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

Now the C-130 Hercules propjet is taxiing to a stop. The heavy cargo
door drops and slams into the runway. Rafter Man and I hop out with our
fellow passengers.
There are three damaged C-130's pushed together on the port side of the
airfield. On the starboard side of the airfield is the gutted carcass of
another C-130, charred, still smoking. Men in tinfoil spacesuits are
squirting the torn metal with white foam.
Rafter Man and I ditty-bop off the airfield and we hump down a freshly
oiled dirt road until we come to the perimeter of Phu Bai Combat Base, about
a mile from the airfield and thirty-four miles from the DMZ.
Phu Bai is a vast mud puddle cut into sections by perfectly aligned
rows of frame hootches. The largest structure at Phu Bai is HQ for the Third
Marine Division. The big wooden building stands as a symbol of our power and
as a temple of those who love the power.
We stop at the guard bunker. A big dumb M.P. orders us to clear our
weapons. I click the magazine out of my M-16. Rafter Man does the same. I
stare back at the big dumb M.P. to assert my principles. He is scribbling on
a clipboard with a stubby yellow pencil.
Suddenly the M.P. punches Rafter Man in the chest with his walnut
baton. "You a New Guy?" Rafter Man nods. "I got a working party for you.
You're going to fill sandbags for my bunkers." The M.P. hooks his thumb
toward the guard bunker in the center of the road. A big bite has been taken
out of the bunker. A mortar shell has blasted through one layer of sandbags
and has split open a second layer, spilling sand.
I say, "He's with me."
Sneering, the sergeant draws himself up inside his crisp, clean
stateside utilities, his white helmet liner with Military Police stenciled
in red, his white rifle belt with its gold buckle bearing the eagle, globe
and anchor, his shiny new forty-five automatic pistol, and his black
spit-shined stateside shoes. The big dumb M.P. is smugly enthroned in his
power to exact the trivial. "He'll do what I say, motherfucker. Cor-poral."
He thumps his black metal collar chevrons with the tip of his walnut baton.
"I'm a sergeant."
I nod. "Affirmative. That's affirmative, you fucking lifer. But this
man is only a lance corporal. And he takes his orders from me."
The big dumb M.P. shrugs. "Okay. Okay, motherfucker. You can tell him
what to do. You can fill my sandbags, corporal. Many, many of them."
I look at the deck. An explosion is building up inside me. I experience
fear, and a terrible strain, as the pressure grows and grows, and then
release, relief. "No, you dumb redneck. Negative, you fucking pig. No, I'm
not going to fall out for any Mickey Mouse working party. You know why?
Huh?" I slam the magazine back into my M-16 and I snap the bolt, chambering
a round.
I'm smiling now. I'm smiling as I jam the flash supressor into the big
dumb M.P.'s jelly belly and then I wait for him to make one sound, any
sound, or just the slightest movement and then I'm going to pull the
trigger.
The big dumb M.P.'s mouth falls open. He doesn't have anything else to
say. I don't think he wants me to fill his sandbags anymore.
The clipboard and the pencil fall.