NationStates Jolt Archive

The aging transport aircraft circled Kardas International airport at the direction of ATC, waiting for a landing window. It was the lowest-possible priority for landing, and the pilot was starting to worry about fuel when the approach authorization was ultimately signaled.

“Finally!” he muttered, and his co-pilot snorted abruptly in agreement. “OK, back there, Brothers? Strap in, we’re finally cleared to land,” he told the five passengers in the rear.

Since they were already sitting in the far-from-comfortable seats rigged forward of the main cargo hold, there was little for the five to do but grin at each other and click the strap buckles into place. It had not been a comfortable 14-hour flight, but they endured it cheerfully. As cheerfully as they contemplated the very real possibilities of death, injury, imprisonment, torture, and other unspeakable horrors that awaited them at their journey’s end. The only thing that worried them was the possibility that they might not be able to fulfill their mission. That was why each one of the five bent his head in prayer as the transport came in to land.

When the behemoth aircraft lumbered to its clumsy stop, the five men unstrapped, and ducked into the hold. Secured to the deck were the two trucks that, together with the five men, comprised the entire cargo. There was plenty of room. Fortunately, the relatively light load meant that there had been plenty of fuel.

Brother Gregory was checking the engines of both trucks. He’d checked them three times already, once prior to purchase, for a thorough overhaul once they were delivered, and again when they’d been loaded. They were in pretty good shape, for what they were—which was older, fairly high-mileage 3.5-ton medium-duty trucks: Somewhat battered, nothing extraordinary, but well-maintained workhorses with a challenging job ahead of them. Comfort, however, was not to be expected. Greg didn’t care as long as the engines worked smoothly.

Brother Sean was undoing the load locks so that the trucks could be backed out when the pilots dropped the cargo ramp; Father Kiril was releasing the back trailer doors for what would probably be the first of many inspections.

Brother Mikhel remained seated, continuing his prayers. Brother Ladis hovered a trifle nervously around the margins, making half-hearted helping motions to Brother Sean, who grinned at him. “Never mind. All set.”

Unlike the other four, this was Ladis’ first risky mission. He’d been eager to be chosen, in spite of the clearly defined risks that had been laid out for them back at the Eastern Region Mission Office. There were few, perhaps no, Catholics in Iraqstan, a country of pagans run by a psychotic, bloodthirsty madman and kept “stable” only by brutally repressive police and military forces, psychological terror, and the ever-versatile human lusts for power and wealth.

The five Crosier Brothers would be entirely on their own. The Almoner General of the Easter Mission Region had been astonished when the communiqué from the Iraqstani government had been received in response to their request: They would be allowed to deliver a limited amount of humanitarian aid to the Um Lizaani people in the Northern region, behind the wall.

It was probably a public relations gesture. Quil’raya was on rather shaky ground in the international community, and some of his allies were showing signs of wishing he’d suffer a convenient accident, although no one wanted to deal with the kind of mess that would result from an out-and-out power vacuum. The gesture of permitting a feeble humanitarian mission would doubtless be played up for all it was worth, politically.

That didn’t really matter to the Crosiers. The mysterious donation that had come in earmarked for Um Lizaan aid had given them a long-awaited chance to send someone in to see, first hand, exactly what was going on with the pitiful remnant of Um Lizaani who remained after the Stairway to Heaven, after the more recent mass exiles, and the enforced conscriptions into the slave labor camps.

Brother Mikhel, who had considerable experience in such missions, had briefed all of the brothers interested in the mission.

“In addition to the constant potential threat from Iraqstani military and police, we can expect considerable additional threat once the team is inside the Northern Zone. The hardships will be severe. We believe that bio and chemical weapons residues remain active in many areas. Much of the water is likely contaminated, and there is likely to be little semblance of social order even among the larger population groups.”

“We should not be surprised if a jungle law mentality is prevalent in many areas, with the more able-bodied scavenging for resources. Gangs, warlords, and individual marauders may be common..”

“The population remaining in the Northern areas is likely to include a high proportion of those deemed valueless for the slave labor camps—children, the sick and injured, the elderly and enfeebled individuals—as well as remaining pockets of rebels and refugees from the roundups. The suffering will be dreadful, and the hardest part will be how little we can do.”

“We can transport nothing in that might look potentially dangerous or useful to the Iraqstani military or police, they will interdict or ‘confiscate’ any goods they deem might help insurgents or be useful to themselves. Accordingly, we will be carrying mostly baby formula and child nutritional packets, baby- and child-sized blankets and clothing, baby and child doses of pan-syncretal vaccine, those toy donations, water purification tablets, and a few survival-level edukits.”

“We ourselves can bring only bedrolls, clean socks and underwear, and field ration packs for three weeks. This is not an evangelization mission, only our own breviaries and pectoral crosses will be permitted. The Iraqstanis are actively hostile to all but their pagan religions.”

As always, there were more volunteers for this mission than could be allowed to go—a maximum of five had been permitted.

The mixture of gratitude, excitement, and fear that Ladis had felt when his name was read for the mission was still accessible to him today in the hold of the transport. The gratitude was foremost—at last he would have the chance to make some real sacrifices, real contributions, to making the love of Christ real in this sad, tormented world.

It had been hard for Ladis, in the monastery—obedience had not come easily, and he was young and ardent and eager for the dramatic, world-shaking gesture to show his faith and devotion to God. The slow years of learning obedience and the value of the little service ungrudgingly rendered in obscurity had been painful. He hoped he had learned it. But he still yearned for the opportunity to physically put his hands to the plow in the furrow of human misery, and ease those pains.

The excitement was natural, of course. He’d traveled from his homeland in Becharist to the Seminary in Vyodoslawa, then when the Order had needed, he’d served in Spain and finally in Bellaria. But it had all been within the Order’s network of houses and convents and monasteries, and those were all relatively civilized places. There was an adventurous aspect to this kind of mission work that couldn’t fail to appeal to a twenty-six year old with a longing for the active and exotic.

But the fear was very real, too. Brother Mikhel had not spared any of them the grim realities that had been faced by such mission teams in the past—up to and including painful martyrdoms. And the really wrenching horror of being able to do so little, in the face of so much suffering. Such colossal suffering. His guts turned to water, sometimes, in the night, when he thought of it. “Holy Mother of God, give me the strength to do God’s will, to support my brothers, to meet whatever comes as befits a Servant of God. Preserve me from shame and… and…” he didn’t like to think about it, even in prayer.

He looked around at his Brothers. It was easy to see why the others had been chosen. Brother Mikhel, of course, for his vast experience and natural leadership, as well as his medical skills. Father Kiril (though he would be known as Brother Kiril on the mission, Ladis reminded himself,) was an ordained priest, and a specialist in refugee work. Brother Sean’s background included languages and a variety of other useful on-the-road type skills, and Brother Greg was an all-around mechanic, handyman, fix-anything type. They all had some experience in difficult missions, where Ladis’ own experience was limited to a short stint in Nobatu-Kiriyu, where he had done mostly administrative work for an already-established and relatively comfortable agricultural teaching collective.

With a screeching rumble, the ramp from the cargo hold began to descend. The Brothers all stood, now, and went to stand by the two trucks. Gregory would drive one, Sean the other. Their pupils contracted suddenly as the bright light of the outside flooded in with the opening of the cargo bay ramp.

At the bottom stood four well-armed Iraqstani soldiers.

[tag]

#tagged

Snapping to attention the four guards step to the side and remain ever watchful of the five men and trucks inside the plane. The surrounding land of the airport is hidden behind the soft flowing sand sweeping over in a sudden sandstorm. As the visibility returns slowly, the five men, can begin to make out the distant shapes of buildings and the noise of traffic from around them. The trees visible in the stark landscape sway gently in the breeze, the waves of heat rising from the ground mix with the floating sand to dance happily in a circle of warmth and grit.

Marching quickly from the officers lounge a man dressed in a military green uniform makes his way over to the plane. His uniform contracting the red and black of the four Iraqstani guard standing ready at the base of the plane itself.

Stopping at the end of the tunnel of soldiers the Officer looks up at the five men and nods them forwards. "Come down, my friends. We have much to discuss" He softly speaks, as he waves them forward his hands holding a folder, a small container of badges and a pen.

As they wait for the five men, the Iraqstani soldiers step back further, two turning to face the plane and the five men the other two scan the plane itself, walking along it's length their weapons held ready. Watching with half an eye the officer smirks softly, and nods back to a soldier who confirms a clear inspection and steps back to the Cargo ramp and awaits the five men to leave before inspecting the plane's interior. Barking out an order in his native tongue the begin a quick inspection underneath the plane and step back once more.

The Brothers filed out of the plane, squinting a little in the bright sunlight, but smiling. The others waited at the bottom of the ramp while Brother Kiril approached the officer, with the manila folder of documents that had already been sent by the Iraqstani government.

“Greetings. I am Brother Kiril; the mission will be under my care. Our pilots were informed that so long as they did not disembark from the aircraft, they could refuel and leave immediately the trucks are offloaded. I believe our Order has made arrangements for the refueling payment.” They could not see the cockpit from where they stood, but he knew the men would be waiting anxiously.

“The trucks are open and ready for inspection, and we are happy to cooperate with any security procedures required.” Brother Kiril’s smile was warm. “We are so pleased to have your country’s hospitality for our Order. It is a great honor to be allowed this visit.”

Nodding curtly the officer flicks his hand towards the two soldiers who walk up into the plane and begin inspecting the trucks completely. Watching them for a moment the officer listens to Brother Kiril talk and smiles when appropriate.

"I'm sure you've been briefed on the expectations of you whilst you are in Iraqstan but it is required by me to go over the laws and regulations with you once more. Also I have to give you these." Handing Kiril the bag of badges with a small cross in the center with identifying colours he smiles. "Now, I've got most of your papers organised, your visas are good for a month if you require longer then your guide will know how to get in touch with the travel ministry.

Some laws which I feel must be bought to attention are, Whilst you are in the National Socialist Empire, you have to wear these identifying badges at all times whilst you are outside. If you dont wear them, we will not be held responsible for the actions taken against you. Religious laws in place dictate that you are not allowed to take part in public ceremonies of your religion.

You have been told to leave all bu your own personal items of faith behind due to the same laws, if you are found performing public ceremonies or publicly wielding non-personal items of faith you will be arrested and held until a trial can be held.

Furthermore, any books, paintings, or scriptures that depic the führer, or the Iraqstani way of life as wrong and evil are banned and any one found with such items will be arrested and incacerated until a trial and sentance can be held. Due to the banishment of diplomatic immunity by the führer you will be charged and sentanced as if you were Iraqstani in birth.

Whilst in Um Lizaa you are not permitted to cary any sort of recording device due to the security risks of the country you will be detailed a twelve man escort group of soldiers for your duration in the northern sectors.

The Wall of Purity check point officer will have more regulations and laws you must adhere too whilst in the nothern zones that you should take into account completely. You will also be given a translator for your stay in the northern sectors as they speak only rough arabic and very little in the way of english.

Whilst you stay here in Iraqstan you are not permitted to leave this city, if you are found outside Kardas you will be arrested and deported back to your home land. Conversation with natives of Iraqstan are restricted in that you cannot speak negatively of the führer or the government. Any attempt to promote a different government style of denouncment of the racial mastery of the Iraqstani people will result in immediate arresting and incaceration in one of many Iraqstani prison camps.

Other than that, we ask that you be careful in where you go as some districts of Kardas are un safe for foreigners and that you be curteous when spoken too by natives and Public Security Service officials." Taking a deep breath the Officer nods and folds his arms. "If you have any questions ask them now."

Meanwhile in the trucks the two guards check over everything, finding nothing of value they move onto the plane itself, searching for stow aways and giving the plane a quick once over. Satisfied they leave the plane and nod to the Officer who smiles brightly. "Your plane is clean and you can bring the trucks down. Refueling will begin at your pilots request."

Brother Kiril nodded. “The information your government sent was most comprehensive, but of course we appreciate the review. We are very grateful for the extensive accommodations Iraqstan is making to assist our mission, and the allocation of resources for our assistance.”

The Brothers were all pinning their badges carefully to their shirts, where they showed far larger and more obvious than the discreet pectoral cross each man wore.

Brother Kiril said, “We were hoping to be able to leave as soon as possible for the Northern Sector, although if there is a delay of our departure we are very happy to remain in Kardas. Perhaps you or one of your men could direct us to whatever sites in the city convey the Iraqstani people’s cultural and historical accomplishments, and we can visit them while we wait for clearance to leave for the Northern Zone.”

When the trucks were cleared, Brother Kiril nodded to Brother Sean and Brother Greg to drive the trucks down the cargo ramp. The two popped their heads briefly into the cockpit to reiterate their thanks to the pilots, then started the trucks and backed them carefully down the ramp, the others moving out of the way. When they were clear, Brother Mikhel stepped aside where he would be clearly visible from the cockpit windows, and gave a thumbs-up. With a grating rumble, the ramp door closed, and the aircraft’s engines started. Slowly, it pulled away from the little knot of men on the tarmac and headed for the refueling area. The Brothers all waved cheerfully as the transport followed an Iraqstani ground crew’s gestures and rolled away.

Brother Ladis waved as cheerfully as the others, but his stomach definitely did a drop when the big plane was out of sight. Their link with the outside world and the safety of their Order was gone. It was a sobering thought.

Still, they were fully prepared for this. They all spoke Arabic fluently, and Brother Mikhel, Brother Kiril, and Brother Sean among them had half a dozen related dialects and sub-dialects at their command, as well. That was not, however, something their Iraqstani hosts needed to know. Nor did they need to be aware of the eidetic memory that made Brother Gregory such an asset to the group, rendering written records unnecessary. They were all good ecclesiastical Latinists, and had already formed the habit of conversing among themselves in Latin, for privacy’s sake.

A dozen soldiers! That would pose a challenge. He was willing to bet that the people inside the Northern Zone would be suspicious and distrustful of anyone who showed up with Iraqstani military escort. But when it became known what resources they had to distribute, that reluctance might be overcome. And it would be telling—very telling—to listen to a government-assigned translator’s version of the communications from the Um Lizaani people.

Brother Kiril turned back to the officer. “We are ready to leave as soon as clearance is given, Sir.”

Watching the plane cautiously, the officer nods and smiles thinly. "The Nationalist Musuem is open for visitors and depics the ascension of the Iraqstani people into the realm of pure and enlightened. It also documents the rise of the Führer and the promise of purity that has been gifted to the people.

There is also a secondry Square of Enlightenment directly opposite one of the older, Temples of faith, which has been home to a band of Sirithilists since it's construction. The ruins of the infidels, is the only kept evidence of the times before nationalism and the house Quil'Raya, is not but ten minutes from the Nationalist Museum, it shows what life in Iraqstan was like before unification under house Quil'Raya.

Other than that, there is not much to see, a spattering of temples to Sirithil and the Church of Angelus exist in Kardas, but most do not permit non-Iraqstani citizens from entering the sacred halls. As for your, move to Um Lizaa and the northern sector, the ferry is three days out from being ready for it's next run to the southern districts you are booked onto it and your guide and translator will be waiting for you at the hotel rooms we've arranged for you."

Stepping back the officer, nods to the four guards who snap to attention and salute the officer, their arms out stretched before them, in a well known salute. Returning the salute the officer nods once more to the five men. "I must take my leave of you now, a car is waiting for you just on the other side of the fence and will take you to the hotel so that you might clean up and rest a bit. Good day to you gentlemen." With that the officer turns and walks quickly off, his body disappearing into the flowing sand and swirling winds.

(OOC: All conversation among the Brothers themselves is in ecclesiastical Latin, with only an occasional intelligible word where Latinization of modern terms is not fully applied—Brother Greg and Brother Ladis are occasionally a bit careless about that.)

The five Brothers listened respectfully to the officer, and then drove the trucks, as directed to where they could remain safely parked until the departure for the ferry. Brother Greg took a couple of interesting, unobtrusive low-tech measures that would let him know if the trucks, which he carefully locked up, were tampered with or opened without authorization while they were parked. Each Brother collected his personal carryall then, and they crossed over to where the car waited to take them to the hotel.

“Gee, the ascent of the Iraqstani people into the realm of the pure and enlightened. I can’t wait to see that,” murmured Brother Sean. The brothers were all, with the occasional exceptions of Brother Greg and Brother Ladis, well-drilled in keeping their expressions nondescript and amiable in public while they conversed among themselves, regardless of the topic of discussion or the feelings they expressed.

“Sounds like a winner, doesn’t it,” agreed Brother Mikhel, drily. “Still, it will have its interesting points, if only as an anthropological curiosity.”

“I wouldn’t mind looking over that historical site,” Brother Kiril volunteered. “The ruins of the old temple. Probably not too much to see, but still…” The others nodded.

“Well, we will have three days, so that will give us plenty of time to look over these, ah, attractions,” Brother Mikhel said. “And a few days in comparative comfort to acclimate ourselves.”

When they reached the hotel, the very first thing they did was say the Office of Vespers together, gathering in Brother Kiril’s room.

As they shared a meal later, Brother Ladis found the opportunity to ask Brother Greg a question that he’d been curious about for some time: “How does an eidetic memory work, Greg? Do you remember everything? Don’t you start getting “disk full” messages from your brain at some point?”

The dark-skinned, wiry mechanic laughed. “‘Disk full,’ I like that. It’s not exactly like that, Ladis. What is called ‘eidetic memory’ is actually a referent for image-based memory and informational organization. We ‘eidetikers,’ as we are called, can recall the precise visual image of anything we pay attention to, in what I can only describe as, well, ‘a certain way.’ This is not to say that we do not also retain a very high percentage of ‘normal’ or ‘random’ memories in the same visual format—in fact, research indicates about sixty percent greater retention of ‘experiential traces’—that is, things that just happen to you that you don’t think about, like boarding a tram and seeing lots of other people but not paying attention to them—than ‘non-eidetikers.’”

“So for instance, if I got onto a tram tomorrow morning, but didn’t necessarily pay attention, and next week someone asked me to describe how many people were on that tram, their ages and genders, what they were wearing, etc., I would be 60% more likely to give an accurate description than a ‘non-eidetiker.’ But that is still not a very high likelihood, and that kind of memory is not retained as long as “deliberate” memories.”

“Those, on the other hand,” he thought about it for a moment. “I can’t really describe how I do it, or what I do. But if I look at something, knowing I want to remember it—well—” he shrugged. “I can still remember the precise words on the pages of my school assignments from thirty years ago. In fact, I can remember the pages, things like the torn corner on the chapter eleven title page of my biology textbook—the one that described amino acids. And the fact that someone had filled in the “Os” in the title headings on all the odd-numbered pages, but not the even-numbered ones.”

He shrugged. Brother Sean, who had been listening, said with the soft overlay of his Irish accent more noticeable now that they were not in public (although they did not assume they were private, and still spoke nothing but Latin,) “Sure, and it’s deputized to the Recording Angel he’ll be someday in heaven, and every one of your sins he’ll recall.” They all got a chuckle out of that.

The Brothers said Compline together, and went to bed. For the next couple of days they busied themselves in viewing the Nationalist Museum (which fully lived up to Brother Sean’s expectations,) and the ruins of the old Temple, which Brother Kiril declared had probably been used by at least three faiths, at various stages in its history. He went all moony-eyed about the carvings on a few fragmentary column bases, describing it as late Syrio-Menkalite.

“I wish I could take a rubbing,” he fretted. But Brother Greg offered to “remember” it for him, and help him sketch it, when they got back to the Monastery.

Brother Mikhel’s sense of humor led him to purchase one of the more luridly nationalistic photo-postcards at the Museum, to use as a bookmarker in his breviary. He had a half-dozen or more souvenir items in there already, holy cards, photos, a hand-calligraphed quote in Old Viraljini script, and so on.

And so the days passed. The Brothers spoke only to each other and such ‘official’ persons as museum staff, hotel staff, etc., but always smiled warmly at those they met or passed, and made courteous gestures such as standing aside to allow elders to pass, etc. On the appointed day, they each took a shower (they expected it to be their last for some time,) and reported back to the airport to pick up their trucks.

Standing at attention around the vehicles the four Iraqstani Guard watch the group of men approach idly, their guns moving from their sides to held ready should the scene turn violent. Stepping away when the men draw close a familiar voice calls out to them from the other side of the garage. "So you returned for your trucks. Your ferry will be leaving as soon as you arrive and board it." The Iraqstani officer from days earlier says as he walks forward with a small, man trailing him, a star and yellow cross stitched obviously into his left breast pocket.

Looking over his shoulder the officer smirks and barks out a simple order in arabic "Get your filthy hide over to them. Remember what was ordered of you." He spits out in arabic and looks disgustedly at the guide as he creeps forward his face brightly lit with a smile, but his presence one of cautious fear.

"Good evening comrades, I am your guide/translator for your stay in Um Lizaa, I am versed in many of the dialects of the northern zones, as well as the national wide language, I also know the forests and villiage paths completely. I hope you find your stay enlightening and that you attain yet more knowledge of the purity and power of the Iraqstani people." As he speaks his voice modulates expertly, his accent rich voice, soothing yet cool to the ear. "My name is Akeem Mil-farahd of the woodland tribe of Southern Um Lizaa, I owe my allegiance and life to the führer for his liberation and protection from the filthy vermin of the north. Please, let us leave our escorts await us at the ferry!" He finishes before bouncing up to the first truck and waiting patiently for the brother's to follow.

Stepping forward once more the Iraqstani officer smirks and clears his throat. "As a minor annoyance to yourselves, I must ask that you hand over anything capable of recording, sounds, images or impressions for your duration in Um Lizaa, it will be held for you until you return in a few weeks. We are sorry, but again national security dictates the forbidding of video cameras, digital cameras and traditional cameras, as well as sound recorders, microphones and other tools designed to record or photograph the people and lands about you. If you would turn them over to me, I will ensure they are held with the utmost saftey until your return."

Pointing to a group of large containers he smiles softly, almost friendly if it were not for the hint of threat in his eyes, should any of the men refuse to give up the requested items....

[Nothing like a quick jaunt to Iraqstan, huh? Tag.]

Brother Greg was already checking his unobtrusive tamper-indicators. For a wonder, it appeared that the Iraqstanis had declined to further investigate the trucks after their initial, and thorough, search. His main concern, that they might introduce some item or material of an illegal or compromising nature, to be ‘found’ later if the government took a dislike to the Brothers, was not eliminated, but at least for now it appeared safe. He gave a tiny, unobtrusive nod to Brother Kiril, who was listening to the Iraqstani officer, and rejoined them to be introduced to their guide.

All five Brothers greeted Akeem Mil-farahd courteously, and introduced themselves by name. More detailed introductions would have to wait until later.

The officer’s request for recording devices puzzled the Brothers, but Brother Kiril said quietly, in Latin, to Brother Mikhel, “Put everyone’s personal kit there, on the tarmac. They may want to inspect them.” Then he turned to the officer.

“Your government informed us of this requirement, and we have brought no such devices with us. Please, feel free to inspect our personal effects to verify this,” he gestured to where the Brothers had lined up their bedrolls and packs. “I know that you have your duty to do. If you wish to search our persons, we are happy to cooperate as well.”

The packs contained only personal toiletries, modest changes of shirts, underwear, socks, etc., and a few small personal items—notebooks, paperback novels (mostly mysteries and science fiction,) musical instruments (a harmonica, a little concertina, a finger piano,) a medical item or two, small photo albums, etc. The closest thing to “recording devices” were ordinary pens and pencils. None of the Brothers carried anything on their persons more controversial than their identity papers, breviaries, pectoral crosses, and wallets.

Finding nothing in the personal packs the Officer shrugs and waves a hand dismissively towards their items. "Take them. You're guide here will show you the way to the ferry dock and these four guards will accompany you. You will have a five hour ferry trip to the island and then a one day drive from Port Kasaar to the wall check point." He murmers before nodding to the four men who motion silently with their hands to the brothers and guide to get into the trucks. Two of the guards split off and head to a jeep that arrived during the inspection and start the motor obviously anxious to get moving.

Nodding once more the officer, waves to them quickly and heads back towards his office, a definate swagger in his step as he moves. Watching him go Akeem shudders quickly and turns to the men before him. "Well comrades, let us mount up and get going! No time like the present to get a convoy going I say!" He exclaims and bounds towards the front truck where the remaining two guards stand watching.

The Brothers exchanged glances, and Brother Greg and Brother Kiril picked up their packs and bedrolls and went to the first truck, climbing in one on each side of Akeem. Brother Sean, Brother Ladis, and Brother Mikhel climbed into the second truck. They started the engine and waved to the guards in the jeep.

With a low bass rumble (one of the trucks had a poorly fitting gasket ring on the muffler inlet,) they pulled into a convoy behind the jeep, and followed it to the ferry dock. On the way they drove through parts of the city that they had not seen before—the areas near the dock were, to say the least, “not prosperous.”

Brother Kiril smiled at Akeem. “We are very grateful for your help in guiding us, and translating. Please feel free, also, to make us aware of any areas where our unfamiliarity with local customs might cause offense or create problems.”

When they reached the ferry dock, it took some maneuvering to get the large trucks through the wharf facilities—some were very spacious, but many were older, and somewhat poorly-maintained. In some places, stacks of crates and containers looked as though they had been piled without the slightest regard to where and when the boats might dock, or who might try to get to them. In a few areas, they could see military precision.

A bored-looking Iraqstani longshoreman waved them to the ferry ramp. They had to drive around to get in line behind some military vehicles that were making the trip, as well. Finally, they were on their way. The Brothers all looked interestedly out the windows.

As the ferry sails it's way to the island of Um Lizaa, the brothers see a variety of ships between the two islands, ranging from fishing trawlers to military patrol boats, the sea rocks gently along it's course, stretching as far as the eye can see, slowly infront of them the southern shorelines begin to slide into view, their naked and dirty look belying the structural advancement of the south two fold.

Smiling Akeem nods at the question asked of him, "Of course comrades, it would be my pleasure I am here to guide and protect you, though I must say you're presence will bring many reactions, in the far north the rebels have total control someone is supplying them with weapons made outside of Iraqstan and the empire has yet to be able to stop it completely.

Thus your twelve man escort of Iraqstani Guard, an honour no less these men are the best of the best. Do not be surprised if we witness a military raid on villiages as we travel the north, it's a frequent occurance." Akeem rattles on, before shutting up after a glaring look shot at him by a soldier patroling the ferry.....

A few hours later the ferry docks and begins unloading it's passengers, Akeem smiles at his companions and nods when it's their turn. "If you will, the north lies just ahead!" He exclaims and crosses his arms and looks subduedly about the small sparsely housed villiage of Kel'dorloth.

The Brothers had expected poverty, and Port Kasaar and the adjacent village of Kel’dorloth certainly met those expectations. The buildings fell into two main categories—boxy, utilitarian, and unattractive (these appeared to be military and industrial facilities,) and what could most kindly be described as “inadequate.” Some were older, mud-brick structures, some were newer, cheap composition block. Many looked as though they had been damaged at some point, and had been repaired with whatever could be scrounged—pieces of packing crate, rusty sheets of corrugated tin, tarpaulins, etc.

There were few people about, and those mostly military. As the trucks rolled off the ferry, they followed the gestures of a soldier to the main road. Brother Greg looked at the keytag of the truck he was driving. It had a small, cheap, GPS-locator clip—the type that gives simple coordinates only. He checked the coordinates, and then closed his eyes briefly and “looked” at the map in his head, one of several he had studied before they had left the Mission Center.

Some of the maps had been antiques, dating from pre-Quil’raya days. Although he expected them to be inaccurate, they had showed at least the major geographical features and the historical locations of population centers in Um Lizaa. Others had been satellite photomaps, from optical satellites too high for security interdict—they had little detail but did show major current roadways, large structures and concentrations of structures, and geographical features.

The road indicated by Akeem and the soldier led through several population concentrations, which the Brothers speculated were probably labor pool camps and manufacturing. According to their limited information, the southern part of the island consisted mainly of such facilities. The Um Lizaans remaining here were permitted to live—after a fashion—so long as they were productive.

Checking his mirror to be sure that Brother Sean’s truck was behind him, he started sedately down the road.

(OOC: Please note—due to an unfortunate confluence of travel plans and a bug-infested network being taken offline for some days, it is unlikely that the muns of the Holy Vatican See will be doing much posting for the next week. We apologize for the inconvenience; please feel free to move events along and we will try to catch up.)

As they drive Akeem idly points out areas of interest acting entirely like a guide his voice constantly cheery. "Over there comrades, you'll see the building where the treaty of Quil'raya was forged between the stewardess and the führer after the National Socialist revolution took it's fists to this country." He adds as he points out a severly burnt and crumbled building whose only notification of importance is the armed guards standing outside the ruined doorway.

As the group drives further into the island the buildings slowly change from industrial to crumbling hovels and slums, back once more to industrial and efficient buildings. The forests they might note get thicker and thicker as they draw nearer to the border of the island. "Along here comrades, the um lizaan rebels slaughtered three truck loads of refugees trying to get safely into the hands of their liberators during the revolution. Over three hundred women and children died along this road. Akeem adds as burnt out husks of trucks and other vehicles litter the roads.

As they get nearer the border the wall slowly becomes more visible as the vegetation thins out and the area turns more military focused. Along a side road the brothers can see a military vehicle driving along a patrol route, the heavily armed soldiers scanning the area and watching the trucks.

After hours of driving the convoy finnaly arrives at the check point into Northern Um Lizaa, the concentration of guards is uncountable, the towers stand higher than the trees on the southern side and through the gates the brothers can see the forest has been stripped back some seven hundred meters along the length of the wall.

In the guard towers soldiers man heavy machine gun emplacements and scan the forests attentive for anyone making a hostile move towards the wall. "Be wary comrades, the rebels watch us even now. Show but more than adequate amount of respect for the fuhrers troops and you wont leave the northern wastes." Akeem whispers as they pull up to the check point.

The officer a simple captain walks up to the truck and nods to Brother Greg. "We have your papers and visas here, please be aware of risks and security inside the wastes. You have been inspected and searched in Iraqstan but unfortunately we must carry out the same inspections again." Nodding too a group of men who shoulder their rifles and begin picking through the contents of the trucks. Minutes later one of them calls out crisply an all clear command and steps back form the truck as another six heavily armed and armoured troops walk forward.

"As arranged by his exaltedness the Führer, these six guards will act as your escorts whilst in the northern wastes, there will be another six riding ahead and behind you as an effort to quell any violence before it reaches you. Please be aware that for the first seven hundred meters of this road you are not permitted to deviate from the road or you will drive right into a minefield and be killed. The vegetation is thick and any deviations form the roads may lead to being trapped in mud and trees.

Other than that be careful and we'll see you again in a few weeks." Banging his fist against the top of the truck the captain barks out an order in rough arabic and the gate swings open slowly, revealing completely the northern reaches of the island. Nodding to Greg Akeem smiles and clears his throat. "Now would be a good time to drive comrade, the border guards get impatient quickly." He whispers as the six guards divide themselves into groups of three and climb into the back of the trucks...

For a moment, as he listened to Akeem, Brother Greg got a wildly incongruous mental picture of the meeting between “the stewardess and the fuhrer,” seeing a woman in an air hostess uniform discussing national destinies with Quil’raya. He kept his poker face, though.

The presence of the Iraqstani guards would certainly make it difficult for them to establish any kind of trust with the Um Lizaans, but the Brothers accepted it with resignation. Perhaps, with the Lord’s help, they could yet be useful. They nodded acquiescence to the Iraqstani officer at the checkpoint, Brother Greg said “I understand” to the warning about the minefield. At Akeem’s nervous exhortation, he drove forward, again checking to be certain that the other truck and the following Iraqstani vehicle were with them.

As they drove through the checkpoint, into the barren waste that lined the inside of the wall, he again “oriented” himself with the maps in his head. He was looking for what had once been a fairly major roadway that traversed along the principal river of the area. In several places there had been thick clusters of inhabitation, many years ago, some eighty or ninety kilometers along that road. It was unlikely that they had survived intact, but since they were along a road and near sources of water (assuming it had not been too polluted,) it seemed likely that they would find refugees there.

There was certainly no life along the first ten or fifteen kilometers. The “rebels” may have been watching from the hills; if so, either the presence of the Iraqi guards or, Brother Kiril suspected, an unwillingness to expose their positions to the Iraqstani surveillance, kept them from showing themselves in any way.

About fifteen kilometers in, the road should diverge… yes, there it was, ahead. He popped gently on his horn a couple of times, to alert the Iraqstanis ahead of them, and signaled his intention to diverge off in the direction of those old population centers.

Another thirty or so kilometers along, the sun was sinking quickly toward the western horizon. It was time to stop and make some kind of camp for the night. Again, he signaled the Iraqstanis ahead, and they pulled off at a flat clearing, with only a few sparse trees nearby and good lines of sight in all directions.

The first thing the Brothers did, after securing the trucks for the night, was to go aside and say Vespers together quietly. After which, they fixed a meal from travel rations, sharing their food with Akeem. The soldiers had their own rations. Brother Kiril was a fair camp cook, he could make even the reconstituted beans and rice palatable, adding a few seasonings and a handful of roasted nuts. After dinner, they took out their musical instruments, and played a few tunes, pleasant folk melodies from Becharist, Andalusia, and Bellaria. As the darkness closed in, they said Compline, and then unrolled their bedrolls between the trucks.

As pre-arranged, they sat their own watches, during the night, each man for ninety minutes, waking the next man. The stars unrolled over their heads like a tapestry. The night air cooled. But there were no small noises of birds or animals, no signs of life at all in this blasted landscape, except the struggling vegetation. Brother Ladis had the last watch, and in the faint light of false dawn he woke the others, so that Father Kiril could celebrate Mass. The Iraqstani sentries were a little surprised, but they were mostly ignored. By the time all of the Iraqstanis were awake and having breakfast, the Crosiers were ready to go. They would have their breakfast rations on the road. They wakened Akeem, and started the trucks.

It was not far, now, to where Brother Greg expected to see the ruins of the old Um Lizaani towns. The vegetation thickened gradually, and the road worsened, but the trucks were built for rough conditions, and if the ride was not exactly comfortable, they made steady progress.

As expected, soon a few crumbling collections of man-made artifacts began to appear here and there—mud bricks, burnt timbers that might once have been beams—outlying steads or farms, perhaps, from the days when there had been towns ahead. They continued on, and a wide loop of river came into sight.

It looked alright, though of course one couldn’t tell about moving water. Still, it was water, and moving, and that was encouraging. There would be some springs around, perhaps wells—suitable for human habitation.

They stopped for lunch. During lunch, Brother Kiril asked Akeem to assist with a translation, and they approached one of the men in charge of the Iraqstani security detail. They introduced themselves, politely, to all of the men, and requested introductions in return. Among their travel rations was some excellent dried fruit, which they offered to share. Finally, Brother Kiril brought up the delicate subject.

“Doubtless you know, that we are here to deliver humanitarian aid. We appreciate your protection very much, but we are also worried that fear of Iraqstani military presence might prevent those who need aid from approaching us or seeking our help. When we reach our destination, please make whatever checks you need to make around the perimeter of the area, and then send just one or two of your men with us to approach the people. You can keep watch at a distance, and if any problems develop, signal us promptly.”

ooc: damn HVS, just spreading that influence of yours eh? A swift and silent infiltration of the very fabric of NS politics. So fast that no one will realize it until too late. But I see it, and I'm watching you!

[paranoid tag]

Akeem watched awkwardly as Brother Kiril gave him what was needed to be translated. Clearing his throat Akeem quickly rattled off the Iraqstani translation which although similar to Arabic seemed a bit more stronger in the realm of german than it's neighbouring dialect.

One soldier, a captain stepped forward and cleared his throat "First, my name is Captain Lian bin Hamad, my soldiers and I have been discussing the strategy for this mission and we concur with your assessment. The rebels are rather reactive to the presence of Iraqstani peoples and whilst the reaction can be contained it sometimes spills over.

The places you are visiting are largely rebel occupied areas but they are more concerned with the fighting happening in other areas to show much care towards our movements. In fact we've sighted about four patrols through the growing jungle since we moved out of the check point patrol zone.

We will of course be glad to remain at a distance and warn you of any impending threat. Lieutenant Karmend who is the soldier with the blue eyes will take command of the security detail going in with you and the rest of us will remain along the perimeters.

I trust you know what you're doing since our job is to protect you not direct you." He speaks quickly his voice full of self-importance. Translating quickly Akeem looks over the Iraqstani men and back to the brothers a smile once more playing on his face as he waits for a response.

[tag: Excellent RPing]

The Crosiers smiled gently at all of the soldiers as Akeem translated. Brother Kiril, Brother Mikhel, and Brother Gregory, all of whom were fairly fluent in Iraqstani, waited politely for the translation, and nodded to Captain bin Hamad.

“Thank you, Captain. It will make our work much easier, if you understand what we plan to do and how, so perhaps this would be a good time to give you a more detailed briefing,” Brother Mikhel spoke slowly, to make it easier for Akeem, and the translator seemed quite proficient.

“As you are probably aware, the humanitarian supplies we have brought in are mainly designed to serve children, so we will be seeking out the areas where large numbers of refugees and displaced individuals are congregating. These areas are likely to be near water sources and older centers of habitation. Of course, we don’t know what we will find here in Um Lizaa specifically, but our experiences in similar situations is that mothers with children, the surviving elderly, and those who are ill or injured or otherwise no longer able-bodied are usually found in clusters. Sometimes they have a group of able-bodied men and women with them, sometimes not.”

“I am sure that some part of your responsibility here is to observe conditions, and perhaps report on indications of rebel activity; and while that is not the best situation for us, we do understand it and will not try to interfere with that in any way. But wherever possible, we’d like to minimize the element of, ah, provocation—that your presence might provide. It is not at all unlikely that clusters of refugees are in regular communication with rebels, and probably there are those among the rebels who have made it their business to, in a sense, ‘look after,’ groups of refugees. Please, if you observe such people in the vicinity of the refugee clusters, we would ask you to refrain from making any gestures that might be interpreted as hostile unless they attack you first.”

“Now, when we find refugee clusters, we will drive our trucks within hailing distance, stop, and all get out of the trucks. Then we will ask Akeem to speak to any people who may be visible, or to try and attract the attention of people, if they have hidden themselves. We’ll explain, through Akeem, that we have brought supplies for children, and ask their permission to bring the trucks closer so that we can set up our relief station. If we receive that permission, we will set up a relief station, and ask any leadership among the refugees to meet with us and tell us how many children are in the area.”

“We will ask them to have all of the children, and their adult parents or caretakers, if possible, approach us in an orderly queue, first, to receive food, clothing, and blankets. When we have distributed those resources, we’ll move on to vaccinating the children.”

“Usually by the time we get to that stage of the process,” Brother Mikhel smiled, “We have identified a few adults among the refugees who have taken the well-being of the children as their main concern. We try to meet with them, and explain the use of the survival-level edukits, and give them some help with basic first aid and nutritional education they can pass on throughout the refugee community.”

“Depending on how many children there are in a given refugee cluster, this process can take anywhere from hours to days. We camp in the relief center during that time, if needed. When we’ve completed all those activities for a cluster of refugees, we move on to find another. We’ll find as many as we can in three weeks, working roughly in an arc like this, following the river courses and the old roads,” he squatted, and sketched a rough map on the ground with a stick, “so that we are not far from the, uh, check point patrol zone, when we finish.”

He stood up, and smiled impartially at the Captain and the other soldiers. “Do you understand, then, Captain? Or have any questions?”

Listening intently Lian nodded apropriately and uttered a single word of agreement before taking a deep breath. "Very well, I will inform my men of the new orders and we will respond apropriately but I must also warn that whilst we are here to protect you I will also be watching you. These people are animals and will jump at any chance to gain an advantage. If we see any of you faltering or even seeming undecided in a course of action we will intervene.

You see suffering but we see vengance against traitors. These people will do what they can to destroy us and because of that we plan accordingly. I would be surprised if you are not attacked in the first villiage we come accross. foreigners are never seen here and they will take it as a chance to react violently.

As for the course you wish to take, there are quite a few settlements along the arc and many of them heavily populated, women and children for the most part men that are usualy too old to work the granted farmlands or mines. Any young men you see point them out, they will most likely be rebels or dissidents and we will watch them closely." He states staring directly at Kiril as the men behind him cover shock at the man's knowledge of the land around them. The captain ignoring the knowledge the man has of the place.

Nodding to his men Lian motions for them to their campsites before turning and smiling respectfuly to Kiril and the others. "We have much to prepare for tomorrow I suggest we all get a good nights rest." Nodding once more he throws a brief glare at Akeem before walking quietly off towards the other soldiers.

(OOC: The Brothers converse among themselves in ecclesiastical Latin—for convenience’s sake we’ll use purple font to indicate that.)

The Brothers nod politely to the Captain, and thank him for his understanding. As they return to area between the trucks where they had their equipment, Brother Gregory murmured “Err… are we going to ‘point out’ young men?”

Father Kiril sighed, keeping his face studiously bland. “We must at least give them credit for their face value intention to protect us, Brother, however we may suspect their possible ulterior motives. There is an armed rebel movement here, and it would not be at all surprising if the mere presence of the troops provoked them to attempt something. Nor would it be unheard of for them to attempt to rob us, although after our first distribution, when the nature of our cargo is clear, I doubt that will arise. Armed rebels have little use for baby food, toys, or children’s vaccine-paks.”

“You think the news of our cargo will travel that fast?” Brother Ladis asked.

Brother Michel smiled. “Count on it. They find ways to communicate, no matter what. We used to call it ‘lip radio,’ in the Vingallen refugee camps. They knew when another shipment of relief supplies was coming long before we did. Well, it seems the good Captain does not wish us to move into the first inhabited area yet today, so let’s make ourselves comfortable here for the night.”

Again, the Crosiers prepared a meal, and, as it was still light, Brother Sean went to one of the trucks and pulled what looks like a rag of leather from under the driver’s seat. He waved it at the others. Brother Kiril laughed, and waved his hand in a ‘no, not me,’ gesture, but the others all stood. Brother Gregory went to the back of the truck and got the emergency repair kit, with its hand-operated air pump, and brought it to Brother Sean, who used it to inflate the leather ‘rag’ into a ball.

“Hey, Akeem—do you play football? Soccer? Futbal?” Brother Ladis asked, as Brother Sean marked out a “goal” in the dust of the road. With a friendly gesture, they invited the interpreter to join them, if he wished.

“All right then. Ladis and I’ll take ye on. See if you can get one past me, then,” Brother Sean challenged, standing alert, elbows out, on the balls of his feet, before the ‘goal.’

“Right.” Brother Michel took on the challenge with zest, carrying the ball some meters down the road, standing to the side, and throwing it towards Brother Gregory. The burly-looking man proved surprisingly quick and agile, and although the much-younger Brother Ladis marked him determinedly, he managed to get off a pass to Michel, who lofted it towards Sean.

The Irish Brother caught it neatly, with a derisive noise, and heaved it back down the road.

Sitting off to the side the Iraqstani guard watch the brothers kick the ball about and shake their head, muttering all the time in Iraqstani as they set camp and sit down to eat some food. Nodding to two of the men the Captain picks up his rifle and flicks his finger slightly towards one of the soldiers who nod and stand his rifle head in his hands.

Walking off the side of the road the two disappear into the tree line and the rest go back to eating, watching their mark for a moment before casting an amused eye towards the brothers near them.

Akeem for his part watched fascinated by the antics of the men and walked down the road, stopping beside the others. "What all you do is kick that at him and try to get it past?" He asks curiously, watching them as the ball sails down the road and is caught by Gregory.

Off to the side the Iraqstani solders watch Akeem closely one yelling out "Careful with that scum, he might break something!" Before laughing and accepting pats on the back from his comrades who laugh loudly as Akeem turns to scowl at them before forcing himself to relax. "By god these men will be the death of me." He mutters quietly before waiting for his turn to kick the ball.

OOC - ICish TAG

Queen Mariah received a message from the Jeruselem Catholic Church after it was informed a Papal delegation had flown across Jeruselem into Iraqstan. "I hope they know what they are doing. The last thing we need is an Arab-Catholic diplomatic fiasco." she sighed.

As the byplay between the soldiers and Akeem had been in Iraqstani, the Brothers kept carefully “ignorant” of its precise content. It seemed that football was not an Iraqstani game—perhaps one of the few nations on Earth where it wasn’t. Too bad, thought Brother Sean. They’d have taken on the soldiers for a real game.

As it was, Michel nodded to Akeem. “Something like that. The marks Brother Sean has made in the road are the “goal,” and the idea is to get this ball over the marks, but not much higher than Sean’s big head. He’s the only one who can touch the ball with his hands, though, except when we throw it in from the side, like this,” he suited action to words, tossing the ball gently in Akeem’s direction.

Brother Ladis let Akeem get to within shooting distance before he deftly tackled, whisking the ball out from in front of the interpreter and giving it a good punt down the road. “Try again! Pass it around, I’ll have more trouble getting it away.”

They managed, ultimately, to get a couple of shots past Ladis and Sean, then switched, Michel defending the “goal” and Gregory and Akeem marking the attackers. Ladis was a dangerous opponent, quick and nimble, but Sean was no slouch. He managed a pass that gave Ladis an opportunity to bang a header over Michel’s shoulder almost immediately, and things got more intense from there. Eventually they called it quits at “evens,” breathing a bit hard, but grinning from ear to ear with the pleasure of the exercise.

Brother Kiril, who had remained by the trucks, watched the soldiers for a few minutes, noting the departure of two of their number, before settling in to write in his journal. He wrote a detailed journal each day, and gave it to Brother Gregory to read, in case the paper copy should somehow come to harm. Brother Greg’s eidetic memory relied on visual cues, and once he saw the written words, they could not be lost.

Returning from their breif sojourn in the jungle the two Iraqstani officers, stand off to the side watching the brothers and Akeem, their rifles held tightly in their hands, a look of alertness crossing their faces as they signal with hand gestures and body movements to their comrades who quickly disperse into positions around the campsite.

Waving Akeem over the commander talks quickly informing the brothers of a sighted group of armed rebels moving through nearby. Ordering his men into positions to watch the camp through the night the commander turns away slowly "Keep your possessions close to you tonight my friends. These filth wont hesitate to steal what they can and kill you after." He says as he returns to his men and begins organising the watch shifts.

Brother Kiril thanks the commander for his warning and concern. The trucks are always kept locked down, the Brothers habitually sleep under the trucks in minimal sleeprolls, their belongings locked in the passenger compartment. There is really little more to do to make things secure, but they do an extra circuit of the campsite to make certain no evidence of their passing is left. They’re surprisingly good at this, almost military in their discipline of cleaning up after themselves and leaving no traces (except the truck tracks, of course.)

“Armed rebels?” Brother Sean enquires cynically. Brother Ladis shrugs. “Well, there are some, certainly. Hardly surprising, poor buggers. Whatever it is, it’s something we’re not supposed to see or be curious about, so we’ll not see it, then, shall we?” The Brothers exchange glances.

They always set their own watch—as much to ensure that they are properly awakened for the night Offices, as for security. They retire early, after Compline, then the Brother on watch awakens them shortly after midnight for Matins, which they say quietly together without rising. The watch changes, and they sleep again until just before dawn, when the Brother on watch awakens them again for Prime and Lauds, and the conventual Mass. The Brother who’s done the bulk of the watching catches a snooze then, as the others prepare breakfast and get ready for the day’s journey.

The nearest population concentration—a combined shantytown/tent city that blends into the outer edge of a circle of destruction left by the obliteration of a town on the riverbank, is barely an hour’s drive away. Someone has made an attempt to organize it—there are latrines dug well away from the river, and a fenced area on the outskirts where a few scraggy goats are supervised by a dozen or so children with sticks.

“Tents” is perhaps too liberal a description for the cobbled-together fabric-and-plastic coverings draped over frameworks of just about anything that could be salvaged. Shanties have been constructed (and are still being constructed, slowly,) to replace some—again, from salvaged remains, and wood cut from the surrounding forest, which has been cut back in a large perimeter from the settlement. Perhaps eight or nine thousand people are huddled together here, in an area of not much larger than twenty-five hectares. Mostly women and children, a few elderly, some badly wounded or crippled men.

Brother Greg, who is driving the lead truck, slows and stops as soon as the settlement is in sight. Nodding to Brother Ladis and Akeem, they dismount from the truck. Brother Sean pulls up behind them, and he and Brother Kiril and Brother Michel also get out, and stand where they can be seen.

Walking easily, but slowly, hands free, Brothers Greg and Ladis, with the interpreter, slowly approach the children around the pen, followed by two soldiers. Three of the children have already left, making for the nearest shanties with flying feet. All of the children are wretchedly thin, most have open sores on faces and legs, none is dressed in anything like a whole garment. About ten meters from the enclosure, Greg gestures for the soldiers to halt, stay back, as he and Ladis and Akeem continue.

As they get closer, a group of three women, and a very elderly man, emerge from among the shacks, accompanied by a youth, perhaps in his late teens, rail-thin and ‘armed’ with a large, nail-studded board.

The Brothers stop at the edge of the goat enclosure, and seat themselves on the earth-berm that links bits of wire and woodscraps together to form it. They smile warmly at the children, and wait for the adults to approach, hands on their knees, smiling, silent.

When the Um Lizaani are within range, they stop. The young man calls out a challenge. “Who are you? What do you want?” He looks beyond them, down the road, where the soldiers are standing, guns ready, alert.

Glancing at Akeem to assure his readiness to translate, Brother Greg says quietly, “We mean you no harm, my friend. We are not Iraqstani, and although an escort of Iraqstani soldiers was the price for allowing us to come past the wall to bring medicine and food for your children, the soldiers will remain at a distance. As long as no one attempts to harm us, they have assured us they will harm no one.”

“We are Brothers of the Crosier Order, and our mission here is only to bring humanitarian supplies for children to your community and others near the Wall. If you wish our help, we will stay. But if you fear the soldiers, and want us to move on, we will do that, too. It is your choice.”

Akeem begins to translate his message as behind him the Iraqstani soldiers take a few steps back further from it all and quietly convese with themselves their weapons held ready but not pointed at anyone. As his words echo through the villiage the men and women seem to relax visibly their children looking out from behind their legs as their curiosity grows.

A man walks forward in his hands a small home made pistol is held he stops before the brothers and speaks quickly before looking at Akeem who turns to the brothers. "He wants to know why it is you've taken notice of their suffering. Why it's taken you so long to gather action. They dont trust us comrades but they're willing to listen to reason." He finishes flicking a significant look at the Iraqstani men further back.

For the villiagers part the children clutching their parents hands slowly walk forward their eyes full of fear but none the less curious about the new comers, the fact they indeed do look foreign pays weight to their words and maybe some truth but still the threat remains. Staring at the new comers the villiagers cluster together slightly their instincts in numbers taking over behind them more people appear from inside buildings and from behind houses the soft burning fires of communal cooking areas crackle in the distance.

Brother Greg listened to Akeem’s translation. He wasn’t the best linguist in the group, but his knowledge of the Um Lizaan dialect was sufficient to assess the accuracy of what was being conveyed. He kept his eyes on the young man—hardly more than a boy, really, rake-thin and with a bandaged arm, and answered seriously.

“The suffering of people here is of great concern to many. For us, we act because it is our purpose to relieve suffering; our faith enjoins us to this. As to how long it has taken,” he shook his head compassionately, and flicked his eyes over his shoulder, at the Iraqstani soldiers, without turning his head. “The path to Um Lizaa is guarded and controlled by others.”

Again without moving his head, he glanced at the makeshift pistol, then back to the young man’s face. “We understand that your people are not unprotected. The soldiers accompanying us tell us that their purpose is to guard our safety. We do not know of any other purposes they might have, but it might be well to give them no excuse to make searches or other annoyances to your people.”

“There are those among us who have medical skill. If you will allow us to stay, we will do whatever we are permitted to help sick and injured children, and those with them. Our supplies are entirely humanitarian—children’s meal packages, inoculations against diseases like typhus and cholera, water testing and purification kits, and other useful items. We can stay for two or three days, distributing these things to the children and their families, and teaching their use to those in charge here.”

As Brother Greg was talking, Brother Ladis was looking around at the people slowly gathering at a safe distance. All were starvation-gaunt, many with the dead, hopeless gaze of those who have resigned themselves to death. Many of the older ones—and some of the children—were missing one or more limbs, or horribly disfigured by injuries he flinched from imagining. There were rumors that Quil’raya had used landmines and chemical weapons here…

The children… he had thought he was prepared for it, but it took all his self control not to weep at the very sight of the pitifully emaciated babies lying listless in the arms of mothers who had already abandoned hope, the sores covered with flies, the children with adult eyes, accustomed to the most gruesome suffering and inhumanity… He understood, now, the warnings back at the preparation center, about anger. He found himself wanting to find the son of a bitch who had done this to these children and choke the misbegotten life from him. With an effort, he kept his breathing even, his face calm and pleasant.

Behind the group of brothers and Akeem the Iraqstani soldiers finger their weapons nervously, acutely aware of the stares of unseen villiages all around them. Muttering to themselves in their native tongue they eye the man infront of the group and notice the weapon held. Moving forward slightly they pause assesing the situation and come to a halt again. "Better not, be the cause for a firefight right now." One of the men mutters to the other who agrees and they once more return to watching the actions ahead of them.

For his part Akeem continues to translate the messages of his comrades to the brothers and vice versa, his eyes noting the movement of the guards as quickly as the armed man before them who lifts the weapon slightly. "No comrade, they mean you no harm! Dont make them come closer." He whispers quickly to the man and presses his hand against the other's arm.

Staring at Akeem the man simply shrugs off his hand and returns to griping the pistol tightly in his hand. "We have...many...children sick. Help us?" He manages in english, tired of using the translator as he motions with his free hand for the women to bring some children forward.

Brother Greg nods, reassuringly. “We will help, to the utmost of our abilities. Our materials and supplies are in the trucks,” he gestured at the waiting vehicles. “If we may bring the trucks over and park them here,” he pointed to the area beyond the goat pens, “we will begin immediately.” For, surely, there was no time to lose.

Brother Ladis nodded. His face was calm, but there was the tiniest of lines between his brows as he looked over at the waiting children and the women holding babies. Akeem explained, and, with a hesitant, still somewhat suspicious air, the youngster consented.

“You might mention to our friend here, Akeem,” Brother Greg said quietly as they made their way back to the trucks, “that it would probably be a good idea for him to, ah, disappear for awhile. Those soldiers noticed he was armed.”

With smooth, professional despatch, the Crosiers brought the two trucks up to the open space and parked them at right angles, forming an “L.” In the space bounded by the trucks they began unloading their supplies. It was a simple procedure. Brother Mikhel, the pediatrician, had a small area on one side, with an awning for shade, and an exam table assembled from sections of the specially-designed crates that held some of the medical supplies. Brother Ladis, who had taken a number of medical and first-aid courses, would assist him.

Brother Kyril, assisted by Brother Sean, also had an area defined by an awning. He assembled two of the edukits, with their simple projection screens. A Consolata Missionary Sister, speaking in the Um Lizaani dialect, had carefully recorded the material for both kits. One kit explained the use of the nutritional packets, how to prepare them for administration as baby formula, as a slurry cereal-like gruel for very small children, or as solid bars for slightly older children. Demonstrating as she spoke slowly and clearly, the Sister prepared each type, explaining the nutritional value of each and how much would supply the basic needs of children at various ages and sizes.

On the other edukit, the same Sister explained the use of the simple water testing and purification kits, and gave basic sanitation any hygiene information, suggesting simple techniques appropriate for refugee conditions, that would help control the spread of infections. Each kit ran on a loop of fifteen minutes or so, repeating endlessly. Brother Sean set them up near the end of one truck, with a clear space in front so that ten or twelve women or older children could view each kit, while waiting for their children to receive care.

Brother Greg went quietly to the river and drew some water. On the way back, he picked some of the scrubby weeds. These, with other materials he would collect unobtrusively over the next couple of days, would given the simplest of toxicity tests using the medical kits. The results would help them fine-tune the advice they would give on hygiene and care.

With kind but authoritative gestures, the Brothers organized the waiting women and children into groups, demonstrating that they would deal with a few at a time, and having Akeem explain that those who had the greatest injuries or illnesses should be seen first. Those waiting medical care could get supplies from Brothers Kyril and Sean, and view the edukit presentations.

Brother Ladis, whose anger had almost overwhelmed him for a moment, at the first sight of the devastated people, with their terrible wounds and illnesses, was calm and steady now, working under Brother Mikhel’s direction. It was not necessary to think about the horrors he was seeing, or how they had occurred. It was simply necessary to deal with them. The infected empty eye socket of a little girl whose face had been half burned-away by some terrible chemical; the listless, nearly-starved infant whose right arm had been cut off by the bayonet or machete or other blade that had left those terrible scars on his mother; the little boy, perhaps two years old, whose monotonous whimpers of pain were more animal than human, and occasionally choked off as he struggled for breath; they all passed before him as problems to be solved, with as much tenderness and love infused into the Brothers’ touch as possible. But with professional dispatch and detachment, nonetheless.

Later, perhaps, Brother Ladis would think about what he was seeing, and roll over into his bedroll under the truck and muffle his cries of rage and anguish in the rolled-up cassock that served him for a pillow.

With silent grace the wounded and sick women and children move through the lines, the children clinging to parents or friends of the family who have taken over raising the children after their parents had died. One such friend tells the story of how she became to raise the child of her best friend, whom she found executed on the floor of the family home after being beaten and raped, her husban was laying near her a single bullet hole in his head a victim of the Iraqstani rage.

The little girl in question sits on the woman's knee, her body abused by the weather and lack of food, her face a haunted image of childlike beauty whimpers at the touch of the brothers as they treat her for her ailments. A little way over a small boy moves about on makeshift crutchers his left leg ending in a bandaged stump his leg below the knee missing after stepping on a landmine weeks earlier.


Throughout the villiage the men watch closely their weapons concealed behind doors or behind their backs distinctly aware of the Iraqstani soldiers in the background repeating the same process on with weapons held ready and an intent to kill should anyone make a move. Talking quickly to one another the men of the villiage co-ordinate themselves to attack the Iraqstanis should they move to threaten the villiage, their crips voices reaching as far as Akeem and the brothers who are told in whispers what is being said.

"Comrades, these men are growing stressed by the Iraqstani presence, they're talking of forcing us to leave. They say we're causing added pain by being in the presence of the enemy's soldiers." Akeem whispers, his face taking on a mask of worry.