The Devil Came on Horseback (2 of 3 free samples)

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COPYRIGHT
The Devil Came on Horseback by Brian Steidle and Gretchen Steidle Wallace. Copyright 2007 by Brian Steidle and Gretchen Steidle Wallace.
All Rights Reserved. Sharing not permitted.

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PART ONE, CHAPTER 1 (CONT'D)

As we left customs, we met up with another Westerner, a large, mustached Dutchman named Bert, who was returning to the JMC compound from vacation. Bert was a half-colonel (equivalent to a lieutenant colonel in the US Armed Forces), and he had recently retired from the Dutch Royal Marines after 34 years of service. The three of us edged our way through the confusion, with Mohammed alternating between greeting friends and shouting at people trying to carry our bags. We piled into a waiting Toyota Land Cruiser "Buffalo" and took off across town.

We sped through the city--no stoplights to worry about or street lights to guide us. The paved road from the airport rapidly deteriorated into a minefield of potholes. The dust-covered cement and mud-brick structures reflected our headlights poorly, giving everything a yellowish hue. Traffic jammed up at intersections as drivers turned and accelerated every which way regardless of their lane, giving the entire enterprise the flavor of a drag race and imminent demolition derby. I quickly learned that cars entering a main road from a secondary road have the right of way. Many drivers felt no need for headlights. Ignoring the pandemonium, people squatted and drank chai in front of curbside tea stands, while goats and donkeys meandered the alleyways sifting through the garbage. Looming mahogany trees helped mark the drop-off into sewer ditches that contributed to an overwhelming odor of burning trash, urine, and rotting vegetables.
The scent was familiar, bringing me back to the Philippines where I'd lived as a child.

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When I was seven years old, my father, a Navy test pilot, received orders to report to an aircraft carrier in the Indian Ocean. Our family would be able to join him overseas by moving to Subic Bay Naval Base in the Philippines. It was during this two-year tour of duty that I first discovered the Marine Corps. Each afternoon a pack of men in green camouflage or red and yellow gym clothes would jog by our house singing and marching in unison:

Why's that sergeant's face so green?

(Repeat.)

Somebody peed in his canteen.

(Repeat.)

My friends and I would laugh at the lyrics, dropping our bikes to watch the men pass by. Apparently, no Navy wives had yet complained about the chant. The Marines appeared so strong, so brave, so mean. Cars seemed to screech to a halt, pulling over to let them by almost the way trains stopped with a glance from Superman. That was it. I immediately had to have my own camo outfit. Soon my friends and I were wearing our uniforms, hiding among the saw palmetto and hibiscus shrubs, and ambushing each other with broomstick rifles and damp dirt clods. There in the jungles of the Philippines, I knew I wanted to grow up and someday be part of a real military operation in an exotic location. Well, here I was.

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We came to a stop outside the Joint Military Commission compound, a three story house surrounded by a relatively secure wall topped with barbed wire. The guards buzzed us through the first entry to check our identity from behind a glass wall and then buzzed us through a second entry to the front of the building. I noted the security cameras. We walked along an alleyway and up some stairs into a confusing series of rooms. Bert said, "Find a rack, the head's there, I'll meet you up on the third floor." I explored the labyrinth of hastily constructed rooms, some containing up to four or five twin beds. I chose a relatively private space instead of a large bunk-bedded room that had an air-conditioning unit. Fighting off the urge to collapse on my bed, I decided to investigate level three.

I walked up the stairs to find a party in full swing, attended by a rowdy group of 25 to 30 expatriate men and women who, I later learned, came from various missions, aid groups, and embassies. Someone had hooked up their iPod to the speaker system. I helped myself to a serving of orange jungle juice from the 25-gallon cooler and introduced myself to my new colleagues. Before long, I found myself sitting with Bert in wicker chairs and sharing a bottle of twelve-year-old scotch. I still had no idea what I was doing there, but I knew I could get used to this.

It could have been the scotch, my anticipation, or the 90-degree heat--I should have picked the room with the AC unit--but I slept fitfully that first night in Sudan. The next morning I met with Frank, the Deputy Chief Administration Officer, for a briefing on JMC operations in the Nuba Mountains region. As I prepared for my departure from Khartoum, I felt the rush of embarking on a new and exotic assignment.

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