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

utilities and Air Force sunglasses. The poges stare at the grunts as though
the grunts were Hell's Angels at the ballet.
After the screen loses it color and the overhead lights come on, one of
the poges says, "Fucking grunts...they're nothing but animals..."
The grunts turn around. One grunt stands up. He walks over to where the
poges are sitting.
The poges laugh and punch each other and mock the grunt's angry face.
Then they are silent. They stare at the grunt's face. He's smiling now. He's
smiling like a man who knows a terrible secret.
The zoomie poges do not ask the grunt to explain why he is smiling.
They don't want to know.
Another grunt jumps up, punches the smiling grunt on the arm, says,
"Hey, fuck it, Mother. It ain't no big thing. We don't want to waste these
assholes."
The smiling Marine takes a step forward, but the smaller man stands in
his path.
The poges take advantage of the smiling grunt's delay. They walk
backwards up the aisle until they reach the door, then stumble out into
sunlight.
I say, "Well, no shit. And they say grunts are killers. You ladies do
not look like killers to me."
The smiling grunt is not smiling anymore. He says, "Okay, you
son-of-a-bitch..."
"Stand by, Mother," says the small Marine. "I know this shitbird."
Cowboy and I grab each other and wrestle and punch and pound each other
on the back. We say, "Hey, you old mother-fucker. How you been? What's
happening? Been getting any? Only your sister. Well, better my sister than
my mom, although mom's not bad."
"Hey, Joker, I was hoping I'd never see you again, you piece of shit. I
was hoping that Gunny Gerheim's ghost would keep you on Parris Island
for-ev-er and that he would give you motivation."
I laugh. "Cowboy, you shitbird. You look real mean. If I didn't know
that you're a born poge I'd be scared."
Cowboy grunts. "This is Animal Mother. He is mean."
The big Marine is picking his nose. "You better motherfucking believe
it." A belt of machine-gun bullets crisscross the Marine's chest so that he
looks like a big Mexican bandit.
I say, "This is Rafter Man. He's not a walking camera store. He's a
photographer."
"You a photographer?"
I shake my head. "I'm a combat correspondent."
Animal Mother sneers, exposing rotten canine teeth. "You seen much
'combat'?"
"Hey, don't give me any shit, asshole. My payback is a motherfucker. I
got twice as many operations as any grunt in Eye Corps. I'm just scarfing up
some bennies. My office is up in Phu Bai."
"Yeah?" Cowboy punches me in the chest. "That's our area. One-Five.
Delta Company-the baddest of the bad, the leanest of the lean, the meanest
of the mean. We hitched down here this morning. We rate some slack 'cause
our squad wasted beaucoup Victor Charlies. Man, we are life takers and