Suddenly, Hanley’s vision cleared a bit and the pain subsided. Shaking his head, he checked his gauges and saw the oil pressure in the left engine was still falling, but slowly. He said, “For some reason I’m feeling a bit better.” He looked at the nun, seeing her clearly for the first time since leaving Kosti. Her face was drawn and white. She looked grief-stricken. He said, “This was not your fault. When I looked at the soldiers, I didn’t see any of them shooting at the plane. I saw the blast from one of the big buildings on our right, but I couldn’t see who was firing. I don’t think it was the soldiers. Maybe it was a security guard-who knows.”
As he said this, she began to weep uncontrollably, burying her face in her arm against the plane’s window. “For the rest of my life, I will be haunted by this day. I will never forgive myself for Jumma,” she said.
Hanley said, “I knew what I was getting myself into, but Jumma, Jumma was a mistake. I should have insisted that Jumma stay behind. You were too close to the deal. I should have intervened.” He shifted in his seat and his right foot began to go numb. He tried to move his toes, but couldn’t tell if they moved or not. “It was bad luck, that’s all,” he said. “Stupid, never fair, wish it hadn’t happened bad luck. Whoever fired that gun could have been in the bathroom when we landed, heard the plane, ran out and started shooting.”
He saw her wipe her eyes with her skirt. “I need to take your pulse,” she said. Taking his wrist, she felt for his pulse and said, “It’s rapid but stronger than I would have guessed. Shock may be coming on, your eyes look glassy,” she told him. “We need to be careful.”
“I’m hurting a bit. My foot is going numb again, but the leg still works. Anyway, we must find a place to land and soon.”
Following Hanley’s instructions, the nun pulled a section map of southern Sudan from a webbed pocket on the side wall, opened and spread it over her lap. He asked her to find Kosit and then Mapuordit, which he had marked on the map. She drew an imaginary line between the two with her finger, reading off the names of the village and mentioning roads her finger crossed. Hanley listened for a name that was familiar to him, but found listening difficult.
“Did you mention Shambe?” the American asked.
“Yes, it is along the line. I know Shambe. It is about an hour from Yirol. I know a merchant there. There is a road that has a long stretch which is straight. It is close to the village. There is a telephone in the village. Hanley, can you make it to Shambe? We need to get you medical attention right away.”
“I don’t know. I don’t … we don’t have much choice, do we? It will take about an hour and fifteen minutes to get to Shambe. I can radio ahead to the mission and get them started to meet us there. When I do, there will be much less control of what happens to the children. We will not be near the mission and able to move the children ourselves. You must have considered that.”
“Yes, we will face that later. We must get you medical help. We must get to Shambe,” she said. As she did, the right engine coughed, a heavier, darker line of smoke now trailed behind the plane. Hanley watched the oil gauge, hoping the rate of loss to be about the same as before the engine stuttered. It wasn’t.
31
Feeling as tired as he could ever remember and shivering with chills, Hanley tried to ignore the pain in his back and the numbness in his right leg. Things were getting worse and he knew it wouldn’t be long before his ability to manage a landing would be a problem. He couldn’t think of what would happen if he lost consciousness. They had been in the air for about one hour and fifteen minutes. Hanley needed to stay focused, but was now struggling with the pain and the weakness that was enveloping him. The desire to sleep was suddenly overwhelming. “Talk to me,” he said.
The nun leaned forward to examine his face. “Can you still move your legs?” she asked.
“Yes, but my foot has lost most of its feeling. I’m so tired. I’m very weak.”
Aisha made her way to the door of the cockpit and listened as the nun and the American spoke. “Sister, will we be all right? He is hurt, he flies this plane. Will we be all right?” Aisha asked.
“Yes, he is hurt, but we will be landing soon. The people from the mission will come for us, for you and the children. We will be all right,” Sister Marie Claire told her, her gaze never leaving Hanley’s face as she answered the girl’s question.
As they spoke, Hanley’s head fell forward as if he had fallen asleep. Grabbing his shirt collar, Sister Marie Claire shook him and yelled, “Stay awake.”
Hanley’s head came up and he said, “Sorry, I just wanted to close my eyes for a minute, that’s all. I can do this, you know.”
“I know you can,” the nun said.
Aisha looked at the pilot and said, “You can do it.”
There was never any doubt, once she realized she was being rescued, once she was taken from the factory by the two women, placed in the van and driven into hiding, once she knew hope had been given to her as a gift wrapped in the bravery and determination of strangers, she was never going back to slavery. When the young man in the bright white shirt took her hand to guide her into the plane, when she saw his smile despite the swirling deafening chaos of the rescue, after seeing him dead on the ground, she understood it was her duty to take his place in the rescue of the other children. How could she not?
Keeping the pilot awake until he could put the plane back on the ground was all she could do. Gathering the children around her, Aisha said, “Listen to me. I want you to say ‘You can do it’, ‘You can do it’. Please say it with me.” She repeated the phase several times. A first the children hesitated but as some began, the others soon joined in the chant. It was in Masalit. As its was repeated, the chorus grew louder, guided by Aisha, determined the pilot would hear them above the Beech’s engines.
Hanley heard the voices of the children behind him.. He could hear them as if their voices were coming through his headphones, a chorus of children chanting to him. The voices took on a strange quality, like children, but stronger, the voices otherworldly, eerily harmonic, changing to sounds he didn’t want to hear, he didn’t want to know. He shook his head to clear his mind; he must be hallucinating. “What are they saying?” he asked the nun.
“It’s in Masalit,” she said. “I think they are saying, ‘You can do it’.
Soaked with sweat, gripping the yoke as hard as he could, Hanley sat up straight, the pain in his back as great a pain as he had ever known. The numbness in his foot continued to grow and his legs were slow to move. “Let’s see if we can raise someone at the mission,” he whispered to Sister Marie Claire. “You’ll have to do it for me.”
Tuning to the frequency for the mission radio, Hanley and Sister Marie Claire immediately heard the voice of the young priest, Father Laslo. “This is Mapuordit mission calling Beech Aircraft T806D. Hanley, come in, Hanley. This is Father Laslo. Can you hear me? Over.”
Following Hanley’s instructions, the nun keyed the microphone on the right-side yoke and said, “Father Laslo, this is Sister Marie Claire. We are in an emergency and need help. Did you hear me? Over.”
There was a brief pause and then he answered, “Yes, I understand. We received a call at the mission just some moments ago from the diocese in Rumbek. The authorities called the bishop, claiming that a plane like the one being used at our mission had landed at Kosti and departed with several children. That was you, was it not, Sister? Are the children safe?”
“Yes, Father, they are. Soldiers fired on us and Jumma was killed along with others…”
“What? Jumma! What?”
“…Monsieur Martin has been shot also. That is why we are calling. We must land soon, near Shambe. Can you meet us there, on the road between Shambe and Yirol? Over.”
“We, uh, yes, uh, most certainly, I will, uh, get the doctors and some supplies and we will leave immediately.”
“Father, please listen carefully so you can tell the doctors about Mr Martin. Have you a pencil and paper? Over.”
<
br /> “Yes.”
“Monsieur Hanley has a bullet wound that passed through his right side below his liver and exited his back just left of his spine. It has done damage to him internally. He is weakening quickly and his legs and feet are losing feeling. I believe he is hemorrhaging internally and has nerve damage. We must land soon. Do you understand? Over.”
“My dear God. Yes, I have it. I will gather everyone and leave immediately. I will pray for you and for the lives and souls still in your care and for those who were once in your care.”
The microphone clicked off, leaving only an irritating static in her ears. She looked at Hanley who sat straight in his seat, gripping the yoke to keep himself upright. His face was drawn, his lips stretched tight over his teeth, a bubble of spit growing from the corner of his mouth. “They are on their way,” she told him.
“Yes, I heard him. Let’s start making preparations. Make certain the children are seated with their backs to the walls and that they stay that way. Have the young woman help you and make her understand how important…” Hanley gasped and went rigid and pain struck him in the lower back and hips. The bubble on his lip turned to pink foam and he groaned with his teeth clenched as if he was trying to lift a piano by himself. After a moment, he blew out breath like a woman in labor would as the pain subsided. “Sorry,” he managed to say. “It’s important that the children be seated against the wall when the plane touches down. Have them link their arms and grab their clothes. That may help keep them in place. Then come back here so we can go over the landing procedure. You will have to help land this thing if we are to have any chance at all.”
Aisha nodded in understanding as the nun explained the procedure Hanley outlined. When she was finished, Sister Marie Claire hugged the girl and kissed her forehead. “You will see your family again soon. This is my promise and God’s will,” she said to the girl. Aisha’s eyes were wide with a single crooked tear line rolling over her dark cheek. She smiled and turned to the children.
Hanley, his eyes reading the instrument panel as best he could, trying to interpret the information he would need to safely hand the plane, said, “You will need to be my legs and feet, I’m afraid. Put your feet on the pedals. Now, as I turn the yoke, you will press the pedal in the direction I’m turning. If I turn left, you press the left pedal very slowly without a great deal of pressure. I will say, ‘harder’ or ‘not so hard’, depending upon what I feel is needed. Do you understand?”
“Yes.”
“After we touch down, you will need to apply the brakes to help stop the plane. You do this by applying good pressure to the top of the pedal. I mean good pressure. Are we okay with this?”
“I’m so sorry. I didn’t want anyone to–”
“Stop it! We need to focus on this or you will never be sorry again, about anything. I can’t imagine how foolish this all will have been if we fail to give these children back to their families. Can you help me fly this airplane?”
“Oui.”
“Okay. Okay then. Let’s check our distance to Shambe.” Hanley’s breathing was labored, like a severe asthmatic might sound. Both corners of his mouth showed pink foam. His face was drawn and angular, every muscle bunched, a sign of the pain he was experiencing. He was still focused, trying to keep himself and the plane under control.
The nun looked at the map and began calculating the distance. Trying to concentrate, she looked at the distances she marked, applying the airspeed calculations she and Hanley had devised. “I believe we are about twenty minutes from Shambe.”
“We have been flying for almost one hour and fifty minutes. That leaves us about seventy miles until we are there,” she said.
“Good. We’re only at three thousand feet and so getting to the ground won’t take long. I will start down slowly, so that when we are there, we will be low enough to search for a spot to land. Can you get me some water? I need some water badly. My mouth is so dry, it hurts to talk.”
“Yes, Hanley, I will get you some water,” she said.
32
Watching his cattle, the man sat beneath his favorite tree, an old tree, the best shade tree on this side of the village. The morning was quiet, the cattle grazing on what little grass was left, especially after so dry a season. His cattle were thinner this year than most. He wondered when it would rain again. His wife had cried over their poor crops and how desperate their lives had become. He was hungry, but there was nothing to eat and if there was, he would give it to his children.
The heads of the cows started to come up, a sign that something disturbed their grazing. A lion? Standing, he surveyed the plains with his hand shading his eyes. The brow of his dark face was burrowed. Lions were not common, but possible. He knew he could not afford to lose any cattle and might not be capable of scaring a lion off by himself. Then he heard it; an airplane. He had seen them before, miraculous things, carrying men into the air. What it must be like, he could not imagine. Searching the sky, he saw the plane coming toward him from the northeast, just above the horizon. This thing makes much noise; it is too loud; how could anyone stand to be in it for even a little bit of time? All the cows’ heads were up now, some were moving about as the sound of the plane drove them away.. It was then the herdsman saw the smoke. Do they have ovens on these things, he wondered. It must be a small oven for the smoke was thin.
***
The plane came in low over the plain, at seven hundred feet, low enough to see the road and anything near it. Hanley was following the road from Shambe southwest toward Yirol, the village now a mile from where they were. Sister Marie Claire was describing the area and the road as they passed over, a herd of cattle moving near the old, rough track they would use as a landing strip.
“This will do,” Hanley said.
“Yes, I believe it will too. Anyway, it is all we have,” she said.
“I will swing around and land going toward the village to reduce the distance you will need to walk. The girl will have to help you with the door, but you can do it.” He coughed and stiffened, his chest against the yoke, which brought the nose of the plane down slightly. Sensing the change, Hanley leaned back and brought the nose of the plane up. His voice was a wheezing whisper. “When the plane touches down, I want you to push the tops of both pedals forward as hard as you can. That will apply the brakes. If I’ve told you this before, I’m sorry. We will have plenty of room to land, but I want to get the plane stopped and the children off. Sit them in the shade and leave them with the girl. Tell her, if someone approaches, tell her to get the children back on the plane and shut the door and lock it. Show her how before you leave. Do you understand?”
Sister Marie Claire said she understood.
Continuing southwest, Hanley climbed to fifteen hundred feet and swung the nose of the Beech a few degrees to the right and started a semicircle that would bring him around to a northeast heading following the road back to Shambe. When he asked, the nun pushed the left pedal and helped ease the plane through the maneuver. As the plane completed the arc, Hanley set the flaps and reduced his speed, easing the plane down toward the road. He strained to see, focusing as best he could on the picture developing before him, watching the roadway, which appeared as a line of a slightly different shade of beige across the arid ground. As he pushed the controls forward, he said, “Watch my rate of descent on the altimeter here,” pointing to the dial on the panel between them. “Count the seconds between the longer marks and tell me if there are less than three seconds between them.”
She watched the altimeter needle fall, her lips moving slightly as she counted off the rate of descent. The Beech was losing altitude at a rate of just over one hundred feet every three seconds.
The plane passed over the herdsman and his cattle, all of whom by now were alarmed and heading in the opposite direction of the plane. At five hundred feet, Hanley dropped the landing gear and began pulling the nose of the plane up slightly. The ground seemed to be coming up faster than he expected, causing Hanley to p
ull back on the yoke. The stall-warning signal came on and Hanley dropped the nose, adding a bit more throttle. The warning went off just as the plane touched down hard on the road. The force of the contact caused the Beech to bounce back into the air and come down hard again. The children began to scream and cry as they bounced along with the plane. After two hard bounces, the Beech settled onto the roadway, running and bouncing toward Shambe. Each bounce caused large waves of pain to run from Hanley’s lower back, down his legs where it vanished into the numbness of his feet. Dizziness overtook Hanley where he leaned against the side of the cockpit for support; he would not let go of the controls.
Her prayer was answered, but the language of answered prayers is God’s language. The nun had failed to understand God’s message. Much had been gained, but much had been lost.
The plane, the tool she had hoped God would send, shook relentlessly, the children screamed and cried as the nun’s shoes slide off the pedals. Sister Marie Claire brought them back to the worn metal once more. Pushing as hard as she could, the nun applied the brakes while Hanley kept the plane on the roadway. Thirty seconds after touchdown the plane rolled to a stop. Hanley cut the ignition, silencing the roar and thrum of the big engines and slumped over, his wounded body failing faster now. Struggling out of her seat, the nun slowly pulled him upright. Taking water from a bottle, she splashed his face and patted it while saying, “Hanley, wake up. I’m going to check on the children and go for help.” She called out, “Aisha, are the children safe? Aisha?”
Sometimes the Darkness Page 25