"Mike O'Driscoll - A Soldier's Things" - читать интересную книгу автора (O'driscoll Mike)

A Soldier's Things
a short story by Mike O'Driscoll

Fate is another word for magic. It has the capacity to frighten people,
making them unwilling to participate. Sometimes, they wish for things they
don't really want and all that enchantment is wasted. Others, like Joe,
even when they run they have no choice, no matter what they wish. I seek
them out and return them to the fold. Call me Ruskin.
I had been on Joe's trail for over seven years, trailing him back and
forth across the continent, witnessing the chaos his desertion had loosed
upon the world. I found him in a bar in Harare, sitting at a table
surrounded by a crowd of avid listeners who kept a steady stream of booze
flowing in his direction. His white shirt was stained with sweat and beer,
dagger and serpent tattoos slid over his lower arms, and his grey chinos
seemed to have accumulated a decade's worth of dirt. His artificial leg
stuck out rigidly beneath the table, and an orange glow from a lamp fell
across his lined and leathered face. His audience were mostly white
tourists, come to hear the storytelling bum whose tall tales of war were
guaranteed to send you away smiling at the gullibility of other, less
cynical men.
I circled the fringe of the crowd, watching as he came to the end of
another tale and then hungrily drank the dregs of another glass. He lit a
cigarette and let his gaze wander over the faces of those who had come to
feed on his pain. His slitted eyes met mine and just for an instant, I saw
a hint of fear behind the wrinkles, lurking there in the livid blue. Then
the crowd were screaming for another tale and Joe was laughing, milking
the applause, waiting for another drink to be placed within his reach. I
found a chair and placed it among the people to his left. I put my case on
the ground and signalled for the young barman to bring me a scotch. Joe
wiped sweat from his forehead with his sleeve, sipped a beer and cleared
his throat. He glanced once more in my direction, and then began.

1. The Scent of Solitary Dreams
Many years ago, three soldiers got left on the wrong side of the Coco
river with no easy way to get back home. They were part of a unit
designated as military advisers to the Contras. The mission was to cross
into Nicaragua and wipe out an arms dump in a Sandanista controlled
village. Someone in Intelligence had messed up though, and the unit was
ambushed about fifty clicks into the jungle. Prewitt, Nately and Spigweed
were the only survivors, and Nately was carrying a bullet in his right
shoulder. They escaped the fire-fight and staggered on through the tangled
jungle till night fell. Spigweed sat the first watch while his two
comrades slept.
Insects chittered and large centipedes scuttled across his legs. He stank
of fear and defeat, and the bitterness on his tongue was no more than the
aftertaste of a glory that never was. Broiling in his own sweat, he
mumbled a prayer to a God he'd long ago abandoned. When the little old man
hopped out from behind a tree and said, "Who's there?" Spigweed's terror
flared up for an instant, before he brought it under control.
He levelled his rifle at the old man. "Three marines, my friend," he said.