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

punch him out."
"There it is," I say. "I'm mean, even when I'm unconscious. But that's
some very good shit, that morphine."
Cowboy pushes his gray Marine-issue glasses up on his nose. "I could
use a hit of something myself. I wish we had time to smoke some grass."
I say, "Hey, bro, who's on your program?"
Cowboy shakes his head. "Mr. Shortround is KIA." Cowboy pulls a red
bandana from his back pocket and wipes his grimy face. "The platoon radioman
was down. Some redneck from Alabama. I forget his name. Took a sniper round
through the knee. The Skipper went out to get him. A frag got him. A frag
got them both. At least..." Cowboy turns to look at Animal Mother. "At
least, that's how Mother tells it, and he was walking point."
I shake the cobwebs out of my head and pick up my gear. "Where's my
Mattel?"
Cowboy hands me a grease gun. "Your Mattel got wasted. Use this." He
hands me a canvas bag containing half-a-dozen grease-gun magazines.
I check out the grease gun. "This thing is obsolete."
Cowboy shrugs. "I souvenired it off a wasted tanker." Cowboy scratches
his face. "I got a new K-bar. And I souvenired Mr. Shortround's pistol."
"Where's Craze?"
Cowboy leads me outside a long row of body bags and ponchos stuffed
with human junk.
We stand over Craze as Cowboy says, "Craze did a John Wayne. He finally
went berserk. Shot BB's at a gook machine gun. The BB's bounced off the gook
gunners. You should have seen it. Craze was laughing like a happy little
kid. Then that slope machine gun blew him away."
I nod. "Anybody else?"
Cowboy checks his weapon, snaps the bolt to see that it's working
smoothly. "T.H.E. Rock. A sniper. Popped his head off. I'll have to tell you
about it. Right now we got a job to do. We got to find that sniper. I'm
personally going to waste that gook son-of-a-bitch. T.H.E. Rock was the
first guy to get wasted after I took the squad. He's my responsibility."
Alice double-times up the road. "That sniper is still there. You can't
see him, but he's there."
Cowboy doesn't say anything; he's looking at the long row of body bags.
He takes a few steps. I walk along with him.
Mr. Shortround doesn't look like an officer anymore. He's naked, lying
facedown on a bloody poncho. His skin is yellow. His eyes are dry in their
sockets, Dead, Mr. Shortround is just another meat-bag with a hole in it.
Cowboy looks down at Mr. Shortround. He takes off his muddy Stetson.
Donlon steps up to Mr. Shortround. There are tears in Donlon's eyes. He
fumbles with his handset. Donlon says, "We're mean Marines, sir." He hurries
away, fumbling with the handset.
Alice walks up to the row of body bags and kicks Mr. Shortround's
corpse. "Go easy, bro."
The squad files by.
I kneel. I fold the poncho over Mr. Shortround's small body. I feel a
great need to say something to the green plastic lump with the human feet. I
say, "Well, you're short, sir."
I think about what I have just said and I know that making a bad pun