"Andy Duncan - Fortitude" - читать интересную книгу автора (Duncan Andy)

three old ladies praying in the corner, holding up their hands to God. No
surprises ... although: Hadn't the baby been awake before? Now its bundled
silence made me suspicious. "Excuse me, senorita," I whispered, as I
gently pulled back the blanket. It was, indeed, a baby: little wrinkled
face, thick black hair plastered over its forehead, sound asleep. I teared
up. I always had a soft spot for babies. "Congratulations," I told its
mama, and the baby's granny spat on me again. More guts than some American
boys, sad to say. More guts than that yellow bastard in Sicily would have,
so many years in the future.
There was one more difference at San Miguelito, a big one. Before, I had
climbed onto the roof to make sure no one was waiting up there to ambush
us as we left. No one was, but I stepped on a rotten place and fell
through up to my armpits -- not a prime fighting position! Damned
embarrassing, too. This time I walked a different route, gave the rotten
place a wide berth, and kept an eye out for similar dark patches.
I was so intent on not falling through that I let a gap-toothed Villista
get the drop on me. He darted around a corner, pistol in hand, and Adams
shot him almost before I could look up.
As Adams searched the bandit's pockets, I stood there like a fool,
dumbfounded for the first and last time in the Mexican campaign. "He
wasn't supposed to be there," I said.
"Rats're liable to pop out from anywhere," Adams said. He flipped a gold
piece into the air, caught it. "Good weight. Don't let it rattle you,
lieutenant," he added, and I resolved to give him a week's latrine duty
for that. In addition to his commendation, of course. Fair's fair.
The rest went pretty much as before. As we drove off, about fifty
Villistas came galloping up the ravine, and we fired a shot or two, but
they didn't chase us far. Wasn't much of a race. God, the speed of the
motored units to come! What Jackson could have done with them in the
Shenandoah, I thought as dust billowed around me -- or Napoleon on the
steppes! I rubbed my shoulder, remembered my last backward look at the
torches and spires of Moscow, felt again the Russian numbness that always
lurked somewhere in my bones, even as my cheeks began to blister in this
damnable Mexican sun. I tugged my goggles out a few inches and poked my
face. Beneath my eyes was a sore borderline I could trace with my gloved
finger. I let the goggles snap back into place. "Soldiers never fight
where it's comfortable," I told Adams and Waller. "Think of all those
Marines sweating it out in Haiti, or in Panama. Why, if they sent us to
the French Riviera, it'd be a hellhole soon enough. How fast will this
thing go, anyway?"
All the camp business faltered and got quiet as our little procession
drove in. We took it slow, giving everybody plenty of time to look, and
many fell in with us, walking alongside. Cardenas' lolling head on the
hood seemed to return the soldiers' stares. By the time we hauled up the
brakes and let the engines die in front of the command tent, dozens of
doughboys were standing around, whistling and muttering the Old Man did it
and nothing else I could hear. Two or three had potatoes and paring knives
in hand. Never again, I thought, no more of that for me. Then Black Jack
stepped out, standing ramrod straight as usual, a mustache for a mouth.
The men and I stood in the autos and saluted, and then I stepped down and