Mary begins her time with Médecins Sans Frontières

Takes place between chapters 1 and 2 of 'Watersheds' (/s/9616904/1/Watersheds) filling in some of Mary's story.

Trigger warning: famine, disaster area, mentions stillbirth, mentions death in childbirth

2002 found Mary packed onto a transport plane flying into Luanda International Airport, Angola. The cabin was crowded and noisy with one of the first waves of aid workers flying in to help the starving communities ripped apart by war and famine. They would be assigned to teams and distributed about the country to provide medical care to the sick and dying.

She could hear some of her travel companions were excited, expecting thrills and adventures. Others were obviously nervous of what they would find, either being too loud and boisterous, or sitting, introverted, losing themselves in their own minds.

Mary kept her own council. She knew there would be no thrills, no adventure, just heartbreak and sorrow while the aid agencies distributed food to keep the population alive as best they could until the rains came. This is what she had trained so hard for, completing all her necessary studies and her Diploma in Tropical Medicine from the London School of Hygiene and Tropical Medicine. Once her six months in Angola were over, she would be heading to Ho Chi Minh City in Viet Nam to join the Oxford University Clinical Research Unit there, researching infectious diseases. She just had to get through this six months.

The landing was hard, stepping into Africa's searing heat was even harder. Collecting her heavy back pack she waited to be allocated to one of the buses that would ferry them to their next location.

Someone nudged her shoulder. "We're not in Kansas anymore, Dorothy."

Turning to face the man who'd invaded her space, but too tired for anger, she was prepared to give him a dirty look. Instead her expression softened as she looked up into smiling brown eyes and a cheeky grin.

"Hi, I'm Chuck Stewart, from the US, like you couldn't guess."

"Mary … Morstan from London. That's in England."

The towering brunette belted out what could only be described as a guffaw. "Yep, I deserved that. I apologise for my country folk who know nothing of the world. I however, do have a passing knowledge of global geography. For example, I know Angola is one of a growing number of countries in the continent of Africa."

Mary smiled back, stifling a laugh. "Good to know. I'll know who to rely on if we get lost."

Chuck grinned back. "Hell girl. I like you. I was sitting next to a damn tight-ass on the plane. Didn't talk or anything. Just read a book the whole way here. I'm stoked to meet someone with some spunk."

Mary found she liked this brash American. He was all bonhomie and sass. An appealing combination.

They were directed to a half empty bus, where they squished onto the small bench seat just big enough for two, their packs on their laps. Being a little over five foot four, Mary struggled to see anything but the side of her backpack as it spent the journey wedged between the seat in front and her face. It didn't stop her animated conversation with Chuck.

He was born in Toledo, graduated from Stanford, moving to San Francisco to practice Family Medicine. Being a gay man, San Francisco seemed the place to be with its reputation for openness and acceptance. He'd created a life for himself there with friends and lovers. Being a doctor, and cautious, he'd been careful who he slept with, preferring relationships over hook-ups. It probably saved his life as AIDS ravaged the community. Unfortunately many of his friends and acquaintances were less fortunate. With little known of the disease that had swept through the City by the Bay, taking gay and straight alike, Chuck had decided to change his life and help others, as he could not help his friends and could no longer bare to watch them die. He began to volunteer for MSF. This was his fifth assignment, starting in 1994 with Rwanda. He'd seen human despair caused by war, famine and disease, and still he wanted to help.

Mary told him that this was her first time out, but she wanted to specialise in tropical medicine and volunteering for MSF had been recommended as a way to get much needed 'on the ground' experience. She hadn't expected to make many friends, having been warned that many of the volunteers, in their down time, released the tension with casual sex and 'disaster romances'. Since that was not of interest to her, she'd fully expected to spend much of her time alone, with the men uninterested in a woman who wouldn't put out, and most of the women viewing her with suspicion. It was what she had experienced throughout her adult life, outside her small sphere of close friends. She saw no reason for it to be any different here.

Chuck bumped her shoulder again. "Hey kid. I'm gay. I don't want your body, and I'm certainly not looking for a, what did you call it? A disaster romance."

"Yeah, like a holiday romance, but a lot less picturesque."

"Sounds gross. Lets you and me buddy up. Watch each other's backs. Keep the vultures at bay. What'd'ya say?"

"Sounds like a plan to me."

-0-0-0-

They'd been driven for hours over unmade roads through what looked like desert. Only the acacia trees and the skeletons of both wild and farm animals showed that this had once been a thriving ecosystem.

They arrived at a sprawling complex of huts made of wood, mud and corrugated iron, surrounded by a sea of tents. The stench of death and decay was everywhere. The only sounds were the buzzing of flies and the distraught wails of women. Mary could see children, so many children, their bones visible through their skin and their bellies distended by malnutrition. She was used to the noise children made. How they laughed and shrieked. Here they were eerily silent, watching the progress of the convoy of vehicles with sad, despairing eyes, unable to muster the energy to swat the flies that swarmed around their faces as they stood on legs so wasted it was a wonder they could support them.

Neither she nor Chuck were laughing now. Once she had accepted the horror before her, her mouth became a thin line of grim determination. She would do everything she could to help these people. They were not subjects or work experience, they were human beings in desperate need of help to survive. Help she could give.

She was billeted in the women's quarters, allocated a bunk and given an orientation tour of the encampment. Water and food were strictly rationed with priority water use for drinking and maintaining cleanliness in the hospital. The hospital itself was situated in the mud brick buildings she had seen on the way in. There was a clinic, and a series of wards for the most desperately ill. A feeding station operated out of the tent next door.

Taking a moment to unpack her possessions and organise her bunk, Mary headed to the mess tent to grab some refreshment with the other newbies. She spotted Chuck amongst the twenty or so people seated at the tables, and made her way over to him. Spotting her, he shuffled his bum along the bench to make room for her to sit. He grabbed a tin mug from a stack in the middle of the table and offered her some water from a jug. A tired looking woman dumped a bowl of some kind of porridge or oatmeal in front of each of them. This was obviously lunch. Grabbing spoons they dug in hungrily, well aware that this was the only food available until the evening, and considerably more than the poor devils outside had to eat. Mary knew it would be easy to feel guilty about the luxury of three meals a day when children were starving to death mere yards away, but she knew all too well that she needed to stay strong and healthy to be effective.

A loud banging from the front of the room drew almost everyone's attention to a tall, blond, bear of a man. His face was stern and his arms crossed across his chest as he surveyed the room.

"Welcome. I am Dr Illarion Borodin. I am the senior administrator of this camp. My decision is final. There is no room here for freelancing or showing off. You do what you are told by your supervisor, no questions. You obey the rules. Any infraction will see you sent home. This is a disaster area not a holiday resort. I'm sure I do not need to tell you that food and water are strictly rationed. Exceeding your rations is theft and will not be tolerated. I know, as doctors, your first feeling is to save lives. Understand this, food and drugs are strictly limited. Each dose is carefully measured and accounted for. It will be hard, when you see babies dying and mothers pleading for your help, but the rules are there for a reason. Giving more than the prescribed amount of food, water or medication will not help your patient, and may well harm your next patient by depriving them of essential supplies. It will not be easy, but you must stand firm. We have over two thousand people outside needing our help. Many will die, some are already beyond saving. It will tear you apart, but breaking the rules will not help them. Only slow, methodical treatment can save these people until they are able to look after themselves. If you have any questions, ask your supervisor or myself."

Suddenly, Dr Borodin broke into a small smile and his hands dropped to his hips.

"Now, I have scared the bee-jeezus out of you, let me introduce myself properly." His pronunciation was a little heavy as his Russian accent mangled some of the words. "I have been with MSF for seven years. This is not my first rodeo and it will not be my last. For many of you this is your first time and it will hit you hard. You will want to sneak your rations to starving children, you will feel guilty at every mouthful of food and every drop of water, you will want to work every hour to help just one more child. I tell you now, don't. You need to stay healthy if you want to help. If you get sick you become part of the problem. Take your medications, use your mosquito nets, eat your rations, and drink your water. Sleep and relax when you can. If you feel yourself getting overwhelmed or see a colleague suffering, let me know. We don't need you breaking down. It helps no-one. There is no shame in asking for help, and if you need to leave then so be it. We will not blame you. This is hard for anyone. I spent twelve years in the army, first for the Soviet Union and then for the Russian Federation. I have been in war zones, and I can tell you, this is easily as bad, if not worse, than any war I have seen. Do not think any less of yourself if you struggle. I tell you now, you will have nightmares, you will feel guilt, and you will feel anger and despair. It is natural. It is expected. There are people here who are trained to help you, but you must trust us." Finally he clapped his hands together to bring the meeting to a close. "You have each been allocated to a supervisor. When we call your name, make your way over to them. You start tomorrow. In at the deep end. Take the time tonight to sleep and recover from your journey. Tomorrow the hard work begins. Goodnight."

-0-0-0-

Dr Borodin was not lying when he said it was hard work. Chuck and Mary spent the evenings when they weren't on duty talking, reading or playing cards in the mess tent. They had been there about a month when the administrator entered the tent, taking a moment to scan its occupants before making his way over to the duo.

"Good evening. May I join you?"

Mary patted the bench next to her. "Here you go doctor. Take a pew."

"A pew?"

"A seat. I mean, yes, please join us."

"Thank you." The blond looked a little uncomfortable, not quite sure what to do or say next. Chuck solved the problem sticking out one of his great paws in a handshake.

"As we haven't been formally introduced, hi, I'm Chuck Stewart, from America."

Dr Borodin smiled a little uncertainly before shaking the offered hand.

Mary stuck her hand out in the direction of her boss. "Hello. I'm Mary Morstan, from England. It's a pleasure to work with you Dr Borodin."

Shaking the small hand, Dr Borodin smiled a little more. "A pleasure to meet you both. Please, call me Illarion, or if you prefer, Illy."

Chuck grinned, his face open and welcoming. "Nice to make your acquaintance Illy. Can I get you a cup of water?"

"Thank you, yes."

And so Illy became the third part of their little group. Over the next few weeks, as they became more familiar and relaxed with each other, Illy's story came out in dribs and drabs. He was born in Ukraine near Donetsk. His intelligence had soon ear-marked him for higher education and becoming a doctor seemed to fit his natural talents. After graduation he was conscripted as a doctor in the Soviet Army, being deployed to an active warzone for the first time in Afghanistan in 1988. After the breakup of the Soviet Union, Illy stayed in the army, fighting for the Russian Federation. He'd have preferred to return to Ukraine, but his young wife was from St Petersburg and she wanted to remain close to her family as her husband was often on deployment. Illy had seen action in the Georgian Civil War and Chechnya. It was in the summer of 1996, whilst we was based in Grozny, that his life took a dramatic turn.

His wife, Galina, was expecting their first child, due that October. Illy wanted to be at home, but was trapped in the base in Grozny by Chechen rebels who had infiltrated the city. The fighting was brutal, and it was the civilians who paid the price. Unable to identify the Chechen fighters, Russian troops were ordered to round up 'collaborators' from the civilian population in the city, torturing them for information before executing them. Threats and ultimatums were traded between the Russian and the rebel forces. Terrified, the remaining civilians tried to flee the city as it was bombarded, destroying homes and damaging a hospital. The refugees struggled from their homes in straggling columns, seeking refuge from the warring factions outside the city, only to be decimated by artillery fire. It was only after the ceasefire at the end of August that Illy was allowed to leave the base to treat the wounded. He was greeted by scenes of carnage that turned his stomach.

With his wife due imminently and fresh relief troops arriving, Illy's commanding officer ordered him home. He finally arrived in St Petersburg on 13th October to be told by a neighbour that his wife had been rushed to hospital. Arriving, tired and nearly out of his mind with worry at the Saint-Petersburg Paediatric Medical Institute he found his life devastated. His wife had undiagnosed placenta praevia. When she had gone into labour she had begun to haemorrhage. Had they known of her condition, a caesarean delivery before her labour began could have saved her and the child. As it was, both died within minutes of each other. Illy kissed his wife goodbye and held his beautiful daughter they had chosen to name Irina, meaning peace. His life was in ruins.

He became depressed, drinking heavily and threatening suicide. He was lucky not to be hospitalised in a psychiatric institution. As it was, Galina's devastated family rallied round him, holding him together while he was quietly discharged from the army, too unstable to continue.

He needed to do something. He needed to make a difference, and he needed to get away from Russia. When a colleague suggested offering his services to a humanitarian aid organisation he jumped at the chance. And so began his time with MSF.

Illy had no interest in womanising with the young female doctors and nurses who passed through his camps. He had responsibility for their well-being, and anyway, there would never be another for him. He loved his Galina and would be faithful to her until death. However, he often found himself isolated by his position, and the loneliness of his loss. It was pleasant to be able to relax in friendly company with none of the expectations that normally occurred in such a group.

-0-0-0-

Over the course of a month or so, they'd exhausted almost every topic of conversation, book, and card game they could think of, including the strangely named pinochle that every American seemed familiar with, but the rest of the world knew nothing about. Wracking their brains for other sources of amusement, Mary muttered wistfully that it was a shame they didn't have a dart board.

"Dart board?" Illy was confused.

"Yes, little arrows that you throw at a board on the wall. You have three darts per go. You score different points depending where you hit on the board. The idea is to get to three hundred and one before your opponents. It's very popular in British pubs."

"Yes, I think I've heard of it. How about, as we do not have a dart board, we use knives instead?"

Chuck looked a little bemused. "You mean throw knives instead of darts?"

Illy nodded. "Yes. I'm very good. I can teach you. It's not difficult, even for women. It's all about skill not strength. I have my knives we can use. I carry them for protection, but we can use them for this. I'd prefer to use them for fun. It is a better use for them than killing."

And that was how, for the remainder of her six month deployment, Mary laughed, learnt to play pinochle, was lectured extensively on the difference between Russian and Polish vodka, became an expert on the rules of American football and baseball, and learnt to swear fluently in both Russian and Ukrainian with a smattering of Chechen. She also became relatively fluent in conversational Portuguese and Bantu, the better to talk to her patients, some of who recovered and grew strong, but too many of whom slipped away as quiet bundles of skin and bone.

Ho Chi Minh City seemed like an alien world after Angola. She'd bid a fond farewell to Illy when she left their aid station, and she'd tearfully parted from Chuck at Luanda airport where she boarded her flight to Viet Nam via Australia.

I've obviously never worked in a humanitarian aid camp, so I've made a stab at what it's like, the feelings aid workers must go through, and the hardships they endure both mental and physical. If I've got anything wildly wrong, please let me know and I'll correct it.

The 'casual sex and disaster romances' was a guess having been completely hooked on M*A*S*H in my youth.

My version of the battle of Grozny has been pieced together from accounts on various websites. I apologise if it is inaccurate.

My sister suffered placenta praevia and was hospitalised for 6 weeks before the birth of her child. We discussed at length what could have happened if she'd been left undiagnosed or if she went into labour prematurely.

Reviews are always welcome. I'd love to know what you think.