Mark Lee - The Canal House

“You’ll need soldiers, too,” she said. “The militia has been killing anyone in favor of independence. Their leader Cristiano is an evil man and the others are scared of him. One of my students was guarding us last night. He let me run away.”

“How long will the people survive on the wharf?”

“Two days. Then everyone will die.”

GETTING DIRECTIONS FROM the Australian soldiers, I walked with Sister Xavier down the waterfront boulevard to the military command post at the Turismo Hotel. A colonel told us that General Bates was the only person who could send troops to Liquica, but he was out at the airport talking to some UN officials. The colonel got us onto a truck going there to get supplies.

The Interfet camp was on a dirt field about a half mile from the airport. Soldiers were setting up a barbed-wire fence, tents, and an electric generator. Military Land Rovers and armored personnel carriers roared in and out of the camp, stirring up red dust that drifted through the air.

General Bates had already left, but we met an American named Larry Stans who had some mysterious job with the UN force. He wore a baseball cap and a bush jacket with epaulets and sat in the shade of a large tent talking into his portable radio. Apparently they were driving around Dili inspecting the area. The radio buzzed and hummed, and Larry’s team kept saying “I copy that” and “Over” like they were bad actors in a television police show. The population of Dili was reduced to Friendlies, Possible Unfriendlies, and Bad Guys.

“Sorry you missed the general,” Larry said. “Great guy. Strong leader. Knows how to prioritize.”

“We need his permission to send soldiers and a medical team to Sister Xavier’s village.”

Larry smiled at Sister Xavier. “Are you a community leader, ma’am? We’re making a list of community leaders.”

“I’m just a nun.”

“That qualifies.” Larry wrote down Sister Xavier’s name.

“Perhaps you could contact General Bates on your radio,” I said.

“Well, I could, but I can’t. Got to save my ammo for the big bears in the woods. All this pacification stuff takes time. Bates will start deploying troops in about four or five days. Can’t save the world overnight.”

Sister Xavier shook her head. “I just want to save my village.”

“We’re wasting time here,” I said. “Let’s go back to the city.” I turned from Larry and headed for the road.

“Want some water bottles?” he asked.

I stopped walking. “Go back to America, Mr. Stans. You’re a bloody fool.”

“Calm down, Doc. We’re all on the same team.”

We stood by the entrance to the camp, then hitched a ride on an APC with some Australian soldiers, young and happy to be in control of an armored vehicle with a large machine gun. They were elaborately polite when we climbed in and kept making sure we were comfortable. With the hatch open, we sped down the road. Hot air roared around us; the sun burned down and the sky was painfully blue.

“Here’s our theme song,” said a corporal named Trevor and he played a tape on his portable stereo. It turned out to be something called “Highway to Hell” and the young soldiers sang along.

General Bates was back at the Turismo Hotel, but he was very busy and Major Holden told us to wait. Sister Xavier and I sat down on a saggy couch in the lobby and watched Australian officers hurry down the hallway carrying faxes. They were tan and fit and ready for action. “Timor is the big show,” one lieutenant told me. “If you’re going to be in the army, you’ve got to be here.”

I tried to talk to Sister Xavier, but she was like a smooth granite wall. There weren’t any cracks or soft places in her personality, nothing to hold on to in a conversation. Everything was reduced to a single desire: we must save the village. I wanted to resist this single-mindedness, but I knew she was right, that we had to keep everyone from dying.

It was almost five o’clock when Major Holden ushered us in to the general’s office. Bates sat behind a desk studying a fax and making notes. I introduced myself and Sister Xavier, trying to keep the desperation out of my voice as I explained the situation.

“Hand-to-Hand has enough food and medical supplies,” I said. “What we need is transportation and a military escort. We should leave immediately, before it gets dark.”

As I tried to make the journey sound quick and easy, the general kept glancing at the map of East Timor taped to the wall. I knew what he was thinking. Loo-key-sah. Where on earth is this village?

“Thank you for telling me about this problem,” Bates said. “We’ve received similar reports of people having trouble with the militia.” He picked up a water bottle and tore off the plastic safety seal. “Right now we’re completing Stage One, the process of inserting our forces and taking firm control of Dili. Stage Two will begin in a few days. We’ll secure Liquica and the other nearby towns.”

“But we can’t wait for Stage Two,” I said. “These people are dying right now.”

“It’s just like building a bridge, Dr. Cadell. First, you construct a solid foundation. Then you extend yourself inch by inch to the other side.”

“You don’t need a bridge,” Sister Xavier said. “You can drive to my village in thirty minutes.”

“Yes. But what if there’s an ambush waiting for us? Roadblocks? Land mines? You’ve already told me that these militiamen are dangerous. What we need is a fully organized military operation.”

I shook my head. “If you can get me a truck or a Land Rover, I’ll take the risk and go there alone.”

“I’m sorry, Doctor. In order to protect you and other civilians no unauthorized vehicles are being allowed out of the city.”

Major Holden seemed to have a natural instinct as to when a meeting was over. Suddenly he reappeared carrying more bottles of water. “I’m afraid that the general has a conference call in five minutes,” he told us.

“The militia will run away the moment you send in soldiers,” I said.

Bates tapped his finger on the desk. “That’s what the Americans thought during the UN action in Somalia. And it was a disaster. They had unacceptable casualties.”

“East Timor isn’t like Somalia. If the Australian government didn’t want to risk its soldiers, then it shouldn’t have sent them here.”

“We’re fulfilling our obligations.”

“Yes. Of course. But I think that you need to be a bit more aggressive.”

“These troops are my responsibility.” Bates paused dramatically as if the room were filled with young Australian soldiers and their mothers. “I’m going to make sure that no one gets hurt during this operation.”

“But what about the hundreds of civilians who are going to die because you didn’t go twenty-four miles down the road.”

Looking angry, Bates picked up a pushpin and walked over to the map on the wall. “Good-bye, Doctor.”

“I’m sorry, General Bates,” I said. “I apologize. But don’t you see that—”

“This conversation is over.” Bates turned away from us and forced the pushpin into the black dot that marked Liquica.

WE LEFT THE HOTEL and walked down the boulevard toward the wharf. I saw Nicky standing next to an Australian APC. Someone had wired a white plastic skull to the machine-gun bracket and Nicky was taking a photograph of this decoration.

“Hey, Julia. Hand-to-Hand was the news story of the day. No competition.”

“Where’s Daniel?”

“We lost our phone. He’s back at the hotel using Tristram Müller’s gear.”

I introduced Sister Xavier and told him about the meeting with Bates. The nun reached out to shake Nicky’s hand, but he raised his camera and took a picture.