The Angel Medallion

The Angel Medallion

I couldn’t believe I’d let Jeff talk me into this. I was supposed to be on a mission trip in Kenya, helping to build an orphanage for children whose parents were AIDS victims. Instead, I was in a jeep with three other men and one woman, and Khalid; our driver, listening to an Arabic CD. We had left the “Food For The Hungry” camp in Amman, Jordan, at seven-thirty that morning, bound for Baghdad, Iraq.
“Come on, Rick,” Jeff had said. “These people need our help. And we’re not going to be near any fighting. We’re just going to take some side roads until we reach Baghdad. We’ll drop off the food and supplies, and then we’ll go back to Jordan and fly home.” Yeah, right.

“Jeff, have you gone completely insane?” I had bellowed. “You’re crazy! ‘We won’t be near any fighting’? Yeah, right! The whole country is a battle zone! I’m not going. I’m thirty-nine, and I’d like to live to be forty! I’ll go anywhere, but I draw the line when it comes to going to Iraq. End of discussion!” But here I was, in a jeep, with crates containing boxes of food and supplies packed into—literally—every empty space. There was no room to move, and my legs were stiff and cramped.

Khalid’s words at the beginning of our journey had sent chills down my spine. “Out here, it’s every man for himself. There’s only one object to this game: SURVIVE. Do you understand? Good. Let’s go.” Oh, how I wished I had my old police pistol! Instead, I had my laptop computer and my Bible. I pulled out my laptop and sent a hasty email to my friends and family: “Pray for us. We’re headed for the border into Iraq. No time to write more. PLEASE pray for our safety. Love, Rick.”

Suddenly, a white van came into view behind us. Was it a group from Food For The Hungry? Or…was it a group of Iraqi Fedayeen insurgents? Khalid wasn’t going to hang around to find out. Our jeep roared forward, bouncing over potholes in the road. My head banged against the roof with every inch that we moved, but I wasn’t complaining. Suddenly, I saw the van pull up alongside us, and I noticed that the men wore Arab clothing. Khalid sped up again, and so did the van. This time, we all noticed that the men held AK-47 rifles—and they were aimed in our direction. (See, Jeff? I TOLD you this wasn’t a good idea!) Khalid made one last, desperate attempt to outrun the Fedayeen van—but it was too late. The van swerved in front of us, blocking our escape route. I saw the jeep behind us slow down, as if to stop and help us, but then the driver shook his head sympathetically (and a bit fearfully) and carefully drove on. The entire caravan roared past us, as we sat there stunned.

Khalid raised his hands in a gesture of peace, but the Fedayeen leader smirked and approached the jeep. I was trembling slightly now. What did these men want? Sometimes, they just wanted to rob you and take whatever they could—but other times, they took prisoners to prove a point to the Western world: they were powerful, they had weapons, and they could do as they pleased.

“Pray,” Jeff hissed through clenched teeth. The Fedayeen leader reached for the door handle and yanked open the driver’s door of the jeep. Khalid didn’t protest, but I saw terror in his eyes. One man, with all of his face except for his eyes hidden by a black-and-white veil, motioned for us to climb out of the jeep. Numb with shock and terror, we stood next to it with our hands raised. The leader pointed to himself and uttered one word: “Haji.” I guessed that that was his name. Then he said “Shu ismak?” and gestured towards us.

“He wants us to tell him our names,” Khalid translated. “Do it. Don’t make him mad.” So we muttered our names, being careful to avoid making eye contact with Haji.
He seemed satisfied, and stepped towards me. I flinched, expecting a slap or a gunshot. None came. Instead, he pointed at my pockets. I stood there, confused and dazed. He shouted, and pointed again. He wanted me to empty my pockets. So, I pulled out a photo of my wife and kids, my cell phone, a tiny angel medallion, and a mint. The man scooped up the photo, glanced at it…and tore it into several pieces before giving it back. Then he pocketed my cell phone and the angel medallion, and glanced at my hand. 'Please, please, not my wedding ring,' I prayed. He unfastened my watch, and would have taken that, too—until he looked at it. It was a cheap plastic thing, covered in mud and paint from a recent construction job in Peru. Disgusted, he handed back my watch, and moved on to Khalid. Apparently, he hadn’t noticed my wedding ring. I glanced at the torn photo of Erin and the kids (six-month-old Caroline, eight-year-old Keith, and ten-year-old Caitlin) and sighed. I would tape it back together later…and buy a new angel medallion too.

Haji motioned for us to climb into their van. He climbed into the driver’s seat and started the motor while we squeezed into the backseat. We were surrounded by Fedayeen, and one of them was pressing his rifle into my back. I tried to turn around, but he growled something without words and jabbed me sharply with the rifle. His message was clear: We weren’t going anywhere that he didn’t want to go. Haji reached for the volume knob and turned the volume on the radio up—WAY up. The music was blaring, and he had made his statement clear: He, and ONLY he, was in control. We were helpless.

One of the men turned to me and asked me a question in Arabic. When I didn’t answer, he slapped me hard across the face with his opened palm and asked me again. “Hey, Khalid?” I muttered through clenched teeth. “Will you translate for me?” He nodded. “Tell these guys that I don’t speak Arabic, and that yelling at me and slapping me is not going to make me understand the language any faster.” Khalid turned to Haji and spoke to him in rapid Arabic. Haji smirked, and answered curtly in the same language. Khalid turned back to me.

“He says, ‘Too bad,’ ” he said apologetically.

I grimaced. “Lovely. I guess you’ve earned a new job, then: interpreter.” By now, the Fedayeen were getting annoyed with the English conversations that they couldn’t understand, and Haji was getting a dangerous look in his eye. Wisely, Khalid and I stopped talking. With a shaky sigh, I turned to look out the window.

Jeff was muttering to himself, obviously praying. Katie had her eyes closed, and Khalid was wide-eyed with terror. This was not the way things were supposed to happen. I could only hope that the men would let us go soon.

They steered the van off the road and into the vast, empty, desert. Haji and Saied talked loudly in Arabic, laughing wildly. The drums from the Arabic music pounded in my ears, and I closed my eyes. The heat and noise were making me feel sick, and my head was throbbing. I longed for the Advil that I had left in my suitcase in Amman, but it was too late now. We were far into the desert now, and I could no longer see the road to Baghdad. I hoped my family had gotten my email. Right now, we needed prayers much more than they realized.

Suddenly, I realized that I might not make it home. Our lives were in the hands of the Fedayeen, and it was their decision whether we lived or died. 'No….' It was a silent but desperate cry. I began to pray harder than I had in my life. 'God, please…keep us safe. Let me live, let me live to see Erin and the kids again. I just want to see my family….please, God, help us!'

At that moment, I spotted something that made my hopes soar. In front of the van was a military checkpoint booth packed with American Marines.

My heart skipped a beat; I had a feeling about what would happen next. I scanned the interior of the van. “Everybody take cover. Protect as much of your body as you can. There’s a checkpoint up ahead, and something tells me these guys aren’t going to slow down or stop. There’s going to be a big gunfight before this is over.” We were rapidly approaching the checkpoint, and I braced myself and prepared to dive onto the floor.

As expected, Haji didn’t slow down. A spray of bullets bounced across the hood of the van as the Marines fired a volley of warning shots. That did it. In seconds, the air was filled with flying bullets as Haji, Saied, and the other Fedayeen immediately returned the Marines’ gunfire with a burst of machine-gun bullets. Now, heavy gunfire from both sides was echoing around us. We cowered in the backseat, covering our heads and necks as best we could, as bullets flew.

“These Marines must be the most accurate shooters in the world,” Jeff remarked sarcastically from his spot on the floor next to me. “Apparently, they can fire into a crowded van and hit the insurgents but miss the American hostages!”

“Hey,” I answered. “At least they’re on our side. We may get out of here yet!”

At last; Haji, Saied, and the other Fedayeen climbed out of the bullet-riddled van with their hands raised. Haji’s shoulder was bleeding profusely from a gunshot wound, but I felt no sympathy. (In fact, the sight made me want to laugh out loud.) Three Marines handcuffed Haji and the others and took them away, while the rest of the Marines helped us out of the van and into a nearby Humvee. I was shaking, and someone put their arm around me. “It’s all right…you’re all right now. Everything’s fine. Relax,” a soothing voice was saying. Military medics offered us food and water as they treated the minor injuries that several of us had received from the Fedayeen.
I turned to thank the Marines that had helped us. They had saved our lives, and I wanted to let them know how grateful we were. I was still clutching a card with a painting of an angel that I had hidden from Haji. I pulled the crumpled card out of my pocket and looked at it.

Wait a minute…. My head jerked up, and I stared at the female Marine that was treating the cut on my shoulder. She looked EXACTLY like the angel on the card! I stared at the card, then at the Marine, back to the card, and finally back at the Marine again. She got to her feet, gave me a small smile, and disappeared into the walled checkpoint booth.

“Wait…” I called out, but she was already gone. Khalid was staring at her too.

“What in the world…..?” he gasped. We shaared a glance, puzzled. Before I could say anything, the Humvee was pulling away from the checkpoint and into the busy streets of downtown Kirkuk, Iraq.

I never did find out that female Marine’s true identity. But I do know this: Someone was watching out for us that day.
As for whom that female Marine was, I’ll let you decide for yourself…..