Temple of Gold

by A. J. Stewart

  “I mean let’s face it,” said the guy. “If it wasn’t for us, these guys would all be speaking Japanese right now.”

  “Hey, buddy,” said Lenny, dropping his hand firmly on the guy’s shoulder. “Let’s show some respect.”

  The guy frowned at Lenny, recognizing another American accent. He saw Lenny’s dress uniform and shook his head.

  “Relax, Uncle Sam, or don’t you believe in free speech?”

  “There’s a time and place for everything, buddy, but right now isn’t it,” Lenny whispered into the guy’s ear. “You’re representing your country here. So I’ll ask again, show some respect.”

  “They need to respect us. We’ve got the damned nukes.”

  Lenny removed his hand and let out a long breath. The guy turned away.

  “Flyboys, man,” said the guy. “I mean—”

  There were a lot of things Lenny saw and heard in his life that were like water off a duck’s back to him, but being called a flyboy was not one of them. He could almost tolerate being called a sailor—the Marines were part of the Department of the Navy, after all—but being lumped in with the air force was taking it too far. Plus, it seemed this guy wasn’t getting the point.

  In the background, Lenny heard the New Zealand Ambassador speaking about the comradeship and brotherhood of the soldiers who had fought together here in Thailand, but Lenny didn’t give the words the focus they deserved. He was thinking about Camp Pendleton, and an instructor in hand-to-hand combat who had also been a master of Japanese martial arts, particularly Ryūkyū Kempo. The instructor had told Lenny he could perform the Vulcan nerve pinch, the fictional attack by which Mr. Spock disabled people. Lenny had called BS, but had changed his mind when the instructor grabbed him at the base of his neck and dropped him to the mat with no further contact.

  It didn’t work like it did in the movies. Lenny didn’t faint or fall unconscious. What did happen wasn’t exactly backed by science, but the instructor argued that it was something to do with pressure points within the body. So when Lenny dug his fingers into the muscles around the loudmouth guy’s neck, he didn’t know why it would work, he just knew it would.

  The guy lost motor control in his legs and fell backward into Lenny. Lenny kept his hand in place behind the guy’s neck, while with the other hand, he grabbed the top of the guy’s pants and marched him swiftly away.

  The military guys behind him were quick on the uptake. Someone whispered make a hole, and the row split apart so Lenny had a direct line to the cemetery exit.

  As he reached the parking lot, Lenny spun the guy around. He wasn’t unconscious at all, but his brain would be foggy from the conflicting signals coming from his nervous system. Lenny added to that confusion. He gave a short, sharp jab into the epigastric region, at the base of the guy’s ribs. It was commonly known as a punch to the solar plexus, but that was actually well inside the trunk of the body and impossible to hit. What the punch did do was send the celiac plexus—the network of nerve fibers that radiated from the center of the body—into spasmodic meltdown.

  It also hurt like hell. The guy momentarily lost the ability to breathe, and struggled to regain it; pain shot through his body as if every nerve was on fire. Lenny knew this pain. His instructor at Pendleton had acquainted him with that, too. So, he felt a little pity for the guy, but life was full of hard lessons.

  Lenny dropped the guy into a waiting tuk-tuk and handed the driver some cash and told him to drop the guy on the steps of the backpackers’ hostel. Lenny didn’t know if the guy was staying there, but in half an hour or so when he collected himself, he’d find his way to wherever he needed to go.

  Lenny got back to the ceremony as a New Zealand Army chaplain was reciting the Lord’s Prayer. He didn’t try to reclaim his position, preferring to take a place at the back. The sky to the east was offering light now, a dull gray-blue glow.

  After the prayer and a hymn, the emcee directed officials and diplomats to place remembrance wreaths. A lone bagpipe sounded across the soft light as the Australian Ambassador to Thailand laid the first wreath, followed by his New Zealand counterpart. The Ambassadors of the United States, the United Kingdom, and the Netherlands laid their wreaths next. Ambassador Jeffries carried his to the memorial below the half-mast flags, where he placed the flowers gently down and stood in silence for a moment, the only sound the bagpipe’s haunting call.

  Then there was a representative from the Ministry of Foreign Affairs for Thailand, and then various other dignitaries and diplomats. By the time they were done, dawn was upon them.

  After the official wreaths were laid and the bagpipe fell silent, a major general was called forward to offer the “Ode of Remembrance.” The major general spoke slowly and softly, but in that way officers do, with a sense of permanence. The gathered congregation seemed to hold their breath as Lenny heard the words:

  “They shall grow not old, as we that are left grow old;

  Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn.

  At the going down of the sun and in the morning

  We will remember them.”

  As one, the congregation around Lenny said, “Lest we forget,” and a lone bugle played the “Last Post,” a sad and soulful tune that was the Commonwealth equivalent of “Taps”. The final notes hung in the air as silence enveloped the cemetery. There were no more speeches, no gunfire, no coughs or crying babies. Lenny felt the major general’s words seep into him like few poems ever had.

  After a minute’s silence, the bugle played the rouse, and Lenny felt himself breathe again. After renditions of the national anthems of Thailand, Australia, and New Zealand, the catafalque party was called to order, and they marched slowly from the cemetery.

  Officials from various countries shook hands now as the day bloomed, and individuals and tourists and families of the fallen offered their own wreaths. A handful of servicemen came to the back and offered Lenny handshakes. He recognized the Aussie soldier from the British Embassy edging through the crowd. When he reached Lenny, he offered his hand.

  “Lucas Burnside,” he said.

  Lenny took his hand and shook it. “Lenny Cox, United States Marines.”

  “Yeah, I see that,” Lucas said, nodding at the dress blues. “Thanks for what you did back there.”

  For a moment Lenny wasn’t sure what he was referring to, and then it clicked.

  “I should apologize for my countryman,” said Lenny.

  “He’s a ratbag and a moron.”

  “I hope you’ll believe me when I say we’re not all like that.”

  “Yeah, I know that. Every country has its share of ratbags and morons, mate. One of yours just happened to turn up this morning. Appreciate you taking care of it.”

  “Any time,” said Lenny.

  Another Aussie soldier stepped forward. “Gunfire breakfast?” he asked, offering a thermos flask.

  “Thanks, mate,” said Lucas, taking a Styrofoam cup from the soldier, who poured a hot drink. Then he offered Lenny a cup, which Lenny took, and the soldier poured him one, too.

  “Thanks for taking care of business back there,” said the soldier.

  “Sorry I had to,” said Lenny.

  “No worries, mate. There’s a bruised banana in every bunch.” He nodded and moved away, offering his flask to the next person.

  Lenny smelled the drink. It was coffee.

  “Gunfire breakfast?” he asked Lucas.

  “It’s an old British thing. A bit of Dutch courage for charging out of your trench and at the enemy.”

  “Dutch courage must mean something different where I’m from,” said Lenny. It certainly didn’t mean coffee. But he sipped it anyway. Then he got it.

  “Coffee with a little something,” he said.

  Lucas nodded. “A nip of rum, for good luck.”

  Lenny saw Ambassador Jeffries approaching, deep in conversation.

  “Duty calls,” Lenny said, and he drank his coffee down. The rum woke him more than the caffeine. �
��I’m on transport patrol.”

  “Fair enough. Thanks again.” Lucas offered his hand and they shook.

  “Don’t mention it,” said Lenny.

  “There’s a do tonight at the hotel where our Ambassador is staying—think it’s the same place your man is at. I’ll buy you a drink.”

  Lenny nodded. “Sounds like a plan,” he said, and he marched away to collect the bus.

  After returning the diplomats to the hotel, Lenny got out of his uniform and spent the day walking around town with Alice. Others relaxed by the small pool in the hotel, or parked themselves at the bar. As they passed the bus terminal, Lenny saw the guy he had removed from the dawn service. He was tossing his backpack into the hold of a bus. He looked across toward Lenny but didn’t seem to recognize him. Lenny got that. He looked quite different in his dress blues compared to a polo and shorts. Lenny didn’t mention the guy to Alice, who had been sitting near the Ambassador and had missed the excitement.

  They ate noodles and drank milky tea and walked along the river, where hawkers offered them trinkets they didn’t want or need. They returned to the hotel mid-afternoon for some recreation, a quick nap, and a shower. Then they got dressed for the evening function.

  The function room was exactly what it claimed to be: functional. It was a drab beige with large-leafed potted plants in the corners as well as on either side of the table that served as the bar. A buffet offered noodles and rice dishes, and a green curry.

  None of the diplomats were in black tie. Business suits seemed to be the order of the day, but all the military men and women were in full dress uniform. It was, after all, their comrades and predecessors that were being remembered.

  Alice wore a blue dress to match Lenny’s dress blues, but they didn’t arrive together. Lenny didn’t see any point in hiding their relationship, but he figured Alice thought it better to keep things low-key. He wasn’t sure if that was a career or a personal call.

  It was a boring party. The Australian Ambassador spoke again, about sacrifice and hardship, things that all the military in the room understood already. He was, however, mercifully short, and finished with a toast to the fallen, before retreating to a table and another beer.

  Lenny was chatting with Alice when Kendra Abernathy walked across the room.

  “Sergeant,” she said to Lenny.

  “Miss Abernathy,” he replied. “Do you know Miss Brooks?”

  “I do. How are you, Alice?”

  “Fine, Kendra, fine. What brings you here? I thought this was an Aussie/Kiwi thing.”

  “Oh, it is. But Her Majesty’s government likes to support the old colonies. And to be fair, Britain also lost a lot of men both at Gallipoli and here.”

  “I thought you were British Council?” asked Lenny. “Arts and education and whatever.”

  “Yes,” she said. “This falls under the whatever category. Oh, here comes one of the colonials now.”

  They turned to see Lucas arrive with two beers in hand. He handed one to Alice and one to Lenny.

  “My shout,” said Lucas.

  “Do you always shout when it’s free?” asked Lenny.

  “It’s the best time.” Lucas gave him a cheeky grin, and then went back to the bar to collect two more beers, one of which he handed to Kendra.

  “Thank you, Lucas,” she said.

  “Any time.”

  “He doesn’t get called by his rank?” asked Lenny.

  “Oh, I think we’re well past that,” said Kendra. “Wouldn’t you say, soldier?”

  “If you mean have you seen parts of me my mum hasn’t seen, then yeah, we’re past that,” said Lucas, matter-of-factly.

  “So, Sergeant, how do you like it here?” asked Kendra.

  Lenny shrugged. “Here?” he replied, looking around the bland hotel space.

  “In Thailand, I mean.”

  “I like Thailand just fine, thank you, ma’am. These hotels, however . . .”

  “Could be anywhere,” said Lucas. “Sydney, London, New York.”

  “Exactly,” said Lenny.

  Alice nudged Kendra. “When he’s in a place, he likes to really be there.”

  “Are you making fun of me, Miss Brooks?”

  “Moi? Certainly not.” The smile suggested she might not be telling the full and complete truth.

  “If you want to see something a touch more authentic, I know a place,” said Lucas.

  “I’m game,” said Kendra.

  “Me, too,” said Alice. “Sergeant?” she said, looking at Lenny.

  “As much as I’d like to stay in a generic hotel function room drinking on the Australian government’s dime . . .”

  “We don’t have dimes,” said Lucas.

  “What do you have?”

  “Cents.”

  “So do we, but ten cents is a dime.”

  “Not when it’s our ten cents.”

  “What do you call your ten cents?” asked Lenny.

  “Ten cents.”

  “What about five cents? A nickel?”

  “No, five cents.”

  “What about a quarter?”

  “Don’t have quarters.”

  “You don’t have quarters?”

  “No,” said Lucas, finishing his beer.

  “What do you have?”

  “Twenty cents.”

  “Twenty cents? So what is that, like a fifth of a dollar?”

  “It’s twenty cents.”

  “You don’t call it something?”

  “I call it twenty cents,” said Lucas. “Why do you have to make it so complicated?”

  Lenny looked at Alice who shrugged, and then at Kendra.

  “This is riveting intellectual fare,” said Kendra, “but you mentioned something about the real Thai experience?”

  “Yep,” said Lucas. “Follow me, ladies.”

  Chapter Seven

  They discovered they had developed into a posse of a dozen or so as they left the hotel behind. They found what nightlife there was, one street back from the river. Bars and karaoke clubs and restaurants with bright lights and touts outside offering girls for the men and free drinks for the women. It wasn’t the red lights of Patpong in Bangkok by any stretch, but Lucas led the group past the seediest of the clubs to the edge of the district, where the lights fell away, into a bar overlooking the dense scrub that lined the river.

  “Down Under” by Men at Work was blaring from old speakers in the bar, so as the group moved inside, Lenny, Lucas, Alice, and Kendra retreated to a small garden out the back that faced darkened scrub. They could hear the sounds of night insects in the background the way they heard traffic in the city, and they sat on plastic chairs in the humidity, quenching their thirst with beer from bottles so cold that ice formed on the outside as soon as they were removed from the fridge. Bug zappers around the garden threw a blue tinge over the plastic furniture and crackled constantly as insects met their demise, and a grill in the corner cooked up prawns and satay chicken.

  They were about to toast the fallen one more time when the hum of the insects and the zappers was pierced by a shrill call, a high-pitched scream. It was not human, but what it might have been was impossible to say. The four of them stopped mid-toast and looked at each other. Then the garden door flew open, and the man who had been behind the bar strode out carrying a rifle. He moved quickly to the rear of the garden and fired into the dark scrub with a pop, pop, pop, cocking and pumping the stock of the rifle between each shot.

  There were a couple more high-pitched screams as shots seemingly found their mark, and then the man turned to his customers.

  “What is that?” asked Alice, looking at the darkness.

  “Hmupa,” said the man. “Pig. No danger, no danger.”

  “Are they wild?” asked Lenny.

  “Yes, wild. No danger.”

  “Why are you shooting them?” asked Kendra.

  “Come into garden, eat everything, destroy everything. Very bad,” said the man.

  “Can’t y
ou put up a fence or something?” asked Kendra. “Rather than shoot them?”

  The man looked confused for a moment, as if the question went beyond his understanding of English, and then he looked at the gun in his hand and back at Kendra.

  He smiled. “No kill. BB gun, see, BB gun. Hurt a little, but no kill, no break skin, see?”

  The bar owner held the gun out for them to see. It was a single action air rifle. He nodded and smiled again.

  “Beer, beer, beer, beer,” he said, pointing at each of them in turn. “Yes?”

  The man strode inside and then returned armed with nothing but four more beers. They drank the ones they had quickly, the beer escaping their bodies as sweat quicker than they could consume it.

  “So what are you doing in-country, Sergeant?” asked Kendra.

  “It’s Lenny, when we’re off the clock,” he replied.

  “I’ll call you that when you’re not in uniform, Sergeant.”

  “All right,” he said. The British were a formal bunch. “You mean apart from driving a bus?”

  “Calling it a bus is rather grandiose, don’t you think? But, yes, apart from that.”

  “I’m on a training deployment.”

  “Training whom?”

  “Thai army.”

  She smiled. “And what are you training them on?”

  “It’s not my cooking, I assure you.”

  “Quite,” she replied.

  “And what about you, Lucas?” asked Alice. “What brings you to Thailand?”

  She focused on Lucas, but he did not return her look. He was looking past her, toward the bar, and the entrance at the side of the building.

  “I know that bloke,” he said.

  The other three glanced at the man there. He was fair with brown hair, and wore a business suit with the collar undone and tie loosened from his neck.

  “I think his name is Swinton,” said Kendra.

  “Who is he?” asked Lucas. “Why do I know him?”

  “He’s what you call the Deputy Head of Mission at the Australian Embassy. Essentially your number two in-country.”

  Lucas nodded. “Thought I’d seen him around. What’s he doing out here?”