Deep Black

4

I checked my watch. It would take the Serbs a good half an hour to sort out the prisoners. If I called in the air strike right now, some of these people might stand a chance, if they survived the blast. It was worth a shot; as things stood, most of them were going to die anyway.

As I watched a 4x4 bouncing along the track towards the factory, I wanted to reach for the beacon big-time. But my hand didn’t move. That wasn’t the mission. I was here to take a life, not save it. It was not the best of choices, and I knew I’d be waking up in a sweat at three a.m. for the next few weeks, feeling a low-life for not having done anything but, fuck it, we all had to die some time. I just wished I wasn’t the one with his finger on the button.

The segregation was almost complete, except for one boy’s mother arguing with a soldier. The bottle-washers were kicking her, trying to pull her son away from her and put him with the men. She begged and pleaded, holding on to the boy for dear life. He didn’t look much older than thirteen.

My view was blocked for a second by the arrival of the 4x4, an unusually shiny Land-cruiser. The door opened, and out of it came a slight figure with a flowing beard, not very tall, who walked calmly towards the mother and son.

The man seemed to float across the mud. The Serbs couldn’t take their eyes off him. There was no begging, no arm-waving, the newcomer just held his hands in front of him and talked. I studied him through my binos. He was in his early to mid-twenties, and wore a Russian-style fur hat and a heavy greenish coat. His body language was confident. The bottle-washers seemed almost subservient to him. They stopped kicking the woman. She stayed on her knees in the mud, clutching her child to her chest.

The bottle-washers looked like they’d been told off at school. I couldn’t help feeling that the boy’s reprieve would be short-lived.

Beardilocks helped them to their feet and took them back to the group of women. The Serb guards even parted ranks to let him through.

Then there was a shot, a stunned silence, and another shot. Two of the male prisoners crumpled to the ground.

As the truth dawned, the women and children began to wail and scream.

There were two or three more shots. Slow. Rhythmic. Methodical.

More cries. Just tens of metres away, husbands, sons, uncles, brothers were getting it in the head.

I got my head back down into the hide, mentally numb now, as well as physically. You had to be able to throw that switch or you’d be barking at the moon.