“We’ll get them later,” Tarak heard one of the soldiers say.
He looked at Atif.
“They got away.”
Escape is possible!
“It’ll be dark soon,” Tarak said. “That will help.”
Atif allowed a hint of optimism to creep into his mind. As long as he was alive, he had a chance. The only question was how to exploit it.
The Serbs grabbed a man from the back of the truck and threw him to the ground. They beat him until his screams faded.
“Stupid Turks,” a soldier shouted. “You’re going to be exchanged. Now we don’t have enough for all the prisoners they want to give us. Try it again and we’ll find fifty others to take your place.”
The soldiers pulled the tarp down and secured it, leaving the men in darkness.
“They’re still talking about an exchange,” Atif said, trying not to sound too excited.
The truck remained still for more than an hour. The man next to Atif fainted.
“Switch places with me,” Tarak said, pushing hard against the man behind them. “Put your head against the tarp.”
Tarak pulled Atif as close to the hole as possible; he drank his fill of the cool dusk air. Then something splashed inside the truck. Someone made a slurping noise. Atif looked back into the darkness.
“Does someone have water?” he whispered to Tarak.
“He’s not drinking water.”
“Oh.”
Atif peeked through the slit in the tarp. A red car pulled up next to the soldiers and a silver-haired man in a camouflage uniform stepped out. The soldiers greeted him with kisses, handshakes, and salutes. The officer spoke to them for about ten minutes then returned to the red car and left.
The truck started up. As they drove, Tarak relayed information. The Drina River was on the right; they were travelling north but were still south of Zvornik.
“We’re getting even closer to our territory,” Tarak said.
Makes sense if they are taking us to a prisoner exchange, Atif thought.
The truck slowed and pulled onto the side of the road, in front of a small building.
“I know this place,” Tarak told Atif. “It used to be a butcher’s shop. But it’s been closed since the war started.”
Atif looked out of the hole. Soldiers were coming out of the building.
“Must be a command post or a barracks now,” he whispered to Atif.
The soldiers opened the tarp and stared up at the men.
“Anyone here from Zvornik?” one asked.
“Or Grbavci?” said another.
The man standing next to Atif moved towards the tailgate. Tarak caught his arm, but he pulled away.
“I know,” the man said. “I just need it to be over, one way or another.”
Two men dropped from the truck and were taken inside the building. Moments later, their screams filled the air. Atif shivered.
“Anyone from Lehovici?”
Another man jumped to the ground. Atif fought the urge to follow.
Perhaps they would realize their mistake if I jumped off now. Would they beat a boy? His mind sifted through the possibilities. They had already refused to consider his age when Tarak pleaded with them. The Serb in Potocari hadn’t cared about his age, only what he looked like. And he doubted they’d let him go after everything he had seen.
Atif squeezed his eyes shut and leaned against the tarp.
He waited.
THURSDAY: NIKO BASARIC
A GREY-HAIRED MAN scrambled out of a ditch and raised his hands high above his head. He wore pants and the shredded remains of an undershirt; his ribs were visible underneath it.
“Don’t shoot,” he said. “There are five more. One is hurt.”
“Tell them to come out,” Niko said, motioning with his rifle. “We’re not going to shoot.”
The man waved at the forest and the men emerged. They looked like the hundreds of men that had already surrendered: gaunt, exhausted, frightened. One man leaned on two others, his leg covered in dried blood. Another was barefoot; his feet were cut, blistered, and swollen. Petar led the group across the road, lining them up next to an empty truck.
“Take off your shirts and shoes,” Anton ordered, pointing to piles of clothes, shoes, and documents.
The men added their shoes and shirts to the two piles. A few dropped documents. Niko stood beside Petar, his helmet low over his eyes. Anton and Vladen searched for valuables, pocketing money and jewelry. Ivan pulled an empty pistol from one man and smacked the trembling man on the head with it.
“What were you going to do with this?”
The man said nothing, staring at the ground. Ivan stood behind him and cocked the pistol.
Click.
Click.
He poked the barrel into the man’s neck.
“How many Serb women did you kill with this pistol?”
“None,” the man replied. “The firing pin is broken.”
Ivan struck him on the head, driving him to the ground.
“Liar. Get on that truck.”
The rest of the men shuffled towards the truck. Petar offered his hand.
“I’m sorry,” Petar said, helping the men aboard. “I’m sorry.”
Niko grabbed him by the collar, yanking him back.
“Will you stop that?”
“Leave me alone,” Petar said, pulling away. He offered his hand to the next man. “I’m sorry.”
Niko turned away, tugging his helmet lower.
“Turk.”
What does he want now?
Drach pointed to a truck. Ivan and the others were already climbing aboard.
“Get on, Turk. Your pet, too. I’ve volunteered us for something even you can’t screw up.”
Niko climbed into the back of Drach’s truck. Petar sat next to him. There were four other soldiers Niko didn’t recognize. He studied their uniforms, taking note of the patches on their sleeves.
They’re paramilitary. Scorpions.
“I don’t like this, Niko. Why are Scorpions here?”
“I don’t know, Petar. Maybe we’re just giving them a ride. Don’t worry about it. In a couple days, we’ll be home. Just think about that.”
“I don’t want to think about it. I can’t think about it.”
Niko eyed Petar. Two days ago, the recruit had been as excited as a schoolboy at the thought of combat. Now, he would do anything to get out of it. Niko knew from the beginning Petar wasn’t a soldier. He was worried that these few days had changed him, and not for the better. His mother might not recognize her son.
Niko leaned back and looked outside. Darkness enveloped the east; the Drina sparkled in the fading light.
“Why are we going so far north?” Petar asked.
“I don’t know,” Niko replied. “Maybe they found the men who crossed last night.”
He sighed at the thought. The majority of the men who had crossed the night before were soldiers. If they were going to the front to stop them from crossing the lines, Petar might see the real combat he craved. And he wouldn’t be able to cope.
They turned left.
“Where are we now?” Petar asked.
“This is the road to Tuzla. The front line cuts it in half, near a village called Memici.”
Soon after they turned onto the Memici road, they pulled up next to an abandoned farm. Niko dropped from the back of the truck and looked around. A field of tall grass extended as far as he could see in the dying light. Several trucks idled near the treeline, their lights illuminating the area.
“Why so much light?” Petar asked.
“I don’t know.”
The lights would attract the enemy. Or was that the point?
&nb
sp; Drach led the group towards the trucks. Several other Scorpions sat in the grass next to them. The sergeant dug into an ammo box, tossing magazines to everyone.
“What are we supposed to be doing?” Petar asked.
“Doing your job, Recruit. You’re going to shoot the Turks.” Drach walked towards a red car and a group of officers.
Petar stared at Niko.
“What does he mean? Are we doing patrols again?”
Niko glanced around. They were too far north for the men to have made it from the road in one day. He sucked in his cheeks and stowed the extra magazines in his webbing. Drach was still with the officers when a line of buses turned into the driveway and pulled up behind their truck.
“They’re the buses they used for the women and children,” Petar said. “I thought they were all gone. What are they doing here?”
“No idea,” Niko answered, stepping forward.
The first bus switched off its engine; an inside light came on.
Men.
“Form up, single rank,” Drach shouted from behind.
The sergeant walked up to Niko and motioned with his arm. The section lined up to Niko’s right. The Scorpions stood near the buses.
“What are we doing?” Petar whispered.
Niko waved him silent.
Drach faced the buses. The Scorpions got on the first one, hauled a dozen men off, and forced them to form a line in front of the trucks. Headlights illuminated the men. They had been stripped of their shirts and shoes and their hands were bound behind their backs with wire. They wore blindfolds.
“Prepare to fire,” Drach said as the Scorpions joined the line.
“Fire?” Niko blurted out.
“Yes, I told you. We’re here to shoot the Turks.”
“Shoot them?” Niko said. “You mean murder them. No fucking way. I won’t do it.”
Niko turned and began walking away. Behind him, he heard the tall grass whipping against leather boots. Metal on leather and then cold steel against the back of his neck.
He halted.
“Coward,” Drach said next to his ear. “I have the authority to kill you if you threaten the integrity of this unit.”
Niko turned around. Drach jammed the pistol against his chest.
“Spout regulations all you want, Sergeant, but this is wrong and you know it.”
Drach pressed the muzzle into his flesh. “What did you say?”
Niko glared at Drach. “This. Is. Wrong.”
Drach grabbed Niko by the collar and yanked him forward then pushed him towards the line of bound men.
“If you don’t want to shoot them then go stand with them and let the real soldiers do their work.”
Niko eyed the men.
Civilians. Neighbours. Friends.
“Make your decision, Turk.”
Images of Mira and Natalija filled his mind.
Drach pushed him. “Now, Turk.”
Niko squeezed his eyes shut, apologizing to them.
I have no choice. I have a family to consider. Dying with them will serve no purpose.
He glanced at Petar. The recruit’s jaw trembled.
“Damn it,” Niko muttered. He nodded.
Drach shoved him back into line; Niko took his place next to Petar. He cocked his rifle and then faced the line of men. Drach’s voice suddenly entered his ear.
“And don’t let me catch you firing into the air, Turk.”
Niko struggled to quell the nausea. He stared at bare backs, the sweat glistening in the headlights.
“Prepare to fire.”
Barrels swung up. Butts smacked against shoulders. Metal slid on metal. Niko aimed at the heart of the man in front of him.
“God forgive me.”
“Fire!”
THURSDAY: JAC LARUE
JAC SAT NEXT to the tailgate of the truck driving their group into Nova Kasaba. The Serbs had decided it was too dangerous to send the Dutch back to Potocari and offered to put them up for the night.
There were hundreds of soldiers in the town. Trucks passed them carrying anti-aircraft guns and mortars. A tank was idling near the main road. Soldiers were loading ammunition into a jeep.
The truck turned into a parking lot and stopped. Jac stood up and looked around the tarp.
A school?
The Dutch dropped from the truck and followed their escort inside, past soldiers sitting on the steps smoking and others moving in and out of the building. The Serb led them down a corridor filled with desks and lockers and then into a classroom converted into a barracks. Desks lined the back of the room, piled three and four high. Sheets of paper hung from the walls. Jac turned one over. Several crayoned stick-children were holding hands. A dove flew above them.
Serb soldiers were sitting or sleeping on three cots near the door; the Dutch claimed the rest. Jac dropped his gear on the cot next to Maarten. A soldier appeared at the door.
“You can get something to eat and drink across the hall.”
“Smells like chicken,” Maarten said.
Jac faced the door. All he could smell was school.
They crossed the hall and went into another room where they were handed plates. Jac stared at the food, his mouth watering. A full chicken breast, a large scoop of near-liquid mashed potatoes and peas smothered in steaming gravy. He devoured the dinner, his first hot meal in weeks. Afterwards, he went outside and sat down on a step, grateful for the cool dusk air. Soldiers were eating and smoking in the playground across the street. The sky glowed red behind them.
“I think you could use this.”
Jac glanced up. Maarten stood above him holding two glasses.
“Vodka?”
“What else?”
“No thanks.”
Maarten sat next to Jac. “Well, more for me.”
“I think it’s best if we keep our heads clear.”
“That, my friend, is exactly what I don’t want anymore. I’m sick of this crap. I’m sick of being played like a violin.” Maarten took a mouthful from one of the glasses. “If it isn’t these bastards holding up our convoys, it’s the locals stealing our stuff. I mean the soldiers, not the civilians. No, they’re great. Great pawns. Sitting around and starving while the politicians and generals play chess with their lives.”
Maarten paused to swallow the rest of the vodka. He laid the empty glass on the step and took a sip from the second glass.
“Who are the bad guys today, Jac? We’re supposed to be impartial. You remember them telling us that? No good guys, no bad guys. This is royally screwed up, Jac. I know I’ve said it before, but it just keeps getting even more screwed up.”
“How many of those did you have before you came out here?”
“Well,” Maarten said, lifting the glass up. “Let me put it this way. I’m actually going to sleep tonight.”
A group of Serbs was walking towards them; one of them had a growling Alsatian dog on a leash. He loosened his grip on the leash and the dog lunged forward. Jac jumped up and back. The dog halted with a jerk less than a metre away, snarling. The Serb laughed, pulled the dog in, and marched away.
Maarten had not budged.
“Bad guys,” he shouted at them. He took a sip and looked at Jac. “Now, the chef who cooked that steaming hot chicken dinner, he’s a good guy. The medic who sewed my head back together? Good guy. The sergeant who gave me this fine vodka? Good guy.”
Jac considered taking the cup for himself.
“Well,” Maarten said, standing up. He looked down the road. “What’s going on over there?”
Jac turned around. Maarten used the glass to point. Under the streetlight, two Serb soldiers were pulling a man from a truck. He was shirtless, barefoot, and his torso was covered in blood.
The soldiers pushed him into a shed next to the school. Maarten looked back at Jac.
“Bad guys?”
“Sit down before you fall down,” Jac said. He stood up and took several steps towards the shed. Then a soldier stepped in front of him.
“Where are you going?”
“For a walk.”
The Serb shook his head. More soldiers joined him.
“Stay inside,” he said. “Too dangerous out here.”
Maarten stood and held up the glass, toasting the soldiers following Jac.
Jac turned him around and gave him a gentle shove towards the door. They spent the evening in the classroom under the eyes of the Serbs who shared it with them. The soldiers followed the Dutch to the washrooms and the cafeteria. As the evening progressed, they brought out vodka, plum brandy, and a deck of cards. Some of the peacekeepers played and drank. Others slept. Karel entertained the Serbs with his jokes. Maarten passed out before midnight.
When the lights went out, Jac settled into his cot and tried to sleep. He rolled, pulled the blanket up around his shoulders, and rolled again. He punched the pillow and checked the time.
Three o’clock.
Light and voices drifted in from the corridor. He rubbed his eyes and glanced around. A bright moon lit up a figure standing next to an open window.
Janssen?
Jac threw the blanket aside, sat up, and pulled on his shirt. Maarten was asleep in the cot next to him, pulling in deep nasal snores. Jac got up and walked around the end of the cot. He joined Janssen at the window.
“Can’t sleep?”
“Maybe an hour.” Jac looked at the moon hanging high in the southern sky. Is my mother looking at the same moon?
Janssen motioned outside. “Do you hear it?”
The moon lit up the terrain like a dull day. It was easy for Jac to make out buildings, hilltops, and tracts of forest. An engine revved. Drunken soldiers sang around a distant corner.
And gunshots punctuated the cool night air.
Braco Page 32
