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 Simply the story of a soldier , of \u200b\u200ball the soldiers, by the inimitable Fred Reed. ___________________________ He grew up in the woods and rivers of the county, swimming and fishing and hunting in the vast blue skies and driving like a crazy ramshackle and rolling his car on the moss with his girlfriend and looking up in the branches embrace the sky and wondering how to make the youth of the strangeness of life, and war broke out in a distant country. No matter which country. Just a country.
His father, a man angry that emitted the foul stench of patriotism, said that his duty was to become a soldier and kill whoever was in the far country, wherever he was. His father did not know or not care much. It did not matter. Someone knew. A man must do what must be done. It would be a great adventure, said an uncle. He joined
. In the humid heat was hot and painful a ...
took the equipment and green clothes and toothpaste from the store and learned to march in a square and a sergeant said Sinis Sinis-des-des. He felt that sense of power and invincibility inspired by the camaraderie with the rhythmic tread of boots. He learned how to use grenades and flamethrowers and the correct positioning of the bayonet in a kidney. He learned obedience and various forms of probable suicide, but it was for his country, dulce et decorum est and sang marching fierce choruses. If I die on the Russian front, bury me with a Russian cunt, Sinis Sinis-des-des. It was a great adventure, which was desperate appeal to the will of a young male to challenge the existence, through the mountains, see the dragon to win. The colonels at the training camp had calculated well.
felt the romance and the variety and the absurdity that men love the army in peacetime, and that the soldiers listened to the stories told in bars. You see, we were in Tijuana in Blue Fox and Murphy was enjoying a lap dance to the senorita with two fucking melons, I mean those big tits would not learn to stand up and this owl flies in, that is some fucking bird, and she screams and Murphy falls on ... and felt the freedom to be away from the county, in wild bar that nobody over there a casa aveva mai sentito parlare. Era la vita. Poi fu a tarda notte sull'asfalto dell'aeroporto, in partenza per il lontano paese di cui non sapeva nulla. Il vento fischiava e la turbolenza sapeva di cherosene e lui era in forma e notava appena il peso del suo zaino. I trasporti pesanti rombavano avanti e indietro, caricando le truppe. Assaporò una nuova frase, FMF WesPac. La Flotta della Forza dei Marines del Pacifico Occidentale, vibrante degli appelli ormonali di eserciti in marcia, di legioni straniere e di Marcus Aurelius sulla linea del Reno-Danubio, benché non ne avesse sentito mai parlare, ma faceva parte degli enormi eventi che accadono nella notte.
Il primo giorno in quel paese andò alla sua postazione in una terra lost in a convoy of armored vehicles opened. The heat and strange people along the street cheered him and he was really, absolutely out of the county and absorbing all wide-eyed and the mine exploded under the first truck and the driver landed on the street screaming, his legs go. The mines do. The Marines ran to him and said, Jesus, oh Jesus Fuck. Shit, Fuck, Fuck. Call a doctor. Oh shit. The cries Oh Jesus died, that being the nature of the femoral arteries.
past three months. Now he hated the people of the distant country, while still not knowing anything about it. I hate soldiers. He killed the enemy soldiers and some of which could have been enemy soldiers and then others who could not be but who were in the wrong place after his platoon had lost men at the hands of a sniper. Did not interest him, not as far as I know. The dead was just dead, so what? He hated those nasty cockroaches in each case. Apologetix. Burn them all. Let him spit out blood. He had never heard of the Albigenses, but the soldiers are all alike.
One day, the platoon came to a city and a sniper fired at them. "Apologetix" said the lieutenant, who hated the Indians. Ten minutes later thirty-seven people had died and the reporter who was there had photographed everything. The pictures went round the world. The platoon did not know why they were chosen. If the people do not want to be affected, they should not let go of armed rebels in their village. In neighborhoods of a thousand legions, the members said that war is war, people get hurt. I'll have to wait. Journalists are cowards, red, unrealistic idealists. We have to leave the troops, let them win.
The officers, knowing that reporters were the most dangerous of their enemies, they said it had not happened, which really was the enemy, that was an isolated event and that there would be an investigation. The general in command of what is so interesting was called "the theater" had presidential aspirations, and so sacrificed the lieutenant, who eventually received three months of house arrest.
The soldier of the county had it almost done. He was approaching to leave, determined by the gestation time of gonorrhea, when his truck hit the mine. Nothing new. Men dying, exposed bone, lungs crushed and dying who called screaming trinity of the seriously injured, wife and mother water. This time the soldiers of the county was half gutted.
was a great adventure, however.
field hospital where a section of the intestine removed, he saw many things. He saw the soldier with his jaw smashed fed through a tube in his nose. He saw a girl of seventeen in Tennessee who watched her boyfriend, completely blind, his face a mess frightening that would disgust a larva.
Johnny ... Johnny ... oh Johnny.
He left the hospital with a colostomy bag and instructions not to eat anything of what he liked. Women do not like colostomy bags, so he had a lot of time at his disposal. Read. He thought. He came to hate, hate with chilling intensity that unnerved his friends, who learned not to talk about the war. Like all soldiers from the first time there, he learned that war is not all those things that are supposed to be noble, God and country and democracy, but money, power, contracts and egos of men who, for the principle that shit floats, remain high. For the rest of his life he really wanted, absolutely kill.
had come a long way from the county. It was a great adventure.
translated by The Voice of Gongora |
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