"S. M. Stirling - Conquistador" - читать интересную книгу автора (Stirling S. M)

misery of a hospital. Solitude was restful.

He rubbed his thigh as he limped out to the porch, scooping up a bottle
of milk, the mail and the newspaper. The mail included his monthly check
from Uncle Sam, which was welcome; every little bit helped to stretch the
modest legacy from his father, even though the house and land back in
Virginia had gone for a surprising sum. There were also a few more
no-thank-yous from prospective employers. The market for ex-captains
wasn't all that brisk, not when their only other qualification was Virginia
Military Institute. Being able to endure Beast Barracks, run an infantry
company, and take out a Nip bunker complexтАж well, none of them were
really salable skills in peacetime, particularly when they went with a slowly
healing gimp leg. War heroes were a dime a dozen in the United States
these days. He'd get something eventuallyтАж

I'm still having better luck than my grandfather, he thought.

John Rolfe III had lost a leg at Second Manassas, leading a regiment of
the Stonewall Brigade against the United States, under Jackson. That had
turned out to be a bad decision, at least from the viewpoint of the family
fortunes; though not as bad as Gramps' subsequent one to put everything
he had into Confederate bonds as a patriotic gesture.

Of course, I'd have done exactly the same thing, but there's no denying
it never pays to lose, he thought with a chuckle.

There was also a letter from Andy O'Brien, who'd been his top sergeant
in Baker Company until he and Rolfe were invalided out on the same day.
Enemy holdouts had infiltrated in the dark just before dawn and nearly
overrun them; it had come down to bayonets and clubbed rifles, boots and
fists and teeth, with only the muzzle flashes to light chaos and terror and
the stink of death.

For a moment his face froze under a film of cold sweat and the paper
crumpled in his fist as a year vanished in an instantтАФhe remembered the
ugly crunching feel that shivered up the ruined weapon as the butt of his
Garand splintered on a Nip's face, with a splash of blood that blinded him
and ran salt and hot into his own open screaming mouth. He remembered
the bayonet poised to kill him until O'Brien smashed it down and hacked
the wielder's head half off with an entrenching tool, roaring in a berserker
fury. That cut off suddenly as the bullets struck him like fists pounding on
a block of beef and he toppled into the officer, pawing with arms gone
flaccid.

He'd carried the big Irishman out on his backтАФuntil that slant-eyed
bastard with the Nambu cut his left leg out from under him and broke the
bone in three places; then he'd had to crawlтАж

He gave a shuddering exhalation and wiped a hand over his face. It was
very bad when the memories came like that, taking you back so you could