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

gears.
The blond tank commander says, "You fuck up one more time, Iron Man,
and you will be a grunt."
The driver turns back to the front. "Aye-aye, sir. I'll watch the road,
Lieutenant."
Rafter Man asks, "Sir, did we kill that girl? Why was that old man
yelling at you?" Rafter Man looks sick.
The blond tank commander takes a green ballpoint pen and little green
notebook out of his hip pocket. He writes something in the notebook. "The
little girl's grandfather? He was yelling about how he needs his water bo.
He wants a condolence award. He wants us to pay him for the water bo."
Rafter Man doesn't say anything.
The blond tank commander yells at Iron Man: "Drive, you blind
son-of-a-bitch."
And the tank rolls on.


On the outskirts of Hue, the ancient Imperial Capital, we see the first
sign of the battle-a cathedral, centuries old, now a bullet-peppered box of
ruined stone, roof caved in, walls punctured by shells.
Entering Hue, the third largest city in Viet Nam, is a strange new
experience. Our was has been in the paddies, in hamlets where the largest
structure was a bamboo hut. Seeing the effects of war upon a Vietnamese city
makes me feel like a New Guy.
The weather is dreary but the city is beautiful. Hue has been beautiful
for so long that not even war and bad weather can make it ugly.
Empty streets. Every building in Hue has been hit with some kind of
ordnance. The ground is still wet from last night's rain. The air is cool.
The whole city is enveloped in a white mist. The sun is going down.
We roll past a tank which has been gutted by B-40 rocket-propelled
grenades. On the barrel of the shattered ninety-millimeter gun: BLACK FLAG.
Fifty yards down the road we pass two wasted six-bys. One of the big
trucks has been knocked onto its side. The cab of the truck is a broken mass
of jagged, twisted steel. The second six-by has burned and is only a
skeleton of black iron. The windshields of both trucks have been strung with
bright necklaces of bullet holes.
As we roll past Quoc Hoc High School I punch Rafter Man on the arm. "Ho
Chi Minh went there," I say. "I wonder if Uncle Ho played varsity
basketball. I wonder who Uncle Ho took to the senior prom."
Rafter Man grins.
Shots pop, far away. Single rounds. Short bursts of automatic weapons.
The fighting has stopped, for the moment. The shots we hear are just some
grunt trying to get lucky.
Near the University of Hue the tank grinds to a halt and Rafter Man and
I hop off. The University of Hue is now a collection point for refugees on
their way to Phu Bai. Whole families with all of their possessions have
occupied the classrooms and corridors since the battle began. The refugees
are too tired to run anymore. The refugees look cold and drained the way you
look after death sits on your face and smothers you for so long that you get
tired of screaming. Outside, the women cook pots of rice. All over the deck