Still hoping that he wasn't all alone, I sent my aide-de-camp and the sharpshooter to look for signs of life.
We were seven weeks into the genocide, and the RPF, the disciplined rebel army (composed largely of the sons of Rwandan refugees who had lived over the border in camps in Uganda since being forced out of their homeland at independence), was making a curved sweep toward Kigali from the north, adding civil war to the chaos and butchery in the country.
Having delivered our precious cargo of innocent souls, we were headed back to Kigali in a white UN Land Cruiser with my force commander pennant on the front hood and the blue UN flag on a staff attached to the right rear.
We were in a ravine lush with banana trees and bamboo shoots, which created a dense canopy of foliage.
A long straggle of deserted huts stood on either side of the road. I grabbed the boy and held him firmly to my side as we instinctively took up defensive positions around the vehicle and in the ditch.