Richard Herman - The Peacemakers

The marbled-floored halls were well marked, and he had no trouble following the brass plaques that guided him to the UN Economic Commission for Africa. He noticed a distinct pattern to the people. The men were all middle-aged or older, all African, and dressed in expensive suits. The women were more racially mixed and approximately three-fourths were young, beautiful, and dressed in high fashion. His ABUs were totally out of place. Judging by the looks he received, he assumed they had never seen a warrior in the building. The public elevator in the third building was out of order and a security guard denied him access to the elevator reserved for VIPs. He trotted up three flights of stairs and found another brass plaque that announced he had found the offices of the United Nations Relief and Peacekeeping Mission Southern Sudan. He pushed through the door and into an opulent reception area. This receptionist was even more beautiful than the first, which led to some mild speculation about the UN’s hiring policies on his part. “The commissioners are expecting you.” She motioned at a massive hardwood door. He shoved his blue UN beret into a pocket and pushed through.

Three civilians were sitting in easy chairs around a low circular table, drinking coffee. Reports and memos littered the table. The distinguished-looking man in the center, the head of mission, set his coffee cup down and fixed Allston with a long look, his dark face impassive. “We do not allow that type of uniform, especially when worn by a European or American,” he finally said.

“My apologies, sir. I wasn’t told and only directed to report here as soon as possible.”

“Common sense should have told you to not wear a combat uniform. It is a reminder of our colonial history and past oppressions.” The other two men nodded in agreement.

Why does everyone have a hang-up on uniforms these days? Allston wondered. “So noted,” he said, sitting down.

“You were not invited to sit in our presence,” the man on the left said. Allston gauged him to be a Zulu. “Please stand until you are invited to sit.”

“Certainly,” Allston said, coming to his feet. “Forgive me for asking, but is this why I was summoned here? For a lesson in UN protocol?”

“Your attitude is counterproductive,” the Zulu said.

“May I ask counterproductive to what?” Allston replied. “My job is to fly relief for you, not look pretty.”

“Counterproductive to good order and discipline,” a voice from behind said. Allston turned to see a man standing against the back wall and sucked in his breath. The speaker’s resemblance to the long-dead Idi Amin, the monstrous Uganda dictator, was startling. He stood well over six feet tall and wore the immaculate service dress uniform of the French Foreign Legion. The gold braid on his cuffs announced he was a colonel. He held his white kepi in his huge left hand and large medals decorated his broad chest. A double fourragère encircled his left shoulder.

“May I introduce Colonel Pierre Vermullen, La Lègion Ètrangère,” the head of mission said. “Colonel Vermullen is the new commander of our peacekeeping forces.”

“The side with the simplest uniform always wins,” Allston said under his breath.

“Do you believe that?” Vermullen asked.

“It’s a lesson of history,” Allston answered. It was one of his favorite maxims.

The head of mission shook his head in disgust and moved ahead. “First, we called you here so there would no misunderstanding about your duties and obligations while serving in the Sudan.” He handed Allston a folder. “These are your standing operational orders. You are to deliver supplies to refugee camps we designate and to support Colonel Vermullen in his peacekeeping mission. You will consider a request from Colonel Vermullen for support as an order from this Mission.” He waited while Allston scanned the single page. “Second, we are very concerned with your unauthorized landing yesterday at the village of” — he fumbled through his notes — “Abyei.”

“I had just arrived in-country and was receiving an area check out when the unsafe door warning light flashed at us. As that is a safety of flight item, I landed at the nearest suitable place to check it out, which just happened to be Abyei.”

“Which caused incalculable political harm,” the third man at the table said. He reminded Allston of a Nigerian general he had once met who was charming, educated, well spoken, and totally corrupt. This man was also a Nigerian but lacked the charming and civilized exterior.

“And you just happened to have an accident investigation team on board,” the head of mission said.

“Since we had not received clearance to land the team for an on-site investigation, I intended to do an aerial survey. Once on the ground, it seemed logical to take advantage of the opportunity.”

“It would have been much wiser,” the Nigerian said, “to have continued your flight rather than land. Once on the ground, the investigation team should have never left the airplane. Discipline is critical as we withdraw our relief workers and peacekeepers to safer areas.”

Allston was stunned by the news the UN was pulling back. The three men at the table stared at Allston and his anger flared. What the hell is going on here? he wondered. He forced himself to calm down and looked at the Frenchman for clues. Unfortunately, Vermullen’s face was a blank. A hard silence ruled the room. The Zulu finally spoke in a low voice. “I find your attitude both arrogant and unbearable. I must recommend that you be immediately replaced.”

“Fine by me,” Allston said returning their stares. “I’ll contact my superiors and recommend that the United States immediately withdraw all support, personnel, aircraft, and funding, for your mission. I’ll be a civilian the day I get back and I’ll go public with my recommendation. Given the current sentiment in the States about the UN…”

The head of mission interrupted him, suddenly wanting to compromise. “Lieutenant Colonel Allston, you don’t understand how delicate our situation is. We are here to keep the two warring factions apart. By landing without prior permission, you appeared to be showing any favoritism to the Dinka, and violated the sovereignty of the Sudan, thereby adding to an already volatile situation.”

“And exactly who holds sovereignty over that area?” Allston asked mildly.

The head of mission ignored him and checked his notes again. “The governor of Western Kordofan has filed a complaint.”

“Was the governor appointed by Khartoum?” Allston asked.

“Of course. Please remember that as long as you are at Malakal, you must not show favoritism to the Government of Sudan, to any tribe, or the Republic of South Sudan. It is our presence and neutrality that keeps them apart and at peace.”

Allston almost said that what he had seen did not look like neutrality or peace. An inner voice warned him to caution and he remained silent. “Thank you for coming so promptly,” the head of mission said. Allston was dismissed and he quickly left, glad to escape. Outside, he asked the gorgeous secretary to please call for a staff car. He waited while she made the call in case she forgot the moment he was out of sight. Vermullen came out of the office and they walked in silence until they were out of the building and on the steps.

“You must learn to handle our UN masters,” Vermullen cautioned, seemingly undisturbed by the peacekeeping mission’s abandoning the southern tribes to the Sudanese. “As for the standing operational orders you were issued, I view our relationship as collegial and not as a commander and subordinate. We must work together to be effective.”

“Sir, have you been out in the field?” Allston asked.