by James Reston
ING: I have proof.
REPORTER: What proof?
ING: Sheer logic. Highly valued in the West. Tell me what reason might this monk have had to light himself on fire?
REPORTER: Well, I’ve done a little work on that. His motives were political, exclusively—and therefore they were purely of the spirit. Only by being entirely the one and not at all the other could they be entirely the other and I really thought I had that.
ING: On his first day in my country, a reporter puts this barbecue on ticker tapes that go to every land. Is this not good for his career?
REPORTER: No—!
ING: No?
REPORTER: Well, yes—
ING: You are the one man with a motive for this foolishness.
REPORTER: I didn’t do it.
ING: You have proof?
REPORTER: No—.
ING: I have shown you my proof. Madame Ing has won that argument. It is time to do my dance for you. (SHE breaks toward a standing screen)
REPORTER: Madame Ing, I hope you won’t expel me.
ING: No. You may be wrong.
REPORTER: Wrong?
ING: You may not have bribed the monks to burn their friend. (The gong sounds. SHE passes behind the screen; emerges draped in a flowing costume) I have an army and I have a private army. (Dancing a prelude) My private army is made up entirely of women.
REPORTER: Yes, I know.
ING (Silencing him): I speak to speak. I do not speak to give you information. Objections have been raised because I pay my women more than my regular army. But my women are all officers, down to the lowest private. Now I present the guerrilla chief. (SHE assumes the posture of a bent-haunched, quavering man) And this is the lowest of my Paramilitary Girls. (SHE strikes the stance of a tall, fierce woman. In the dance that follows—a solo version of the entire Peking Opera—the Paramilitary Girl fights with the guerrilla and defeats him. ING withdraws behind her screen. Unseen, SHE uses a device to alter her voice—say a #10 can. Reverberant) You find us inscrutable here in the East.
REPORTER: It’s not just you. It’s the Americans here too. I can’t—
ING: Be patient. Soon you will understand even less. Your ignorance will be whipped with wind until it is pure as mist above the mountains. But you must await this time with patience—patient as the rocks. We will never be perfectly inscrutable to you till we have killed you and you do not know why. (The gong sounds)
REPORTER: Does that mean I go now?
Silence. The REPORTER starts off as the lights fade out. Slides: on the back wall appear glimpses of parts of the face of the actor playing the EVENT. Each slide shows just a single feature. The slides an in exaggerated half-tone—broken into dots as if for reproduction—and thus suggestive of pictures in a newspaper. If the slides come from more than one projector, they should alternate arrhythmically.
Slide: STRIP
The REPORTER is standing on the sidewalk of the Strip.
REPORTER: These people in power are a little hard to fathom. So I’ve come here, to the street they call the Strip. This is where the real people come, the normal, regular people. And what better place to look for the reality of this moment in history? Who better to talk to than the G.I.’s and the Government troops, the bar girls and the peddlers, people trying just to get along, to live their lives, to snatch a moment of pleasure or excitement in the midst of the horror and confusion of this war? (HE starts to walk) The bars have names like China Doll, Las Vegas, there’s the Dragon Bar, that one’s the Playboy. Up and down the street are skinny men in short sleeves selling local soda dyed bright red and blue. Little barefoot boys are selling dirty pictures. That is, I’m sure they’re dirty. I assume they’re dirty. Filthy, probably, (A STREET URCHIN has pattered on. HE thrusts three or four pictures at the REPORTER, arrayed like playing cards) No thank you, I don’t want to see them. No, but wait a minute, I should look. They’re part of local color, (HE pays the BOY and takes the pictures. Quickly joking to the audience) Nope, they’re black-and-white. (Back to the pictures) That’s awful. Would you look at that? That’s terrible. (Putting the pictures in his pocket) These are documents. These say it all. (A G.I. passes the REPORTER, HE is looking very wired) There’s a G.I. going into that bar. I’m going to interview him. (Reading the sign above the “door” the G.I. has gone through) “Mimi’s Flamboyant.” Here I go—(HE chokes off, coughing, fans the smoke away from his face. There is a blast of instrumental music—a tinny imitation of Western rock-and-roll, say, “Satisfaction”) The music’s so loud I can hardly see the people’s faces. Where did my G.I. go? It’s dark in here but all the girls are wearing sunglasses. The girls look very young. They’re pretty. No, that’s not objective. Stick to what’s objective. But they are. (The G.I. comes in from the back, carrying a drink. HE looks spent. HE sits down at a table) Look, there’s my G.I. now. Excuse me, soldier, can I talk to you?
G.I. (Looks at REPORTER stonily): About what?
REPORTER: All this.
G.I.: All what?
REPORTER: The whole thing.
G.I.: You in the army?
REPORTER: No.
G.I.: Then what in the fuck are you doin’ over here?
REPORTER: It’s my beat. I’m a reporter.
G.I.: A reporter? All right. Ask your questions.
REPORTER: What’s it like?
G.I.: What’s what like?
REPORTER: Combat.
G.I.: Scary.
REPORTER: Scary?
G.I.: What the fuck you think?
REPORTER: I figured it was scary.
G.I.: You’re a fuckin’ genius. Ask some more.
REPORTER: I don’t think we’ve exhausted that subject yet.
G.I.: Naw, you got it figured, man. It’s scary. You got that one fuckin’ down.
REPORTER: Tell me some stories.
G.I.: Stories?
REPORTER: Anecdotes. Some things that happened.
G.I.: Only one thing happens, baby. You’re out there in the jungle, right? The fuckin’ boonies. Everything is green. And then the bullet comes. Your name is on it. That’s the story.
REPORTER: Your name is on it?
G.I.: That’s a rodge.
REPORTER: What if your name’s not on it?
G.I.: Then it misses you and hits your buddy.
REPORTER: Do you have to duck?
G.I.: What?
REPORTER: Do you duck?
G.I.: Your mamma drop you on your head when you was little?
REPORTER: So you duck then?
G.I.: Man, you hug that ground like it was Raquel fuckin’ Welch.
REPORTER: But if the bullet hasn’t got your name, it isn’t going to hit you.
G.I.: Right.
REPORTER: And if it’s got your name—
G.I.: Man, if it’s got your name, you can dig a hole and roll an APC on top of you, don’t make no never mind.
REPORTER: Then why do you duck?
G.I.: Someone’s shooting at your ass, you duck!
REPORTER: It still seems like a contradiction. Guess you’ve got to go out there and see it for yourself.
G.I.: Out where?
REPORTER: The boonies.
G.I.: Are you batshit?
REPORTER: Huh?
G.I.: You’re going out there?
REPORTER: Yeah.
G.I.: What for?
REPORTER: I want to see. (Showing his notebook) I’ve got a job to do.
G.I.: You want to see. Tomorrow morning you wake up in your hotel room, you say, fine day, think I’ll grab a chopper, go on out and hump the boonies. That ain’t it, man. You can’t want to go. Somebody got to make you go. Some mean old sergeant, damnfool captain got to tell you, soldier, grab your gear and get your ass out there and hump. You can’t want to go.
REPORTER: I won’t get out there if it’s not by choice. I have to want to. G.I.; I’m gonna tell you something, hombre. I’m gonna tell you once, so listen. You go out there if you’re gonna, but you don’t come
near my unit. Do you read me? We get hit for sure. You’re bad luck. You come close to my platoon, I’m gonna waste your ass. You’ll never know what hit you. (Exiting into the back) Mama! Mamasan! Hey mama!
Blackout. Tape: the sound of helicopters in flight, then setting down—without, however, turning off their rotors.
Slide: FIELD
The REPORTER in the field. HE has put a mottled green flak jacket over his shirt, and is wearing a tiger-fatigue hat with his accreditation card tucked in the camouflage band, HE speaks into the microphone of a cassette recorder that hangs off his hip.
REPORTER: This is your correspondent in Am-bo Land, reporting from the field. I’ve gone out with an American reconnaissance platoon. The choppers dropped us in a clearing. We’ve regrouped behind the treeline.
Lights up on LIEUTENANT THIBODEAUX, speaking to the troops.
LIEUTENANT Sweet Jesus fuckin’ string my balls and hang me from a fuckin’ tree, Christ fuckin’ motherfuck god damn! Because this war has taught me two things, men. It’s taught me how to kill and it’s taught me how to swear. God fuckin’ crap-eye son of a bee, and cunt my fuckin’ jungle rot and hang me fuckin’ upside-down and jangle my cojones. Joy roll! Fuckin-’A! You hear me, men?
REPORTER: That’s Lieutenant Thibodeaux. He’s trying to help his troops achieve the right aggressive attitude.
LIEUTENANT: You hear me, men?
SOLDIERS (On tape; with no trace of enthusiasm): Yeah.
LIEUTENANT: Sound off like you got a pair! We’re Airborne! Say it!
SOLDIERS: Airborne.
LIEUTENANT: Well, that’s not outstanding, but it’s better. Slip my disc and tie my tubes, god damn and fuckin’ motherfuck!
REPORTER: He has to win the absolute confidence of the men in his command. If he’s not able to, in combat, when he’s giving them an order that requires them to risk their lives, it’s possible that one of them may shoot him in the back. The soldiers call this “fragging.”
LIEUTENANT: I won’t lie to you. This is a dangerous mission. But I want you to know, men, I’ve been out there and I’ve come back. I’ve come back every god damn time. That’s every motherloving asslick shitbrick pick your nose and fuck me time. I don’t wear decorations in the field, but if any man here doesn’t believe me he can come to my hootch when this thing is over and I’ll show him my Sharpshooter’s Badge with four bars and my two Good Conduct Medals. Suck my dick and kick my ass six ways from Sunday. Sing it with me. I wanna be an Airborne Ranger. I wanna be an Airborne Ranger. I wanna lead a life of danger.
SOLDIERS (Barely audible): I wanna lead a life of danger.
LIEUTENANT: ’Cause I fight out there beside my men. And here’s one thing I promise you. If I give any of you men an order that requires you to lay down your life, it’s because I’m wearing army green. I love this uniform. I love the army. Good luck, men. Let’s move out!
The LIEUTENANT turns and takes a step away. A shot rings out. THIBODEAUX’s limbs sprawl outwards as the lights black out. Almost immediately, the lighs pick up the REPORTER in the same spot where HE stood at the beginning of the scene. Once more, HE speaks into his tape recorder.
REPORTER: This is your correspondent in Am-bo Land, reporting from the field. Our mission was almost aborted by a circumstance the facts aren’t quite all in on yet. We’ll proceed with Sergeant Peers in charge. He’s forming the platoon into a line. I’m supposed to walk at the end. The men say that’ll give me the best view of everything that happens, (HE walks in a circle, falling in behind the last soldier—PFC PROCHASKA. PROCHASKA carries an M-16 rifle. THEY hump the boonies during the following, the REPORTER carefully copying everything PROCHASKA does) Excuse me? Soldier?
PFC (Turning): Yeah? Hey, stagger!
REPORTER: Stagger?
PFC: Don’t walk in a line with me! Some sniper hits you gets me too.
REPORTER (Sidestepping): Check. Soldier?
PFC: Don’t call me soldier. I got drafted. Call me Prochaska.
REPORTER: Check.
PFC: And keep it down.
REPORTER (More quietly): Is this your first patrol?
PFC: Do pigs shit ice cream?
REPORTER (Not understanding): No . . . (Speaking furtively into his cassette recorder) “Do pigs shit ice cream?” Look that up. (To PROCHASKA) What’s the purpose—the objective—of this patrol?
PFC: Find the enemy.
REPORTER: Do you expect it to succeed?
PFC: I hope not.
REPORTER: Are you afraid?
PFC: Do cows have titties?
REPORTER: Yes . . . (Into his recorder) Check “Do cows have titties?” (To PROCHASKA) You don’t think I’m bad luck, do you?
PFC: No, you good luck, brother.
REPORTER: Good luck? Super. Although it would defeat my entire purpose to affect the outcome of the mission in any way. But why am I good luck?
PFC: You’re walking behind me.
REPORTER: Huh?
PFC: Go-rillas spring an ambush, the man in the back gets shot first.
REPORTER: Sure. That stands to reason.
PFC: You’re not carrying a rifle either. They gonna take you for a medic.
REPORTER: What does that mean?
PEC: First they shoot the officer. Then they shoot the medic.
REPORTER: I thought they shot the man in back first.
PEC: Brother, either way . . .
REPORTER: I want to get this straight. Let’s say for now that I’m not here, so you’re the man in back. Good. Now the officer is Sergeant Peers, and there’s the medic. Okay. So, the man in back and the officer get shot before the medic. But which of you gets shot first?
PEC: Man, we all get shot if you keep talking.
REPORTER: The sergeant is raising his hand. What does that mean?
PEC: Break time. You smoke?
REPORTER: No.
PEC: Save me your ciggies from your C’s, okay?
REPORTER: Sure.
PEC: Don’t sit near the radio. You do, they shoot you first, (HE walks off. The REPORTER sits in place)
REPORTER: When Pfc Prochaska said “C’s,” his reference was to C-rations, the G.I.’s meal-in-a-box. I’m about to open my first box of C’s. (HE takes a small box out of his pack. Reading) “Meal, Combat, Individual.” (HE opens the box and finds a paper napkin on top; tucks it into his shirt like a bib. Then HE goes through the assorted tins and packets, reading their printed contents) Cigarettes. (HE puts the little four-pack of cigarettes aside for PROCHASKA) Beans with Frankfurter Chunks in Tomato Sauce. Towel, Paper, Cleansing, Wet, Antiseptic. Interdental Stimulator. Cream substitute, Dry, Non-dairy. Chiclets. (HE takes out a book of matches with an olive-drab cover) “These matches arc designed especially for damp climates. They will not light when wet.”
While the REPORTER has been busy with his C’s, a GUERRILLA has appeared behind him, wearing foliage for camouflage. HE has watched the REPORTER for a moment, inhumanly still; then, with very small gestures to right and left, has closed in his fellow guerrillas—who are unseen—around the Americans for an ambush, and has vanished. Now the REPORTER fingers a small white wad.
Toilet paper.
The ambush is sprung. The REPORTER holds up his accreditation card. The firing is deafening, intolerably loud. It continues longer than its intensity would seem to allow, then quite suddenly it stops completely; all at once explodes again. The REPORTER low-crawls frantically away, nearly running into SERGEANT PEERS, who, having reached low ground, starts tuning in the field phone HE is carrying. It has a receiver like a regular telephone, leaving one of the SERGEANT’s ears free.
SERGEANT (To the REPORTER): Cover my back.
REPORTER: What? Sergeant Peers, it’s—(HE was going to say “me”)
SERGEANT: All behind my back’s your field of fire.
REPORTER: I haven’t got a weapon.
SERGEANT (Looking at him for the first time): Christ, it’s that one. (HE goes back to the radio)
REPORTER: What
happens now?
SERGEANT: I try and get my god damn channel.
REPORTER: Where’s the radio man?
SERGEANT: Which piece of him?
REPORTER (Taking out his notebook): What was his name?
SERGEANT (Into the radio): HQ!
REPORTER: Was he a draftee or did he enlist?
SERGEANT: At ease, god damn it!
REPORTER: Sarge, I’ve got to get some facts. If I’m not getting facts there isn’t any purpose to my being here.
SERGEANT: HQ!
REPORTER: I mean, consider for a moment what my situation is. I don’t know anything I didn’t know before I got here. What if I get killed? I don’t know why that monk was burning, what my boss wants. . . . What’s the word for this? Condition Red?
SERGEANT (Into the phone): HQ! We’re pinned down. Our coordinates are 5730 by 9324.
REPORTER: What’s your serial number?
SERGEANT Will you shut the fuck up?
REPORTER: I’m not getting any news! If I’m not getting any news then what in Christ’s name am I doing here? (A grenade bursts. HE is hit in the rump) I’m hit.
SERGEANT: Don’t move. (HE quickly checks the wound) You’re all right.
REPORTER: No I’m not all right. I’m hit.
SERGEANT: You’re okay.
REPORTER: Is there blood?
SERGEANT: No sweat. You’re gonna see that girl. (Handing him a pressure dressing) Here. Hold this on the wound.
REPORTER: It hurts! I’m going to die! They’re going to kill me! Get me out of here! Christ Jesus, get me out of here!
A whistling.
SERGEANT: Here comes the artillery! Flatten!
With the SERGEANT’s last word there comes a blackout, then a monstrous crashing, ten times louder than before. The barrage continues in the darkness.
Slide: IMPRINTMENT
Lights come up on the REPORTER in a hospital bed. HE is sleeping. There is a little cabinet next to the bed, with a phone on it. The REPORTER’s field clothes are folded on a shelf underneath. His cassette recorder is on top. A knock comes at the door—a very soft one. The REPORTER doesn’t register it, but HE stirs, rearranges himself for more sleep—sees the audience.
REPORTER: Where am I? (HE sits partway up and feels a rush of pain) Ow! Excuse me. (Discreetly, HE lifts the sheet and turns his hip; remembers) Oh yeah. What day is this? The last thing I remember is the medic and the morphine. I should find out where I am. (HE makes a move to get up; stops mid-motion) I feel dizzy. (The soft knock is repeated) Come in? (LI enters: a small, pretty Ambonese bar girl. SHE walks with little steps into the room) Hello.
