train diminished gradually into the darkness.
Bull barked out at Ben as the car moved across the tracks in first gear," Did Okra whizz?"
"I think so, Dad," Ben answered.
"You're not paid to think, mister. I asked you a question."
"Yes, sir. He did," Ben said.
"You'd better be right. That was the last head stop before Ravenel. Ravenel. Rav-e-nel. Next stop, Rav-e-nel, South Caroli-na."
At dawn and according to the strict schedule Colonel Meecham had plotted in Atlanta, they had come within sixty-five miles of the Marine Corps air station at Ravenel. The sun filled the car and the children, sleeping in the back, began to stir heavily against the new day. Colonel Meecham reached for his aviator's sunglasses which rested among the other paraphernalia of the journey on the dashboard. "Best sunglasses in the world," he told his wife. "Civilian shades can't touch 'em."
"Isn't it a shame military doctors couldn't be as good as military sunglasses," Lillian said.
"Hey, not bad, sportsfans. That was a good line."
"Bull, there's nothing in this road, not even a pig. Are you sure we're going the right way?"
"Affirmative. The navigator has never made a mistake in his career.
"Oh, I don't know about that. I seem to remember a night when the navigator took a wrong turn and we ended up in eastern Tennessee instead of western North Carolina."
"Ah, the grits who put up road signs in the South never got past second grade."
"Just to change the subject, sugah, you haven't told me the gossip on the old squadron. Where are all the Cobras now and what are they doing?"
"Sam Pancoast and Ollie Oliver are stationed in Ravenel. Rocky Green's in El Toro. His wife left him six months ago to run away with a twenty-two-year-old corporal in his squadron. Rocky's got the kids."
"Poor kids."
The conversation centered around the Marine Corps, moving from one old friend to another, men and women they had been stationed with, whose destinies had crossed again and again. The fraternity of Marine fighter pilots was small, intimate, and exceedingly close. The year's absence from the military had put Lillian somewhat behind in following the lives of some of her friends. Transfers were constant among all of them, and with both Lillian and Bull it was a peremptory requirement of their nomadism that they keep a vigilant eye on the travels of their peers. The two of them talked very little of politics, literature, or the arts. Most of their conversation was of the Corps or of their own family.
Ben shifted uncomfortably on the other side of the car. The sun was pouring in the car directly on his face. He heard his father say that they had been out of Georgia for a half hour. Out of Georgia, Ben thought. "Into South Carolina."
Georgia born, Ben felt a strong kinship to the blood red earth his father hated, loved the fragrant land he saw mostly in night passages, whose air was filled with country music and the virile smells of crops and farm machinery possessing the miles between towns. It was the one place he could hold to, fix upon, identify as belonging to him. He was rooted in Georgia because of the seal on his birth certificate. He lived there only when his father went overseas, but that made no difference to him. No matter how hard he tried, he never developed any imperishable allegiances to the washed-out, bloodless Marine bases where he had lived for most of his seventeen years. It was difficult to engender fealty for any geographical point when he had dwelt in four apartments, six houses, two trailers, and one quonset hut in his forced enlistment in the family of a Marine officer. Every house was a temporary watering place where warriors gathered for training and the perfection of their grim art before the tents were struck again. He longed for a sense of place, of belonging, and of permanence. He wanted to live in one house, grow old in one neighborhood, and wanted friends whose faces did not change yearly. He renewed his tenuous claim on Georgia
Bull barked out at Ben as the car moved across the tracks in first gear," Did Okra whizz?"
"I think so, Dad," Ben answered.
"You're not paid to think, mister. I asked you a question."
"Yes, sir. He did," Ben said.
"You'd better be right. That was the last head stop before Ravenel. Ravenel. Rav-e-nel. Next stop, Rav-e-nel, South Caroli-na."
At dawn and according to the strict schedule Colonel Meecham had plotted in Atlanta, they had come within sixty-five miles of the Marine Corps air station at Ravenel. The sun filled the car and the children, sleeping in the back, began to stir heavily against the new day. Colonel Meecham reached for his aviator's sunglasses which rested among the other paraphernalia of the journey on the dashboard. "Best sunglasses in the world," he told his wife. "Civilian shades can't touch 'em."
"Isn't it a shame military doctors couldn't be as good as military sunglasses," Lillian said.
"Hey, not bad, sportsfans. That was a good line."
"Bull, there's nothing in this road, not even a pig. Are you sure we're going the right way?"
"Affirmative. The navigator has never made a mistake in his career.
"Oh, I don't know about that. I seem to remember a night when the navigator took a wrong turn and we ended up in eastern Tennessee instead of western North Carolina."
"Ah, the grits who put up road signs in the South never got past second grade."
"Just to change the subject, sugah, you haven't told me the gossip on the old squadron. Where are all the Cobras now and what are they doing?"
"Sam Pancoast and Ollie Oliver are stationed in Ravenel. Rocky Green's in El Toro. His wife left him six months ago to run away with a twenty-two-year-old corporal in his squadron. Rocky's got the kids."
"Poor kids."
The conversation centered around the Marine Corps, moving from one old friend to another, men and women they had been stationed with, whose destinies had crossed again and again. The fraternity of Marine fighter pilots was small, intimate, and exceedingly close. The year's absence from the military had put Lillian somewhat behind in following the lives of some of her friends. Transfers were constant among all of them, and with both Lillian and Bull it was a peremptory requirement of their nomadism that they keep a vigilant eye on the travels of their peers. The two of them talked very little of politics, literature, or the arts. Most of their conversation was of the Corps or of their own family.
Ben shifted uncomfortably on the other side of the car. The sun was pouring in the car directly on his face. He heard his father say that they had been out of Georgia for a half hour. Out of Georgia, Ben thought. "Into South Carolina."
Georgia born, Ben felt a strong kinship to the blood red earth his father hated, loved the fragrant land he saw mostly in night passages, whose air was filled with country music and the virile smells of crops and farm machinery possessing the miles between towns. It was the one place he could hold to, fix upon, identify as belonging to him. He was rooted in Georgia because of the seal on his birth certificate. He lived there only when his father went overseas, but that made no difference to him. No matter how hard he tried, he never developed any imperishable allegiances to the washed-out, bloodless Marine bases where he had lived for most of his seventeen years. It was difficult to engender fealty for any geographical point when he had dwelt in four apartments, six houses, two trailers, and one quonset hut in his forced enlistment in the family of a Marine officer. Every house was a temporary watering place where warriors gathered for training and the perfection of their grim art before the tents were struck again. He longed for a sense of place, of belonging, and of permanence. He wanted to live in one house, grow old in one neighborhood, and wanted friends whose faces did not change yearly. He renewed his tenuous claim on Georgia
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