by Dan Danyluk
It was April 1961. Two miles south of the airport, heading into Albertville in what was then known as the Democratic Republic of the Congo. My driver pointed left, slowed the jeep, and spoke: "Yesterday. That's where they killed and ate the Irish patrol."
"All 13?" I asked, confirming the news I had heard earlier in the capital city of Leopoldville.
"Yup! Hacked them up with pangas--you know, machetes. Guess they were hungry--those Balubas."
The driver's casual reasoning startled me. But being exhausted, I said nothing. Instead, my tired mind retraced the events...