"Frankowski,.Leo.-.Conrad.Starguard.7.-.Conrad's.Time.Machine" - читать интересную книгу автора (Frankowski Leo)

didn't lead a happy squadron.

Boots were new troops who had finished tech school and were
now idle for three months, awaiting their security clearances before
they were allowed to work on the equipment that they had just
spent a year learning how to fix. Why these clearances weren't
obtained while they were still in school, saving fifteen percent of
their useful careers, was one of those little unexplained military
mysteries.

Our colonel's beautification plan was that I should drive ten of the
boots out into the nearby woods, have them dig up nine likely
looking trees, and drive the trees and boots back. We would then
plant the trees about the squadron area at the points specified on
the enclosed sketch by that evening. Why we couldn't do this
during the week, when all of those guys were idle, or doing useless
make-work, was also not explained. Neither was why this qualified
as an emergency sufficient to pull me in from a weekend pass, but
then the Air Force never bothered to explain things to an airman.

So I did it, making the boots do all the work.

Then I showered up, and, too tired to sleep, I went to a blind pig
hidden below its neon sign in the basement of a Baptist church just
outside the gate. Sensibly, I got stinking drunk while mulling over
the injustices of the world. I was still unhappy when I returned to
the barracks at three in the morning. The colonel wasn't available to
hear my suggestions, so I ripped the newly planted trees out by
the roots and threw them halfway to the parking lot.

Feeling much better, I found my room and went to sleep.

I'm bigger than most people.

When I got up late on Sunday afternoon, the sun was setting,
somebody had replanted the trees, and the girl in Toronto wouldn't
talk to me on the phone. It was thus reasonable to get drunk again,
and wandering back, I came across the replanted trees.

I ripped them all out again, and this time, using a hammer-throw
technique, sailed one of them all the way to the parking lot,
narrowly missing somebody's fifty-seven Chevy.

The same thing happened Monday night, too, since by then
somebody had once more replanted the trees. Actually, it
happened almost every night for about a month, and after a while it
got so that I didn't even have to get drunk first. I had found a
certain relief from tension and a deep-seated satisfaction in ripping
up those trees and giving them a good toss.