Eulogy for Colonel Don Conroy — The Great Santini — written by his son, Pat Conroy:
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.
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.
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