Mission Under Fire

by Rex Byers

  At one point I had to stop in my tracks because of a hazard in the road. I remember seeing the kids looking around wondering why the carnival ride had ended. Although it might be hard to imagine electricity in this rundown village, I was surprised to find an electric wire hanging across the road. It ran through the village, and at certain points, a few villagers had tapped into the wire and routed it into their homes. An older boy, around twelve-years old, saw the wire and jumped from the trailer onto a nearby roof. He snagged the wire, unhooked it, and threw it over to the other roof, clearing my path. The whole time I watched him do this, I thought, I’m going to have to call on my lifeguard days and perform CPR on this little numbskull. How did he know that the wire wouldn’t be hot? Either way, he lived to tell about it.

  As I drove on I thought to myself, someone’s going to be upset tonight when they try to turn on “Dr. Phil” and discover they have no electricity.

  At that time, I started to question my decision to work on my own. I wondered if we were really driving to the designated site, or if the kids who’d accompanied me were opportunists, cleverly hijacking the tractor with me a willing accomplice. Regardless, I kept driving until we had passed through the village. They were pointing me toward the countryside, which seemed right, I supposed.

  I soon found myself surrounded by about sixty Haitians, mostly children and young adults, pointing and yelling at me. I could feel myself melting from the sun and stress. Unable to understand the people surrounding me, I was afraid that they were going to steal the lumber.

  As quickly as I had begun to question my safety, I noticed a small stage a few hundred feet away, just beyond the open fields.

  I had arrived and the Haitians graciously helped me unload the lumber. When we finished, I wanted to check in with the other missionaries. They still hadn’t arrived at the stage. I thought, really? I’m going to drop off a load of lumber in the middle of a crowd of people who live in shacks? This was a new culture and a new people to me; I couldn’t help feeling a little suspicious of their intentions.

  I started to head back to Double Harvest when all of my little followers hopped back on the trailer. Evidently, the local grownups didn’t like that idea so they scolded the kids off. I found my way back to Double Harvest and saw the others loading supplies and airing the tires on a large front loader that we’d later use to lift material. Although I still felt a bit tense from my journey, I tried to remain calm when I noticed everyone was still at the compound. Admittedly, I was troubled that they were still there, safe inside the protective walls. I said, “I thought you guys had gone out to the site.”

  “No,” said Arthur, smiling. “We had to get the tools and supplies checked out of the shop. Why? Have you already been out there?”

  “Yes,” I said, thinking he should be grateful that I had risked life and limb for a stack of wood. “The lumber is unloaded in the middle of the field! I hope it’s still there when we get back.”

  Inside I was put off, wondering how it was that in the same time it took me to cart a trailer full of lumber into oblivion, unload it, and drive back, they had only managed to air a couple tires and check out some tools. I wasn’t angry that I had done the work, just bothered that I had been put into a potentially dangerous situation.

  “Oh, it’ll be fine,” Arthur said nonchalantly, waving me off. “Nobody’s gonna take it.”

  My attitude cooled off and we continued our first day of toilsome labor.

  Chapter 2

  The Work

  When we returned, the lumber was safe and accounted for. We eventually completed building the canopy, but didn’t have enough time to set up our gear, or make time for the band to practice. Without our equipment, we were unable to contribute that evening, so we sang and listened with the locals. Some of us were too out of gas to even stay and listen, so we headed back for a well-deserved shower, hot meal, and a cold drink.

  ~•••~

  Earlier that day, while we were still putting the finishing touches on the canopy, children played near the work site, climbing on tractors and trucks to get a better look. One little guy who was probably about 6-years old got hurt that day. While the tractor was on the move, he and some other kids had climbed on top of the lumber, hoping for a little excitement. But while we were driving in the fields, the tractor hit a bump and knocked one of the boards loose, smashing the boy’s little finger. Jason, a physical therapist by trade, bandaged him up and brought him to his parents.

  After spending time with the boy’s family, Jason and the young kid became very close. Over the next couple of days, that little boy didn’t leave Jason’s side. I remember performing on stage and looking into the crowd. Every time I spotted Jason, that little guy was on his lap, happy as a lark.

  ~•••~

  Haitians came from the surrounding villages and listened to the program. After hearing the sermon, many were saved or rededicated their life to God. During one of the meetings, I don’t remember which one, a woman was healed from demonic possession. Steeped in voodoo, Haiti among other Caribbean nations, is known for the dark cultism that consists of Roman Catholic rituals mixed with traditional African witchcraft, sorcery, and possession. Although Roman Catholicism is the nation’s official religion, Voodoo, or Vodoun is practiced by most Catholics in Haiti, coexisting with their religion as a means to communicate with family spirits. This is a very washed-down and simplistic description, but what’s important to know is the Haitians are a religious people and the concepts of God the Father, Son, and Holy Ghost are not new to them. Still, after all they’ve been through, they are hungry to find meaning and to know God.

  ~•••~

  After the meeting, the rest of the group headed back to our quarters, showered, and prepared for a hot game of Euchre. Monday through Wednesday had been much the same. We assisted Arthur with small projects throughout the day, and practiced our music when we had time. The ladies helped stain some desks, and we played with the ring-making, gift-bearing children. The days went by quickly. We worked hard, sweating, bonding, getting to know the Double Harvest staff and beautiful people that we served.

  Each sweltering day ended with the crusade meetings. We’d sing, act, and share testimonies. One of those evenings stood out to me. It was the night Maggie told her story. She got very personal about the indiscretions in her marriage and how great it’s been since that time. I couldn’t help but think of the past few years and all that Sharon and I had been through. You almost have to experience the bad, to really appreciate the good. It was a meaningful talk.

  The long walks back to our apartment and meaningful discussions that took place were a great way to end each day. The air would cool and we’d walk through the darkness, shining our flashlights to guide the way. We’d chat about the Haitians’ need to control every aspect of the event, the drama, our mistakes, or the Haitian choir. And if we weren’t discussing that evening’s activities, we’d chat about our families and such, getting to know each other on a deeper level. There was always something interesting to talk and laugh about.

  When we’d return to the compound, we’d relax, snack, read, or play in the euchre tournament that had become quite an event—a guys versus girls battle, with a whole lot of trash talk. The days were hot and physically exhausting, but it gave us a sense of accomplishment.

  ~•••~

  On Wednesday, Arthur told us about a school in the country that needed some tents assembled. The school provides a basic education and a hot lunch. It was an hour and a half drive into the country, but we decided to make the trip to see what we were getting ourselves into.

  The terrain was rough. We traveled in trucks, filling every available space. I sat on the tailgate and had to hang on for dear life as my rear end hopped up a few inches every time we hit a bump.

  We finally reached the school, sore buns and all, but the “facility” was not what I expected. It looked more like a camp. The terrain is rough and there were only a few trees in the middle of
the “campus”.

  The schoolrooms were made of tents, each about twenty by thirty feet, packed with desks and chairs. One tent, no larger than a typical pop-up tent, housed a kitchen, where a woman worked diligently over a large pot of something that would soon be served for lunch.

  As we toured the facility, we observed the students in uniform, sitting properly, sectioned off into a couple of different tents according to their age with about 50 children per tent. They glanced at us, while we walked around, but they didn’t rush us like the kids in the village—these children were far more self-controlled, dressed in neat blue or green uniforms. I believe the colors indicated the grade.

  After touring the facility, we had a better idea how much work was involved, so we headed to the trucks for the bumpy ride back to Double Harvest. That night, we made plans to start the next morning at 5:00 am, hoping to beat the heat and assemble the tents.

  On our way to the crusade that night, Bruce decided to take us on a shortcut. As we walked through the village we saw a community watering well.

  “Keep walking, guys,” Bruce instructed. “Don’t take pictures or acknowledge them. They’re bathing.”

  Bruce had spent a lot of time in Haiti and knew how to interact socially with the locals. He encouraged us to be respectful. And he told us not to wear expensive jewelry, or “bling” as he put it, if we had any.

  “Don’t remind them of what they don’t have,” he said.

  That evening’s meeting went smooth as expected. We played our music for the Haitians, and heard an encouraging message and testimonies. Things were finally falling in place.

  ~•••~

  Early the next morning (Thursday), we headed back to the school to assemble the tents. Arthur escorted us with his motorcycle and Morgan drove the truck. Halfway to the school, the trusty dirt bike broke down and Arthur left it with a friend who lived nearby. Arthur took Morgan’s place and drove through the winding, pothole-laden roads.

  When we arrived, we began rummaging through the tents. Someone had donated old Army tents to the school, hopeful that one day they’d need more space. These were the type of tents that were used for military barracks. They were well built with some as big as twenty by forty feet.

  The school was already using some of these tents. Unfortunately, they didn’t have enough to hold the current student population. Some of the classrooms were built with sticks shoved in the ground and a canvas sheet thrown over the top. It was sad really, but considering the plight of their homeland, they were probably lucky to have a school at all.

  We opened an old semi trailer that held piles of canvas and hardware. I felt overwhelmed at first because there were no manuals, only olive-green canvas, metal, hinges and pins stacked about four feet deep. It looked like a bunch of nothing. But I’m a mechanical guy, so I offered to start what we called a “bucket brigade” and emptied the truck. As I handled the pieces, I began to understand how to assemble the tents. We stacked large piles of metal and canvas in the clearing, organizing the pieces by size and shape. Once we emptied the trailer, I had a pretty clear instruction manual in my head.

  Arthur saw the progress we were making and decided to leave us to finish the job, while he ran some errands. He said he’d return in an hour or so to check in and take us back to Double Harvest to clean up for the evening’s service.

  We completed the tents rather quickly to everyone’s surprise, but Arthur was nowhere to be found. Exhausted, hot, and out of water, we began to wonder if Arthur would remember to come back for us. Although Arthur seemed to have a good heart, he was a bit scattered. We had no choice but to wait in the heat. I was getting nervous, realizing we had no idea where we were and that we had no basic provisions. Would anyone even know our location in case something happened to Arthur? What do we do if he doesn’t come back?

  If we were in the States, questions like these would be irrelevant. We’d figure things out. We’d make a few phone calls and hitch a ride home. But we were in a third-world country and the natural threats and hazards are obviously greater when you’re a foreigner.

  Our fears were laid to rest when Arthur finally showed up. I felt relieved and thought, if this is the worst thing that happens on this trip, I can live with it. Truth be told, we were all a little put off with Arthur, but his apologies helped settle the irritated lynching mob.

  When we returned to the compound, we ate a late lunch and rested our bones. Later in the day, we walked to the stage to practice for that night’s performance and encountered yet another setback. We reached the platform to find strings broken on Joel’s guitar, and the bass guitar missing. Our aching bodies had been up since 5:00 am, left to die in the desert, and now this! Joel had brought extra strings, but we couldn’t find them, so we located another bass guitar and practiced our songs with what we had. We tried to keep a stiff upper lip as the evening pressed on, but our attitudes were waning.

  Before we went on stage for what would be our last time, Morgan casually said, “Dude, let’s bail as soon as we’re done with tonight’s session.” Sounded good to me; I was beat. After we played that night, we watched the ladies perform and had an enjoyable encounter with some of the kids. They wanted to know all of our names and they worked hard to pronounce them. I told them my name was “Bob” because they couldn’t annunciate “Rex” without using the double “r”. We finally headed back, exhausted from the day and the heat.

  We walked to the compound, cutting the darkness with our flashlights. After the long day in the sun, peace finally washed over me. I felt more secure walking through that dark village than walking through Queens in New York City. This was one of my favorite parts of the mission trip, the quiet, the dark of night. The day had finally come to an end, and I had found the friendships I was seeking.

  When we returned to the compound, everyone chilled. Some of us read, some played cards, and others sat outside to talk or enjoy the fresh air. At that point, we had become pretty comfortable with one another. Julie, Monte, and Morgan teased and laughed often. Julie’s last name is Baldini, so the “circus” jokes seemed to go on forever. In fact, earlier that day, after loading Arthur’s motorcycle in the back of the truck, Julie jumped on the bike in an acrobatic pose, taking advantage of a photo opportunity. She went along with the jeering and fearlessly served it back. But while a group of us sat in a circle, talking inside, she had finally had enough. The tension between she and Morgan had escalated with every playful pick and jab. Then out of nowhere, Julie jumped up and stormed out of the room.

  Shocked, we sat in silence.

  “Is she really upset?” Morgan asked.

  “Julie, we love you,” Morgan called out. “Come back.”

  She didn’t respond. Our day had been rough; we all knew that. I thought maybe she’d taken all the teasing she could handle and that she was angry.

  “Should I go check on her?” Sheila asked.

  “I can’t believe this.” Morgan shook his head and motioned Sheila to check on Julie.

  Sheila went to Julie’s room, and came back to the circle a few minutes later.

  “She’s pretty upset,” Sheila said.

  “Seriously? Do you think I should go talk to her?” asked Morgan.

  “I think that would be best,” replied Sheila.

  Morgan stood up and marched to her room, head hanging low, chin down, as if he was headed to the principal’s office. He had walked a short distance down the hall when Julie jumped out from behind her door and yelled, “Gotcha!”

  The room erupted in a laugh riot. We were tired from the day and laughing felt so good. That bitter moment had turned sweet and we ate it up! Julie nailed Morgan, netting a well-deserved last laugh, ending what started out as a rough day with a spirited comic relief.

  Life was good.

  I was exhausted and headed to bed.

  At 10:30 pm, I chuckled one last time and said, “Night, guys. I’ll see you at breakfast.” Little did I know, I would see them much sooner than that.
/>   Chapter 3

  Under Attack

  Around 11:45 pm, Maggie, Julie, and Dee Dee were stirred from their sleep when they heard arguing outside their window, but they didn’t think much of it. Within minutes they were awoken by Bruce’s shouting and entered the kitchen area to investigate.

  I was jarred from a deep sleep upon hearing Bruce’s blood curdling screams and the women crying for help. Upon hearing Bruce, Linda Herr (CB’s wife), realized something was wrong. When she walked down the hall to see what the commotion was, she saw Julie frozen in place. Linda looked in the direction Julie was staring and they both moved closer to the front window. They attempted to respond to Bruce’s plea, but soon realized that if they let him in the gunmen would enter as well. After a moment of discernment, Linda called out for help, still watching Bruce.

  I threw on my shorts and t-shirt, grabbed my flashlight, and ran out of the bedroom to find out what was going on. That’s when I looked at the clock—12:02 am, quickly glancing as I hurried into the hallway. The screams both inside and on the porch grew louder as the other team members awoke to the horrifying situation.

  Jason Braun, our trip leader, ran out of his room after hearing the noises. Brad Downing and Chris Herr (who we call CB) were right behind him. They quickly noticed the Haitians pointing their guns, threatening Bruce. The men banged on the door, demanding we let them into the building.

  Flashlights beamed into the kitchen when the attackers tried to get a visual on us. The first responders, like me, were wrought with confusion and panic. Unknown voices speaking in Creole screamed from outside the front door erupting into a sea of fear and dread that eventually left all fourteen of us (American men, women, and one boy) wondering if we’d live beyond the next few minutes.

  We couldn’t understand the Haitian threats, and they couldn’t understand us, but the message was clear; if we didn’t open the door, they were going to kill Bruce, and quite possibly the rest of us.