Mission Under Fire (9 page)

A
rthur informed me that I’d be transported to another hospital approximately eight to ten miles away because the first hospital was not equipped to handle my gunshot. This seemed ridiculous. I could feel the bullet lying just under my skin. How hard can it be? When I smashed my fingertip, I twisted a drill bit through my nail to relieve the blood pressure. When I had chiggers in my legs, I covered them with fingernail polish and forced them out. When I have poison ivy, I scratch it open and cover it with bleach. If someone would have sterilized a box cutter, I could’ve taken care of the bullet myself.

I had already been poked and prodded by the hospital staff. They x-rayed my leg in every position possible, looking for bone fragments left behind as the bullet shot through my leg. The assumption was that the bullet had traveled in a straight line.

I was elated to receive a painkiller near the entry wound. They cleaned the opening, stitched it closed, and applied a dressing. I couldn’t believe I was going on another road trip. This time they loaded me into Haiti’s version of an ambulance: a two-ton extended cab flat bed with short perimeter walls. At least it was wider than Arthur’s pickup truck. They helped me into the back seat while CB held the I.V. bag above my head. I offered to hold it, but he insisted on helping in anyway he could.

Everyone was so worried about my comfort that the truck literally crawled through the streets. The trip was grueling. I felt every chuckhole and bump in the road. The truck dropped into the holes, hit bottom, and climbed back out—the roads were that bad—it was that slow.

This went on for over an hour before we finally arrived at the second hospital. It seemed more professional and sanitary than the first, but left much to be desired. It looked like an old house with multiple additions, rounded archways, and white walls. Still, I was thankful to know that I was going to receive the care I needed. Arthur told me that private donors and volunteer doctors willing to donate their time funded both hospitals. Knowing that the institutions were funded by donations and volunteers meant a lot to me. Suddenly the place seemed more appealing.

~•••~

T
he images taken at the first hospital weren’t in the right format so the doctors needed more x-rays. In order to do this, they had to wake up numerous day-shifters sleeping in the x-ray room. A nurse wheeled me inside and I managed to climb on the table. The protocol is much different in Haiti than here in the states; there isn’t much privacy and anyone interested in watching the doctor is more than welcome to observe.

Once the x-rays were taken, we gathered around to view the images of my leg. The bullet and bone were completely in tact so they were able to continue with the procedure. Thank God!

The room held several beds, but there weren’t many patients. As they wheeled me into the room, I remember watching doctors bandage someone’s torn shoulder. Then my doctor motioned for me to climb on a gurney. I looked at the small bed, cringing at the sight of freshly dried blood. But I didn’t have any reason to be picky. The blood wasn’t any more troubling than the flies in the room.

The doctor swabbed my leg with iodine and stuck me a few times with something to numb the incision. He carefully cut the lump in my leg with a scalpel and the bullet popped out like a pimple. For some reason I had the presence of mind to ask the doctor to give me the bullet. While he performed the procedure, I had already thought about converting the copper bullet into a piece of jewelry.

When the doctor completed the surgery, I was informed that the bullet was spinning end over end upon impact. There wasn’t a scratch on the bullet so we figured it had hit something plastic before it had hit me. The bullet tore a three quarter inch hole in the front of my thigh, narrowly missing major blood vessels and my sciatic nerve. According to the x-ray, the bone behind the entry point wasn’t damaged. The only possibility was for the bullet to have ricocheted before it hit me. The doctor explained that the bullet was most likely spinning when it hit my leg and continued spinning as it traveled around the femur, arcing its way to the backside of my thigh. The bone remained intact, but the muscle surrounding the bone was damaged. Unlike most surgeries, mine was very casual. We were joking with the staff and talking smack like we had before we went to bed that night.

Morgan was shot in the thigh as well, but on the side. It traveled completely through his flesh. His wound was much cleaner. At one point, when comparing our battle scars, I told him, “It’s funny, Morgan, I don’t remember hearing a BB gun during the fight.”

The doctor finished dressing the laceration and handed me a plastic bag with dime-sized pink pills. He told me they contained eight hundred milligrams of ibuprofen, each. At the time I didn’t think I’d need them, not realizing that the anesthesia would soon wear off. Then without further instructions or an invoice, they told me I was free to go.

We loaded up, and headed back, grateful that a private jet was on its way. I immediately felt sad that we couldn’t stay to finish what we started, but the best thing we could do was to go home to our families. We were anxious to return.

~•••~

T
he sun had begun to rise around 5:30 am. I had been operating on adrenaline and raw emotions for over five hours and finally began to feel how exhausted I really was. We pulled into the complex and Arthur parked right up to the front doors. We were greeted by our team and spent the next several minutes crying, and embracing each other. Thankful that everyone had survived, we talked about our experiences and fears, and I realized that we had truly bonded. We had become brothers and sisters in a way that only survivors can understand.

“We thought you were dead,” the women told me with tears streaming down. I’ll remember that moment the rest of my life. They told me I didn’t have to worry about anything, and that they’d packed all of my belongings. They were so kind.

After our reunion, we returned to Arthur’s house, and waited for the airport authority to approve our flight. But I wasn’t about to leave until I saw the battlefield, the place where I had almost died.

Although the team asked me to reconsider, I made my way up what I call “nightmare alley”. I wouldn’t listen. I needed to see it for myself. Someone helped me up the stairs, and then we opened the door.

It was worse than I had imagined. The freezer I had tried to move lay on its side, pressed up against the door that Morgan and CB had secured. The room looked like a war zone, like a bomb had exploded inside. The floor was littered with broken glass. Blood had splattered and smeared, and I recalled the sights and sounds that still rang in my ears.

I hobbled deeper inside and looked around, taking it all in, and noticed the stack of 40 Bibles.
It’s too bad they were in the front of the kitchen,
I thought.
They’re probably ruined
. But upon closer examination, and to my amazement, there wasn’t a scratch on them. There were bullets, bullet holes, and blood everywhere, but not a single book was hit, or even grazed by a bullet; they were completely unmoved. 

The walls were riddled with so many holes; one had to wonder how any of us survived.
This isn’t real
, I thought. It looked like someone else’s nightmare. The place looked far worse than I had expected. But then it was late, I was tired, and it was dark when it happened. My vision was certainly limited. I remembered everything through the eyes of adrenaline, so my memory was somewhat clouded and tainted with tunnel vision. Seeing the room in the light of day, however, gave me a new perspective, a true picture of our bleak circumstance.

The evidence of that hellish night materialized on the walls with bullets, bloodstains, and bullet holes, reminding me how close we came to death. Yet more importantly, I couldn’t deny the saving power of my God. For the evidence of His miracles, and His care for each one of us became the overriding message written in blood.

I managed to make my way down the stairs and climbed back into Arthur’s truck with some of the others. Brad called ahead, clearing our passports, while we connected with a few more members of the team. It seemed like everyone was either preoccupied with finding something to eat or trying to make sense of what had happened.

The Haitians that had gathered around the outside of Arthur’s home stood strong, but their faces hung low, ashamed. I felt bad for them. I wondered if they were afraid that the relationships we had formed would be severed. Some members of our team visited there often, some more than once a year. The looks on their faces suggested that they were on the brink of losing family.

This was a very emotional moment. I could see tears welling up in their eyes. They didn’t speak English, but they didn’t have to. I wish I could’ve said, “It’s ok. It was a God thing. You’re not to blame. Nothing ever catches God off guard. He knew what was coming.” But I didn’t say that. Sometimes it’s hard to extract the truth from your life when you’re busy living, and my thoughts were quite engaged at the time.

Looking back on that day, I wonder why we were so privileged to see God’s hand at work, testing and protecting us, steering bullets and guiding the hearts and decisions of the men who could have taken our lives. I could look at this as a
glass half empty
situation, but I’ve chosen to see it as
half full
. To view my Haiti experience as anything other than God’s plan, would surely grow bitter roots, so I’ve chosen the path of gratitude.

W
e were cleared to fly. We said our goodbyes, and the lead pastor from the crusade, with tears in his eyes, expressed his deepest concern, thanks, and appreciation. Adults and countless children surrounded the vehicles as we prepared to depart. It was a sad moment.

When we left, everyone had tears in their eyes. We followed our instructions even though the plane still didn’t have clearance to land. This final trip to the airport would be my third trip through the Haitian countryside. I was thirsty, and feeling hunger pangs, when someone found a food shack on the dusty road. We grabbed a deli style sandwich to strengthen us for the trip, but it definitely wasn’t Subway.

~•••~

T
here wasn’t any traffic at the airport except our jet flying overhead. We immediately cheered upon seeing the plane, and in short order loaded our luggage, made our way up the fold-up ladder and stepped inside the jet. In the years I’ve owned and operated my business, I’ve flown commercially quite a bit, but I’ve never had the opportunity to fly in such a posh aircraft. Thanks again, Sonny. 

The seating was comfortable with plenty of legroom. There were pull-out trays under each of the seats with bags of M&Ms and other snacks. The pilots were class acts, too. They didn’t treat us like we were a burden, but more like VIP’s that needed pampering along the way.

With the jet only holding nine passengers, five missionaries would have to stay behind. The team decided that the wounded and those with younger families should be the first ones to fly back. So nine passengers would make the trip to Florida first, wait there for the jet to go back and pick up the other five, and then make the first trip to Kokomo after everyone had returned to the U.S. 

The pilots went through their checklist and we were off.

Some were able to get a little sleep, while others regurgitated the events of the night. I must have slept a little myself but I don’t remember much about the flight to Florida. I still had enough pain medicine in me to relax. But once we were in the air everything felt more real, like this really did happen, and we really were being rescued. It finally hit me; I was actually going to see Sharon. I started to feel better, thinking this
getting shot thing
wasn’t so bad. As the medication wore off, I began to think differently.

~•••~

W
e touched down in Fort Lauderdale and taxied until we came to the area reserved for private jets. We walked down the stairs and into an area reserved for VIPs and pilots. We then moved through customs in single file. I don’t remember the order in which we entered, but I think the team sent me to the front of the line. My leg was starting to ache and it was obvious that I was limping. The attendant in the little kiosk asked, “Why are you limping so badly?” The pilots coached us to avoid drawing attention to ourselves by not speaking about the ordeal. They feared this would arouse suspicion and instigate a low level interrogation at the very least. I replied,  “Oh you know, I had a little too much fun on vacation, and irritated an old football injury.” The attendant smiled, stamped my passport, and motioned for the next person to move forward.

We were relieved to be back on U.S. soil. We had traveled thirty-six hours with fewer than 2 hours of sleep and we were getting hungry. I enjoyed something from the snack bar, trying to fill my empty stomach. The pilots, however, had to leave and pick up the rest of the team. The first group (me included) was going to be there a while.  After the pilots returned with the others, there’d be two more flights back and forth to Kokomo, and then home to the Caribbean Islands, where the corporate condominiums were located.

Jeff and Bret are heroes to us all, and we will forever be in their debt. By the time the ordeal was over, they’d clocked almost twenty-six hours of fly time. 

~•••~

W
hile waiting in the VIP lounge, Brad pointed out a private area where we could shower. He reassured us that if we needed anything Sonny would pick up the tab. A shower would’ve been great, but I didn’t know how I’d keep my bandages dry so I passed; I had previously changed into clean clothes back at Arthur’s house to prevent any complications with customs, hiding my torn and blood stained clothing.

~•••~

I
took my chances on the coffee. It looked like coffee, was hot like coffee, but it tasted more like water. Then with my watered-down coffee in hand, Brad rounded everyone up and informed us that he had made arrangements for us to eat at a local restaurant, a bar and grille with ribs, grill food, and pool tables. I can’t tell you how good that sounded—American food, American culture, and a sense of normality. I was ready. We all needed something to keep our minds off the trauma, and this was our fix. We made our way to the taxis despite my limping, and off we went.