THE HEART OF DANGER by Gerald Seymour Page A

the summit of the
    escarpment, and by the sight of the cordon line closing on the two
    who
    were wounded. Shit, no, they hadn't listened to Ham when they had
    crossed the Kupa river in the inflatable, and they hadn't listened
    to
    him when he had told them, swearing, that they should lay off the
    booze
    in their water bottles and they hadn't listened to him when they had
    moved out to get close to the artillery position under the night cover
    that was now gone. Shit, yes, they listened to him now .. . And if
    it
    hadn't been that the ambush was crap then they would, all six of them,
    have been on the ground, beyond help, as the cordon line closed. They
    listened, and struggled to control their breathing, and they were
    watching as Ham watched. "Nothing you can do, so don't fucking think there is anything." He knew that the brother of one of them behind him
    was wounded, lying in the field. It was the worst it had ever been
    for
    Ham. His throat was dry dust. His gut was knotted tight. His arms,
    legs, would have been stiffened, clumsy, if he had tried to move.
    There were tears welling heavy .. . Too bloody unfair .. . He had
    known
    guys who had been killed in close-quarters fire, and guys who had
    been
    wasted when an armoured personnel carrier had been rattled and
    brewed,
    and guys who had been mutilated when caught without cover as the
    rockets from the Organj launcher had come down. He had known guys
    from
    the International Brigade who had been in Osijek, in Turanj, outside
    Sisak, and shipped home in boxes by the embassy but that had been
    more
    than a year back, more than a year and a half. He had known guys
    who
    66

    had said it was too goddamn dull in Croatia after the cease-fire,
    and
    who had hitched on down to Bosnia, but that was a crazy bloody place
    to
    get killed .. . Too bloody unfair .. . In the days with the
    Internationals Ham had been classified sniper first class, using the
    long-barrelled Dragunov, stationary target three shots out of four
    at
    1000 metres. In the days after the Internationals had drifted off
    scene, or been booted, he had bullshit ted expertise in ordnance.
    No
    home to go back to, had to bullshit to stay. Big bullshit if he wasn't
    to be on the trail down to Bosnia and the crazy bloody war .. . Too
    bloody unfair .. . They had wanted an ordnance man to get across the
    Kupa river and spy out the artillery position on the high ground,
    and
    their own ordnance men would have been too precious ... As an ordnance
    man he would have been able to identify the type and calibre of the
    artillery pieces in the position, their stockpiles of ammunition,
    their
    threat .. . Big bloody bullshit, and the bullshit had put him where
    it
    was worse than it had ever been for Ham. He did not reckon it safe
    to
    use his binoculars. Could have been flash or shine from the lenses
    against the low-rising sun. He could see enough without the
    binoculars. He knew what he would see. He knew it because he had
    dreamed it in the temporary sleeping quarters behind the old police
    station in Karlovac town. The dream was Ham's agony. Ham knew that the wounded, struggling to keep up with those who were not wounded,
    would have thrown away their weapons as they had lumbered, hobbled,
    after those who had run. If they had had their weapons then, sure
    as
    Christ, they would have used them. Sure as Christ they would have
    used
    their weapons and kept one back for the last. There was no firing.
    The cordon line reached that part of the field, near to the tree line,
    where the wounded lay. He could see it clear enough, without
    binoculars. He should have looked away, and he could not. The stuff
    of Ham's dreams, the stuff that made him sweat, toss, sometimes scream
    in the night. There was a bearded man, big and well set, in the centre
    of the cordon line, and he had a whistle in his mouth, and his was
    the
    voice of command. Ham could not see the wounded, lying in the thick
    spring grass of the field, but he knew where