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

On the last day of our sixth week I wake up and find my rifle in my
rack. My rifle is under my blanket, beside me. I don't know how it got
there.
My mind isn't on my responsibilities and I forget to remind Leonard to
shave.
Inspection. Junk on the bunk. Sergeant Gerheim points out that Private
Pyle did not stand close enough to his razor.
Sergeant Gerheim orders Leonard and the recruit squad leaders into the
head.
In the head, Sergeant Gerheim orders us to piss into a toilet bowl.
"LOCK THEM HEELS! YOU ARE AT ATTENTION! READDDDDY...WHIZZZZ..."
We whiz.
Sergeant Gerheim grabs the back of Leonard's neck and forces Leonard to
his knees, pushes his head down into the yellow pool. Leonard struggles.
Bubbles. Panic gives Leonard strength; Sergeant Gerheim holds him down.
After we're sure that Leonard has drowned, Sergeant Gerheim flushes the
toilet. When the water stops flowing, Sergeant Gerheim releases his hold on
Leonard's neck.


Sergeant Gerheim's imagination is both cruel and comprehensive, but
nothing works. Leonard continues to fuck up. Now, whenever Leonard makes a
mistake, Sergeant Gerheim does not punish Leonard. He punishes the whole
platoon. He excludes Leonard from the punishment. While Leonard rests, we do
squat-thrusts and side-straddle hops, many, many of them.
Leonard touches my arm as we move through the chow line with our metal
trays. "I just can't do nothing right. I need some help. I don't want you
boys to be in trouble. I-"
I move away.


The first night of our seventh week of training the platoon gives
Leonard a blanket party.
Midnight.
The fire watch stands by. Private Philips, the House Mouse, Sergeant
Gerheim's "go-fer," pads barefoot down the squad bay to watch for Sergeant
Gerheim.
In the dark, one hundred recruits walk to Leonard's rack.
Leonard is grinning, even in his sleep.
The squad leaders hold towels and bars of soap.
Four recruits throw a blanket over Leonard. They grip the corners of
the blanket so that Leonard can't sit up and so that his screams will be
muffled.
I hear the hard breathing of a hundred sweating bodies and I hear the
fump and thud as Cowboy and Private Barnard beat Leonard with bars of soap
slung in towels.
Leonard's screams are like the braying of a sick mule, heard far away.
He struggles.
The eyes of the platoon are on me. Eyes are aimed at me in the dark,