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

Then, walking backward, the big dumb M.P. retreats into his bunker,
mouth open, hands up.


Rafter Man is too scared to say anything for a while.
I say, "You'll get used to this place. You'll change. You'll
understand."
Rafter Man remains quiet. We walk. Then, "You weren't bluffing. You
would have killed that guy. For nothing."
I say, "There it is."
Rafter Man is looking at me as though he's seeing something new. "Is
everybody like that? I mean, you were laughing. Like..."
"It's not the kind of thing you can talk about. There's no way to
explain stuff like that. After you've been in the shit, after you've got
your first confirmed kill, you'll understand."
Rafter Man is silent. His questions are silent.
"At ease," I say. "Don't kid yourself, Rafter Man, this is a slaughter.
In this world of shit you won't have time to understand. What you do, you
become. You better learn to flow with it. You owe it to yourself."
Rafter Man nods, but he doesn't reply. I know how he feels.


The Informational Services Office for Task Force X-Ray, a unit assigned
to cover elements of the First Division temporarily operating in the Third
Division's area, is a small frame hootch, constructed with two-by-fours and
slave labor. Nailed to the screen door is a red sign with yellow letters:
TFX-ISO. Roofed with sheets of galvanized tin and walled with fine-mesh
screening, the hootch is designed to protect us from the heat. The Seabees
have nailed green plastic ponchos along the side of the hootch. These dusty
flaps are rolled up during the furnace of the day and are rolled down at
night to keep out the fierce monsoon rain.
Chili Vendor and Daytona Dave are doing fleetniks in front of the ISO
hootch. Chili Vendor is a tough Chicano from East L.A. and Daytona Dave is
an easy-going surf bum from a wealthy family in Florida. They have
absolutely nothing in common. They are the best of friends.
About a hundred grunts have stuffed themselves into every available
piece of shade in the area. Each grunt has been given a fleetnik, a printed
form with spaces for all the necessary biographical data required to send a
photograph of the grunt to his hometown newspaper.
Daytona Dave is taking the photographs with a black-body Nikon while
Chili Vendor says, "Smile, scumbag. Say, 'shit.' Next."
The grunt next in line kneels down beside a little Vietnamese orphan of
undetermined sex. Chili Vendor slaps a rubber Hershey bar into the grunt's
hand. "Smile, scumbag. Say, 'shit.' Next."
Daytona Dave snaps the picture.
Chili Vendor snatches the grunt's fleetnik with one hand and the rubber
Hershey bar with the other. "Next!"
The orphan says, "Her, Marine number one! You! You! You give me
chop-chop? You souvenir me?" The orphan grabs at the Hershey bar and jerks
it out of Chili Vendor's hand. He bites the Hershey bar; it's rubber. He