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

"YES, SIR!"
"WIPE THAT SMILE OFF YOUR FACE!"
"AYE-AYE, SIR!"

"The Commandant has ordered us to protect freedom by allowing the
Vietnamese to live like Americans all they want to. As long as Americans are
in Viet Nam the Vietnamese will have the right to express their political
convictions without fear of reprisal. So I will say it one more time,
Marine, take off that peace button or I will give you a tour of duty in
Portsmouth Naval Prison."
I stay at attention.
The poge colonel remains calm. "I am going to cut a new set of orders
on you, Corporal. I am personally going to demand that your commanding
officer shit-can you to the grunts. Show me your dogtags."
I dig out my dogtags and I tear off the green masking tape around them
and the poge colonel writes my name, rank, and serial number into a little
green notebook.
"Come with me, Marine," says the poge colonel, putting the little green
notebook back into his pocket. "I want to show you something."
I step over to the jeep. The poge colonel pauses for dramatic effect,
then pulls a poncho off a lump on the back seat. The lump is a Marine lance
corporal in the fetal position. In the lance corporal's neck are
punctures-many, many of them.
The poge colonel grins, bares his vampire fangs, takes step toward me.
I punch him in the chest with my wooden bayonet.
He freezes. He looks down at the wooden bayonet. He looks at the deck,
then at the sky. Suddenly his wristwatch is very interesting. "I...uh...I've
got no more time to waste on this unprofitable encounter...and get a
haircut!"
I salute. The poge colonel returns my salute. We hold the salute
awkwardly while the colonel says, "Someday, Corporal, when you're a little
older, you'll realize how naive-"
The poge colonel's voice breaks on "naive."
I grin. His eyes fall.
Both salutes cut away nicely.
"Good day, Marine," says the poge colonel. Then, armored in the dignity
awarded him by Congress, the colonel marches back to his Mighty Mite, climbs
in, and drives away with his bloodless lance corporal.
The poge colonel's Mighty Mite lays rubber-after all that talking he
doesn't even give me a ride.
"YES, SIR!" I say. "IT IS A GOOD DAY, SIR!"
The war goes on. Bombs fall. Little ones.
An hour later a deuce-and-a-half slams on its brakes.
I climb up into the cab with the driver.
During the bumpy ride back to Phu Bai the driver of the
deuce-and-a-half tells me about a mathematical system he has devised which
he will use to break the bank in Las Vegas as soon as he gets back to the
World.
As the driver talks the sun goes down and I think: Fifty-four days and
a wake-up.