Slash and Burn

He’s only fifty-seven. He had several years ahead of him. The Americans don’t exactly fire their ranking officers. They urge them to step away from the career. It appears his superiors were a little upset about his alcohol and sex addictions. He had the choice of leaving for undisclosed health reasons or facing a dishonorable discharge.”
    “He’s only fifty-seven?” Dtui was shocked. “I was sure he was older than you, Dr. Siri.”
    “Ah, but I’m not a slave to sex and alcohol,” Siri told her.
    “That’s right,” Madame Daeng agreed. “The doctor could give up alcohol any time he wanted.” She noticed everyone staring at her. “What? He could.”
    “Meanwhile, back to the major,” said Civilai with a timely intervention. “If the man’s such a liability, what’s he doing handling explosives?”
    “And what’s he doing heading this mission?” Dtui added.
    “Probably they have the same system as us,” Phosy suggested.
    “A reward for thirty years’ faithful service. An all-expenses-paid trip. The name of a senior officer on the list of personnel?”
    “Plus he’s had experience in the region,” Lit added. “He spent six years in Vietnam. They knew him at the US consulate here. I believe he’d worked with the chargé in Ho Chi Minh City.”
    “Perhaps they didn’t expect him to be this hands-on,” Civilai suggested. “They imagined him and General Suvan stretched out on beach chairs together waiting for us to come back from the dig with parts.”
    “I don’t believe that for one minute,” said Siri. “The consulate people have been stuck in Vientiane for three years. This is their first chance to get up-country and see what’s happening. I think they’d choose their personnel very carefully. There has to be a good reason for Potter being here.”
    “To blow us all to hell, by the looks of it,” said Bpoo. And with no invitation, she launched into a poem.
    The bomb on wheels
    Congeals above the road, the street
    His gases sweet
    Rise up and rot the shield
    A deadly leak
    Bergs creak and roll
    And never healed
    Our houses drowned
    Profound too late
    “Interesting,” said Civilai.
    Unable to comment further, everyone else washed out their mugs, collected their plastic wrappers and headed back to join the Americans. They’d spent the first hour marking out fifty-meter grids across the supposed crash site with pink nylon string. They only had the second-hand word from a sorceress that this was where the craft had crashed. Even though the villagers had led them confidently to this valley just to the east of the village, they’d encountered no debris. Still they persevered.
    Mr. Geung was walking a little too close to Dtui as they reached their allotted square.
    “What is it, pal?” she said, turning to him.
    “I….”
    “Yes?”
    “I … wrote a letter. I wwwwant you to check it.”
    Dtui was surprised, given the fact that just a month before, Mr. Geung couldn’t write. Or perhaps it was fairer to say he could write little more than his name, the names of Dtui and Siri, Daeng, Malee and Foremost ice cream which he was particularly fond of. Hardly enough material with which to compose a letter. Despite the fact that they’d been teaching him for three years, his reading was marginally better.
    “Who’s it to?” she asked.
    “A friend.”
    “Anyone I know?”
    “Yes.” He smiled, reached into his back pocket and produced a wad of lined pages rolled into a cone. He handed it to her with some hesitation. Dtui unrolled the cone. The pages were all full. On the first line of the first sheet was the word “Tukda.” He’d obviously been practicing. This was followed by what looked like line after line of suet balls. He’d filled every page with them, every space. On the very last page was his name, beautifully written.
    “OK?” he asked.
    “Do you think she’ll know what they are?”
    “Th … th … they’re hearts.”
    “Ah, of course. I knew that.”
    Dtui turned back to the beginning and looked again. Sure enough, some of the dumplings did resemble hearts. She grabbed hold of her friend and pulled him to her.
    “Hug,” said Geung, with his arms straight down at his sides. “Is it good?”
    “Can your friend Tukda read?”
    “No.”
    “She’ll love it.”
    He pulled away.
    “Are you c … crying?”
    “It’s the smoke, honey. The smoke.”
    It was four thirty on day three and they’d found nothing. Fourteen people had been scouring the earth