retriever对《One Bullet Away》的笔记(1)

retriever (generally shiny)

读过 One Bullet Away

One Bullet Away
  • 书名: One Bullet Away
  • 作者: Nathaniel C. Fick
  • 副标题: The Making of a Marine Officer
  • 页数: 400
  • 出版社: Mariner Books
  • 出版年: 2006-9-7
  • 觉得萌的(其实要萌疯了)

    Sergeant Colbert pulled me aside. “Sir, can you please tell me what our company commander has done to his Humvee?” He nodded toward the CO’s headquarters vehicle, which had black duct tape covering all the windows except the windshield. Earlier in the day, I had asked the captain the same question. He said he wanted to be able to read his maps by flashlight at night and not have the light visible outside the vehicle. When I pointed out to him that he wouldn’t be able to see outside the Humvee, he shrugged it off, as if situational awareness was what he had recon teams for. “Sergeant Colbert, you know better than to ask me a question like that.” Colbert smiled. “Roger that.” Behind him, Corporal Person sat in the driver’s seat of Colbert’s Humvee. He drummed his fingers on the armor door, singing a Tupac song about dying in a gunfight. Person caught me watching him and explained, “Moto music, sir. Brings out my inner psycho.” ———— Gunny Wynn was from Texas, wise and wiry. He had served in combat as a sniper in Mogadishu in the early 1990s, and then again while working at the U.S. embassy in El Salvador. When I’d learned he was going to be my platoon sergeant, I had called Eric Dill at his new post in Hawaii. “Get on your knees and thank God,” he said. “You got one of the best.” Like Staff Sergeant Marine, Wynn wasn’t a yeller. He earned the respect of his men by being honest and fair. As a more seasoned lieutenant, I didn’t require the same coaching I’d needed two years before, so Wynn and I were partners from the start. Sergeant Colbert would lead Team One. He was a blond, cerebral San Diegan, known as “the Iceman” for his cool performance as a recon team leader on our raids near Kandahar a year before. We all slid into a wooden pew together and chatted before the start of the brief. President Bush had recently told the United Nations that its failure to enforce resolutions against Iraq would leave the United States no choice but to act on its own. The senior Marines in the battalion had seen all this before, and the general consensus was still that diplomatic blustering would result in some kind of negotiated solution. No American tank would ever roll into Baghdad. The room grew quiet as the division chief of staff, a colonel, took his place on the altar. “Worshiping the god of war,” Colbert muttered. ———— I took a breath and began to run. Another burst of fireballs burned past, overshooting again and landing with puffs of dust far out in the field to our west. A Mark-19 roared in response, and I saw a gunner in Colbert’s Humvee pumping rounds toward the source of the AAA fire. As I got closer to the platoon, my confidence returned. I was back in command. Trombley crouched near the Humvee, leaning into a huge pair of binoculars. Hasser stood in the turret behind the Mark-19, looking down at Trombley. “See where the tree line ends on the right?” Trombley said. “About two fingers left of that, set back in the trees. I think that’s where the gun is.” Hasser loosed a burst, walking the exploding grenades in on the spot described by Trombley. It looked like the AAA gun was near the Mark-19’s maximum range, maybe even out of range. They could shoot us, but we couldn’t shoot them. In the driver’s seat of Colbert’s Humvee, Person was singing. “One, two, three, four, what the fuck are we fighting for?” “You have to answer that for yourself,” I said as I crouched against the fender, scanning with my binoculars. “Well, sir,” Person said, turning in the seat to face me, oblivious to the fight all around him, “I guess I’m fighting for cheap gas and a world without ragheads blowing up our fucking buildings.” “Good to know you’re such an idealist.” “That world sounds pretty ideal to me right about now.” ————— Walking back across the field, I saw Sergeants Colbert, Patrick, and Lovell converging on the platoon headquarters Humvee. They carried map boards and rifles and looked as if they already knew what I was about to tell them. A Humvee hood doubles as a decent map table, so we held platoon briefings around its ten square feet of dusty fiberglass. They joined Gunny Wynn, chatting together as I walked up. Colbert grinned and said, “Sir, I don’t like that look in your eye.” “Yeah, well, we’re saddling up and rolling out of here at 2200 local to move through that town to our west and set up ambushes on the other side to interdict the fedayeen moving toward Highway 7.” After a week of being sniped at, shot at, and mortared, we were going to set the agenda. As the Marine Corps puts it, we were going to take the fight to the enemy. “Ambushes?” Sergeant Patrick snorted. Clearly, this plan did not excite him. Only ten days before, I had listened as Patrick had cautioned his team with one of his countless southern aphorisms: “Never pet a burning dog.” “Yeah. We’ll roll through the town as a battalion, then split off as platoons and move to our sectors to set up and watch for fedayeen traffic. At dawn, we’ll pull out and move north to link up with everyone else. We have the chance to hunt here rather than be hunted.” “I understand that, sir, but moving into our ambush site in unfamiliar territory in the dark is bad business.” Patrick spoke slowly for emphasis. “And then, how are we supposed to identify who’s fedayeen and who’s not? We can’t just walk up to them and ask. Not out there all alone as a platoon.” —————— “Vehicle from the front. Blue sedan. Three or four passengers.” 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. Since Colbert’s first radio call, perhaps five seconds had elapsed. I heard the single pop of an M203 grenade launcher and knew a warning round of colored smoke had been fired at the car. Then I saw it, moving very fast. The two Humvees stopped in the road and their goggled turret gunners aimed in. —————— “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. “Roger that, sir.” We herded the growing crowd outside the courtyard as Sergeant Colbert and his team built a charge to detonate the RPG round. He molded a lump of plastic explosive into a disk the size of a silver dollar and inserted a blasting cap. Colbert took the C-4 in one hand and looped thirty yards of time fuse in the other. He and Sergeant Espera entered the yard and walked carefully toward the offending fin. Their helmet chin straps were snugged and their flak jackets tightly closed. When they approached the round, they dropped to their hands and knees, and then to their stomachs, crawling slowly forward and stringing the fuse behind them. No one in the platoon breathed as Colbert tucked the charge into the hole the RPG had dug in the turf. Because it had been fired, the round was armed and could explode at any time. He nestled the charge close to the body of the grenade and then tamped dirt on top to amplify the effect of the blast. Colbert and Espera reversed their approach— first crawling, then kneeling, and finally walking quickly back to the waiting platoon. “No need to chop my hand off, sir.” Colbert smiled and lit the fuse. Marines waved the Iraqis down to a crouch. Colbert waited quietly, looking at his watch, before yelling, “Fire in the hole!” A geyser of dirt shot up over the wall, raining pebbles down into the yard and sending a dust cloud out into the street. The villagers cowered for the briefest instant before breaking into cheers. Sergeant Colbert and I walked into the courtyard, looking for the scattered bits of C-4 that would indicate an incomplete detonation. There were none. A crater marked the former resting place of the RPG round, and only tiny scraps of metal remained from the grenade itself. Ibrahim and the owner of the house approached us. “Thank you. Thank you. Please come inside and drink tea with us. You are our guests today.” Colbert smiled wanly and deferred to me. “Sir, I have a team to take care of. You’re our diplomat.” He walked back to his men, who were now trading high-fives with Iraqi boys wearing wraparound sunglasses borrowed from the Marines. I explained that we had other towns to visit and other jobs to do. Ibrahim understood and welcomed us back to Qalat Abd al Jasadi anytime. Driving out of town, I felt that we had accomplished something greater than blowing up one leftover grenade. —————— Colbert slid next to me and marveled that, in only two years, 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. —————— Colbert stood there with tears in his eyes. (讲误射伊拉克小孩那段) —————— 总之觉得oba里的nate和gk的观感实在太接近了,而且连声音都很像总让我觉得超级微妙的...rayray也基本上没什么太大差别,orz,但其实nate写道他真的超级少就。然后就是nate和poke早认识了,而且看样子关系应该不错的。 但是Brad差好多!真的差好多,总有种外酷内软得不得了的感觉....

    2012-11-04 17:38:38 1人推荐 6人喜欢 2回应