Braco (11 page)

WEDNESDAY:
JAC LARUE

JAC SUBMERGED HIS
head into a sink filled with cold water and kept it there until he ran out of breath. He straightened up, letting the water roll down his neck and drench his shirt. He soaked his towel and slung it around his neck. He closed his eyes for a moment, savouring the only cold he was likely to feel for the rest of the day.

“Get any sleep?”

Jac looked behind him. Bram Vogel, a tank driver, was squeezing the last of his toothpaste onto a brush.

“Five hours.”

“You're joking?”

“Sergeant kept me up until eight this morning but promised me five hours of uninterrupted sleep if I stayed on sentry.”

“And he delivered?”

“Yeah.” Jac pulled out a razor and began dry-shaving his face. “What about you?”

“I sat outside the fence with your friend Karel,” Bram said, spitting into the sink.

“He's not my friend.”

“Well, he was pretty pissed.” Bram gathered up his shaving kit and moved towards the exit. “He went to bed after you guys got back last night, but Janssen woke him up around three.”

Jac kept his smile inside. He dunked his head, rubbing the loose whiskers from his face. When he surfaced, Maarten's reflection was beside his in the mirror. He flinched.

“Jesus. Where did you come from?”

“My mother. So I'm told.” Maarten grinned. “Ready?”

“Almost,” Jac replied, shaving his neck. “What's going on anyway?”

“Serbs are here. Major said he doesn't want them beyond the barricade. Though I'm not sure I'd call a piece of tape a barricade.”

“A piece of tape?”

“Yeah. Does anyone really think that's going to stop them?”

“No, but enough of us might.”

“Seriously, Jac? Do you think we possess any semblance of authority over these bastards? I mean, after everything we've seen?”

“What do you suggest? That we hide in here and let them do what they want to the refugees?”

“That's not what I mean.”

“I know.” Jac nicked his neck. “Damn.”

He cleaned it with the wet towel and then threw the dulled razor in the garbage. He sealed his flak vest around his chest, picked up his Uzi, and slung it over his shoulder.

“Let's go.”

Outside, Jac drew in a lung full of super-heated air.

I should have worn my shorts.

He and Maarten walked through the main gate and turned left towards the refugees. Vehicles lined the road. Serb soldiers were massed near the tape. Some wore green camouflage, but many were Rambo types; they wore mismatched uniforms with bandannas on their heads and had bandoliers crisscrossing their chests. A Serb civilian was directing a camera crew shooting video of soldiers throwing candy to the children.

Jac spotted one of their local translators walking away from a group of Serb soldiers. The young man was taking quick strides and glancing over his shoulder. He bumped into Maarten and started to walk around him.

“Amir,” Jac said.

The translator hesitated.

“What's wrong?”

“Nothing.” The man rubbed his thumb over the UN identification card in his palm. “It's just….”

“It's okay, Amir,” Jac said. “They can't hurt you. What's going on?”

Amir's eyes darted towards Jac. “Are you sure about that? Do you think anyone here or in the camp is really safe?”

“Of course they are,” Jac said. “What did they say to you?”

Amir swallowed hard and he stepped close to Jac.

“I overheard a Chetnik officer speaking to one of his men,” he whispered. “The officer grabbed the soldier by the belt and said that no man or boy taller than his belt could get on the buses.”

“Buses?” Jac asked.

“Yes, buses,” Amir said. “The Chetniks are going to transport everyone to our territory. The buses are coming now.” He glanced back at the soldiers then. “Don't you see? They can do whatever they want with us on the road. If I get on one of those buses, they will kill me.”

“No, Amir,” Jac said. “You're safe with us. You work for us.”

“Yeah? What about the rest of them? There are hundreds of men in the crowd. My two little brothers are in the camp with our mother. Do you think you can save them all?”

“They wouldn't dare try,” Jac said. “They know we're watching.”

“Somehow, I don't think that will be enough,” Amir said. He looked back at the Serbs and then walked towards the camp entrance.

Jac moved to follow him, but Maarten held him back.

“Let him go. He's just scared and I can't say I blame him.”

Jac and Maarten walked to the edge of the tape, passing a fire truck distributing water. From the back of another truck, two Serb civilians were throwing bread at the outstretched hands of hungry refugees. A Serb officer was giving an interview with the bread truck as a backdrop. Serb soldiers loitered among the refugees.

“Jac.” Janssen laid a hand on his shoulder. “Get your five hours?”

“Yes, Sergeant. Thanks.”

“Good. I need at least one corporal out here who has a clear head.”

“Did you know the Serbs are inside the line?”

“Yes. Orders say we're not to cooperate with them, but we can't do anything to provoke them either.”

“Don't cooperate with them, but don't provoke them. Seriously?”

“Don't shoot the piano player, Jac,” Janssen replied, absently playing with the gold band on his finger.

“Do you think the refugees are safe?”

“I don't know. I really don't. All I know is that I have a few dozen exhausted guys and more than twenty thousand refugees to care for. I'm trying to get guys out here to keep an eye on the Serbs in the crowd, but we're spread too thin.” He pulled out a handkerchief and wiped the sweat from his face. “Let's just focus on getting as many of the refugees out of here as we can. Alive.”

“What do you want us to do?”

“Go into the crowd. Do what you can. There's a medical tent out by the bus depot if anyone needs medical attention. Some of the guys have been passing out wet towels, but I think we're pretty well out of them now. Other than that, they seem to be getting enough water from the houses and the rivers. I think they've pretty well looted every house in the area as well, but that's the least of our problems. Don't bother with looters. Maarten can stay with you. Karel and Erik are already out there. Arie is with the doctors.”

“Erik's out there?”

“Yeah, why?”

“No reason, Sergeant. Just thought he might be better off in the camp on sentry duty.”

“I know, Jac.” The sergeant stifled a yawn. “But I need every warm body I can get. Check back with me at supper time.”

“No problem, Sergeant.”

Janssen walked away, his head and shoulders lower than usual.

“Did he get any sleep last night?” Maarten asked.

“I don't think he's going to sleep until he gets home,” Jac replied.

“Did he say anything about the blood on the carrier?”

Jac hooked his thumbs inside the flak vest. “He wants to think it was from the cow. He just doesn't know.”

Maarten grunted and then turned to face the road. “Something's coming.”

Jac listened to an engine accelerate in the distance.

Diesel, he thought. Another fire truck?

Sun glinted off the windshield of a bus which pulled up and parked on the shoulder. Within minutes, a dozen buses lined the street like a row of boxcars. Refugees rushed the tape.

“Hold them back,” Jac shouted.

He touched Maarten's arm and pointed; the other peacekeepers were forming a human chain. But before they could secure the refugees, one of the Serbs shouted at the crowd, motioning to the buses. Jac didn't understand the words, but the refugees did. They broke through the chain of peacekeepers and stampeded towards the buses. Two men bulldozed over Jac, knocking him to the ground. Maarten grabbed the shoulder of his flak vest and pulled him away from the rampaging mob.

The crowd stormed the buses. In minutes the vehicles were overflowing with people. The stampede slowed and the peacekeepers worked to herd the remaining refugees behind the tape. Then Jac spied two Serb soldiers pulling an old man up into the back of the empty bread truck.

“Come on, Maarten.”

The peacekeepers moved through the refugees until they stood next to the fire truck. Serb soldiers were hauling more men from the crowd and loading them into the bread truck. One soldier grabbed a boy, pulling him away from his mother. She shrieked and grabbed the boy's dragging feet. Jac walked up to the Serb and seized his hands, removing them from the boy.

“What are you doing? He's just a kid.”

“Fuck off, Blue Helmet.”

A Serb sergeant walked up to Jac.

“We are taking them to be questioned,” the sergeant said.

“Questioned? For what?”

“To see if they are war criminals.”

Jac pointed to the boy lying on the ground with his mother.

“He's not a war criminal, for God's sake. He can't be more than twelve.”

The sergeant gestured to the soldier with a finger. The soldier stepped back and the boy left with his mother. Maarten tapped Jac on the shoulder and pointed to a pile of documents on the ground. Jac picked up two of them. They were identification documents the Bosnians used. He approached the Serb sergeant with the papers in his hand.

“How are you going to identify war criminals without their papers?”

“We know who they are.” The Serb smiled. “We don't need their papers.”

“What do you mean you don't need them?” Jac looked into the truck. Six elderly men pleaded with their eyes. “Where are you taking them?”

“None of your business. If they're war criminals, they'll be tried. If they are not, they will go to Tuzla.”

They can do whatever they want with us on the road.

“I don't believe you.”

“I don't care.” The Serb jerked his thumb at a house. Jac's eyes followed the thumb. On the second-floor balcony of the house, a fifty-calibre machine gun had been set up and was pointed at the Dutch compound. The weapon could cut down hundreds of people in a matter of seconds.

“Jac,” Maarten whispered, tugging on Jac's arm. “Janssen said not to provoke them.”

Jac pulled away.

“Provoke them? For God's sake, Maarten, they're taking these men away. They're probably going to kill them.”

“No kidding,” Maarten replied in a quiet voice. “But just how do you suggest we stop them? Look, maybe we should report this and let the major take care of it.”

A gunshot cracked.

Jac and Maarten twisted around, looking for the source. They waited for a second shot, but none came.

“Where was that?” Jac asked.

“I don't know.”

Jac surveyed the refugees. There was a disturbance in the crowd near one of the factories. Some of the refugees were standing and pointing, some were moving away. Others cowered under blankets and sheets. He turned around, looking for the Serbs he had been speaking to.

They had vanished.

The bread truck pulled away.

“Damn it!”

“What do we do now?”

Jac looked at the crowd, rubbing his face with his towel.

“Whatever we can, I guess.”

They passed through the human chain and stepped into the crowd. Jac covered his nose and mouth with his towel. The heat amplified the stench of urine, feces, and vomit mixed with smoke drifting in from burning homes and haystacks. Women cried and children screamed. One young man spit at Maarten. A little girl relieved herself in the grass where she sat. Women grabbed at Jac's hands and his uniform, asking questions in Bosnian and English.

“They've taken my husband,” one woman said, pointing to a house across from the compound. “Please. Can you help him?”

“We haven't eaten in two days,” another said, holding up her young daughter.

“What is going to happen to us? Are they going to kill us?”

To his left, Jac saw a man with half a dozen loaves of Serb bread. He dropped the towel from his face, leaned down, tore three loaves away, and passed them to the hungry women.

He and Maarten kept moving. There were more Serbs walking among the refugees. Some hurled insults at the women. Others greeted old friends and neighbours with hugs, kisses, and an exchange of cigarettes. One soldier gave a long and passionate kiss to a young woman.