TRAVELS IN AFRICA: CONGO, Running from Rebels, 1964, Part Five

Questions from a couple of readers invite these prefatory remarks. As must be obvious, the posts draw extensively, sometimes completely, from letters written at the time things were happening. The Situation reads as more dangerous than it felt. I do not recall ever feeling afraid during this time. However, I was very conscious of not dramatizing my life.

The previous post indicated that we evacuated Coq. Was that the right move? In my judgment “Tom Madison” should have sent his wife “Sally” to Leopoldville, as instructed, and then manned the post in Coq in a manner that served US and Congolese govt interests. But he did not want to be in Coq. The Madisons trying to get everything out of Coq, the rugs, the lamps, even “the expensive books,” must have struck Tom as the proper move. But, in fact, he was dismantling the post, hoping – perhaps unconsciously – that he’d never have to return.

Tom pulled us out too early. Our departure hastened the deterioration of the situation in Coq. Other expats assumed that with all the US resources at our disposal we were well-informed about what was happening. Therefore our departure signaled an immediacy of danger that did not exist.

That’s how it seems 40+ years later. For how it seemed at the time, read on.

As The Situation worsens, Fred spends an evening with the Andrés.

Fred swimming with Martine André, age six, in the Congo River

Continuing with the letter from 9/3/64:

Tuesday evening, language study night. Dinner as usual chez les Andrés. Jules and Thérèse in fine form. All went well at dinner; no outbursts from Jules, no scoldings of Thérèse. Jokes about the College where Jean-Luc and Yves start school next week. Yves complains that all they’re fed at school is rice; they’re being sent to China. Jules asks the names of the priests at the school. Jean-Luc knows them only as le Père Prefet, le Père this, le Père that. All titles. Jules inquires: “Do you know le Père Petuel?” The guys shake their heads. “Le Père Ceptive?” Jules asks. The adults laugh behind their napkins and the kids finally get it.

For some reason after dinner we three adults discuss wine ceremonies of la vieille Europe. I laugh at the formality of it all. Thérèse, on edge and suddenly offended, leaves the table, saying she will not discuss it further in my presence. “What can one do if he has an ironic smile?” I ask her, alluding to her tale of being given demerits at school simply for smiling at the teacher. She returns to the table. Jules recounts wine formalities with his usual enthusiasm and involvement: the cave, the cushion of earth on its floor, the testing and tasting, home-bottling, securing the right kinds of cork. Jules tells of the curé who knew the origin of every wine. How he would pour wine into his hands and sniff. As he tells his story, Jules sits there: pouring, rubbing wine into his palms, taking deep sniffs.

I sit there feeling an obligation to warn these friends of Tom’s decision to evacuate. I finally tell them. An abrupt change of mood. Thérèse puts her head down on the back of her chair, sitting sideways in it, and says nothing, worried, fearful, feeling abandoned.

Immediately agitated, Jules paces back and forth, words spilling out, bending down to me to make a point (I’m next to Thérèse, also sideways in my seat). At last he sits across from us. Thérèse stares at three huge beetles, long as a man’s finger, that the kids have hung on a bar of the small table lamp, their wings as glossy as hard shells. The stingers work (and even look rather) like a thumb and forefinger and the beetles hang from them. Before dinner Jules referred to the beetles as Yves, Jean-Luc and Benoit and now Thérèse taps one after the other and says: “A. N. C.” She laughs like a mischievous girl and begins to break up a little wooden match-box, arranging the pieces in a circle.

Jules says to Thérèse: “If we have to go this time, it’s finished.” He speaks of Australia. No, he won’t go back to the small-mindedness of Belgium. Thérèse’s head remains on the chairback. Jules says Belgium and the US are crazy ever to have mixed into an inter-African squabble. We have different objectives, take war more seriously. Africans like to palaver, the whole thing might have arranged itself. In any case our intervention has not helped. Perhaps. But US policy forces intervention because, whereas we talk continually of non-intervention, intervention is our real policy.

He concludes by saying that if we must leave, he hopes that it will not be too soon. I say I’m afraid it will be. Suddenly exhausted, he says goodnight. He goes upstairs to take a sleeping pill and leaves me with his wife. Thérèse and I start to work on English. A regular length lesson, late starting, followed by tea. It’s mostly talk which she and I both need. I return home at 1:15. Late for Coq.

Next report: Tom Madison makes his decision.

TRAVELS IN AFRICA: CONGO, Running from Rebels, 1964, Part Six

Tom Madison decides that USIS will evacuate Coq.

More from the letter of 9/3/64:

Wednesday there seemed no reason for a precipitate departure. That evening some packing for the C-130 scheduled to take out some of our belongings. I also wanted to write down a log of what has been happening. But too tired. Despite lack of physical activity came home feeling bushed. Up Thursday morning at 4:30 to write log-letter.

Thursday morning. Nothing pressing at the office and I suggest to Tom that I go pack since we are thinking in terms of living out of suitcases. I get Joseph out of the house, asking him to wash the car, and work leisurely, cleaning out the upstairs bedroom I’ve used as a storeroom.

I find Thérèse outside the André office as I am putting the typewriter in the car. She tells me that she passed by the Duriers the previous evening and stayed a moment. Coopmans also there. They all asked her if the Americans were planning to leave. She hesitates. What can she say? But she has always proved an accomplished evader of direct questions and she tells them: “You can’t imagine the amount of stuff Americans bring to a place like Coq.” And it is true that she has been flabbergasted at all the junk that Sally has. “They are getting out some of their excess,” she explains. She laughs to me, pleased at this cunning evasion.

Packing finished, I do some errands. Stop at the Commisariat de Roulage to straighten out a traffic ticket. At Bogaerts to order a new tire for the car (the spare is no longer good). Over to missionary Ruth Reed’s to pick up eggs for Thérèse and me. In her magasin Ruth puts her entire collection of eggs into a large basket. “Give these all to Mme André,” she says.

“All of them?” I ask. “Why?”

“Aren’t you leaving today?” Ruth asks me.

“Are you leaving today?” I ask, amazed. This is the first I’ve heard of it.

“I heard everyone was leaving today,” says she.

Glugg.

I go down to the center. Engulu, finally returned from Léo, is in the office. Tom stands at the door of the radio room. I ask him: “Are we leaving today?” He begins to explain. But this is no time for explanation; I ask only for the order. He says that Engulu sees no possibility of defending Coq. Tom has called for a C-130. The plane will be in at 2:30. Things are in a high state of nervousness.

I zoom out to see Thérèse and Jules. Break the news to Thérèse. Jules is off in the chantier trying to fix the dredger half-sunk in sand. I give Thérèse the eggs and tell her that she and the children can accompany us to Léo on this evacuation flight if she wishes. Momentarily she’s caught up in the temptation. “No, if I start running, I will never stop,” she says. I know exactly what she means.

Leaving, I pass our man Raphael who has a note for Thérèse from Sally. I take the note to her; it asks her to come immediately to the Madisons. Thérèse offers to explain to Joseph in Lingala that I must leave, but first she will pack a valise; I’ve offered to carry it down to Léo.

Go out to see Jules at the dredger. He has filthy hands and offers me his wrist to shake. I tell him that Tom has ordered our evacuation. “This is a mistake,” he says. “The Congolese will think you’re abandoning them.” He asks me to come for lunch if there is time. I ask him to come to the airport.

At the house I start Joseph wrapping the dishware. I pack suitcases. Thérèse arrives with the footlocker for the Andrés’ pied-a-terre in Leo. In sort of typical André style only one of the two hasps works. But bound with filament tape the footlocker stays closed. Thérèse explains all to Joseph and I give him a month’s salary (CF 2500), the ticket for the bike tires I’ve ordered for him from Bouks (due in the end of July, they have not yet arrived) and some old clothes. Thérèse goes to help Sally.

I finish packing by 12:30 and return to the office to pay the boys. We’ve told them to stay through the lunch hour, but two have gone. Pay Ahenga Raphael and Edouard, making petty cash receipts for each. Pay each two periods in advance.

Pass by the Madisons to pick up a sandwich and rendezvous with Tom before going to the airport. Everything is more or less chaos chez les M. Thérèse is the only person working in an organized, nerveless fashion. Tom screams at everyone. Sally is packing as she did last Monday when the place was a mess, her houseboys running every which way trying to get things done. Once again she has thrown everything all over the living room. She’s indulging an innate sense of drama. No wonder the boys are upset, scared, panicky; they take their cue from her. I get instructions and zip out to the airport. The plane – a Hercules C-130 – roars over just as I am leaving the Madisons.

Ndjili airport, Leopoldville, after the evacuation

Out at the airport the crew wonders what is happening. They’ve been deflected from a flight going from Katanga into Luluabourg to come get us. How many people? Who will they be? What’s the local military situation? I can’t answer this last. The only report I’ve heard all morning is that eight truckloads of rebels passed Mondombe earlier in the day. There’s also been talk of rebels only a little east of Boende.

Go back to the Madisons. Tom has returned to the Center. Sally asks me to boost his morale, to reassure him he’s done the right thing. In deciding earlier in the day not to question his decisions (a superior deserves at least that much support from an underling in a crisis), I’ve suspended my sense of analysis. At the center we are still trying to pay the boys. My job. Tom collects our pertinent files.

Everyone being paid, there is nothing more to do at the office. I take the truck and get my stuff out to the field and loaded onto the C-130. Missionaries begin to arrive. I talk to Betty Erlewine, asking if DCCM leader Dick Taylor and the other men have decided to go. She doesn’t know; it’s still up in the air.

Back in town we finally get the Madisons organized. Both the André pick-up and the Center Power Wagon are loaded to the gills with tiny boxes of God only knows what, every conceivable thing. It seems strange that, coupled with this hurried decision to evacuate, there should be this unwillingness to leave the tiniest thing behind. If we are really so concerned about the burden of the American lives that hangs so heavily on us in our unwonted consular function, why are we so concerned about saving plastic plates? Why so preoccupied with sending out the center equipment? The Ambassador himself has said, “Screw the equipment!”

Sally emerges. My god! She’s dressed to call on an Ambassador’s wife. She’s in one of those girlish frocks. Bien coiffed. The switch that’s peryoxide-streaked just like her own hair rests on her head like a crown. The wrinkles that made her look so overcome by events yesterday are under control; she’s taken ten years off her age. Fresh lipstick. Even the goddamned green mascara. What is this: an evacuation or a social occasion? Next to her Thérèse looks tired, worried. Who has really done the packing?

“Sally,” I tell her, “I have never seen anyone looking so nice for an evacuation!” Shame on me! But I don’t approve of anyone looking so modish in a crisis. If her husband really needs assurance that we are leaving A Dangerous Situation, why does she look like something out of Vogue? (That’s probably why he loves her. Perhaps that’s reassurance he really needs.) As my irony-edged compliment reaches her, Sally turns on her high heels and her face lights up with such pleasure at what she, a woman (almost 50), can still do to a man (hardly 30). How can you disapprove, even in a crisis, of someone as easy to make happy as that?

We begin to get people and their belongings onto the plane. DeChalan from the Hévea plantation in Bikoro has a Dutch woman with an injured leg and an infant he wants sent out. He also gives me a letter urging light plane evacuation of the other women in Bikoro. The Hobgoods and a British family of four come in on the Basankusu plane and evacuate with us. Will Dick Taylor go? I’m concerned that if he doesn’t, Tom won’t and Sally in her turn will refuse to go. Is it that Sally refuses to leave without Tom? Or that Tom won’t stay without Sally? Dick’s aware of this; I’ve made sure he is. Fortunately, everyone is to go.

Jules André is nowhere to be found. I go search for him. The waiting room is as crowded as it was the afternoon Benoit left. Two planes come in this afternoon. A concerned-looking Herman [the Center’s landlord, an early critic of US presence in Coq] calls to me, his disapproval obvious on his face. I can’t find Jules anywhere. I say hello to the taciturn Houzé. “Vous partez?” he asks me. “Oui.” We say nothing more. His expression hardly changes, and he does not even look at me so much as at the huge plane out on the field. It’s big enough to put a house inside.

Still that small exchange makes me realize what the Europeans will think: that we’ve fled. (I feel that is what Houzé would call it). Unable to find Jules, I seek out Herman. He’s concerned about his building and I explain the set-up to him: Rent continues as usual, Edouard has the keys, we will correspond with him, when necessary, through regular channels until they are cut off, then through his bank. Tom went over this with me earlier in the day, wanting to push the Herman visit off on me. Herman tells me, “There are 100 women and children who should be gotten out of here.” He’s obviously concerned about his wife and children. He says that Jules has gone into town to write a letter to the Belgian Embassy seeking evacuation facilities for Belgians. He does not return before the plane leaves.

The flight down was no sweat, about an hour and a half. Hank Clifford, branch post coordinator, USIS Admin officer Charlotte Loris and Mowinckel’s secretary Marge Eckels met us at the plane. I’m staying at a basement apartment at the Cliffords; they are three weeks away from leaving, their tour finished. Thye’ve just had their sixth child. Dinner Thursday night with them, the new BPAO in Eville Ralph Smith and two contract English teachers whose courses with the ANC were recently cancelled.

Early to bed to read my mail and get some sleep. It’s been arranged that I will fly north the next day, first, to Gemena and then back to Coq to help evacuate refugees. If you are a good boy, you get to evacuate twice.

Next post: Fred flies the next day to evacuate missionaries from Gemena and friends from Coquilhatville.

TRAVELS IN AFRICA: CONGO, Running from Rebels, 1964, Part Seven

Tom Madison, the USIS officer in charge of the American Cultural Center in Coquilhatville in the northwest Congo, decided to evacuate the post in the face of rebel advances toward Coq. The evacuation impacted the American reputation in the town. But was it truly justified? An account of the immediate aftermath:

After we arrived in Léo, Tom and I drove in to give a report to the Embassy’s Political Section. There was “surprise” that we had come out so soon. Tom began justifying himself, bad tactics in my judgment. Dick Matheron, down on consultation from Bukavu, asked me if I’d like to come up to USIS Bukavu. I encouraged his interest (why not?) although I said I was taking off for Europe as soon as possible. A C-130 was scheduled to fly into Coq the next day (9/4) and I decided to hitch a ride in order to help any Belgian women and children who wanted to evacuate. Sent a radio message via UN radio to Jules.

Next day we flew up to Gemena with a planeload of ANC reinforcements for the Ubangi. Gemena’s a tiny town in the middle of nowhere. We flew over endless miles of scrub country under a dark sky. The pilot suddenly sighted the airstrip, pointed to it and we headed in. Barrelled in low and fast over the runway to check that it was safe to land, then we circled, came in and put down just long enough to get the troops off.

I sought out the MEU representative, an African-American missionary. “How’re things up here?”

“Everything’s pretty calm.”

“Your people getting out to Bangui?”

“Most of ‘em. I’m staying on for a while.”

At Gemena: offloading ANC soldiers, onloading refugees

Wished we could have had a real chat. As we left Gemena, Congolese tried to rush onto the loading ramp. Paratroop guards had to point rifles at them to discourage them from boarding.

As I expected in Coq, there were no Europeans stuffing the runways waiting to get out. The Andrés’ white BMW was there with Thérèse and the kids all ready to go. Since there was time, we went back to the house and had some lunch together. The kids seemed excited by the prospect of flying in the big plane, but had no sense of evacuation. It was just a convenient way to get to Léo. Thérèse was to have taken the kids down via Air Congo the next day anyway to put Jean-Luc and Yves into school.

During lunch Jules complained that my message had made him the man to see for evacuation. “Portuguese kept coming to me this morning, saying: ‘We understand that we have to see you, M. André, to get a place on the plane.’” Very important in the colon minds not to have been the first to run. I’d compromised Jules’ continued stature in the community.

But he’s been sympathetic to my situation. He spoke of “brave types” suffering in ‘60 when their panicky bosses yanked them out. He feels we pulled out too early, too hastily, thought we’d have difficulty returning at a later time to re-establish ourselves. The Congolese and Belgians will not respect our values, he feels; they’ll think we ran too fast. After this lunch I felt Tom and I (or one of us) should return to Coq to man the Center and act as a listening post until the town is more obviously threatened than it had been so far.

During dessert Maitre Herman came in, seeming like a child who hangs around another family’s house at meal times. He was, however, duly offered a beer which he took. Seeing me, he gestured thumbs-up. We shook hands and the depth of his gratitude seemed embarrassingly close to the surface, particularly since he’d been so critical of us yesterday. (After he left, we laughed about this. “Today it’s thumbs up for the Americans,” said Jules. “And yesterday it was thumbs down!” I added.) Herman asked to speak privately to Thérèse. We all knew he was asking her to keep an eye on his wife. Finally they returned. Thérèse looked rather as if she’d been raped – although she’d known all along that this favor would be asked of her. She seemed surprised she’d survived. Herman smiled, relieved, and shook hands all around; he gestured thumbs up again and left. Thérèse kept mumbling about “cette personne” and her “crise de nerfs,” at least it was “crise de nerfs” before the children.

At the airfield Mme Herman was sloppy drunk. She’s never struck me as the sort of woman who belongs in the Congo. Her mind’s too sharp, too raffiné. Trained as a lawyer herself she worked up her husband’s briefs. But her unusually alert mind seemed to unbalance her, deprive her of adaptability to Congo life. She’s been an occasional victim of “crise de nerfs,” as it’s called in town, and I’d heard whispers about the problem. Now she could hardly talk. She kept walking around, her hair frizzy and sticking out on all sides, dragging a coat and complaining loudly to her husband that she had left out of her suitcases “the new blue blouse that you’ve never seen.” Herman called after her ineffectually to get her to remain at the car until the crew was ready to load passengers. Her two children, smart-alecky types, alert but undisciplined, danced around getting in the way, the little girl coming up to shake hands with me five times a minute and calling out, “Bonjour, Monsieur!” in a sing-song voice. Poor kids. Their mother probably embarrassed them to death. At one point after take-off the boy finally said, “Shut up, Maman.”

In handling evacuees one grows accustomed to seeing people stripped of all their defenses. I was pleased how everyone made the best of the situation Mme Herman created. The officers and crew members were solicitous, walked her onto the plane, assured her that all baggage would be taken care of. We boarded fathers and sisters from the Catholic Mission in Lisala, trying to get their names and nationalities so they could be radioed to the various consular officers in Léo. Most of these missionaries are Flemish, blond, with faces right out of Van Eyck, Memling and Breughel. They’re stubborn and contrary. Finally got them all on.

The Herman kid comes zipping out at his mother’s request in a final effort to do something about the new blue blouse. I take a head check. Thérèse sits in the dark front of the plane, “cette personne” beside her, talking confusedly to its not quite certain whom. Thérèse sits stiffly forward, clutching Martine, staring straight ahead. All seats are taken; some men must sit on the floor. They clutch the freight lining the center of the plane on take-off and landing. With the center aisle full of freight, there’s no room for my car.

Outside a crowd of Congolese wants to board the plane. Many of them get nasty when I do not allow them on. Since I am the only American who speaks French, I’m charged with selecting and loading passengers. The Congolese insist: “These are our planes,” or “These planes are under the control of the Congolese govt,” or “It is not right to evacuate Europeans when there are Congolese wanting to leave,” or “This is a proof that the US is a racist country.”

This last charge irritates me. I tell them that another C-130 is coming in. They don’t believe me. Fortunately, as the first one is about ready to take-off, the second arrives. We end up boarding most anybody with a legitimate reason to go: Army people, more European evacuees, the President of Moyen Congo province and two of his ministers. He looks like a college student dressed in a sport shirt and slacks; it’s all he could get out of Lisala with, he tells me. Even take the wife of a local provincial minister who carries an infant and a huge washtub full of possessions, the whole business wrapped up in mammy cloth.

Next post: Fred tries to wangle a return to Coquilhatville.

TRAVELS IN AFRICA: CONGO, Running from Rebels, 1964, Part Eight

As it becomes clearer to Fred that Madison’s precipitate evacuation from Coq may damage his reputation, he tries to wangle a return to the Equateur. The reaction in Léo: Get lost!

Evacuating refugees from Coq: in the plane flying back to Léo, I become more and more convinced that Jules is right. If we do not return almost immediately to Coq – even if it means living out of a packed suitcase and doing nothing but tending the radio – we may jeopardize our entire investment in the town. An American presence must be there, I feel, until things get a great deal worse than they are at present. Tom radios the plane, wanting to know if he can pick me up at the airport. I suggest he come without Sally so that we can seriously discuss the possibility of a return.

But when we arrive, Sally is there with him. Madison’s handling himself badly. He still needs support that he’s done the right thing, but I begin to suspect he does not want to go back merely out of fear for Sally. He’s afraid. He dismisses my suggestion of a return. We’ll jeopardize our investment, I argue. Then I realize it’s an investment to which he has contributed almost nothing. Despite his protests – “I can get along just fine in Coq. What do I care if the job’s below my capabilities?” – probably he’s wanted to get out all along.

I try to suggest that he not justify his decisions. As the man on the spot he knew better than Léo people what was best for our personal safety. Justification only places questions in the listener’s mind. But assuming a positive stance, exuding confidence, takes more political savvy and more brazenness than Tom possesses. Instead, he wants every sympathetic ear to hear the story. He’s even begun to say: “I’ve been criticized.” “Oh, no!” reply his listeners. “Not really!” And they go away mulling the criticism. Sometimes Tom obligingly details the charges.

Back in town I want to see Mowinckel to tell him we must get back. He’ll still be at the office, if I can get there. But instead I get involved in settling Thérèse and the kids into the pied-à-terre. (I’m happy at last to be able to do something for the Andrés who’ve done so much for me.) But by the time we’ve delivered luggage and gotten keys and made certain that Mme Herman is set up, it’s well past 7:30. I’ve missed Mowinckel. There’s some big ball at the DCM’s house to which he will surely be going.

A C-130 loads refugees at the Coquilhatville airport

I can’t see Mowinckel the next day either. He’s entertaining USIA wheels from Washington. Tom tells me he’s been informed of my feelings and wants to hold off for now. I go over to the Embassy to try to sell the idea of our return to Political. One of the girls in Personnel greets me cheerily: “You were afraid up there, weren’t you?” Even though she knows nothing of the situation, the implied criticism stings me. Our manhood’s being called into question.

As I’m giving my pitch to the Political Section, Tom walks in on other business. (I give the guy real credit for being so patient with a subordinate who’s trying hard to force him into a spot where he doesn’t want to be and who’s undermining his confidence.) We leave POL together. He says nothing till we’ve driven to USIS. Then he counsels: “I don’t think it’s wise to talk about a return to POL. State has different objectives than USIS. Let them send their own man.”

Sunday night there is a cocktail party at Mowinckel’s apartment for the USIA wheels. Tom is looking worse and worse. The ravages of worry are showing in his face; his skin has grown flabby, pasty; he’s lacking sleep; his manner is defensive. He smiles obligingly to everyone, courting support wherever he can find it. But his spirits have somewhat revived due to a rumor that Boende has fallen to the rebels. “There’s nothing like experience, old boy,” he tells me with the ingratiating, exonerated closed-mouth smile that reduces his eyelids to mere slits.

At the end of the party Mowinkel tells me he hears I want to go back. With the air of a parent soothing an excited child, he advises: “Calm down. Let’s not think about it now.” What I think about it is: to hell with the whole thing.

After Mowinckel’s cocktail I go with the Madisons to Thérèse André’s pied-à-terre. The kids are already asleep on the floor, stretched out on air mattresses. With Thérèse are M. and Mme Nizet; he’s a conseiller working closely with Justin Bomboko, an Independence-era politician from the Equateur who still has influence. The Nizets have spent much time in the Equateur and Monsieur wants detailed information about the situation in Coq. We get out a map and go over what we know. Nizet feels that the Central Govt must act to save Coq. Bomboko’s the logical man to push this aid. Not that Coq is particularly worth saving in itself. But it’s the gateway to Léo. Its fall could have tremendous psychological impact.

Nizet and I get into cars. He leaves his wife at home and I follow him out beyond the city into the suburb of Djelo Binza. Nizet has a casual appointment with Bomboko, but he’s not home. The night guard doesn’t know where he is. Nizet goes inside to call around and returns ten minutes later having found no one. We wait, chatting. Nizet says it is always like this. Much important business is conducted at night, at midnight conferences such as this one would be. But often ministers go out without leaving word of their destination. Finally there seems no more point in waiting. It’s almost midnight. I try to reassure Nizet of my willingness to help in any way. We drive back into town.

Early Tuesday I receive a phone call from California, where it’s 3:00 a.m. Tootie, Dad and Bob [my twin brother] have tried all night and most of Labor Day to get the call through. Plans are all set for me to meet Tootie and Dad in Rome. All seem relieved I’m out of Coq, Tootie especially. She’s glad I will be in Paris tomorrow. They’ll get ready for their trip in peace. Not to have them worried about me is a relief and compensates in part for my disappointment in leaving Coq.

What was Donanne doing at this time? Having returned from a summer with her parents at their Foreign Service posts in Cambodia and Malaysia, Donanne arrived at UCLA to begin a year-long master’s degree course in Library Science.

Next post: Fred does not go to Paris the next day.

TRAVELS IN AFRICA: CONGO, In Limbo in Léo, 1964, Part One

Fred Hunter was evacuated from his post as a USIS officer at the American Cultural Center in the northwest Congo at the orders of the senior officer Tom Madison. Fred felt the evacuation was precipitate and jeopardized the investment he and the US had made in the town. He agitated to return. His account:

Fred Hunter

Late August, 1964

On Tuesday morning I concentrate on getting the Wednesday evening plane out to Europe – although I still feel we should return to Coq. I accompany Charlotte Loris, the USIS admin officer, to the APO to pick up mail. I have the feeling that Charlotte – who has always seemed so loyal – is casting off her moorings to me. Suddenly I realize that criticism of Tom’s decision to evacuate can attach itself to me. (“Well, Hunter was there; surely they must have talked this over.” Or: “Why didn’t he stay then if he thought the evacuation was premature?”)

I also begin to understand that in a bureaucracy success and survival are achieved partially on the basis of disassociating yourself from the mistakes of others. This produces a sick feeling in my stomach when I think that all my work in Coq, my struggles and loneliness and hard times, will come to nought in the stigma of this criticism. I discuss the matter briefly with Charlotte. We talk turkey. She advises me to make it clear to Mowinckel that I had no part in the decision to leave.

My opportunity comes when John calls me into his office. I sit down and he says: “I’m wondering what you want to do when you come back from leave, Fred.”

“It doesn’t matter particularly,” I tell him. “I’d rather have a project than be assigned to odd jobs.”

“I thought we’d put you to working in Press.”

“That’s fine.” It sounds like odd jobs. Phil Mayhew, my evacuated counterpart from Stan, has been writing picture captions for about a month. Nervously I start: “Say, John, I–” I’m looking down at my hands. “I want you to realize that I wasn’t consulted in the decision that brought us out of Coq.”

“Oh, I understand that.”

“You know I think we ought to return.”

“Well, I couldn’t go to the Ambassador with that the day after you evacuated. He’d have gone through the roof.”

“I’d like to go back. I’m afraid we may lose everything we’ve put in there. We can’t expect our audiences to accept our information if they don’t respect us.”

“What’s this with Madison? He won’t go back without his wife?”

“Something like that.”

“You go on to Europe. You’ve been looking forward to this vacation.”

A solitary lunch. The idea that the Coq experience should end in failure and vague disgrace depresses me. I’m nervous as I eat.

Back at the office I approach Mowinckel. “Look, John, why don’t you let me postpone my vacation?”

“What about your plans?”

“I haven’t any specific plans until mid-October when I meet my parents in Rome. What if I went back up until, say, October 10?”

“Let me check this out with the Country Team.” He calls Colonel Raudstein, the US military attaché. Mowinkel quotes him as saying: “Hunter can do a better job than that horse’s ass you’ve got in charge up there.” Mowinckel will discuss the matter with the Ambassador and let me know the outcome.

Before dinner a message to call Hank Clifford, the Branch Post Corrdinator. I phone him from Thérèse’s pied-à-terre. The Ambassador, he tells me, has approved my return to Coq. I’m to hitch a ride the next morning on Bugsmasher, the six-seat military attaché plane. It’s flying to the Equateur to get a situation report on Boende. I’m delighted. Relieved to feel the worry drop away, pleased to have another chance to prove myself in Coq. And yet at times in Léo I’ve noticed a tiny, almost secret feeling of relief that I no longer have to face the uncertainties of Coq. Now I have to face them again and without even a radio. (Bucks-conscious Madison made sure we brought that out.) Still I haven’t wanted to feel that I run the first time in my life that I’m confronted with danger. Do I think I’m living in a movie? Let’s hope not.

Next post: Fred’s allowed to return to Coq. But is this wisdom? Or folly?