“Everything is Just Spoiled”

A firsthand account of SIM missionaries during the Doe/Taylor conflict

No hole in lizard's suit

A Liberian proverb, "When lizard makes himself a suit, he must remember to leave a hole for his tale,'' warns that people should always leave themselves a way out of a situation. An American might say the same thing, "Don't paint yourself into a corner.''

The week of July 14-21, 1990, Matt and Brenda Carr would discover the wisdom of that proverb. On Tuesday evening, July 17th they had decided to leave Voinjama, one of the hardest decisions of their lives. They would quickly discover that making the decision was the easy part. Lizard had left no hole in his suit.

All of the Upper Lofa missionaries had made numerous trips into Guinea with Mandingo refugees just days earlier, and counted on that easy route in case they needed a way of escape. Charles Taylor himself had ordered the border closed, and without his personal authorization, there would be no crossing it. Safety was just a few miles away in Guinea, but their exit route would carry them over a hundred and ten miles south to Gbarnga, and then another seventy five miles or so northeastward through the heart of NPFL power in Nimba County.

The circuitous exit route was a concern, and innumerable bureaucratic roadblocks still lay ahead, but other thoughts weighed more heavily on Matt's mind as he packed a few essentials into the cruiser. He knew Voinjama had become too dangerous to risk his family's safety by staying, yet there was much to mourn in their parting.

It had been only five months since Brenda, revitalized after a four month siege of debilitating illness, had put her frustrated expectations behind her to embrace Voinjama as her home. Six months earlier she might have been happy to have such a legitimate reason for abandoning Voinjama. Now she was leaving her home, a place she had only lately come to love.

For Matt and Brenda, the process of getting to Liberia had been almost as arduous as their first year and a half in the country. Long and littered with thirteen forgettable jobs and nineteen throw-away houses to mark the first three years of their marriage, they had lived a temporary, stopgap life that endured the present in anticipation of a future in Liberia. Where was that future now?

For their children, the house in Voinjama had been the only home, and their Mandingo neighborhood in this African city the only life, they had known. In their back yard stood the well their father had built with his own hands where, in the wet cement, they'd pressed their little palms, leaving baby prints to which they might have returned to check their growth through the coming years.

For Rebecca, they would abandon the trophy of her second Christmas, when Matt had built her a rocking horse, a replica of one his uncle had given him when he had been not much older than she. He'd crafted it by hand out of the deep, rich, rock-hard native mahogany of the upcountry rain forest. Matt and Rebecca both loved it, but it was too bulky to pack in the crowded land cruiser.

At a retreat held in Asheville, N.C. just weeks after they said goodbye to Liberia, Matt said, "That was one thing I'm sorry I left behind. Other things are an inconvenience to be without, but if I was going to mourn over anything it would be the handprints and the rocking horse. Today when we had that quiet time (part of the retreat program), I just cried over those things. Can't replace 'em you know. I wrote down on my list of things to do: build Rebecca a rocking horse.''

Matt left the key to their house, and everything in it, with Sister Joan Kelly and her co-workers. Sister Joan is a short, sturdy woman whose silver hair is drawn back into a neat bun. She is the kind of no-nonsense, take-charge type of person who, responsible only for herself, would decide to remain in Voinjama in spite of the Patriotic Front presence in Voinjama. She is a remarkably gutsy woman who voiced her outrage at the inhumanity of many of the armed men and boys in Voinjama.

"One day,'' Matt recounts, "A group of fighters walked by Sister Joan on the road. One of them shouted out, 'Good morning,' to her and she just went up in smoke. 'Don't you say good morning to me, young man! It's not a good morning. Not when you've done the things I've heard about to the women and old men. Shame on you. You won't get away with those things as long as I'm here, and you won't get me to leave unless you kill me!''

Beds, furniture, stove, kerosene refrigerator, and a pantry full of canned goods would be in capable hands with Sister Joan.

Dozo (a Mandingo word meaning "hunter''), Rebecca's cat, was to be one of the things that had to stay. The name hardly fit this tiny animal that had never grown much beyond the size of a kitten. For Rebecca, he was a living doll who rode on her shoulder like a baby. She loved him.

Brenda asked Rebecca, "Do you want to give your kitten to Sister Joan to take care of?'' Almost three, Rebecca agreed bravely, and handed her baby into Sister Joan's caring hands. For all her combativeness, Sister Joan loves children and was pleased to receive all the gifts on behalf of the children who would use the new nursery she'd just had built. The burden of leaving Rebecca's kitten and wooden horse was lightened by the knowledge they would be put to good use by the children for whom Sister Joan cared, but the burden remained heavy for all that.

Jeff and Debbie Morton would need to know they were leaving, so around six that evening Matt radioed the news. They would, he informed the Mortons, make a quick trip out to Samedu the next morning. A walk downtown to find Kuah was the next bit of business for Chris and Matt. He had to issue them a pass authorizing the trip.

Kuah was nowhere to be found. Much later, Matt would learn he had been in Voinjama only for the initial takeover and had slipped away on Saturday night to return to Gbarnga. His deputy, Gbanti, had moved into the headquarters building, formerly the gas station at the foot of the great tree that marked Voinjama's entry. Under its branches the main road branches westward to Kolahun or northward into Voinjama and out of Liberia into Guinea. In the other direction, it runs southward all the way to Monrovia.

Drivers accustomed to western gas stations would probably have trouble finding the average Voinjama model. Little more than a village house with a hose running from the front door, these provide the little gasoline necessary to keep an upcountry city running. The station at entrance to the city is another matter. It's a concrete block building with large picture windows and is at least the first cousin to the western variety. At one end it boasted a mechanic's bay where, before it had been boarded up and converted to storage, cars could be driven inside for repair. Like every manmade thing in Liberia, it could have used a coat of fresh paint.

When the two men arrived a little after six, Patriotic Front fighters from all over Voinjama were gathered in the yard at the front of the gas station. As they passed through, Ekinah Kokeh materialized out of the crowd to join them. "I'm living right across the street from you,'' he revealed. "What happened?''

The house facing the Southern Baptist compound was his now, by right of possession and firepower. From it he could "watch over'' Matt and Brenda. Ekinah Kokeh was concerned to learn they had been "embarrassed''. Matt spilled out the events of the afternoon for his friendly ears.

"How much money did they take?'' Ekaineh Kokeh queried. "You'll have to tell us who it is or we can't get the money back.''

Matt wasn't sure about that. He knew the boy would deny everything if accused.

Deputy G-2 Gbanti received them in his office, the glass lined room overlooking the pumps and driveway. Not ready to identify the culprit, Matt still felt the people in charge should know what their "men'' had been doing. He reported the run-in with the drunken commando who had threatened and robbed them and reminded the officer that, "You have promised to protect us, but these things are happening.''

"Can you identify the boy?''

"Yes I can. In fact, I can see him in the yard right now.''

The fighters were all gathered in the driveway to prepare their evening rice. Through the window Matt could see his diminutive tormentor in blue Lamco coveralls, standing between the gas pumps where he had joined his compatriots for supper. Through the large plate glass windows at the front of the station he watched Matt warily.

This teenage boy had boasted of killing so often that the taking of a few more lives would mean nothing to him. With his threats, his swagger, and his larceny he had made frightful hearsay reality, and that reality very personal. He was a dangerous person and would remain so. The short span of minutes he spent at Matt and Brenda's house had made it impossible for Matt to keep Brenda and the children in Voinjama. Here was a golden opportunity to turn him over for a justly deserved punishment.

"OK. That's the kind of thing we're trying to guard against. Just show me who did it.''

Gbanti was insistent, but Matt was unsure what to do. He had a strong feeling that his testimony could cost the boy his life. As dangerous as he was, Matt could not expose him to the possibility of execution.

The usual informal flow of people through the office, coupled with Liberians' customary suppertime socializing afforded Carr an opportunity to find out as fighters filtered in and out of the office, keeping Gbanti distracted.

Matt turned to Ekaineh Koke during one of these interruptions. "Kokeh, what would happen if I show the boy?''

"Oh, they finish with him real soon.''

Matt and Chris were convinced the military leaders of the NPFL were serious about protecting their interests. With Ekaineh Kokeh's information, they also knew this boy faced summary execution if identified.

Matt describes what happened next.

"According to Ekaineh Kokeh, I could have taken that boy's life. But the whole time I was sitting there the Holy Spirit was working on me. I remember very distinctly that God was saying, 'What would Jesus do here?'''

"So when Gbanti asked if I knew who this boy was I said, 'Yes sir. I can see him from where I'm sitting.'

"He said, 'Show him to me.'

"If I hadn't been so angry at the guy, if I had been thinking rationally, if I hadn't had those revenge feelings toward this boy, I probably would have turned him in. Just for the sake of justice and to keep him from doing this to anyone else in Voinjama, I would have turned him in.

"But because of the feelings I had, I knew the only reason I'd be turning him in was to get him dead, and I couldn't do it. I said 'I'm sorry I can't do that. I don't believe it is something Jesus would do, and I'm not going to do it. I don't want to carry that responsibility with me out of Liberia.'''

Gbanti pressed angrily for an identification. "You come in here, you make accusations, and you're not willing to follow through on them. You won't let me serve justice on your complaint.''

Matt stood firm.

It was important to him that the Commander was aware of the kind of things his men were doing, but he would not send the man who had so traumatized his family to his death.

Gbanti started calling people into the gas station for Matt to identify.

"Is this the boy?''

"Is this the man?''

"No, no, that's not him.''

Of all the fighters he brought through his office, Gbanti never actually brought in the person responsible, and Matt thanked God for that. All the while he watched through the window as the now frantic boy paced, as if on egg shells, back and forth in the yard near the gas pumps, peering through the window at Matt, as Matt stared out into his tormented face.

Matt closed with, "I want you to understand that this is happening. This is the third time missionaries have come to complain like this. You've told us you are going to protect us, but we need to see some action.''

Gbanti offered them protection of a sort. He scrawled on a scrap of paper:

"To All Commandos: Any commando who embarrasses missionary Matt Carr and Rev. Chris Wilkinson will be dealt with.'' Signed, Deputy G-2 Gbanti. "I would type it for you,'' he said, "But I can't. I think the typewriter's broken.''

Matt looked at the note and thought, "This is a joke. Am I supposed to give this to these guys who are drunk and out to harass us?'' He accepted the note courteously, knowing it was meaningless but knowing it would be less than prudent to reject it.

When Gbanti was distracted momentarily by another problem, Matt and Chris slipped out of his office and returned to the compound. They were still looking for Kuah, not knowing that he had departed, leaving Gbanti the ranking NPFL officer in Voinjama. They had no desire to jeopardize their plans by letting the wrong people know about them, so they left to try again later.

As they walked, Matt turned to Ekaineh Kokeh and said, "I didn't tell the Deputy inside that one of our missionaries out in Samedu had his car taken today. He has small children. They are the only people in town, and he doesn't have a car. What happens if these people get sick or get hurt? Do you want the responsibility of those people out there.''

"No! No! We need to get the car back. Come here at seven in the morning. That's the best time to talk to Gbanti. Don't try to go out by yourself! We have ambushes on that road. Gbanti can get you an escort.''

Ekaineh Kokeh gave good advice, but Matt could never be sure where his interest in Matt and his family left off and his interest in what Matt could do for him began. "Can you give me a ride back? I was out today and ran out of gas.'' Kokeh's help always cost something, but at least it was help.

Wednesday morning the two men retraced their steps to the gas station, arriving around seven. Gbanti was in a meeting at some unspecified "secure place,'' and couldn't be reached. He would be back at eight to eat rice, they were told.

Returning to their temporary housing, Matt raised Larry Allen on the radio. He warned Larry that things were serious in Voinjama and they would be leaving, and the fighters would be in Kolahun before long. Larry was unconvinced by the sketchy information they could exchange freely by radio.

Matt knew the Patriotic Front had a radio and sometimes monitored their frequency. Just a day or two before the troops arrived in Voinjama, Jeff had put out a call for him.

"Matt, this is Jeff.''

"Yes, this is Matt. I copy,'' a Liberian voice had answered back.

Knowing there might be potentially hostile eavesdroppers out there, Matt had to give Larry some straight information. "We have a very serious situation here in Voinjama. People here have been raped, murdered, and robbed by extortion.'' The message came through so clearly that Larry would remember it as direct advice to leave.

By eight o'clock, Matt was back at the gas station. Still no Gbanti, but he encountered yet another new leader who introduced himself as "Single barrel.''

"Can you say that again?'' was Matt's puzzled reply.

He said, "Single barrel.''

"That sounds like a weapon.''

"That's all I carry. I like the gun too much, so they call me Single barrel.''

Single barrel was large and well muscled with arms like body builder. At six feet, he was almost as tall as Matt. While the mystery of NPFL rank structure was impossible for the missionaries to decipher, he had the look of a man who might carry some authority with the other fighters. Deciding it was fruitless to wait for Gbanti, Matt requested an escort to Samedu, for the first time telling the story of Jeff's truck to someone with authority.

"Oh, I saw that truck in town yesterday. We can get it back for you. I'll start looking for it here. You,'' pointing to a pair of commandos sitting nearby, "you go with these people and get those missionaries.''

Paul Kranzler, Matt, and a reluctant armed commando with his bodyguard boarded the pickup and set out for Samedu. This excursion outside of town did not sit well with the two guards assigned to accompany them. As they approached the outskirts of Voinjama they became increasingly troubled, scanning the road ahead anxiously.

"Have you got any red,'' they asked?

Paul's blue pickup had no red bandanas, no red shirts, none of the NPFL signature color at all and Paul had been driving without his emergency flashers on, both mistakes that could prove fatal in NPFL country.

"Stop the truck! We need to get something red on it right away!''

They tore a red shirt and tied bits of it here and there under the windshield wipers, on the grill, on the door handles, and told Paul to turn the emergency lights on.

"Why is this so important?'' Paul asked.

"We have ambushes all along in here. We need to signal these people,'' was the edgy reply.

Selega is a Loma town of about fifty houses. When they arrived it sat deserted except for a check point at the entrance to town "manned'' by a few young Loma boys, armed with single barrel guns. For most of the people in Liberia, the sight of "small boys,'' children armed with shotguns and playing at soldier with live ammunition and often deadly intent, was an appalling sight.

When they arrived in Samedu, they found Jeff and Debbie packed and ready leave, so they squeezed the bags and the family into the pickup and turned back toward Voinjama. The return trip was without incident. When the Mortons had moved into the Nicholson house with the four Carrs it was time to try getting that yellow package back to its rightful owner.

Gbanti was in his office at the gas station that Wednesday afternoon.

Finally.

"We need a pass to leave the country. We want to go to Guinea. And we would like your help in getting this man's car back.''

The request disappointed Gbanti. He was apologetic about the trials they had endured, but urged them to stay. "I don't like that news. We want you to stay. It is just that things are a little hot now my friend. They'll get better.''

"Besides, the border is closed and I can't open it. The person who can open it is the person who closed it and that is CIC (Charles Taylor). Unless the CIC opens it, I have no authority to allow you to travel in that direction. This is a front line war zone. Nothing on this side is secure, least of all the Guinea border. You'll just have to wait until I get permission.''

"That's all right. We've notified the US Embassy that we're applying to you for permission to leave, and we'll just wait for your approval.'' It was important for them to let Gbanti know the US Embassy was aware of their plans. It gave a little added leverage to the request. "Now there's this thing about the yellow pickup that's missing.''

"Oh, we're working on it. It has been seen. We'll get it back. Don't worry.'' They put a tall, rough Gio man, the kind of man you might guess was waiting for some rogue to make his day, in charge of the search. Once again, the man had no marks of rank, but it was not likely there were many commandoes who'd contest his orders.

That afternoon they met a Loma man named Supuwood, an envoy direct from CIC Taylor. The Patriotic Front's lawyer other fighters called him "Counselor Supuwood.''. He impressed Matt.

Born in Liberia, he had gone to college in the American south and law school in New York City. There he passed the New York Bar and practiced law for several years. Liberians like Supuwood were almost universally hostile to the Doe government and Matt thought he had probably come back to Liberia specifically to take part in its overthrow. He looked like a suburban lawyer relaxing on the weekend in sport shirt, stonewashed Levi jeans and brand name athletic shoes. The automatic rifle with highly polished wooden stock and matching combat knife would not have fit in the suburbs, though..

His job, he said, was damage control. Matt thought it was a little late for that. It was people like Supuwood that made them feel they may have been jumping the gun by leaving. He explained things very reasonably.

"We have l5,000 men we have trained for a short period of time and given them a weapon and a lot of power. There are some problems. We admit it. But we believe we have some dreams. We want the chance to see those dreams fleshed out. All we need is for Doe to step down.''

The missionaries asked what they should call him. He laughed and said, "Just call me Sup.''

The children had spent the afternoon playing in the yard of the Southern Baptist compound, secure behind its eight foot wall from the sporadic, random gunfire that still barked occasionally in town. After supper, around eight o'clock, Jeff's truck roared through the gate and into the yard. Three men piled out.

"Here's your car. There are some things in the back. We just want to know if we can bring it back to you tomorrow so we can deliver these things.''

They had been out looting and the truck was loaded with their plunder. This kind of encounter was particularly trying for these families who had come to upper Lofa County to work among the Mandingoes. A truck load of loot like that meant, at best, that another Mandingo had been plundered of everything of value. At worst, it meant another Mandingo had died.

For some among the NPFL, to kill a Mandingo was an act of valor of which they were very proud. During that week car loads of fighters would drive up to the compound and say things like, "We're going hunting Mandingoes. Do you know where there are any Mandingoes? We're going to go kill some.''

Chris Wilkinson was angry. "No way. We want the car tonight. Your CO told us we could have the car tonight. If you don't give us the car tonight, we're going to turn you in and we don't think you want that.'' At the same time, none of them felt comfortable initiating a direct confrontation.

In good Liberian fashion, they struck a bargain somewhere in the middle. The commandoes could take the car to unload their stolen goods but would return it that same night.

About 2 o'clock they kept their side of the bargain, returning to the compound with a goat which they offered to Jeff as a kind of rent for the truck. Thanking Jeff for letting them use his vehicle, they bragged, "We used this car in an operation today. We went out and killed four Mandingos today.''

Repulsed that this SIM-ELWA vehicle had been used in that way, their first reaction was to refuse the gift, but Chris accepted the goat knowing there were people still in Voinjama for whom it would be provide much needed meat.

When the goat had changed hands, Jeff asked for his keys.

"We're staying in a house the other side of town. Do you think you could drop us at our house tonight?''

Liberian culture doesn't like a direct refusal, and individual Liberians can be very upset with the word, "No.'' It is always a challenge to know how to refuse a request without actually refusing it. To say no creatively, without giving offense, is the mark of a wise person, but it is not something that can done easily. It seemed prudent to Jeff not to press the issue with three armed men who had already killed four times that day.

He slid behind the steering wheel and drove across town to the house the three had commandeered. He pulled up in front of the house and started to dismount. As Jeff's feet hit the ground, the night erupted in automatic rifle fire. He heard voices shouting threats, orders, and epithets in the momentary lapses between bursts of fire and felt the sting of dirt on his face, kicked up by the impact of bullets. The brave Mandingo killers dove for cover.

The shooting stopped. When the dust had settled, Jeff recognized the tough commando assigned to find his car. He'd succeeded in his mission, but had almost shot the owner in the process!

His men collared Jeff's three passengers and in a flash had them stripped to their undershorts and tied tightly together with plastic straps at the elbows. That procedure didn't mean much at the time, but in a few days they would recognize it too well as the prelude to summary trial and execution.

"Let's go, we're going to headquarters. We'll lock them up tonight and tomorrow we'll have an investigation. We need to keep the car for tonight.''

After five minutes behind the wheel, Jeff once again surrendered his keys. He had to ask for a ride home in his own truck.

Next morning, Thursday, July 19th, Matt stayed home to help organize for their evacuation while Jeff and Chris reported to Headquarters for the tribunal. Jeff was questioned about the theft of his truck, and at some point in the proceedings he said he'd reported to ELWA that the NPFL had taken his truck.

It was the wrong thing to say.

At the end of the short trial, the three killers were sentenced to death for stealing Jeff's truck and Jeff was packed off to the Southern Baptist compound with three of the upper level commandos to make amends for spoiling the name of the NPFL.

At the compound Matt watched as Jeff's Hi-Lux truck wheeled into the yard, followed by a blue land cruiser, ELWA-SIM Community Health stenciled on its doors. "One of the cars from Kolahun,'' he thought.

The three commandos escorted Jeff into the house.

"Here's where it stands,'' Jeff reported. "The investigation is finished and they've determined the NPFL was not responsible. Those were rogues posing as NPFL soldiers. The good news is, we can keep the truck. The bad news is that we told people in Monrovia it was the NPFL that came to our house, terrorized us, and took our car. They would like us to get on the radio and inform Jon Shea at ELWA that we had it all wrong. The NPFL were really good guys and we have been spoiling their name. We need to apologize.''

Chris got Jon Shea on the radio and began by telling him there were three armed soldiers in the room who wanted him to hear this message. It was hard to apologize knowing they had another ELWA vehicle in the yard, taken from Kolahun, but Jon, a veteran of over twenty years in Liberia responded, "I understand what you are saying.'' They were certain he had read between the lines in that transmission.

That afternoon, around three, Supuwood returned to the house at the Southern Baptist compound where the families were all gathered. He had news, again some good, some bad.

"We got permission for you to leave. They have given us authority to write you a pass. The bad news is you can't go to Guinea. The border is not secure. You have to go out through Ivory Coast. We'll route you through Karnplay to Danane.''

He was right. It was bad news, but if they were to escape from Liberia they had no choice but to do as they were told.

Chris Wilkinson, acting as spokesman by virtue of his longer time of service in Liberia, made one last trip to Headquarters to finalize arrangements while the rest remained at the compound to pack the vehicles for the trip. They loaded a good supply of canned goods they'd kept back from the food Sister Joan had taken, and prepared to leave first thing on Friday morning.

The day of their departure dawned gray and oppressive, night merging into the dreary false twilight of African rainy season. The murky clouds had produced little rain during June and July, usually the rainiest months of the year. There was none on July 20 as the caravan of two Hi-Lux pickup trucks, two land cruisers, and a Peugeot exited Voinjama.

A few stragglers littered the road, crossing the wake of a succession of trucks loaded with Kpelle people, displaced people being returned to Gbarnga. Their inauspicious motorcade would follow the trucks.

The pass they carried was a far cry from what they had asked. It gave permission to go only as far as Gbarnga. They would have to negotiate another pass for the rest of trip from there. The escort they had expected, a commando with automatic weapon in each car, had shrunk to one young man with a pistol in his pocket. On the positive side, the word from Gbarnga was that things were returning to normal there. They were holding market in Gbarnga again, they were told. After six days of looting, threats and constant gunfire, they were looking forward to a town where people were settling back into the routines of normal life.

The drive from Voinjama to Zorzor went smoothly. There were checkpoints all along the way, often nothing more than a string across the road guarded by boys with shotguns, but their pass and escort were respected and they passed through without incident.

Wilkinson's land cruiser, with the young escort riding shotgun, was in the lead as they approached Zorzor. As they overtook a cluster of Liberian women walking along the road toward town, his voice rose abruptly in a shout, "Stop the car!

Before Chris had brought the cruiser to a full stop, their escort had leaped out of it and started running back toward the women. He grabbed one out of the group, enveloping her in an enormous bear hug, as he laughed and cried simultaneously. The woman was his mother. He had not seen her since the night government soldiers had attacked their village in December. He had escaped in the dark, thinking her dead, and she had done the same.

When their emotionally charged reunion had run its course, Paul Kranzler took her head load and placed it in his truck. They carried her the rest of the way to Zorzor, buoyed by the happy reunion that had introduced a glimmer of joy into the haze of tragedy that had darkened the past week more emphatically than the rainy season sky.

After a brief visit with Mark Munson in Zorzor, they continued southward on the dirt road to Monrovia. Just outside of town, Matt noticed what he thought was a log lying by the side of the road. As he drew closer, details began to resolve themselves and he realized with shock that this was no log. It was a naked man, elbows drawn together painfully by a length of rope. He was dead.

He turned to Brenda and said, in horror, "Is that what I thought it was?''

"Yes,'' she said, "It's a body.''

It was only the first of many they would pass between Zorzor and Gbarnga, all victims of rough executions, tied at the elbows, sometimes singly, sometimes in small clusters, and shot in the head. The normal, easy journey from Voinjama to Zorzor had degenerated into a nightmare of roadside carnage.

About four o'clock, they finally pulled into Gbarnga after half a day of searching the side of the road for sights they dreaded to see. The bodies along the road had been a warning of things to come. The impression they had received in Voinjama was that things were returning to normal at Gbarnga, but they found the city almost deserted and signs of looting everywhere. Doors hung askew, some still on hinges, some almost ripped free. Windows broken, shops despoiled, houses empty and violated, it looked exactly like the pillaged city they'd left that morning.

At the first checkpoint entering town, they quickly discovered their pass offered no protection now. It had achieved its limited purpose by taking them safely to Gbarnga. Now they would have to start over with a whole new set of NPFL officials. The authorities offered easy assurances that they would not be embarrassed in any way, that Charles Taylor had approved their passage. Nevertheless, they wanted to move the caravan into town to the police station where they could conduct a thorough search.

Arriving at the police station, a violent human storm jolted they travelers as a mob of thirty or more swirled angrily around the side the building. At the center of the storm, two naked Liberian men, tied together at the elbows were prodded and jostled awkwardly along the street. A cluster of men armed with the familiar automatic assault rifles and single barrel guns herded the men along as the mob howled, jeering vindictively at the captives.

The posse pulled even with Matt's cruiser, and he could hear the shouts. "You're not even Mandingos but you're running away from us. What are you afraid of? What do you have to hide? You're Gio boys and yet you're running away from us.''

The appearance of the two men was ghastly. Insensible with fear, the two men stared out through eyes gone blank with terror and pain. One, a tall, gaunt man, totally naked, had been beaten until his hair hung in patches, blood streaming down his face. The other man, clad only in his undershorts, was medium height, stocky, and as badly injured as the first.

Brenda hastily pressed Ben and Becky's faces down into her lap as the men staggered by, only a few feet in front of the windshield. She bowed her own head and prayed for Christ's peace to enfold them there in that place of horror. Matt was certain they would see the two men killed there, almost within arm's reach of the cruiser, but the mob moved on and disappeared into the police station.

A fighter standing next to Matt's car explained. "These guys are escaped prisoners. They're suspected of being government soldiers. We found 'em hiding in the bush. We believe that they're Gio soldiers, and they escaped from prison last night.'' The irony was that AFL soldiers were killing their Gio comrades in arms at the same time in Monrovia.

In the shocked lull that followed, the missionaries numbly resumed their unloading and the commandoes, unmoved by the horror of what had just passed went back to the business at hand.

Within minutes, the calm was shattered once again by voices harsh with taunts and threats, by the same mad bedlam of activity, the same ominous snap of rifle bolts rammed home with murderous intent. The men were herded rudely back they way they had come, crossing again within feet of Matt's horrified eyes. He looked into the face of the taller man and would remember later that he had seen death there.

Brenda prayed again, "Father send your spirit, send your spirit of peace,'' and shielded her children from the horror.

Matt stood petrified by the brutality of the crowd as they beat the two men, and once again thought he would see two human lives snuffed out just feet away.. A Liberian woman nearby found a rubber hose and joined in the assault, pummeling first one, then the other. It was this that broke Dorothe Kranzler's composure. Ordinarily cool and calm Dorothe advanced on the woman, almost beside herself.

"How can you be doing this. You, a woman! This man has a mother someplace who is going to be crying because of what you have done. You will have children some day, this could happen to them. How will you feel then,'' she sputtered, until finally her indignation gave way to speechlessness.

"Not in front of the children. Please, if you must kill these men, do not do it in front of the children,'' someone shouted, and the mob slid around the corner and into the swamp beyond. The building shielded the families from the sight, but not from the unrelenting lethal roar of a dozen automatic rifles that echoed through Gbarnga for an eternity..

The executioners returned from their task. The stillness that followed was broken several minutes later by the shout of a small boy who, with his friends, had gone into the swamp to inspect the grisly sight. "He's getting up, he's getting up, he's getting up. Get a gun, get a gun, he's getting up.''

One of the men, not quite dead, was thrashing about and the commandoes returned quickly to the scene of slaughter to re-enact the execution. This time assured their victim was indeed dead, they returned from the completion of their task joking, "The man must have had good medicine,'' meaning spirit protection against an enemy's bullet.

With the excitement of the execution waning, the officials resumed the search of Wilkinson's car. They found nothing to excite their interest, although it may have been different if the search had been more thorough. They had missed Chris' two-way radio completely.

Matt's land cruiser was next in line. Here the searchers uncovered a cache of empty brass rifle cartridges in his suitcase. The ground in Voinjama was paved with them, and everyone had collected dozens as souvenirs, the children using them as whistles.

To the searchers, they were neither souvenirs nor children's whistles. They were military secrets

"What are you going to do with these?''

"Well, I've never been in a war. I was going to keep these as souvenirs.''

Unsatisfied with the answer, the official pressed on. "Where are the guns that go with these?''

"I don't have any guns.''

"You have the ammunition but you don't have the guns?''

"No sir. I don't have any ammunition. These are spent. Look at them. There's mud in most of them from the rain. They were just in the streets in Voinjama. Look at the ground. They're all around here too.''

Matt couldn't see why they were so interested in these harmless casings, so wasn't really concerned. His conscience was clear. He was used to petty officials making much ado about nothing and thought they would humbug him for a while, close the suitcase and go on to the next car. There was nothing then to make him think they wouldn't be on their way to Yekepa in time to sleep there.

At the discovery of this incriminating evidence, though, more investigators joined the search and found Matt's two-way radio. "Why do you need a two way radio? Missionaries don't use a two way radio. Are you leaving Liberia?''

"We hope to come back some day.''

"Why did you take the two way radio if you're coming back.''

"It's valuable. It's mission equipment.''

"Did you take everything that's valuable in your house?''

"No sir, we couldn't carry everything.''

"Do you plan to come back to that stuff?''

"Well we hope to some day.''

"Then why didn't you leave the radio and come back to that? Why was the radio so important that you had to bring it?''

"It belongs to the mission. I felt responsible for it.''

The paranoid questioning dragged on as the disjointed interrogation tried to discredit Matt's story.

"Were you communicating with Doe on it? You're giving military secrets.'' "We're going to keep the radio. You're not going to travel with the radio.''

They didn't like any of it. Suspicions aroused, they radioed for a higher ranking man, the commander of special forces in Nimba county. The man's name was Bly, and he was obviously well educated and several cuts above the run-of-the-mill fighters they had encountered in this round of harassment.

Trying to move from the search to matters more in keeping with their own priorities, the missionaries told him, "We need a pass. We have small children and a large group of people here. We need to get out of the country.''

The official was not moved. The shells, the radio, this was serious business. He invoked the powerful initials, CIC. The Commander in Chief would have to be consulted.

It is hard to believe that Charles Taylor sat next to his radio, personally handling all the questions missionaries throughout the conflict were told had to be referred to him. It is easier to believe that fighters like Bly used this as an excuse for delaying decisions.

It was getting dark by the time he returned and said, "You will have to find a place to stay tonight. The priests are still up on the hill. They will give you a place to stay.''

Chris Wilkinson left to look into that possibility.

Bly continued, "CIC wants to see you tomorrow morning. Tomorrow morning I'll come to you, I'll disclose his location at that time, and we'll all go together. Be ready at 8 o'clock. In the meantime, you have our permission to go to the Catholic mission to spend the night.''

The next morning the western missionaries devoted themselves early to prayer together. Before they had finished, Bly was there to interrupt. "Let's move,'' he said. "We're going to Kakata this morning.''

"Kakata! We want to go to Yekepa. That's in the opposite direction!''

"Well, CIC wants to see you. You're going to see him today.''

"We don't have enough fuel.''

"It doesn't matter. We're going to Kakata.''

Kakata was a seventy five mile drive south from Gbarnga, almost on the outskirts of Monrovia. Driving to Kakata added 150 unwanted miles to the trip through a country that was rapidly running out of gas.

Arriving there without incident, they turned southeastward on the dirt road toward Buchanan. Bly directed them to park at the checkpoint there. "Wait here a minute. I'll just go inside here and check.'' Time passed. A long time passed.

As they waited, they marveled at the tide of humanity washing over Kakata. It was Saturday morning, July 21st. Charles Taylor had announced earlier that week that he was tired of waiting to attack Monrovia. His long delay had been to allow time for the innocent people of Monrovia to leave, but he had waited as long as he could. Whether the people of Monrovia were ready or not, the NPFL would come this weekend, he had told BBC. People were fleeing north by the thousands, and Kakata was bursting with them.

Tired of waiting for Bly to reappear, Chris went inside to enquire. The rest of the group waited in the cars. When Chris finally returned, he said to Matt, "They're not very happy. They want to see you.'' Matt prepared for the new day's interrogation by walking down the line of vehicles, enlisting their occupants in supportive prayer.

Once inside, the inquisition began again. During all the hours he would spend in that stuffy building, with all he had seen and experienced over the past week, Matt felt secure. His greatest concern was that the convoy would be split up, his family retained, and the rest allowed to go on.

For the first four hours of Matt's isolation, Brenda and her fellow travelers sat in the cars, waiting. The hours proved more than the young children in the group could bear, so in the end they abandoned the stuffy cars for the area around a flagpole that stood in front of the office where Matt was being held.

A family of Christian Lebanese store owners had the shop across the street, and throughout the morning they pressed the missionary families to accept their hospitality. Reluctant to leave in case Matt needed them, they declined. Finally, after a long morning of waiting, they accepted and joined this Christian family for lunch.

Brenda appreciated the food, and the place for the children to play, but she appreciated their second floor balcony far more. Their living quarters were above the store, and from their balcony she was able to see into the building across the road. She could see Matt's shoulder in the window, and connected in that way, spent the rest of the day just praying, and watching, and waiting.

Chris and Jeff continued to press the authorities, negotiating for the new pass that would end all this and send them safely across the border. From across the street Brenda could hear the crackle of automatic weapons fire from inside the building, as interrogators fired past the heads or between the feet of prisoners they were trying to intimidate into confessions. On the balcony, the noise provoked renewed prayer. Occasionally they would watch while people were dragged from the building, arms pinioned behind their backs, and led away to be killed. Fear raced through them with every new gunshot, but through it they continued in prayer.

Talking about the Lebanese family who took them in, Brenda recalls, "It was a real treat to meet Christians at that time. She cooked food for us, and of course they were running out of things. She cooked a very fine meal for us with what they had and shared with us, gave the kids bread. It was neat because they had a couple of little children, and the kids just ran around up there and played. It was such a blessing for the kids to have that release, to be able to run and play up there.''

They sat above the pandemonium below and watched. Hour after hour people stood in line, waiting for passes. Transport trucks would appear from time to time to take them away and hoards of people swamped the truck each time, fighting for one of the cramped places. It broke Brenda's heart to watch that spectacle of dread, mixed with despair.

Then, in the middle of the afternoon, Matt's shoulder disappeared from the window.

Inside, they'd taken him into a little office about the size of a bathroom. Numerous automatic weapons lined the walls, watched over by a single commando. It was an armory of sorts, and Matt was placed on a bench along the wall in front of the desk that almost filled the room. Shortly after sitting down, he watched as a fighter checked one of the rifles out. Not many minutes later, another man came in to claim his rifle.

It had walked out in the hands of another man, so the man behind the desk could not give it to him. He argued, "No, you just took your weapon.''

"No I didn't''.

A heated argument exploded in that tiny room, but nothing the new man could say would sway the opinion of the man in charge. "You're spoiling my name,'' he shouted, turning to run outside where he borrowed another rifle from a friend. In minutes, he charged back into the office brandishing the borrowed weapon.

There on a bench sat Matt, with armed men a few feet on each side of him, screaming violently at the top of their lungs. The fighter on his right had his rifle slung barrel down over his shoulder. With a snap he spun the gun to the ready and chambered a round. On his left, the other man reacted quickly and tried to swing his rifle up to meet the threat. The barrel caught under Matt's knee, and he scrambled to get out of the way while the commando struggled to free the rifle.

In an instant the two men stood facing each other, pointing their rifles across Matt's lap, continuing their argument with greatly amplified intensity. Finally an outsider came in to end the argument, arrested one of the men, and left Matt in peace. Talking about it later, he would remember this potentially terrifying few moments as a bit of comedy relief in the dismal string of events he'd experienced over the last week.

Men came out to search the car yet again. As Brenda describes it, "They came out and tore our car apart. They went through everything we owned. They shook out everything, even our underwear, just to make sure there was nothing in it.'' They found two more shell casings.

As Matt sat in the building, he watched a stream of people accused of supporting the Doe government interrogated. He saw people taken out of that office at gun point, in their undershorts, elbows tied, down toward the river. He watched a man being whipped, saw another intimidated by having rifle fired into the floor at his feet.

About two o'clock they asked him to write a statement explaining the shells and the radio. Matt wrote it out longhand, and they insisted it needed to be typed. He waited, almost two hours, and finally looked in to see about it. They had typed ELWA at the top of the paper.

By late in the afternoon, the atmosphere of threat and intimidation had evaporated as he told and retold the story to interrogator after interrogator. The questioners now would laugh at the silly missionary who couldn't see how important those shell casings would be to the CIA. "They'll know everything that we're shooting. It's important.''

Many were decent men. One in particular, took pains to set Matt at ease. "Relax. I apologize for this. They're making too much out of this. Let's go ahead and search the car, but don't worry.''

By four o'clock, he was beginning to feel the effects of the long hours since breakfast. Matt knew about the Christian Lebanese family across the street who had already shared their dwindling supply of food with all twenty six of the other members of his party. He requested permission to leave long enough to go over and have some rice himself.

"Feel free,'' they said, with no apparent awareness of the irony in those words.

Returning from his meal, Matt was met by Chris Wilkinson. Chris startled him by saying, "Don't go back in there.''

"Why not? They're expecting me back.''

"No they're not. They've intended to let you go all along. I've seen the pass and your name is the first one on it.''

It took no real persuasion for Matt to remain outside with his family. Eventually, the chief interrogator appeared outside for one last tongue lashing. He told Matt how stupid he had been, berating him like a disobedient child, at the top of his lungs on a public street crowded with thousands of people. Matt could only respond humbly, confessing to the truth of all the accusations. But, with that public tongue lashing, the day's long ordeal was over. The pass granting the missionaries, and their Lebanese travelling companions, the freedom to travel to Cote d'Ivoire was approved. At six that evening, they hit the road for the nine hour drive to Yekepa.

The Patriotic Front assigned a deputy G-2 commander to travel as escort with the convoy. Heavily armed, Anthony was the head of military police at Kakata and, in Matt's words, "a real good guy.''

The caravan sped northward along the paved highway toward Yekepa, lights flashing, bits of red cloth tied conspicuously to their cars. Out of the gathering dark, another convoy, headed south, appeared on the road ahead. As the two groups passed, they watched the two expensive cars with black tinted windows zoom past, stop suddenly, and turn in pursuit.

Chris, in the lead car with their escort, pulled to the side of the road and the other vehicles followed. A group of men, expensively dressed in western clothes, wearing dark glasses emerged. To Brenda, they looked like movie gangsters. They were ominous, and very professional. They were the NPFL's finest, Charles Taylor's personal bodyguard.

They inspected the pass issued in Kakata. Anthony explained, "We're on our way to get these missionaries out of the country.''

"Charles Taylor has no news of this. He didn't give his permission. You will need to go back.''

After what they had just been through, the travelers were adamant in response. There was no way they were going back.

Anthony broke into the impasse with a suggestion. They had two copies of the pass. Why couldn't the leader of the bodyguards take one copy back to Charles Taylor? If he did not approve it, it would be a simple thing to have them stopped on the road and then returned. In the meantime, let them continue to Yekepa.

Their escort prevailed, and the bodyguards released them to go on their way.

At Gbarnga, Anthony commandeered a diesel pickup filled with Patriotic Front fighters to ride point for them the rest of the way.

Passing through Ganta, they could see evidence of the same kind of looting that had despoiled Voinjama, but the city itself was intact. At Saniquellie, where the NPFL had scored one of its first major victories, the city was nothing but rubble. To the travelers it was reminiscent of newsreel footage of Europe during World War II. As they drove, Brenda noticed that, the closer they came to the place where the war started, the hungrier the people along the road seemed, the more people she saw with eyes glazed from seeing too much of suffering.

The trip through NPFL territory was tinged with nightmare. At almost all the frequent checkpoints they passed, human skulls set on posts stood as silent sentries, both reminder and warning. Buses and cars along the road, all official Patriotic Front vehicles, carried more skulls fore and aft like grotesque license plates. Fighters manning the posts carried human femurs like swagger sticks or tied to their wrists like macabre charms.

Arriving at Yekepa about three in the morning, the contrast was startling. They found the electric lights burning and the water system intact, the city largely undamaged. They were greeted by a congenial, well-spoken commander named Titus. "Welcome to Yekepa,'' he said, like the Major Domo at a five star hotel. "We'd like to take you to your accommodations. We have some houses we think you'll find suitable.''

They proved more than suitable. The missionaries were taken to a house the general manager of the LIMCO iron mine complex had used. It had survived the takeover remarkably well. They enjoyed a hot cup of decaffeinated coffee before bed and woke a few hours later to fresh toast with their morning coffee.