Nothing in the World (2 page)

Joško turned and ran to the beach. A hundred meters north was a small army camp, and waiting there were the five other men of his squad.
Joško asked Dražen, the squad captain, which branch of the army they were in. Dražen said that it wasn’t yet clear, but he would
let the men know as soon as he found out. The other men looked at Joško, and looked away.

* * *

No one in the squad had seen combat, but two of them had done hitches with the Yugoslav army years before. In the mornings Dražen taught weapons
handling and marksmanship, and in the afternoons Vlade taught demolitions and recon, not because they were experts in these areas but because it was
all that they remembered. Joško struggled with everything but shooting: he could hit targets so small and so distant that the other soldiers could
hardly see them.

In the evenings he became invisible again. They all cleaned their rifles—Joško’s favorite part of each day, the smell of the oil, the
soft cloth, the cold metal components sliding precisely into place—and when they were done the others played poker while he listened to the news
that flowed from the radio. One town after another was shattered by the Serb tanks, and when the siege of Vukovar began, arguments among the other
soldiers over whether the city would fall turned into fistfights. Busload after busload of refugees arrived on the coast, and Joško watched them
go by, the pale faces framed like portraits in the windows.

Then a pair of Serb jets found their way to Šibenik, and Dražen informed the men that they had been assigned to anti-aircraft duty. Every
evening the jets flew low over the city, and every morning crowds gathered for work crews and funerals. When the cemeteries were full, graves began to
appear in careful lines along the edges of parks and playgrounds.

For the first few days of this, Joško and the others could do nothing but lie on their backs and shoot up at the planes with their rifles. At last
they heard that an air defense system was on its way, and they congratulated each other in advance for saving the city.

What arrived the next week was a single 88mm, a relic from World War II, its barrel pitted with rust inside and out. Along with the gun came a German
mercenary to teach them how it worked. He was tall and pale, and a thin scar split his face lengthwise, running from below his right eye down into his
thick brown mustache, beginning again in his bottom lip, slipping to the point of his chin.

According to the German, in addition to being in poor condition, the 88 would be almost useless against modern jets, particularly with no searchlights
and no radar. The sound locator was broken and no parts were available to fix it. Also, the gun was designed for a crew of eight, so some of the men
would have to do two jobs.

The German assigned them their positions: Joško laying for elevation and line, Bakalar loading and firing, Mladen on the predictor and Vlade
handling ammunition, Papiga setting range and Dražen setting vertical deflection. They practiced for hours with empty shells. The gun could fire
twenty rounds a minute, but they’d only have ten or twelve seconds before the jets were out of range.

That evening, as the jets leveled off to drop their bombs, Joško’s squad fired three shots as quickly as they could. High above there were
puffs of greasy black encasing small flares of red. The noise made Joško’s head ring, and the jets flew away.

* * *

The sun lowered into the sea, and Joško watched a giant cloud become a whale, and then a musk ox, and then a bear. He fingered the abalone shell
that hung on a leather thong around his neck, a gift from Klara, who had written from Dubrovnik when she heard that he’d joined the army. He was
almost certain it was a shell they’d found together one morning when they were very young. It was perfectly round, and its pearled inner surface
was a rare translucent swirl of violet and green.

He remembered the day he’d left Jezera, the scene on the porch of his house—his mother crying as she told him how proud she was, his father
twisting a newspaper tighter and tighter until it came apart in his hands—and his cheek began to twitch. He waited to see if the twitching would
stop on its own. When it didn’t, he took the shell and rubbed his dancing cheek until it quieted.

The mercenary stood off to the side of camp, smoking one hand-rolled cigarette after another. Dražen was manning the binoculars, and the other
soldiers were stretched out flat on their backs in the sand. They stared up at the reddening sky as they worked through the latest rumor, that a
shipment of Stingers had been deployed with squads roving the coast, waiting for the chance to bring down a jet.

Dražen handed the binoculars to Vlade, and the men’s talk shifted to stories of women they’d been with. When it became clear to
Joško that he wasn’t going to learn anything helpful, he started thinking of his sister and her friends in Jezera. Klara’s long
straight hair, Marijana’s deep black eyes, Andrea’s legs. Nataša’s breasts and Maja’s voice and...

Of course, none of Klara’s friends had ever paid any attention to him. Joško watched as Papiga got up and began hopping from boulder to
boulder, his arms spread like wings. The conversation turned to football, and Bakalar started in on Dinamo Zagreb and their chances once the war
was—

- How about if all of you shut the fuck up?

It was the German. He walked from soldier to soldier, staring at each of them. Joško tried to remember the man’s name, and realized that
he’d never told them.

- I do not understand you. We all know that I am here for the money, that my paycheck comes each month no matter who is winning or losing, no matter
who lives or dies, but you...

He shook his head, and took his time rolling a cigarette.

- How much are they paying you? Dražen asked.

The mercenary laughed. He looked at Dražen, and finally shrugged.

- The money’s not bad. Not as good as in Angola, but not bad.

He turned to Papiga.

- I’ll bet you don’t even know who I was fighting against there.

- The government?

- Of course, but who else?

Papiga guessed Namibians. They were the wrong answer.

- Cubans, the mercenary said. Very good soldiers. Very smart. It was a good war.

- A good war.

- Yes.

- What, exactly—

- When both sides are the same. Both have good weapons, good soldiers, and the smartest man is who wins.

- Did you win? Joško asked. In Angola?

The mercenary looked away and smiled.

- The government has offered to stop fighting, and Savimbi will accept. Does this mean the war is over? I don’t know. But while I was there I won
nine thousand dollars each month. And I am not dead.

Bakalar laughed, called to Vlade that once the war in Croatia was over they should sign up for Africa.

- You will all be dead before this war is over, the mercenary said.

He started walking in circles again, not staring at anyone now.

- You understand, yes, that this is not a good war? It is a terrible war. The Serbs have solid equipment, thorough training. I have garbage like this
88, and to operate the garbage, instead of soldiers I have children and old men. You argue about women, you argue about football, you argue about
whether Vukovar will fall. Of course Vukovar will fall. It will hold on as long as it can, and then it will fall. I was there, you know, at the
beginning. One time a boy, maybe fifteen years old, is the only one I have left. He is not so smart so I tell him things simply: I say, ‘Look, I
need the big gun from those dead men over there.’ He does not wait for me to tell him how to go. He just runs. Bullets are everywhere. He gets to
the bunker and picks up the Browning. He cannot run fast with it, and I yell for him to wait. He runs back without waiting.

- So he made it? said Mladen.

- Yes. But he did not bring the ammunition. I tell him we need the big bullets for the big gun, and to wait for my signal. He says he does not need to
wait because he is very lucky. He runs again to the bunker, gets the ammunition and runs back, all the time with the Serbs shooting at him.

- Lucky kid.

- Not so lucky. He was killed the next day. Brave, yes, but not so smart and not so lucky. In war, if you are stupid, if you do not listen to me, you
will die. And if you are not stupid, and you listen to me carefully, you will probably also die, but maybe your country will survive.

* * *

In the morning the mercenary sat them down and said that it was time for them to learn infantry tactics and sniping. Vlade asked why an anti-aircraft
squad needed to know infantry maneuvers. The German stared at him, then pointed at the nearest ridge and said that sixty Serb tanks and a thousand
foot-soldiers would be arriving in two or three weeks to answer his question.

The mercenary brought out a roll of maps and spread them one by one across the ground. He spent the next hour asking the men how they would attack a
given target, and ridiculing their answers.

- You speak as if there will be no one defending the trench. There will be many, you understand? They are something you must get past, like a river,
and you kill them like building a bridge. Whoever builds their bridges fastest, to the best places, that is who wins.

They drilled for twelve hours, the German screaming each time someone hesitated or fumbled a piece of equipment. There was no break for lunch, and none
for dinner, but his shouts and insults thinned out as the evening wore on. At last he told them that if they continued to drill like that, someday they
would be soldiers.

Joško ate his rations, washed his face, and sat down alone on the beach. He was searching the sky for Venus when the German came and sat beside
him. The man rolled a cigarette, lit it and lay back. Joško cleared his throat.

- What we are doing here is pointless, isn’t it.

- With the 88? Yes. But most of what is done in most wars is pointless.

- I wish I was somewhere I could use my rifle.

- So do I. You are shit at everything else, but if I could find you a proper weapon and get you out on special missions... Anyway, it doesn’t
matter. With the way the Serbs are advancing, it won’t be long.

Joško stared at the sea, wondering, and finally asked the man how long he’d been a mercenary.

- Sixteen years.

- And when will you stop?

- I will fight only four years more.

- Why four?

- That is when I will have enough money not to fight anymore.

The German seemed suddenly very tired and very happy. Joško thought of Jezera, of Klara, of how far things were away. He looked back at the
mercenary, and the man’s eyes were closed; his cigarette was almost gone, and ashes littered his uniform. Then the coal burned into his bottom
lip and he woke shouting, spitting the heat away. He pressed his hand to his mouth and looked at his fingers carefully, studying the spittle like tea
leaves. He laughed, and held out his hand for Joško to see.

- Do you know what this pain is?

Joško shook his head.

- This is paying for what you do not have. It does not matter if there is rain or sun. The men put vinegar on the sponge and lift it to you, but it
doesn’t help the pain.

Joško looked around. Papiga had the binoculars, and the other soldiers were talking quietly as they cleaned their equipment.

- Do you understand? the man asked.

- Not really.

- You will.

Papiga shouted that the jets were coming, and Joško was the first to his feet but slipped in the sand and was the last into position. He flinched
as the gun fired, and stared at the jet that staggered, stalled, and arced into the sea.

They heard the remaining jet coming back, and Bakalar slammed another shell into the breech. The jet passed overhead, the gun fired, a wing folded and
the jet flamed and dropped.

- Both of them! Joško screamed. We got both of them!

He threw back his head and howled, the pleasure of it, his throat went tight and the darkness fragmented and spun.

T
he next morning the German was gone. He’d left a note taped to the 88 warning that more jets would be coming, and they would no longer fly in so
low. In a nearly illegible postscript he’d added that he now knew he’d been wrong, that Dražen and his men were excellent soldiers,
that Croatia was lucky to have them and they would be fine as long as they didn’t do stupid things.

Vlade and Bakalar took turns reliving the night before and reminding Joško that he’d passed out just as the celebration started. Then a
group of reporters arrived and informed them that they were the first heroes the war had produced. Most of the interviews that followed started with
variations on one basic question: How had it felt to send those bastards to the pits that waited for them in hell? The other soldiers talked about duty
and justice and freedom, but when Joško’s turn came, the hair rose on the back of his neck, and the only answer that occurred to him was,
There’s nothing like hitting what you aim at.

A few hours later the reporters threw their equipment into their cars and sped away. Papiga blamed Joško for not giving better answers, and Mladen
was convinced that a major offensive was about to be launched somewhere in the northeast, but Bakalar had heard from a cameraman that one of the
army’s roving squads had been nearby when the two jets went down, and that in fact their Stingers had made the kills.

While the others argued about who should be getting the credit, Joško reread a postcard that had arrived from Klara that morning. It said that she
hoped he would soon be sent to Dubrovnik to protect her from the Serb ships that were shelling her beautiful old city. The postcard didn’t
mention her husband. Joško had already asked Dražen a dozen times if he could be transferred south. The answer was that Dražen
didn’t know how the transfer process worked, or even if there was one, and that if Joško abandoned his post he would be hunted down.

* * *

The air attacks on Šibenik ceased, but over the course of the next week part of the Serb army moved in through Bosnia to attack central Croatia
and split the country in two. They took a swath from the eastern border to within shelling range of the coast, and from Gračac in the north to
Sinj in the south. Dražen spent hours each day on the phone, begging for reinforcements and trying to find someone who could show them how to
reconfigure the 88 as an anti-tank weapon. He always hung up hollow-eyed and hoarse.