We were sitting on the tarmac of a bombed out military airport in northern Uganda. Scared, relieved, a feeling of delivery, salvation. We survived, but were shaken to our core.
A voice: “Don’t move, mzungu”. I opened my eyes and looked into the business end of an Ak-47. A soldier held the other end.
“Pole, pole, rafiki, I am not going anywhere.”
The day started innocently enough. I was visiting UNICEF Uganda. It was Saturday. Missionaries had invited us to use their airplane to visit the north. It was right after the Tanzanian army had crossed the country, ridding it of Idi Amin. Much chaos followed. Refugees, people scattered and in makeshift camps. Severe fighting going on in many areas.
Two Air France pilots on layover volunteered to fly us. The plane was a single engine. A four-seater, the wings, and body covered with canvas. Consternation with the fragility of the aircraft, the UNICEF Chief, Cole Dodge and I sat in the back.
The first pilot, “Que-es que se ҫa?” He was wiggling the joystick.
My best French, “avez-vous vole comme ҫa?”
“Jamais”
“Do you know Uganda?”
“Un petit peu seulement.”
“Cole, is this a good idea? I have a bad feeling. Premonition.”
“Yes, but we need to see what is happening up north.”
We argued in two languages, but to no avail. It did not help when pilot two explained he was anxious to meet up with a French nurse for a sleepover at the medical mission post on the Sudan border. He was very excited. He thought there would be an extra nurse for his copilot.
“Cole, I am unhappy. The aircraft is fragile. The pilots have no clue. It is monsoon season. The weather reports were at best, iffy.” My head spun with negative vibrations. I almost got off. I regretted later staying put.
“Don’t worry, Jim, I have been all over by air. We have two jet pilots and an altitude map to skirt the mountains. We will be OK.”
After six tries, the motor kicked over. We wove down the runway. The pilot was getting the feel of the joystick. My uncertainty increased. Airborne, finally, flying. It seemed OK. But then when none of the instruments worked. The altimeter swirled around like a drunk in a hula-hoop. The radio emitted squeaks and squawks. The wipers were manually operated. Great fun!
Thirty minutes into the flight, we reached a wall of clouds. From the horizon upwards to 10,000 feet, but who could go that high.
“Time to turn around, Il faut retorner à Kampala.”
“C’est ne pas nécessaire, nous allons au dessous des nuages.”
“Underneath the clouds! C’est fou. Et depuis?”
There was no discussion. Rather than turning around, we banked under the clouds and headed north.
“Cole, these guys are only thinking about the nurses. Are we crazy? We must turn back.”
Just then, the compass decided to quit. We were in the middle of heavy rain. Visibility was zero in any direction. No way to know which way was back. My sense of doom became very heavy. It felt like an elephant was sitting on my chest. Hyperventilating. Hard to catch a breath. Even the voices of the pilots expressed concern. We were in trouble,
“Can we land?”
“Où?”
“Find a straight piece of road. Go lower.”
We flew over herds of wildlife. Maybe we were over a game reserve. There would be people, maybe a runway. The panic eased a bit. We flew in a circle, searching for signs of life. We were so low it seemed the giraffes ran away bent over sideways.
There was no time for recrimination. Hills began to appear through the clouds. We were lower than most. We learned quickly how to read an altitude map. We flew between the hills, still looking for a road. Finally, Là-bas, à la gauche. Regardez, une petite ville.”
We tried to fly low enough to read signposts. The road was too curvy to land. The village was nestled into the side of the hill. Hope swelled. We were going to make it. As we neared, people were running around, They were waving.
“Voilà, la réception.”
“Pas de reception! Ils ont de metralletes. Ce son ten tirer. Allez vite! Let’s get the hell out of here.”
They were waving guns, firing bullets. Must have been a rebel outpost by-passed by the Tanzanian troops. Did you ever try to lift up your backside as high as your throat? We did. Later we figured it out. They thought we were government spotters. Despite a few holes in the left wing, we were away. We kept on flying through the soup. Sweating like crazy, afraid. My life passed before me repeatedly. This went on for another two hours. Skirting small mountains, flying at 150 feet.
“Regardez, la Lumière. Il y a soleil à la droit, Allez.” We headed toward the few rays of light. Desperate. At wit’s end. Miraculously, an airport. A town nearby. We circled the town to advise our presence. Custom in a place without scheduled airlines.
We landed at the airport. We ended up in the grass to avoid scattered metal debris. We stopped. We breathed. I never saw four people move so fast to exit anything. We sat on the ground, rested against the plane tires. Closed our eyes and gave thanks. What a sense of relief. Angry with what we had gone through, but anger forgotten with our salvation.
Ten minutes passed – it seemed like an hour. We heard car engines approaching. I just sat with my eyes closed.
“Don’t’ move! This is a classified military airport, off limits. We can shoot you.”
The way I felt, shooting would have been an appropriate end. However, fortunately, the local District Commissioner pulled up. We returned with him to the local hotel where he heard our story. He then left us briefly and returned with two bottles of scotch which we demolished in record time.
From time to time, I am in a cold sweat, flying through the clouds. Terror, fear so palpable my muscles freeze. Senses shocked. Brain feels fried.
Then I wake up.
ReplyDeleteDeeeeeelicious Jim ! As a former Director of Personnel I will definitely check our archives to confirm whether in fact this WAS in your Job Description !