Sorry, guys, couldn't resist)
Sergeant Rudy Reyes, thirty-one, the platoon’s best martial-arts fighter (whom the other men continually jump and ambush in order to test themselves against his superior skills), describes his passion for the Marine Corps in terms that blend New Age mysticism with the spirit of comicbook adventure. “I joined the Marines for idealism and romance,” he says. “Idealism because it’s so hard. The Marine Corps is a wonderful tool of selfenlightenment. Discipline erases all preconceived notions, and the pain becomes a medium of self-discovery. That’s the idealistic side. The romance comes in because we are a small band of hard motherfuckers, trained to go behind enemy lines against forces twenty or forty times bigger than us.
And brother, if that ain’t romantic, I don’t know what is.”
Reyes has the insanely muscular body of a fantasy Hollywood action hero. Before joining the Marines, he lived in a dojo, competed nationally
in kung fu and tai chi tournaments, and fought in exhibitions with the Chinese national team. He is the battalion’s best martial artist, one of its strongest men, and seemingly one of the gayest. Though he is not gay in the sense of sexual orientation—Reyes, after all, is married—he is at least a highly evolved tough guy in touch with a well-developed feminine side.
With his imposing build, dark, Mexican-American features and yet skin so pale it’s almost porcelain, he is a striking figure. His fellow Marines call him “Fruity Rudy,” because he is so beautiful.
“It doesn’t mean you’re gay if you think Rudy’s hot. He’s just so beautiful,” Person explains. “We all think he’s hot.”
By late afternoon First Recon has pushed fifty kilometers into Iraq, becoming the northernmost Marine unit in the country. Now no one has
slept for thirty-six hours. It’s in the upper eighties outside, and cramped in the Humvee in plastic-lined MOPPs and rubber boots, everyone’s face drips sweat. Between calling out potential targets, Colbert and Person stay awake by screeching pop songs—Avril Lavigne’s “I’m with You” and “Skater Boy”—deliberately massacring them at the tops of their lungs.
Though at times throughout the advance north, Colbert’s vehicle goes on point for the entire battalion, placing its occupants at the very tip of the Coalition invasion, as the heat and fatigue delirium sets in, the undertaking sometimes feels like a family road trip. Colbert is the stern father figure. Person is like the mom, the communicator, trying to anticipate his needs, keeping spirits up with his cheerful banter. Garza and Trombley are the children, happily munching candy, eager to please their dad.
As team leader, Colbert controls every aspect of his men’s lives, down to their bodily functions.
“Trombley,” Colbert shouts, leaning over his rifle, watching his sector. “Are you drinking water?”
“Yes, Sergeant.”
“Are you pissing?”
“At our last halt, Sergeant.”
“Was it clear?”
“Yes, Sergeant.”
“Good.”
The desert leading up to the tracks is littered with industrial trash—shredded tires, old fence posts, wrecked machinery, wild dogs and, every thirty meters it seems, a lone rubber flip-flop. Person calls each one out, “ ’Nother flip-flop. ’Nother dude walking around somewhere with one sandal on.”
“Shut the fuck up, Person,” Colbert says.
“You know what happens when you get out of the Marine Corps,” Person continues. “You get your brains back.”
“I mean it, Person. Shut your goddamn piehole.”
At times, the two of them bicker like an old married couple. Being a rank lower than Colbert, Person can never directly express anger to him,
but on occasions when Colbert is too harsh and Person’s feelings are hurt, his driving becomes erratic. There are sudden turns, and the brakes
are hit for no reason. It will happen even in combat situations, with Colbert suddenly in the role of wooing his driver back with retractions and apologies.
But villagers who come out by the trail greet the Marines with smiles.
A teenage boy and girl walk ahead on the trail, holding hands.
“Kind of cute,” Colbert observes. “Don’t shoot them, Garza,” he adds.
As they roll past the hand-holding teens, Colbert and Person wave at them and start singing the South Park version of “Loving You,” with the
lyrics “Loving you is easy ’cause you’re bare-chested.”
“As soon as we capture Baghdad,” Person says, “Lee Greenwood is going to parachute in singing ‘I’m Proud to Be an American.’”
“Watch it,” Colbert says. “You know the rule.”
One of the cardinal rules of Colbert’s Humvee is that no one is permitted to make any references to country music. He claims that the mere
mention of country, which he deems “the Special Olympics of music,” makes him physically ill.
Colbert returns from taking a dump, and Trombley, whom Colbert has relentlessly pestered about drinking enough water to maintain clear urine, turns the tables on him.
“Have a good dump, Sergeant?” Trombley asks.
“Excellent,” Colbert answers. “Shit my brains out. Not too hard, not too runny.”
“That sucks when it’s runny and you have to wipe fifty times,” Trombley says conversationally.
“I’m not talking about that.” Colbert assumes his stern teacher’s voice. “If it’s too hard or too soft, something’s not right. You might have a
problem.”
“It should be a little acid,” Person says, offering his own medical opinion. “And burn a little when it comes out.”
“Maybe on your little bitch asshole from all the cock that’s been stuffed up it,” Colbert snaps.
(c) Evan Wright, "Generation Kill"
и надо будет завести отдельный тэг)