Part 4

Day fifteen. I’m still haunted by the insanity that has taken hold of me. My best guess, in these conditions, is that we are a day and a half from our objective. Everything is too damn real. Olga is managing to keep the baby alive, somehow.

After Angkor Wat, in this Godforsaken country, our route continues through the Cadamom Mountains. There’s a break from the rain as we pass through a clearing that has several structures, stray dogs, strewn garbage, even the shell of a Russian made car.

Two boys, looking to be twelve or fourteen years of age, ride motorcycles at our side. One wears Oakley wrap-around sunglasses and a backward facing baseball cap with the New York Yankee’s logo, the other, a Hawaiian shirt. Both wave as they pass down the side of the convoy. These boys are sizing up our military escort. The U.N. commander uses the radio to keep the trucks moving, even though people are emerging from ruined dwellings. They appear anxious and frightened, curious, not starving, though frighteningly thin and ill-looking. They are all women, some carrying children, standing with their backs pressed against walls, necks straining to see, while older children run with sticks in their hands. I see no men at all.

The reason for the anxiety soon becomes obvious. Several dead women lie scattered on the verge on the west side of the village, most with their throats cut or beheaded.

The armoured cars halt. Soldiers leap from them and span out. Then, ten minutes later, I watch as Olga approaches, looking for signs of life and wonder what on earth motivated her to come to this fucking hell hole of a place, even though, in truth, I know the answer.

After two minutes, she gives the commander a sign — there is no reason for her to stay. I see Frank speaking with Thomas in truck 1, then watch as he comes down the line. He tells me:

We’re going to bury these poor bastards, bring a shovel…telling other drivers the same, then heads back to Olga, who is shaking her head and I think sobbing. He holds her head and appears to speak quietly into her ear. It is a private moment.

Men come forward with shovels to dig some sort of grave for the women while soldiers stand facing into the undergrowth looking for any sign of movement. The locals scatter like mice from a cat.

What in hell is happening here? I ask Thomas.

He explains the U.N. translator has told him that the seven dead women all had family members believed to have fled the regime and escaped to Vietnam.

This is the price. It’s a message to all other’s. Frank says, coming into the conversation with a shovel over his shoulder.

Two boys, it seems, aged ten and eight, were tied to ponies and dragged from the village.

Do you think the rebels are still close by? I ask Frank.

You can bet on it. We’ll get these souls buried, the commander wants us moving within the hour.

The push to deliver aid is critical. Large numbers of displaced persons have returned to the area after last years Khmer Rouge defections. The people have mostly moved into areas where years of rebel occupation have left roads and other infrastructure in shambles.

The mood among the other relief workers is somber. This last section of our route is proving to be hazardous, only now is Thomas questioning whether it is still an acceptable…shit…gunfire…more crack and splatter of machine gun splits the quiet. I’m moving beneath the truck, mumbling a home-made prayer.

The noise is relentless, ammunition searing off trees, branches falling, voices yelling, and in this confusion and fear I’m wondering what if I don't get home to my beautiful wife, be held by those arms, kissed by those lips, safe with her, when I have promised her a good life?

I can hear soldiers yelling, screaming out, and then another smatter of fierce machine gun fire. I think about Frank and Olga and look around to see if I can see them. The two are lying together, entangled arms and legs. My heart has stopped. No! I scream out, please God, no! But the scream gets lost in sobs and nothing comes out. I freeze to the ground, please God in Heaven, don’t let this be happening. They aren’t moving. Whatever motivates me now is something only God has any control over. I scramble and crawl along the floor to reach them.

Frank…com’on Frank, don’t you do this. I pull his arms free of Olga. She is dead, her back ripped open by bullets and Frank has bullets to the chest. I hear a breath, a sigh, and the faintest mumble. Olga — Olga. I hold his head, wipe away Olga’s blood from his face…the medics are coming, Frank, but another splatter of machine gun fire whizzes off the trees and I drop my head to the ground. A body drops down beside me, a medic. Hold this to his chest, he yells. Whatever he’s given me I hold to Frank’s chest. The medic is listening for a pulse. He looks at me and shakes his head. He’s gone…

My stomach absorbs the punch.

He checks out Olga, but I know.

We are done here, get back to the truck…

The medic scrambles sideways. I’m not leaving Frank separated, and pull his body back over Olga, then feel myself being dragged across the earth by strong arms, my feet trailing out behind me, then I’m let go…

Listen up, be ready to drive the fucking truck, do you hear me? Frid is yelling into my ear in a deep Norwegian accent but the message is as clear as day in its meaning.

She pushes me under the truck as two soldiers run by us, and smack…smack…smack…the clatter of fire from an AK 47 opens up the jungle. I want my mother, my wife, my God, my life; I want it more than anything, just to live and get out of this fucking insanity.

All I can think about is Frank and Olga lying there, alone, defenseless, but dead. I choke on grief and fear.

Then the armored truck opens fire and trees are scythed down with fire power. Soldiers are yelling, arms waving, shouting to get under cover. The submachine gun fire is intense and, oh no…it’s Porky with Magnus…they are trying to get to Frank and Olga! Jesus Christ, get the fuck down! They’re dead! But of course they know…they damn well know their friends are dead, but this column, they, are not going anywhere without them. I crawl out from bebeath the truck, I’m coming… I needed their reminding that courage needs to be followed.

Then, as quickly as it started, the firing stops. Voices are yelling — soldiers checking each other out. All clear…shouts come from different directions.

We bring Olga and Frank back on stretchers, zipped up in black body bags. Shortly after, eleven more dead bodies are brought in, and uncovered. They are boys, red and white scarves dangling from their necks. The oldest of them, perhaps fourteen, shot to pieces, quite literally by U.N. soldiers. I once swore I’d never kill anything, no matter what the circumstances, yet I stand here, seeing these murderous boy thugs, and wish I’d killed them myself. There is no law, no preparation, no telling what takes over when fear for one’s life is on the line. They wear boys faces, but live with the hearts of killers.

Frid, her face full of grief, comes to me with a bundle. It cries for life.