° de réf. du vendeur 70zl
Acheter D'occasion
EUR 28,84
Autre devise
Image fournie par le vendeur
Great Santini
Edité par
HarperCollins Distribution Services
(1977)
ISBN 10 : 0002222620
ISBN 13 : 9780002222624
Ancien ou d'occasion
Couverture rigide
Quantité disponible : 1
Vendeur :
Evaluation vendeur
Description du livre Etat : Good. None (illustrateur). Most items will be dispatched the same or the next working day. A few small stains. A tan to the pages. Ex library copy with usual stamps & stickers. Foxing to the pages. N° de réf. du vendeur wbs6368780725
Acheter D'occasion
EUR 38,69
Autre devise
Image fournie par le vendeur
The Great Santini
Edité par
Collins
(1977)
ISBN 10 : 0002222620
ISBN 13 : 9780002222624
Ancien ou d'occasion
Couverture rigide
Edition originale
Quantité disponible : 1
Vendeur :
Evaluation vendeur
Description du livre Hardcover. Etat : Very Good. Etat de la jaquette : Fair. None (illustrateur). First Edition. The dust jacket is shelf rubbed, edge worn and marked, with small closed tears along the edges and a few small chips out of the top of the spine and corner. Despite this, the jacket remains bright and intact. The boards are shelf rubbed and edge worn but remain strong and square. Internally, the front end page is ever so slightly foxed, but there are no other markings or inscriptions, and the pages within are crisp, clean and complete. Tightly bound and presents handsomely in cellophane. JK. Our orders are shipped using tracked courier delivery services. N° de réf. du vendeur otbn
Acheter D'occasion
EUR 40,38
Autre devise
Image fournie par le vendeur
The Great Santini
Edité par
William Collins Sons and Co. Ltd
(1977)
ISBN 10 : 0002222620
ISBN 13 : 9780002222624
Ancien ou d'occasion
Couverture rigide
Edition originale
Quantité disponible : 1
Vendeur :
Evaluation vendeur
Description du livre Hardcover. Etat : Very Good. Etat de la jaquette : Very Good. None (illustrateur). First Edition. Publication of 536 pages. The dust jacket is a little shelf rubbed and small closed tears along the edges. The boards are in good condition. There is light foxing around the block of the book. Internally the pages are immaculately clean and complete. Tightly bound and presented in cellophane. The binding is excellent. R* GK 15/06/2022. Our orders are shipped using tracked courier delivery services. N° de réf. du vendeur 56mc
Acheter D'occasion
EUR 72,11
Autre devise