Death Wish

Начало книги

Standing watch one morning in their trench a few yards from the Iraqi border, Private Smith and Private Jones began discussing aesthetics.

Or more particularly, how shit-fully ugly the desert in front of them was.

The conversation soon turned to a comparison of the ugliest things they had ever seen.

“The back end of a seventies’ Buick,” said Jones.

“Mary Broward’s face,” said Smith.

“Things, things,” said Jones, trying to rein in the discussion.

“She was a thing.”

“If you’re including stuff like that,” sniped Jones, “Sergeant Porky’s rear end.”

“You saw Porky’s butt?” asked Smith.

Jones’ response was drowned out by the whiz and explosion of a series of Iraqi shells landing uncomfortably close to their position. It was the third attack of the afternoon, and by far the most accurate. Geysers of dirt burst over their trench, covering their prone backs with grit. The ground shook as the pounding continued, and it quickly became clear that this time, the Iraqis were serious about what they were doing — the rain of explosives started a slow but steady walk toward the privates, the enemy homing in on their position.

Читать дальше →