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

At first bereft, I came to realize that the loss of first the map, then the notebook, had liberated me. My
present was meaningless and my past was forgotten. Only the islands represented my future. They
existed in my mind, modified endlessly as I dwelt on them, matching them up to my expectations.

As the gruelling experience of war ground on, I came to depend increasingly on my haunting mental
images of the tropic archipelago.

But I could not ignore the army and I still had to endure its endless demands. In the ice mountains further
away in the south, the enemy troops were dug into impregnable defensive positions, lines they were
known to have held for centuries. They were so firmly entrenched that it was conventional wisdom
amongst our men that they could never be dislodged. It was thought that hundreds of thousands of men
on our side, perhaps millions of us, would have to die in the assault against their lines. It rapidly became
clear that my escadron was not only going to be part of the first assault, but that after the first attack we
would continue to be in the heart of the fray.

This was the precursor to the celebrations of the dawning fourth millennium.

Many other divisions were already in place, preparing to attack. We would be moving to reinforce them
shortly.

Two nights later, sure enough, we were put once more into trucks and transported to the south, towards
the freezing southern uplands. We took up position, dug ourselves as deep as possible into the
permafrost, concealed and ranged our grenade launchers. By now uncaring of what happened to me,
made wretched by the physical circumstances and rootless by the lack of mental cohesion, I waited with
the others in a mixture of fear and boredom. As I froze, I dreamed of hot islands.

On clear days we could glimpse the peaks of the ice mountains close to the horizon, but there was no
sign of enemy activity.

Twenty days after we had taken up our positions in the frozen tundra we were ordered to retreat once
more. It was now less than ten days to the millennium.

We moved away, rushing to reinforce major skirmishes then said to be taking place by the coast.
Reports of dead and wounded were horrifying but all was quiet by the time we arrived. We took up
defensive lines along the cliffs. It was so familiar, this senseless repositioning, manoeuvring. I turned my
back against the sea, not wanting to look northwards to where the unattainable islands lay.

Only eight days remained until the dreaded anniversary of the war's beginning and already we were
taking delivery of more supplies of armor, ammunition and grenades than I had ever seen before. The
tension in our ranks was insupportable. I was convinced that this time our generals were not bluffing, that
real action was only days, perhaps hours, away.
I sensed the closeness of the sea. If I was to discharge myself, the moment had arrived.

That night I left my tent and skidded down the loose shale and gravel of the sloping cliff to the beach. My
back pocket was stuffed with all the unspent army pay I had accumulated. In the ranks we always joked
that the paper was worthless, but now I thought it might at last be useful. I walked until dawn, hid all day
in the tough undergrowth that spread across the high ground behind the littoral, resting when I could. My
unsleeping mind recited island names.

During the following night I managed to find a track worn by the tyres of trucks. I guessed it was used by