Savage Hours

With executions by the sea

"I'll aim right for the head," declared a smiling Liberian soldier. Said another: "I hope I get the first shot." A third promised a foreign journalist: "Don't worry, we'll kill every one of them." On a beach in the capital of Monrovia, the new military rulers of Liberia last week executed 13 members of the civilian government of President William Tolbert, who had been killed in a coup d'etat ten days earlier. Among the witnesses at the savage ceremony was TIME Nairobi Bureau Chief Jack White, who sent the following report on the first days of the new regime:

The wellspring of Liberia's revolution is revenge, the hatred of the native "country people," who constitute 97% of the population, for the "settlers" descended from American slaves who have dominated the country since its founding in 1847. For more than a week, reports had circulated that 91 former associates of Tolbert would be executed. In fact, trials were already under way for 14 defendants, including the late President's elder brother Frank and the former Foreign Minister, C. Cecil Dennis. In all cases, the charge was the same: "High treason, misuse of public office, rampant corruption, and gross violation of human and constitutional rights." While the five officers on the tribunal looked on in boredom, the defendants tried to speak above the clatter of a typewriter. They had no counsel. As some of the defendants began to testify, they were admonished by the tribunal chairman, Colonel Frank Senkpeni, to "keep it short."

As the trials continued, the leader of the coup, Master Sergeant Samuel Kanyon Doe, 28, was settling in as head of state. Each day began with a flurry of announcements. He decreed, for example, that all members of the national football team would go on the government payroll, and that the date of the coup, April 12, would thenceforth be known as National Redemption Day. At week's end he imposed martial law. Several times a day he roared out of the executive mansion in his Mercedes limousine to visit schools, markets and other gathering places. Wherever he went, thousands of chanting women--who, like Doe, belong to Liberia's long oppressed country people --romped and shouted in the streets. At his first foreign press conference last week, Doe strode into a ballroom at the executive mansion wearing a wide-brimmed army ranger hat, freshly pressed fatigues and combat boots. He carried a ceremonial sword under his arm and a .357 Magnum revolver on his hip. Then, in a halting voice, Doe read a prepared statement in which he repeated his earlier charges of corruption against the former regime. "When things begin to get on the right track," he promised, "we, the men and women in arms, will return to the barracks, where we belong." After briefly answering two questions, he sat down. His hew Information Minister, Gabriel Nimely, then announced, in a flat voice: "Ladies and gentlemen, there will be some executions at 2:30." A reporter asked who was being killed, and Nimely replied: "Enemies of the people." The execution of former officials had been strongly opposed by several foreign countries, including the U.S., as well as by civilian members of Doe's own government. But in the end, the sergeants had their way.

The scene at the seaside Barcley Training Center that afternoon was like a festival. Thousands of civilians waited in high excitement as Doe's motorcade arrived. Workmen busily mounted five telephone poles in the ground alongside four that were already standing. In the meantime, the 13 condemned men were locked in a small white minibus 200 yds. away. The officers' tribunal had sentenced only eight of them to death, recommending life sentences for the other five. Nonetheless, the 17-member Peoples' Redemption Council, headed by Doe, decreed that all 13 should die. The council showed clemency, however, in sparing the life of a 14th defendant, former Information Minister Johnny McClain. It was his good fortune to be one of the country people.

As the crowd waited impatiently, nine of the condemned men were dragged from the bus, shoved against the telephone poles and tied up. Then, for perhaps 20 minutes, they waited desperately while the firing squad tried to get itself organized. Cecil Dennis, one of Africa's most respected diplomats, stood impassively as soldiers heckled him. Frank Tolbert collapsed in a faint or, perhaps, from a heart attack. Charles King, a member of the House of Representatives, looked around nervously, as though he expected to wake up and find it was all a dream. The officer in charge struggled to unjam the rifle of one member of his firing squad. Finally, at 3:43 p.m., he gave the order, "Squad, fire!"

It sounded more like a firefight than an execution. For nearly three minutes, the firing squad discharged volley after volley at the targets. Cecil Dennis continued to stand upright, his eyes closed, as one errant shot after another was fired at him by his executioner. Finally, another soldier stepped out of the ranks and killed him with a sustained burst of automatic fire.

Even before the bodies of the first nine victims were removed, the remaining four had been bound to the posts. They went down in a fusillade of fire that lasted five minutes. Many of the soldiers in the rear formation joined in. As the shooting stopped, a great shout rose from the watching mob: "Freedom! At last we have our freedom!" Some of the soldiers rushed forward to kick and pummel the corpses.

The ceremony at an end, Sergeant Doe's limousine sped through the crowd toward the main gate. As it left the training center, the Mercedes-Benz passed two trucks arriving with four additional telephone poles. They had reached the camp half an hour too late for the show. -

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