“The chief was his grandfather,” the sergeant said. The five men walked deeper into the destroyed village and found two legionnaires standing guard over the body. The village elder had been dismembered and his legs and arms thrown to waiting dogs. His stomach had been ripped open and his head shoved inside. G.G. bent over and vomited. Then he took more photos, his face deathly white.
“Il y a plus,” Vermullen repeated.
“There is always more,” the sergeant added. “Have you ever seen a baby impaled?” He pointed to the body of an infant dangling from a stake fence.
Allston stared at the baby, his whole being shaken to the core. There was no rationalization for what he was seeing, no justification, no explanation, no understanding. For the first time in his life, he understood what it meant to have an epiphany. This was reality and it was evil. Like most Americans, Allston had convinced himself that evil was a primitive belief that only existed in the ignorant. But the ignorance was his. The evil that the Allies had experienced when they stumbled across the death camps in World War II was still very much alive. It had taken a new form in Bosnia and now Africa, and it was the curse of the modern world, challenging civilization.
“Il y a plus,” Vermullen said.
Allston breathed deeply, not able to speak and vent the emotions shredding his humanity. By any standard, he was a well-educated and superbly trained professional warrior, yet nothing had prepared him for this, not even what he had seen at Abyei on his first day in the Sudan. That had only been a prelude, a small sample of what he was witnessing. Perhaps a more urbane and sophisticated man could play the intellectual and find refuge in the abstract, but when faced with the horror of genocide, Allston could not mute it or turn away. This was the here and now and he had to physically engage. Anything less would be a denial of what he was and everything he believed in. A burning hate swept over him, threatening to consume him, and from that moment, he was willing to risk his life to kill the evil before him.
“Are you okay?” G.G. asked.
Slowly, Allston regained control. “No, G.G., I’m not okay. And I doubt that I ever will be.” He swept the village with his hand. “If this doesn’t put some hate in your heart, nothing will.”
“It’s there, Colonel,” G.G. assured him.
“Good. Don’t ever forget it.”
“So now you understand why my sergeant reacted as he did,” Vermullen said. He fell silent as he led them out of the village. The boy was sitting in the shade of a bush, waiting for them, his arms wrapped around his knees.
Allston extended a hand and pulled him to his feet. “Who did this?”
The boy froze in fear. Slowly, his lips moved, forming a single word. “Jahel.”
Beica, Ethiopia
It was dusk when the two C-130s landed to discharge the legionnaires. Allston made his way through the cargo compartment as the legionnaires deplaned, impressed with the good order they left behind. They may have been societal misfits, but they were not slobs. His crew joined him as they walked around the aircraft, inspecting for bullet holes in the fuselage. Tech Sergeant Riley, the flight engineer beamed in relief when they only found three holes in the beavertail, the underside of the empennage beneath the vertical and horizontal stabilizers. Riley crawled inside and quickly reported that nothing critical had been hit and they had only taken superficial damage. Gauging by the size of the holes, they had taken fire from an AK-47.
“It had to be that Janjaweed we over flew who shot at us,” Bard Green decided. “He didn’t use enough lead.”
Vermullen overheard them. “It is very difficult to shoot from a galloping horse. My tireurs could not hit him as he cut back and forth. It was an outstanding display of horsemanship. Do not underestimate this man.” He let it sink in. “It is late. May I extend the hospitality of our mess for the night? I have a good chef.”
“Why am I not surprised?” Allston asked. The arrangements were quickly made and the four pilots and G.G. were billeted in the officers’ quarters while the two flight engineers and two loadmasters joined the NCOs.
An hour later, Vermullen was waiting for the Americans in the officer’s mess. Like them, he was showered, but he was wearing a fresh uniform. His officers were clustered behind him and two immediately escorted Marci Jenkins and her copilot into the dining room. “Shall we join them?” Vermullen asked, playing the gracious host. As promised, the dinner was excellent and the surroundings on the elegant side. “The UN built this for the relief mission,” Vermullen explained, “but the commissioners prefer Addis. They gave it to us instead.” The big man thought for a moment. “It is not for the Legion. My men are losing their edge — too much of the good life. We need to be nearer to — what do you Americans say? — to the action.”
“There’s always Malakal,” Allston said. “But I don’t think our masters in Addis Ababa will approve.”
“Tactically, that would be a good move. Unfortunately, you are correct; the head of mission will not approve. I believe he wants you Americans in harm’s way.” He changed the subject. “It appears your Captain Jenkins is most popular with my officers and is enjoying her dinner.”
“She didn’t see the village,” G.G. said.
“Food will never taste the same,” Allston added.
“You must learn to handle it,” Vermullen said.
“I’ll try,” Allston replied. “But I never want to hear Il y a plus again. How do you handle it?”
“By relying on my men. For them, it was a successful mission with no casualties. In our business, there is no better result. Perhaps, we should see how they are getting on.”
“Sounds like a plan,” Allston said. “G.G., Bard, come on and join us.” He looked around for Marci and her copilot but couldn’t find either. Vermullen led the three Americans to the NCO mess where they could hear singing. “That sounds like German.”
“Indeed it is,” Vermullen admitted. “There are many Germans in the Legion, and they do love to sing.” He listened for a moment. “It is an old World War II Wehrmacht drinking song.” He sang in English, “Hurry, hurry to the whorehouse before the prices go up.” They listened for a moment as a new song broke out. “Ah, I like this one better. ‘Tonight We March On England.’”
Allston laughed, liking the big Frenchman more and more. “I imagine you would.” The four entered the mess and a loud cheer echoed over them. There was no doubt that Vermullen was extremely popular with his men. Big water glasses filled with red wine were pushed into their hands and the noise grew even louder.
“Colonel,” a legionnaire with a thick German accent called, “what are you going to do to the American who dropped you in the tree?”
“Let him do it to you,” Vermullen shouted back. “Be sure to keep your ankles crossed to protect your Kraut balls.” More cheers deafened them. Vermullen drained his glass and banged it on the bar for attention. The room quickly quieted. “It is obvious we are growing soft here. What would your mothers think? They will never forgive me, and we must rectify the situation.” He looked out over them expectantly. “What? No suggestions?”
“Bloody hell!” a Cockney sergeant shouted. “We’re moving to Malakal to save the Americans’ bloody ass.”
Vermullen pulled a face. “Well, if you insist, Sergeant Abbott.” He turned to Allston. “Can you provide airlift?”
“So sayeth my standing orders. But what about the UN?”
A broad smile spread across the Frenchman’s face. “If we do it quick enough, they will have no say in the matter. Tomorrow is Saturday and they never work on weekends.” He laughed, enjoying the moment. “And very seldom on Mondays.”