Mission

by Philip Spires

  In the end, Boniface had been proved right. Without the hospital, his wife would have lost her second child. Whether he himself had brought about the complications by dragging her across country from Thitani was a question he never seriously considered. All he saw was that without the doctor and, above all, without Michael’s blood, his child and, perhaps, his wife would not have survived. Not only was the immediate significance of this act gratefully acknowledged by Boniface, but also its future consequences were already being mapped out. In his eyes, it endowed Michael with special and permanent responsibilities toward the child. Michael accepted this without question and so promised that if ever the young Muthuu needed help, Boniface should tell him straight away and he would do all he could.

  ***

  Michael seems to have run out of words. For some time he is silent, lost in thought as if he is finding it hard to locate the right memory. At first John O’Hara does not try to push him, since his perception of his own fairness demands that he should hear Michael’s version uncomplicated by any strictures he himself might impose. Eventually, however, he reluctantly tries to help Michael along. “So this morning you drove to Thitani?” Michael nods in agreement. “And from there straight to Kitui?” Again Michael nods. O’Hara says no more to try to encourage Michael to continue, but still he seems lost for words. “What is it, Michael?” he asks at last. “What happened next?”

  Michael answers by shrugging his shoulders. “It’s all wrong, John. If all I can do is go on reporting events blandly one after the other, you’ll only hear the same as what was said by that crowd outside.” He nods vaguely towards their memory of the argument outside. O’Hara’s only reply to this is a rather confused frown.

  “Don’t misunderstand me,” Michael says hastily. “I’m not saying that I agree with their interpretation, just that I have to explain why I was feeling the way I was for you to be able to understand why I reacted in the way that I did.”

  O’Hara’s accommodating gesture invites him to continue, effectively inviting him to accept complete freedom of expression thenceforth.

  After a few moments to collect his thoughts, Michael continues, beginning as if embarking upon an epic. “It goes back a long way, this feeling. Probably the best way to start is to forget about today for the moment. That will certainly help me to get closer to it again rather than just run away from it. You know, for quite some time I’ve meant to come here and bare my soul to you, so to speak. Obviously I never got round to doing it and so all the frustrations I needed to get off my chest have only been getting worse.” Michael pauses here to reach for a match and then light a cigarette. As he inhales the smoke, he feels his thoughts begin to focus. “John, what I want to do is just talk things out. Please let me do that. Let me start by going right back - a long way back, to Nigeria.”

  “Ah...” O’Hara’s reaction is instinctive. In all the years he has known Michael, he has never heard him speak of his time in Nigeria. Unlike the several other priests in the diocese who have spent time in that country, Michael has throughout remained deeply reticent about his experiences there. “You were deported in the end?”

  Michael smiles. “Indeed I was,” he says sardonically. “Yes. I was. I was adjudged as having collaborated with the state of Biafra.”

  “But your station wasn’t inside Biafra...”

  “That’s right, but if you remember, just after war was declared, the Biafrans had the government forces on the run and they quickly gained a lot of territory. So in fact, for the majority of the war, my parish was inside Biafra … and in the front line for a while later on. When the Government forces started pushing the Ibos back with the help of their new weapons, they made ground only very slowly. Until quite close to the end, they had pushed the Biafrans back only twenty miles or so on that part of the front. Then, of course, came the collapse.”

  ***

  There had been no hint that the war would reach them that day. There had not even been the sound of distant firing during the night. Though from the beginning there had been no way of escaping the conflict, people here had come to terms with it and learned to live with its existence. The community accepted that its sons, husbands and fathers would go to fight because their common belief was that the war would start and that they would win through to secure their aim. Even when casualties began to mount, this common determination did not waver. News of victories in the early days of the war had served to strengthen this resolve to such a degree that later, even when eventual defeat had become inevitable, it effectively spurred men to suicide. Perhaps before any war can even begin, it is necessary that people should start to believe their own propaganda. When self-belief suffers from that degree of myopia, even death’s absolute reality becomes a dream.

  But at this late stage no one knew the real story. For some days the villagers had heard nothing from relatives nearer the front and so they lived their unchanged life ignorant of the fact that the war was all but lost. Anyway why should they worry? Wars, after all, are fought by armies and not by farmers. They wore no uniforms, held no guns and obeyed no orders. Whoever might win the war, they would still need to eat and so they would still need the yams the village grew.

  Content in this ultimate security, village life had continued largely unchanged. The market, with its trade and gossip, remained its focus. Food shortages were a growing cause of concern, however, but it was still not serious, certainly not serious enough to deserve much more than passing comment. Market day remained a day of meeting, reunion and conversation. It remained the day when deals were struck, plans made and arguments revisited. It was the day, also, even more so than Sunday, when Father Michael’s church was filled to capacity for afternoon mass and this day was no exception.

  There was no panic. It was not because people quickly realised their fate and calmly accepted it, but merely because they had no understanding of what was about to happen. Gunshots would have set everyone running for cover. Approaching government forces would have sent them fleeing. But on that day, like goats that will run from a man but not from a car, they simply stood and watched. Thus, like goats mowed down in the road, they suffered a fate they could not comprehend.

  Initially the dull drone from the north went quite unnoticed. As it grew in intensity, however, conversations and trading stopped. Even Father Michael paused in the middle of his sermon to listen. He had never known a congregation fall so suddenly silent. From inside the church it sounded like the approach of a storm. The roar echoed in the building and caused the tin roof to rattle on its nails and the interior to reverberate in sympathy. Like people everywhere when confronted with dangers they cannot comprehend, these people reacted immediately and in entirely the wrong way. Consequently they were the first to suffer. As if with one mind the entire congregation rushed to the exit. Everyone knew that the walls had been built very cheaply and then Father Michael had come along and, in his wisdom in such matters, had finished the building off with a heavy iron roof complete with unsupported overhangs to provide verandas. Michael had never bothered to strengthen the structure. In his eyes its obvious frailty endowed new meaning to his oft said words, “Let us lift up our eyes and pray...” So it was with some amusement and some experience that people rushed towards the exit, for all approaching storms were greeted with this practice.

  For a few seconds a steady stream of people spewed from the doorway into the dull light of the overcast afternoon, each immediately turning towards those behind to offer a smile or a few words to comment on just how close to collapse the roof appeared to be. Michael, of course, had grown used to this and reacted in the same way as everyone else, since the heavens were prone to open almost every afternoon. For the duration of the storm, a half hour or so, people would shelter under the veranda outside - under the same dubious roof! - and then, when the wind had abated would file back into the church to resume their service.

  That day, however, was to see no usual storm. The fir
st people pushed outside by the rush turned to face those inside, but before they could speak or even offer a smile, the expected rumble of thunder grew to an unknown roar which drew their eyes skyward. Those still pushing to get out saw in the same instant the earth outside begin to explode in a thousand puffs of dust. The roar rose to a deafening intensity and then swept away with a speed greater than any storm. And now there were a number of people lying motionless on the ground, their blood seeping into the dirt. Amid gasps of fear, the entire congregation left the church and ran to the prostrate bodies. Some were dead or dying. Then, while a collective shock numbed the senses and prevented all action save for the wailing of a few women, the roar of engines again filled the sky. The helicopter flew low, hugging the contours of the gently undulating land, almost clipping the top of the surrounding forest. No one knew how to react. All hesitated, stared at the dark shape in the sky as it loomed ever larger. When they decided to run, it was too late. The shadow flashed overhead and again the earth boiled in plumes of dust. A handful of people who had remained in the church covered their eyes and shrieked with pain as the searing noise reached its crescendo. A second later, they looked outside and could not believe what they saw. Surely only by magic could so many people be hit so quickly. Not a second before fifty or sixty people had stood in the wide clearing before the church. Now half of them were prostrate on the earth.

  “Come on! Follow me quickly,” Michael shouted. Immediately he took another by the arm and almost dragged him from the church, their fear of being left alone now greater than any other. Together they ran across the clearing, stepping over bodies on the way until they reached the edge of the forest. There they stopped, panting for the breath their fear denied them. Only a moment remained to survey the scene before the helicopter again returned. This time the aircraft flashed across the village and more shots were fired.

  The helicopter did not return, its roar fading slowly to a distant moan, revealing a silence of shock and disbelief. Then, without daring to move for many minutes, they stood motionless and still silent, surveying what was before them. It felt as if they had been transported to a different world. When they tentatively left their hiding place, they were all in tears, crying like helpless children, because it was all they could do. A total silence seemed to pervade all. Punctuated only by their own voices and an occasional groan from the wounded, it oppressed them, frightened them. It was the silence of death and it was all around them.

  So, at first as a group and then singly, they went in search of the living. There had been a crowd of people in the small market, the church full and a dozen shops overflowing. The bullets had strafed the whole clearing, and, of the hundreds who had come to market many had been hit. There were no more tears to cry. The survivors, now sure of their own safety, moved from one corpse to another with their eyes now dry. No emotion could penetrate the wall of shock, which now protected them. Some, it seemed, had died of fright. They lay with their flesh and clothes apparently unblemished but with expressions of terror tearing their faces. For how long the living wandered apparently aimlessly through the village they would never remember. Probably they expected help to arrive. A government lorry with doctors, maybe? Or a Land Rover from the mission hospital down the road. But no one came. Thus the survivors waited in vain.

  Under the large tree near the church was Michael’s car. He inspected it for damage and, though the body was riddled with bullet holes, and one of the tyres had been holed, it seemed at least to be in one piece. He tried the engine and it started. He offered a silent prayer of thanks. He was obviously useless here. Elsewhere he might find someone who could tend the few who stood a chance of surviving. There was a mission hospital run by nuns a few miles to the west. Surely they could do something. If the hospital were still under Biafran control, he would need Nelson to negotiate the help they needed.

  He could not go alone, however. If the war was close he might meet soldiers and he was not sufficiently skilled in the different languages to be sure he could explain himself. Nelson should go with him. He had been one of the lucky ones who had followed Michael from the church to safety. He was an Ibo, the local representative of the General’s government who had come to the area to assess the harvest and obtain supplies of food for their now hard-pressed army.

  Michael looked around but could not see him. A blast on the car horn produced the desired result. Michael beckoned to Nelson who appeared from a nearby shop where frightened people had crowded to seek shelter. Whilst he crossed the clearing to the car, Michael shouted to a nearby group that he was going for help, but they seemed strangely disinterested. After all, what could anyone do now? When Michael pointed out the possibility of meeting soldiers on the road, Nelson, an educated man, who also spoke good English, agreed that he should come along, since Michael spoke no Ibo. As the car slithered off along the only road, those left in the town stood silently and watched until it and its wheel-rim clanking disappeared into the all-enveloping forest.

  The ride was distinctly uncomfortable. The flat tyre flapped noisily as the wheel cut deep furrows in the soft soil of the road and the car frequently veered from side to side. Michael constantly had to fight with the steering to maintain a mere twenty miles per hour and caused him to rue his decision some weeks before to give away his spare to a friend when he knew full well that the war meant he would not find a replacement. Nevertheless, they made progress, but Nelson held onto his seat and the dashboard as if in fear of his life. As the narrow track wound its devious way through the forest, Michael fought to keep the car straight, but apparently to no avail. It seemed that they made progress sideways, as the wheel constantly lost traction in the soft dust. The consequent skids, first one way and then the other as Michael corrected and over-corrected, caused Nelson to think that they might even be bouncing from tree to tree. So quickly did their trunks seem to pass by that after only a few minutes he simply held on, closed his eyes and prayed. Michael was working hard to maintain a semblance of control, but, in his own inimitable style, he showed none of it, with his head lolling to one side and his eyes looking quite vacant.

  On reaching the river they were surprised to find the ferry unattended. Luckily, the boatman had left the pontoon on their bank. It took only a few minutes for Michael and Nelson to work the car across the river. The ferry had certainly not been abandoned for long. Numerous puddles of fresh oil on the platform suggested that it had been used that day and, though neither Michael nor Nelson made any comment, both were privately troubled by the fact that they had passed no other vehicle on their side of the river. Something felt very wrong. First the boatman was nowhere to be seen. Even after they had loaded the car onto the pontoon and begun to work it across the river, he had not appeared. Why had he not come to them? Why had they not seen vehicles on the road? And still there was not a sign of war. They had not seen a single person.

  Michael drove the car off the pontoon whilst Nelson held the guide rope to make sure it could not slip. Here the road rose steeply up the bank to disappear again into the darkness of the forest and so, rather than risk stopping and thus having to restart on the slippery mud of the river bank, he drove on up to the top and waited there for Nelson. Michael reached for a cigarette and lit it. As he exhaled the smoke and sighed, his eyes closed momentarily and with great deliberation he moved his head from side to side to try to relieve the stiffness, which his confinement in the car had produced. The engine still ticked over. Where was Nelson? He opened his eyes with a start, suddenly realising he had waited for his companion for a minute or more. He turned round and saw that Nelson was still only half way up the riverbank. He was surrounded by a group of armed men. Some of them wore camouflage, but most wore tattered vests and shorts.

  Michael did not know whether they were government forces, Biafran forces or merely locals bent on self-preservation. When he moved to get out of the car, however, he was left in no doubt. His hand had hardly reached the door handle when a voice to hi
s left spoke firmly in a language he did not know. Obviously he was being told to sit still. This he did. The passenger door opened. Someone reached into the car, switched off the engine and carefully removed the keys from the dashboard. Immediately Michael could smell palm wine. The man reeked of it. Someone then prodded Michael on the shoulder through the open window in the driver’s door. He turned. A man stood beside the car pointing a rifle into his eyes. He was told to get out.

  A few seconds later, Michael was standing by the car, his hands flat on the roof, the tip of a rifle pressed into his back. He, it seemed, deserved the attentions of only one man. Nelson, however, was surrounded by a dozen or more. There was a lot of noise, a lot of shouting, but Nelson was quiet, not uttering a single word. Michael tried to move, but a short nervous prod in his back returned him to submission.

  The shouting continued. Nelson said nothing. They pushed him, hit him, but he still remained silent. At last Michael shouted, “Does any of you speak English? Can I help?”

  At first nothing happened, but then one of those dressed in army fatigues spoke above the rest, apparently ordering them to stop what they were doing and wait for him. He approached Michael and gestured to the man at his back to step aside. Michael turned to face him.

  “Hello, Father,” he said. “This man is refusing to speak.”

  “What do you want to know?”

  “We want to know who he is, where he comes from and where he is going.” He punctuated his demands by tapping emphatically on his rifle stock.

  “He is travelling with me. We’re going to the hospital.” He gestured vaguely into the distance. “This morning our village was attacked and...”

  “I know,” interrupted the other. “We merely want to know who he is. You can tell us.”