as they have enabled themselves, they have enabled their enemies.
And so we have seen a few of the limitations of atrocity. But all these negative aspects do not really address the most important and difficult manifestation of committing acts of atrocity. The worst part is that when you institute and execute a policy of atrocity, you and your society must live with what you have done. But before we conclude this section by examining the psychological toll taken by atrocity, let us first briefly examine a case study in atrocity.
CHAPTER FOUR
This is a firsthand account of the psychological response of a Canadian soldier who was confronted with the vilest possible aspect of atrocity while serving in the UN peacekeeping force sent to the Congo in 1963. It is not pretty. It was written under the nom de plume Alan Stuart-Smyth. Colonel Stuart-Smyth served twenty-three years as a UN peacekeeper, progressing in rank from private to full colonel. Wounded twice, he was awarded the UN medal, a mention in dispatches, the Canadian Decoration, and the Distinguished Service Order. After retirement in 1986 he was offered, and accepted, a professorship at a major American university, where he taught criminology for two years.
Note the two-edged sword of atrocity here. Note the way in which it both enables and entraps the killers in this case, and then note the way that their atrocity enables the soldier who must kill someone caught in the act of atrocity:
As I approached the building the sound of moaning, punctuated by deep laughs, was clearly audible. The rear of the church contained two small dirty windows at eye level, through which I looked. Although the interior of the church was dark by comparison with the blazing outdoors sunlight, I could pick out the forms of two naked black men torturing a young white woman whom I assumed to be a nun or teacher. She had been stripped naked and was stretched out in the aisle of the church, arms pulled tightly over her head by one of the rebels, while the other knelt on her stomach and repeatedly touched her nipples with a burning cigarette. She had burn marks on her face and neck as well. Uniforms of the Katangese Gendarmerie were thrown over the back of a pew, and female garments were scattered near the door. A… carbine lay in the aisle beside the young woman. Another rifle had been left leaning against the wall near the uniforms. There appeared to be no one else present in the church….
On my signal we burst into the cathedral, our weapons on full auto.
“Stand still,” I bellowed. “U.N. troops; you’re under arrest.” I didn’t want to do it that way, but damn it, I was still a soldier, and subject to Queen’s Regulations and Orders.
The rebels bounded to their feet to face us, eyes staring wildly. I carried a Sterling 9mm SMG [submachine gun]… which I leveled at the two naked men. We were no more than 15 feet apart.
The one who had been holding the nun’s arms was visibly shaking with fear, his eyes flying uncontrollably about the room. In a second they rested on the rifle lying in the aisle. The nun had rolled onto her stomach, clutching her breasts and rocking from side to side, moaning in pain.
“Don’t be a fool, man,” I cautioned. But he did it anyway.
In a bunt of panic he emitted a loud, piercing wail and dove for the rifle. Landing on his knees he grabbed the weapon, and turning his terrified face to mine, attempting to bring his weapon to bear. My first burst caught him in the face, the second full in the chest. He was dead before he fell over, a body missing most of its head.
The second terrorist began to wave his arms frantically up and down, like a featherless black bird attempting to take flight. His eyes kept flitting back and forth between the muzzle of the Sterling and his own weapon, which was leaning against the wall a good 10 feet away….
“Don’t do it, don’t do it,” I ordered. But he emitted a loud “Yaaa…,” and scrambled for the rifle. I warned him again but he grabbed the weapon, worked the action to place a round in the chamber, and began to swing the muzzle toward me.
“KILL HIM, GODDAMMIT,” screamed Cpl Edgerton, who had now entered the church behind us, “KILL HIM, NOW!”
The rebel terrorist was now fully facing me, desperately attempting to swing the long barrel of the bolt- action rifle across his body to align it with my chest. His eyes locked on mine — wild, frantic eyes surrounded by fields of white. They never left mine, not even when the powerful SMG rounds tore into his stomach, walked up his chest, and cut the carotid artery on the left side of his neck. His body hit the floor with a thud, blown apart by the blast of the Sterling, and still the eyes remained riveted to mine. Then his body relaxed and the eyes dilated, blind in death….
Prior to Okonda, I had not killed a human being. That is, I did not know for sure that I had killed. When one is firing at moving, shadowy figures in the confusion of battle one cannot be certain of the results. At Bridge 19 I had killed many men when I detonated the charges, blowing an enemy convoy to kingdom come, but somehow the incident was not psychologically close. They were a long way off, and the cover of night hid their shapes and movement, their very humanity. But here at Okonda it was different. The two men I killed were practically within arm’s reach, I could see their facial expressions clearly, even hear their breathing, see their fear, and smell their body odor. And the funny thing was that I
There had been two nuns at Okonda: the young one we saved, and the older one we didn’t. When I first entered the church I was standing slightly behind the altar, and off to the left side. From that position I couldn’t see the front of the altar, a rather large affair made of rough-hewn wood with a cross towering above it. Perhaps it was a good thing I could not, for the rebels had used the altar to butcher the old nun.
They had stripped her naked, but had not assaulted her sexually, probably because she was elderly, and obese. Instead they sat her upright with her back to the altar, and nailed her hands to it in apparent mimicry of the crucifixion. Then they cut off her breasts with a bayonet and, in a final act of savagery, drove the bayonet through her mouth into the altar behind, impaling her in an upright position. Evidence of a struggle showed that she had not died instantly from the bayonet wound, but had probably succumbed to the loss of blood from the wounds on her chest. She had a white man’s penis and testicles shoved partially in her vagina. Her severed breasts were not present.
We found the owner of the male genitalia tied spread-eagle in the middle of the village compound, with the nun’s breasts attached to his chest with sharpened sticks….
Before we departed Okonda the young nun asked to meet the soldier who had saved her life. She was clothed now, and had cleaned up a little bit with the help of our medic. I was surprised how young she was — early 20s or younger…. She required a number of sutures in her vagina, and would need burn treatments as well. I didn’t admire her decision to remain in enemy territory when she was given ample opportunity to leave, but I did admire her spunk. When we met she looked me in the eye and said, “Thank God you came.” She had been badly beaten, but not defeated.
As for me, I had turned 19 only two days previous, and still suffered from the native upbringing of a good Christian family. I lost a lot of that upbringing at Okonda. There was no honor here, no virtue. The standards of behavior taught in the homes, churches, and schools of America had no place in battle. They were mythical concepts good only for the raising of children, to be cast aside forever from this moment on. No, I didn’t feel guilt, shame, or remorse at killing my fellow man — I felt pride!
There are numerous examples of atrocity committed by nearly all national, racial, and ethnic groups, but this example is one of the best, clearest, and most literate representations of the killology aspects of atrocity.
Many of the factors and processes that we have discussed — or will be discussing shortly — can be observed clearly in this case study. We see the rapists’ instinctive lashing out and defiling of all that is held dear by those they consider to be their oppressors. We see that the rapists’ atrocity has enraged and empowered their opponent.
