by Rex Byers
I couldn’t imagine surrendering to those guys, or losing the war, but that’s where we were headed.
Blood escaped out of my flesh, and I cringed with every life-saving squeeze that Brad forced upon me. Bruce had retreated to the back bedroom. Cole and Monte remained in their bedroom bunker. CB had never left the door, and Morgan held his position. The ladies, as far as I knew, were still in the bedrooms praying. We were losing blood, hope, and time.
~•••~
Arthur finally woke up, opened the door and found Jason out of breath, frantic. Jason explained what was happening and then collapsed on the floor, while Arthur put on his clothes and grabbed two handguns. When Arthur returned with the weapons, he and Jason ran outside and hopped into Arthur’s truck.
Arthur handed Jason a gun. As he steered back toward our complex, Jason grabbed the wheel and forced Arthur to turn toward Jeanpy’s house. Jason knew that after what he’d been through, Jeanpy would be a great help.
Jeanpy (zhon-pea) is clean cut, tall and has a winsome smile. He was Arthur’s assistant, a Haitian, although I don’t think he ever imagined working in such a dangerous capacity. Violence isn’t anything new to the Haitian people, but our emergency was out of context in relation to the traditional crime and political uprisings that took place in the city.
When they arrived at Jeanpy’s house, located on the compound, they informed him about the shooting and he hurried into the truck. Jason gave his gun to Jeanpy and they headed for the clinic. While driving, Jason repeatedly said, “This is for real. They will shoot you! They will shoot you!”
Jeanpy was friends with a police officer so he called him on his cell phone. The officer was close, but Jeanpy didn’t know how soon he’d get there. Minutes? Hours? Jeanpy had hoped that he’d alert other officers nearby. But the hour was late. The night was dark. And time was running short.
Arthur slammed on the brakes when they came within a safe distance from the clinic. He and Jeanpy ran for the stairway and Arthur shot a few rounds into the air. Jason crawled out of the truck and into the field to assess the situation. He crouched down in the grassy terrain, aching, breathless.
Although Arthur had no idea who the attackers were, he and Jeanpy continued shooting. Pop! Pop! Pop!
~•••~
I could hear gunshots exploding faster somewhere in the distance. Something had changed. The Haitians were no longer shooting into our building. There seemed to be a shift in resonation, an increase in intensity. I could hear gunfire from the veranda and it sounded like the shots were firing in two directions.
Pop! Pop! Pop!
Boom! Boom! Boom!
And then again... Pop! Pop! Pop!
I could tell the gunmen had the larger caliber weapons. But they no longer had the advantage. They seemed to have switched into a defensive mode, and turned their attention to someone more threatening than our ragtag band of missionaries.
I remember taking a breath, feeling a temporary sense of relief, but that didn’t last. The guns were still blasting, and I was still bleeding. Forgetting my condition wasn’t much of an option. I lay beside Brad, listened, and took everything in. There wasn’t anything else to do besides pray, and I had done plenty of that.
I couldn’t hate these guys. I can’t speak for everyone on our team because we’ve all had to deal with the trauma in our own way. I felt compassion for these people, and still do. Their country, which was already in economic and political turmoil, had been brought to their knees overnight. They were destitute. Prisoners had escaped. Food and shelter was scarce. The economy, what little there was, had collapsed, and the men they voted into office in previous years had been forced out of the country by the powers that be.
How would the fathers feed their children? How did they earn an income? What choice did they have? I wondered what I would do if I were in their shoes. How would I survive? How would I feed my family?
The cost of rebuilding Haiti’s infrastructure left little to nothing to help its people cope in a real and impacting way. The total cost estimated by the Haitian government neared 8 billion, close to 100% of the countries Gross Domestic Product (GDP) at the time. Mother Nature toppled the government, and the people of Haiti in one swift blow. And at the time of this writing, although there has been some infrastructure and economic restoration through extensive worldwide monetary assistance, the funding has proven to be insufficient. For the Haitians, the battle for survival continues, and their struggle is a daily fight to the death.
With that said, I hope I wouldn’t stoop to violent, criminal activity if faced with the same challenges, but who knows. It’s hard to imagine their plight. Desperate times, as they say, call for desperate measures. They are human and so am I. They were desperate and so were we, but for drastically different reasons.
We were there to serve them, to lift their spirits, to sing and worship and show them God’s love. I couldn’t hate them.
~•••~
As I lay on the warm concrete, bleeding, growing weaker by the minute, I resigned to defeat. I didn’t care anymore. I don’t know if it was the blood loss, if I had run out of gas, or overcome with physical and mental exhaustion; I could no longer fight. I was so thirsty. My wound was stinging like crazy, and I could almost feel my leg bruising with every vascular throb. Brad continued squeezing, and that created its own pain. I was ready to lay down my weapons, although I had none. I was done—done thinking, done fighting, and done fixing.
Chapter 9
Help Arrives
With only the moonlight to guide them, Arthur and Jeanpy shot into the shadows exchanging gunfire with our attackers, and then it got deathly quiet.
Jason lay still. He didn’t know what was going on. The silence was frightening. He desperately tried to come up with a plan. His feet were killing him, swelling and aching, so he continued crawling until he heard someone coming toward the gate. He cautiously slunk through the field convinced that whoever had approached was one of the gunmen. He didn’t know it at the time, but it was actually Jeanpy running toward the huge generators.
~•••~
The gun battle continued and bullets fired relentlessly into the kitchen. Trapped in the darkness, unaware of Jason’s position, Brad and I kept low and quiet. After a time of silence, a faint, unfamiliar voice called out, “Are the police here?” Arthur answered back, “Yes they are.” But it wasn’t a voice any of us recognized. Thinking it was one of the gunmen trying to fool us into opening the door, Brad yelled, “No they’re not!”
At the time, we didn’t know where the extra shots were coming from. The redirected gunfight, and the call from outside, could have been a ploy. We couldn’t possibly know what was going on out there, and we weren’t about to take any chances.
Out on the veranda, I needed serious medical attention. While Brad had his hand wedged into my groin, I reached around to the backside of my leg. The lump felt like a bullet bulging directly opposite my entry wound. I wondered what had happened to the bone. Then, sensing something had changed, I looked up. The guns had stopped shooting, and the silence interrupted my thoughts.
I figured the gunmen had run away, were captured, or everyone was dead. I prepared myself for anything. My mind conjured up the worst possible scenario. A minute later, the lights came on, and a S.W.A.T team charged into the apartment in full gear. Their arrival was a Godsend.
It was over... finally.
A wave of relief rushed over my body like a surge of wind. Jeanpy had run past Jason and started the massive generators outside, illuminating the Double Harvest complex. The police made a quick assessment of our situation and immediately made plans for getting the medical treatment we so desperately needed. There were no ambulances or paramedics, however, only Arthur’s pickup truck and another vehicle that belonged to Double Harvest or Jeanpy.
At that point Dee Dee realized that when she woke up to the gunshots and screaming, she grabbed the wrong glasses. In the gloom and madness of the attack, she had grabbed
her sunglasses. It’s no wonder that when she looked out the window to search for help, all she saw was total darkness.
Brad told Dee Dee we needed a belt of some kind to make a tourniquet around my leg. Maggie gave her a black leather belt. Brad and Dee Dee worked together, fitting the belt snuggly around my leg. After they had fastened the tourniquet, they prepared to heave my limp and weakened body. Two officers jumped in, telling Brad and CB where to lift.
“You, get under that arm, and I’ll take this one,” a plump uniformed officer instructed. Brad and someone else obeyed his commands and helped carry me away.
With four guys reaching under my knees and arms, they hauled me down twenty steps, across the yard, and into the back seat of a compact pickup truck. I tried to help them as best I could but I weighed over 200 pounds at the time so the task was burdensome to say the least. They eventually set me down in the back seat of the truck, but that brought little relief. I knew the drive would be rough. The trip would be bumpy and long, and most likely painful. I braced myself for another rugged trek through the Haitian countryside.
~•••~
Arthur took the wheel and Joel jumped in the passenger front seat. Knowing how stressful things were, I tried to lighten the mood by saying, “This is really gonna dampen my plans for my homecoming night with Sharon.”
Joel, being a newlywed, laughed out loud.
We all laughed and that felt good.
I felt relieved to finally get away from the shooting. Laughter was probably the best medicine for all of us at the time. We could’ve swallowed it by the gallons.
For some reason, I remember looking at the clock on Arthur’s dashboard as we drove away. It read 1:06 am.
I remembered looking at my watch when I woke from the commotion—12:02 am. It had been an hour and four minutes from the time all hell broke loose until the infirmed, including yours truly, were carted off to safety, but it only felt like fifteen or twenty minutes.
As I sat in the crew cab, it didn’t seem possible that we could’ve held off six gunmen for that long—that we actually survived. I found out later that when a person is under stress and filled with adrenaline, it’s quite common to lose all concept of time. One might report hours, while others report minutes. In this case I knew exactly how long the terror had lasted.
~•••~
Arthur tried to hurry, but we were driving on dirt roads. When we drove on pavement, he still had to weave in and out of potholes. My body tossed and jerked, agitating my wound with every bump and turn. Then after what seemed like hours, we arrived at an old warehouse at the edge of the city. The hospital workers had a couple of wheel chairs waiting, which was a relief. Morgan, Bruce, and CB had also arrived with Jeanpy and were rushed inside.
I thought this is the hospital?
Somebody swung an iron gate open, allowing us to enter the secure courtyard. The building looked very plain, like a warehouse with metal siding. The interior appeared equally drab. The added rooms seemed like an after thought, with walls too short to reach the tall ceiling. The examination rooms were nothing more than little partitions separated by old shower curtains. I don’t know why, but I felt like I was in a cartoon. It was probably the stress. The staff looked real and the equipment looked real, but everything else looked plastic. It’s hard to describe, but the place just felt wrong.
Morgan and I sat side by side in wheel chairs waiting for the doctor to show up. I sat there thinking how we were walking and talking about the day, craving rest, less than four hours earlier. Everything felt surreal. We were wounded from gunshots. We were sitting in a dilapidated hospital bleeding, and in pain, already exhausted from the previous day and overcome with anxiety from the battle.
I felt like I needed to say something profound to Morgan.
“Dude, I screamed like a girl when I got shot, but you cussed.”
Morgan looked at me like I had two heads.
“What are you talking about?”
“You don’t remember? You said I’ve been shot! Shit! Shit! I’ve been shot!”
“Seriously?” asked Morgan. “I said that? I can’t believe I don’t remember that.” Morgan also told me that he didn’t think my scream sounded like a girl at all. He told me I had a very manly scream.
I wasn’t offended that he said “shit.” I was actually impressed because it showed that he was real. Not because I thought he was a fake, not at all. I just needed to know that my friends were as real, raw and as human as I felt at the time. As it turns out, that was another bonding moment that I’ll never forget.
Arthur stood next to us and held out his phone and said, “You guys wanna call anybody back home?”
My first thought was Sharon. Even though it was still the middle of the night, I wanted to be the first to tell her about the shooting. I didn’t want her to hear about this from anyone else. I went first.
I felt confident that Sharon would answer. We have a business, three kids, and eight grandchildren, so it wasn’t unusual for her to get a call in the middle of the night.
The phone rang. Nothing.
She didn’t pick up. It kept ringing. Why doesn’t she answer? I thought. I wanted to hear her voice but all I got was her voicemail.
“Honey, it’s Rex and I’m okay now, but you need to know that something went down at Double Harvest. Some of us were shot and I was one of them. I’m at the hospital now and everything will be all right. I love you.”
Morgan took the phone and did the same, calling home, reporting the damage. I didn’t really listen to Morgan’s call. My thoughts were focused on Sharon. How will she react when she get’s the message? She didn’t want me to go. She didn’t want us to be apart, and now this. I usually deal with difficult circumstances by telling jokes, and I certainly told my share while at that hospital. But not being able to talk to Sharon was killing me inside. I felt like I had let her down, like I wouldn’t be in this mess if I had listened to her. We weren’t scheduled to fly back for another four days. What a mess.
Chapter 10
Traffic Control & Miracles
The rest of the team stayed behind, while we drove to the hospital. They weren’t about to spend the night in our blood stained quarters. They packed a few personal items and headed to Arthur’s home, feeling a little more secure there.
Word quickly spread through the village about what had happened to us. One by one the locals came to defend our group. As more Haitians arrived, they formed a line of ragtag warriors, shoulder to shoulder, totally encircling the house, armed with large sticks, pitchforks, hatchets, or whatever they could find. They were determined that no one else would bring harm to their new friends. The possibility that they could hold off gunmen with sticks and tools was slim, but the idea brought comfort to those who stayed behind.
By being there for me, Brad had found his purpose for coming on the trip. But he knew we couldn’t spend another night in Haiti. We would never rest, afraid the attackers would return. He didn’t know what to do, but he knew he had to do something. So he called his boss, Sonny, back home in Indiana.
When Sonny answered, Brad apologized for calling in the middle of the night, and explained what had happened. He admitted that he didn’t know whom to call. Sonny comforted Brad assuring him that he didn’t need to worry. The company jet, he said, was close by, and he insisted that he’d immediately work out the logistics and have a plane in Haiti as soon as possible. Brad relayed the information to the team huddled in the house.
Fresh off the trauma mill, the possibility of an early return gave them their first ray of hope. Until then, we knew nothing but uncertainty. For the first moment since the shooting, their spirits were lifted.
While the Haitians stood guard outside, the remaining survivors shared their stories, discussing who did what and what happened where. Tears flowed freely as they comforted each other. And although some of us were shot, they were thankful that no one lost their life. They were amazed and grateful that those who were injured were on thei
r way to receive medical attention.
~•••~
Getting the jet to Haiti wasn’t an easy task. The pilots were ready. The jet was waiting. Unfortunately, there was a little problem. It normally takes 36 hours to get an International Flight Plan put together. The Haitian Air Traffic Control Center and government were not very cooperative with our flight agenda.
Not many planes fly in or out of Haiti, so under normal conditions buying tickets and flying out the same day would be next to impossible. We were going to need special permission from the Haitian government for the pilots to fly in and out of Haiti. After calling Sonny at 2:30am, we found out that the plane and pilots happened to be in the Cayman Islands, a miracle in itself. The Cayman Islands are only a 45-minute flight from Haiti. Sonny orchestrated the flight into Haiti through multiple calls back and forth to Brad, ultimately turning things over to his personal pilots, Jeff Hale and Bret Hamm. It was up to them to make decisions on the go and bring the team safely home. Before working for Sonny, Bret had a contact with Colt Fuel International. He called, and asked for a favor.
Bret’s question: “How do we get permission to fly into Haiti?”
The answer: Jimmy the handler. We don’t know what Jimmy’s last name is, and perhaps by the way he operates, he wants to remain anonymous. He handles things, and that’s all we needed to know. Jimmy was called upon and he began helping us solve our problem.
Things began coming together but we still didn’t have permission to land the private nine-passenger jet in Haiti. Jeff and Bret parked at the end of the Cayman runway, waiting for a phone call that never came. After what must have seemed like an eternity, Jeff made the decision to leave for Haiti. This was a move of faith, not knowing if he’d get permission to land. They risked fuel, time, and money, but Jeff knew it would be better to be close, waiting for approval, than to be so far away. He told Brad to mobilize the group and have them waiting at the airport.
