the Pentagon told us they were; ruthless, uneducated nameless heathens. That’s how they ran their wars. There wasn’t a Ngoo Yen or a Fat Dook, not a husband or a father or an ex-schoolteacher. Just a bunch of gooks. That’s why we underestimated them. How can you fight people you don’t understand? How can you kill people you don’t love? That was my point. There has to be a passionate reason to kill a man. You know what I mean? None of us had that passion. Hey, honey. I’m way ahead of you here. You wanna catch the general up on some of this?”
Peach wasn’t sure how to go about translating Potter’s point, nor was she certain the general was listening. There was beer on the table and he’d guzzled his first glass with more gusto than she’d noticed from him all trip. The Americans had brought in a dozen crates of Bud on their chopper. It was chilled, having spent the day in the cool water trough out back. With beer being so hard to come by, it was a treat, a honeymoon to consummate this morning’s first date. The Americans had the art of seduction down to a fine point.
“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
Peach wasn’t sure how to go about translating Potter’s point, nor was she certain the general was listening. There was beer on the table and he’d guzzled his first glass with more gusto than she’d noticed from him all trip. The Americans had brought in a dozen crates of Bud on their chopper. It was chilled, having spent the day in the cool water trough out back. With beer being so hard to come by, it was a treat, a honeymoon to consummate this morning’s first date. The Americans had the art of seduction down to a fine point.
“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
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