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Anyone with a radio set—either transmitter or receiver—was considered a spy, calling in "Yankee" help against the cause. Sister Anne-Maria Merkens, mother superior of a mission hospital at Bondamba, 300 miles northwest of Stan, owned a tiny transistor radio. Simbas in leopardskins appeared in mid-September, accused the nuns of sending messages to the Americans, even though the radio was only capable of receiving signals. They returned a few weeks later, killed the mission's cows, stole its chickens and rice. On their next visit, they abducted schoolgirls aged 7 to 14, spent the night sniffing dope, dancing and raping. Finally, in November they "arrested" Sister Anne-Maria and another nun, forced them to strip, and locked them up in Basoko with 16 other nuns, 23 priests and three civilians.
"The next day, Nov. 11, the Simbas heard two light planes overhead," Sister Anne-Maria recalled last week: "In rushed a Simba, who with a sweep of his spear brushed the table clean. Shouting accusations that we had summoned the Americans, the Simbas attacked the priests. They hammered them mercilessly with sticks and rifle butts until nearly everyone was covered with blood and bruises. Then we were marched outside, told to strip off all our clothes, and ordered to sit down." Naked, the nuns were beaten fiercely, locked up without food and clothing for 24 hours in a small room. "Again and again they promised to kill us or eat us alive or throw us into the river in sacks."
Finally the priests and nuns were taken to Stanleyville to join the rebels' other hostages. By now the leaders were trying to barter the lives of their prisoners for a ceasefire.
To the Inner Station. Negotiations started in Nairobi, under the auspices of Kenya's Prime Minister Jomo Kenyatta, chairman of the Organization of African Unity's Congo Reconciliation Commission. Posturing in his orange sport shirt among the mangoes and moonflowers of Jomo's garden, the rebel "Foreign Minister," Thomas Kanza, presented his conditions: hostages would live if Tshombe's Congolese army immediately halted its drive toward the rebel capital. That was tantamount to demanding a legitimate government's surrender to the rebels.
Moreover, it was becoming increasingly clear that Gbenye's control over his savage Simbas was fraying, and that unless something was done immediately, the hostages in rebel territory would be massacred out of hand. U.S. Consul Hoyt and his four aides were under threat of death for most of their three-month captivity, at one point were told to eat slices of an American flag ("We just made like we were chewing it," said Vice Consul David Grinwis. "It was a very durable flag"). Early last week, Gbenye himself fed the fires by telling a cheering crowd: "As fetishes we will wear the hearts of Belgians and Americans; we will dress in the skins of Americans and Belgians."
On instructions from Washington, U.S. Ambassador William Attwood broke off the talks. To save the lives of the hostages, the 600 men of Belgium's crack Regiment Para-Commando, led by a stocky, balding Africa hand, Colonel Charles Laurent, 51, would have to live up to their motto: Nee lactantia Nee Metu (Neither Boasting nor Fearing). They did.