by James Reston
REPORTER: Can you see the victims on the ground?
PHOTOGRAPHER: Man, you can see their face! You can see the little lights coming out of the end of their machine guns. Bullets flying up at just below the speed of sound, you screaming straight down toward ’em. Hit one and you cashed your checks!
REPORTER: One bullet couldn’t bring a plane down.
PHOTOGRAPHER: Man, at that speed a stiff stream of piss could bring a plane down. Hey! We’re diving!
REPORTER: Wait! I haven’t got my background done! What’s the pilot’s hometown? I don’t even know what the pilot’s hometown is!
PHOTOGRAPHER: Wooo!
REPORTER: Stop the plane! I have to do an interview!
PHOTOGRAPHER: I thought you quit.
REPORTER: I did, but – (The plane pitches sharply as it steepens its dive) Oh-h-h—
PHOTOGRAPHER: Fifty meters in two seconds! Woo! This guy is good!
REPORTER: My stomach just went out with the exhaust fumes.
PHOTOGRAPHER: See that little man? Guerrilla. Look, he’s waiting. Now he’s lifting up his rifle.
REPORTER: Pull out!
PHOTOGRAPHER: The pilot let the bombs go. See? They’re traveling down right next to us.
REPORTER: Those?
PHOTOGRAPHER: Uh-huh.
REPORTER: Those are bombs?
PHOTOGRAPHER: Yep.
REPORTER: If they slipped a half a foot they’d blow us up. They’re getting closer!
PHOTOGRAPHER: Little man down there is firing!
REPORTER (To the bomb outside his window): Down there! Get him! We’re your friends!
PHOTOGRAPHER: Yah! Little fucker hit the pilot! Good shot! Woo! (HE starts snapping pictures)
REPORTER: We’re going to crash!
PHOTOGRAPHER: You bet your ass! We’re going down!
REPORTER: Bail out!
PHOTOGRAPHER: You go. I’m staying. You don’t think I’m gonna miss this!
REPORTER: Miss what?
PHOTOGRAPHER: When’s the last time you saw shots of a plane crash taken from the plane?
REPORTER: I’m going! (HE “bails out”)
PHOTOGRAPHER: Great shot of your ass, Jim! Wooo!
The PHOTOGRAPHER whoops and snaps pictures as the scream of the descent increases. The stage goes black as the crash is heard—a colossal explosion. House lights up for:
Slide: INTERMISSION
ACT TWO
Slide: VILLAGE
Tape: the voice of the EVENT renders the Ambonese national anthem, which is jerry-built and grandiose. As the lights come up, an AMBONESE PSYCHOLOGICAL WARFARE OFFICER is taking his place in front of a group of unseen villagers. HE carries a small table arrayed with assorted apparatus for the demonstration HE is about to perform. A small cassette player on the table is the source of the anthem.
The REPORTER is seated on the ground between us and the OFFICER, slightly off to one side. HE is dressed like a villager, in black-pajama pants, a conical hat, and sandals. By his feet is a small bundle. HE is sitting on his haunches Asian-style, quite relaxed and placid, waiting for the OFFICER to start. The OFFICER clicks off the cassette.
OFFICER: Citizens of So Bin Village, you have done a hard day’s work. The Government wishes to submit to you a presentation, (HE arranges his apparatus, which includes a bowl of rice, a basin, chopsticks, a towel, and a quart jug of thick, fetid, poisonous-looking green liquid. While HE is thus employed, the REPORTER turns to the audience)
REPORTER I drifted in my parachute what seemed like miles and miles and I landed over there. I love this village. I’ve been here—I don’t know how long. I think this is my third week. If I had to write a dateline, I’d be out of luck. I don’t, though.
OFFICER (Holding up the jug of green gunk): This is defoliant. Our friends the Americans use it to improve the jungle so our enemy cannot use it for a hiding place. The enemy has told you that this harmless liquid poisons you and makes your babies come out of your stomachs with no arms and legs. This is not so. You will see for yourself when I have poured some defoliant in this bowl. (HE does. Then “acting” stiffly) My but it was hot today. My face is very dirty. I have need to wash my hands and face, (HE does so, dipping and turning his hands in the green liquid, then splashing it on his face. HE looks as happy as the people in TV soap commercials) Ah! That is refreshing! (HE wipes himself dry)
REPORTER (To the audience): A company of Government soldiers has been using this village as an outpost. They were here when I arrived. Today at dusk some transport choppers will be coming in to pick them up. I mean to pick us up. I’ll catch a lift to the airbase, then a plane home. Home America. (Bemusedly) I don’t know why I said that. Home where else?
OFFICER: Mm, my hard day’s work has given me an appetite. I think that I will eat some rice. No fish sauce? Very well then, I will pour on some of this. (HE pours defoliant over the bowl of rice and eats it with the chopsticks)
REPORTER (To the audience, referring to his squatting posture). The villagers all sit this way. I started it because my wound reopened when I hit the ground. But after you get used to it, it’s really very comfortable.
OFFICER (Wiping his mouth): My! That was good! But now my hearty meal has made me very thirsty. Ah! (HE “discovers” the defoliant again and drinks the rest of it, straight from the jug; sets the empty on the table with a bang) The guerrillas are liars. The Government speaks the truth. Goodbye. (HE clicks the anthem back on and, to its accompaniment, walks off with his gear)
REPORTER: It’s very peaceful in this village. I’ve picked up bits and snatches of the language and I’m learning how to harvest rice. I spent the morning threshing. When you get the rhythm you can thresh all day. You slap the stalks against a board. The grains go sliding down and drop into a basket. That’s all. Slap, slap, slap, slap. . . . Nothing to write about there. No hook. No angle. Slap, slap, slap. . . . (A GOVERNMENT SOLDIER comes on. HE is tying the legs of a chicken with a cord that hangs from his belt) There goes the last of the soldiers. I should go with him. Before I do, I want to show you what I’ve learned. (To the SOLDIER) Tay dap moung. (Translating for the audience) That means, “Stop please.” (To the SOLDIER, in a complimentary tone and with a gesture toward the chicken) Kin wau ran faun to bak im brong. (The SOLDIER starts at him in complete incomprehension. To the audience) I understand the language better than I speak it. (To the SOLDIER again, more slowly) Kin wau ran faun to bak im brong.
SOLDIER Fop nah in gao breet? Rew ksawn ep lam?
REPORTER (To the SOLDIER, waving away his own words): Manh. (To the audience) The trouble is that Ambonese has all these tones. You say the right sounds but the wrong tones and you’ve got a different meaning. Apparently I told him that his nose was like a bite of tree farm.
SOLDIER (Challengingly): Op feo ting ko bi dang?
REPORTER Why? Because I want to speak your language. I want to duc fi rop what you are saying and to fan bo doung to you.
SOLDIER Ken hip yan geh wim parn ti brong, ip yuh rat.
REPORTER (To the audience): He says his chicken speaks his language better, and it’s dead. That’s an Ambonese joke.
SOLDIER (Indicating the REPORTER’s clothes): Fawn tip si bah?
REPORTER: Am I a villager? Yes. Sure. Why not? Meo. I’m a villager. I’m happy here.
SOLDIER: Prig paw yan tsi mah strak.
REPORTER: You’re not protecting me. I landed in a village you were occupying. Nik kwan tap. I wish you hadn’t been here.
SOLDIER: Wep ksi—
REPORTER (Cutting him off): I’m not afraid of the guerrillas. Manh kip.
SOLDIER: Manh kip?
REPORTER: Manh. I’m not their enemy. In fact, I’d like to meet them. If you think I’m scared, you go ahead without me.
SOLDIER: Sep?
REPORTER: You go and catch your helicopter. I’m not leaving yet. Ping dop.
SOLDIER: Ping dop?
REPORTER: There’ll be more troops through here. I can get a ride out anytime. Am
erica won’t disappear. Ping dop. Go catch your helicopter. (The SOLDIER shrugs and starts out) Goodbye.
SOLDIER (Turns): Dik ram vi clao brong.
REPORTER (Translating for himself): “Now you’ll enjoy your chicken.” Good.
SOLDIER: Wep ksi ren—
REPORTER: Yes, the guerrillas—?
SOLDIER: —vi clao—
REPORTER: “—will enjoy—”
SOLDIER (Points emphatically at the REPORTER): —seng. (HE goes off)
REPORTER (To the audience): There’ll be troops coming back to the village. I won’t be here long. And the guerrillas—well, all right, if I surprise them, then it’s dangerous. I won’t though. Probably they almost know already that I’ve stayed behind. They’ll know before they come. And so I’ll have a chance to talk to them. They’ll see I’m not their enemy. (HE looks up at the sky) It’s getting dark now. (HE crosses to his bundle and unwraps it) I’ve been sleeping over here. Sometimes it’s rained, and then I’ve made a lean- to with my parachute. Tonight, it looks like I can use it for a pillow. (HE “fluffs up” his parachute—which is mottled shades of green—and stretches out) I love the sky at night here. It’s not a pretty sky, but it’s alive. You can see the storms for off in all directions. The clouds are gray, and when the sheet lightning flashes behind them they look like flaps of dead skin, twitching. I know that that sounds ugly, but it’s beautiful. (A GUERRILLA comes in silently behind him) The guerrillas can pretend they’re animals. They talk to each other in the dark that way. They also can pretend they’re trees and bushes, rocks and branches, vines. Sometimes they pretend they’re nothing at all. That’s when you know they’re near. The world is never quite that still. You don’t have to tell me. This time I know he’s there.
Carefully but decisively, the REPORTER stands up and turns to face the GUERRILLA. Blackout. Tape: jungle sounds—strange clicking, dripping, hissing of snakes, animal cries, etc.
Slide: SELF-CRITICISM
A small, bare hut. The REPORTER is sleeping on the floor. His head is covered by a black hood and his hands are tied behind his back. A GUERRILLA INFORMATION OFFICER comes in carrying a bowl of rice.
GUERRILLA: Stand up, please.
REPORTER (Coming awake): What?
GUERRILLA: Please stand up.
REPORTER It’s hard with hands behind the back.
GUERRILLA: I will untie them.
REPORTER That’s all right. I’ll make it. (With some clumsiness, HE gets to his feet) There I am.
GUERRILLA: I offered to untie your hands.
REPORTER I’d just as soon you didn’t. When you know that you can trust me, then untie my hands. I’d let you take the hood off.
GUERRILLA (Takes the hood off): Tell me why you think that we should trust you.
REPORTER I’m no threat to you. I’ve never done you any harm.
GUERRILLA: No harm?
REPORTER I guess I’ve wasted your munitions. Part of one of your grenades wound up imbedded in my derriere—my backside.
GUERRILLA: I speak French as well as English. You forget—the French were here before you.
REPORTER Yes.
GUERRILLA: You told us that you came here as a newsman.
REPORTER Right.
GUERRILLA: You worked within the system of our enemies and subject to their interests.
REPORTER Partly subject.
GUERRILLA: Yet you say that you have never done us any harm.
REPORTER All I found out as a reporter was I’d never find out anything.
GUERRILLA: Do we pardon an enemy sniper if his marksmanship is poor?
REPORTER Yes, if he’s quit the army.
GUERRILLA: Ah, yes. You are not a newsman now.
REPORTER That’s right.
GUERRILLA: What are you?
REPORTER: What am I? (The GUERRILLA is silent) I’m what you see.
GUERRILLA: What do you do?
REPORTER: I live.
GUERRILLA: You live?
REPORTER: That’s all.
GUERRILLA: You live in Am-bo Land.
REPORTER: I’m here right now.
GUERRILLA: Why?
REPORTER: Why? You’ve got me prisoner.
GUERRILLA: If you were not a prisoner, you would not be here?
REPORTER: No.
GUERRILLA: Where would you be?
REPORTER: By this time, I’d be back in East Dubuque.
GUERRILLA: You were not leaving when we captured you.
REPORTER: I was, though. I was leaving soon.
GUERRILLA: Soon?
REPORTER: Yes.
GUERRILLA: When?
REPORTER: I don’t know exactly. Sometime.
GUERRILLA: Sometime.
REPORTER: Yes.
GUERRILLA: You have no right to be here even for a minute. Not to draw one breath.
REPORTER: You have no right to tell me that. I’m here. It’s where I am.
GUERRILLA: We are a spectacle to you. A land in turmoil.
REPORTER: I don’t have to lie to you. Yes, that attracts me.
GUERRILLA: Yes. You love to see us kill each other.
REPORTER: No. I don’t.
GUERRILLA: You said you didn’t have to lie.
REPORTER: I’m not. It does—excite me that the stakes are life and death here. It makes everything—intense.
GUERRILLA: The stakes cannot be life and death unless some people die.
REPORTER: That’s true. But I don’t make them die. They’re dying anyway.
GUERRILLA: You just Watch.
REPORTER: That’s right.
GUERRILLA: Your standpoint is aesthetic.
REPORTER: Yes, all right, yes.
GUERRILLA: You enjoy our situation here.
REPORTER: I’m filled with pain by things I see.
GUERRILLA: And yet you stay.
REPORTER: I’m here.
GUERRILLA: You are addicted.
REPORTER: Say I am, then! I’m addicted! Yes! I’ve said it! I’m addicted!
GUERRILLA: Your position in my country is morbid and decadent. It is corrupt, reactionary, and bourgeois. You have no right to live here.
REPORTER: This is where I live. You can’t pass judgment.
GUERRILLA: I have not passed judgment. You are useless here. A man must give something in return for the food he eats and the living space he occupies. This is not a moral obligation but a practical necessity in a society where no one is to be exploited.
REPORTER: Am-bo Land isn’t such a society, is it?
GUERRILLA: Not yet.
REPORTER: Well, I’m here right now. If you don’t like that then I guess you’ll have to kill me.
GUERRILLA: We would kill you as we pick the insects from the skin of a valuable animal.
REPORTER: Go ahead, then. If you’re going to kill me, kill me.
GUERRILLA: We are not going to kill you.
REPORTER: Why not?
GUERRILLA: For a reason.
REPORTER: What’s the reason?
GUERRILLA: We have told the leadership of TransPanGlobal Wire Service when and where to leave one hundred thousand dollars for your ransom.
REPORTER: Ransom? TransPanGlobal?
GUERRILLA: Yes.
REPORTER: But that’s no good. I told you, I don’t work there anymore.
GUERRILLA: Your former employers have not made the separation public. We have made our offer public. You will not be abandoned in the public view. It would not be good business.
REPORTER (Truly frightened for the first time in the scene): Wait. You have to think this out. A hundred thousand dollars is too much. It’s much too much. You might get ten.
GUERRILLA: We have demanded one hundred.
REPORTER: They won’t pay that. Take ten thousand. That’s a lot to you.
GUERRILLA: It is. But we have made our offer.
REPORTER: Change it. You’re just throwing away money. Tell them ten. They’ll never pay a hundred thousand.
GUERRILLA: We never chang
e a bargaining position we have once set down. This is worth much more than ten thousand dollars or a hundred thousand dollars.
REPORTER: Please—
GUERRILLA: Sit down.
REPORTER (Obeys; then, quietly): Please don’t kill me.
GUERRILLA: Do not beg your life from me. The circumstances grant your life. Your employers will pay. You will live.
REPORTER: You sound so sure.
GUERRILLA: If we were not sure we would not waste this food on you. (HE pushes the bowl of rice towards the REPORTER)
REPORTER: How soon will I know?
GUERRILLA: Soon. Ten days.
REPORTER: That’s not soon.
GUERRILLA: This war has lasted all my life. Ten days is soon. (Untying the REPORTER’s hands) You will be fed on what our soldiers eat. You will think that we are starving you, but these are the rations on which we march toward our inevitable victory. Eat your rice. In three minutes I will tie you again.
The GUERRILLA goes out. The REPORTER eats as best HE can. Blackout. Slides: the the face of the EVENT, each frame now showing two of his features, in somewhat finer half-tone.
Slide: RESCUE
Lights up on MR. KINGSLEY, seated at his desk. HE is talking on the telephone.
KINGSLEY: Sure they’re going to bring him here, but hell, Dave, you don’t really want to talk to him. Why put a crimp in your imagination? Make sure you don’t contradict our bulletins. Beyond that, go to town. The sky’s the limit. (The REPORTER appears at the door) Dave, I’ve got to sign off. Get to work on this right now, check? I’ll be firing some more ideas your way as they occur to me. Over and out. (The REPORTER wanders into the office, HE looks blown out. HE is still in his villager clothes) So here you are. How far they bring you?
REPORTER: Three guerrillas brought me to the border of the City. Then they gambled with some sticks. One brought me here. He’s gone.
KINGSLEY: You look all shot to shit. Sit down.
REPORTER (Unthinkingly sits down on his haunches; then continues): He had the longest knife I ever saw. Strapped here, across his back. It would have gone right through me. He took off his thongs and hid them in the underbrush and put on shoes. We started through the streets. He wasn’t used to shoes. They came untied. He didn’t know how to tie them. So he stood still and I tied them for him. All the time he had this knife. The longest knife I ever saw. (Pause) I’d have gone back out with him if he’d have let me.