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  第359页

  汤米米米米米米 (肌肉伟丈夫)

  独堵堵不如众堵堵，最后Aftermath内容的翻译。之前看过湾湾er小哈的读后感，说结束有点仓促，现在读来最后的确收得太快。在事件沉淀下来之后，现在让Nate再写后记，不知道他的想法有没有改变。但是对海陆的忠诚和自豪还是一样的吧。（自翻有错请指出(:-o)rz） Aftermath 所有在罪恶中深受痛苦的人肯定完全理解它的悲恸；如果有人经历过而毫不感到痛苦，他的情况则更悲凉，因为他以失去人性为代价保持了安详。 ——《A... (更多)

  独堵堵不如众堵堵，最后Aftermath内容的翻译。之前看过湾湾er小哈的读后感，说结束有点仓促，现在读来最后的确收得太快。在事件沉淀下来之后，现在让Nate再写后记，不知道他的想法有没有改变。但是对海陆的忠诚和自豪还是一样的吧。（自翻有错请指出(:-o)rz）

  Aftermath 所有在罪恶中深受痛苦的人肯定完全理解它的悲恸；如果有人经历过而毫不感到痛苦，他的情况则更悲凉，因为他以失去人性为代价保持了安详。 ——《Augustine of Hippo》 湖边的家庭聚会上，我在夏日的阳光里散步。年幼的堂/表弟妹们在泼水玩，大人们边喝着饮料边说笑。远处，一个乐队在演奏。我走进人群想加入谈话。但我对他们来说是透明的。疑惑地低头看，我发现自己穿着沙漠迷彩服，胸前挂着一挺步枪。血浸染了我的衣服。 回家以后的好几个月，这个梦总让我醒来。并不是每晚都这样，一共只梦到过十多次，但已经足够让睡眠成为意志强迫才能达成的事。有时我起来后去散散步。有时候我在卧室里做俯卧撑直到体力完全透支倒下。大多数时候 ，我瞪着天花板，努力想点事情，其他什么事都好。 回家的故事是毫无新意那一套。抵达科威特的时候，我就感到已经知道接下来将会发生的事情是怎样。另一个营的一个海陆几乎立刻就崩溃，在一场触身式橄榄球赛里用枪射中了另一个海陆的胸口。我们在科威特登上商务班机。飞机滑轮离开地面的时候，乘客们都在欢呼。我的座位很干净，食物可口，空姐也漂亮。有人在聊天，大多数在睡觉，我看着窗户外面。吉萨的金字塔在晨光中滑过。在法兰克福，我在航站楼门前站了二十分钟，惊讶于那些草坪的翠绿。我们在2003年6月3日，星期二，进入纽约锡拉丘兹北部的美国领空。驾驶员说道，“欢迎回家。”我们又再欢呼起来。 着陆在加利福利亚河滨空军基地，我从扶梯上走到停机坪上。这里有红十字会给我们做汉堡的烤架，有我们席地而睡的机库，有我们在里面看着航天飞机烧尽画面，如今对着空座位闪烁的电视。外面，车前灯在高速公路上移动。周二晚上的通勤往返，什么也没有改变。 这种幻觉一直持续着整个回到Camp Pendleton的大巴旅程以及午夜时营队办公楼后篮球场上的家人重逢。我把我的武器锁在军械库里，但把大腿的枪套留下来了，藏起Qalat Sukkar那个男孩的血迹。人们挥着牌子边欢呼着，我们则扮演着凯旋的英雄。Patrick中士安静地站着，远离人群，他穿着浆硬的迷彩服，两个月来第一次穿上军靴。不顾疼痛穿上靴子，因为他觉得迎接这个排的时候应该整齐穿着制服。我们全部都拥抱他，像拥抱我们的母亲、父亲、妻子、女友一样，因为他也是我们的家人。 那天晚上在酒店房间里我感到很孤独——没有无线电的嘶嘶声，没有头顶的星星，没有身旁站哨的士兵。我睡了两小时。天亮以前，醒来后又洗了一次澡，仅仅因为现在随时可以洗。浴室镜子里，一张深褐色的脸瞪回来。我发现额头上以前没有的道道线条。马蹄铁依然串在降落伞绳子挂在我脖子上。自从圣诞节之后我第一次把它越过头顶从脖子上取下来。 这种正常的幻觉在我回到日常作息的时候还持续着。上班途中买杯咖啡的时候。塞车在路上的时候，到杂货店买填充冰箱的货物的时候。生活的简单便捷让我感恩得几乎想不起战争。回归生活的过程像是无缝衔接一样。有时候我还幻想着四个月的插曲只是一个梦我可以把它忘掉。 但一点点，一些细微的事情把我拖了回去。一个周六下午，一位没有上伊拉克战场的海陆朋友邀请我到Camp Pendleton那边玩双向飞碟射击。我条件反射地答应了，没有想多。开上高速路的时候，我发现他在看着我。最后，他终于开口： “尼玛这是在干嘛？” 原来我之前通过立交桥底的时候都在随机摆动着方向盘。在伊拉克，这样做能使头顶的敌人扔下的手雷难以命中悍马。 “对不起，我没留神。” 到达目的地，我站在射击线上拿着猎枪和一袋子弹。忽然间，我失去了所有玩射击飞碟的兴趣。上次开的一枪是4月1日午夜前在Al Hayy北部高速公路上。 在路上我估量着行人，把他们从头到脚看个遍寻找手枪或者炸弹在衣服上难以掩饰的鼓起。手头没有止血带和静脉点滴让我隐约感到不安。我吃透所有还在打仗的人们的每一丁点消息，但不和其他人说。有时候我无来由地哭起来。在并道上有司机阻我去路的话，就幻想着——不带一点感情——将他的头往后拉，用车钥匙把他的喉管割开。7月4日，一颗鞭炮让我立刻缩到车门后，摸索那支根本不存在的手枪。我感到自己比父亲还苍老。我做着那个梦。 我想我是有点混乱了。唯一让我知道我还没疯掉的原因，是我认为自己快发疯。很明显，这样的意识意味着我还没疯掉。疯子会觉得自己正常。只有正常人才会发现自己有问题。这些语义重复的想法没有让我安慰多一些。 三年的排长生涯，我升到上尉，被选为基础侦察课程（Basic Reconnaissance Course）的指挥官。在海军陆战队里只有有限的军事行动相关工作，我的两次战场经历保证我可以在办公桌后而不用立刻返回阿富汗和伊拉克。1998年我参加候补军官训练学校（OCS）的时候，把海陆看做终生职业。阿富汗之后，终生职业的可能性依然存在，只是轻微减少了一点。伊拉克之后，我知道我不得不离开了。 我生活里很多人都装得好像离开是我很自然的一个选择。当初我接受任务的时候，朋友和亲戚就问过这样的问题“上次我们见面的时候，你还在达特茅斯上学。到底发生什么事了？”或者“当海陆有工资吗？”一个熟人认为有必要安抚我的父母，他说“你们肯定很失望吧。”这些人现在都在想我是在更正早先的错误选择，或者是我已经满足了青春期的逞能。他们认为这工作的艰辛已经把我折磨得不行——长时间的服役派遣，经常性居无定所，报酬少而且危险。但他们都错了。对我来说，无形的荣誉和成为海陆军官的自豪超过一切逆境。 部队里一些我的兄弟明白这个决定是更私人的。他们知道我在等级制度下的摩擦，这个制度有些时候比起指挥官的战术能力更看重擦亮的靴子。他们知道我们在这4年里做的事情是前一代海陆花上20年才能做到，或者根本做不到的。升职，成为长官，意味着更多的笔头工作，更少和部队一起的时间。他们知道我参加海陆的初衷是想要拿起宝剑，而不是铅笔。他们是对的，但真正的原因则更深层。 我离开海陆，因为我已经变成了一个不情愿的战士。很多海陆队员让我想起角斗士。他们有这种不可思议的品质，让他们可以绑紧皮甲的护胫套和护胸甲，跋涉刀光血影。我佩服，欣赏，效法他们，但我永远不能成为他们。我可以杀戮，当杀戮是必须的时候；我和其他人一样被战争激发兴奋。但我不能在冷静考虑后选择把自己整个职业生涯一次次放在那样的境地里。出色的海陆军官，像所有伟大的战士一样，应该有能力杀死他们最爱的人——他们的部下。这是战场最基本的法则。我已经背叛这个法则两次。我不能再碰运气了。 营里传统上会为离开的军官举办欢送纪念会，叫做“Hail & Farewell”。Benelli少校得知我要离开西岸，给我安排了一个周五下午的欢送会。欢送会非常冷淡，但我没有太在意，因为我效忠的不是营里；而是我的排。 侦察排秉承的传统，其中最好的一项就是paddle party。我的开在Mike Wynn家，8月里一个周五晚上。全排的人都来了。他们把我放在中间的椅子上，然后聚集在周围。这种纪念会可以追溯到维京战船时代。按照传统，当一个战士离开全体船员，安顿下来开展新生活，他的同志们就会把他自己的船桨交给他，象征着他所作的贡献，以及他们全体在失去他之后的弱化。 最年轻的队员，代理下士Christeson，第一个拿着船桨。Gunny Wynn和我推荐他的战场功绩，从一等兵升为代理下士，这是自越战以来的首例之一。船桨从他的手往下传到整个排，以资历为序，每人拿着船桨的时候都讲一个故事。“低一点，Christeson。你瞄得太高了。”奔跑往Bridgeport的着陆点。Force Sword行动。Ambush Alley。Espera和总会递来的雪茄。Muwaffiqiya的激光。Horsehead。悉尼。乘船袭击。“接着。”船桨从Gunny Wynn，这个排里最资深的海陆手里，传到制造这支船桨的Patrick中士手上。Patrick把船桨转过来，第一次给我展示它的全貌。 他用一块四英尺宽的樱桃木雕刻。以绿色，棕褐色和黑色的伞降绳捆着把手。我的上尉军衔，伞降章，勋略表装饰着桨叶。反面上，Rudy用墨水画上第一侦察营的标记，贴上一张全排在科威特沙漠里战争打响前夜的照片。 我伸手接过，感受着历史上另一条界线。我的手紧握着伞降绳的时刻，对这个排的指挥就结束了。用他们的话说，我从上尉升级到先生。在我看来，我生命中最有意义的时光已经结束了。 几天之后，我开车去工作最后一天。那是个有雾寒冷的南加利福利亚清晨。在停车场，我看到接替我的人，一个红发的上尉，名字是Brent Morel。前天我们一起吃过午饭，坐了两小时因为我想要好好介绍我的排——Colbert很酷的品格，Rudy的热诚，Jacks对Mark-19的上手，Patrick的南方格言。在伊拉克的战争还没有结束，我希望Morel带他们第二次上战场的时候能先认识他们。 “早，Brent。” 他把视线从正在拉链的防水包抬起，“Hi，Nate。我们正要到沙滩潜水。” “所有人？” “整个排。要来吗？”这是礼貌上的邀请，但我不能接受。 “他们是你的人了，兄弟。潜好。” 在办公室里，我收集了所有武器，清洗好每一件，收到帆布包里，归还至后勤仓库。我拿着步枪，想起Al Gharraf和那些死了的阿拉伯突击队。拿着手枪的手柄，我仿佛回到Muwaffiqiya的桥上，曳光弹在黑暗中滑过。棕色的血迹依然斑驳地在我的战术手套上，我把它们塞进帆布包。我试过把伊拉克的尘土从帆布上拍掉，但失败了。反正这双手套很可能也要退休了。一枚榴霰弹撕裂了外包装，一路滚开。 在仓库里，我在海陆们等着归还武器的队伍里候着。他们有些是将要有新指派，有些是要离开。全部人都很安静。在另一边的门廊里站着一群二等中尉，带着新剪发型的新人。我想把他们聚集起来，告诉他们我父亲告诉过我的作为海陆新人的要求：“挺直做人毫无畏惧，但要保持身体上和精神上的完好。”我知道他们会背起手，恭敬地听着，然后在我这个疯子上尉背后嘲笑我忘记了海陆中尉是所向无敌的。于是我只是走向轿车，开车回家。他们以后会自己发现这个道理。 几个月之后，我在华盛顿工作，整个排都回到了伊拉克。我驱车前往弗吉尼亚海滩，为Shawn Patrick胸前别上青铜星章。他已经痊愈了，现在是两栖侦察学校的教练，训练海陆新人。经过Quantico在I-95高速上，我听着国家安全顾问举证9/11发生前的征兆，这种象征冲击了我——经过这个我开始海陆生涯的地方，一边听着关于那件把我送往两年战场的事件的争论，驱车到一个纪念仪式结束这个故事的一个篇章。 手机响了。是Cara Wynn，Mike的妻子。她上气不接下气，说得太快我几乎没搞懂她在说什么。 “二排在Fallujah被埋伏。一堆人被击中，炸飞了。这是目前我得知的信息。” 巡逻的时候，B连遇到了老练的复合火力埋伏。一队暴动分子从路边的土坎后向车队开火。一发RPG在领头的悍马里爆炸。其中一个海陆丢了两根手臂，其他四人也被炸伤。二排往埋伏方向进攻，消灭了好几十人。 在弗吉尼亚海滩，Patrick中士眼睛一眨不眨地挺立着，他的长官念着青铜星章的荣誉状： 在2003年3月至2003年5月服役期间参加伊拉克自由行动作为第一海军陆战队，第一侦察营，B连，二排，二队侦察队领队的杰出表现，在4月1日夜，进入伊拉克Muwaffiqiya镇，Patrick中士在敌人埋伏中中枪。三面受敌的情况下，他在伤口上捆上止血带，指挥他的部下进行回击，对敌人造成重大的创伤。Patrick中士仍然待着交火区里指挥，直到敌人被歼灭，同伴撤离。Patrick中士杰出的专业素质，主动权和面对责任的忠诚奉献，反映了自身非凡的荣誉，体现了海军陆战队与美国海军的最高传统。 之后我们去了后续庆功，但我们担心着七千里之外的朋友们，希望我们此刻能与他们在一起。 开车往华盛顿回程途中，Cara又打来。“Nate，坏消息。” 我把车停在路边，等待着就像眼看着有人转身而来，慢动作一般，把拳头向我甩来。 “Morel上尉死了。” Brent在指挥回击的时候被射中前胸。那些抢救他的队员说他已经撑过了黄金时间。他们后来又再来电告知死信，登上救援直升机的时候，他失血过多甚至连红色的头发都褪成灰色。 华盛顿新的二战纪念馆在正式献堂礼以前就接待了游人。依旧在Brent的死信震惊中，我在一个满月的夜晚驶进市区参观。我需要一个物理连接来献祭。地灯让花岗岩地台沐浴在温暖的黄光中，没有林肯纪念馆和华盛顿纪念馆那样突兀的惨白。榆树在光圈外像塔一般高耸。 我顺时针绕过中央喷水池，读着雕刻在石头里的字句以及家人朋友留下的话语。有三次我躲进阴影里掩饰泪水。姓名和脸孔都不一样的，但这些都是相同的人。在纪念馆的一端伫立着一面金星墙：四千颗星星。每一颗星代表在二战中阵亡的一百个美国人。我站着数了这四千颗其中的八颗，在墙上左上角很小的一片。那里也包含阿富汗和伊拉克战争。所有的交战，爆炸和直升机坠毁。Brent和Horsehead。所有的英雄事迹，鲜血，恐惧，幽默和无聊。八颗他妈的星星。 离开海军陆战队我感觉漂泊无定。在26岁的时候，我害怕我已经过完了生命中最光辉的时光。我不可能再享受那些海陆带给我的有意义的感觉与归属感。除了我爱的家庭，支持我的朋友和良好的教育，战争淹没我生活的每一个部分，带着我冲向未知的命运。如果它能对我产生这样的影响，那我的部下呢？那些没有家人，没有朋友会理解，离开海陆的时候没有带着像我的荣誉的那些人呢？我担心他们在战争中活下来，却在这梦醒时分被杀死。 把所有精力都集中申请研究院课程之后，我接到了一个来审查官的电话：“Fick先生，我们读了你的申请也非常喜欢。但我们委员会的其中一个委员读过Evan Wright在《滚石》上连载关于你带领的排的故事。你在里面被引用说道，‘坏消息是，我们今晚没觉好睡了；好消息是，我们要去杀人了。’”她停下来，似乎在等我对那句引用的反驳。我沉默了，于是她继续说道：“我们委员里有一位退役的陆军军官，他警告我说有些人就是|享受|杀戮的感觉，不能让他们在学校里。你能不能给我解释一下那句引用呢？” “不，我不能。” “呃，那你是不是真的那样觉得呢？”她的声音真诚，几乎是在为我辩护。 “你的意思是，我会不会爬到你们的钟楼上，用打猎的步枪挑人爆头是吗？” 这次轮到她沉默了。 “不，我不会那样做。向你解释让我感到难做吗？并没有。” 那些敬重和尝试理解，就像那些无情的忽视一样让我感到失望。最糟糕的是人们那些空洞的赞扬和致谢“感谢你们在那边做的一切。”感谢什么，我想要问——射杀小孩，在沙坎后面惊恐地缩起来，把炮弹扔到平民屋子里？单纯在那边待着根本毫无荣誉可言。荣誉应该在于我们的正确的决定，我们做的正确的事情。我希望我所做的好事比坏事多，希望我没有罔顾人们的性命。我学习接受那样的观念：有时候对抗暴力唯一的方法就是以暴制暴，无论初衷有多好。 六月，从伊拉克回家一年，我拖着一个童年朋友到西马里兰州的安提塔姆内战战场。我想在那片土地上走走。在裂开的围栏和复原的机关炮里，我看到的是RPG和阿拉伯突击队。我会在哪里布置机关枪防守这片玉米地？Hitman 2会怎样进攻Bloody Lane？ 漫步向Burnside Bridge的途上，洒在我手臂上的阳光很温暖，昆虫在高高的草丛里鸣叫。那片地方，在美国史上最血腥的一个下午，部队在摧毁性火力下三次挺进失败。我们站在中央双手抚摸着石头。 “这是浪费吗？”我问道。 “不。”她回答。“他们赢了，林肯颁布了黑奴解放宣言。他们解放了奴隶，就像你们解放了阿富汗人。” 我没有回答。 “想想那些在塔利班控制下的妇女，那些萨达姆统治下的伊拉克人，”她继续说道，找到了一个转换主语的机会。“你帮助了这么多的人。你为什么不能感到慰藉呢？” 低头看着流水，我衡量着自己的用词，想着那个我给自己一千次的辩护。好是抽象的。好没有让人感觉这么好，不像坏让人觉得如此坏。让我晚上醒来的并不是那些好。 “你听起来这么丧失信仰，”她说着，摇摇头。“你为什么不能在你和你的兄弟们牺牲这么多所做的事里找到平静呢？你为什么不能感到自豪？” 我带着65个人上战场，把65人都带回来。我把我的所有都给了他们。我们一起，通过了考验。恐惧没有打倒我们。我希望阿富汗和伊拉克人们的生活变好了，但这不是我们行动的初衷：我们为彼此战斗。 我很自豪。

  (收起)

  2011-09-20 11:56:30   3回应

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  第289页

  Karen♥卡人 (忘卻的飛行)

  「Generation Kill」EP6的坦克事件，LT精疲力盡導致失眠，於是自己志願在大家睡覺時去守著無線電，之後又經過長途跋涉，缺覺就演變成神誌不清-0- —————————————————————————————————————— 我們驅車從黃昏開到晚上，直到在路邊停下。GPS讓我知道我們在哪兒，可更重要的是——那兒有什麽。沒人能告訴我，我們周圍的田野和棕櫚叢中有些什麽。我們前進得太快，沒任何掩護，好人壞人都分不.. (更多)

  「Generation Kill」EP6的坦克事件，LT精疲力盡導致失眠，於是自己志願在大家睡覺時去守著無線電，之後又經過長途跋涉，缺覺就演變成神誌不清-0-

  ——————————————————————————————————————

  我們驅車從黃昏開到晚上，直到在路邊停下。GPS讓我知道我們在哪兒，可更重要的是——那兒有什麽。沒人能告訴我，我們周圍的田野和棕櫚叢中有些什麽。我們前進得太快，沒任何掩護，好人壞人都分不清了。在過去三天中我只睡了三個小時。 「Gunny，我腦子不清楚了，我需要睡一下。」我說。在那個時候，睡眠已經不是件愉快的事，只是滿足身體機能需要，就像給汽車加油一樣。 在我們左側，一座五層樓高的工廠在黑暗中燃燒，熊熊火焰一躍沖天。大火沒有劈啪作響，而是轟鳴著，吸去周圍空氣中的氧氣。我把自己包在雨披裡，躺在悍馬前輪旁的礫石路上，遮掩明滅閃爍的火光。 這場覺睡得糟透了，我徘徊在黃泉般的噩夢中，回憶的片段紛至沓來。作戰簡報，火球，急促的呼吸聲，射擊，附近的坦克。還有火，燃燒，咆哮，透過棕櫚樹投下陰影。 Christeson把我搖醒：「已經三個小時了，長官。巡邏隊在回來的路上了。」 我坐起來，揉揉頭，把碎石從頭髮中抖下來。「什麽巡邏隊？」 「Team 3，長官。他們去檢查那輛坦克。」 「該死的你到底在說什麼？」 沿著路，在全排最後一輛悍馬車旁，Lovell中士和軍醫Bryan正在黑暗中輕聲咒駡。在他們旁邊，隊員們坐在地上，把濕透的，沾滿泥濘的靴子和褲子從身上剝掉。他們看起來像是從齊腰深的水中趟過。 Stinetorf下士抬頭看著我。「那鬼東西至少在那兒已經有十年了，長官。沒法把它開出沼澤，如果他們想的話。」 慢慢地，我明白了。我的一些夢其實並不是夢。連隊的軍士長來找過我，要我派Lovell的小分隊去調查停在附近棕櫚叢中的一輛伊拉克坦克。我把Lovell中士拉到一邊，問他到底發生了什麽事。 「軍士長要我去樹林看一眼那他媽的坦克。我告訴他，一半的師開過去了都沒管它，而且我只接受你和Gunny Wynn的命令。」 我點點頭，弄懂了整件事的來龍去脈。 「於是他離開幾分鐘後回來說，他和你說過，你同意了。於是我們就整裝出發了。」 原來我在無意識中下達了命令。「Lovell中士，他來找我，但當時我神誌不清，還以為我在做夢。我很抱歉。」 我回到悍馬車上，Gunny Wynn正坐在無線電旁。「我腦子壞了，Mike。我他媽的腦子壞了。」

  (收起)

  2011-10-23 20:02:41   2人收藏   1回应

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  第184页

  汤米米米米米米 (肌肉伟丈夫)

  初遇Rolling Stone☆片段，既然翻译了就贴出来吧，reporter真的很好笑。 一辆巴士咆哮着闯进了Matilda，放下了两打硬汉样的通讯记者。 他们都穿着米黄背心货车短裤。大多数都是带胡子的男性，他们看起来和我们差不多。我们，毕竟是，来自地球上同一个地方年纪相仿的人。他们来这至少也得跟进一次完整的进攻。 “说来你们是哪个部分的？”Gunny Wynn和我正排队等着用餐， 离饭堂帐篷还有个一百来码的距离。我转向阴影看着问... (更多)

  初遇Rolling Stone☆片段，既然翻译了就贴出来吧，reporter真的很好笑。

  一辆巴士咆哮着闯进了Matilda，放下了两打硬汉样的通讯记者。 他们都穿着米黄背心货车短裤。大多数都是带胡子的男性，他们看起来和我们差不多。我们，毕竟是，来自地球上同一个地方年纪相仿的人。他们来这至少也得跟进一次完整的进攻。 “说来你们是哪个部分的？”Gunny Wynn和我正排队等着用餐， 离饭堂帐篷还有个一百来码的距离。我转向阴影看着问话的人。 比我矮一英尺，他带着瓶底厚的眼镜抬眼看着我们。把录音机举得高高的像供奉一样。“来嘛，你们是哪个队的？家在哪？姓名 ？给点资讯？来到这里我太兴奋了。” 如果不是还要站一起二十分钟太尴尬的话，我就不会鸟他。 “第一侦察营。”我说。 “唔哦，侦察。你们很特别，对吧？” “只有我们妈妈这么认为。” “我刚从指挥部过来，和一些拧螺丝的家伙同车。你们的任务是什么？” 真够。才三十秒这家伙就开始捅我们不能说的秘密。“以任何方式支援分部。”Gunny Wynn缓慢地说，把每个音都说得清清楚楚 。 “来嘛，这可不酷。” Wynn和我忽悠着这个记者一直到排到队伍前面。拿了配给的食物 之后，我们就钻到一张只有两个空位的桌子边，对跟着来这边想坐旁边的那家伙咧嘴笑。 饭后，我们穿过Porta-Johns和帐篷回到营里。碰巧刚散会，指挥官们正回去自己的帐篷，在夜色中简略地交代任务。我的CO看见 我就喊我过去。 他简略给我说了未来几天的安排，然后指着黑暗里旁边的人影说。“这是Evan Wright，来自滚石的记者。他将在营里进行嵌入式采访。” Wright笑得人畜无害。我以之前遭遇揣测他：一个没头没脑，利用那些回国之后在街头碰到也不会打招呼的人来追求普利特奖的 机会主义者。作为一个公民，我支持Pentagon的嵌入式媒体采访 ，以向普通民众透露战争无审查删改的面目。作为一个军官，我 担心情报泄露，担心引来部下的不快，以及给那些对我们的文化 与战争决策需求只知皮毛的人们道德上的看管（←就是大概一直要帮着擦屁股的意思）。 第二天。我在晚餐时间矮身进入Gunny Wynn的帐篷，但他还在外面跑步。于是我就只身走过营地。 “Fick中尉！” 我转过来看到Wright那条肮脏的卡其裤子搭在他肩上。他穿着一件褐色的Superfly T恤，一条很粗的金链在隐退的夕阳中闪烁着。 绝不是海陆。他安静地，甚至是正式地，询问我是否可以加入我的排。我嘴上说可以，但经过海陆队员们向着饭厅走去的时候还是感到不自在。 我们交谈彼此的背景。Wright在Vassar大学学习传媒历史，他得知我的专业是古典文学的时候被逗乐了。像你这样的人一般该去其他部队，他说，比如说维和部队什么的。他说话很柔软，让人觉得过分谨慎。之前加入过阿富汗陆军排，上过波斯湾海军战舰 ，Wright对军队来说不能算是新手。但这是他第一次和海陆接触。咱们夹鸡肉糊的时候，我问他对海陆的第一印象怎样。 “嗯，我和一些上级住同一个帐篷。他们努力工作，阅读，睡觉 。” 粘着军官是个大错误。我告诉Wright。如果想要报道海陆的话，他应该花点时间和士兵们相处。不是军官，当然更不是上级。中士或者以下等级的士兵。他们年轻，疯狂，忠诚，为了谋生而上战场的人们。我们穿过营地，我指指我的排所在的帐篷，邀请他随时可以来和我的部下聊天。他想立刻就和他们见面。我们扬起挂布进入二排的起居地。Colbert正在读书，Reyes在用拳头顶着做俯卧撑。两个下士，Garza和Chaffin，用他们8英寸潜水刀互相比划着，随时要划开口子的样子。我离开的时候，想着自己是不是把一只小白兔扔进了灰狗堆里。

  (收起)

  2011-09-16 11:43:53   11回应

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  第184页

  汤米米米米米米 (肌肉伟丈夫)

  初遇Rolling Stone☆片段，既然翻译了就贴出来吧，reporter真的很好笑。 一辆巴士咆哮着闯进了Matilda，放下了两打硬汉样的通讯记者。 他们都穿着米黄背心货车短裤。大多数都是带胡子的男性，他们看起来和我们差不多。我们，毕竟是，来自地球上同一个地方年纪相仿的人。他们来这至少也得跟进一次完整的进攻。 “说来你们是哪个部分的？”Gunny Wynn和我正排队等着用餐， 离饭堂帐篷还有个一百来码的距离。我转向阴影看着问... (更多)

  初遇Rolling Stone☆片段，既然翻译了就贴出来吧，reporter真的很好笑。

  一辆巴士咆哮着闯进了Matilda，放下了两打硬汉样的通讯记者。 他们都穿着米黄背心货车短裤。大多数都是带胡子的男性，他们看起来和我们差不多。我们，毕竟是，来自地球上同一个地方年纪相仿的人。他们来这至少也得跟进一次完整的进攻。 “说来你们是哪个部分的？”Gunny Wynn和我正排队等着用餐， 离饭堂帐篷还有个一百来码的距离。我转向阴影看着问话的人。 比我矮一英尺，他带着瓶底厚的眼镜抬眼看着我们。把录音机举得高高的像供奉一样。“来嘛，你们是哪个队的？家在哪？姓名 ？给点资讯？来到这里我太兴奋了。” 如果不是还要站一起二十分钟太尴尬的话，我就不会鸟他。 “第一侦察营。”我说。 “唔哦，侦察。你们很特别，对吧？” “只有我们妈妈这么认为。” “我刚从指挥部过来，和一些拧螺丝的家伙同车。你们的任务是什么？” 真够。才三十秒这家伙就开始捅我们不能说的秘密。“以任何方式支援分部。”Gunny Wynn缓慢地说，把每个音都说得清清楚楚 。 “来嘛，这可不酷。” Wynn和我忽悠着这个记者一直到排到队伍前面。拿了配给的食物 之后，我们就钻到一张只有两个空位的桌子边，对跟着来这边想坐旁边的那家伙咧嘴笑。 饭后，我们穿过Porta-Johns和帐篷回到营里。碰巧刚散会，指挥官们正回去自己的帐篷，在夜色中简略地交代任务。我的CO看见 我就喊我过去。 他简略给我说了未来几天的安排，然后指着黑暗里旁边的人影说。“这是Evan Wright，来自滚石的记者。他将在营里进行嵌入式采访。” Wright笑得人畜无害。我以之前遭遇揣测他：一个没头没脑，利用那些回国之后在街头碰到也不会打招呼的人来追求普利特奖的 机会主义者。作为一个公民，我支持Pentagon的嵌入式媒体采访 ，以向普通民众透露战争无审查删改的面目。作为一个军官，我 担心情报泄露，担心引来部下的不快，以及给那些对我们的文化 与战争决策需求只知皮毛的人们道德上的看管（←就是大概一直要帮着擦屁股的意思）。 第二天。我在晚餐时间矮身进入Gunny Wynn的帐篷，但他还在外面跑步。于是我就只身走过营地。 “Fick中尉！” 我转过来看到Wright那条肮脏的卡其裤子搭在他肩上。他穿着一件褐色的Superfly T恤，一条很粗的金链在隐退的夕阳中闪烁着。 绝不是海陆。他安静地，甚至是正式地，询问我是否可以加入我的排。我嘴上说可以，但经过海陆队员们向着饭厅走去的时候还是感到不自在。 我们交谈彼此的背景。Wright在Vassar大学学习传媒历史，他得知我的专业是古典文学的时候被逗乐了。像你这样的人一般该去其他部队，他说，比如说维和部队什么的。他说话很柔软，让人觉得过分谨慎。之前加入过阿富汗陆军排，上过波斯湾海军战舰 ，Wright对军队来说不能算是新手。但这是他第一次和海陆接触。咱们夹鸡肉糊的时候，我问他对海陆的第一印象怎样。 “嗯，我和一些上级住同一个帐篷。他们努力工作，阅读，睡觉 。” 粘着军官是个大错误。我告诉Wright。如果想要报道海陆的话，他应该花点时间和士兵们相处。不是军官，当然更不是上级。中士或者以下等级的士兵。他们年轻，疯狂，忠诚，为了谋生而上战场的人们。我们穿过营地，我指指我的排所在的帐篷，邀请他随时可以来和我的部下聊天。他想立刻就和他们见面。我们扬起挂布进入二排的起居地。Colbert正在读书，Reyes在用拳头顶着做俯卧撑。两个下士，Garza和Chaffin，用他们8英寸潜水刀互相比划着，随时要划开口子的样子。我离开的时候，想着自己是不是把一只小白兔扔进了灰狗堆里。

  (收起)

  2011-09-16 11:43:53   11回应

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  第238页

  汤米米米米米米 (肌肉伟丈夫)

  The Marines thought that Colonel Ferrando was cavalier, that he sent them on missions with more regard for his career than for his men. Again, I disagreed. Command is a mask. Aleader can agonize behind it, should agonize behind it. I knew I did. I suspected the colonel did, too, but he couldn’t show it. Movement in the distance caught my attention, and I stood up straight, leaning on the p... (更多)

  The Marines thought that Colonel Ferrando was cavalier, that he sent them on missions with more regard for his career than for his men. Again, I disagreed. Command is a mask. Aleader can agonize behind it, should agonize behind it. I knew I did. I suspected the colonel did, too, but he couldn’t show it. Movement in the distance caught my attention, and I stood up straight, leaning on the pick and craning my head to see. In front of Lovell’s team, five people shuffled toward us. Two Marines advanced on them, weapons ready. I slid into my body armor and followed. As I got closer, I could see that two women were dragging an object wrapped in blankets. Behind them, three men pulled another bundle. All through Iraq, villagers approached us seeking medicine for their ailments, but this seemed different. I quickend my pace and saw Doc Bryan, with a medical kit slung over his shoulder, jogging toward the Iraqis, still a football field away from me. I began to run. By the time I reached them, Bryan had unwrapped the bundles, revealing two young boys, both in their teens. Brothers. The older one had a bullet wound in his leg. Coagulated blood crusted his calf and ankle. I saw the younger boy’s face before I saw his wound. He looked like the body I had seen at D.C. General Hospital. Pale green wax. The color revealed how much life had already speeped from the four holes in his abdomen. The boys’ mother and grandmother hovered over them. A few step away stood the boys’ father. They betrayed no emotion. Bryan inspected the wounds for a few seconds and announced they were from 5.56 mm rounds. The only such rounds in Iraq were American, and the only Americans there were us. In horror, I thought back to our assault on the airfield a few hours before. The pieces fell into place. Those weren’t rifles we had seen but shepherds’ canes, not muzzle flashes but the sun reflecting on a windshield. The running camels belonged to these boys. We’d shot two children. The platoon jumped into action. Two teams took over security, while Doc Bryan went to work on the boys. He triaged them and turned to the gut shots first. Tearing open his med kit, he grabbed Ivs and saline bags, blankets, scissors, and gauze. I reached down to help, recoiling unconsciously as blood seeped into my gloves, turning the green to black. The urge to help was overwhelming. This couldn’t happen. I had to make it right. Bryan was gentle in reminding me that I could be more useful in other way. “Sir, we have this under control. Can you get Dr. Aubin over here and try to get an aerial casevac? Tell’em we have an ‘urgen surgical’.” I expected everyone else to feel the same urgency we felt, but I was wrong. I ran into company headquaters, breathless, and explained what had happened. The captain simply said that a decision to help the kids was above his head. There was no time to fight with him. I moved on. Major Benelli sat in the shade of the battalion headquaters tent, digging at an MRE. “Sir, I have two wounded children in my lines. We shot them during the assault this morning. My corpsman’s doing what he can, but one of them’s urgent surgical.” He shrugged. “So?” I explained again that we had led the attack just after the call that all personnel on the field were declared hostile. We had seen people, flashes, mayby rifles, and had fired. But they weren’t soldiers. We had shot two kids, and now at least one of them was bleeding to death in front of my platoon. “The colonel’s asleep. Just tell them to go back to their house. We can’t help them.” He went back to his food, dismissing me. My vision narrowed to a tunnel. There was no clean, clinical explanation for what I felt and what I wanted to do. I wanted to tell the major that we were Americans, that Americans don’t shoot kids and let them die, that the men in my platoon had to be able to look themselves in the mirror for the rest of their lives. I wanted him to get out there and put his hands in the kid’s chest to stop the blood that flowed in rhythmic spurts from the holes. I wanted to cradle the major’s head between my arms and twist. But there wasn’t time. I was still conditioned to accept senior officers’ decisions, regardless of their stupidity, criminality, or inhumanity. So I walked away and found the battalion medical officer, Navy Lieutenant Alex Aubin. I briefed him quickly. Aubin’s eyes were wide. He grabbed his equipment and went to join Doc Bryan while I returned to battalion headquarters. We still needed permission to evacuate the boys, and I couln’t do that on my own. Benelli smirked when I approached. “The colonel’s still asleep, Lietenant. I’m not waking him, and I’m not endangering Americans to evacuate those casualties. Deal with it.” Those cracks in my trust were getting wider, growing into chasms, filling with fear and rage, sorrow and regret. I felt impotent, but I wasn’t powerless. I had an assault rifle in my hands. I could shoot the motherfucker. I could hold him hostage until he called in that helicopter. There was just enough cool self-awareness left in my mind to stop me. This was one of those times I’d been told I’d face. After all that training, all the ego-inflating and power-tripping that went with being a Marine, this was it. My very own leaderhip challenge. I drove back to the platoon. Our values were being inverted, and it threatened to destroy us. Good Marines were sent on a stupid mission governed by harebrained rules of engagement, and now they were being abandoned to suffer the consequences of those people’s poor decisions. I thought of the untold innocent civillians who must have been killed by artillery and air strikes over the past week. The only difference was that we hadn’t stuck around to see the effects those wrought. Our actions were being thrust in our faces, and the chain of command was passing the buck to the youngest, and most vulnerable, of the troops. I hadn’t been seized by a sudden burst of conscience. Pro-war. Anti-war. War for freedom. War for oil. Philosophical disputes were a luxury I could not enjoy. War was what I had. We didn’t vote for it, authorize it, or declare it. We just had to fight it. And fighting it, for me, meant two things: winning and getting my men home alive. Alive, though, set the bar too low. I had to get them home physically and psychologically intact. They had to know that, whether or not they supported the larger war, they had fought their little piece of it with honor and had retained their humanity. If they got killed or went insane, I had to be able to look at their mothes and explain that they hadn’t been victims of their own comrades’ mistakes. Those Iraqi boys could die, but I couldn’t let them die in our hands. Doc Bryan looked up expectantly as I approached. He and Dr. Aubin had stabilized the boys but made it clear that the younger one would die without immediate surgery. The older child would probably linger on for a few days before infection killed him. Colbert stood there, with tears in his eyes. I pulled Aubin aside. “Sir, the battalion says these kids can get fucked. They want us to let them die. What’re the rules if you take control of a casualty?” There was our escape. Once the battalion medical officer had control of wounded cilvilians, we were legally and ethically required to give them all available care. We gathered eight stretcher-bearers and struck out, on foot, across the field to battalion headquarters. “Here you go, sir. You want to let them die, they can die right there in front of your tent.” Doc Bryan gingerly lowered the stretcher in front of Major Benelli, who, for once, had nothing to say. Faced with a small-scale mutiny and the growing realization that posterity would frown on Marine officers who sat by while children died of Marine-inflicted gunshot wounds, he slipped around the back of the tent to wake the colonel. Ferrando ordered the boys’ immediate evacuation to RCT-1’s field hospital, where they would be treated by a shock-trauma platoon. Doc Bryan rode along with them to maintain continuity of care until they were turned over to the surgeons. I walked back to the platoon, trying to think of what I could tell them. Gunny Wynn and I spent the afternoon cleaning our weapons. I sat in the sunlight next to the Humvee and took off my boots for the first time in two days. My feet were white and shriveled. They smelled like something between cheese and roadkill. I spread a dirty rag in my lap and pulled my M-16 apart. First I wiped down the receiver with oil and set it aside. Then I popped off the plastic hand guards and cleaned the barrel with the rag. I punched a cotton swab down through the chamber; it emerged black with carbon. Tapping the bullets from each magazine, I wiped the dust and grit from every round and then stretched and cleaned the magazine springs. Staff Sergeant Marine had taught me that most weapon failures were due to problems with the magazines. After reassembling the rifle, I pulled my Beretta from its holster and unloaded it. Racking the silde to the rear, I took it apart, laying the pieces in my lap. One by one, I cleaned them, turning them over in my hands and watching the sun glint off the dull blue steel. There was comfort in doing this; it gave me time to think without appearing to daydream. When Doc Bryan returend, I called the Marines together. Platoons are families. In the worst platoons, the Marines love one another. But in the best, they also like one another. We had one of the best. I couldn’t bear to see it destroyed. Conflict and disagreement had to be aired, or they would fester, simmering below the surface and corroding the relationships on which our combat effectiveness was built. We had to talk about what had happened. I had to be psychiatrist, coach and father, without anyone suspecting I was anything but platoon commander. “Fellas, today was fucked-up, completely insane. But we can’t control the missions we get, only how we execute them,” I said. I explained that the battalion had an obligation to General Mattis, an obligation to provide him with options instead of excuses. We were at war, and a different set rules applied. There was no way to eliminate all the risks, eiher to ourselves or to the people around us. “I failed you this morning by allowing that ‘declared hostile’call to stand. My failure put you in an impossilbe position.” Tragic as it was, shooting the two boys had been entirely within the rules of engagement as they had been given to us. There would be no command investigation into what had happened. Investigations exist in a narrow sense to assign blame, but they also serve to propagate lessons learned. I tried to draw out those lessons for the platoon. “First, we made a mistake this morning,” I siad. Technical details aside, we were U.S. Marines, and Marines are professional warriors fighting for the greatest democracy in the world. We don’t shoot kids. When we do, we acknowledge the tragedy and learn from it. Unfortunately, I didn’t think it was the last time we’d have to make those kinds of decisions. “Second, I need you to compratmentalize today.” I told the guys to tuck the experience away in their brains, way back there with their wives and their girlfriends and their dogs. It wouldn’t help them survive tomorrow. I needed every one of them to learn from it and put it away. “Third, no second-guessing and armchair-quarterbacking.” We made fast decisions all the time. Sometimes we were right, and sometimes we were wrong. We couldn’t hesitate tomorrow because of a mistake today. That could get us killed. Come what may, we were a team, and we’d stay a team. When the Marines went back to their places on the line, they walked in groups of two or three. They would stand watch together, eat together, and joke together. But I was alone. I sat in the cab of the Humvee and watched them go. In Afghanistan, I had had Jim and Patrick, my fellow Lietenants. Recon was different, more independent, and combat forged bonds within platoons, not across them. Gunny Wynn and I had passed the stage of purely professional teamwork and become friends. I confided in him my doubts about the war, the company, and members of the platoon. But never about myself. The events of the day overcame me all at once, and I struggled to breathe without crying. As darkness fell over Qalat Sukkar, I sat alone in the dim green light of the radios. I felt sick for the shepherd boys, for the girl in the blue dress, and for all the innocent people who surely lived in Nasiriyah, Ar Rifa, and the other towns this war would consume. I hurt for my Marines, goodhearted American guys who’d bear these burdens for the rest of their lives. And I mourned for myself. Not in self-pity, but for the kid who’d come to Iraq. He was gone. I did all this in the dark, away from the platoon, because combat command is the loneliest job in the world.

  (收起)

  2011-08-14 11:12:41   回应

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  第243页

  Elwoobatch (Don't be a full(fool))

  When the Marines went back to their places on the line, they walked in groups of two or three. They would stand watch together, eat together, and joke together. But I was alone. I sat in the cab of the Humvee and watched them go. In Afghanistan, I had had Jim and Patrick, my fellow lieutenants. Recon was different, more independent, and combat forged bonds within platoons, not across them. Gunny W... (更多)

  When the Marines went back to their places on the line, they walked in groups of two or three. They would stand watch together, eat together, and joke together. But I was alone. I sat in the cab of the Humvee and watched them go. In Afghanistan, I had had Jim and Patrick, my fellow lieutenants. Recon was different, more independent, and combat forged bonds within platoons, not across them. Gunny Wynn and I had pass the stage of purely professional teamwork and become friends. I confided in him my doubts about the war, the company, and members of the platoon. But never about myself. The event of the day overcame me all at once, and I struggled to breathe without crying.

  As darkness fell over Qalat Sukkar, I sat alone in the dim green light of the radios. I felt sick for the shepherd boys, for the girl in the blue dress, and for all the innocent people who surely lived in Nasiriyah, Ar Rifa, and the other towns this war would consume. I hurt for my Marines, goodhearted American guys who'd bear these burdens for the rest of their lives. And I mourned for myself. Not in self-pity, but for the kid who'd come to Iraq. He was gone. I did all this in the dark, away from the platoon, because combat command is the loneliest job in the world. (收起)

  2012-02-01 14:00:40   6回应

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  第355页

  Elwoobatch (Don't be a full(fool))

  Ishmael shepherded us through Babylon's cobbled streets. He spoke lilting English, weaving a story of mighty kings and fallen empires. Behind him, like so many schoolkids on a field trip, trailed the platoon, covered with guns and knives, straining to hear every word. We walked down the fabled Street of Processions, past the basalt Lion of Babylon, and across the stage on which Alexander is rumore... (更多)

  Ishmael shepherded us through Babylon's cobbled streets. He spoke lilting English, weaving a story of mighty kings and fallen empires. Behind him, like so many schoolkids on a field trip, trailed the platoon, covered with guns and knives, straining to hear every word. We walked down the fabled Street of Processions, past the basalt Lion of Babylon, and across the stage on which Alexander is rumored to have died. Colbert slid next to me and marveled that, in only two year, we had followed two of Alexander's most fabled campaigns - across Afghanistan and Iraq.

  "Somehow I doubt I'll be remembered as 'Brad the Great', " he said.

  Ishmael mixed his history lesson with modern parallels: new beginnings, imperial hubris, the dead of an old regime. He kept up a running commentary on Saddam's abuses. Six of his family members, including his only son, had been executed in the 1990s. Inside the mysteriously cool natural icehouses deep beneath the floors, he quietly expressed his hope that the Americans would kill Saddam and end hi terror definitively. The fear still gripped him.

  Back outside, Espera stood against a wall, with the sunlight casting sharp shadows across a stone courtyard. "Look around. This great empire rose and fell. Everything rises and falls, nations and individuals, too, " he said. Lacking a cigar to point with, he leaned back on his hands. "Sometimes I think these decisions are already made; the script is already written, and we're the last to read it. Maybe the universe is like a big watch: If you can crack the formula to the universal principles, then you can figure it all out."

  Colbert cut in. "Is this your goddamn lottery theory again?"

  Espera ignored the exasperation and bent toward me. "Think about the lottery for a second, " he continued. "You buy some tickets at 7-Eleven, and you turn on the TV that night to watch some dude read numbers off Ping-Pong balls. Well, there's nothing random about which numbers pop up." Espera said this as if it were all self-evident. Then he narrowed his eyes and got to the point. "if you could calculate the weight of the balls, the temperature and humidity of the room, the force of the little air jets, and a thousand other variables, then you could correctly predict what numbers win. " He looked around with satisfaction. "Same thing here. Babaylon fell. Iraq fell. The United States will someday fall. It's already written. That bullet that hit Pappy had his name on it since it was iron ore in the ground. We just couldn't see and calculate all the variables in time to save him. I'm not sure if that makes me feel better or worse."

  A small crowd had gathered. Ishmael looked uncertainly at his competition. Reyes clapped Espera on the back and said, "Don't know if I agree with you, brother, but well said. Amen."

  Colbert wandered off, saying, "Tony, you need to go home and get laid."

  "Tell me something I don't know, white boy." Espera fell back into his own brooding, and we followed Ishmael toward the Ishtar Gate. (收起)

  2012-02-03 21:08:58   2回应

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  第330页

  Elwoobatch (Don't be a full(fool))

  ...... "Get the C-4, Colbert, and do your thing. If you blow your hand off, so help me God, I'll chop the other one off myself," I said. ...... "No need to chop my hand off, sir." Colbert smiled and lit the fuse. (更多)

  ......

  "Get the C-4, Colbert, and do your thing. If you blow your hand off, so help me God, I'll chop the other one off myself," I said.

  ......

  "No need to chop my hand off, sir." Colbert smiled and lit the fuse.

  (收起)

  2012-02-03 14:56:15   回应

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  第283页

  Elwoobatch (Don't be a full(fool))

  "Vehicle from the front. Blue sedan. Three or four passegers." Colbert's report was terse, spoken in the clipped tones of a guy juggling rifle, binoculars, and a radio handset while reporting to his commander, giving orders to his subordinates, and planning his next move. If anyone could manage this balancing act, it was Brad Colbert. He'd been named the battalion's Team Leader of the Ye... (更多)

  "Vehicle from the front. Blue sedan. Three or four passegers." Colbert's report was terse, spoken in the clipped tones of a guy juggling rifle, binoculars, and a radio handset while reporting to his commander, giving orders to his subordinates, and planning his next move. If anyone could manage this balancing act, it was Brad Colbert. He'd been named the battalion's Team Leader of the Year, and I had boundless confidence in him.

  "Roger. Escalation of force. Don't let him pass," I said. But I thought, Blue sedan? Fuck, I knew it. Fuck, fuck, fuck. Just as we move to the front of the battalion, too. All right, Brad, you were Team Leader of the Year. Do the right thing, my man.

  ---看到這裡真是忍不住啦 (收起)

  2012-02-03 09:17:44   回应

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