"Gustav Hasvord. The Short-Timers " - читать интересную книгу автора

and louder. Heads turn. Bodies shift. The platoon voice fades. Leonard is
about to explode. His words are being coughed up from some deep, ugly place.
Sergeant Gerheim has the night duty. He struts to Leonard's rack and
stands by, fists on hips.
Leonard doesn't see Sergeant Gerheim. The veins in Leonard's neck are
bulging as he bellows:


MY RIFLE IS HUMAN, EVEN AS I, BECAUSE IT IS MY LIFE. THUS I WILL LEARN


IT AS A
BROTHER. I WILL LEARN ITS ACCESSORIES, ITS SIGHTS, ITS BARREL.


I WILL KEEP MY RIFLE CLEAN AND READY, EVEN AS I AM CLEAN AND READY. WE


WILL
BECOME PART OF EACH OTHER.


WE WILL...


BEFORE GOD I SWEAR THIS CREED. MY RIFLE AND MYSELF ARE THE MASTER OF


OUR
ENEMY. WE ARE THE SAVIORS OF MY LIFE.

SO BE IT, UNTIL VICTORY IS AMERICA'S AND THERE IS NO ENEMY BUT PEACE!


AMEN.


Sergeant Gerheim kicks Leonard's rack. "Hey-you-Private Pyle..."
"What? Yes? YES, SIR!" Leonard snaps to attention in his rack.
"AYE-AYE, SIR!"
"What's that weapon's name, maggot?"


"SIR, THE PRIVATE'S WEAPON'S NAME IS CHARLENE, SIR!"

"At ease, maggot." Sergeant Gerheim grins. "You are becoming one sharp
recruit, Private Pyle. Most motivated prive in my herd. Why, I may even
allow you to serve as a rifleman in my beloved Corps. I had you figured as a
shitbird, but you'll make a good grunt."