"Smith, Wilbur - Courtney 03 - A Sparrow Falls" - читать интересную книгу автора (Smith Wilbur)

You're a volunteer lad. They smoked in silence for a full minute before
Mark replied. That Hun is a bad one. If it's snowing, he probably
won't be out tomorrow.

Snow will keep him in bed also. Mark shook his head slowly. If he's
that good, he'll be out. Yes. Fergus nodded. He's that good. That
shot he made last evening, after lying up all day in the cold, then five
hundred yards if it was an inch, and in that light, Fergus cut himself
off, and then went on quickly, But you're good also, lad. You're the
best, boy.

Mark said nothing, but carefully pinched out the glowing tip of the
Woodbine.

You're going? Fergus asked. Yes. Get some sleep then, lad. It's
going to be a long day. Mark blew out the candle flame as he lay back
and pulled the blankets over his head. You get a good sleep Fergus said
again. I'll-wake you in plenty of time, and he resisted the paternal
urge to pat the thin bony shoulder under the blanket.

The young Captain spoke quietly with one of the sentries on the forward
firing step, and the man whispered a reply and pointed with his chin
along the darkened trench. This way, sir. He went on down the boards,
swaddled in clothing so that he had the shape of a bear, and Sean
towered head and shoulders above him as he followed.

Around the next revert, through the soft curtains of falling snow, there
was the subdued red glow of a brazier from the shallow dugout in the
side of the trench. Dark figures squatted close about it, like witches
at a sabbat.

Sergeant MacDonald? One of the figures rose and stepped forward. That's
me. There was a cocky, self-assured tone to the reply. Is Anders with
you? Present and correct, said MacDonald, and one of the other figures
rose from the circle about the brazier and came forward. He was taller,
but moved with grace, like an athlete or a dancer.

. You are ready, Anders? the Captain went on, speaking in the soft
half-whisper of the trenches, and MacDonald replied for him. The lad is
fighting fit, sir. He spoke with the proprietary tone of the manager of
a prize-fighter. It was clear that the boy was his property, and that
ownership gave him a distinction he would never have achieved on his
own.

At that moment another flare burst high overhead, a brilliant white and
silent explosion of light, softened by the snow.

Sean could judge a man like he could a horse. He could pick the rotten
ones, or the big-hearted, from the herd. It was a trick of experience