***
In August, southern Sudan was hellish even if tranquil, which it was not. Work for the mission continued through the heat and havoc, the abominations and savagery of the militias and outlaws sending a relentless stream of torn and abused Sudanese into the compound to wait for what attention they might receive. The doctors and nurses did what they could to ease the suffering. Medical supplies were inadequate, as was food. A good deal of suffering stayed with the people despite the best efforts of the medical staff and clergy. It was never enough. The despair of the maimed and sick soon became the shared despair of the workers of the mission. Their faith became as the child waiting for the comforting touch of a distant and inattentive father, mistaken in his convenient estimate of the child’s strength and willingness to endure. To endure, a person needs hope and the French nun knew hope was as scarce as sympathy in Sudan. Without a parent’s love and interest, children suffer, left to find their way, deprived of the wisdom and protection that gives comfort and hope. She wondered where their God was; he was not in Sudan.
Thinking of the American, the nun knew he had flown over one hundred times in nine months for the Fathers of Notre Dame’s mission in Sudan. Most of those flights had been into Ethiopia, Kenya and Northern Sudan. He shuttled medical supplies, patients and occasionally visitors to the compound at Mapuordit. At first, the flights went smoothly, with little problems with customs and inspections. Things had begun to change in the end of May, especially his flights within Sudan. Officials in Khartoum and Port Sudan were increasingly difficult, at first causing some delays, then confiscating cargo, specifically medicine that combated malaria and dysentery. Visitors were not bothered unless they traveled with targeted cargo. The church began segregating the flights carrying visitors and medical supplies. As the raids on villages in southern Sudan increased in number and lethality, visits by doctors slowed as the church and aid organizations adjusted to the increased risk and developed the strategies required to protect the lives of contributors and officials.
Sister Marie Claire knew the American struggled to maintain the plane. He expressed regret at not having learned more than basic maintenance, which he now practiced almost daily. As with everything else mechanical in southern Sudan, dust and grit and its management determined reliability in machinery. The plane was well-built and rugged enough to function well in difficult environments. She knew Hanley was taking no chances and monitored the engines and electronics as much as he could.
Compliant grasses and shrubs around the airstrip absorbed the mid-morning heat, as Sister Marie Claire found shelter in the tree-shade close to the plane. Perched on his aluminum ladder, the American inspected the left engine, knowing he would find more dust than the last time and that he would need to increase the frequency of his maintenance routine. Unnoticed by Hanley and the nun, Jumma approached the plane and called out his greeting, startling the American so much he lost his balance, kicking the ladder sideways. Moving quickly, Jumma caught Hanley, helping him right the ladder.
“Are you alright?” Jumma asked.
“Yes, thanks. If it weren’t for these work gloves, I would have fried my hands on the cowling trying to stop my slide,” Hanley said.
The young African studied the care with which the American removed dust from the cooling fins of the engine’s cylinder housings. Brushing and blowing, Hanley worked meticulously to remove what dirt he could, periodically removing the dust that accumulated on the housing as well. Hanley checked the breeze to try to keep dust from blowing back on the engine.
“So, Sister, how were things at the clinic this morning?” the American asked.
“Busy. I wanted to visit with the doctors and inventory our supplies before leaving for Aluakluak with Father Robineau. That is a change of plans. We were to leave this early morning. I wanted to get some things done before we left. That is why I’m here. We need to talk. Jumma, would you mind leaving Mr Martin and I for a few moments while we discuss a matter? Please. I will hold the ladder.”
“Yes, Sister,” Jumma said, moving aside while the nun took the old ladder in each hand. She said to Hanley as Jumma walked away, “You work on the plane more and more. It is not breaking, is it? Without the plane you are of little value to us.”
“I’m just trying to keep it operational. Dust get’s into everything. It’s hard to keep up with it. It’s like shoveling sand against the tide,” Hanley mumbled.
“I’m sorry, what was that?” she asked.
“Nothing. Hold that ladder steady while I get down. Hold it, there. Thanks.” Hanley stepped into the dust beneath the engine and wiped his eyes on the shirt sleeve bunched around his elbow. “I’m thirsty,” he said. “Just when I think I have a handle on managing this heat, managing my thirst, I find I haven’t. It’s still brutal, as far as I’m concerned, but controllable. Water and food; Americans have no clue as to their good fortune. None.
