Under Pressure. Faruk Šehić
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got no will, they’re merely full of explosives. Shrapnel kills morale.
A TAM lorry waited for us by the Mijić houses. The radio bleated on about yet another successful operation by the Fifth Corps. The audience were thirsty for territory. We quietly hopped on and sat on the wooden floor. The smell of paraffin, cut with water, forced its way up our nostrils. The lorry revved and trailed a wake of dust. Our faces were tribal masks.
At the Psych Ward
‘Year of birth?’
‘1969.’
‘Height?’
‘187.’
‘Weight?’
‘Around 75 kg.’
‘Occupation before the war?’
‘Student.’
‘Married?’
‘No.’
‘History of mental illness in the family?’
‘No.’
‘Army role?’
‘Platoon commander.’
‘Trenchie or commando?’
‘Both.’
‘WIA?’
‘Yes, once, fragment injury to lower extremities.’
‘Which sector?’
‘Grmuša–Srbljani Plateau.’
‘Addicted to narcotics?’
‘No, but I like to drink.’
‘Do you take pills?’
‘If there’s no alcohol, I take what I can get.’
‘Nightmares?’
‘Sometimes.’
‘Do you smoke?’
‘I smoke pole, like everyone else here.’
‘Describe depression, in visual terms.’
‘Grey. Shapeless. Swollen river. Murky sky. Bare trees. Going to a wedding without your cock. No booze.’
‘Have you been treated for alcoholism?’
‘No, everyone drinks here.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I mean, here, in war, what else would people be doing?’
‘Do you take marijuana?’
‘When there’s any for the taking, yes.’
‘What is your biggest fear?’
‘Chickens, birds, beaks and talons disgust me. That skin over a bird’s eyes. I’m scared of all feathery creatures. Even chicks disgust me. If a hen were to give me chase I’d die on the spot.’
‘Do you dream of worms?’
‘I don’t. I dream of slaughtering an obese man in a white shirt. I slice through his chin lump. I stick him in the belly. A dark red ring forms round the wound. He’s a civilian. In a fraction of a second, his shirt turns red, like in a film. Then I run away. They chase after me through a gully of some kind. I run down the beck. Hills are all around me, and woods. Branches creak in the wind. Bloodhounds bark. I sweat. I am behind their lines. I have to make my way through their trenches. I worry that I might die from friendly fire as I approach our lines. His children were screaming. The white walls were splashed with blood, like in an abattoir. My conscience troubled me. I felt bad for the man, and he was dead. The walls, freshly whitewashed, were splattered.’
‘How many times have you dreamt this dream?’
‘Three or four times, I don’t remember exactly.’
‘Do you read?’
‘Well, there’s a war on, it’s boring, everyone reads.’
‘What is the last book you’ve read?’
‘The Sun Also Rises by Ernest Hemingway.’
‘Was there anything about that book that made an impression on you?’
‘The characters were shitfaced all the time.’
‘Have you killed anyone?’
‘I don’t know. I have fired in anger, though. Everything happens so quickly. In an instant. You don’t see anything. I may have hit someone, I’m not sure…’
‘Do you believe in God?’
‘No, but if he does exist, I’m under no obligation to prostrate myself before him.’
‘Tell me about an event from the war that’s made an impression on you.’
‘There have been many.’
‘The first thing that comes to mind.’
‘Well, one fighter caught a ton-twenty in the thigh. The shell didn’t explode. He was lying to the left of me. Mirso was an extremely muscular man. He had just taken a bath. He was smoking a fag. On his right thigh he had an ashtray made out of a luncheon meat tin. I was reading Sartre’s Nausea. Paperback. The book smelt of mould. We were in a former discount shop, shrapnel had pock-marked lunar sceneries into its façade. We turned the ground floor into a dormitory. It was a three-storey building. Two prefab slabs and one concrete, plus a more-or-less undestroyed roof. A mighty redoubt. We thought we were safe. Along the walls we arranged sofas and mattresses from the nearby houses into L-shapes. To our left was a large shop window, to our right, some thirty metres behind, the river. In front of the window we stacked up Siporex blocks to protect us from shrapnel. They couldn’t hit us with their ZiS cannon because of the terrain configuration. With mortars they could though – the shells landed on the roof. It seemed to us we were safe there. At night we kept sentry duty by the river. By day, lookouts observed the river in case the enemy crossed. Who would force a river in broad daylight? It was dangerous at night. And at daybreak, when fog rises. Just as I immersed myself in the book, I heard an explosion. Not too loud. I raised my eyes. I looked at the ceiling. There was a hole there. Greyish dust hovered in the air. Mirso was screaming. A 120 mm shell landed onto his luncheon meat tin ashtray. I picked it up. Held it in my hands. These shells weigh round fifteen kilos. I put it down onto the white ceramic tiles. Its fins had fallen off. Fins are the bits that look like fletching. The tin assumed the shape of the shell’s nose, like a mould. Its bloody mask. Without thinking I ripped the t-shirt off my back to use as a tourniquet. Huka found a piece of lath and we tightened up my t-shirt over the wound to stop the bleeding. I put on my camo jacket. The shell had dislocated his leg from his hip. The wound was massive. The bone was sticking out of it. The flesh was minced. It looked like a crushed veal steak. Do you mind if I smoke?’
‘Not at all.’
I took three puffs and the cig broke in half.
‘What happened then?’
‘Huka and I took him to the rear on a stretcher. Two fighters helped us, but I don’t remember their faces. At some points we had to run. Shells were falling all along the way. They were targeting us with an eight-four and an anti-aircraft gun. Loaded with expanding bullets. Mirso was heavy. It felt as though I was carrying a celestial body rather than human, as though I had a hot meteor on the stretcher. As we carried him through a neighbourhood, protected from fire, civilians were watching from their doorsteps. I saw scarf-trimmed faces of women contort and bend out of shape with fear. I’d never seen anything like it before, except in frescos.’
‘Did the casualty survive?’