Douglas Kennedy - A Special Relationship

The Brit nodded at me, then turned back to the kid and asked, 'How's your hand?'

'Hurts'.

'Sorry about that', he said. 'You can go now, if you like'.

The kid, still trembling, got to his feet. His face was streaked with tears and there was a damp patch around his crotch where he'd wet himself out of fear. He looked at us with terror in his eyes - still certain he was going to be shot. To his credit, the Brit reached out and put a steadying hand on the soldier's shoulder.

'It's all right', he said quietly. 'Nothing's going to happen to you. But you have to promise me one thing: you must not tell anyone in your company that you met us. Will you do that?'

The soldier glanced at the gun still in the Brit's hands and nodded. Many times.

'Good. One final question. Are there any army patrols down river from here?'

'No. Our base got washed away. I got separated from the others'.

'How about the village near here?'

'Nothing left of it'.

'All the people washed away?'

'Some made it to a hill'.

'Where's the hill?'

The soldier pointed toward an overgrown path through the trees.

'How long from here on foot?' he asked.

'Half an hour'.

The Brit looked at me and said, 'That's our story'.

'Sounds good to me', I said, meeting his look.

'Run along now', the Brit said to the soldier.

'My gun...'

'Sorry, but I'm keeping it'.

'I'll get in big trouble without it'.

'Say it was washed away in the flood. And remember: I expect you to keep that promise you made. You never saw us. Understood?'

The kid looked back at the gun, then up again at the Brit.

'I promise'.

'Good lad. Now go'.

The boy soldier nodded and dashed out of the trees in the general direction of the chopper. When he was out of sight, the Brit shut his eyes, drew in a deep breath and said, 'Fucking hell'.

'And so say all of us'.

He opened his eyes and looked at me. 'You all right?' he said.

'Yeah - but I feel like a complete jerk'.

He grinned. 'You were a complete jerk - but it happens. Especially when you get surprised by a kid with a gun. On which note...'

He motioned with his thumb that we should make tracks. Which is exactly what we did - negotiating our way through the thicket of woods, finding the overgrown path, threading our way on to the edge of swamped fields. We walked nonstop for fifteen minutes, saying nothing. The Brit led the way. I walked a few steps behind. I watched my companion as we hiked deeper into this submerged terrain. He was very focused on the task of getting us as far away from the soldiers as possible. He was also acutely conscious of any irregular sounds emanating from this open terrain. Twice he stopped and turned back to me, putting his finger to his lips when he thought he heard something. We only started to walk again when he was certain no one was on our tail. I was intrigued by the way he held the soldier's gun. Instead of slinging it over his shoulder, he carried it in his right hand, the barrel pointed downwards, the rifle held away from his body. And I knew that he would never have shot that soldier. Because he was so obviously uncomfortable holding a gun.

After around fifteen minutes, he pointed to a couple of large rocks positioned near the river. We sat down, but didn't say anything for a moment as we continued to gauge the silence, trying to discern approaching footsteps in the distance. After a moment, he spoke.

'The way I figure it, if that kid had told on us, his comrades would be here by now'.

'You certainly scared him into thinking you would kill him'.

'He needed scaring. Because he would have shot you without compunction'.

'I know. Thank you'.

'All part of the service'. Then he proffered his hand and said, 'Tony Hobbs. Who do you write for?'

'The Boston Post!

An amused smile crossed his lips. 'Do you really?'

'Yes', I said. 'Really. We do have foreign correspondents, you know'.

'Really?' he said, mimicking my accent. 'So you're a foreign correspondent?'

'Really', I said, attempting to mimic his accent.

To his credit, he laughed. And said, 'I deserved that'.

'Yes. You did'.

'So where do you correspond from?' he asked.

'Cairo. And let me guess. You write for the Sun?'

'The Chronicle, actually'.

I tried not to appear impressed. 'The Chronicle actually, actually?' I said.

'You give as good as you get'.

'It comes with being the correspondent of a smallish newspaper. You have to hold your own with arrogant big boys'.

'Oh, you've already decided I'm arrogant?'

'I worked that out two minutes after first seeing you in the chopper. You based in London?'

'Cairo, actually'.

'But I know the Chronicle guy there. Henry...'

'Bartlett. Got sick. Ulcer thing. So they sent for me from Tokyo around ten days ago'.

'I used to cover Tokyo. Four years ago'.

'Well, I'm obviously following you around'.

There was a sound of nearby footsteps. We both tensed. Tony picked up the rifle he had leaned against the rock. Then we heard the steps grow nearer. As we stood up, a young Somalian woman came running down the path, a child in her arms. The woman couldn't have been more than twenty; the baby was no more than two months old. The mother was gaunt; the child chillingly still. As soon as the woman saw us, she began to scream in a dialect that neither of us understood, making wild gesticulations at the gun in Tony's hand. Tony twigged immediately. He tossed the gun into the rushing waters of the river - adding it to the flooded debris washing downstream. The gesture seemed to surprise the woman. But as she turned back to me and started pleading with me again, her legs buckled. Tony and I both grabbed her, keeping her upright. I glanced down at her lifeless baby, still held tightly in her arms. I looked up at the Brit. He nodded in the direction of the Red Cross chopper. We each put an arm around her emaciated waist, and began the slow journey back to the clearing where we'd landed earlier.

When we reached it, I was relieved to see that several Somalian Army jeeps had rolled up near the chopper, and the previously marauding troops had been brought under control. We escorted her past the soldiers, and made a beeline for the Red Cross chopper. Two of the aid workers from the flight were still unloading supplies.

'Who's the doctor around here?' I asked. One of the guys looked up, saw the woman and child, and sprang into action, while his colleague politely told us to get lost.

'There's nothing more you can do now'.

Nor, it turned out, was there any chance that we'd be allowed back down the path towards that washed-out village - as the Somalian Army had now blocked it off. When I found the head Red Cross medico and told him about the villagers perched on a hill around two kilometres from here, he said (in his crispest Swiss accent), 'We know all about it. And we will be sending our helicopter as soon as the Army gives us clearance'.

'Let us go with you', I said.

'It's not possible. The Army will only allow three of our team to fly with them' -

'Tell them we're part of the team', Tony said.

'We need to send medical men'.

'Send two', Tony said, 'and let one of us' -

But we were interrupted by the arrival of some Army officer. He tapped Tony on the shoulder.

'You - papers'.

Then he tapped me. 'You too'.

We handed over our respective passports. 'Red Cross papers', he demanded. When Tony started to make up some far-fetched story about leaving them behind, the officer rolled his eyes and said one damning word, 'Journalists'.

Then he turned to his soldiers and said, 'Get them on the next chopper back to Mogadishu'.

We returned to the capital under virtual armed guard. When we landed at another military field on the outskirts of the capital, I fully expected us to be taken into custody and arrested. But instead, one of the soldiers on the plane asked me if I had any American dollars.