Braco

by Lesleyanne Ryan

  “I’ll check any spots I’m not sure about.”

  Tarak turned around, still crouching, and examined the ground at his feet. Footprints of every shape and size, made by shoes, sneakers, boots, and bare feet, covered the path. Tarak stepped forward, picking the largest boot prints he could find and stepping over sections of trampled foliage where the prints vanished. They followed the tracks along the worn path.

  Then they came to a twig in the centre of the trail.

  Where’s the flag?

  Tarak looked for the footprints, but the foliage obscured them. He turned to Atif and patted the ground.

  “Come up here,” he said. “You should watch this, just in case.”

  Atif came forward and sat back on his heels. Tarak swept away the dead grass and soil in front of them.

  “I’m not sure if the mine is before or after the twig,” he said. “To tell you the truth, I’m not even sure this twig had a flag to begin with, but what concerns me is that someone may have moved it from its original spot so I need to make sure the mine is here and not a couple of steps away.”

  “They probably thought there was no one behind them. Moved a few sticks to slow down the Chetniks.”

  Tarak nodded and raised his bayonet.

  “Watch what I do,” he said, slipping the blade into the ground at a slight angle. He buried it to the hilt; the soil was as soft as a man’s belly. “Nothing.”

  He pulled it out and moved to the left, repeating the process a half dozen times. Then he probed the soil on the far side of the twig. When he pushed the bayonet in, it struck something as solid as bone.

  “That’s it. You see, I go in at an angle so that I contact the side of the mine. If the angle is too steep, the blade will go under the mine. If it’s not steep enough, it may touch the pressure plate on top. They’re not buried very deep.” He offered the bayonet to Atif. “You try.”

  “Really?” Atif took the blade; his hand shook as he followed the track into the soil. He pulled the bayonet out. “I found it. But how do you know it’s not a rock?”

  Tarak took the bayonet back.

  “We will clear away the soil from the area very carefully.” He swept the dirt aside until the circular edge of the mine came into view. “Frag mine. Step on it, depress the pressure plate, step off it and release the plate—boom. Probably wouldn’t kill you, but it would take your foot.”

  “So it’s that easy? To find them?”

  “Essentially, yes. Finding the mines isn’t usually the problem if it’s done right. It’s just time consuming and not something you want to be doing under fire. And not something impatient people should consider as a career.” He stood up and stepped to the far side. “Go ahead. Just walk over it.”

  Atif did and they moved ahead like a pair of turtles, eyes straining for absent footprints and paperless twigs.

  He’s a patient boy, Tarak thought. Not once has he asked how much farther and he’s followed every direction without question. Not like Fadil. He would have been far too impulsive to make a good soldier.

  Three more white flags flapped in the wind. Tarak stepped forward and then stopped.

  That’s strange.

  Flattened grass marked a second trail. And another trail led off to the right.

  “But we’re still in the minefield,” he muttered.

  “What?”

  “Stay down.”

  Tarak looked down the left-hand path. It ended at a small crater containing a half-naked body lying face up, as though sunbathing. The right-hand path also ended in a crater, but there was no body. Tarak dropped down next to Atif and pulled out his binoculars.

  “What is it?”

  “Not sure,” Tarak replied, scanning the hills. “I think this is the shelling we heard earlier.”

  “What did you see?”

  “It looks like they shelled the area and some of the men ran into the minefield to get away.”

  “That wasn’t very smart, was it?”

  “People don’t think about what’s under their feet when it starts raining shells.”

  “My father always told me to get down and hug the ground so that the shrapnel wouldn’t get me.”

  Tarak glanced at the boy. “He was right.”

  “So, did you see anything?”

  “No,” Tarak replied, checking the hills one more time. The setting sun made it difficult to see west. A glint to the north caught his eye. “Might be something, but I think they’ve moved on.”

  “Following the others?”

  “Yeah. Probably.” He stashed the binoculars. “Let’s just hope the men are staying under cover.”

  “But there are a lot of open fields around here.”

  “Yeah. It’ll be dark soon, so we won’t have a problem.” Tarak returned his attention to the path. They moved past the remaining twigs, clearing a mine just before the trampled earth widened to the left and right.

  “We’re out of it,” Tarak said.

  A high-pitched cracking sound echoed through the hills. Tarak turned around and grabbed Atif.

  “Get down!”

  They dropped together and Tarak draped an arm over the boy, listening as the shell whooshed overhead and exploded on the far side of the plateau. Tarak turned his head to look back at the growing column of dust.

  Was someone else there?

  Atif’s body trembled.

  “It’s okay,” Tarak whispered. “I don’t think they’re aiming at us. Don’t move. We’ll wait it out.”

  A second round split the air above them and then a third. Gunfire reverberated from another hillside. Silent minutes ticked by. Tarak risked sitting up. Dust and smoke lingered among the ridges and ravines they had crossed earlier. He pulled out his binoculars and scanned the impact area. Nothing moved.

  What were they shooting at?

  “Can you run?” he asked Atif, replacing the binoculars.

  “Yeah. But won’t they see us?”

  “We’ll be fine. Even if they do see us, it’ll take too long for them to adjust their fire.”

  “Oh. Okay.”

  Tarak took a last look at the hills. Then he and Atif stood up and sprinted into the forest.

  WEDNESDAY: JAC LARUE

  DAMN, I HATE the heat.

  Jac leaned against the carrier watching the intersection of the Jaglici road. Refugees straggled in from the north. He resisted the urge to ask them if they had seen bodies on the road.

  Or a boy.

  He rubbed his head in the dry towel and turned to the crowd. Maarten was walking towards him, holding his hand under his flak vest.

  “Thanks,” Jac said, accepting the bottle of water Maarten produced from under his vest. He drank half and soaked the towel, then poured the rest over his head and down his chest.

  “Two more women just died at the clinic,” Maarten said. “Heat exhaustion.”

  Jac glanced at the setting red disk.

  “It’ll be dark in a couple hours.”

  “I’m not sure if that’s a good thing or a bad thing.”

  A woman and a man holding a baby against his chest were approaching the carriers. Jac walked up to him.

  “They’re taking away the men,” he told the young father. “I really don’t think you’re safe here. Do you understand me?”

  “Yes, yes,” the man said. “But I was never a soldier. I was a mechanic. I have my papers.”

  “It won’t matter,” Maarten said.

  “I can’t leave my family.”

  “They’ll be safe here,” Jac said. “There are buses taking the women and children to Tuzla, but they’re not letting the men aboard.”

  “Listen to him, Danko,” his wife said. “I said you should go with the men.” She took the baby from
her husband. After a short conversation, he gathered up what he had and bade farewell to his family. Jac walked him along the same road he had used for Atif.

  When he got back, Maarten was arguing with a Serb soldier.

  “For the last time,” Maarten said, “they’re not for sale.”

  The Serb raised a fistful of Deutsche Marks to Jac’s face.

  “I want to buy your Uzi. And your flak vest.”

  Jac laughed.

  “Not a chance in hell.”

  “This too,” the Serb said, raising his own rifle. “For your Uzi and flak vest.”

  “No.”

  “Cigarettes, too. I have Camels.”

  Both peacekeepers shook their heads.

  “Why not? You don’t need weapons. You don’t fight.”

  “And we don’t smoke,” Maarten said. “Get lost.”

  The Serb frowned and walked away, stuffing the money into a pocket.

  “I really need to eat something,” Jac said, moving towards the front steps of the closest house. He dropped his helmet on the bottom step and expelled a long breath.

  “You can say that again.”

  Maarten planted himself on the doorstep and pulled out two ration packs, tossing one to Jac.

  “Your favorite. Macaroni and cheese.”

  Jac didn’t bother with a fork. He opened the pouch and lifted it to his mouth.

  Children giggled.

  Jac glanced up. Two young girls, no more than five or six, smiled in his direction, but they were not smiling at him. They were staring at the food. He waved them over. The girls glanced at their mother for permission and then shuffled to the steps.

  “Bonbon?” one asked.

  Maarten dug into his pack and tossed another pouch to them. The girls smiled, at them this time.

  “Hvala,” they said in unison and scurried back to their mother. She nodded at the peacekeepers and then divided the food between the girls. The woman’s long dark hair curled around her shoulders, the ends split and ragged. Dirt coated her hands and fingernails. Her clothes were stained and worn.

  Jac looked at the children again. His mother had been a child refugee during the Second World War. Her family had escaped the bombings in Rotterdam and then spent weeks moving from town to town until a complete stranger took them in.

  Would they have survived if he hadn’t taken them in? I could owe my existence to the kindness of one man.

  Maarten elbowed Jac back into the present.

  “Who’s that?” Maarten asked, his mouth full. He was stabbing air with his fork to the left.

  Jac looked across the ocean of refugees.

  Who is he pointing at?

  “The soldier,” Maarten said.

  Jac shifted his gaze back to a man he had thought was another peacekeeper walking alone among the refugees. The soldier was wearing a blue helmet, Dutch flak vest, and he was carrying an Uzi, but the camouflage of his uniform was different.

  “I don’t know who that is.”

  Jac slipped his helmet on and stood up with Maarten, shielding his eyes from the sun. He watched the soldier join one of the Serb soldiers who dressed like Rambo.

  “Jesus, Jac. It’s a Serb. Who’d sell him an Uzi? That’s insane.”

  Jac nodded, surveying the rest of the crowd. He’d seen the odd Serb soldier wearing a blue helmet, but no one with all the gear.

  “We should let the sergeant know.”

  Maarten tossed his empty meal pouch away and then they moved into the crowd. As they walked, the women assaulted them with questions in Bosnian. Jac understood the occasional word.

  Please. Help. Husband.

  Da li govorite engleski?

  Do you speak English?

  Jac felt a tug at his sleeve and glanced down. A little girl pointed and kept tugging.

  “Okay. We’re coming.”

  The girl led Jac by his sleeve until they stood over a woman with a belly the size of a basketball. Maarten dropped to her side and gave her his canteen.

  “Labour,” a woman nearby told them. She said something else Jac couldn’t translate and then something he could: “doctor.”

  “I’ll carry her,” Maarten said, putting his Uzi on his back.

  Through an array of hand signals and single words they understood, Maarten managed to pick the woman off the ground. Jac scooped up the little girl.

  “Go to doctor now, okay?”

  “Doctor. Okay,” she said, kissing Jac on the cheek.

  Jac smiled. He walked in front of Maarten, heading towards the medical tent. The same Serb, the one with the Uzi, was walking alone near the zinc factory. Jac slowed down and watched him. The Serb leaned down and pulled an old man to his feet and then pushed him forward. The man leaned on a cane as he shuffled towards the back of the factory ahead of the soldier.

  “What’s going on?” Maarten asked, adjusting his hold on the woman.

  Before Jac could answer, a single shot rang out from behind the factory. The pair of peacekeepers stared at the building. The Serb reappeared, spinning the cane in his hands. He tossed it into the bushes in front of the factory.

  “Jesus, Jac,” Maarten said. “They really are killing them.”

  Jac tried to swallow, but his throat stuck. “Let’s just get these two to the doctor. We’ll talk to the sergeant. Find out what we can do.”

  They left the woman and her daughter with a physician from Doctors Without Borders.

  “I have to go take a look,” he told Maarten.

  “Shouldn’t we tell the sergeant first?”

  “Tell him what? We’ve been hearing shots all afternoon. I want to show him a body to go with them.”

  “Show Janssen a body? The same Janssen who told us not to provoke these guys?”

  Jac could feel the redness flood his face; his heart sounded like a trip hammer inside his head. “We’re supposed to protect these people, Maarten.”

  “And just how do you propose we stop these guys?”

  Jac looked at the factory.

  “Listen, Jac. I’m with you. I’ll go get that body with you, but don’t try to convince me anything is going to change. Not when the alternative is artillery falling on twenty-five thousand helpless refugees and the UN too chicken to do anything about it. You told me when we got here to slap you on the head if I thought you were doing something stupid. All I’m saying is consider yourself slapped.”

  Jac smiled briefly then resumed walking. They picked their way through a dense section of refugees then reached the bushes where they found the cane.

  “Hey, Blue Helmet.”

  The peacekeepers turned around. Three Serbs stood behind them wearing mismatched uniforms. They carried rifles on their shoulders and grenades hung from their webbing. The corporal who had spoken held a pistol in his right hand, pointing it at the ground.

  “Your refugees are not back there.”

  “We have orders to patrol these areas,” Jac said.

  “No.” The Serb shook his head. “Your safe area ends here. The rest belongs to us.”

  Jac looked at the bushes, gnawing at the inside of his cheek.

  “Fine.” He turned to leave, but the Serb blocked him. “What now?”

  “I like your helmet.”

  “I like it, too.”

  Jac started to move away, but this time he was stopped by the Serb’s pistol poking into his flak jacket.

  “I like the flak vest, too.”

  Two rifles rose, pointed in their direction.

  “In fact, we like your Uzis even more.”

  Maarten leaned close to Jac.

  “So, do we provoke them or co-operate with them? Oh wait….”

  Jac held up his hand and waved Maarten q
uiet.

  “Fine,” he said, and dropped his helmet on the ground. “Let’s see how long you last in combat wearing a blue helmet.”

  The peacekeepers stripped off their flak jackets, pulled the magazines from the Uzis, and dropped them on the ground. The Serbs picked up everything.

  “Thank you. You may go.”

  They walked past the soldiers and into the crowd.

  “We have to pay for all that, Jac.”

  “I know. I know. Just be thankful.”

  “For what?”

  “That they didn’t ask for our uniforms.”

  Maarten laughed and slapped Jac on the shoulder.

  “Can it get any more screwed up?”

  “Yeah,” Jac replied. “The moment the sergeant notices the missing Uzis, we’re screwed.”

  They headed towards the carriers, which were funneling the refugees towards the buses. They fought their way through the mass of people and exited next to a chain of peacekeepers holding back a wall of refugees. Serbs sat on the road, some on couches and chairs pulled from nearby homes. Four soldiers were playing cards on a dining-room table. Buses were coming into view down the road.

  “They get you, too.”

  Jac turned around. Hans Mesick was standing in front of him without his gear. He suddenly realized that none of the peacekeepers who formed the chain were armed or wearing their vests or helmets.

  “Yeah,” Jac said. “How’s it going here?”

  “We had to bring up the carriers to keep them from trampling one another. The Serbs tell us how many they need for each bus and we count them out.”

  “But doesn’t that make it easy for them to separate the men?”

  “Well, either kids get trampled to death or the men get taken for questioning. I prefer the choice that keeps people alive.”

  Jac stared up into Hans’s eyes. “You’re smarter than that.”

  Hans looked away. “What would you have me do, Jac? I can’t control what happens to them once they’re gone, but I can keep them from trampling each other right here, right now.”

  Maarten brushed up against Jac. “Erik’s here,” he whispered.

  “Erik? Where?”

  Maarten gestured towards the sidewalk with a thumb. Jac looked: the gunner was sitting down a few yards away, his arms wrapped around his knees.