Sooley(7)

Samuel’s bus to Rumbek left at 8:30, only half an hour late. It was not crowded and he had an entire seat to himself, for the moment. Beside him was his old duffel and his shiny new gym bag, which he continually checked on. It was already hot and the bus inched along in city traffic. Once again, Samuel marveled at the city noise—the relentless horn-blowing, the angry shouts, the friendly greetings, the rattle and roar of old engines, the sirens. Finally, the bus picked up speed as the traffic thinned and they left the central city. The road was still asphalt as they passed through the shantytowns but soon became gravel.

Suddenly, the bus stopped, its passenger door jerked open, and three smartly dressed and armed government soldiers hopped on board. They wore identical khaki uniforms, maroon berets, shiny black boots, and all three had the same cocky smirk that was expected. Each carried a Kalashnikov rifle, or a Kallie as they were called in many parts of Africa. Samuel immediately recognized the weapon because there were so many of them in his country.

The soldiers glared at the passengers—the usual collection of harmless peasants, students, commuting workers—and didn’t like what they saw. They ordered the first two rows cleared and sat down. One barked at the driver to proceed, and the bus was off again.

It was not at all uncommon for government soldiers to hop a ride on the buses. They were given priority and no one objected. They expected to be accommodated and had the weaponry to get what they wanted. But their presence could mean something far more ominous than simply catching a ride from here to there. It was not uncommon for the military to accompany buses into the rural areas where bandits thrived and guerrillas waited to attack.

After half an hour it was obvious, at least to Samuel, that the soldiers were not just along for the ride. They were on high alert, watching the road, the traffic, the settlements, the trails. They whispered among themselves. One talked on a satellite phone. Cellular service outside of Juba was scarce and unreliable.

The bus stopped in a village and four passengers got on as one got off. Minutes later they were back in the bush, the gravel road dry and dusty, the sun baking the fields and woods.

The ambush happened so fast it must have been carried out by experienced thieves. An open cargo truck suddenly appeared from a dirt trail in a bend and blocked the road.

The bus driver said, “This is it!” He hit the brakes and the bus rocked to a halt.

The soldiers lowered their heads, clutched their Kallies, and prepared to attack. One yelled at the passengers, “Heads down! Everyone!” Two crouched by the driver. The third moved to the rear and put his hand on the door latch.

Then, the sickening sound that was all too familiar. The Tak-Tak-Tak-Tak of an assault rifle. Samuel ducked even lower but was still watching. The leader of the gang was in the middle of the road firing at the sky. Beside him were two others, just boys, probably Samuel’s age or younger, dressed in their best imitation of real soldiers, a hodgepodge of leather ammo belts and guns on both hips, along with their rifles. One wore a white cowboy hat. One had on basketball shoes. They swaggered toward the bus, all three yelling threats, as two others hustled to the rear of the bus.

A soldier squatting inside the front door said, “Go,” and all hell broke loose. The driver opened the door and two soldiers rolled out and landed on their knees with Kallies blazing. The thieves were stunned and their hesitation cost them their lives as the better-trained government soldiers wiped them out. At the same moment, the third soldier kicked open the rear door and shot the two thugs at near point-blank range.

The gunfire lasted only seconds, but it was horrifying nonetheless. One of the bandits managed to spray the front of the bus and shatter the windshield before going down, and the sounds of exploding glass and ricocheting bullets hung in the air long after the shooting stopped. Samuel, head still low, quickly checked on the other passengers. “No one’s hurt,” he yelled to the driver. He walked to the front, looked through the pockmarked windshield, and saw a sickening scene that he would never forget.

A boy of no more than twelve was walking from the cargo truck toward the soldiers. He held a rifle with both hands, high above his head, as if to surrender. He was frightened and may have been crying. A soldier ordered him to lay down the weapon and he did so. He fell to his knees, touched his fingertips to his chin, and begged for his life. The two soldiers stood over him. One kicked him in the face and knocked him flat, facedown. The other raised his Kallie and fired away, strafing the boy’s back and head. Tak! Tak! Tak! Tak!

When all was quiet, the passengers cautiously lifted their heads and watched as the soldiers cleared the road, then dragged the six dead bodies to the cargo truck and piled them together near the fuel tank under the driver’s seat. In no hurry, they searched through all pockets and kept the money and valuables. They confiscated their weapons and found two sat phones in the cab. They turned a valve, drained the diesel from the tank, and let it run over the dead bodies. One soldier ripped off a tee shirt from a corpse, soaked it with lighter fluid, and wrapped it around a large rock. They backed away, lit the tee shirt, and tossed it at the cargo truck. Whoosh! The noise startled even the soldiers and they stepped back again. The fire roared and engulfed the truck and sent thick, black exhaust boiling upward. Flames shot from the dead bodies as the clothing caught fire, then the flesh began sizzling.

The soldiers laughed and admired their work.

The bus driver swept glass from his dashboard and resettled into his seat. Along with his passengers, he watched the fire and waited for the soldiers. On the bench in front of Samuel, a mother with a small child was crying. Samuel looked at a man across the aisle, but both were too stunned to speak.