The Division Bell by Andy Evans
“When the Will defies Fear,
When Duty throws the gauntlet down to Fate,
When Honour scorns to compromise with Death -
That is Heroism.”
Robert Green Ingersoll
Chapter One - Heaven and Hell
Bogdan nestled his head deeper into the lush pile of freshly cut meadow grass, enjoying a brief moment of respite from his labour. A trickle of sweat irritated him as it ran down the contours of his cheek, tickling a path down his face as gravity drew it from its source upon his forehead.
The summer had been particularly hot and even now as autumn approached, the temperature held as if the season itself was trying to hold back the darker, colder months that were looming ever closer.
‘Winter will be a time for rest,’ Bogdan thought to himself, a slight smile playing on his lips. Mother Nature had looked on him favourably throughout the warmer months, offering him golden rays of sunlight during the long days and bathing the steeply sloped pastures with rain as darkness fell. Sheep had gorged themselves on the lush greenery and their meat would be greatly appreciated as the bitter cold arrived to seal off the tiny woodland village he called home, not to open again until the first flowers of spring rose from their hibernation.
“Bogdan's life,” he whispered out loud, “is a good life.”
Content and enveloped in happiness, he gently spread the cotton cloth which had earlier held his lunch of freshly made bread and eggs, over his face, warding off the penetrating rays of sunlight still beating down despite the lateness of the day and closed his eyes.
Bogdan had been born into a land full of hope. Bosnia in 1909 had worked hard to overcome her old scars of misery and suffering to find a calm peace. As the twentieth century settled in to a new rhythm, the painful memories of those dark times were being left behind.
The Pliva region was isolated and the events of the world were lost amidst the dense mountain forests of pine trees, clear running streams and magnificent water falls. Life was simple and the residents self-sufficient. Greed was an unknown concept.
Food was grown or reared by those lucky enough to have been born on the bountiful slopes and any surplus they had would simply be exchanged in the villages for goods that they could not grow or manufacture themselves.
Even alcohol could be produced in large quantities at home. High altitude and fertile soils were ideal for the growing of damsel plums. Stumbling upon the chemistry of distillation in the distant past, it soon became common knowledge that to offer fierce heat to fruit and then cool the steam would result in a very potent and highly alcoholic liquid.
Each and every day would be started with a shot of plum brandy, not sipped with the enjoyment of a connoisseur, but gulped down in one, like fire to extinguish the demons that had entered the soul during sleep. On days when the demons would persist in their fight for supremacy, the intake of brandy had to be maintained throughout the day and well into the night.
At the age of just four years, Bogdan’s idyllic childhood had been torn apart when Serbia’s scars had split open anew to reveal festering wounds below the surface which had never truly healed.
The great eagle had awoken from her slumber and she had looked to both the east and the west for support to ease the pain of continuous Turkish dominance. However, she was left clenching her talons in anger and defiance as no help nor safety net was forthcoming.
Local militia groups were co-ordinated and formed into fighting units and overnight, an army was formed and the uprising began. Taken off guard, the Turkish occupiers fell into retreat. Despite suffering heavy losses, the proud eagle finally cleared the homeland of a cruel master who had ruled with death and torture for centuries.
Then came the assassination. Despite being only five years old, Bogdan could clearly remember the evening conversation between his parents as he ate potatoes and goulash. A shot had been fired in Sarajevo. A shot which was to tear the world apart.
Within days his father was gone. Military officials from Belgrade had arrived at dawn and taken everyone of fighting age to serve King and country.
To serve was to pay the ultimate price and within six months, news had filtered through to the family that Jovo, his beloved Father, had been killed. One brave fighter amongst thousands had fallen for the last time. Mira, Bogdan's mother had taken the news of his passing extremely badly. Proudly devoted to her husband and son, she fell into a deep pit of despair. Jovo had been her saviour, her knight in shining armour and a gentleman from the very first day they had met.
She had been just seventeen when this gallant young man had appeared as if from nowhere. Preoccupied with her daily chore of washing her family’s clothing beneath a torrent of crisp, ice cold water formed through a network of waterfalls across the lowland valleys, she had failed to hear the heavy hooves of a horse as it came to rest at her side.
Realising his presence had not been felt, Jovo silently retreated from the forest clearing and picked a bouquet of wild flowers from those growing amongst the sprawling pine trees enveloping every available space amongst the steep surrounding slopes.
The sweet aroma, which slowly permeated the air around her, finally broke Mira’s concentration. Startled at the intrusion, she turned quickly, her eyes focusing keenly on the man before her. Jovo, arms outstretched, offered her the vivid summer colours and fragrance. At just over six foot tall, his lean, muscular body blocked the vibrant rays of sunshine, casting her in shadow and making him appear a giant.
A man of few words, he knelt beside her, as if a knight to his queen and gently handed her the beautiful flowers.
“I am Jovo,” he whispered, his voice barely audible amidst the crashing water spewing from the high mountain slopes.
Their courtship had been brief. Mira's parents had instantly taken to the newcomer and enjoyed the new found happiness he brought their daughter.
Jovo proposed after only eight short weeks and the happy couple sealed their pledge to each other in Saint George’s church. Love and lust finally united and before long, their happiness began to show on Mira's waist.
Before they reached their one-year anniversary, the church bells sang again to announce a new life had been delivered safely into the world.
Bogdan was christened beneath the local waterfall and the ageing priest promised the family a long and happy life together. Unfortunately, it was not a promise he could keep.
Within months of his uniform clad departure to fight for his country, God had taken Bogdan’s gentlemanly Father to a place he could never return from.
The Serbian army had stopped their rapid advance against the hastily retreating Turks to take a short respite from the rigours of the war effort, but unknown to them, the Turkish army had regrouped and begun a fierce and bloody offensive in Macedonia.
Caught unawares, the Serbian eagle suffered heavy causalities whilst she fought back against her suddenly strengthened enemy.
Jovo had been just one of the thousands of feathers who paid the price for this mistake.
Tangled helplessly on the razor wire defences of the other side, he had desperately tried to free himself before his plight was noticed. But the sniper’s trigger was quicker and the slightest of finger pressures rang the death bell across a three hundred metre expanse of hell on Earth.
Jovo heard death as it approached, hundreds of rifles fired together. The beckoning light was his to take and he passed right there on the battlefield.
The sniper had smiled to himself the evening before. Taking in the hot, pungent coffee as he sat beside the campfire, he had carefully filed the lead tip of each bullet into a cross, relishing the irony.
There was no pain for Jovo, no suffering amidst the mud and squalor. Death had claimed him quickly. But now the wire barbs, which had halted his progress, offered his body up for desecration. Held upright, stuck fast in the gripping metal vine, other snipers fired repeatedly at his limp corpse, pulverising bone and muscle before realising there was no breath left to take from him.
A deep mechanical roar awoke Bogdan from his slumber. He looked up and strained to understand the scene unfolding before his eyes.
Heavily armed soldiers were dismounting from a camouflaged tarpaulin covered truck and kneeling in a line facing the long meadow grass stretching from the mountain slopes to the river’s shallow banks.
A figure running towards the safety of the rushes caught his eye. The uniform of God did not allow for a hasty retreat and with every footfall the priest made, a plume of smoke followed, as he tried desperately to out-run his hunters. Realising he had no chance of escape, he stopped, turned and held his hands high in surrender. Bogdan sighed in relief, despite his confusion, believing the trouble to be over.
A single gunshot rang out, ending any thoughts of serenity. The priest lay dead and his murderer laughed out loud. A far worse feeling assailed Bogdan as he realised that the killer had not been a newcomer to the valley. The laughing man was Dragan Babić, a friend and neighbour that he had spent countless hours fishing for trout with in the nearby Pliva River.
Movement to Bogdan's left drew his attention from the confusing macabre scene set out before him. Figures were now appearing from the dense fir trees blanketing the valley slopes. Antun Matić was easily recognisable from the laugh he gave out as he urged others to hasten their step and follow him out into the clearing.
Quickly others appeared, each one a local man known to Bogdan. Excitement was obvious in their voices as they shouted greetings to Dragan the murderer. All the men were armed with rifles and began firing into the air joyfully as they neared the bloodied corpse of the priest.
Antun Matić made his way to the nearby soldiers. Distance blurred his words, but Bogdan immediately recognised the language he spoke as German. Having briefly worked on the railways in Croatia, Bogdan had learnt enough words and phrases to make conversation with fellow labourers who had travelled south from Germany to seek employment. There was no doubt that the uniformed men were part of the German Army.
Dragan Babić broke away from the group to kneel beside the body of the priest. Placing his rifle in the grass at his side, he drank from a flask pulled from a deep pocket in the jacket he wore. Home-distilled plum brandy only seemed to exaggerate the madness exuding from him in waves.
Suddenly, as if to prove he had indeed lost his senses, sunlight caught along the sharpened blade of a butcher’s knife, focusing attention on its wielder a second before he sank it deeply into the lifeless form in front of him. Working with his skills as the village butcher, within a minute, Dragan had the priest's heart, intestines and stomach spread out beside him, slowly turning the lush greenery of the surrounding meadow to a dark and chilling crimson.
Inquisitive, one of the grey uniformed soldiers broke away from the ranks of his comrades to take a closer look. He froze as he neared the blood stained Dragan and on fully understanding the scene laid before him, he immediately dropped his rifle to the ground and retched, spilling the contents of his stomach across the dead priest's legs.
“Fuck! You are a crazy man!” He hissed as he fought to regain his composure whilst slipping on the disgusting mess of vomit and blood soaked grass beneath his feet.
This only added to the euphoric mass insanity of the local men who whistled and shouted out their delight at their uniformed guest's discomfort. Immediately, the heavy diesel engine of the camouflaged truck roared back into life, spewing thick black exhaust fumes, further tarnishing the pure and fertile land around it.
Clambering aboard, the soldiers quickly retreated and the driver, in his haste, sent the heavy tires spinning before lurching the vehicle forwards, away from the horrific scene of mutilation and back onto the dirt track that had first brought them to this place.
With their newfound allies gone, the group of local men settled themselves around the violated corpse they had created. The bottle of plum brandy was passed from one man to the next and their insane laughter filled the air.
Bogdan pressed his face heavily into the drying hay he had cut barely an hour ago, needing to take desperate breaths, but not daring to make a sound.
War had come back to Yugoslavia he realised and his eyes streamed with tears of dread.
“It was a new day yesterday,” he gently whispered, “but dear god above, it is an old day now”.
Chapter Two – Misery Rains Down From the Heavens
The acrid stench filling his nostrils brought Bogdan back to his senses and he desperately fought to control the guttural cough as his lungs rejected the thick, polluted air being drawn into them.
Forcing himself from his paralysed state, he raised his head and looked to the skies. His mind immediately went into overdrive, desperate to decipher the images being laid out before him.
In his mind, the winter snow had arrived early and flakes began to descend around him, weaving through the bloody scene to finally settle upon the claret stained ground. Bogdan smiled momentarily as he watched a snowflake fall, the action conjuring memories of childhood Christmas celebrations; logs burning on the fire whilst he sat playing with hand-carved wooden soldiers, newly ripped from brightly adorned wrapping paper.
As the snowflake hit the ground and turned from white to red, the child was snatched back into Bogdan’s memory and he sat back, dazed and appalled, no longer naïve.
'Fire!' His mind cried out, finally regaining its senses. Fragments of blackened ash, which were being launched high above the treetops, now descended everywhere, covering the green of the grass and the red of the blood with a coating of dark black and grey.
The heavy aroma of burning charcoal was accompanied by the sweet smell of roasting meat. Automatically, his mind shielded him from the truth, replaying old memories of laughter, music and gently roasting fattened lamb slowly turning on the spit. However, harsh, unfamiliar laughter quickly broke through that shield and through the veil of ash he could make out the forms of Antun Matić and his band of murderers, hastily running from the corpse they had just created towards the source of the thickening plumes of smoke.
“My village”, he barely gasped the words.
Europe’s war had crash-landed in these idyllic lands and split open the scars left by the bitter feuds of long ago. The ethnic diversity of what was once Yugoslavia had exploded once again. The murder of the Orthodox Priest was just the beginning and Bogdan realised his family were now in grave danger.
With a heavy heart, Bogdan carefully crawled from his hiding place and deep into the darkness the tree line offered.
For centuries this valuable natural resource had been carefully maintained, ensuring that every generation could benefit from this natural commodity.
With each tree felled, two were planted and now the growth was so thick, golden rays of sunlight were forbid entry to the earth at their roots. Even when the sun reached its zenith, everything beneath the canopy remained in twilight.
“Bogdan!”
The whispered voice stopped him dead in his tracks. He slammed himself down hard against the earthen floor in a late attempt to conceal his presence and his heart stopped as he waited for the worst to happen.
“Bogdan,” the whispered voice called out again. “It's me Dimitar. Dimitar Čapek.”
Bogdan breathed a deep sigh of relief, but with relief came the return of blood to the outer limits of his body. His fingertips ached with a pain akin to exposure from the coldest of winters, finally being relieved by the warming heat of a fire.
Slowly, he focused on the form of his neighbour lying hidden behind the fallen, decaying trunk of a nearby spruce tree.
“Dimitar my friend,” Bogdan's voice trembled with fear. “What the fuck has happened here?”
Dimitar crept carefully and quietly from the safety of the fallen tree and crawled to Bogdan's side.
“The German army have taken the lands my friend and our neighbours have turned against us.”
“Turned against us? Why?”
“Ah, forever the naïve one Bogdan! Do you not take any interest in events happening within our neighbouring countries?” Dimitar's hushed undertone would have been filled with mirth at his neighbour’s expense had the situation not been so serious. “Hitler has destroyed Belgrade with his war planes and now Yugoslavia is infested with enemy troops.”
“But Dragan Babić and the others are not the enemy,” Bogdan interrupted. “They are neighbours and friends!”
“Friends!” Dimitar spat on the ground as he spat out the word in disgust. “They have turned into the killers they always were, Bogdan. Hatred was always hidden beneath their fake smiles of friendship and welcome. They have seized this opportunity to re-open the scars of our forefathers without a second thought. Those murderers are no longer simple men of the hills my friend. The Ustaša have returned, protected now by the fascist invader!”
The word Ustaša immediately filled Bogdan with dread. Stories had passed down the generations depicting the fascist movement of Croatia as being the devil’s own deliverer of pain, suffering and death.
They saw themselves as a revolutionary movement, whose single aim was to seize power from the unified Kingdom of Yugoslavia, dividing its lands to suit their own needs.
Bogdan had listened to the many stories around the camp fire, to him nothing but banter between fishermen waiting for a pull on the line signifying dinner.
Bogdan's Yugoslavia was peaceful, but steeped in diverse ethnic origins. The bad old days had been and gone as far as he was concerned. His own father, after all, had paid the ultimate price for this supposedly ended conflict.
The Ustaša seemed like a villain from a book of long lost stories. His had once opened the pages, but closed them swiftly as if to seal away the truth penned between the lines. The idea of this nightmare coming to life petrified him.
Mere seconds later, the air around the two men suddenly began to hum in a low mechanical tone and both were swiftly brought back to the reality they were facing.
“Lay still my friend,” Dimitar whispered, placing his arms around Bogdan's shoulders, pushing him deeper into the soft, dry earth.
The noise became louder and dead, dried pine needles rained down, covering everything on the ground as the hum vibrated the air and shook the trees all around them.
From their hidden vantage point just above the valley basin they soon saw the cause of the noise. Flying in a tight v-shaped formation, heavy bombers were flying low following the contours of the land before them, dirty black exhaust fumes polluting the virgin air behind them.
“Heinkel bombers,” Dimitar whispered, almost taking pleasure in his wisdom. “Belgrade will surely burn like hell itself tonight.”
Wave after wave of the tightly packed armada passed overhead. With a top speed of one hundred and ninety three miles per hour and a range just short of two thousand miles, Europe was already ablaze thanks to these ‘wolf in sheep’s clothing’ bombers and now the seven thousand pounds of deadly explosive energy was being directed at Belgrade.
They watched the last of the flying marauders disappear behind the towering mountain slopes rising to the east, but the heavy drone of the engines stayed with them for much longer.
As the air finally fell still again and the distant hum was all but unnoticeable, Bogdan came to his senses and an utter feeling of panic crashed over him.
Shame soon followed as he realised that his own self-preservation had removed all thoughts of the safety of his family.
Like a dying man, snapshots of his life flashed before his eyes and settled on Dragoslava, his wife of seventeen years, waiting for his return after a hard days work in the pastures. She had promised him Sarma, cabbage leaves stuffed with spiced minced lamb, rice and onions, for this evening’s meal and fifteen year old Jasna, their only child, would as always replenish her fathers empty plate until his stomach could simply take no more.
Fulfilled and content, the family would settle before the wood-burning stove to discuss each other’s day over a game of chess.
A single, distant gunshot snatched Bogdan from this comforting thought and he quickly gathered himself into a crouching position, grabbing Dimitar tightly at the shoulder.
“We must return to the village to protect our families Dimitar,” Bogdan declared, despite the fear evident in his voice.
“We have no families Bogdan,” came the choked, tear-stained reply. “The Priest was not running to save his own life. He was running to warn others. Everyone’s dead, Bogdan. No one survived.”
Chapter Three - The Darkest Night
Dimitar had always been the leader. His childhood days were spent schooling in the primitive, wooden church hall and he had quickly stood out from the other children of the hills.
At the time of Dimitar's birth, the Pliva region had only been blessed with baby girls. It was two years before another son was born along the forest clad mountain slopes. The differences between Dimitar and the murderer Dragan Babi, however, could not have been greater.
Dimitar would play to a captive audience of younger children over campfires in the forest. The boys would soak up his exaggerated tales of bravado and adventure with eager questions. The girls, desperate to be noticed and liked by the older ‘bad boy’, would do almost anything to attract his attention and keep it. In later years, whilst hunting within the darkest recesses of the forest with his friends, he would point out trees he had named after each of the conquests he had made beneath their boughs.
“Adrijana,” he would say to the other members of the hunting party whilst nodding in the direction of a particularly large tree. “She howled like a wolf as I took her virginity,” a broad satisfied smile playing on his features.
“What about this tree?” The question would always come.
“Ah that was little Milka,” came the rehearsed reply. “She sucked me so good before I gave her what she really wanted.” His smile grew even wider as he thrust his hips back and forth crudely to emphasise the point.
Usually such tales would end in laughter, but occasionally Dimitar would forget just who the members of his audience actually were and, more importantly, who they were related to by blood and marriage.
Once, while enjoying the attention of his audience, his ego had got the best of him and he had pointed to one particular tree and exclaimed:
“Petra Popov! Now there was a girl who always begged me for more!”
Humiliated, Petra’s husband Javor Čuda quickly aimed his rifle at Dimitar’s head and pulled the trigger. Despite the poor aim of the marksmen, the heavy 303 calibre found flesh and Dimitar screamed out in shock and pain, falling heavily into a bed of dried pine needles on the forest floor.
The lead held its shape as it passed through the skin, muscle and bone of Dimitar’s left wrist before coming to rest deep within the wooden trunk of the tree that had caused such a reaction.
“Never speak of my wife again!” Javor shouted, more in panic than anger, as he threw the weapon to the ground and hastily retreated from the hunting pack.
There was no macho boasting today as a much smaller pack crept its way through the very same forest towards the village they had all lived in together.
Dimitar had been a woodsman his entire adult life and worked the slopes every day of every season. Years spent negotiating the mountainous terrain had prepared him well to weave a silent route back to the village.
“We must find Dragomir,” he whispered, despite the forest being deadly silent. “The old man keeps a radio and may have heard what is happening”.
Dragomir Čermák was known by all the families from the valley he had called home for the whole of his eighty-four years. Generations of children in the village and outlying lands had looked up to him and called him ‘Old Grandpa'. He was a respected elder in these parts.
Smallpox had taken his own children from him before they even reached puberty and his wife, Bora, had been overcome with grief, never feeling able to face bringing more children into the world just to have them snatched away again.
So Dragomir had turned his attention to bringing joy and happiness to those children who had survived the plague and then to their children and eventually their grand and great-grand children.
A master carpenter, he lovingly carved beautiful wooden toys to give as presents on birthdays and for Christmas. It was said he had given every child in a thirty-mile radius a gift of some description over the past twenty years.
Dimitar and Bogdan crept towards a clearing in the dense forest and knelt behind the lichen-covered boulder that marked the entrance to the old man's property.
Their progress had been necessarily slow and although the approaching nightfall had at first helped them by concealing them from view, it now seemed to switch allegiance and made determining whether the collection of buildings before them held danger or sanctuary almost impossible.
“Let me go ahead,” Bogdan whispered. “Since I saved his flock from a pack of wolves, Dragomir has always trusted me”.
“Ok hero,” Dimitar agreed. “Just remember the wolves come with bullets tonight”.
Bogdan had visited the old man and his wife hundreds of times, so even without the benefit of sunlight, he easily managed to keep to the pathways and avoid the various hidden wooden outhouses. Dragomir and his father had stood side by side on the front line all those years before and the two had become close friends in grave circumstances.
It was Dragomir who had relayed to the young Bogdan and his family the bravery shown by Jovo during the conflict. When Jovo was cruelly ripped from his family forever, it was Dragomir and his wife that had stepped in to offer their support and friendship.
Cautiously, Bogdan crept around the chicken coup, fearful that the occupants would at any second hear his footfall and fill the air with their shrieks, alerting anyone near by to his presence.
Yet they didn’t make a sound. As he moved closer to the main house he started to get the sense that all was not well here. The huge guard dog, Javor, had failed tonight as sentry and Bogdan was now intruding on the very area the Alsatian was supposed to protect.
With the events of the day heavy on his mind, he quickened his pace to a sprint, heading towards the front of the house now silhouetted against the night sky. In his haste, he failed to see the rusted chain snaked in front of him until it had caught his foot and sent him sprawling forward, arms outreached to break a fall that was strangely cushioned, his body protected from a full impact against the hard ground.
It took but a second for a horrified Bogdan to realise that his fall had been softened by the lifeless and bloodied body of Javor. Thick fur was matted with congealed blood released from one large jagged cut, which had almost severed the loyal animal’s head from his body.
His muzzle was frozen in a fixed snarl and it was evident that the brave creature had vainly fought to save itself and guard his family from the brutal attackers.
Hauling himself off of the corpse with more speed than stealth, it was a slight movement to his left that brought Bogdan back to reality. The bloodied remains of the dog lay cold by his feet as he turned cautiously to slowly focus on two, odd, unreal shapes rising out from the earth that separated the main building from the closest of the other outbuildings. Despite the darkness, the shapes began to take on human form and the hairs on the back of Bogdan’s neck stood on end as his mind attempted to make sense of the strange and horrifying image laid out before him.
Dragomir Čermák and his wife Bora rocked gently back and forth in the cool night air. Their arms had been crudely bound behind their backs with torn fabric whilst their ankles were held tightly together with old lengths of frayed leather once used for horses.
Lynched cruelly and left broken for all to see, it was not the idea of the corpses that filled Bogdan with a panicked terror he had never before felt, nor was it the twisted grimace of pain and suffering etched onto their lifeless faces. It was the sight of Bora’s naked body, sagging with age and as white as snow, contrasting harshly with a dark, dried river of blood emanating from a gaping hole in her chest.
Her breasts had been cut away from her body, leaving a hideous gaping maw across the middle of her chest. But the terrifying cruelty that had stopped Bogdan’s breath was the realisation that this horrific mutilation had to have been carried out whilst she was still alive. Only a beating heart can pump blood around the body and the cascade of dried blood from the wound to a pool of brown at her feet showed that Dragomir’s lovely wife had bled to death, her blood seeping into the ground they had lovingly tended together.
Finally, desperate for release, a scream of pure terror forced its way from Bogdan’s body and when at last it was out, he struggled to regain his breath as his fear and shock echoed through the clearing and into the forest beyond. Realising he had given his position to anyone who cared to know it, he clasped both hands over his mouth to stifle any further noise as another scream threatened to take flight.
Although he had still been safely concealed behind the boulder, now Dimitar rose in panic. Blinded by darkness, he didn’t realise he was no longer alone until he heard the unmistakeable sound of footsteps accompanied quickly by a darkened figure hurtling towards him. Paralysed by fear, he was unable to take flight back to the relative safety of the pine forest behind him and he felt his heart stop as he waited for the enemy to reach him.
But it was Bogdan that came sprinting from the clearing, his face white and his eyes wide and as Dimitar’s heart restarted and he realised that Bogdan had no intention of stopping, he instinctively shot out his leg, sending the poor terrified man crashing to the ground for the second time that day. Both collapsed in pain, exhausted and breathless, as silent as mice.
As heart rates and breathing slowly returned to normal, a calm settled over the pair and eventually Dimitar broke the silence.
“Are you okay?” he asked quietly.
“I think so,” came Bogdan’s stunned reply, but as the words left his lips, the image of Bora strung up and caked in blood flashed back before his eyes and he began to sob uncontrollably. “They’re fucking dead Dimitar! Murdered and lynched like animals! What they did to her!” He couldn’t explain further.
Realising that they had no time to fall apart, not here, Dimitar took control of the situation and, fighting hard to keep his own composure, took Bogdan by the shoulder.
“Come with me,” the words more of a command than an invitation. “We have to find shelter, it’s not safe here.”
Agreeing completely with that statement, Bogdan pulled himself together enough to regain his footing and slowly the two huddled figures headed up hill into the deepest, darkest areas of the pine covered slope.
Each innocent noise the forest made hampered their progress. The distant howl of a wolf, the call of a hunting owl, every rustle of a leaf brought with it their worst fears and they stumbled and hesitated as they questioned their safety time and time again.
Slowly though, the pair found their way onto a narrow ridge offering respite from the steep incline and a view of the valley below and as if on cue, both men settled and looked down to see for the first time what had become of their village.
Brestovo had burnt to the ground. Finally starved of fuel, the embers were slowly dying, yet still gave out a dull orange glow that illuminated the ruined village below them.
Not a single building had been spared. Bogdan stared in utter disbelief as he worked out the position of his own home, now just a scorch mark in the dirt.
The old wooden church of Saint George had suffered the same fate. Once a place of prayer and thanksgiving, the fire had raised it to the ground, leaving nothing but a blackened mark upon the earth and an ethereal glow cast all around by the dying embers.
Following Bogdan’s gaze, Dimitar finally lost control, tears streaming down his face. “It was the church Bogdan, they were all locked in there while it burnt!” His bravery deserted him and he gripped Bogdan tightly as he broke down, unable anymore to stifle his despair as he gasped for air and cried for everything that had been lost that day.
Holding his friend tightly, the truth hit Bogdan like a ton of bricks and he felt the tears begin to fall again as he realised what Dimitar was saying. His family had been burnt alive.
Chapter Four – The Cleansing
That night, the two men had lain huddled together beneath the thick protective shield of the pine trees until they had each run out of tears to shed. Eventually, they had drifted into an uneasy sleep, but now it was the echo of voices broadcasting through the valley that roused Bogdan from one nightmare straight in to another.
“Dimitar,” he whispered as he shook his companion hard by the shoulders. “Quick, we have company!”
Startled at the sudden awakening, Dimitar jolted up to look back over the ridge and turned to Bogdan, a grim look upon his face.
“There are soldiers in the village.”
Clad in light blue uniforms, a total of seven soldiers were focusing their attention on the largest of the still smouldering blackened scars that had once formed Brestovo. Armed with spades, they had begun to dig holes amidst the ash and charred remains of what just yesterday had been the village church. Not even the greatest symbol of Christianity, the cross, had survived. It had burnt alongside the peaceful people who had worshipped before it.
Neither Bogdan nor Dimitar recognised any of the men below and their uniform was different to that of the German Army.
“Murdering filth!” Dimitar hissed. “Ustaša killers here to relish the spilling of Serbian blood!”
Suddenly, they heard the sound of a vehicle being driven at speed and watched as an armoured Volkswagen Kübelwagen swerved into view, slamming on its brakes just short of the soldiers who quickly ran to assist the occupants.
Dressed in black uniforms with a swastika on the left arm, Bogdan recognised the new arrivals from an article in the newspaper.
“Waffen SS,” he whispered.
After a quick word from the driver, the blue-uniformed men retrieved wooden boxes from the back of the military vehicle, carried them back to the charred remains of the church and deposited them into the holes they had been digging there, covering them back over with earth when the task was complete.
As they finished and converged on the armoured car, it was obvious that the two Waffen SS men were barking new orders at the subordinates dressed in blue. Raised voices and hand gestures were quickly followed by the roar of an engine as the driver bought the Volkswagen back to life, shifting into reverse and making a sharp u-turn that churned up a cloud of dust, momentarily hiding the soldiers from view in a flurry of ash and dirt.
When the dust cleared, the men appeared panicked and were now taking flight after the vehicle that had seemingly just deserted them.
As the sound of their footsteps was swallowed by the forest, a deathly silence seemed to envelope the valley. Everything hidden in the trees seemed to be holding its breath in apprehension of what was to happen next.
Mere seconds had passed when the intense bright-white light seemed to erupt from the very ground itself, momentarily blinding the two surviving villagers hidden high up on the narrow mountain ledge. The survival instinct kick started in both Bogdan and Dimitar and they hit the ground hard as it shook violently, a tsunami of heated air crashing into the mountain slope, bending pine trees as if they were meadow grass dancing in the summer breeze.
Suddenly, the air filled with an ear piercing shriek as thousands of white hot metal fragments exploded out from the epicenter. Nothing was spared as they shot out at every angle; trees that were older than the village were reduced to firewood in an instant.
Here was the true killer in war. Shrapnel had no mercy, no hesitation, and no human emotion. It did not favour sides and anyone caught standing in its path was mercilessly cut down regardless of race, colour or faith.
For what seemed like an eternity, the two men remained still and quiet on the ledge waiting for the silence to return. When it finally did so, they crept to the edge to view the destruction that had been bought to their village for the second time in a mere twenty-four hours.
Thick black smoke rose into the sky, blocking the sunlight rising from the East, but the dark, gaping crater was still clearly visible now claiming the ground that had once been Brestovo.
“Why?” Bogdan could only utter one word.
“To erase their crime,” Dimitar answered.
Time seemed to stand still as the rising smoke reached its zenith and the dust and ash slowly began to rain back down upon the earth.
“Now we have to survive,” Dimitar quietly told Bogdan. “We have to tell the world what really happened here”.
Chapter Five - Introduction to Murder
The ice-cold water sent a sharp, burning pain straight to Bogdan's temples as he drank greedily from the stream spewing out from the weather beaten rock high above him.
He had visited this place many times before. As an adolescent, he had been an intrepid explorer and his adventures had brought him to a place so beautiful his young self had believed it to be the Garden of Eden.
In later teenage years, he had sought solace and amusement by the waters edge. During the glorious summer months, his nights were spent with friends, camping under makeshift woollen tents and creating happy, laughter-filled memories.
More recently, a mature Bogdan had charmed his soon to be wife beside the small fall of spring water. They fell in love here and later, passionate nights were spent beneath the stars, whispered declarations of love, hope and longevity offered to each other and the darkened sky as they lay intertwined in the damp grass together.
Looking around his own childhood utopia, Bogdan could not help but think of his beautiful daughter. From an early age, Jasna had flourished in the natural surroundings of the mountain slopes. At one with the earth, it had not been uncommon for Bogdan to return home after a hard days toil to find a new furry addition to the family.
When she was younger, these new additions would often be orphaned yellow-necked mice or a little hazel dormouse; small, manageable creatures that made perfect pets for an inquisitive, gentle little girl.
As she grew, however, so too did her waifs and strays. The red fox, ever hungry and cunning in its ways, Bogdan had tolerated. The golden jackal, however, was a different story. Although cute in its infancy, Bogdan knew that as it matured, its appeal would diminish as fluffy cuddles and playful nips were transformed into snapping, snarling jaws that would bite the hand that fed it.
Despite Jasna's tears, he had released the cub deep within the surrounding forest, right in the middle of the wild jackal territory. For her sake, he had watched over the outcast for a week as the pack decided whether to accept it into their family, or to rip it apart. He had been more than relieved to tell Jasna that the little cub had found a new home and a new pack to be a part of.
The crunch of approaching footsteps wrenched Bogdan back to reality. Grabbing the first rock he could see, he turned to face his assailant.
It was only Dimitar, camouflaged against the backdrop of the dense pine trees. Bogdan let out a deep breath.
“Food my friend,” Dimitar called, his voice barely audible over the cascading water as he shook a cloth sack in Bogdan’s direction.
The sack proved to be a treasure trove as out poured freshly dug potatoes with damp soil still clinging to the skins, damson plums, jars of sauerkraut and more impressively cold, cooked lamb.
Immediately, Bogdan tore off a piece of the meat and as soon as the rich flavour touched his tongue, his body reminded him angrily that he had not eaten in days and his hunger flared painfully.
“I went back to see Dragomir,” Dimitar whispered in between mouthfuls of sweet, ripe plum. “His murderers must have left in a hurry, the inside of the house was still intact”.
To illustrate his point further, he wiped his sticky hands on his trousers and began to carefully open the second, longer sack he had brought back with him.
“They say God created man Bogdan, but it is the gun which made all men equal.”
Two Karabini M95 rifles now lay fully exposed between the men. These rifles had been the weapons of choice for the Serbian army during World War I and the Balkan Wars. Bogdan immediately thought of his Father and he reached for the nearest gun, exactly like the one that had been issued to Jovo when he had been sent to slaughter all those years ago. He ran his fingertips gently along the rounded contours of the heavy wooden stock and felt the cold of the metal loading mechanism seep into his skin.
“What about ammunition?” Seemed the logical next question.
“Ammunition!” Dimitar laughed. “We have enough bullets to take on the whole damn world!” He opened his jacket and out fell a large pile of highly polished rifle rounds and again, Dimitar laughed.
The two men used the cover of the plum trees to creep unseen towards Dragan Babić. As luck would have it, they discovered a natural, shallow trench, still free of the stagnant water that would settle during the later autumn months, and poured themselves into it.
Babić had his back to them, slowly hoisting a wooden bucket filled to the brim with water from a man made well. With each laboured pull of the rope, Bogdan and Dimitar crawled slowly forward, pausing only when Babić paused to take a firmer hold of the sodden line.
By the time the bucket had reached the stone wall surrounding the mouth of the well; the two men were laid within three metres of their quarry.
As he leant forwards to immerse his cupped hands in the crisp, cold water held in the bucket, they made their move.
“Now!” Dimitar shouted, more an order than a suggestion as he jumped to his feet, aiming the loaded rifle at the back of Babić's head as Bogdan quickly followed, and both rifles soon aimed at the startled man in the light blue uniform who was slowly turning to look at the cause of the commotion.
“Friends!” he called out as he saw that he knew the men. His arms opened in a friendly gesture, but his voice still wavered. “You gave me the fright of my life!”
The sight of a smile spreading across the murderer’s face was the tipping point for Bogdan. He had witnessed this man, his neighbour, murder a priest in cold blood and then desecrate the corpse in a horrific display. He had watched as his village was raised to the ground and all trace of the ones Bogdan loved was incinerated along with the entire town of Brestovo.
Pure hatred now engulfed Bogdan as he squeezed the trigger. His need for vengeance outweighed his concentration and the recoil almost snatched the weapon from his grasp. He fought to regain his composure and his grip as his senses returned.
The bullet hit Dragan Babić in his right thigh. Skin and flesh was torn away and his femur fragmented and shattered as it took the full impact of the high calibre round.
Surprised and undoubtedly shocked, he fell backwards against the well wall, grazing his lower back against the hard stone as he went down. Through the pain and escalating panic, he realised that it was now his life that was in danger and he fought to control the searing pain long enough to reach the pistol concealed beneath the heavy weave of his shirt.
In the mere seconds it took Babić to summon the strength to reach for the heavy steel handle and its momentary comfort, Dimitar had sensed the danger, aimed and fired. The second heavy round bore home slightly lower than he had meant, right into the belly of the beast. It tore through soft tissue and intestine before fragmenting and burrowing into the discs of his lower spine.
Bogdan and Dimitar had now abandoned caution altogether and had quickly covered the distance to a gasping Babić who was attempting in vain to stem the flow of blood emanating from his gaping wounds as each jagged breathe brought with it a red bubble outlined in blood.
“Please help me,” his voice cracked and barely audible now. “Show mercy my brothers.” His lips were stained a bright red in vivid contrast to his face that was now an ashen white.
Looking at the pathetic man at his feet, begging for his life, Bogdan saw the faces of his love, Dragoslava and beautiful daughter, Jasna, who's begging had done nothing to change their fate and his hatred for this barbaric murdering bastard and everything he represented could not be contained. Bogdan kicked out in a fury, aimed straight at the once jeering, smiling face that so disgusted him and as he made contact for the first time, several teeth and part of Babić's tongue were sent hurtling through the air, as his features crumpled. The second kick, just as savage as the first, dislocated his jaw, almost ripping it off at one side, creating an unnatural broken grimace that seemed to suit the nature of its owner.
A shocked Dimitar could take no more of the cruelty and pushed his rifle barrel against the mangled head of Dragan Babić. With one squeeze of the trigger, he was gone and the two men now stood covered in blood, muscle and bone thrown into the air by the close-range shot.
In that instant, they returned back to their sane selves and, stunned by their own barbaric actions, Bogdan and Dimitar fled the scene through the plum trees they had emerged from not five minutes earlier. They did not stop when they reached the safety of the tree line, they did not speak, they just climbed, higher and higher up the mountain slope, only pausing to check for signs of pursuit. Over an hour later, they reached the bubbling mountain stream and finally stopped.
Both men collapsed, shell-shocked by what they had found themselves capable of. They were exhausted, the adrenaline had run out and the fact that they had just murdered a man, even a man as vile as Dragan Babić, was something that neither could fully process. It didn’t feel real.
But it was. Dimitar was a murderer and Bogdan was his more than willing accomplice.
Revenge, bloody retribution, had changed them forever.
Chapter Six - The Ringing of the Division Bell
Exhausted Bogdan slowly opened his eyes. Snow had settled whilst he slept bathing everything as far as the eye could see in a blanket of white.
Cold bore into him and he shivered uncontrollably, despite the three layers of thick woollen sheep pelts he wore above his clothing.
It was now two months since murder entered his life and the transformation within himself had changed him forever.
Gone was the family man who strived to protect and provide for those he loved and cherished. Humanity and compassion had been replaced with the need for self preservation and hatred.
The two men had been catapulted on an adventure in which, initially, they had no control. Now it seemed the coin had been tossed and choices were theirs for the taking. Bow down and accept the loss or stand and take the fight to the enemies who had brought death and destruction to the land.
With the murder of Babić the choice was taken. Each one of the men who had introduced death and ethnic cleansing to the priest and others of his kind were now dead. Each one carefully targeted and dispatched sending their souls crashing to the deepest recesses of hell.
Dimitar, the ever dominant figure, had slowly withdrawn himself to that of follower as the killings began. Hatred and retribution fuelled Bogdan with the inner desire to cause pain and suffering to anyone he now saw as the enemy. Gone forever now was the man who had spent sleepless nights worrying for the safety and well-being of the jackal, innocently introduced to the family home by the beautiful Jasna. With the brutal death of his family Bogdan's life and purpose was forever changed. The tossed coin had settled forever and the path of all tomorrows was chosen, never to be returned.
The figure of Dimitar slowly appeared from the entrance of the narrow cave. Always the handsome one in the group of innocents who had hunted and frolicked upon the forest slopes he now looked dishevelled and gaunt.
The thick dark beard did nothing to soften the menace he now portrayed and the glisten in his eyes had gone, replaced by black pits of despair and hardship.
“Look brother,” Bogdan pointed down the slope towards a small clearing in the forest.
Movement within the confines of the clearing caught his attention and Bogdan slowly raised the small field binoculars to his eyes. Despite one of the lenses having a small hairline crack he could clearly see uniformed men sat around a cooking pot resting on glowing embers of charcoal.
Around the perimeter sentries had been posted at regular intervals, each one armed with what appeared to be light machine guns and rifles. Deep relief erupted within him as he focused on the small flag which had been roughly stretched between two of the smaller pine trees nearest the camp fire.
Despite the distance and damaged lens Bogdan could easily make out the unmistaken form of the skull and cross bone emblem.
“For king and fatherland; freedom or death,” he muttered reading out aloud the writing etched clearly onto the black fabric.
“Chetnicks,” a broad smile stretching quickly across his face.
“Our comrades and salvation are finally here to save the people.”
Bogdan eagerly looked through the binoculars. The men were dressed in uniforms of green and were heavily equipped with rifles, machine guns and what appeared to be hand grenades clipped to leather webbing straps fastened around their chests.
Bogdan knew about Chetnicks. Their origins went back to the turn of the century when they had risen up against the Bulgarian and Turkish armies in open conflict.
During peacetime the Chetnick movement had continued to exist on the outer fringes of Serbian politics.
During the last two months however word had spread amongst the survivors of the burnt out villages Bogdan and Dimitar passed through on their journey south that the Chetnicks were rising from the ashes of the army of the fatherland.
Serbian officers had scattered their units high into the hills, refusing to offer surrender to the occupying German and Italian forces, instead they were offering the gauntlet of defiance and revenge. Still reeling from the weight and speed of occupation the Chetnick units adopted stealth and secrecy as their weapon of choice. Hiding within the concealed mountain slopes the armed bands patiently waited for the opportunity to strike at the aggressors.
Revenge and retribution was on the agenda and overnight the simple farming man, the family father figure became transformed into the avenger of death and fear.
Once clean shaven men of respectability now wore the beards of grief. Grief they say takes on many forms but it was the grief of a lost homeland which now many swore allegiance to and gave the oath never to shave until freedom was finally theirs.
The heavy metallic noise of a bullet being inserted into the firing chamber and locked with the heavy bolt mechanism of a heavy carbine rifle snatched Bogdan from his lesson in history.
“Raise your hands into the sky!” The order even more menacing as it was issued by the unseen assailant.
Instinctively both men gave the universal signal of surrender and held their outstretched arms above their heads, neither one daring to turn their heads in case this was interpreted as an act of bravado and defiance.
The sounds of movement came from either side of them and Bogdan could now see figures immerging from either side of where he stood.
“Turn around slowly,” this time the command less harsh and spoken with less urgency than the one before.
The man who stood before them was impressive in his appearance to say the least.
An overall air of menace enveloped the figure which now stood before Bogdan and Dimitar. The Italian Mannlicher Carcano infantry rifle held at the man's hips, pointing towards his captives. Dressed in a tan coloured leather jacket which dropped to just above the knees, the man looked out of place in his surroundings. Only a hint of military uniform could be seen as the green trousers were almost covered with bindings of a lighter material, wrapped tightly around his shins, offering added protection against the extremities of the harshest weather.
The man's head was hidden beneath a thick woollen hat of black, giving extra height to his stature. Despite the menace and feeling of intimidation it was the ornate emblem, festooning the headdress which brought a feeling of instant safety to Bogdan. The double headed eagle seemed to rise out from within the confines of the thick black wool in which it was held aloft.
‘I am Serbia’ it silently announced. ‘With one head I look to the east for reassurance and comfort, with the other I seek the west for possible allies to the cause.’
Again movement came from both sides of his filed of vision and momentarily Bogdan dared to move his head slightly to both left and then right.
Four, maybe five figures entered his field of vision. Despite taking in just a momentary glance at the added intrusion, the shapes manifested like that of a negative snapshot fresh from the photographers darkroom. The sepia images now blurred away the leather clad warrior immediately in front and a new feeling of hopelessness washed over him.
The men at his sides were fearsome in their appearance. Their ill fitting clothing, a mixture of military uniform and animal skins of the mountain man only exaggerated the aura of cruelty and death to anyone they opposed.
“Better war than the pact!” Bogdan shouted instinctively. These were words he had heard just months ago spoken between village people when the news of King Paul's treaty with Adolph Hitler had permeated across the land from its political centre in Belgrade.
“Better grave than slave,” the voice replied almost rehearsed and on cue.
Just two simple, ill formed sentences between man and man immediately washed away the atmosphere of hatred and uncertainty of what could so easily have been.
“I am Marko,” the hand replacing the rifle as the gesture of friendship was offered.
“I am Bogdan,” was the swift reply, eager to capture the moment of solidarity. “This is Dimitar,” ever keen now to break the crushing, vice like grip which threatened to break the bones in his hand, “my friend and one time neighbour.”
Suspicion slowly ebbed away as the Chetnicks were satisfied their questions were answered with truth and openness.
Marko had presented the two newcomers to his comrades as being friend, not foe, and the full weight of Serbian hospitality, given the hardships endured on the snow covered mountain slope shone brightly for all to see.
Greetings exchanged, Bogdan and Dimitar were given fresh clothing and bowls of hot water to cleanse away the sweat and stench of not having bathed for weeks.
Once revitalised they were offered prime seats around the fire of burning logs, now permeated with the appetising aroma of lamb and paprika goulash.
As the hot fiery food was ladled into separate metal containers more of the Chetnicks gathered around the camp fire. Careful not to stare Bogdan eyed each and every one of the men with curiosity. They were a strange group of varying ages, each one dressed, although in some form of military uniform, very different to each other. It was as if they had been handed a bundle of clothing and told if it fits, wear it.
The youngest members of the group were perhaps aged no more than fourteen, mere children, and the eldest perhaps in their fifties.
The common denominator of the group was they were all heavily armed with weapons of varying kinds and all wore the Serbian Eagle upon their hats giving the only hint of any allegiance to a particular cause.
“Well my brothers,” Marko called out, his face illuminated orange across the burning embers, “what do you think of my own little army?” A warm smile slowly etching across his face.
“Where are you from?” Dimitar asked, taking a brief respite from the steaming goulash in the bowl he held close to his mouth.
“We are from everywhere my friend,” the laugh more forced than that of natural humour. “We have risen from the very depths of hell itself to steal and take back the hearts of those who brought suffering and death to the fatherland,” the smile slowly eroding as if it was never there, “and tell me,” slowly his right hand rose and pointed across the fire, “exactly where are my new brave warriors from?”
Bogdan relayed the horrors of the previous two months, ever careful not to omit any of the horrors they had endured.
The killing of the priest, the burning of the village and the cold blooded, unforgiving murder of their families, not dispatched humanely, if murder could ever be carried out that way, but murdered and burnt to death, offering no end to their pain until the last breath had been taken.
As the story was relayed the audience clearly had their own terrors to be told. Nods of the head accompanied each and every sentence spoken.
“My friends,” Marko interrupted, “enough now, we have all loved and lost,” the rifle now held aloft as if firing into the sky, “now is the time for retribution, we will soon show our new comrades to the cause that Chetnick blood is sacred and many of our enemies will pay the ultimate price for their treachery and will meet their maker in the darkest corners of hell.”
Despite still offering warmth against the bitter cold the camp fire was smothered in snow and earth sending a cloud of steam upwards, only dispersing as its heavenly ascent was broken by the canopy of the lumbering pine trees.
The previous hour has seen the camp bristling with activity. As the final spoonful of goulash was consumed a feeling of urgency seemed to engulf the men as they set about ordered tasks from Marko. Ammunition, of various calibres were carefully checked and allocated to the owners of the weapons they had been designed for. Traces of what had been the overnight resting place were hurriedly erased as pine needles and dried out branches were scattered across the clearing, returning once again the open space to its natural, untouched appearance as it had once been.
Satisfied the area was cleansed of human interference Marko finally gave out the order to move, taking a lead position as the ragtag procession slowly weaved a downhill path through the thick evergreen covering of pine trees.
Despite the lack of uniformity Bogdan was immediately impressed with the military precision with which the group moved. Each man and each boy seemed to follow a pre-arranged order as they silently marched downwards towards the lower plains.
Deep down he now knew he was part of something rising so big he could never have imagined.
Here now was Bogdan the family man. Bogdan the man who cherished the fond, happy memories of his family like no other. Bogdan the man who had witnessed barbarity and cruelty, each and every waking hour, reliving the torment he endured with the passing of each and every day.
“Stop!” The command jolted him immediately from his thoughts of grief and remembrance.
Silence now reigned supreme as weary eyes focused to the point which had halted the downhill advance of the fighters to be.
The level field of snow was strewn with bodies. Not the remnants of some ill fated infantry brigade, but the naked bodies of the innocents, naked flesh now exposed for all to see.
Women and girls had been the victims of the day and it was Bogdan who broke the ranks. Without hesitation he broke the cover and safety of the forest and ran towards where the bodies lay.
“Get back you fucking idiot!” Marko bellowed.
Oblivious to the order Bogdan continued to where the bodies lay. With horror he slowly took in the scene now before him. The bodies of naked women and girls were scattered twenty metres from the tree line, snow stained crimson with blood.
The corpses lay scattered in all directions, their faces hidden from view, submerged now in the snow which had settled around them. The bullet holes, testimony to murder gaped open to the heavens above the lifeless form. Shot in the back without pity or remorse, the scene only added now to the plunging depths of man's barbarity and cruelty which was manifesting all around.
The women and girls had been stripped and sexually abused by their captors within the relative safety and cover of the pine forest. Their desires spent the rapists had given the terrified spent out victims a final chance of freedom and survival. The safety net of escape and life was offered and the innocents had run for their lives out onto the open plain.
Hastily fastening their trousers the torturers now replaced sexual lust with a lust for blood and ultimate suffering. Bullets were now the phallic victors and triggers were pulled without remorse.
The soft, warm offerings of the women were instantly erased as each bullet found its target. Pleasures of the flesh now immediately became replaced with the cold finger of death as each projectile found its mark. Within seconds the act was done. Cold corpses now replaced the smiles and happiness of days never to be returned.
Both women and children now lay, exposed as the final insult to a suffering they could never have imagined until today.
Dubravko Tomić desperately made another attempt to wipe away the film of ice which again coated the telescopic lens of the rifle he held tightly against his shoulder.
The others had marched south to seek out more territory to claim as their own in the name of the newly proclaimed Independent State of Croatia.
Dubravko had made his excuse of staying behind announcing he felt unwell and would only hinder the groups speed. He would rest and catch up with their advance west as soon as the crippling stomach pains and sickness bated enough for him to travel.
Murder was the real reason he decided not to join the others. Killing innocent women and children he realised was not the way of the fighting man and deep down he knew he could never condone the mindless act of killing innocents in cold blood.
Rape however he could live with. His distorted thinking foolishly told himself the women and girls had been mere objects to pleasure and fulfil the desires of braves in the harsh and dark days of open warfare.
Full of alcohol induced bravado he had enjoyed both woman and girl the previous night.
Snatched at gunpoint from the village they had ransacked earlier in the day the frightened captives were marched away to the safety of the forest. Given chores of cooking and preparing a camp for the night the men had settled around the camp fire to drink and eat plundered goods from the burnt out village they had left behind.
With their chores complete the captives were forced to strip naked and dance for the men's selfish and brutal amusement.
Sexual arousal now rose within the group and the rapes began. At first only the mature were targeted but as the evening wore on the desire for fresh flesh took hold and the younger girls, some barely in their teens were seen now as mere objects to be abused and enjoyed.
Dubravko smiled as he remembered stealing away the virginity of the terrified girl who lay beneath his crushing weight. Only when fully satisfied had he finally come to his senses. He had withdrawn to the warmth of the fire and drowned away his guilt in a haze of plum brandy and tobacco.
The heavy, almost crushing recoil of the high calibre rifle as it bore into his shoulder snatched Dubravko from thoughts of the flesh.
Lack of concentration, and the numbing cold involuntary caused his finger to press against the airline trigger mechanism of the rifle.
The heavy retort was amplified by the blanket of snow surrounding the area. Birds took to the sky, startled from their roosting places nestled beneath the lush evergreen canopies of forest pine and called out their own dismay at the intrusion.
Luckily for Bogdan his would-be assassin had made a vital error between life and death. The premature touch to the trigger sent the bullet crashing into the snow, four metres to his right.
The audible sound of rifle fire forced him to instinctively drop to the floor. His body weight immediately displaced the fresh fall of snow and Bogdan now felt himself immersed in a thick blanket of cold and protective reassurance against the unseen assassin.
Slowly he raised his head from the white, muffled tomb of skin numbing coldness and as the snow melted within his ears the audible commands could be heard.
“Down!” The voice screamed out from somewhere behind him.
“Aim towards the tree line three hundred metres to the left of the abandon hay cart,” another voice yelled.
The first retort of nearby gunfire automatically sent Bogdan's head beck into the thick covering of snow beneath him.
Despite his hearing being cushioned as snow crystals filled his ears the unmistaken sounds of heavy, multiple gunshots involuntarily forced his hand over his ears in an attempt to protect the inner ear from certain damage.
The fast paced rat a tat of machine gun fire joined the single shot chorus of the rifle and it felt like the deadly projectiles were just inches above his head. Any move now he realised would result in instant death.
Dubravko Tomić knew immediately he had gravely misjudged the situation.
The single figure that had entered his field of vision had not been alone. He was not yet another faceless victim who could be despatched without any danger of retribution. The lone target was part of something bigger, not just a mere target for his cowardly intent as were the victims of yesterday.
The first impact of high calibre lead fell short and to his left. Muffled shouts could be heard across the open field and he quickly realised these were the orders, homing the hunters towards their prey.
The bullet struck him on to the top of his right shoulder. Initially he felt no pain as the velocity of the rifle round tore through flesh and bone, emerging to settle finally into the frozen ground immediately behind him. Blood and pulverised bone and muscle stained the snow around him and adrenalin now raced through his body. The deep rooted in built mechanism of survival now took control and he rose from his outstretched position to take flight.
As he emerged into view a rapid crescendo of gunfire erupted. The first blow hit him just above the left knee, the heavy impact forcing his body to spin; the second and third bullet hit him squarely on the right upper thigh, the double impact lifting his feet from the floor and sending the full weight of his body backwards.
Helpless now Dubravko lay almost paralysed. Pain bore into him like he had never known and he began to cry. Voices, mixed with heavy footsteps drew slowly closely and he knew death was stalking him.
The heavy set figure of Marko was the first to enter his vision breaking through the crisp, almost angelic shroud of pure white snow.
The heavy bearded contours of the man's face leant down, filling Dubravko's now limited field of vision. As if relayed in slow motion, the lips of the intruder opened and closed as if to relay an audible message.
“Goodnight my son,” Dubravko's mother gestured as she touched her lips against his.
“Rest now my brave one,” the smooth beautiful flawless skin now becoming morphed with the roughness of reality. For a fleeting second eyes became fixed in the final stare. Marko pulled the trigger without regret or remorse for its recipient.
Death came instantly and without pain as the bullet from the pistol bore its way effortlessly through his temple, displacing brain matter before exiting the skull, finally coming to rest deep in the frozen earth.
Dubravko's legs ran now for the very last time as the final signals from the dying brain were sent out across his body. Within seconds the race was lost and the lifeless body lay still in a dark pool of blood and melting snow.
True horror had played out the final act in the field of suffering and bloodshed. The naked bodies of the innocents were carried into the forest covering where the frozen ground was softer, and buried hurriedly in shallow graves. Prayers were said in the hope the suffering was now over for the unfortunates and Marko made the final words which he conjured up from the very depths of his grief and sorrow.
“Only unity will now save the Serbs.”
With a last and final look back to the killing field the band of united brothers brushed away their own tears of remorse and remembrance of the unified lands they loved and cherished.
As if rehearsed, the tolling of a lone, distant church bell sounded its dulcet tone of calling across the countryside.
Not usually a man of poetic words, Bogdan whispered aloud under baited breath,
“The bell of division has now truly called out in despair across our beloved land.”
