by Neil Howarth
The leader looked nervous. He glanced across at Father William. He was the prize. Fagan knew he was weighing up the odds of making it back to the main group with him in tow or should they just cut and run, then come back in force.
“You don’t want to be here when they get back,” Fagan said.
He stood looking the leader in the face. It was scarred and pocked marked, and his yellowed eyes were wild and staring, his pupils dilated wide. His teeth were stained brown, and Fagan could smell the pungent aroma of Khat, a local drug from the leaf of the Catha Edulis plant. The locals chewed it like gum. It was all in the brief. He suspected the other three were just as high as their leader. It played partly in his favor because it would slow their reactions, but it would also make them twice as jumpy.
The leader pulled a wicked looking machete out of his belt.
“You lie,” he cried out, wielding the blade above his head.
Fagan stood his ground. “United States Navy SEALs. You harm these people, and they will track you down. And when they do, they will cut you into little pieces then barbecue you on the fire, and eat you for dinner.” Fagan said it slowly, complete with gestures.
That got the leader’s attention. He had obviously heard the stories that had been spread, as part of the misinformation campaign, about the various special forces deployed out here.
“Liar,” he screamed. “Navy SEALs all dead.”
He swung the machete at Fagan’s head. Fagan easily stepped inside the blow, grabbing the blade wielding arm with one hand and pulling the automatic pistol from the man’s belt with the other. He prayed that it was in working order. He dragged him in as a shield and shot the one by William in the head, then took the next closest one in the chest. His man was struggling, but for the moment that suited him.
The final one was smarter than he looked. He grabbed one of the children. It was the young girl Fagan had carried when they had first left the Mission. He held her in front of him and put his gun to her head. He yelled at Fagan in his native tongue. Fagan didn’t have to speak the language to understand what the man said. He released the leader and dropped the gun at his feet. The man holding the child, grinned in drug addled triumph, pointing the gun at Fagan.
James seemed to fly out of nowhere and landed on him. The two of them went down into the dirt. The leader charged towards them wielding his machete. Fagan swept up the gun lying at his feet and shot him in the back of the head, then moved for the scrambling pair on the floor. A shot sounded, and the pair went still. Fagan rushed forward, but William got there before him.
“No, stay back,” Fagan called out.
He held the gun out in front of him. The bundle on the floor stirred. James’s head appeared. He struggled to his knees. There was blood down his front. William grabbed him, and Fagan moved in to the other one. There was no need. He was dead.
Fagan turned to James. “Are you okay?”
He nodded but didn’t speak.
Fagan looked around, quickly checking their surroundings. The kids were shellshocked, many of them were crying, but they seemed to be alone.
“Come on. We have to move.”
He set them off on their course, then returned and dragged the bodies into a clump of bushes. He searched them for a radio but found none, which hopefully meant the main group did not know where they were. He retrieved his weapons and headed back down the track, looking for any sign of pursuers. He saw no one apart from dust clouds down on the plain.
He spent the rest of the afternoon bringing up the rear and watching for anyone tracking them, but for the moment, they were free.
He caught up with the group as the sun was disappearing behind the hills in the west. They had stopped, and the children were sitting together on the dirt floor talking amongst themselves. They didn’t appear to be any worse for their ordeal.
Father William came over. “Thank God you’re safe.”
“Is everyone okay? James?”
“They're all fine. James is okay, just shocked by what happened.”
“He’ll be fine after a good night’s sleep.”
“Will we get one? Was there any sign of their friends out there?”
Fagan shook his head. “But I did notice something interesting on the way up here.”
The priest gave him a questioning look.
“Goats.”
9
Jubaland Region, Somalia.
The rice and veg had run out, and they had been down to the few MRE’s, the military Meals-Ready-to-Eat packs Fagan had in his backpack. He had seen the goats grazing on the meager pickings on the hillside, as he hurried to catch up with the group. He had given them a wide berth, keen to avoid the goatherd and any chance that he could report their presence to the rebels. When he went back, he took James with him. He could be the lookout, and it would be good to get his mind off what had happened earlier. Fagan managed to steal in without the goatherd seeing him. Which was good for the goatherd. SOP for Ops like this was no witnesses.
He found a stray goat separated from the rest, drinking in a narrow stream. It was young and small but would fit their needs perfectly. He did it quick. He slipped in and slit its throat with his K-Bar knife before it could even squeal. He bled it out in the water to cover his tracks as much as possible. James had brought the plastic water bottles and filled them upstream from the kill. Fagan heaved the dead goat onto his shoulders, and they headed out, leaving the goatherd none the wiser.
He allowed James to light a fire that night, in a cleft in the rocks, shielding it as much as possible from any external view. The full moon helped, lighting up the surrounding landscape, making the contrast from the glow of the fire, less obvious.
James cooked the goat over the fire and made small flatbreads from the flour he had brought from the Mission. Delicious roasting and baking aromas floated on the evening breeze. Finally, it was ready, and Fagan carved using his K-BAR knife. It was like dining at the Ritz.
Fagan sat with his back against a rock, with a good view of the valley in the moonlight. Nothing was stirring out there. His stomach was full, and the smoky aroma of barbecued goat meat still hung in the air.
Father William appeared with the coffee.
“A lot of very happy children are going to sleep with a full stomach tonight.”
“They’re not the only ones.” Fagan took the proffered tin mug and took a sip.
“Do you think we lost them?” William asked.
“I’m not sure. I think we should keep on the track we’re on. When we cross the border, I’ll accept that we lost them.”
The priest sipped at his coffee, then looked at Fagan. “How are you holding up? This is quite a task you have been given, especially after losing your whole team.”
“I’m fine.” Fagan felt anything but, at the mention of the team.
“I know you had to confront the rebels. There was bloodshed, but you had no choice. I am sure that all the children would be dead if you had not done what you did.”
“That’s what I’m trained to do.”
“I understand that, but no amount of training really prepares you for the real thing.”
“You sound as though you have experience.”
His white teeth flashed in the moonlight. “That was a long time ago. But I have seen men and women die in some horrific ways. Not just yesterday and today. No matter how much I have prepared for that with God’s teachings, there are still questions I am unable to answer.”
Fagan looked at him. “I think maybe you have more experience than me. I killed those men yesterday. It might surprise you, but they were the first men I’ve killed.”
“And how do you feel about that?”
“I don’t know. I did what I was trained to do. I did what I needed to do, to keep us all safe.”
“But you are still not sure.”
“I suppose it’s the question that all combat personnel face. Will God forgive me for that?”
“God understands soldiers, warriors de
fending others, killing when necessary. The devil has his own warriors, his own armies, and the Lord must defend against them with his own chosen soldiers.”
“The trouble is, the enemy also thinks that God has chosen them.”
William sipped at his coffee but didn’t respond. He obviously didn’t want to go there. Instead, he changed the subject.
“How did you become a soldier?”
“Well, actually I’m a sailor.”
“Forgive me. I thought sailors were on ships.”
“Common misperception. I’m a Navy SEAL, it stands for Sea Air and Land, but we come under the Navy.”
“So how did you become a sailor?”
“If I told you, you’d think me a great sinner.”
“We are all sinners.”
“I became a sailor because I had to, or so I thought. I was caught stealing a car. There was a girl involved.”
William gave a little smile as if he heard that story before.
“I was given a choice. Go to jail or join the Navy. I often wonder if I made the right one.”
“You seem to be doing fine. I am sure your parents are proud of you.”
Fagan had to grin at that one.
“I am sorry,” William said. “They are still alive?”
“Oh, yes, they’re alive. Still living in Boston.”
“So what did your parents think of you joining the Navy?”
“My father was disappointed. Not in me joining the Navy. The car stealing part. In many ways I guess that was what drove me to become a SEAL. I felt I’d let him down and I wanted to make him proud of me.”
“And did you?”
“I hope so. I haven’t seen him in a while.”
“And what did your mother think?”
Fagan had to smile at that. “Oh, she was disappointed too, but then I always disappointed her.”
“Don’t children always think that of their parents.”
“You ought to meet my Mother.”
“And do they approve of you now?”
“I think my father would, at least I hope so. I’m not so sure about my mother. As I said, I haven’t seen them in a while.”
“I sense some unresolved problems.”
“Isn’t that what families are about?”
“Do you want to talk about it?”
Fagan smiled. “Do you want to hear my confession?”
“Sometimes its good to get things off your chest.”
Fagan didn’t bite. He stared into his coffee as if the answer might be in there.
“Tell me something,” William suddenly spoke. “Is it Joe or Joseph?”
Fagan gave him a quizzical look. The moonlight seemed to accentuate the priest’s handsome face. He was smiling.
Fagan shook his head. “Well, I was christened Joseph, and that’s what my mother always calls me. But in the real world I’m Joe.”
“What does that mean?”
“What?”
“The real world.”
Fagan waved a hand at the moonlit landscape. “Here. All this. Where I do my job.”
“And is there no room in that world for Joseph?”
Fagan looked at William again. “I’m not sure what you mean.”
“Sorry, I have a priest’s habit of trying to look into people’s souls.”
“That’s okay. I got nothing to hide.”
“Then you’re a lucky man.”
Fagan caught the white of William’s teeth in the moonlight, but he didn’t respond.
“I sense you make a distinction between those two worlds,” William said. “Joe’s and Joseph’s.”
“Persistent as well.”
William grinned.
Fagan knew he could have stopped it there, but somehow, sitting here with a priest, it was suddenly Joseph’s world, and it was confession all over again.
“Being Joseph always seemed to sum up that other world,” Fagan started talking. “The world that my mother inhabited. A place where other people were always trying to make decisions for me. In Joe’s world, I make the decisions.”
“I thought you were a Navy SEAL, you take orders.”
“Yes, I take orders, but in the end, I make the decisions.”
“They seem to have been pretty good so far.”
“Let’s hope that holds for another few days.”
“I can only speak from what I see, but I have faith in you. Faith that you will keep us safe.”
“We have a way to go yet.”
“And my faith will remain.” William studied Fagan over the rim of his coffee mug. “When I look at you I see a Joseph, sent from God to save us. It seems a good name to me, a good biblical name. Do you mind if I call you Joseph?”
“Can I call you Bill?”
“If you feel more comfortable with that.”
Fagan shook his head. “Somehow I don’t see you as a Bill.”
“You see what I mean.” Willian sipped at his coffee, then caught Fagan in the gaze of his honey brown eyes, as if they were welcoming him in. “Do you want to talk about it? Your Joseph world.”
Fagan had to stifle a laugh. “I said you wanted to hear my confession.”
William did not say anything, he just kept on with his steady gaze.
Fagan was already caught. It seemed as if he had no choice but to give in. He had a sudden vision of his mother. She was a tall, skinny woman, arms folded impatiently across her chest. He could see her now. That stern face and those unforgiving eyes nailing him to the spot. It gave him an uneasy feeling deep in his gut. She had drilled it into him as a child — fear. Fear and retribution, insisting he went to confession at least once a week, or he would be cast into eternal damnation. He often wondered if she was right about the last part.
“It’s nothing devastating,” he said. “My mother is what you would call a true Irish Catholic. She doesn’t really approve of what I’m doing. She never wanted me to join the Navy in the first place.”
“I thought you had no choice.”
“My mother saw it differently. It was the local priest who spoke up for me to the judge, said all I needed was a little discipline in my life, and I would be fine. My mother agreed, but she thought I could get that discipline in another way. She always saw me in a different uniform, one more like yours. She was of that Irish mindset that the greatest gift that God could bestow on a family, was for a son to join the Church. What was the tradition, oldest son to the military, the youngest son to the Church. I was an only child, so that was a dilemma.
“Anyway, she was convinced that if Father O’Mahony told the judge that I wanted to join the church, then he would accept that, instead of me joining the Navy. I remember her telling me, I would be serving God instead of killing people.” He half smiled at the distant memory. “She always had a certain directness about her.”
“Sounds like quite a woman.”
“In her own way.”
“So what did you tell her?”
“I told her I would rather go to jail.”
William gave a mock grimace. “Ouch.”
“She took it hard, and I was headstrong.”
“And you never resolved it.”
“Something like that.”
“Maybe when you get back from here you should pay your parents a visit.”
“Let’s get out of here first.”
10
Close to the Somalia-Kenya border.
The dustball moved in a straight line towards the border. It eventually morphed into a truck in the bright sunshine. Down on the valley floor the road ran like a thin white ribbon, a steady stream of vehicles passed along it, most heading towards Kenya, less than five miles away. Fagan watched from his position on the hillside, crouched amongst the rocks. It was the fifth day and already uncomfortably hot, despite the sun having only just crept above the horizon.
They had continued their trek, taking it slow, keeping away from the main tracks and sticking to their southerly route. Each night William would talk to h
im as the children slept. Counseling and guiding him in his inimitable but quiet fashion, and nurturing his soul. It was clearly apparent, even back then, William was a quite extraordinary man.
Then each day they would move on. The kids were not able to move fast, and they were exhausted by the time they were finally within touching distance of their destination.
When he was a little kid, he remembered something his grandmother would say when he was rushing too fast to do something. She would give him that knowing smile and wag a finger at him, then speak with that soft Connemara brogue he could remember to this day.
‘Remember, there’s many a slip between cup and lip.’
They should have been down there the night before and already at the border. He blamed himself. He had been pushing too hard as night fell, knowing they should already be down in the valley if they were going to make the border before it closed at midnight. The girl's name was Nucia. She was ten years old. She had slipped in the semi-darkness and skidded down the escarpment on her back. She would probably have been fine if she hadn’t tried to stop herself. But she had jammed in her feet, and the momentum had lifted her, then pitched her forward, and she tumbled into the darkness. Fagan could hear her screaming as he scrambled down after her. By the time he reached her, the screams had dropped to a semi-conscious moan. Her left tibia, her shin bone, was extending through the skin.
Fagan pulled one of his morphine injections from his emergency field kit and gave her a half shot. James scrambled out of the darkness. He seemed unfazed by the wound, concerned only for the little girl. He helped to hold her down while Fagan reset her leg. Thankfully she passed out when he jerked the bone down, and it disappeared inside the skin. He doused the wound liberally with Betadine antiseptic, and bound her leg tightly, using a bandage from his first aid kit. James found some wood and Fagan fashioned a splint.
The kids were crying and close to panic. He could see the fear in their eyes. They were in no condition to move on. So they had found a place to camp, and lit a fire, mainly for Nucia’s benefit. They had eaten the last of the goat earlier that day, so the kids had gone to sleep hungry.