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

"AYE-AYE, SIR!"

I look at the rifle on my rack. It's a beautiful instrument, gracefully
designed, solid and symmetrical. My rifle is clean, oiled, and works
perfectly. It's a fine tool. I touch it.
Sergeant Gerheim marches down the length of the squad bay. "THE REST OF
YOU ANIMALS COULD TAKE LESSONS FROM PRIVATE PYLE. He's squared away. You are
all squared away. Tomorrow you will be Marines. READDDY...SLEEP!"


Graduation day. A thousand new Marines stand tall on the parade deck,
lean and tan in immaculate khaki, their clean weapons held at port arms.
Leonard is selected as the outstanding recruit from Platoon 30-92. He
is awarded a free set of dress blues and is allowed to wear the colorful
uniform when the graduating platoons pass in review. The Commandant General
of Parris Island shakes Leonard's hand and gives him a "Well done." Our
series commander pins a RIFLE EXPERT badge on Leonard's chest and our
company commander awards Leonard a citation for shooting the highest score
in the training battalion.
Because of a special commendation submitted by Sergeant Gerheim, I'm
promoted to Private First Class. After our series commander pins on my
EXPERT'S badge, Sergeant Gerheim presents me with two red and green chevrons
and explains that they're his old PFC stripes.
When we pass in review, I walk right guide, tall and proud.
Cowboy receives an EXPERT'S badge and is selected to carry the platoon
guidon.
The Commanding General of Parris Island speaks into a microphone: "Have
you seen the light? The white light? The great light? The guiding light? Do
you have the vision?"
And we cheer, happy beyond belief.
The Commanding General sings. We sing too:

Hey, Marine, have you heard?
Hey, Marine...
L.B.J. has passed the word.
Hey, Marine...
Say good-bye to Dad and Mom.
Hey, Marine...
You're gonna die in Viet Nam.
Hey, Marine, yeah!

After the graduation ceremony our orders are distributed. Cowboy,
Leonard, Private Barnard, Philips, and most of the other Marines in Platoon
30-92 are ordered to ITR-the Infantry Training Regiment-to be trained as
grunts, infantrymen.
My orders instruct me to report to the Basic Military Journalism School
at Fort Benjamin Harrison, Indiana, after I graduate from ITR. Sergeant
Gerheim is disgusted by the fact that I am to be a combat correspondent and
not a grunt. He calls me a poge, an office pinky. He says that shitbirds get