Short-Timers, The by Gustav Hasford

Author:Gustav Hasford [Hasford, Gustav]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2011-09-30T04:28:38+00:00

We see the great walls of the Citadel. With zigzagging ramparts thirty feet high and eight feet thick, surrounded by a moat, the fortress looks like an ancient castle from a fairy tale about dragons who guard treasure and knights on white horses and princesses in need of assistance. The castle is black stone against a cold gray sky, with dark towers populated by shadows that are alive.

The Citadel is actually a small walled city constructed by French engineers as protection for the home of Gia Long, Emperor of the Annamese Empire. When Hue was the Imperial Capital, the Citadel protected the Emperor and the royal family and the ancient treasure of the Forbidden City from pirates raiding from the South China Sea.

We are big white American boys in steel helmets and heavy flak jackets, armed with magic weapons, laying siege to a castle in modern times. One-Five has changed a lot since the days when it was the first battalion to hit the beach at Guadacanal.

Metal birds flash in and shit steel eggs all over the place. F-4 Phantom jet fighters are dropping napalm, high explosives, and Willy Peter—white phosphorus. With bombs we are expressing ourselves; we are writing our history in shattered blocks of stone.

Black roses of smoke bloom inside the Citadel.

We ditty-bop Indian-file along both sides of the road, twenty yards between each man. The lines pop and snick as cocking levers are snapped back and bolts sent home, chambering rounds. Safeties are clicked off. Selector switches are thumbed to the full automatic position. Those Marines armed with M-14’s fix bayonets.

Machine guns start typing out history. First our guns, then theirs. Snipers on the wall fire a round here and there, sighting us in.

War is a catalogue of sounds. Our ears direct our feet.

A bullet crunches into a wall.

Somebody starts singing:

M.I.C...K.E.Y...M.O.U.S.E.

The machine guns are exchanging a steady fire now, like old friends having a conversation. Thumps and thuds puncture the rhythm of the bullets.

The snipers zero in on us. Each shot becomes a word spoken by death. Death is talking to us. Death wants to tell us a funny secret. We may not like death but death likes us. Victor Charlie is hard but he never lies. Guns tell the truth. Guns never say, “I’m only kidding.” War is ugly because the truth can be ugly and war is very sincere.

I say out loud: “You and me, God—right?”

I send guard-mail directives to my personal Tactical Area of Responsibility, which extends to the perimeters of my skin. Dear Feet, tiptoe through the tulips. Balls, hang in there. Legs, don’t do any John Waynes. My body is serviceable. I intend to maintain my body in the excellent condition in which it was issued.

In the silence of our hearts we speak to our werewolf weapons; our weapons reply.

Cowboy is listening to me mutter to myself. “John Wayne? Hey, Joker’s right. This ain’t real. This is just a John Wayne movie. Joker can be Paul Newman. I’ll be a horse.”

“Yeah.”

“Crazy Earl says, “Can I be Gabby Hayes?”

“The Rock can be a rock,” says Donlon, the radioman.

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