The Great Santini-US Marine
p.t.h...@worldnet.att.net
Outstanding.........Semper Fi.
From: (blanked)
CWO4 USMCR (Ret)
Semper Fi - Always
-
Thought that most of you who receive this will enjoy a unique eulogy
about someone whom we knew only by a book and/or film but who lives on
well after that.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
COLONEL DON CONROY'S EULOGY
by Pat Conroy - his son
The children of fighter pilots tell different stories than other kids
do. None of our fathers can write a will or sell a life insurance
policy or fill out a prescription or administer a flu shot or explain
what a poet meant. We tell of fathers who land on aircraft carriers at
pitch-black night with the wind howling out of the China Sea.
Our fathers wiped out aircraft batteries in the Philippines and set
Japanese soldiers on fire when they made the mistake of trying to
overwhelm our troops on the ground.
Your Dads ran the barber shops and worked at the post office and
delivered the packages on time and sold the cars, while our Dads were
blowing up fuel depots near Seoul, were providing extraordinarily
courageous close air support to the beleaguered Marines at the Chosin
Reservoir, and who once turned the Naktong River red with blood of a
retreating North Korean battalion.
We tell of men who made widows of the wives of our nations' enemies
and who made orphans out of all their children.
You don't like war or violence? Or napalm? Or rockets? Or cannons or
death rained down from the sky?
Then let's talk about your fathers, not ours. When we talk about the
aviators who raised us and the Marines who loved us, we can look you
in the eye and say "you would not like to have been America's enemies
when our fathers passed overhead".
We were raised by the men who made the United States of America the
safest country on earth in the bloodiest century in all recorded
history.
Our fathers made sacred those strange, singing names of battlefields
across the Pacific: Guadalcanal, Iwo Jima, Okinawa, the Chosin
Reservoir, Khe Sanh and a thousand more. We grew up attending the
funerals of Marines slain in these battles.
Your fathers made communities like Beaufort decent and prosperous and
functional; our fathers made the world safe for democracy.
We have gathered here today to celebrate the amazing and storied life
of Col. Donald Conroy who modestly called himself by his nomdeguerre,
The Great Santini.
There should be no sorrow at this funeral because The Great Santini
lived life at full throttle, moved always in the fast lanes, gunned
every engine, teetered on every edge, seized every moment and shook it
like a terrier shaking a rat.
He did not know what moderation was or where you'd go to look for it.
Donald Conroy is the only person I have ever known whose self-esteem
was absolutely unassailable. There was not one thing about himself
that my father did not like, nor was there one thing about himself
that he would change. He simply adored the man he was and walked with
perfect confidence through every encounter in his life. Dad wished
everyone could be just like him.
His stubbornness was an art form. The Great Santini did what he did,
when he wanted to do it, and woe to the man who got in his way. Once I
introduced my father before he gave a speech to an Atlanta audience. I
said at the end of the introduction, "My father decided to go into the
Marine Corps on the day he discovered his IQ was the temperature of
this room".
My father rose to the podium, stared down at the audience, and said
without skipping a beat, "My God, it's hot in here! It must be at
least 180 degrees".
Here is how my father appeared to me as a boy. He came from a race of
giants and demi-gods from a mythical land known as Chicago. He married
the most beautiful girl ever to come crawling out of the poor and
lowborn south, and there were times when I thought we were being
raised by Zeus and Athena.
After Happy Hour my father would drive his car home at a hundred miles
an hour to see his wife and seven children. He would get out of his
car, a strapping flight jacketed matinee idol, and walk toward his
house, his knuckles dragging along the ground, his shoes stepping on
and killing small animals in his slouching amble toward the home
place.
My sister, Carol, stationed at the door, would call out, "Godzilla's
home!" and we seven children would scamper toward the door to watch
his entry.
The door would be flung open and the strongest Marine aviator on earth
would shout, "Stand by for a fighter pilot!"
He would then line his seven kids up against the wall and say,
"Who's the greatest of them all?"
"You are, O Great Santini, you are."
"Who knows all, sees all, and hears all?"
"You do, O Great Santini, you do."
We were not in the middle of a normal childhood, yet none of us were
sure since it was the only childhood we would ever have.
For all we knew other men were coming home and shouting to their
families, "Stand by for a pharmacist," or "Stand by for a
chiropractor".
In the old, bewildered world of children we knew we were in the
presence of a fabulous, overwhelming personality; but had no idea we
were being raised by a genius of his own myth-making.
My mother always told me that my father had reminded her of Rhett
Butler on the day they met and everyone who ever knew our mother
conjured up the lovely, coquettish image of Scarlet O'Hara.
Let me give you my father the warrior in full battle array. The Great
Santini is catapulted off the deck of the aircraft carrier, Sicily.
His Black Sheep squadron is the first to reach the Korean Theater and
American ground troops had been getting torn up by North Korean
regulars.
Let me do it in his voice: "We didn't even have a map of Korea. Not
zip. We just headed toward the sound of artillery firing along the
Naktong River. They told us to keep the North Koreans on their side of
the Naktong. Air power hadn't been a factor until we got there that
day. I radioed to Bill Lundin I was his wingman. 'There they are.
Let's go get'em.' So we did."
I was interviewing Dad so I asked, "how do you know you got them?"
"Easy," The Great Santini said. "They were running - it's a good sign
when you see the enemy running.
There was another good sign."
"What was that, Dad?"
"They were on fire."
This is the world in which my father lived deeply. I had no knowledge
of it as a child.
When I was writing the book The Great Santini, they told me at
Headquarters Marines that Don Conroy was at one time one of the most
decorated aviators in the Marine Corps. I did not know he had won a
single medal. When his children gathered together to write his
obituary, not one of us knew of any medal he had won, but he had won a
slew of them.
When he flew back toward the carrier that day, he received a call from
an Army Colonel on the ground who had witnessed the route of the North
Koreans across the river. "Could you go pass over the troops fifty
miles south of here? They've been catching hell for a week or more.
It'd do them good to know you flyboys are around."
He flew those fifty miles and came over a mountain and saw a thousand
troops lumbered down in foxholes. He and Bill Lundin went in low so
these troops could read the insignias and know the American aviators
had entered the fray.
My father said, "Thousands of guys came screaming out of their
foxholes, son. It sounded like a world series game. I got goose
pimples in the cockpit. Get goose pimples telling it forty-eight years
later. I dipped my wings, waved to the guys. The roar they let out. I
hear it now. I hear it now."
During the Cuban Missile Crisis, my mother took me out to the air
station where we watched Dad's squadron scramble on the runway on
their bases at Roosevelt Road and Guantanamo.
In the car as we watched the A-4's take off, my mother began to say
the rosary.
"You praying for Dad and his men, Mom?" I asked her.
"No, son. I'm praying for the repose of the souls of the Cuban pilots
they're going to kill."
Later I would ask my father what his squadron's mission was during the
Missile Crisis.
"To clear the air of MIGS over Cuba," he said.
"You think you could've done it?"
The Great Santini answered, "There wouldn't have been a bluebird
flying over that island, son."
Now let us turn to the literary of The Great Santini.
Some of you may have heard that I had some serious reservations about
my father's child-rearing practices. When The Great Santini came out,
the book roared through my family like a nuclear device. My father
hated it; my grandparents hated it; my aunts and uncles hated it; my
cousins who adore my father thought I was a psychopath for writing it;
and rumor has it that my mother gave it to the judge in her divorce
case and said, "It's all there. Everything you need to know."
What changed my father's mind was when Hollywood entered the picture
and wanted to make a movie of it. This is when my father said, "What a
shame John Wayne is dead. Now there was a man. Only he could've gotten
my incredible virility across to the American people."
Orion Pictures did me a favor and sent my father a telegram; "Dear
Col. Conroy: We have selected the actor to play you in the coming
film. He wants to come to Atlanta to interview you. His name is Truman
Capote."
But my father took well to Hollywood and its Byzantine, unspeakable
ways. When his movie came out, he began reading Variety on a daily
basis. He called the movie a classic the first month of its existence.
He claimed that he had a place in the history of film. In February of
the following year, he burst into my apartment in Atlanta, as excited
as I have ever seen him, and screamed, "Son, you and I were nominated
for Academy Awards last night. Your mother didn't get squat".
Ladies and gentlemen-You are attending the funeral of the most famous
Marine that ever lived. Dad's life had grandeur, majesty and sweep. We
were all caught in the middle of living lives much paler and less
daring than The Great Santini's. His was a high stepping, damn-the
torpedoes kind of life, and the stick was always set at high throttle.
There is not another Marine alive who has not heard of The Great
Santini. There's not a fighter pilot alive who does not lift his glass
whenever Don Conroy's name is mentioned and give the fighter pilot
toast: "Hurrah for the next man to die".
One day last summer, my father asked me to drive him over to Beaufort
National Cemetery. He wanted to make sure there were no administrative
foul-ups about his plot. I could think of more pleasurable ways to
spend the afternoon, but Dad brought new eloquence to the word
stubborn. We went into the office and a pretty black woman said that
everything was squared away.
My father said, "It'll be the second time I've been buried in this
cemetery." The woman and I both looked strangely at Dad. Then he
explained, "You ever catch the flick "The Great Santini? That was me
they planted at the end of the movie."
All of you will be part of a very special event today. You will be
witnessing the actual burial that has already been filmed in fictional
setting. This has never happened in world history. You will be present
in a scene that was acted out in film in 1979. You will be in the same
town and the same cemetery. Only The Great Santini himself will be
different.
In his last weeks my father told me, "I was always your best subject,
son. Your career took a nose dive after The Great Santini came out".
He had become so media savvy that during his last illness he told me
not to schedule his funeral on the same day as the Seinfeld Farewell.
The Colonel thought it would hold down the crowd. The Colonel's death
was front-page news across the country. CNN announced his passing on
the evening news all around the world.
Don Conroy was a simple man and an American hero. His wit was
remarkable; his intelligence frightening; and his sophistication next
to none. He was a man's man and I would bet he hadn't spend a thousand
dollars in his whole life on his wardrobe. He lived out his whole
retirement in a two-room efficiency in the Darlington Apartment in
Atlanta. He claimed he never spent over a dollar on any piece of
furniture he owned. You would believe him if you saw the furniture.
Dad bought a season ticket for himself to Six Flags Over Georgia and
would often go there alone to enjoy the rides and hear the children
squeal with pleasure. He was a beer drinker who thought wine was for
Frenchmen or effete social climbers like his children.
Ah! His children. Here is how God gets a Marine Corps fighter pilot.
He sends him seven squirrelly, mealy-mouth children who march in peace
demonstrations, wear Birkenstocks, flirt with vegetarianism, invite
cross-dressers to dinner and vote for candidates that Dad would line
up and shoot. If my father knew how many tears his children had shed
since his death, he would be mortally ashamed of us all and begin
yelling that he should've been tougher on us all, knocked us into
better shape - that he certainly didn't mean to raise a passel of kids
so weak and tacky they would cry at his death. Don Conroy was the best
uncle I ever saw, the best brother, the best grandfather, the best
friend-and my God, what a father. After my mother divorced him and The
Great Santini was published, Don Conroy had the best second act I ever
saw. He never was simply a father. This was The Great Santini.
It is time to leave you, Dad. From Carol and Mike and Kathy and Jim
and Tim and especially from Tom. Your kids wanted to especially thank
Katy and Bobby and Willie Harvey who cared for you heroically. Let us
leave you and say goodbye, Dad, with the passwords that bind all
Marines and their wives and their children forever. The Corps was
always the most important thing.
Semper Fi, Dad
Semper Fi, O Great Santini.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
~~~FOLLOW-UP LETTER FROM PAT CONROY~~~
My dear friends and fellow lovers of Santini,
You have written so many letters of condolence since my father died
that I've been overwhelmed at the task of answering them. But know
this, all of them meant something, all of them moved me deeply, all
were appreciated, and all were read. Don Conroy was larger than life
and there was never a room he entered that he left without making his
mark. At some point in his life, he passed from being merely memorably
to being legendary.
In the thirty-three years he was in the Marine Corps, Col. Conroy
concentrated on the task of defending his country and he did so,
exceedingly well. In the next twenty-four years left to him, he put
all his efforts into the art of being a terrific father, a loving
uncle, a brother of great substance, a beloved grandfather, and a
friend to thousands. Out of uniform, the Colonel let his genius for
humor flourish. Always in motion he made his rounds in Atlanta each
day and no one besides himself knew how many stops he put in during a
given day. He was like a bee going from flower to flower, pollinating
his world with his generous gift for friendships.
Don Conroy was a man's man, a soldier's soldier, a Marine's Marine.
There was nothing soft or teddy-bearish about him. His simplicity was
extraordinary. He died without ever owning a credit card, never took
out a loan in his life, and almost all the furniture in his apartment
was rented. I think he loved his family with his body and soul, yet no
one ever lived who was less articulate in expressing that love. On the
day the doctor told him that there was nothing more to be done for
him, my father told me, "Don't worry about it. I've had a great life.
No one's had a life like me. Everyone should be so lucky."
Don Conroy died with exemplary courage, as one would expect.
He never complained about pain or whimpered or cried out. His death
was stoical and quiet. He never quit fighting, never surrendered, and
never gave up. He died like a king. He died like The Great Santini.
I thank you with all my heart.
Pat Conroy
TOP
24 hours in a day
24 beers to a case
coincidence?
Bill Langston
anyone that has not been there. Thank you very much. My mom sent me the book
years ago but I never read past the first chapter or two, for some reason
the similarities were so eerie that I lost interest at that time. Maybe it's
time to dig it out and read it.
SF
BL
<p.t.h...@worldnet.att.net> wrote in message
news:p52kttkt0n06j9gqa...@4ax.com...
Joe S.
watched "The Great Santini." They loved it. From then on, whenever I
tightened up on them, their retort was "Yes, sir, Santini, sir!" Then
they'd fall out laughing at their old man.
--
- - -
Regards,
Joe S.
<p.t.h...@worldnet.att.net> wrote in message
news:p52kttkt0n06j9gqa...@4ax.com...
> The Sons Eulogy to The Great Santini
> Outstanding.........Semper Fi.
>
>
>
> From: (blanked)
> CWO4 USMCR (Ret)
> Semper Fi - Always
> -
> Thought that most of you who receive this will enjoy a unique eulogy
> about someone whom we knew only by a book and/or film but who lives on
> well after that.
>
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------
------
snipped for brevity
Dan Hill
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Dan Hill
M 3/26
67-68