Brewster (Brew) Quotes in Fallen Angels
“You call that a sport?” Monaco asked. “I mean, there you are, you gotta weigh two hundred pounds, and you got a rifle, and you’re against a squirrel that weighs maybe two or three pounds, and he ain’t got nothing.”
“Man, it’s a damn sport!” Simpson protested […]
“The way I figure it,” Monaco went on, “if you hunt a squirrel with a rifle, what do you hunt a bear with? Artillery?”
“Call in some white phosphorous on him,” Brew said. “That’ll get his attention until the jets zero in.”
[…]
“You don’t know nothing about no hunting!” Simpson was getting pissed. “You don’t know what hunting is!”
“What he’s trying to say […] is that the white phosphorous is enough. After it burns the bear’s ass off, then the good sergeant will finish him off with a couple of frag grenades,” [said Lobel].
[…] Sergeant Simpson got up and left the hooch.
“Sometimes,” he said, “prayer can be very comforting. I wonder if any of you men would like to pray with me?”
“No,” I said.
“Why not?”
“You wouldn’t understand if I told you,” I said.
“Try me,” he said.
“I just don’t want to pray,” I said.
“Figure you don’t want to make your peace if you’re not ready to die?”
I smiled. I had to smile. He was right and he knew it. “Something like that.”
“You ever go into combat?”
“Into combat? Yes. I’ve never fired a weapon at anyone, though.”
“You figure if you don’t shoot at anybody, God’s going to take care of you?”
“I don’t know,” he said. “I sure as hell hope so.”
Thoughts came. What would Morningside Avenue look like now? It would be day and the park would be filled with kids, their screaming and laughter would slide along the light beams into the helter skelter world of monkey bars and swings. On the courts there would be a tough game. Black bodies sweating and grunting to get the points that would let them sweat and grunt in the sun for another game. It wasn’t real. None of it was real. The only thing that was real was me and Peewee, sitting in this spider’s grave, waiting for death.
[…]
Pray.
God….What to pray? What to tell God? That I’m scared? […] That I didn’t want to die? That I was like everybody else over here, trying to cling to a few more days of life?
Peewee moved, adjusted position.
“I got to shit,” he said.
Brewster (Brew) Quotes in Fallen Angels
“You call that a sport?” Monaco asked. “I mean, there you are, you gotta weigh two hundred pounds, and you got a rifle, and you’re against a squirrel that weighs maybe two or three pounds, and he ain’t got nothing.”
“Man, it’s a damn sport!” Simpson protested […]
“The way I figure it,” Monaco went on, “if you hunt a squirrel with a rifle, what do you hunt a bear with? Artillery?”
“Call in some white phosphorous on him,” Brew said. “That’ll get his attention until the jets zero in.”
[…]
“You don’t know nothing about no hunting!” Simpson was getting pissed. “You don’t know what hunting is!”
“What he’s trying to say […] is that the white phosphorous is enough. After it burns the bear’s ass off, then the good sergeant will finish him off with a couple of frag grenades,” [said Lobel].
[…] Sergeant Simpson got up and left the hooch.
“Sometimes,” he said, “prayer can be very comforting. I wonder if any of you men would like to pray with me?”
“No,” I said.
“Why not?”
“You wouldn’t understand if I told you,” I said.
“Try me,” he said.
“I just don’t want to pray,” I said.
“Figure you don’t want to make your peace if you’re not ready to die?”
I smiled. I had to smile. He was right and he knew it. “Something like that.”
“You ever go into combat?”
“Into combat? Yes. I’ve never fired a weapon at anyone, though.”
“You figure if you don’t shoot at anybody, God’s going to take care of you?”
“I don’t know,” he said. “I sure as hell hope so.”
Thoughts came. What would Morningside Avenue look like now? It would be day and the park would be filled with kids, their screaming and laughter would slide along the light beams into the helter skelter world of monkey bars and swings. On the courts there would be a tough game. Black bodies sweating and grunting to get the points that would let them sweat and grunt in the sun for another game. It wasn’t real. None of it was real. The only thing that was real was me and Peewee, sitting in this spider’s grave, waiting for death.
[…]
Pray.
God….What to pray? What to tell God? That I’m scared? […] That I didn’t want to die? That I was like everybody else over here, trying to cling to a few more days of life?
Peewee moved, adjusted position.
“I got to shit,” he said.
