Sometimes the Darkness

The other soldiers did not move. Now more soldiers climbed from the old UAZ and began shouting at the plane. Children entered the plane, helped by the adults and the African. The soldiers became more agitated, their voices rising as they watched. No one at the plane stopped. Why weren’t they listening? Why didn’t the soldiers go and stop them? Assad didn’t understand. Turning to the plane, Assad raised the rifle to his shoulder and fired at the people near the plane. At first, nothing happened, but then a woman and a child fell to the ground, then the African. A man picked up a small boy and flung him into the plane and then did the same with a small girl. A man appeared in the plane’s door. Assad began shooting again, this time at the plane itself. As he did, something hit his arm, then his neck and jaw. Then he was on his back, looking up at the morning sky. Time slowed down while a great pain enveloped him. He began swallowing liquid to keep from choking. It was warm, thick and bitter. A man appeared above him and, just before he died, Assad heard the deafening sound of large engines streaking by and saw the man above him turning as the plane passed.

***

Hanley was turned in his seat when sound of the gun firing began. Sister Marie Claire screamed, “No!” and Hanley was out of his seat. He saw the nun on her knees, pulling children in on top of her. A small boy came through the door as if thrown by someone and landed on the nun, then a small girl on top of those already heaped near the door. Hanley reached the opening in time to see three people getting into a yellow van. On the ground near the door lay three bodies, a woman and a child, their bodies twisted and blood-soaked. Near them lay Jumma, face down in the dust, the top rear portion of his head was missing, an ugly wound in its place. As Hanley stood there, sickened, he felt a punch to his right side, just below his ribcage. He spun around and grabbed the doorframe, his knees wobbled and he righted himself. Instinctively, he grabbed the cable and yanked as hard as he could, bringing the door up. Sister Marie Claire was up and helped pull the door closed, while Hanley secured the latch. Hanley reached down, put his hand on his side and felt the wetness. He wobbled again and told himself to move. Using his hands against the plane’s interior walls for balance, he moved toward the cockpit. Children were screaming and crying all around him. He became nauseated and his vision blurred as he climbed into the seat. A searing pain grew in his back and down his right leg. “God, please make my legs work,” he pleaded silently, “don’t let me be paralyzed.”

Despite his fear, his legs and feet moved automatically as he shook his head. The Beech was rolling now; too much movement in the rear. He had forgotten to lock the tail wheel. Twisting the knob, he froze the wheel and applied the power, sending the Beech hurtling down the runway. As the tail came up, Hanley pulled back on the yoke, the pain in his legs now almost enough to make him pass out. Bile rose in his throat and he spit up in his lap. He strained to clear his vision and searched his gauges for the information he needed. He saw the altimeter, now showing he was at five hundred feet. “We need more altitude,” he said aloud. At two thousand feet, he put the top of the plane’s instrument panel on the horizon, reduced the engines to cruising speed and trimmed the plane. Leaning forward, he rested his head on the yoke and closed his eyes. “Don’t pass out,” he told himself, “stay awake.”

30

The children were all crying, some sitting, and some standing while a few were lying on the floor of the plane. As it lurched forward, Sister Marie Claire began pushing the children down while telling them they must sit. She spoke to them in both Atuot and Dinka dialects, hoping she was being understood, asking them to be calm and sit on the floor. Shoving them against the outside wall, she moved between the children, giving them each a blanket and an old stuffed toy or a book. She was not crying, but she wanted to. Praying, she asked God to help her through this. “Hanley, are you all right?” she shouted to the American. She saw a round blood stain on his shirt just above his belt as he swayed among the children, trying to reach the cockpit. There was no response. “Please, God, help us,” she prayed.

When the plane left the ground, the children were all sitting down, most with their backs to the wall of the cargo hold. Two were curled up on the floor; she left them there. Aisha, the young niece of her friend, comforted the younger children, watching the nun as she moved among them. As the plane climbed from the Kosti airstrip, Sister Marie Claire moved to the door and looked at the American. Hanley was hunched over, his left hand gripping the yoke, while he fumbled with the large levers on top of the plane’s center console. His shirt was soaked in sweat and the bloodstain on his back was now the size of a bread plate.

“I need to look at your wound,” she said.

“You can after I get the plane stabilized,” he said, his voice just above a whisper.

“Can you fly?” she asked.

“Yes, but I’ve never flown after having been shot, so we’ll just have to see how it goes.” He was breathing hard, his words strained and thin to her ear. Her heart sank and tears covered her cheeks. She wiped them away quickly. “Are the children okay?” he asked.

“Yes. They are very frightened,