9 November 1971 (late morning)

The Little Pentagon

I was barely able to keep up with Larry Zelinsky, Lieutenant Liscomb and Major Horney as they walked briskly along the inner promenade of the Little Pentagon on our way to the base commander’s office. When we entered, we were stunned by the wall-to-wall carpeting, teak veneer paneling, teeth-chattering cold air conditioning, Corinthian-leather upholstery or a damned fine imitation, and numerous pieces of Thai art and crafts. We were even more stunned by the commander’s preening receptionist and his tall, elegant secretary, who both looked like they had received their training at a Bangkok modeling academy.

The carpeting in Colonel Elmer Grimsley’s inner office was a full inch thicker yet than the already-plush reception area. The walls were hung with a display of Colonel Grimsley’s photographs and commendations collected in three wars. One of the most prominent photographs was of the colonel, dressed for battle, climbing into the cockpit of an F-105. On his desk sat an impressive model of an F-4 Phantom. Larry and I did our best to mimic Liscomb and Horney, marching in and saluting smartly. Glancing down, I realized my boots hadn’t been shined in three months. I squirmed around briefly while standing at attention, trying to figure out some way to hide my feet in the plush carpeting.

“A bicycle race, eh?”

“Yessir,” I blurted. “The Big Buddha Bicycle Race. With the President’s visit to China coming up, we figure the war’s got to be winding down soon, and a lot of the support troops are going to be sitting around with too much time on their hands. The guys that do fly won’t have their heart in it because they’ll start figuring, ‘Why should I be putting my butt on the line when the war’s practically over?’”

Lieutenant Liscomb took over. “It will give us a chance to refocus on our primary mission, Colonel—winning hearts and minds. It’ll be a volunteer community-action project, so the guys involved will be genuinely committed to it. And the Thais will see us doing something besides carousing with their women and flying our fighter-bombers.”

Zelinsky stepped in. “We know how the Thais love making everything sanuk—they can have so much fun singing and dancing and joking around that even a rice harvest can be festive. What could be more sanuk than a few hundred GIs zooming through the countryside in a road race?”

I jumped back in. “Imagine the American ingenuity they’re going to see with the way these guys customize their wheels! No one outside the base ever gets to see that—”

“Until now,” said Major Horney, wanting to wrap things up.

“It might be even more sanuk to invite the Thai Air Force units to race too,” added Liscomb. “Either way, Lieutenant Hill, the operations officer over at ComDoc, has promised one hell of an Air Force Now! segment with plenty of coverage—helmet cameras, jeep mounts, maybe even a parachute-cam!”

“And,” I added boldly, “Captain English, our executive officer, is from Connecticut. His family has connections with some of Walter Cronkite’s people. This could easily end up getting some play on CBS Evening News.”

“Walter Cronkite, eh?” Colonel Grimsley thought about it a moment. “And Colonel Della Rippa over at Spectre thinks a little intersquadron rivalry will be good for morale, eh?”

“He’s quite sure, sir,” replied Major Horney. “These men thought, and the colonel concurs, that a celebration of international goodwill like this could be a perfect lead-in to President Nixon’s visit to China.”

I was elated. Grimsley seemed to be buying in. It was time for the coup de grâce. “With a little luck,” I said, “Air Force One might even be persuaded to drop by for a visit on the way to Peking.”

“Kissinger and Nixon in Ubon! Now that would be good for morale! A little far-fetched, but hell, it wouldn’t hurt to extend an invitation.” It took him only a moment to make up his mind. “Well then, you’ve got my blessing. Anything you need—Air Police, Dispensary, Chow Hall—tell ’em I okayed it. And I’ll personally put in a call to General Gong over at Seventh Air Force to see if we can’t reroute Air Force One.”

“Thank you, sir,” we answered, saluting and marching out as quickly as possible before he could change his mind.

Zelinsky and I reported back to the guys at ComDoc. Jack Wu was especially happy to hear about including the Thais. “This is getting big,” he said. “And the bigger it is, the more sanuk it’ll be. And the more sanuk it is, the more the fun-loving Thais we get along the sidelines and into the race, which will make it even more sanuk.”

“Which reminds me of one of Pueng’s old folk expressions,” Zelinsky commented drolly. “Whenever two Thais gather together, there will be gambling!”

“This might get too big for Sagittarius to handle, betting-wise,” said Washington.

“If it gets that big, let the side bets roll,” answered Wu. “Our little syndicate will clean up on entrance fees alone—and don’t forget, we’ll be collecting money from our sponsors for programs and posters and maybe even some banners and billboards.”

“A chance to clean up on some of the bastards who have been cleaning up on us,” Zelinsky laughed.

“And if we get the sponsors to foot the bill for T-shirts,” I added, “we can sell them for a couple bucks each of pure profit!”

When Wheeler and Zelinsky and I got home that afternoon, the Loy Kratong song was playing on several radios along the alleyway. Nearing Bungalow #4, we could hear Lek and Pueng singing along sweetly:

Wan pen duan sipsawng,

nam gor nong

tem ta-king

Rao tang lai, chai ying

sanuk gan jing wan loy krathong!

I couldn’t translate exactly but knew enough of the words to figure out that Loy Kratong fell in the twelfth month of what must have been their old lunar calendar. And like most things Thai, it was going to be sanuk, which for us began the moment we reached the porch. Lek and Pueng had been to the market and bought us little Loy Kratong boats made out of folded banana leaves, a tradition that went back centuries. They poured us all a Mekhong and Coke and explained that we’d be going down to the River Mun after dark and launching the boats, each carrying a single candle. “It so beautiful!” they cried effusively.

“Where’s Sii-da?” I asked.

“She was sleeping when we go to market,” answered Pueng. “Tell us mai sabai—she not feel good.”

I whispered to Lek, “She understands she needs to be out by Friday, right?”

“She know,” Lek replied.

I opened the door to my room, expecting to see Sii-da lying there asleep, but the bed was empty. “Blen-dan!” I heard her call through my side window. I opened the shutter and looked outside, where I spotted her walking woozily down the stairs from B. J. and Leclerc’s front porch and stumbling back to Bungalow #4. “B. J. and Leclerc very nice,” she said. “Let me smoke ganja with them today.”

When she noticed Pueng and Lek holding the banana-leaf boats, her face lit up. “We have same thing in Lao. We call Bun Awk Pansa. Do we go together to the river?”

I didn’t have the heart on a day having something to do with atonement to disappoint her. “Yes, we’re all going together. Let me get my camera so I can take some pictures.”

While we were waiting for nightfall I took some playful snapshots of Tom and Lek and then Larry and Pueng. Sii-da sat pensively in a corner, perhaps thinking of Bun Awk Pansa back home, remembering her childhood before the war when her mountain village was still standing at the side of a winding stream. The magic-hour light was soft and she was mostly in shadow when I snapped the shutter, creating a delicate portrait of a village girl too shy to look into the lens of a camera.

When night arrived we took a taxi down Robmuang Road to the Mother River Mun for dinner at Hat Khu Duar, an outdoor restaurant made up of thirty thatch-roofed decks built on pilings out on the river. Connected to each other by narrow wooden gangways, they seemed to float tranquilly on the water like rafts. We ate together in the private dining hut furthest from shore and made our own drinks, a little too strong, from a bucket of ice and a bottle of Mekhong and some smaller bottles of Coke and soda. When the time came, we floated our leaf boats peacefully down the swollen river, hundreds of candles lighting the way to Pakse and Champasak, the southernmost of the three ancient kingdoms that made up Laos. Sii-da didn’t speak much, and when she did, it was mostly to Lek, but she seemed to be having a pleasant time.

As for myself, I slipped off into a dreamy mood, a little intoxicated from the Mekhong whiskey, enjoying the delicate fragrance of incense in the air, barely noticing Sii-da sitting nearby while I took a few pictures that were hard to focus in the faint candlelight and that I could only hope would come out. Watching the candles floating by, I remembered the candles my fellow GIs and other peace marchers placed on the iron fence in front of the White House on a brisk November night two years earlier—the night I met Danielle. I thought of Danielle, reflecting on how she too was becoming a flickering light drifting quietly away from me. And I wondered if Tukada was with her mother and if her sins were being cleansed.