"Duncan, Andy - Fortitude" - читать интересную книгу автора (Duncan Andy)

doughboys were standing around, whistling and muttering the Old Man did it
and nothing else I could hear. Two or three had potatoes and paring knives
in hand. Never again, I thought, no more of that for me. Then Black Jack
stepped out, standing ramrod straight as usual, a mustache for a mouth.
The men and I stood in the autos and saluted, and then I stepped down and
stood at attention and said, "We've brought in Cardenas, sir."
Pershing nodded. "So you say, Lieutenant. Which?"
I grabbed Cardenas by the hair and lifted. His eyes were black with blood,
and his face was a little burnt from the hood. Pershing acted as if he
didn't know what to do with his hands, finally put them behind his back
and said, "Yes. That's him."
I let the head down gently so as not to dent the auto. Pershing looked at
the other two bodies strapped across the other two hoods. He stepped a few
paces toward the back of the automobiles and nodded when he saw the sacks
of grain.
"General, there's a fourth bandit, but he's stowed in the back. No room,
you see. He's the one who would have shot me, if Corporal Adams hadn't got
him first."
Adams smiled and nodded, then looked mortified, as if he feared smiling
and nodding were uncalled-for.
"Good job, Corporal, good job, Lieutenant, good job, all of you," Pershing
said, turning back toward his tent. "I'm sure commendations will be in
order -- and if the Army gave medals for dramatics," he murmured as he
passed me, close enough for me to smell the jalapenos on his breath, "then
you'd certainly have a chestful of those, wouldn't you, Patton? Report
after you bury them. And Patton -- you're lucky you remembered the maize."
How could a letter-perfect salute look so perfunctory?
I stood at attention and held my salute as he stalked away. I had been
thinking in the Dodge about the strange opportunity afforded me, and now I
wondered again, as I watched my idol stride back into the command tent,
why I had been given another chance. Did Pershing have anything to do with
it? Did Villa? I thought not. Even in childhood I had been convinced that
my destiny was to lead a great army in a great battle in a great war,
perhaps even the greatest war in the history of the world. That had proven
true once, and I believed it would prove true again. No, I knew my destiny
would not be achieved on some dusty road in Mexico, chasing the minions of
a murdering border bandit. My destiny lay where it always had lain, in
Europe, against the Nazis. But how much could I change along the way, and
could I change it for the better?
Pershing vanished into the shadowy triangle, and the flap snapped down.
Behind me a Dodge backfired, and my head jerked as if struck: Mannheim,
December 9, 1945. Hap Gay said, "Sit tight." At ten miles an hour, the
loudest sound I ever heard. Silence. My head! Oh Jesus my back! The
Cadillac's glass partition was spiderwebbed with gore. I sagged sideways,
blood in my eyes, tried to wipe it away. Will it away. My arms wouldn't
move. I couldn't sit up. My head lolled on Hap's shoulder. "Hell," I
moaned. Drool on my chin. "Oh, hell."
The wind kicked up, blowing that acrid needling Mexican dust into my nose
and throat. Coughing, I forced myself back to the present, back to Mexico,
1916, thinking: Even if I can't live a better life, I damn well can die a