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

guns."
Daytona Dave is wiping his face with a dirty green skivvy shirt. "The
New Guy will do okay. Cut him some slack. Rafter ain't got the killer
instinct, that's all. Now me, I got about fifty confirmed. But everybody
knows that gook rats drag off their dead."
We all throw things at Daytona Dave.


We rest for a while and then we gather up the barbecued rats and take
them outside to hold a funeral in the dark.
Some guys from utilities platoon who live next door come out of their
hootch to pay their respects.
Lance Corporal Winslow Slavin, honcho of the combat plumbers, struts up
in a skuzzy green flight suit. The flight suit is ragged, covered with paint
stains and oil splotches. "Only six? Shit. Last night my boys got seventeen.
Confirmed."
I say, "Sounds like a squad of poges to me. Poges kill poges. These
rats are Viet Cong field Marines. Hard-core grunts."
I pick up one of the rats. I turn to the combat plumbers. I hold up the
rat and I kiss it.
Mr. Payback laughs, picks up one of the dead rats, bites off the tip of
its tail. Then, swallowing, Mr. Payback says, "Ummm....love them crispy
critters." He grins. He bends over, picks up another dead rat, offers it to
Rafter Man.
Rafter Man is frozen. He can't speak. He just looks at the rat.
Mr. Payback laughs. "What's wrong, New Guy? Don't you want to be a
killer?"
We bury the enemy rats with full military honors-we scoop out a shallow
grave and we dump them in.
We sing:
So come along and sing our song
And join our fam-i-ly
M.I.C....K.E.Y....M.O.U.S.E.
Mickey Mouse, Mickey Mouse...

"Dear God," says Mr. Payback, looking up into the ugly sky. "These rats
died like Marines. Cut them some slack. Ah-men."
We all say, "Ah-men."
After the funeral we insult the combat plumbers a few more times and
then we return to our hootch. We lie awake in our racks. We discuss the
battle and the funeral for a long time.
Then we try to sleep.


An hour later. It's raining. We roll up in our poncho liners and pray
for morning. The monsoon rain is cold and heavy and comes without warning.
Wind-blown water batters the ponchos hung around the hootch to protect us
from the weather.
The terrible falling of the shells...
Incoming.