: Don Bodey
: F.N.G
: Modern History Press
: 9781615999309
: 1
: CHF 6.00
:
: Erzählende Literatur
: English
: 280
: DRM
: PC/MAC/eReader/Tablet
: ePUB

Everyone is gunning for the New Guy
Gabriel Sauers of Two Squad is a soldier, newly arrived in Vietnam--a country too beautiful to invite so savagely unreal a war. But Gabriel won't be a New Guy for long. He'll go through incoming mortars, he'll see the enemy alive. He'll wander through a hell that will turn the green recruit lucky enough to survive into a death-hardened veteran, longing for nothing more than a return to the world of hot baths and cold beer, no bullets, and no noise. Now, 40 years later, he is grappling with an action on the verge of his grandson Seth's deployment to Iraq that will change both their lives forever.
Critics Praise Don Bodey'sF.N.G
'One of the most hard-hitting of all the vietnam novels' -- The Boston Herald
'A powerful social document and a well-written, deeply moving first novel...highly recommended' --The Library Journal 'Raw, profane...a candidly moving portrayal of the average American soldier in Vietnam, who often found courage when he did not seek it--but little of anything else.' --Chicago Sun-Times
'The day to day grind, beautifully and touchingly rendered by...a Vietnam veteran, is told with an unrelenting accumulation of detail.' --The New York Times Book Review
'Bodey packs considerable emotional freight...into a style that remains deliberately supple, cool, and declarative...An impressive novel.' --The Cleveland Plain Dealer
'A harrowing vividly written account of hell with a leavening of light moments. A revelation for one who wasn't there. Painful for those who were.' --Bob Mason, author ofCHICKENHAWK
'All Quiet on the Western Front drives its readers to the front of World War I.F.N.G helicopters its readers to a new front: Vietnam.' --Bestsellers
(an Imprint of Loving Healing Press)

1Present Day

“I can forgive, but if you ask me to forget, you ask me to give up experience.”

—Louis Brandeis

Flakes, snow saucers, amble down, like they have a mind and don't want to land. In the streetlight a hundred feet away they float like birds bobbing in small waves. But here, in the forty-watt garage light, they dither in dizzy scribbles, ten feet off the ground. Some hit the old dog's nose and some her filmed-over eyes, but she lies there and looks up as though she isn't missing a thing.

When I say her name, she raises her head and a few flakes coast onto her yellow brows.

Jesus, Seth could be in Iraq in a week.

Except, I'm going to give him a million-dollar wound. I don't want him to come back like I came back from Nam.

The refrigerator whines and the old-water smell of this place passes through the door I'm standing in. The snowfall is thinner. Mary's bathroom light stabs the darkness, a train whistles two miles away, a weak god blowing on a bottle. In Nam, when they asked me what I missed about home, I said a train whistle.

The sparkle of the TV turns nearby snowflakes purple and green for an instant, the dog turns her nose that way. How many times have Seth and I sat in the woods together, watching it snow? I lean against the doorjamb, watch, and rub the silver dollar in my pocket. The markings are all gone, it's thin. My dad was hoeing a potato field, seventy years ago, and got bit by a coral snake but didn't die, so the man told him he earned a whole dollar that day. He carried it forty year