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Hank closed his eyes and recited slowly: “‘A lonely impulse of delight drove to this tumult in the clouds. I balanced all, brought all to mind, the years to come seemed waste of breath, a waste of breath the years behind, in balance with this life, this death.’”
Hank opened his eyes. Phil was looking at him in a quiet, inscrutable way. Phil nodded slowly, not saying a word. Like a ship knifing through calm waters, the poem left silence in its wake.
~
After dinner, as they walked back to the jeep, Phil started talking about the war.
“This thing, this war, it’s not what you think, man. It’s not what they say. I mean you came here to see what it’s like, right? But our soldiers, they aren’t winning hearts and minds. You know what I’ve seen? Massa- cres. Massacres, for Chrissake!”
Maybe it was the opium, maybe the beer, or maybe even that bit of poetry Hank had quoted, but sudden- ly Phil was on the verge of tears, letting out his pain about what he had seen.
“Two massacres! Twice I was there when grunts got orders to shoot anything that breathes. I mean, they didn’t know if there was any Charlie there. They just wasted a couple of villages. Wiped them off the fuck- ing map. No questions asked. Okay, in a firefight it’s grunt versus gook and may the best side win. But those villages... that wasn’t war. There was no fighting back. They were massacred... men, women, kids...”
“So this war’s getting to you.”
“Yeah, I guess, man. I guess. I take pictures and some of them are so gruesome and bloody... I never get to publish them. But I got ‘em. And I got ‘em here.” He tapped his temple with his index finger. “I’ll always have them here.”
Before getting into the jeep, Phil said, “I feel like a massage. A massage and a blowjob. How about you, man? Wanna go to a massage parlor? Graham Greene’s favorite...”
“Sure.”
They went inside a bar/massage parlor and sat at a table where they ordered another couple of beers. Hank felt that Phil regretted having become emotion- al about the war, as if his talk about massacres had been a sign of weakness. As they drank, Phil ranged from maudlin to cynical to belligerent.
“Fuck it,” Phil said. “War’s war, right? All in a day’s
work... You don’t know shit about this fucking war, man! You’re here for a couple of days or weeks, like those fucking drive-by network assholes who fly in for a couple of days and think they know all about this fucking war! What the fuck do they know about it?”
Hank shrugged.
“You know what,” Phil went on, “your name’s Freed- man but you’re not free, pal. Not even close. Not even close. You got a problem, pal, and you know what
it is? You’re Hank now, but Henry’s in there, and he keeps you from being free. From going all the way. Someday Henry’s gonna be in control. He’s gonna take over. And when he does, you’re gonna pay the price.”
“You’re going to pay the price too,” Hank said. “You go all the way, you end up dead, or crazy.”
“Big fucking deal! Everybody dies. Or goes crazy. Fuck it! I’ll go all the way and be a free man. I don’t care if the whole fucking world blows up, long as I got total freedom...”
“No such thing as total freedom,” said Hank.
“Oh, yeah? Mama-san! Hey, mama-san!” Phil waved over an older heavy-set lady.
“Wan’ girl?” asked mama-san. “I get you nice girl.”
“I don’t want nice,” Phil said. “I want young, youngest you got.”
“Hey, hold on now,” Hank said, “not for me.” “What’s matter? Henry the nice Jewish boy afraid?” “Not my taste.”
“My, my, my. Not the kind of thing the nice Jewish boy does. Listen, Henry, what you gotta do is kill the nice Jewish boy inside ‘a you, you know?” Phil turned to the heavy-set older woman. “Hey, mama-san, two young girls for me and one for my friend here.”
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