Mission Under Fire (5 page)

Fortunately, they only sideswiped my left arm, leaving me in a pile of gravel and dust, and kept driving. When they realized they had struck something, they turned around to inspect the damage. I don’t remember feeling upset at them because I was in the wrong place. Besides, I had a crush on their daughter, Wendy. I didn’t want to make any waves. It would be several years before I’d get a dance with her.

I picked myself up from the dust and twisted handlebars, and ran to my mom with bloodied knuckles and fingernails. She bandaged me up and helped me into bed. It didn’t take long before Dad heard that a car had struck me, and he headed home. Even my grandparents made the fifteen-mile trip to our house. I don’t know how fast a two-ton dump truck can travel, but I’m sure Dad found the top end. 

It may have been an adrenaline moment for him, and it soon became one for me, too. I had failed the test. I had screwed up. I had caused him to leave work and worry, and he made sure I knew how he felt. My arm had turned black, and I was in bed nursing my wounds when my dad barged in screaming at the top of his lungs, “How stupid are you to be riding in the street?” 

Once again my mom stepped in to calm him down.

“My gosh, Orin, he just got hit by a car. This isn’t the time for a screaming match.”

Hey, it was only a flesh wound. I’d recover.

And that’s how it was back in the 50’s and 60’s. Life could be funny or life could be hard. Those days were tough, but could it be that like all things, they had a purpose? Could those days have been what they were to prepare me for more difficult circumstances?

~•••~

L
ike many people, I’ve grown up with anxiety and pain, and it carried on to adulthood. I’ve felt a drill bit boring through my finger, had near-death experiences, and claustrophobic moments in tight crawl spaces. And through it all, I’ve learned to cope, act decisively, be productive, and avoid failure. So was the gunfire in Haiti simply another trip down memory lane? Yes, sort of. Standing in the middle of a fearful situation felt remotely familiar to my past—expect the unexpected. But this time, my life was on steroids, and I was on
high
adrenaline alert.

When we were attacked, I felt compelled to do something. I wanted to fix the situation, stop the gunmen, and find a way out. I was plagued with fear, but thinking back, the emotion I most remember was confusion. I was wired to be productive, no matter what. Block out pain—ignore fear—you’re invincible—my upbringing taught me that. But our situation was like nothing I’d ever been through. I didn’t have a solution. I was confused about what should be done, and this confusion ran deep, debilitating my normal reflexes.

Sharon, my lovely wife, has accused me of thinking I’m invincible, although I jokingly saw it as a compliment. In Haiti, I truly thought I could, or hoped to, stop the gunmen and fix the situation. I never believed I could be taken down, because that would be weak and ultimately make me a failure. I didn’t want that. Nobody wants that. Do they?

A
s I stood behind the freezer bracing myself for God only knew what was coming next, I heard something that sounded like a cannon. I crouched down and covered my ears. A few seconds passed and another BOOM exploded. With each fire came screams from the others. Knots grew in my stomach as I realized that we were going deeper into hell. These guys weren’t just
burglars
; they were
armed and dangerous
.

I knew the difference between the sound of a .22 and the boom of a .44 Magnum. Every time I heard another blast, it almost knocked me off my feet, reminding me of the .44 Magnum my friend Tim used to use for target practice. My arms and hands were shaking. The smell of gunpowder permeated my nostrils. I felt helpless. The ringing in my ears made the confusion worse. This continued shot after shot for the next half hour.

With the glass broken out of the kitchen window, the gunmen had a clear 3-foot by 5-foot opening to shoot through. I stood behind the freezer, positioned only 10 feet from the shooters. They shot at us every several seconds, giving us enough time to communicate, but not enough to change position. They shined their flashlights inside, took aim, and fired at anything that moved, like a game at the county fair.

Meanwhile, CB and Morgan hadn’t let up, still holding the kitchen door secure. They were only about 3 feet to the right of the kitchen window where the gunmen were shooting.

We could have done more if the kitchen window was the only source of gunfire. Unfortunately, a gunman positioned himself at the other window, giving the Haitians two clear shots from each opening. From the inside, a partitioned wall to the right of the door protected Morgan. If that wall hadn’t been there, the shooter in the window would’ve had a direct shot. A commercial coffee maker that sat on the kitchen counter shielded their left side. The coffee maker blocked CB, who had positioned himself closest to the door, but would have otherwise been a clear target. Our guys had knives, but they seemed irrelevant at that point.

Linda had escaped to the back of the apartment. Back in her own room, Dee Dee looked for a way to get help, but once the gunfire began, she and the other women were forced to hide. They found a closet, removed the shelving, throwing the contents on the bed, and shut themselves inside and prayed.

Brad and Jason were still in the back room trying to figure out how to get help and frustrated that they couldn’t get a signal on a cell phone. They considered jumping out of Jason’s bedroom window, but there was a twenty-five foot drop into total darkness, and unsure terrain, so they canned the idea. Calling for help seemed more plausible, but without a signal that would be impossible.

I could hear the others praying out loud between screams and gunfire. I thought,
we have a powerful God
.
Is this all He intended for us to do? Were we only supposed to pray, and wait? Just see what happens?
I felt more and more unsettled with this idea. I wanted to fight back. Something had to be done. Being the doer and fixer that I was, it really bothered me that we were so helpless—they had the upper hand and it was hitting us hard.

The gunfire continued. I didn’t know Bruce was shot until he started walking around. Through flashes of light, I could see he was bleeding badly. He made his way toward me and said, “Listen, I’ve been hit in my arm and I’m losing a lot of blood. I don’t know how much longer I’m gonna be conscious.”

I looked at him, trying to focus on his words. The blasts were still coming every few seconds and I could barely see him.

“You guys are gonna need to keep holding them off, ” Bruce continued.

I can’t remember what else he said because I honestly wanted him to move out of the way so I could try to do something. It seemed like his words were spoken in slow motion. Between each blast, my body jerked. My mind jumped into fix-it mode only to be interrupted by another gunshot. I couldn’t believe what was happening. Our crazy situation had moved to a whole new level when Bruce took a bullet. I don’t know if it was defiance, blind faith, or delirium, but Bruce turned and began pacing through the kitchen singing praise songs to God. 

“God, stop them!” a voice said.

“God, save us!” said another.

“Lord, be with our families!”

We pleaded to God in the darkness. I don’t know who was saying what, but we bonded through our prayers. We all prayed no matter where we were. Later, when we returned home, I learned that some were saying goodbye to their family members. Some of our prayers focused on seeing God, making peace with our Maker, or expecting the end. Still others cried out in faith, believing that God would not allow the gunmen to kill us. 

I remember talking to God, only to lose my concentration after each blast. All I could think was
I’m not supposed to die this way. I can’t die on a ceramic floor in Haiti.
That wasn’t possible. That wasn’t my plan.

I had to do something. I thought about the shooters hiding behind our wall, blasting us without retaliation, and that produced more frustration within me. I glanced across the kitchen, and noticed the stack of 40 Bibles on the table, and could only imagine the damage they’d incur as they were in the middle of the action. I had to find something to throw at the gunmen. Then I remembered the soda pop in the refrigerator.
Would they work as a projectile
, I wondered? I needed a weapon—anything. So I crept as low as I could, staying as close to the front of the freezer as possible, carefully watching the window where they were shooting.

When I reached the refrigerator, the handle was on the left side, so I was able to shield myself a little while ducking down in front of the door, reaching for the bottles. These were heavy glass bottles and they were worth the risk. I reached my arm into the refrigerator and grabbed a couple 20 ounce bottles of Coke, much heavier than the traditional American plastic bottles. I chucked the first one right through the kitchen window. It’s funny how the mind works; even in that moment I thought, it’s too bad I blindly grabbed the
Coke
and not the
Teem
soda. We had asked Arthur to get us more Coke because we kept running out, leaving us with only bottles of Teem. Coke was the beverage of choice and I used the best drink as the weapon. I imagined that if the guys could see what I was doing they would yell, “No Rex, throw the Teem!” 

I don’t know if it hit anyone, but I didn’t hear it smash on the concrete. For all I knew they caught it and had a drink. I threw the second bottle and it barely made it outside, almost hitting the windowsill. That’s when I decided not to throw anymore. I was afraid I’d miss and send one crashing into the wall, injuring the guys holding the door, or worse, covering them with sticky pop.

~•••~

C
B was still bracing the door when he and Morgan shifted their positions. CB had the most to lose. He was on this trip with his wife, Linda, and his new son-in-law, Joel. The rest of us worried about our families back home and how they’d go on with out us. CB was literally fighting to keep his family alive.

Morgan changed his position and then heard another blast. When he looked up, he saw a new hole in the door where his head had been. He and CB looked at each other without saying a word, and slid down lower, still pressing against the door.

I spotted Joel next. He was still in his room pinned down on all fours. Joel was around 24-years old at the time. The hallway outside his room caught most of the bullets coming from the kitchen window. I remember seeing him crawl to the open door. I’m sure he wanted a closer look or was hoping he could help. I held my breath as he stuck his head into the hallway. He told us later that he jerked back when he felt a bullet brush through his long curly hair, and this, in my opinion, is another blessing, more evidence that God had His hand upon us.

I
’d participated in other mission trips before this one. My first trip to a third world country was Honduras. I’ll never forget the initial shock when I first witnessed the poverty, hunger, half-naked children, and the endless needs. I was dumbfounded by the smiles and thankfulness that beamed from those poor kids.

I visited Honduras six times and Jamaica twice. I used to think of Jamaica as an exotic island, filled with fun in the sun, the perfect vacation getaway. But once we left the resorts, we saw how impoverished the people really were. This is something every American should see and experience for themselves. No matter how bad it gets in the United States, the poverty within our borders pales in comparison to third-world countries like Honduras, Jamaica, and especially Haiti. I learned to appreciate how blessed I’d become because of these trips. I learned to love the people and was impressed by their joy, in spite of their circumstances.

Leaving my business for an extended period of time was never a problem. I’ve owned a heating and air conditioning company in central Indiana for 36 years at the time of this writing. I have a great bunch of co-workers that allow me the opportunity to get away. Most of the time, my trips are weekend getaways, trips with Sharon, or if we’re lucky, vacations with the kids and grandkids.

So unless my employees burn the place down, I can fix whatever needs my expertise when I return. At the time of the Haiti trip, I went over the details with our manager and he had everything under control. There’d be no contact with me for about 12 days and I had no reservations about my team’s ability to handle the business.

On this particular trip, however, leaving Sharon was a problem. We were only a month away from our 40th anniversary. A separation for 12 days shouldn’t have been too difficult. I would miss her tender heart, her clear mindedness, her love, and companionship. Sharon on the other hand, would have to deal with something more difficult...
the thing
that had threatened our
closeness
.

What’s
the thing
? The thing that I’m referring to is a generational sin that’s been passed down to me from my forefathers. My father and grandfather were both womanizers. I grew up hearing the story about the night my grandmother chased my grandpa and another woman out of the house with a shotgun. We all laughed at the narrative, but I’m guessing it wasn’t funny at the time. My dad was a student of his father, and I, too, learned at a young age how to be charming and witty when in the company of the opposite sex. I was trained to notice when a woman changed the style or color of her hair. I could compliment a nice outfit or shoes. My closest friends in school were female, so I hung around them and enjoyed their company. I didn’t necessarily have many “girl friends”, but I had a lot of female friends.

I met Sharon the summer I turned 17. She had a sweet, shy smile, and long brown hair that I imagined getting tangled up in. She took me off guard the first time I met her at my friend Vicki’s house. She sat with Vicki on the couch exchanging girl-talk. I expected to draw her attention right away with my smile and charm, and silliness; but she didn’t seem interested. Vicki introduced us earlier that day and I determined I would get her attention, a smile just for me. I hung out on the floor of the living room cutting jokes and rolling around looking pretty ridiculous. I made sure she was watching every time I cracked a joke, but she didn’t give me anything, not a single smile, completely unaffected by my shenanigans.