Free Red Flags by Juris Jurjevics

speaking to the interpreter in Vietnamese.
    "Yes—ridiculous if you wish pounce on enemy," the translator said. "They no wish. They happy make understanding with VC."
    Chinh spoke to us directly: "Alive and permit to alive, yes?"
    "It's your conflict to win or lose, sir," Bennett said. "You are at war."
    "Correct," said Chinh. "But we battle for very much time. It not excite my mens or call them to fight like tiger. They think you, Colonel, and other American, you alien government. Give too many advise. Make them
n guy.
" He looked to the interpreter, who was stymied and pantomimed the word, lifting his hand with an invisible wire.
    "Puppets," I said.
    The interpreter beamed, relieved. "Puppet! Yes, yes."
    Speaking quickly, Chinh continued. The interpreter nodded as he translated.
    "They feel to be on Washington string. They bored of it. Many desert. We so need, we welcome runaway mens if they return and give them all old pay. You fly to home in less than year. My men and myself, we go no place. Last eleven month in Highland, six thousand seven hundred Vietnamese soldier
fini.
Deads. Yes? Much war left. Too few us."
    Chinh rose. "Thank you for views ... at this time."
    Bennett and I stood. Bennett congratulated the province chief on his latest medal and invited him to a celebratory dinner. The province chief declined: duties called him away. Or maybe he didn't like all-white food.
    "Perhaps another time," Bennett said.
    "Perhaps. Yes, yes." Chinh came from around his desk.
    We took our leave and went back through the echoing hall. The colonel's door shut behind us.
    The prisoner was still in the cage outside, the sun steadily baking his brains. He didn't look too good. Lips cracked, tongue dark and starting to protrude. It would take days to restore him, if he didn't dehydrate and die today. The man mopped his face slowly and tried to lick the sweat from his fingertips. There was none. A last sign before heatstroke.
    "You think they worry about the Geneva Convention, sir?" I said, wishing I had carried a canteen.
    Bennett got into our jeep on the passenger side. "Doesn't actually apply."
    "I should have guessed. He's not a prisoner of war, is he?"
    "No," Bennett said, "he's one of their own."
    "What will happen to him?"
    "They'll broil him for two days, allow him one cup of water every eight hours, one bowl of rice every twenty-four." The colonel pulled on his cap. "If only they were as hard on the enemy."
    Â 
    "You met the Chinny Chin Chinh." Ruchevsky chortled. "Whaddya think?"
    "A charm boat. He has an answer for everything ... at this time."
    "You definitely get to play with my guns," he said, pulling a wooden ammo crate from under his bunk. I noticed a heavy strongbox shoved in the back. Out of the crate came rifles: a Schmeisser, a Swedish K, an AK-47 in three pieces, and two banana clips.
    "My arsenal," he said. "Part of it, anyway."
    I inspected his weapons. Each was perfectly serviced: clean, oiled, ready to do its work. Though nothing in his physique or his bearing was ex-military, the man knew his guns. They weren't just well-maintained tools. They'd been looked after, cared for, and were uncomfortably reassuring to hold, their power alive in the inert metal. The feeling was enhanced by the devotion he'd shown to their well-being. They were appreciated. I worked the mechanisms and dry-fired the Kalashnikov at a gecko stalking an insect on the wall.
    "C'mon," Ruchevsky said. "Time to chat up Major Gidding."
    We went to his room. The major came to the screen door in his undershirt and fatigue pants, dog tags taped together. He held the screen door open for us.
    "What can I do for you, Mr. Ruchevsky?"
    "I'm here to complain about the gas siphoning."
    "Again?"
    "It's getting more serious."
    "How so?" Gidding said, walking back to half-sit on his desk. Ruchevsky leaned against the wall, arms folded across his chest.
    "The missing quantities are escalating. The daily tally of gas your depot sergeant dispenses