Rescue The Captors

By Russell Stendal

The terror began on August 14, 1983. American bush pilot Russell Stendal, on routine business, landed his plane in a remote Colombian village. Gunfire broke out throughout the town and within minutes Russell's 142 day ordeal had begun. The guerrilla fighters explained that this was a kidnapping for ransom and that would be held until payment was made.

Held at gunpoint deep in the jungle and with little else to occupy his time, Russell began to write. He told the story of his life and kept a record of his experience in the guerrilla camp. His "book" became a bridge to the men who held him and now serves as the basis for this incredible true story of how God's love penetrated a physical and ideological jungle.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Ransom Press International
• Release date: Oct 14, 2019
• ISBN: 9780931221248

Russell Stendal

Russell is the oldest of Chad & Pat’s four children. At the age of four while his family was living in Minneapolis, Minnesota, he prayed and asked God to call his parents to be missionaries. God answered that prayer and within just a few years the whole family was in Colombia as missionaries. He married a lovely Colombian lady named Marina and they have 4 children, Lisa, Alethia, Russell Jr., and Dylan. When Russell was 27 years old, he was kidnapped by the Marxist guerrillas called the FARC. The story of his kidnapping is told by him in the book he wrote titled Rescue the Captors. His reason for the title is because he realized that his captors were more prisoners than he was. There was a chance he would be released, but most of his kidnappers were young boys who had been taken from their families, given a weapon and taught to kill. They are threatened with death to themselves and/or their families should they try to escape. Not to mention their spiritual captivity. Russell formed a publishing company called Ransom Press International. He has published about 20 books in English and some 40 Spanish titles. Most of his time recently has been editing the Spanish Bible written by Casiodoro de Reina in 1569. Russell has been running a 24 hour Christian radio station out in the southeastern plaines of Colombia, which reaches into an area that is mostly guerrilla controled, but also reaches some drug traffickers and some paramilitary. There is a link at the bottom of this page that will take you to a website in Spanish with lots of pictures of Russell and his work. Russell also has an extensive ministry as guest speaker in churches around the world. His speaking is unique in that he is very sensitive to the Lord’s voice and does not hesitate to deliver that which the Lord has imparted to him, no matter how uncomfortable it may be to him personally. Above all, Russell desires to have a pure heart and clean hands in order to bring forth the unadulterated word of God, with a humble attitude.

Book preview

Rescue the Captors

The true story of a kidnapped jungle pilot, written from within a Marxist guerrilla camp in rural Colombia, South America.

Russell M. Stendal

Contents

Preface

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Epilogue

Appendices

Why Pigs Don’t Fly

New Birth

Right Be-Attitudes

Fatal Tailspins

Forgiveness

Repairing the Breach

Narrow Gate, Golden Rule

About the Author

Special thanks to my wife, Marina, and brother Chaddy, who risked their lives to negotiate my release; my mother and sisters who contributed so much support; my father who wouldn’t quit until I was free; and the thousands of people who prayed for me and supported my family during this most difficult time. Above all others – thanks to God who answered our prayers.

Preface

I’m not a professional writer, as evidenced by the fact I got good grades in high school, with the exception of composition. If I hadn’t been forced into such an unusual circumstance, I never would have written this book. The pressures and the setting under which I drafted the manuscript affected both its content and style. My daily performance as a captive of the guerrillas seemed to be akin to that of the fictional heroine Scheherazade in One Thousand and One Arabian Nights. It was of utmost importance to hold their attention and buy time for them to understand and accept my motives for living in Colombia before they killed me, because they thought I was someone I wasn’t.

When I edited the manuscript prior to publication, I was tempted to return to the drawing board and rewrite it. Most of it seemed to be about my most spectacular mistakes and failures as well as the subsequent lessons I learned from them. However, these very human episodes became the stories that impressed my captors and caused them to consider their failings. I could have focused on experiences that might have painted me as a big hero with a white hat, but doing so would have defeated my immediate purpose and ultimate success with the guerrillas.

You may not agree with everything I’ve written, because I’m even a little shocked as I reexamine some of what I wrote while in captivity. That is because the viewpoint of a prisoner in a guerrilla camp is different from that of someone with an ordinary life in the United States.

I’ve gone against the advice of some literary experts, and I’ve turned down several flattering offers by publishers who wanted to take my experience and commercialize it. Instead of having a ghostwriter wrap my story around a theme that would sell, I presented it exactly as I remember it happening. I trust that what is lacking in literary style is offset by sincerity and authenticity. The following story is accurate to the best of my knowledge; names, places, and dates have not been altered in any way.

To Manuel

Me (on left) with my siblings and mother about the time we left for Colombia when I was eight.

Chapter One

San Martin, Colombia

August 14, 1983, 6:00 a.m.

It was a beautiful morning without a cloud in sight. My Cessna 170 Taildragger accelerated down the runway and rose swiftly into the crisp morning sky. The old plane performed noticeably better with the recent installation of a Bush Short Takeoff and Landing (STOL) kit.

My Colombian friend Gilberto occupied the copilot’s seat. He had wanted to experience his first visit to the plains country – what we call llanos in Spanish. After we departed our hometown of San Martin in southeastern Colombia, Gilberto was fascinated with the beautiful hills and onrushing streams of the landscape that passed beneath the wings.

Our first stop was the town of Mapiripan on the mighty Guaviare River. We delivered a packet of mail to my brother-in-law Raul, a flight dispatcher for the local airline and the town schoolteacher. Then we began the ten-minute flight to Chaparral, our family ranch. When we arrived, we entered the ranch house to chat with my younger brother, Chaddy. He reminded me that Carlos, the town council president of neighboring Canyo Jabon, was expecting me to meet with the local businessmen and fishermen. They wanted to buy my large cold-storage room and other equipment necessary for the wholesale fishing business.

The business had become inoperative because communist guerrillas had invaded the area a year earlier. Because we were American, they singled my family and me out for their terrorism. This became obvious and personal when they opened fire on our other plane, a Cessna 182, just as my father was taking off on a mission with a sick Indian woman and other passengers onboard. Fortunately, no one was hurt, but they hit the plane in the right fuel tank and shot bullet holes in the cabin section. Dad continued his takeoff and managed to escape to San Martin by relying on the undamaged left fuel tank. We concluded that we could no longer operate the fish business because it required us to fly into that area on a scheduled basis, which would create opportunities for an easy ambush.

Forced from the fishing operation and out of the area, I moved to an apartment in Bogota, the Colombian capital. The apartment was part of the purchase arrangements for the Cessna 182 that we’d repaired and sold to pay fishing business debts.

I planned to give these business activities a low priority in order to spend as much time as possible working with my Colombian friend and partner Ricardo Trillos. He was starting a nonprofit family counseling and reconciliation ministry in Bogota. We strongly believed that family issues were the root of Colombia’s tremendous social and moral problems. The country was drifting out of control and moving toward anarchy as terrorists, mafia groups, government forces, and right-wing factions battled for control in a never-ending, many-sided, forever-escalating war. It was nearly impossible for honest businessmen to make a living or for people to find respectable employment.

My wife, Marina, was opposed to my return to Canyo Jabón. It was Sunday and she wanted me to remain at home with her and our nine-month-old daughter, Lisa. She pleaded with me earlier that morning and said she felt a premonition that something would go wrong if I didn’t cancel the travel plans. I told her that this trip with Gilberto was my last into the area and that I’d already promised to attend the meeting.

I had hoped to reach an agreement with the local businessmen and fishermen in order to reopen the wholesale fishing operation. This would create jobs for about 250 fishermen who lived near the river and were unemployed. Their only economic alternative was to work in the coca fields – an occupation closely tied to cocaine production. I wanted to sell them the business on credit and permit them to operate it while providing me with a source of income for our new life in Bogota.

Gilberto and I departed Chaparral and arrived minutes later in the small river town of Caño Jabón. We landed on less than four hundred feet of runway due to the STOL conversion – a feat I thought was impressive. Taxiing to the ramp, I noticed my friend Carlos waiting for me. What took you so long? he asked. We’ve been waiting all morning for you. Come down to my store and I’ll call the people together.

As the three of us walked the six blocks to his store on the waterfront, we heard gunfire. I asked Carlos what was going on. Oh, it’s just some of the guys having a little target practice near the airstrip, he replied casually. Reassured, I continued into the store. After entering, I noticed a commotion on the other side of town. Moments later, I saw armed men running down the streets. Women and children screamed and fled in all directions. Carlos said, It’s the law, so I felt no alarm; that was a reasonable response because the authorities were known to dress in plain clothes when they raided drug towns.

But when I saw two men block the side street, I grew suspicious over what was unfolding. Who were these men? I suspected they might be communist guerrillas, but if they were, I didn’t know what they wanted. Maybe they were taking over the town in order to impress the locals so they could spread propaganda and replenish supplies, as was their practice. Soon I saw more armed men converge on all sides of the town, some with what appeared to be grenades. I was armed with a 20-gauge double-barreled shotgun, which gave me the option of shooting my way clear and escaping into the nearby jungle. But no matter who they were, I decided I had no good choice except to sit tight. In an open battle, the odds were in their favor.

When they ordered the townspeople onto the street, Gilberto and Carlos went out while I remained inside. I heard the men arguing for a while. Carlos returned to the store and told me I had to come out too or Gilberto might be shot. It’s okay, he said, these men just want to talk to you. Come with me and I’ll make sure everything turns out all right. I hid the shotgun in the store and followed Carlos to the street.

As I stepped into the sunlit street, I looked up, blinked, and stared directly into the barrels of three machine guns. Their owners glared at me as they said, Hands up! March! As they forced me down the street toward the airstrip, I heard a pistol shot. One of my abductors kept his gun centered on me as the other fired a burst of bullets in the direction of the gunfire. Faster! they commanded. Keep moving! They marched me past the airstrip and into the jungle. I wondered if they’d shot Gilberto.

A dark, mustached guerrilla named Manuel told me to lie down on my stomach right there. I thought they might execute me, but when he repeated the order in a harsher tone, I obeyed. Well, I guess I’ll just have to trust you! I exclaimed as I yielded. Manuel pulled my arms behind me, and I felt him place a rope around my neck and arms and join the three loops with a central slipknot. He stepped back and ordered me to my feet. I held my breath as I pictured the .38 Smith & Wesson revolver I always carried strapped to my left ankle. My pant leg had ridden up while I was on the ground, which exposed the revolver. The guerrillas must have been blind not to have seen it. Rolling over and getting to my feet, I gave my pant leg a tug and breathed a sigh of relief when the cuff dropped down and concealed the gun.

They proceeded to march me deeper into the jungle. After about ten minutes, we came to the banks of the Guaviare River where guerrilla soldiers milled about on the riverbank. I noticed a pile of military equipment and backpacks on the ground. Tied to the bank was a large dugout canoe. A young man in his early twenties approached and introduced himself as their leader. You have been kidnapped to raise money for our cause, he announced. If you follow our orders, you won’t be harmed. I found out later his name was Jaime and that he was only twenty-two years old. Jaime sized me up for a minute, and I did likewise with him. He was thin, dark, and had Indian features, and a fuzzy mustache was trying to grow on his upper lip. I was bearded and blond but about the same height. Although very scared, I tried not to let it show.

Jaime had already ordered his men to search me, but being a thorough and methodical commander, he also asked me if I was armed. I looked in his eyes and emphatically denied having a weapon. I lied. About this time, another guerrilla approached carrying my flight case and Gilberto’s blue bag from the airplane. I learned later that they’d chopped the plane’s door off with an axe even though I’d given them the keys. They also machine-gunned the three planes at the airstrip, including my beautiful Cessna 170. This rendered it unflyable for anyone to use to escape and inform the authorities of my kidnapping. Then my heart sank when they rummaged through my flight case and found the live .38 ammo.

At that moment, the squad nurse approached with a stethoscope and a blood pressure cuff. Her name was Nancy – about twenty-eight, short, stocky, and not very pretty; but she appeared to be an efficient, well-trained nurse. Nancy hooked up her equipment, checked my blood pressure, and listened to my heart.

The young guerrilla who’d been searching my flight case turned, held up the .38 shells, and demanded to know the location of the gun. I told him the ammo belonged to my brother’s gun and that I didn’t have one. As Nancy monitored my heart, it thumped wildly because I could feel the loaded revolver on my ankle. My pant leg was too short to completely cover the holster, so I frantically racked my brain to concoct a believable cover story.

Nancy had a worried frown on her face as she listened to my racing heartbeat through the stethoscope. An idea came to me. Don’t bother me anymore! I exclaimed. I have a heart condition that comes and goes. You’re putting too much strain on it. Just leave me alone for a few minutes and I’ll be all right. Nancy gave the guerrillas a convincing look of concern and motioned them away. She signaled me to sit down on a log and asked if I wanted something to drink. I gladly sat down with a sigh of relief. A few minutes later, she returned to inquire how I felt. I announced that I was recovering nicely from my heart condition.

The guerrillas finished loading their equipment into the dugout canoe. They dressed me in a blue plastic rain poncho and put a military Fidel Castro–style cap on my head. This was done to insure no one would recognize me as we traveled upstream. The canoe was powered by a forty-horsepower outboard motor and had room for me and eight guerrillas – five behind me and three in front. A second canoe followed minutes later. We traveled for about an hour until we approached the bend where our ranch, Chaparral, was located.

Suddenly a speedboat appeared from around the bend and headed right for us. It’s the police! hissed one of the guerrillas. Pull over right here! Jaime ordered the young motorist. Quickly beaching the canoe in a banana patch on the left riverbank, Manuel ordered me out of the canoe and herded me to the back of the patch. The rest of my captors assumed positions on the bank and prepared to ambush the presumed police.

I got Manuel to take me farther into the banana patch by telling him I needed privacy because I was feeling sick. I crouched down underneath the poncho facing the river and acted a bit embarrassed. Manuel, however, was interested in what was occurring at the river, so he turned his head away from me. I determined to frustrate the guerrilla’s impending ambush of the police by attempting an escape. Although he looked away from me, Manuel still had his submachine gun pointed at me with a finger on the trigger. I knew better than to just point my little revolver and threaten him. Instead, I quickly drew my gun and aimed at his right shoulder, hoping to disarm him and free the rope for my getaway.

Manuel caught movement out of the corner of his eye and lunged forward just as I squeezed the trigger. A Super Vel hollow point .38 bullet mushroomed into the upper right front of his chest. Blood streamed from his mouth and chest and splattered everywhere. The impact of the round knocked him backwards, but he continued to clutch the rope with his good hand. Manuel pulled hard on the rope and tightened the loops around my neck and shoulder; this cut off my circulation and my air supply. I tried to shoot his left hand, which still held the rope. I knew I was losing precious time, so I aimed directly at his head and pulled the trigger.

The guerrillas thought they were in a police ambush and didn’t recognize that the shooting was coming from me. A tall guerrilla named Giovani assessed the situation correctly and came running to help Manuel who was struggling on the ground. About twenty yards away, he shouldered his German assault rifle, and with an expression of hatred, he aimed at me and pulled the trigger. His gun only clicked – it had misfired.

I quickly raised my revolver, sighted on his chest, and released the hammer. Nothing! It fell on a spent cartridge – I was out of bullets. Giovani saw my gun and dove to the ground behind a tree. I heard him trying to chamber a new round, but he seemed to be having trouble with his gun. Frantically, I tried to break the nylon cord, and I dragged Manuel a few yards in the process. I threw myself on the ground behind the only cover available, a clump of banana trees. The tight rope around my right arm and neck choked me, and I clawed desperately in my pocket, hoping to find more cartridges to reload my revolver. I knew the banana trees wouldn’t stop the bullets that the guerrillas would soon be shooting at me.

As I lay there, literally at the end of my rope, I wondered what it would be like to die. It seemed my life would end in a few seconds, and I was powerless to do anything about it. I lowered my head and waited for the end.

The fulfillment of a boyhood dream—my first landing as pilot at a Mamarongo airstrip (above). Being a jungle pilot is a thrilling occupation; but there are times when it can get too exciting.

Chapter Two

Grand Rapids, Minnesota, 1957

By age two, I was speaking fluently, and with my early development, I always seemed one jump ahead of my parents. Mom spent a lot of time with me, reading Bible stories and teaching me about God. As an inquisitive child, I was full of questions. One day I asked, Mommy, where does God live?

Mom thought for a moment before replying, God lives in heaven, but He can also live in peoples’ hearts.

I asked, Does He live in your heart?

Mom said, Yes.

I asked, Does He live in Daddy’s heart?

She said, Yes, God lives in Daddy’s heart too.

Next I asked about Stuart and Eleanor, who were friends of my parents. Mom answered, Yes, God lives in their hearts too. Then I asked about Dennis and Terry, the sons of Stuart and Eleanor Watson. Mom said that while she was sure that God lived in Dennis’s heart, she wasn’t sure about Terry. He was even younger than I was. She explained that in order for God to come into one’s heart, that person has to ask Him in.

I thought about that for a minute before I asked, Does He live in my heart? Mom became flustered because she thought I was still too young to handle such deep spiritual matters. She replied that when I was older, I could ask God to come into my heart too. At this point, I climbed off her lap and knelt beside the bed to pray in a loud voice, Come into my heart, Jesus. Come into my heart, God. Then I stood up and jumped up and down exclaiming, He’s in there! Mom was flabbergasted.

Six months later my grandmother gave me a potted plant. She told me that if I took care of it and watered it every day, it would blossom with beautiful red flowers. I was very attentive to the plant for several weeks, but much to my dismay, no flowers appeared because it was winter. My parents continued to teach me about God. They told me that God was everywhere, He could see everything, and He was able to do anything. They taught me that God answers our prayers.

One Sunday morning, Dad asked me to say grace at breakfast, and I prayed, God, please bless this food and please let there be red flowers on my plant when we get home from church. Dad was shocked, so he tried to explain that he didn’t think God could answer a prayer of that nature. I insisted that God would do it for me. I was only three years old and didn’t know that according to Dad’s theology, God wouldn’t work like that in this day and age, even though he did believe the Bible stories about how God worked that way in the past.

Dad fidgeted throughout the church service. He thought, We’ve gotten our son off to such a good beginning by teaching him about spiritual matters. Now his little faith in God is going to be shattered when we return home to find there are no red flowers on his plant. He might not believe anything else we tell him about God. Dad had checked the plant before we left the house, and he hadn’t even found a bud on it. He decided to take us to a restaurant before we returned home, hoping I would forget about my prayer. Then he drove home by way of a park and stalled some more.

I became very impatient. When we got home, I rushed over to the plant and was delighted! There wasn’t just a single red flower; the plant had blossomed into dozens of little flowers. It looked gorgeous. I admired it for about five minutes before I returned to my toys. I’d expected God to come through for me because I didn’t know any differently. However, Dad just sat there for the rest of the afternoon and stared at the plant with its beautiful red flowers. His theology changed a bit after that Sunday.

Minneapolis, Minnesota, 1959

Our family’s life was comfortable, with a nice home, two cars, and Dad making good money as

Reviews for Rescue The Captors

[pam · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

This is a great book. I really enjoyed the realness of it.