Peter Cawdron - Xenophobia

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, Médecins Sans Frontières 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.

Médecins Sans Frontières 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 complement 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 an almost boyish look, although the curves of her body dispelled any doubt about her gender. The only thing that distinguished Bower as a foreigner was her 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 Médecins 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 to consider that now. Her confusion about the supply situation at the moment consumed her thoughts. 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 Médecins Sans Frontières, part of the UNIASCO.”

“They’re pulling everyone out,” the loadmaster stated baldly. “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, Ma’am. At the request of the Security Council.”

“And that’s supposed to impress me?” Bower asked, furious at his answer.

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 at all 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 reeling 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.”