Colin Cotterill - Slash and Burn

“This is what we should have been doing all along,” Potter said, spearing a frankfurter. “Engaging. You’re all nice guys deep down, and you know what I like? You don’t gloat. We gloat. You don’t gloat. You know what the Vietcong did after they kicked our ass out? They sent a bill for damages of fifty billion bucks. They wrote it on a restaurant invoice sheet and addressed it to Kissinger. You gotta admire that. Ha! A goddamn bill. I bet the general’s got a heap of questions he’s been dying to ask an American soldier. Am I right?”

Peach asked. The general smiled, spoke briefly and took another slurp of beer.

“The general can’t think of anything just now,” she told him.

“I bet he can’t. I bet he can’t. These are emotional times. I relate to that. It took me some while to come to grips with my emotions too. To find and exorcize my demons. All that unnecessary slaughter. The destruction. I said to myself one day, “Hey, these are people we’re strafing here. There’s gotta be a better way.” And this is it, honey. This is that way. Beers across the table. Loving thine enemy. I’m so proud to be here. Cheers.” He lifted his glass and the general tapped it with his own. “Yes, sir. You got it. You certain he doesn’t have any questions?”

Peach didn’t bother to ask nor did she comment. She knew that Potter wasn’t exorcizing his demons. He was drowning them one by one. And now they were holding onto his ankles and dragging him down with them. She couldn’t let this go on. He was unsuitable for his role. People like Potter had to be removed. She could make sure of that.

Siri, Daeng and Civilai didn’t have an American. They felt a bit left out. At the next table were two of them huddled together. The second secretary from the Bangkok embassy, Mack Gordon was late thirties and overweight with an outdoor look like a hairy dog on the back of a pickup truck licking at the wind. His smile spread from ear to ear and his tongue seemed too big for his mouth. Talking to him was Randal Rhyme from Time magazine. Siri and Civilai knew Woody Allen from his films, of course, and were certain Rhyme was his brother; Woody being the taller, tougher-looking older brother with more hair.

“It’s racism,” said Civilai. He attempted to crush one of the cans but the Budweiser corporation obviously re inforced them before sending them off to remote areas. He was able to dimple it quite fearsomely, however.

“They’ve probably heard about you two,” Daeng said. “Who’s going to volunteer to come to this table to be victimized?”

“We’d be very pleasant, wouldn’t we, Siri?” Civilai protested.

“Why does everyone else get one and not us? They’ve obviously had orders to mingle, to make us all feel like family. It’s all been orchestrated to lull us into a mood of love and peace. I wouldn’t be surprised if they’ve put something in the beer.”

“Hmm. This is a Civilai conspiracy theory I haven’t had the pleasure of hearing before,” Daeng laughed. “While the Russians and Chinese and Vietnamese are attempting to conquer us with money and consumer goods, the Americans sneak in under the radar and win us over with love and tourism.”

“They’ve tried everything else,” Civilai reminded her.

“So, if that’s true, why aren’t they here wooing us?” Daeng asked.

“Exactly. They’re damned clever. They know that I know their plot so they’re holding back. It’s a double … something or other. I’ve a good mind to go over there and crash their meeting and show them some assault hospitality of my own.”

Siri laughed. “If I didn’t know you better … and I obviously don’t, I’d say you were just miffed ’cause we haven’t got an American to play with. You’re jealous.”

“And I bet you half a dozen cans of free beer that you don’t dare go over there,” Daeng added.

“You won’t find the word ‘dareless’ in the Civilai dictionary, madam.”

He rose majestically, grabbed three unopened cans of beer from the metal tray table beside him and marched to the neighboring table. Without missing a beat, Secretary Gordon pulled out a chair for their invader and they all shook hands.

“He seems to have done it,” said Siri.

“And they’ve apparently found a common language somewhere between them,” Daeng noticed. “They’re laughing.”

“Well, you wouldn’t catch me selling out to the other side,” said Siri.

“Me neither.”

“There isn’t enough water in the Mekhong that would make me talk to one of them.”

“I’d sooner run head first into a bramble bush.”

“I’d pull you out.”

“Thank you.” She looked around as she sipped her beer. “Tell me, the farang with the shiny head and glasses, he’s a journalist, isn’t he?”

“Yes. Why?”

“Well, don’t look over your shoulder now but he’s coming this way.”

“Fight him off, Daeng.”

“It’s too late.”

Rhyme from Time stood over them-only a little over them-and produced an irresistible smile. His blue eyes were magnified to double their size by his thick lenses.

“Wow!” he said, and then, in fluent French, “Madame Daeng and Dr. Siri Paiboun in the flesh. This is very exciting for me. A great honor I can’t tell you how much I’ve looked forward to meeting you two.”

Siri leaned across and pulled out a chair.

Day two of the mission began very much as had day one. The choppers landed at the site, the teams carried their equipment to Vang Pao’s house and set up the folding tables. Upon the arrival of Saint Siri, Ugly wagged his stub of a tail so frantically he threw himself sideways. Siri had saved him some breakfast so the relationship was cemented. The food, the newspaper it was wrapped in and a few mouthfuls of dirt were gone in ten seconds.

Whether the queues had remained in place overnight was hard to say but there appeared to be no changes in the lineup on the second day. The teams split into their groups and began to investigate the claims. An impressive array of objects was collected: tin ration trays, bootlaces, a complete arsenal of Zippo lighters, and, remarkably, a Charley Weaver mechanical bar tender without batteries. Where it actually came from nobody knew, although its owners claimed a pilot had given it to them as he was escaping a burning helicopter. You had to admire them for trying.

An hour had passed and still nobody had found a verifiable link to Captain Bowry. That was until the arrival of a group of old men and young boys dressed in black with spare sarongs worn as turbans. They had fashioned some sort of litter out of bamboo. On it, tied down with rope, was the tailplane of a helicopter with its directional rotors still attached. They carried it solemnly, like pallbearers, lowered it respectfully onto the ground in front of Vang Pao’s house, and stood back.

“My word,” said Siri. He left his table, abandoning a group of Hmong women who were trying to sell him a gold tooth. He stood beside the litter and was soon joined by all the other team members. Someone let out a low whistle. The tailplane had apparently been torn from the helicopter by an explosion. The metal at its base was jagged and black. The rest was dark green and had no military insignias but the figures H32 in white were clearly visible.

“That’s it,” said Dtui. “That’s the one in the photographs. H32.”

Major Potter had shown them the embassy pictures on the first day and now he was holding up the tailplane photo to compare with this new arrival. His excitement confirmed it was a match. He didn’t know who to hug first. He barked something to Peach who, in turn, asked the pallbearers in Lao where they’d found this wreckage. They smiled and nodded, but nobody answered. They attempted the same question in Hmong, Kang and Lu before Phosy finally hit the jackpot with his Phuan. The Phuan had once had their own kingdom in the region. But as hostility and violence weren’t their strong points they were eventually decimated by the warlords around them, finally to be forced into slavery by the Siamese. According to the ethnicity poll of 1977, there were barely ten thousand left in Laos. But this had to be a very isolated group if they had no other major languages between them. Phosy led the group to a chicken’s earrings tree, arranged for water, and as they drank they recalled their two-week journey with the dragon’s tail. The inspector showed them a map and although the group had no concept of how a vast wilderness could be shrunk and flattened onto a square of paper, they were able to guide Phosy’s finger via the setting and rising suns and the mountains and valleys and rivers, to their home.