Xenophobia
Authors: Peter Cawdron
Xenophobia
Peter Cawdron
Copyright © Peter Cawdron 2013
All rights reserved
The right of Peter Cawdron to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988
First published as an eBook by Peter Cawdron using Smashwords
eBook ISBN: 978-1301014286
Physical ISBN-13: 978-1490568232
CreateSpace ISBN-10: 1490568239
US Edition
All the characters in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead is purely coincidental
Dust kicked off the dry grassy field. Fine grains of sand blew outward with the downdraft from the twin rotor-blades of the incoming Osprey.
Standing there on the outskirts of a small African village, Elizabeth Bower
shielded her face from the sting of thousands of tiny dust particles, loose strips of grass, sand, dirt, and the occasional twig shooting across the ground as the Osprey touched down.
Bower
didn’t like the Osprey. She loved flying in helicopters and didn’t mind airplanes, even uncomfortable military flights, but a craft that was both a helicopter and a plane just didn’t sit right with her.
The pilot powered down the engine and the winds dropped from those of a hurricane to a blustery summer storm.
Four soldiers ran in as the tailgate on the Osprey lowered and the whine of the engines fell away. Dr. Bower followed them with one arm wrapped around her waist, holding her white medical coat closed against the wind.
There wasn’t much point in wearing the white coat outside the village hospital, particularly out on the rough stretch of ground that had been officially designated as the landing zone, but the military made such a big deal about their dress codes. Whether they were wearing fatigues, combat gear or going for a run in their PT shorts, it seemed uniforms played an important part in their routine, and subconsciously, Bower felt she had to compete. For her, the knee-length jacket was a uniform of sorts, and she’d noticed the soldiers responded to the white jacket, affording her respect on those few occasions when they interacted.
For the most part, the soldiers stayed out on patrol in the jungle, returning only once or twice a month. But when they returned, the choppers would come, bringing much needed supplies. Bower found that if she dressed in civvies, as they called her floral skirts and colorful T-shirts, there was a subtle, but perceptible change in their demeanor, as though they were talking down to her. That some African villager lay on a cot before her with abscessed sores or a broken leg seemed incidental. With their military training, uniforms spoke louder than either her words or actions.
Technically,
Medecins Sans Frontieres
was an NGO, a non-government organization independent of the military or any one particular country, and Bower liked the autonomy that gave her. Her supplies normally came overland, but UN officials turned a blind eye to packing a few crates on the military resupply runs, and that gave her more flexibility.
Medecins Sans Frontieres
meant Doctors Without Borders,
but as Elizabeth Bower understood all too well, it was impossible to be apolitical. Eventually, one way or another, everyone had to side with someone, and the US military, operating under the UN flag, had kept the rebels at bay for over two years. Tensions still simmered in the highlands, and yet the civil war was all but over.
As she ran up to the open cargo hold of the Osprey, Bower expected to see her monthly resupply crate wrapped in the usual, absurd amount of transparent plastic, full of boxes with medical markings. She’d ordered more cots, mosquito nets and bandages, along with the standard set of medicines and vaccines, and birthing packs for the pregnant women in the outlying villages.
The loadmaster was walking down the steel ramp before Bower realized the inside of the Osprey was lined with troops seated facing each other, their backpacks and weapons clogging the walkway. Her heart sank. There was no resupply coming. In that fraction of a second, she’d already begun thinking about how she could stretch her existing supplies, and to whom she could scream at over the radio.
Sergeant Jameson seemed as surprised as she was. He stood there scratching his head. With his short, blonde hair shaved close to the scalp and his skin pink from the African sun,
Jameson
looked British rather than American.
Being of African descent, Bower’s dark skin allowed her to blend in with the villagers. She kept her curly hair shorter than most of the women in the village, giving her almost boyish looks, although the curves of her body displaced any doubt about her gender. The only thing that distinguished Bower as a foreigner was her quaint British accent and her Western clothing.
“Where’s the resupply?” Jameson yelled over the whine of the idling engines, although Bower doubted he was talking about her medicine. Jameson was after more rations and ammunition.
They were a strange lot, the soldiers. Their patches distinguished them as Rangers, but they kept to themselves, even when they were around the village. Bower couldn’t figure them out. The Americans were all business. They’d play with the kids in the village from time to time, and talked warmly with the elders, but they seemed aloof, as though they were just passing through. They never really talked to her in anything other than an official capacity, and she wasn’t sure if they were embarrassed by
Medecins
or if they just weren’t confident in dealing with an NGO, or perhaps it was her, maybe she was the prickly one. Although she'd have liked to follow that line of reasoning further there was no time for that thought to stay with her. The confusion in the moment forced her on. One thing she knew, the Americans were good at their jobs. The rebels had stuck to the tablelands, rarely venturing in force into the valley for fear of the Rangers.
Jameson yelled at the loadmaster. “We were supposed to get parts for the M107.”
“Get your men on board” yelled the loadmaster, ignoring him. “We’ve got orders to pull you and your team out of here. We’re headed to Dar Es Salaam in Tanzania, and from there on to the USS William Lawrence.”
“You were supposed to be dropping off supplies,” cried Jameson over the whine of the engines.
“Change of orders. Get your kit together. You too, Doc.”
“I don’t think you understand,” yelled Bower, struggling to be heard over the turboprops still fanning the air. “I’m with
Medecins Sans Frontieres,
part of the UNIASCO.”
“They’re pulling everyone out,” the loadmaster continued. “UN, US, French, Australians, military and civilian, NGOs, the works. Everyone’s leaving.”
“What?” cried Bower, unable to accept this bombshell. “Do you realize what will happen here if we leave? Do you understand the kind of bloodshed that will be unleashed? Which dick-weed, pencil-pushing, brain-dead bureaucrat dreamed up this stupid idea?”
“The Secretary-General of the United Nations, M’am. At the request of the Security Council.”
“And that’s supposed to impress me?” Bower asked, somewhat indignant.
The loadmaster ignored her, talking to Jameson, and that pissed her off even more.
“Get your men to square away their kit and get on board.”
Jameson led Bower away from the Osprey. He must have sensed her growing rage as he took her gently by the arm. His men followed close behind. Bower wasn’t too happy about being patronized, but she could see Jameson was being considerate, and she was pleased to get away from what she thought of as an imposing, flying metal coffin. She didn’t know how anyone could think straight with the high-pitched whine of the engines and the wind constantly swirling around them.
The loadmaster followed a few paces behind.
“Get the men to stow their kit and meet back here in five,” Jameson said to Private Bosco.
“You’re going to leave?” Bower asked, her mind racing at the prospect. “You’re just going to abandon the hospital.”
“You heard the loadmaster. We’ve got orders.”
“Orders?” cried Bower with disbelief. “You and your
bloody
orders.”
Dr. Kowalski came up beside them, seeing Elizabeth Bower berating the sergeant. He was an older man of European descent, with thick gray hair tossed carelessly to one side. He wore small round glasses, like those immortalized by John Lennon, only they made his face look large by comparison. In any other context he could have been mistaken for a mad scientist, only his demeanor was such that Bower doubted he could ever hurt a fly.
“What’s going on?”
“They’re pulling us out, Mitch,” Bower replied. “Can you believe that? No explanation as to why, just some vague notion,
orders to evacuate
.”
“That doesn’t make any sense. What about our patients? What about the staff?”
“I’ve got to call this in to Kasungu,” Bower growled, turning back to the loadmaster. “I want to talk to someone in charge.”
“There’s no one in Kasungu,” the loadmaster said. “They pulled them out two days ago.”
“Why the hell didn’t anyone tell us?” Bower was fuming. Her arms sat defiant on her hips. Her world was falling apart around her.
“I don’t know. They were supposed to.”
“Well, I’m not leaving,” Bower replied stubbornly.
“You must,” the loadmaster said emphatically.
“I’ll have you know, the military has no jurisdiction over an NGO medical mission. You’re here for our security, nothing more. We’re answerable to the UN high commission in Lilongwe, not some idiot thousands of miles away in New York.”
“You don’t understand,” the loadmaster replied, but Bower cut him off before he could continue.
“I don’t understand?” she yelled, her finger just inches from his nose. “Oh, I understand exactly what this is. Some politician’s losing votes over body bags and decides another Bosnia or another Rwanda is nothing compared to saving his sorry ass at an election.
“You can’t give me one good reason why you’re pulling out other than that you’re following orders. I’m sorry, that’s not good enough. As a doctor, I have a duty of care to my patients and my staff. I cannot just up and leave."
Elizabeth Bower was in full-flight. She didn’t get to be in charge of a field hospital in the middle of a smoldering civil war by being a wallflower. She had no problem raising her voice.
“You and I can run. It’s easy for us. We just hop on some
bloody
flying contraption and disappear into the sunset. But what about them?”
Bower pointed at several of the nurses standing outside the hospital tent, watching the commotion from a distance.
“You and I might be able to wave a passport and hop on a flight to Europe or the US, but they can’t. I have a responsibility to support my African staff. I will not leave them to the rebels.”
“We have an obligation to care for these people,” Dr. Kowalski added, adjusting his glasses as he spoke. His voice was calm. Bower could see he was trying to take the emotion out of the moment. “If we just up and go, the militia will come riding in here and steal our supplies. God knows what they’ll do to the villagers that have collaborated with us. You can’t just pull us out like this. Surely, there's been a mistake. There must be some other way.”
Jameson was unusually quiet for a spirited American soldier. Bower could see him weighing his options mentally.
“But they’re Africans?” the loadmaster protested, pointing at the nurses and the medical orderly. “They can blend in with the rest of the natives.”
“It’s not that simple,” Dr. Kowalski explained. “If someone stumbles in here with a broken arm or a bullet wound, we’ll treat them regardless of where they’ve come from. The rebels know that. They may not dare attack you openly, but don’t think for a minute that they’re not out there watching, waiting. They know about everything that goes on within this village. They’ll stroll in with a bag of seed or with some other pretense to keep tabs on people. This is exactly what they’ve been holding out for. They haven’t been trying to beat the UN, just to outlast it. You’re playing right into their hands.”
“It’s not my problem,” the loadmaster snapped. “You’ve got five minutes to get on that aircraft or I’m leaving without you.” He looked for support from Jameson, but the sergeant was quiet.
Bower felt like screaming. The loadmaster was being completely unreasonable. Typical bloody authoritarian bureaucracy, she thought, gritting her teeth.
The loadmaster wasn’t going to waste any more time. He turned and jogged back over to the open bay of the Osprey. Soldiers milled around the back of the aircraft, taking the opportunity to stretch their legs or to urinate in the bushes on the edge of the clearing, which infuriated the loadmaster. He started yelling at them, corralling them back into the aircraft.
“Like herding cats,” Kowalski said, laughing as he watched the loadmaster waving his arms and calling for the troops to re-board the Osprey. “So, what do we do, Liz?”
Bower looked at Jameson. His eyes seemed to say something his lips couldn’t.
“We’ll be fine,” she said. Her voice sounded convincing, but she knew her bravado was sorely misplaced.
Jameson was silent, his eyes cast straight ahead, looking into the middle distance.
“Honestly. You should follow your orders. We'll make do.”
Standing there in his camo-gear, Jameson flipped his regulation-issue army cap on his head. His eyes focused intently on her as his lips pulled tight. Bower felt a little intimidated by him. She had to say something, to articulate some kind of plan. That’s what the military did, wasn’t it? They always had a plan, she thought, and Bower was determined to offer something to break the impasse.
“We’ll bring in a couple of trucks from Mzimba and drive the staff and patients down to Ksaungu. The rebels will leave the villagers alone, but if they catch anyone that worked in the hospital, they’ll kill them for mingling with us foreign devils. We’ve got to get our staff out of here. We owe them much, at least.”
“And from Ksaungu?” asked Jameson.
“From Ksaungu they’ll be able to make their way overland to Mozambique. We’ll drive on to Lilongwe. There’ll be someone there. The UN is not going to abandon the capital. We’ll be able to get a flight out to Kenya or South Africa.”
Private Bosco came up beside Sergeant Jameson. “We're ready.”
“Bring the guys in,” Jameson replied. With a wolf whistle, Bosco called the other soldiers over.
The loadmaster was standing by the cockpit of the Osprey, talking with the pilots. Jameson jogged over to him.