Non-Trivial Answer

“Joshings, Bill. Soldier. 429-01-7306,” the young soldier announced. His timbre had been carefully rehearsed over and over in his mind, as the soldiers ahead of him in formation had each gone before. It was a monotonic inflection genuinely reflecting the moment, as it managed the delicate balance between firmness and deference.

The two officers stood facing him, in colors quite different from his uniform. Of them, the scribe penciled another row into his notepad. The other, the more decorated of the pair, stepped forward of the note taker. He took his time to focus an intense, lingering glare. For a moment, this glare continued, as the soldier maintained his own gaze slightly downward and askew of his interrogators. And with the new notepad entry now complete, the scribe joined the gauntlet. Sensing this, the soldier blinked involuntarily, tipping his head downward as part of the same fluid motion.

Continuing their pattern, the pair proceeded along the row of battle-wary and beaten soldiers, to the next and the next and the next after that. The sun blazed in the cloudless sky, but no soldier had a hint of hydration to sweat. The only potential reprieve was the shadow cast by two of the four concrete encampment walls, totally blocking any view – or escape.

Then, still within earshot, the pattern of inquisition halted. The sudden silence was enough to rouse the attention of the soldiers, each subtly peeking as best he could toward the roving pair. The senior of the two inquisitors, though, was not prepared to scrutinize his captures. He had taken a step back from the line, and turned his head upward in a scanning posture.

And then, unmistakably, the perception of the disturbance individually flashed into each soldier’s mind. It was the inimitable sound of helicopter blades whirling fast through the open air. In no time to appreciate the meaning, this was followed by two thunderous concussions, each more force than sound. By this time, two reactions of men had been decided. The careful formation of prisoners had shattered, and clusters of the condemned began to accumulate under eaves and enclaves of the encampment’s superstructure. Meanwhile their captors did what they could to arm themselves and establish fighting positions.

The next phase of the assault showed its immediate onset. Several rockets fired into the enclosed encampment, each one spewing blinding volumes of thick white smoke as they went. The accumulating clouds quickly overlapped each other, and visibility collapsed to zero.

A new thunderous sound now became overwhelmingly apparent. It was the sound of a helicopter immediately overhead. The young soldier had only moment to recognize that, from the wisps of palpably dense fog, a figure was approaching. The shape of his helmet, the distinctive contour of his body armor, the strong presence of his hulking frame – without doubt, this was the silhouette of a friend.

“You American?” the friendly force posed in a rapid cadence.

“Yes!” the young soldier exclaimed with erupting excitement. He began to rush toward the savior with an eagerness to match. But the savior, now out from the haze, made a sudden sign to break the approach. With this palm extended out, the rescuing soldier demanded answer to a new question.

“What is Apu’s mother’s name??” the rescuer barked.

Taken aback, the young soldier stammered. “What?”

“The Simpsons. What’s the name? Apu’s mother??”

“I – I don’t know,” the youngster acknowledged in shock.

“Think, man.”

“Uh, I … uh.”

“Judy Nahasapeemapetilon. I’dve accepted that.”

There was a pause, before the prospective rescue continued.

“Who played the Doctor in Young Frankenstein?”

“What?” the young one exhaled in exasperation.

The questioner stood over him, locked eye-to-eye. He stared down fiercely, as if willing that the boy would answer. “Young Dr. Frankenstein? Who played him?”

The young mind was frozen, unable to interpret the request. Despite the sounds of war, the silence was deafening.

“You’re no American,” the descender finally retorted in disgust as he turned back toward his hovering the Black Hawk and disappeared.

Years later, when they came upon the old bones of the young prisoner, they respectfully saw that the boy received a proper Christian burial. They interred him under the name he’d scratched into the prison’s concrete wall – Gene Wilder.

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