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

The Strawberry Patch, a large triangle of land between the Citadel and
the River of Perfumes, is a quiet suburb of Hue. We get off the gunboat at
the Strawberry Patch and wander around with the Vietnamese Marines until we
see a little Marine with an expensive pump shotgun slung across his back, a
case of C rations on his shoulder, and DEADLY DELTA on his flak jacket.
I say, "Hey, bro, where's One-Five?"
The little Marines turns, smiles.
I say, "You need a huss with that?"
"No thanks, Marine. You people One-One?"
"No, sir," I say. Officers do not wear rank insignia in the field but
snuffies learn to fix a man's rank by his voice. "We're looking for
One-Five. I got a bro in the First Platoon. They call him Cowboy. He wears a
cowboy hat."
"I'm Cowboy's platoon commander. The Lusthog Squad is in the platoon
area up by the Citadel."
We walk along with the little Marine.
"I'm Joker, sir. Corporal Joker. This is Rafter Man. We work for Stars
and Stripes."
"My name is Bayer. Robert M. Bayer the third. My people call me
Shortround, for obvious reasons. You here to make Cowboy famous?"
I laugh. "Never happen."


The gray sky is clearing. The white mist is moving away, exposing Hue
to the sun.
First Platoon's area is within sight of the massive walls of the
Citadel. While First Platoon waits for the attack to begin, the Lusthog
Squad is partying.
Crazy Earl points a forefinger at the three of us. "Resupply! Number
one!" Then: "Hey, cowpuncher, the Joker is on deck."
Cowboy looks up and grins. He's holding a large brown bottle of tiger
piss-Vietnamese beer. "Well, no shit. It's the Joker and his New Guy. Lai
dai, bros, come on, sit and share, sit and share."
Rafter Man and I sit down in the dirt and Cowboy throws loose stacks of
Vietnamese piasters into our laps. I laugh, surprised. I pick up the
brightly colored bills, large bills, in large denominations. Cowboy shoves
bottles of tiger piss into our hands.
"Hey, Skipper!" says Cowboy. "Souvenir me spaghetti and meatballs,
okay? Every time we chow down I pull ham and mothers-the Breakfast of
Champions. I hate fucking ham and lima beans."
The little Marine rips open one case of C's, pulls out a cardboard box,
pitches it to Cowboy.
Cowboy catches the box, squints at the label. "Number one. Thanks,
Skipper."
Crazy Earl throws another stack of piasters into my lap.
Every man in the squad has a pile of money.
"Man, we finally got paid," says Crazy Earl. "You know what I am
saying, gentlemen? We been slave-labor mercenaries and now we are rich. We
got a million P's here, gentlemen. Yes, that's beaucoup P's."