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

better death.
I dropped my salute, whirled, and bellowed for the ditchdiggers. Before,
they had been found asleep in the back of the mess tent after a half-hour
search. This time I had them front and center in five minutes flat, and
they shouldered their shovels with wary glances, wondering how in the hell
I knew.
That night, alone in my tent, I sat, knees wide apart, hunched over the
upended trunk that served as a makeshift desk. I opened one of the tablets
I'd been carrying since West Point: class notes, battle scenarios, quotes
from Clausewitz, snatches of poetry, pledges to myself. "I hope I have got
enough sence to be kiled in a great victory and be born between the ranks
in a military funeral and morned by friend and foe alike," how old was I
when I wrote that? Nineteen? Jesus God. I turned to a fresh page, creased
the spine so that it would lie flat, daubed my pen in ink, and wrote a
list.
Writing never had come easy for me, but I wrote without pause for a long
time. I'd had all day to think about what I would do, what I would change.
The list almost filled the page. When I couldn't think of anything else,
when I could avoid it no longer, I sighed and wrote at the top:
DECEMBER 9, 1945
KAFERTAL. OUTSIDE MANNHEIM
Then I circled it. I stopped, pen suspended. What could I add to that?
"Look out for the truck!" or something equally inane? Just avoid the damn
intersection altogether, Georgie. Hell, don't take a trip at all that day.
The ink on the pen nib beaded, bulged. I dared it to fall. Thirty goddamn
miles per hour. Not a soldier's death at all. I moved the pen to the right
just before the drop let go. I heard it dot the trunk. Perfectly easy to
avoid, really. Maybe the easiest thing on the list.
I heard something behind me: a faint scrambling, tiny claws on canvas. I
set down my pen and reached for my knife. At night the desert creatures
sought warmth and shelter. There, at the edge of the lamplight, a tail.
Well, well, another Gila monster wanted to bed down with old Georgie. As I
aimed, the tail stopped moving, as if the lizard knew what was coming.
Tail looked to be about three inches -- that meant the head would be just
about -- there. I threw the knife and the tail spasmed, lay still. I
carried over the lantern, lifted the little bastard by the hilt of the
knife (how its scales shine in the light, it's almost pretty), carried it
to the tent flap, and flicked it outside with the others. Setting the
knife aside to clean later, but not too far out of reach, I sat again on
the rickety cot, picked up the pen. Hmm. Must be something else to list.
Must be. But it was a damn good life the first go-round, wasn't it,
Georgie? Hell of a good time. Look at that knife, would you. Not proper
blood at all. More like some sort of oil, clotted with sand. Damned
scuttling nuisances. Five since Tuesday, all out front in a little
ant-teeming pile. They were only lizards, but you'd think they would
learn.


I miss that Mexican campaign. Hell, I miss all the campaigns. So many
battles worth fighting again.