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

"Oh, shit," somebody says. Nobody moves.
Rafter Man asks, "Is that---"
I say, "There it is."
The crumps start somewhere outside the wire and walk in like the
footsteps of a monster. The crumps are becoming thuds. Thud. Thud. THUD. And
then it's a whistle and a roar.


BANG.

The rain's rhythmic drumming is broken by the clang and rattle of
shrapnel falling on our tin roof.
We're all out of our racks with our weapons in our hands like so many
parts of the same body-even Rafter Man, who has begun to pick up on things.
Pounded by cold rain, we double-time to our bunker.
On the perimeter M-60 machine guns are banging and the M-70 grenade
launchers are blooping and mortar shells are thumping out of the tubes.
Star flares burst all along the wire, beautiful clusters of green fire.
Inside our damp cave of sandbags we huddle elbow-to-elbow in wet
skivvies, feeling the weight of the darkness, as helpless as cavemen hiding
from a monster.
"I hope they're just fucking with us," I say. "I hope they're not going
to hit the wire. I'm not ready for this shit."
Outside our bunker: BANG, BANG, BANG. And falling rain.
Each of us is waiting for the next shell to nail him right on the
head-the mortar as an agent of existential doom.
A scream.
I wait for a time of silence and I crawl out to take a look. Somebody
is down. The whistle of an incoming round forces me to retreat into the
bunker. I wait for the shell to burst.


BANG.

I crawl out, stand up, and I run to the wounded man. He's one of the
combat plumbers. "You utilities platoon? Where's Winslow?"
The man is whining. "I'm dying! I'm dying!" I shake him.
"Where's Winslow?"
"There." He points. "He was coming to help me..."
Rafter Man and Chili Vendor come out and Rafter Man helps me carry the
combat plumber to our bunker. Chili Vendor double-times off to get a
corpsman.
We leave the combat plumber with Daytona and Mr. Payback and
double-time through the rain, looking for Winslow.
He's in the mud outside his hootch, torn to pieces.
The mortar shells stop falling. The machine guns on the perimeter fade
to short bursts. Even so, the grunts standing line continue to pop green
star clusters in case Victor Charlie plans to launch a ground attack.
Somebody throws a poncho over Winslow. The rain taps the green plastic
sheet.