couple of minutes? This is important.’
The man’s eyes turned towards him, looking tired and bloodshot, the residue of decades of exhaustion and low-level alcoholism. After a moment, with a single eyebrow raised, he said, ‘There’s a boy waiting inside with a machete wound so deep that it nearly cut off his whole leg. And he’s the tenth child we’ve treated this morning.’ He paused, sniffing the air. ‘So I’m guessing what you’ve got to say must be pretty fucking important.’
He then gave a deep sigh. ‘I said, move it, Sabian.’
Christophe nodded, but as he turned towards the entrance, he motioned for Luca and René to follow.
‘We can talk more while I’m working.’
Following him into the medical tent, they passed a large area of low seating, packed with waiting people. They sat huddled together, their bodies pressed so close that their limbs seemed to meld together into a continuous line of broken forms. There was barely a movement from the entire group, as if a terrible apathy had infected every one of them.
Further back in the tent and stationed against one of the steel uprights was an operating table. On top of it lay a teenaged boy. He was rake-thin, with his shaved head bent low. His right hand clutched a bundle of gauze wrapped around his inner thigh, the fabric rust-coloured from dried blood.
‘How much morphine has he had?’ Christophe asked the assistant hovering outside the well of light.
‘Two point five mils.’
Christophe’s eyes widened in surprise. His assistant shrugged, both of them well aware of the lack of medical supplies. Donning a pair of plastic gloves, the doctor gently pushed the boy down flat on the table and peeled back the dirty bandages. A gaping wound ran right back into the underside of his leg. It was wide, the band of flesh raw and blotted with pools of new blood.
‘Staples aren’t going to work. We’ll have to do it the old-fashioned way. Get me a needle and sutures.’ As he started swabbing the grit and congealed blood out of the wound, the boy cried out in pain. His eyes were screwed shut as he tried to stifle his tears.
‘They pack dirt into the cut as part of a traditional remedy,’ Christophe explained, running his finger down the centre of the wound. ‘Plays bloody havoc with infection.’
A sterilised needle was passed to him and Christophe paused for a moment.
‘
Désolé, mais ceci te fera grand mal
,’ he said. Sorry, but this will hurt a lot.
The boy only nodded, clenching his fists tight against the sides of the operating table.
‘You need to understand something,’ Christophe said over his shoulder, as he drew the needle through one side of the wound. ‘Things are different now. Joshua disappeared north of the Congo River, somewhere in the Ituri Forest. Nowadays, no one goes anywhere near there. I mean, no one. Not even MONUC patrol that area.’
‘So what’s up there?’ René asked. ‘What’s happening to everyone?’
‘The LRA,’ Christophe said, his voice flat.
‘The what?’ Luca asked.
‘The Lord’s Resistance Army,’ René explained, scratching his stubble pensively. ‘They’re a nasty bunch from Northern Uganda, with one of the most murderous bastards in the world as their leader – Joseph Kony. I saw some photos of him once from this crazy war photographer who’d got in to interview him. They’re famous for stealing children, forcing them to kill their parents before they pump them full of drugs and use them on the front line. Less of an incentive to escape, you see? The kids can never go home again after what they’ve done.’
Christophe briefly turned back from his work. ‘You know your history.’
‘Yeah, I am afraid I do. But the LRA have been around for years. What’s suddenly changed now?’
‘After they got pushed out of Uganda, the LRA tried to establish a new base on the Congolese side of the border. Kony was basically defeated and left with just a ragtag bunch of child soldiers
The man’s eyes turned towards him, looking tired and bloodshot, the residue of decades of exhaustion and low-level alcoholism. After a moment, with a single eyebrow raised, he said, ‘There’s a boy waiting inside with a machete wound so deep that it nearly cut off his whole leg. And he’s the tenth child we’ve treated this morning.’ He paused, sniffing the air. ‘So I’m guessing what you’ve got to say must be pretty fucking important.’
He then gave a deep sigh. ‘I said, move it, Sabian.’
Christophe nodded, but as he turned towards the entrance, he motioned for Luca and René to follow.
‘We can talk more while I’m working.’
Following him into the medical tent, they passed a large area of low seating, packed with waiting people. They sat huddled together, their bodies pressed so close that their limbs seemed to meld together into a continuous line of broken forms. There was barely a movement from the entire group, as if a terrible apathy had infected every one of them.
Further back in the tent and stationed against one of the steel uprights was an operating table. On top of it lay a teenaged boy. He was rake-thin, with his shaved head bent low. His right hand clutched a bundle of gauze wrapped around his inner thigh, the fabric rust-coloured from dried blood.
‘How much morphine has he had?’ Christophe asked the assistant hovering outside the well of light.
‘Two point five mils.’
Christophe’s eyes widened in surprise. His assistant shrugged, both of them well aware of the lack of medical supplies. Donning a pair of plastic gloves, the doctor gently pushed the boy down flat on the table and peeled back the dirty bandages. A gaping wound ran right back into the underside of his leg. It was wide, the band of flesh raw and blotted with pools of new blood.
‘Staples aren’t going to work. We’ll have to do it the old-fashioned way. Get me a needle and sutures.’ As he started swabbing the grit and congealed blood out of the wound, the boy cried out in pain. His eyes were screwed shut as he tried to stifle his tears.
‘They pack dirt into the cut as part of a traditional remedy,’ Christophe explained, running his finger down the centre of the wound. ‘Plays bloody havoc with infection.’
A sterilised needle was passed to him and Christophe paused for a moment.
‘
Désolé, mais ceci te fera grand mal
,’ he said. Sorry, but this will hurt a lot.
The boy only nodded, clenching his fists tight against the sides of the operating table.
‘You need to understand something,’ Christophe said over his shoulder, as he drew the needle through one side of the wound. ‘Things are different now. Joshua disappeared north of the Congo River, somewhere in the Ituri Forest. Nowadays, no one goes anywhere near there. I mean, no one. Not even MONUC patrol that area.’
‘So what’s up there?’ René asked. ‘What’s happening to everyone?’
‘The LRA,’ Christophe said, his voice flat.
‘The what?’ Luca asked.
‘The Lord’s Resistance Army,’ René explained, scratching his stubble pensively. ‘They’re a nasty bunch from Northern Uganda, with one of the most murderous bastards in the world as their leader – Joseph Kony. I saw some photos of him once from this crazy war photographer who’d got in to interview him. They’re famous for stealing children, forcing them to kill their parents before they pump them full of drugs and use them on the front line. Less of an incentive to escape, you see? The kids can never go home again after what they’ve done.’
Christophe briefly turned back from his work. ‘You know your history.’
‘Yeah, I am afraid I do. But the LRA have been around for years. What’s suddenly changed now?’
‘After they got pushed out of Uganda, the LRA tried to establish a new base on the Congolese side of the border. Kony was basically defeated and left with just a ragtag bunch of child soldiers
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