"Just tell us" thwack "what the Congs" thunk "are planning!" Crash.
Aziraphale entered the tent to find a Vietnamese man crumpled on the floor, his hands behind his back. He tried to get up but failed, unable to do so without the use of his arms. Aziraphale reached out from behind the soldiers to help him.
"Eh? Who are you and what the fuck are you doing here?" One of the soldiers asked, glaring.
"Helping. I know Vietnamese. Perhaps I could be of assistance? Of course, only if you treat this man properly."
The man scoffed. "You know Vietnamese? Well lookieee here, ain't you special? We're supposed to have a translator come in, just in case he don't understand us, but I'm pretty sure he does."
"I can translate," Aziraphale offered almost hopefully.
"How do you know Vietnamese, anyway?"
"I've been here long enough to have learned it." It was tough, sometimes, not to outright lie. Sometimes Aziraphale did, but the angel did his best to pass it off as necessary, harmless lies that were only made to keep his cover as an angel.
"Fine. Say something to him in Vietnamese. Tell him to stand up."
Aziraphale did so. The man made a pained sound. Aziraphale tried again, explaining that he was trying to help. He seemed to be using that explanation a lot, lately.
It only seemed to work as an explanation, so far.
The man stood up.
"Tell him to lick my boots."
"I'm afraid I can't do that, sorry."
"Well how'm'I supposed ta' know he didn't just handily decide to stand up, and yer just lyin' or something?"
"I'll tell him to clap his hands, if such an example is needed." And Aziraphale did. The man clapped his hands. The ropes on his wrists were gone. The soldiers didn't seem to notice.
"Now, how about we sit him down so that he can clear his head in order to answer your questions with a sounder mind?"
- _ - _ - _ -
Aziraphale decided that the true purpose of interrogation was for soldiers to vent their frustrations in ways other than drugs and killing themselves. Physically vent. Vent in a way that had left a certain middle-aged Vietnamese man with what could have been a broken nose and wrist, along with a body full of welts. Luckily, though, it had seemed that after the entire ordeal, his body had decided to become much more efficient at recuperating, and the wounds disappeared.
Aziraphale's broken wrist had decided to heal too, as well as his black eye. It was difficult to try to translate and protect a defenseless man at the same time.
The angel glanced to the forest where he expected the children were, or should have been, now. He looked back once at the camp, and left with a backpack full of silly-string, peanut butter, water, and a few blankets.