"Joe Haldeman - 1968" - читать интересную книгу автора (Haldeman Joe)

Spider's rifle had never been off safety. He pulled the cocking lever back and let it slap forward. He hit it
once sharply with the heel of his hand, as he'd seen other men do, to make sure the cartridge was
properly seated. It ripped a piece of skin off his palm.

Sweat trickled down his ribs as he waited for the flanks to start moving. He clicked the selector switch
off SAFE to semi and full-single-shot and fully automatic-then back to safe again. It made the back of his
head prickle. He might actually have to kill someone in the next hour. His mouth went dry and he tasted
bile in the back of his throat. He unscrewed a canteen and swallowed a mouthful of tepid water, flavored
with metal and plastic. Really and truly kill someone forever.

"Move it," the man behind him muttered. Spider hustled forward five or six steps and then slowed down,
carefully scanning the trail in front of him.

The trail was well defined, soil showing through the beaten-down underbrush here and there. But it
wouldn't be difficult to conceal a mine or boobytrap in the trampled weeds. Spider recalled the one day
of schooling he'd had about mines in engineer training-he'd been assigned KP the second day-and
remembered how hard it was to see the little pin that would detonate the mine if you stepped on it. And
that demonstration mine had been buried in soft dirt, with no obscuring grass.

Something crashed through the branches overhead and Spider tilted his weapon up at it, heart
hammering. "Just a monkey," the guy behind him said. His bored tone was reassuring. He was one of the
riflemen assigned to the command group. Spider didn't know him, but he'd assumed the officers would
pick the most experienced men.

But then he thought about it: no, they'd put the experienced men on the flanks, since they were the ones
who actually shot at the enemy. This guy might not know any more than Killer or even Spider himself.

For a moment Spider was actually paralyzed. He couldn't move; he couldn't even feel his arms and legs.
It was as if his body had realizedone step and you could die, and decided not to take that step. Then he
went forward, catching up with the man on his left, but his guts churned, audibly.

This is just great, he thought, a great time to get the shits. He clenched it back and was rewarded with a
sharp cramp. Sweat broke out cold on his face. What do you do? Raise your hand and get a hall pass
from the teacher?

"Got to take a crap," he whispered to the man behind him.

"No you don't. You gotta hold it."

Spider glanced at his watch and realized he hadn't checked the time when he'd rotated to point. Did they
shift every hour, or just odd times now and then? It was ten-fifteen. Maybe at eleven they'd rotate, and
he could duck behind a bush and let fly. He could hold on for forty-five minutes. He wouldn't look at his
watch.

He really wanted a cigarette. Nobody's said anything, but Killer hadn't smoked while he was on point.
As if to give permission, the man behind him lit up. Spider juggled rifle and axe and managed to shake out
a Lucky and locate his Zippo, which worked on the thirdtry.

Meanwhile he had walked several yards without looking down. The thought galvanized him even as the
nicotine relaxed him. He studied the ground and trees through a cloud of smoke as he inhaled two deep