Mission Under Fire (8 page)

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. 

~•••~

A
rthur 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.

~•••~

A
rthur 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.

T
he 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 their way to receive medical attention.

~•••~

G
etting 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.

Jeff and Bret completed the 45-minute flight into Haiti’s air space, but still didn’t have permission to land. They circled the area for thirty minutes, waiting for a call from the Haitian Flight Control. When their landing was finally approved, they began the process of loading some of us for the trip home. This entire sequence happened inside three hours.

Jeff, Bret, and Brad had strict orders from Sonny. Sonny said, “You have the company credit card. You have my permission to take care of whatever you need, and I don’t want the mission team to incur another expense until they get safely home.”

And we didn’t, because Sonny is a class act.

~•••~

A
t that point, the team had something to focus on. When the sun rose, they headed back to their rooms, overcome with emotion. Bullet holes could be seen throughout the apartment. Blood splattered across the floors. The sight was horrifying. What remained of our living quarters filled our team with a grim reminder of what they had just been through. It was worse than anyone had imagined. As they walked through the ravaged scene, some took pictures, and others, feeling the hunger that burned in their stomachs, finished off the brownies that were made the night before.

Wasting no time, they began packing clothes and personal items, both for themselves and for those of us who were at the hospital. As they collected their things, and observed their surroundings, they counted their blessings, or more accurately, their miracles. The bibles were one of many unexplained phenomenon. With the light of day revealing what had occurred in the darkness, the team members who stayed behind realized how simple it would have been for the gunmen to jump through the windows. They weren’t that high above floor level. The glass was broken. They could’ve jumped right in.

On the other side of the shooting area, the women’s kitchen door was totally vulnerable. The intruders could have kicked that door in and it would have been
game over
. Other miracles included the fact that four guys were shot within feet of the shooters, bullets went everywhere and yet there wasn’t a single fatality. No bones were broken or even struck by a bullet. My personal miracle, Brad, had one year of pre-med and knew exactly where to apply pressure, saving me from bleeding out. The gunmen didn’t have the wherewithal to unload their guns in the lower portion of the door, which could have ended the battle at the entry point within minutes. Jason jumped twenty-five feet from a window, landing with little to no damage. A company jet was available to take us home. We knew someone, who knew someone, who knew another person willing to help us. The list of miracles is long, but will never be forgotten.