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

"The war is ruining my sense of humor," I say. I squat.
Cowboy nods. "There it is. All I'm doing is counting my days, just
counting my days. A hundred days and a wake-up and I'll be on that big
silver Freedom Bird, flying back to the World, back to the block, back to
the Lone Star State, back to the land of the big PX. And I'll have medals
all over myself. And I won't be fucked up. No, when you get fucked up they
send you to Japan. You go to Japan and somebody pins a medical discharged to
what's left of you and all that good shit."
"I'd rather be wasted," I say. "Hire the handicapped-they're fun to
watch."
Cowboy grins.
T.H.E. Rocks says, "You know, my mom writes me a lot of letters about
what a brave boy T.H.E. Rock is. T.H.E. Rock is not a boy; he's a person."
He drinks beer. "I know I'm a person because I know there ain't no Santa
Claus. There ain't no fucking Easter bunny. You know? Back in the World we
thought that the future is always safe in a little gold box somewhere. Well,
I'll live forever. I'm T.H.E. Rock."
Crazy Earl grunts. "Hey Skipper, what say we stuff some dope into your
shotgun and toke it through the barrel?"
Mr. Shortround shakes his head. "No can do, Craze. We're moving most
skosh."
Donlon is talking into his handset. "Sir, the C.O. wants the Actual."
Donlon gives the handset to Mr. Shortround. The Lieutenant talks to
Delta Six, the commanding officer of Delta One-Five.
"Number ten. Just when we were scarfing up some of the bennies," says
Crazy Earl. "Just when we were getting a little piece of slack..."
Lieutenant Shortround stands up and starts putting on his gear.
"Moving, rich kids. Saddle up. Craze, get your people on their feet."
"Moving. Moving."
We all stand up, except for the NVA corporal who remains seated, a beer
in his hand, a pile of money in his lap, his split lips curled back in a
death grin.
Alice steps up with a machete in one hand and a blue canvas shopping
bag in the other. He kneels. With two blows of the machete Alice chops off
the NVA corporal's feet. He picks up each foot by the big toe and drops it
into the blue shopping bag. "This gook was a very hard dude. Number one! Big
Magic!"
The grunts stuff beer bottles, piasters, long-rats, and looted
souvenirs into their baggy pockets, into Marine-issue field packs, and into
NVA haversacks souvenired from enemy grunts they have wasted. The grunts
pick up their weapons.
Moving. Moving. I walk behind Cowboy. Rafter Man walks behind me.
I say, "Well, I guess this Citadel shit is going to be oh so bad. But
it could be worse. I mean, at least it's not Parris Island."
Cowboy grins. He says, "There it is."


We see the great walls of the Citadel. With zigzagging ramparts thirty
feet high and eight feet thick, surrounded by a moat, the fortress looks
like an ancient castle from a fairy tale about dragons who guard treasure