Braco

by Lesleyanne Ryan

  He leaned closer to the open window.

  Pop.

  Silence.

  Pop.

  Silence.

  Pop.

  The soccer field?

  Pop.

  No return fire.

  Pop.

  “That’s not….? Is it?”

  Pop.

  “They’re putting them down,” Janssen whispered.

  Pop.

  “This is insane.”

  Pop.

  Silence.

  “There’s going to be hell to pay when we get back,” the sergeant said. “You know that, right?”

  “For what?”

  “Shit rolls downhill, Jac. We’re at the bottom.”

  “That’s crazy. What could we have done differently? The Serbs blocked all our convoys and kept half our guys out. No fuel. No ammunition. No heavy weapons. No air strikes. You said they told New York and Sarajevo what was happening. If they cared, they wouldn’t have waited four days to send two planes.”

  “I’m not saying it’s right, Jac. It’s going to be easy for the men on top to put blame on the men on the ground. I think we need to be prepared for what is going to come out of this.”

  “That’s ridiculous.”

  “Not really. It’s happened before. I told you I had a cousin in Canada, serving with the air force.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Well, a couple years back they had a unit in Somalia. One night, a group of soldiers went too far with a kid who tried to steal stuff from their compound. They took him into one of their bunkers and beat him to death. The guy who did most of it, I think he was a sergeant or something like that, he tried to kill himself. Didn’t finish the job and was left with brain damage, so he never went to trial. They convicted some private and the leadership pretty well walked. Big inquiry going on now, apparently. Last I heard they’re considering disbanding the unit altogether.”

  “That’s crazy.”

  “Remember everything you see, Jac,” Janssen said, leaning closer to him. “If you get your hands on a piece of paper and a pen, write it down. In fact, when this is over, write down everything you remember and I mean every last detail. Your memory will never be as good as it will be over the next few days and weeks. Write the truth as best as you can remember it. When people lie, it’s easy to catch them trying to remember the lie. Tell the truth and your story will never change.”

  A thought swirled in Jac’s head and he drew in a sharp breath. “You think they might charge us with something?”

  “Anything is possible, but I don’t see how they can charge any of us as individuals. Heck, half our guys don’t even realize what’s going on around them. They don’t know or don’t believe it or they just don’t want to see it.”

  “What about what happened on the road coming back from the outpost?”

  “I don’t know, Jac.” Janssen sighed. “I spoke to some of the refugees that came down the road the next day. None of them reported any bodies on the road.”

  “That’s good to know. I mean, when I walked back, all I saw was a crushed wheelbarrow. We might have just run over their stuff.”

  “I hope you’re right, Jac. I really do. Believe me, I want to know the truth more than anyone.”

  “There was nothing else you could have done, Sergeant. We were the target. If we had stayed still, the fifty-calibre would have torn those people to pieces.”

  “You know that. I know that. Do you think the average person sitting at home watching it reported on TV will think that?” He shook his head. “All the best sailors are on dry land, Jac. People who’ve never heard a shot fired in anger will decide we were cowards or brutes. Tell Maarten and Arie to do the same. I want the same story from as many perspectives as possible.”

  “Erik?”

  The sergeant remained silent for a moment and then shook his head.

  “No. He’s having a hard time. No sense in making him relive it all.”

  “If what you say is true, he is going to relive it all, over and over, when we get back.”

  “I know,” Janssen whispered.

  Pop.

  Jac looked outside, his eyes scanning the shadows for muzzle fire.

  “Why didn’t we try to stop them? We could have blockaded the road and blew up the first tank the moment we realized they were really going for the town.”

  Pop.

  “Hindsight is a wonderful thing, Jac. If I told you on Monday that they were going to take the whole enclave and start murdering the men, would you have believed me?”

  Pop.

  “No. I never would have thought they’d try something this bold.” He waved his hand towards the window. “And I’m still having a problem believing they’re this stupid. They can’t possibly think they’ll get away with it.”

  Pop.

  “Just remember everything, Jac. Write it down.”

  Pop.

  “Write it all down.”

  FRIDAY: TARAK SMAJLOVIC

  TARAK WATCHED THE shop through the hole in the tarp. The truck hadn’t moved in five hours, but the Serbs refused to let them sit down or go outside to relieve themselves. A soldier had handed up a cup of water and the thirsty men had fought over it, spilling it on the floor. The Serbs didn’t refill the cup. They’d stopped asking for men after eight had given up.

  “We’re trying to arrange an exchange,” one of the soldiers had told them. “But your army is not cooperating.”

  Do we believe them? An exchange made sense given how long they’d made them wait, but taking the men inside in order to kill them made no sense at all.

  Tarak glanced at Atif. The boy was leaning against the tarp. He’d stopped shivering hours ago.

  “You okay?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Thirsty?”

  “No. Not really. Just tired.”

  Tarak looked at the far side of the truck.

  East?

  He mumbled words he had not spoken in years.

  Soldiers streamed from the shop. One vomited against the truck. Others shouted insults at the men then crammed into their own trucks and left. Two soldiers counted the men.

  “Thirty-six,” one of them said.

  “That’ll do. We’re going to the exchange now.”

  The soldiers pulled the tarp down over the back. The moment the interior went dark, the men collapsed to the floor. There was little room to sit; Tarak pushed hard against the man next to him and Atif sat in the space he’d made. Tarak stayed on his feet, looking through the hole in the tarp.

  The vehicle started up, spitting gravel as it lumbered onto the road. The gas station should be close, he thought, but when they reached it, he saw only a bulldozed lot under a weak street light.

  The store would be next. Then the bakery. Tarak caught sight of them, outlined in moonlight.

  We’re still going north.

  They entered Zvornik.

  It looks normal. Except for the empty lots where the mosques used to stand.

  “Turn left,” he whispered as they approached the road to Memici. “Turn left. Please. Turn left.”

  The vehicle geared down and made the turn.

  “We’re on the road to Memici,” he told the men. “It’s not much farther to our territory.”

  Atif said nothing.

  “Keep going straight,” he said quietly, over and over. Every moment they were on the road brought them that much closer to freedom. But minutes later, the vehicle slowed.

  “Damn it. No.”

  The full moon lit the area; he recognized the farms.

  Only halfway to Memici.

  The truck heaved from left to right as it turned off the road and followed a dirt track. In the di
stance, a bright light illuminated soldiers.

  Could this be the exchange?

  Tarak’s pulse raced as they moved through the field. The headlights revealed the silhouette of a bus, but little else. He strained to see anything as the truck pulled up next to the bus and then stopped. He squinted, trying to focus. The ground looked as though it were covered with mounds of discarded carpet and bedding.

  What are they growing?

  The bus turned on its headlights and lit up the harvest. Tarak sucked in his breath. Bodies covered the field as far as he could see. A bulldozer sat farther up the field. A dozen soldiers waited below.

  Blautsaugers.

  Tarak took a moment to find his breath. His stomach contracted until it hurt. His lungs resisted the next breath.

  Think. Think.

  He dropped down next to Atif.

  “What is it?” the boy asked. “Where are we?”

  “We’re at a farm. We’re only a couple kilometres or so from our territory. It’s to the northwest.”

  “Why are you telling me this?”

  Think. Think.

  “Listen to me, Atif. I need you to do as I say. If we’re going to get out of this, you have to listen.”

  “I don’t understand. What do you mean?”

  “When we get down off the truck, stay to my right.”

  “Why?”

  “Do you trust me?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then promise me you’ll do it.”

  Tarak focused on Atif’s face, trying to make out his features in the shadows. Shouting erupted outside. Tarak stood up and looked through the tarp. The soldiers forced the driver off the bus and were pushing him towards the truck. The tailgate tarp swung up and a man dropped out. The soldiers shoved the man towards the closest mound of bodies. They pressed a rifle into the bus driver’s arms.

  “No,” the driver said, trying to return the rifle. “I’m just a driver.”

  A soldier shoved him forward. “Shoot him.”

  The driver held the rifle as though it were crawling with insects. The barrel wavered, pointing in the man’s general direction.

  “Open your eyes!” the soldier shouted at the driver.

  The driver pulled the trigger and the rifle spit out half a dozen rounds. The man toppled, three holes in his bare back. The soldier retrieved the rifle and patted the driver on the back.

  “Good job. You can go.”

  “What’s happening?” Atif asked.

  Tarak helped the boy to his feet. “Stay to my right. Do you understand? Just stay to my right and when they start to shoot, fall down.”

  The boy was breathing rapidly. “What do you mean, fall down?”

  Tarak held Atif by the shoulders. He couldn’t find the boy’s eyes in the darkness. “They’re shooting everyone.”

  The boy’s knees buckled. Tarak held him up.

  “I can get you out of this, Braco. The light out there isn’t good. Stay to my right and fall as soon as you hear the gunfire. Fall and stay still. Then when they move on, you can crawl out and escape. Go northwest, Atif. Our territory is not that far away.”

  “I can’t. I can’t.”

  “Get out,” a Serb voice shouted.

  “Take them all,” another voice said. “Then we’re done.”

  “Promise me, Braco.”

  “But what about you?”

  “We’ll see. Now promise me.”

  “Okay. Okay. I promise. But you’re coming too. Right?”

  “Get out. All of you.”

  Tarak grasped the boy’s left hand and followed the men out of the truck. Something struck his head before he could straighten up and he fell, dragging Atif with him.

  “Get moving,” a soldier shouted. “Over there.”

  Tarak’s vision blurred. White light became red. Warm liquid trickled down his neck.

  “Lead me,” he said to Atif. “To the right.”

  Tarak felt the boy tug him to his feet. Another man crumpled next to them. A gunshot rang out and the man remained on the ground. Tarak fought to stay conscious.

  Only a few more minutes. Don’t lose it now. Not now.

  He struggled to stay with Atif as they walked over bodies. Atif kept pulling him to the right. They stepped out of the light on the far side of the line. Tarak could only make out shapes and shadows. Bile rose in his throat. He held onto Atif’s hand, pulling the boy close.

  “You’ll be okay, Braco. I promise.”

  Then he took a step back.

  ATIF STAVIC

  YOU STAND STILL, sucking air in through your mouth and nose in short, sharp breaths. Your teeth chatter, but you’re not afraid. He pulls you closer.

  You glance back at the soldiers.

  We were friends and neighbours. We celebrated birthdays and holidays together regardless of religion. We went to school together. Worked together. Married each other.

  Now we murder each other.

  You turn away and squeeze his hand tighter. He says everything will be okay.

  You believe him.

  Metal slides on metal.

  You look down and wonder if you’ll see the rounds slice through your chest.

  Someone screams out orders.

  Muscles tense.

  Images of your mother flood your mind. You tell her you tried. You tell her you’re sorry.

  The world explodes behind you.

  FRIDAY: NIKO BASARIC

  NIKO WATCHED THE last man collapse on the heap of bodies.

  So many.

  Eight buses. At least a hundred men in each one. They had killed at least eight hundred men. He had killed four or five dozen.

  No, he corrected himself. Murdered. How do I go home and face them after this?

  He wanted to throw the rifle away, tear off his uniform and run. They could shoot him in the back for all he cared. Petar sat on the ground next to him, staring straight ahead. He had vomited earlier and sat out half the executions before Drach hauled him back into the line.

  All but two of the Scorpions had left. Niko looked to his right. Ivan and the two Scorpions were walking along the edge of the killing ground, calling out to the men they had just shot.

  “Is anyone alive?”

  “Raise your hand,” a Scorpion said. “We will take you to a hospital.”

  An arm rose up from the mound. Ivan sidestepped until he was standing over the wounded man.

  “You want to go to a hospital?”

  Niko didn’t hear a response. Ivan pulled out his pistol.

  Pop.

  “Anyone else want to go to a hospital?” Ivan climbed on top of the bulldozer and switched on the lights then stood, staring across the field. “I said does anyone else want to go to a hospital?”

  No response.

  Drach was standing next to a red car, talking to an officer. They saluted each other and the officer left. Then the sergeant called out to them and Niko and the rest of the section joined him.

  “New orders,” Drach said, “but first we must check them over, make sure no one has been left alive.” Drach pointed at Niko and Petar. “That means both of you, too. If I catch either of you leaving even one Turk alive, you will join them. Now go.”

  Niko turned away. He didn’t care anymore. They were done for the night. Nothing else mattered. He pulled the empty magazine from his rifle, threw it away, and then inserted a full one. He followed the others as they spread out, shooting anyone who moved.

  No one taunted the wounded.

  Every shot made Niko flinch. He nudged at a macabre jumble of limp arms and legs. He shot into several bodies just to keep Drach away. He glanced back. Petar was behind him, bent over and retching. Niko struggled to keep his last meal
down.

  “You okay?”

  Petar responded with a wave of his hand and he straightened up. Niko turned back and looked down. A pair of eyes was looking up at him. He swallowed a breath.

  A teenager?

  The boy didn’t move. Blood was dripping from the point of his nose, but Niko couldn’t see a wound. He looked up. The sergeant was leaning against a truck, having a conversation with one of the Scorpions; the rest wandered among the dead. Niko heard Petar take a sharp breath.

  “Walk the other way, Petar,” he whispered.

  “But….”

  “Walk away.”

  Niko didn’t have to look to know the recruit was no longer behind him. He stepped closer to the boy.

  “Close your eyes,” he whispered. “And stay still.”

  The boy squeezed his eyes shut. Niko raised his rifle and fired a shot into the ground then stumbled away. Drach called them back. Petar came to Niko’s side and they walked together in silence.

  “We have to go to another site,” Drach said. “There are a few hundred more waiting and we need to get it done before dawn.”

  “No,” Niko said, shaking his head. “I’ve had enough. I’m not going.”

  “What was that, Turk?”

  “I said I’m not going. I’ve done enough. If you want to shoot me then go ahead. Otherwise, send me back to Bratunac.”

  Drach marched up to Niko, raising his pistol. He jammed it against Niko’s temple. “I’m not sure I heard you right, Turk?”

  Niko returned the sergeant’s glare.

  “I. Am. Done.”

  The pistol wavered. Niko stood his ground.

  “I’m done, too,” Petar whispered from behind. “I want to go back to Bratunac.”

  Drach ignored Petar and pushed the pistol tighter against Niko’s head.

  Then Anton stepped forward.

  “I’m done, too. You’re not going to shoot us all, so to hell with this; send us back to Bratunac.”

  Vladen and Pavle stepped up beside Anton and Niko permitted himself the luxury of a deep breath.

  “Cowards,” the sergeant said, lowering the pistol. “You’re all cowards.”

  “Last time I checked, Sergeant,” Anton said, “it doesn’t take courage to shoot an unarmed man in the back.”