[ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
.K., O.K., we’re friends, remember?”We walked up the beach to the strand where we had our bicycles locked behind someone’s beach house.And as we walked along we both knew whose day it had been, and knocking somebody on their ass could not have changed that, although it might have helped, but not enough.All the way home, on our bikes, I didn’t try to show him up as I had earlier.I needed something more.Maybe I needed that blonde in the green coupe with her long hair blowing in the wind.40R.O.T.C.(Reserve Officer Training Corps) was for the misfits.Like I said, it was either that or gym.I would have taken gym but I didn’t want people to see the boils on my back.There was something wrong with everybody enrolled in R.O.T.C.It almost entirely consisted of guys who didn’t like sports or guys whose parents forced them to take R.O.T.C.because they thought it was patriotic.The parents of rich kids tended to be more patriotic because they had more to lose if the country went under.The poor parents were far less patriotic, and then often professed their patriotism only because it was expected or because it was the way they had been raised.Subconsciously they knew it wouldn’t be any better or worse for them if the Russians or the Germans or the Chinese or the Japanese ran the country, especially if they had dark skin.Things might even improve.Anyhow, since many of the parents of Chelsey High were rich, we had one of the biggest R.O.T.C.’s in the city.So we marched around in the sun and learned to dig latrines, cure snake-bite, tend the wounded, tie tourniquets, bayonet the enemy; we learned about hand grenades, infiltration, deployment of troops, maneuvers, retreats, advances, mental and physical discipline; we got on the firing range, bang bang, and we got our marksmen’s medals.We had actual field maneuvers, we went out into the woods and waged a mock war.We crawled on our bellies toward each other with our rifles.We were very serious.Even I was serious.There was something about it that got your blood going.It was stupid and we all knew it was stupid, most of us, but something clicked in our brains and we really wanted to get involved in it.We had an old retired Army man, Col.Sussex.He was getting senile and drooled, little trickles of saliva running out of the corners of his mouth and down, around and under his chin.He never said anything.He just stood around in his uniform covered with medals and drew his pay from the high school.During our mock maneuvers he carried around a clipboard and kept score.He stood on a high hill and made marks on the clipboard—probably.But he never told us who won.Each side claimed victory.It made for bad feelings.Lt.Herman Beechcroft was best.His father owned a bakery and a hotel catering service, whatever that was.Anyhow, he was best.He always gave the same speech before a maneuver.“Remember, you must hate the enemy! They want to rape your mother and sisters! Do you want those monsters to rape your mother and sisters?”Lt.Beechcroft had almost no chin at all.His face dropped away suddenly and where the jaw bone should have been there was only a little button.We weren’t sure if it was a deformity or not.But his eyes were magnificent in their fury, large blue blazing symbols of war and victory.“Whitlinger!”“Yes, sir!”“Would you want those guys raping your mother?”“My mother’s dead, sir.”“Oh, sorry…Drake!”“Yes, sir!”“Would you want those guys raping your mother?”“No, sir!”“Good.Remember, this is war! We accept mercy but we do not give mercy.You must hate the enemy.Kill him! A dead man can’t defeat you.Defeat is a disease! Victory writes history! NOW LET’S GO GET THOSE COCKSUCKERS!”We deployed our line, sent out the advance scouts and began crawling through the brush.I could see Col.Sussex on his hill with his clipboard.It was the Blues vs.the Greens.We each had a piece of colored rag tied around our upper right arm.We were the Blues.Crawling through those bushes was pure hell.It was hot.There were bugs, dust, rocks, thorns.I didn’t know where I was.Our squad leader, Kozak, had vanished somewhere.There was no communication.We were fucked.Our mothers were going to get raped.I kept crawling forward, bruising and scratching myself, feeling lost and scared, but really feeling more the fool.All this vacant land and empty sky, hills, streams, acres and acres.Who owned it all? Probably the father of one of the rich guys.We weren’t going to capture anything.The whole place was on loan to the high school.NO SMOKING [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]