Mark Lee - The Canal House

Sister Xavier explained the situation to Julia and Captain Jenkins. The leader of the militia, a man named Cristiano, had been waiting for Indonesian ferryboats to come up from West Timor and land on the beach. He hated the independence movement and wanted the villagers out of the country. All the hostages were going to be shipped to special camps organized by the Indonesians. After a few people ran away, no one was allowed to leave for food or water. Most of the villagers were suffering from heat stroke and dehydration.

“Where are Cristiano and his men hiding?” Jenkins asked.

“Somewhere up in the hills.”

“Can they walk to the border?”

“It would be very difficult. The pro-independence guerrillas hate the militia. They’ll kill everyone if they catch them on the road. That’s why Cristiano was waiting for the boats.”

Jenkins told his radioman to send a message to Interfet; then he went over to talk to Sergeant Gurung. “Form a defensive perimeter around this area. We’ll continue down the road a bit farther. When we’ve finished the reconnaissance, we’ll come back here to pick you up.”

“Yes, sir.”

“As far as I’m concerned, we followed the rules of engagement. If you see anyone with a weapon, kill the bastard right away.”

I watched Jenkins, Mitchell, and the rest of the platoon disappear down the coast road. Sergeant Gurung and his four men had been left behind to defend us. While the sergeant and Corporal Battis remained on the beach, Corporal Mainla and the two younger men were told to patrol the village. Mainla retied his bootlaces, then carefully checked his assault rifle, knife, and grenades before leaving. He reminded me of an electrician about to rewire a building.

Daniel went up the hill to get the church truck while Julia and Sister Xavier walked around the crowded tennis court. Julia did a quick triage of the villagers. This person was dying. This person can be saved. This person is sick, but can drink water. I took a few photographs, then put my camera away as Daniel drove the pickup truck down the cobblestone walkway. Daniel didn’t say anything when I started to help him. He kept glancing at Julia and Sister Xavier.

“They won’t want to leave when Captain Jenkins comes back.”

“You’re probably right. I can’t see Julia walking away from a lot of sick people.”

“It’ll be safe as long as the Gurkhas stay here. Cristiano is probably up in the hills, waiting to see what we’re going to do.”

Julia came over to the church truck and gave directions to everyone. It felt like she was in an operating room, picking up a scalpel and cutting through someone’s skin. “This is going to be difficult,” she said. “I didn’t bring enough saline solution.”

“What do you want us to do?” Daniel asked.

“Help Sister Xavier and start distributing water bottles. Nicky, go talk to Sergeant Gurung and see if he can find some sticks to hang the IVs.”

Daniel ripped open a cardboard box and began handing out bottles of water while Sister Xavier told her parishioners to swallow one mouthful, count to two hundred, and swallow another. I went off with Sergeant Gurung to look for sticks and we came back with lengths of steel rebar pulled from wrecked buildings. After Julia inserted a needle into someone’s arm, I used a brick to hammer the rebar into the cracked tennis court, then hung a bag of saline solution.

An old woman lay on a quilt, moving her lips as if in prayer. Julia knelt beside her with an IV needle. She tapped the woman’s arm with her forefinger and tried to make a vein appear. No luck. She moved over to the other arm.

“You feeling okay, Nicky?”

“I’m fine.”

“Keep drinking water. You don’t want to get sick.”

A young woman in a flowery dress sat a few feet away from us holding her four-year-old daughter in her arms. The little girl was barely breathing and her body was limp. Without really thinking about it I knew that the child was going to die. The woman pressed her daughter against her body as if her own life could filter through cloth and skin. The child’s open hand and faded red dress, her mother’s hopeless expression, created a perfect photograph. I would like to say that I cared about them, that I felt compassion, but at that instant my only thought was, Don’t move until I get the shot.

I pulled out my camera, switched on the auto-advance, and placed mother and daughter in the middle of the frame with the blue sky as a background. I moved forward a step. The click-clicking of the shutter sounded like an obscenity.

Julia looked angry. “Put the camera down, Nicky.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Stop being a photographer for five minutes. We’ve got to help these people.”

“Dr. Cadell!” Sergeant Gurung shouted. “Please! I must talk to you!”

Gurung stood over an army radio, adjusting the knobs. “One of the vehicles has broken down and they’re trying to fix the engine. If they don’t come back for us, we need to return to Dili.”

“These people need a doctor,” Julia said.

“You can’t stay here alone. We must go back to the city.”

Ten minutes later Gurung called us back to the radio. The reception was bad and the radio voices had to contend with static and a popping noise. Lieutenant Mitchell was doing most of the talking and he spoke in a clipped British manner that barely concealed his tension.

“Command, this is Delta One. There’s a sniper here. Possibly two snipers. We’re under fire.”

I STAYED NEAR the radio and listened to the sporadic conversation between Jenkins and UN command. The British had taken cover in the ruins of a power station and were trying to find the sniper. Jenkins asked for helicopter support and was told that there were logistical problems. All the messages back and forth were short and full of military phrases, but Jenkins sounded angry. The Interfet officer in charge of the UN radio kept saying, “You were informed there was resistance in the area,” as if this one phrase absolved General Bates of any responsibility. Jenkins was told that the logistical problems would disappear the next morning. If the British forces had been foolish enough to leave Dili, then they could spend the night sleeping in the rubble and swatting mosquitoes.

Sergeant Gurung listened to this final message and switched off the radio. “It’s politics, Mr. Bettencourt. Very much politics.” He said the word as if politics was in the same category as an earthquake or a hurricane.

All five soldiers came down to the beach and stood guard. The sun was just a hand’s width above the horizon. A light breeze made the tops of the palm trees sway back and forth. Daniel, Julia, and Sister Xavier returned to the pickup truck and we all drank some water. Julia was still wearing her surgical gloves and splotches of blood were on her khakis. If human souls have weight—some vague but perceptible mass—then she was carrying an immense burden.

Gurung came over to the truck and said it was time to leave. “Corporal Mainla didn’t see any of the militia, but they could still be in the area.”

“I counted three hundred seventy-eight villagers,” Julia said. “Twenty-five to thirty of them are in critical condition. They might die tonight.”

“It’s dangerous to stay here.”

“Yes, it’s dangerous. But we can’t just abandon them.”

She looked over at the villagers as if someone might be dying at that exact moment and she wasn’t doing anything to save them. Daniel touched her arm, then spoke to Sergeant Gurung. “Did you receive an order to return to Dili?”

Gurung hesitated, then shook his head. “It wasn’t a direct order. Captain Jenkins told us to protect you and shoot anyone carrying a rifle.”