"Christopher Priest - The Discharge" - читать интересную книгу автора (Priest Christopher)

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After Muriseay, my view of the islands was different. The superficial allure of them had diminished. From
my short visit ashore in that crowded town I felt myself to have become island-experienced, had briefly
breathed the air and the scents, heard the sounds and seen some of the muddle. At the same time,
though, the experience had deepened the intrigue of the islands. They still had me in their thrall, but I was
careful now not to dwell on it. I felt I had grown up a little.

The whole pace of life on the ship was changing, with the army's demands on us increasing every day.
For several more days we continued to cruise our zigzag course between the tropical islands, but as we
moved further south the weather grew gradually more temperate and for three long and uncomfortable
days the ship was buffeted by stiff southerly gales and rocked by mountainous waves. When the storm
finally receded we were in more barren latitudes. Many of the islands here, in the southern part of the
Midway Sea, were craggy and treeless, some of them only barely rising above the level of the sea. They
stood further apart from each other than they had done near the equator.

I still yearned for the islands, but not for these. I craved the insane heat of the tropics. With every day
that the islands of the warmer climes slipped further behind me I knew that I had to put them out of my
thoughts. I stayed away from the exposed upper decks, with their silent, distant views of fragmented
land.

Towards the end of the voyage we were evacuated without warning from our mess-decks and while we
crowded together on the assembly deck every recruit's kit was searched. The map I had been using was
discovered where I had left it in my duffel bag. For two more days nothing happened. Then I was
summoned to the adjutant's cabin where I was told the map had been confiscated and destroyed. I was
docked seven days' pay as punishment and my record was marked. I was officially warned that the
black-cap escouades would be alerted to my breach of the rules.

However, it turned out that not all was lost. Either the search party did not find my notebook or they had
not recognized the long list of island names it contained.

The loss of the map obstinately reminded me of the islands we had passed. In the final days on the
troopship, I sat alone with those pages from my notebook, committing the names to memory and trying
to recall how each of the islands had looked. Mentally, I compiled a favored itinerary that I would follow
when at last I was discharged from the army and could return home, moving slowly, as I planned, from
one island to the next, perhaps spending many years in the process.
That could not begin until I had finished with the war, but the ship had not yet even arrived in sight of our
destination. I waited on my hammock.



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On disembarkation I was assigned to an infantry unit who were armed with a certain type of grenade
launcher. I was held up near the port for another month while I underwent training. By the time this was
complete, my comrades from the ship had dispersed. I was sent on a long journey across the bleak
landscape to join up with my new unit.