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

ton of dope. I mean, are you sure this is safe? I...wait...I heard
something."
Silence.
"A bird," says Cowboy. "Or a branch falling. Or-"
Alice shakes his head. "Maybe. Maybe. Or maybe a rifle bolt going
home."
Cowboy's voice is stern: "You're paranoid, Midnight. No gooks here. Not
for maybe another four or five klicks. We got to keep moving or we'll give
the gooks time to set up an ambush in front of us. You know that..."
Donlon crawls over to Cowboy, handset at his ear. "Hey, Lone Ranger,
the old man wants a report on our position."
"Let's move, Midnight. I mean it."
Alice rolls his eyes. "Feets, get movin'." Alice takes one step
forward, then hesitates. "I can remember when I've had more fun."
I say in my John Wayne voice: "Viet Nam is giving war a bad name."
Daddy D.A., who's walking tail-end Charlie, calls out: "HEY, MR. VIET
NAM WAR, WE HOMESTEADING?"
Cowboy says, "Everybody shut the fuck up."
Alice shrugs, mumbles, takes another step forward. "Cowboy, m'man,
maybe old soldiers never die, but young ones do. It ain't easy being the
black Errol Flynn, you know. I mean, if I don't get the Congressional Medal
of Honor for all the crazy shit I do, I am going to send Mr. L.B.J. an
eight-by-ten photo of my black bee-hind with a caption on the back, telling
him what it is..."
Alice, the point man, moves out. He ditty-bops into a little clearing.
"I mean-"
Bang.
The crack of an SKS sniper's carbine jolts Alice into a rigid position
of attention. His mouth opens. He turns to speak to us. His eyes cry out.
Alice falls.


"HIT IT!"

Falling forward-now...
"Oh, no..." Black earth.
Dead leaves. "ALICE!"
"What...?" Damp. Bleeding elbows.


"MIDNIGHT!"

Looking, not seeing, looking...
"Oh-oh...Shit City..."
Waiting. Waiting. "Hey, man..."
Silence.
My guts melt.


"ALICE!"