Kara’s Game. Gordon Stevens

made Jovan eat, spooned the beans into her own mouth and heard the swoosh.

      

      Mortar, MacFarlane registered automatically. Incoming. An hour later than normal, but still more or less in line with the usual pattern.

      Kara grabbed Jovan and pushed him under the bed, slid beside him.

      Impact two hundred metres away, near the river bank of the old town – MacFarlane registered the fact automatically and entered it in his log.

      Kara felt Jovan trembling and held him tight. Half an hour, perhaps an hour of hell, then it would be over till tomorrow.

      Thirty seconds gone – MacFarlane didn’t need to check his watch. Almost a minute, closing on two. Incoming – he heard the whine, then the sound of impact. New town again, somewhere near the radio station. He waited another two minutes, perhaps slightly longer.

      The incoming shell sounded like an express train. They’re trying to make us afraid, Kara told herself; they’ve allowed us to settle into a routine, now they’re changing it. The walls shook slightly as the round landed.

      Old town, MacFarlane confirmed.

      The half-hour stretched to forty-five minutes, then to an hour, an hour and a half, the shells and mortars still landing.

      The Norwegian handed him a mug of tea, hot and sweet, and crouched beside him.

      ‘What’s up?’

      ‘Not sure.’

      The Chetniks were preparing for an attack, Kara suddenly thought. Please God, help Adin waiting among the mines and the snow and the ice of the front, please God save him.

      It was six in the evening, three hours into the darkness of the winter night and the shells and mortars were falling now with a nightmarish regularity. Time to file his latest report. MacFarlane picked up the handset and squeezed the grip.

      ‘Zero. This is Four One Delta. Over.’

      Zero was the code for base, and base was in the radio room on the ground floor of the white-painted schoolhouse which now formed the Operations Centre in the BritBat – British Battalion – barracks just outside Vitez, fifty kilometres away. Vitez itself was one of the places the United Nations modestly called a hot spot: Croats laying siege to the Muslims in Old Vitez, and themselves surrounded by more Muslim forces in the hills outside.

      ‘Four One Delta. This is Zero. Send. Over.’

      ‘Four One Delta. As at eighteen hundred hours.’ His report going through Vitez to the monitoring centre in Sarajevo then to the politicians and the generals. ‘Eighty ceasefire violations, all incoming.’ He lumped the mortar and shells together. ‘Forty small-arms violations.’ Which was as accurate as he and his team could be. He split the message. ‘Roger so far. Over.’

      ‘Zero. Roger. Over.’

      Message received so far.

      ‘Four One Delta. Pattern of shelling appears to have changed. Maglaj old and new town under constant shelling for past two hours. Over.’

      ‘Zero. Roger. Over.’

      ‘Four One Delta. Roger. Out.’

      Another shell landed fifty metres away. ‘Bit close,’ he suggested. The ceiling shook again, they ignored it and opened the ration packs.

      

      Kara was still hungry and her nerves were beginning to fray. She held the boy tight and began to tell him his favourite story. Another round struck the old town, not that she could tell when the noise and vibration of one round ended and the next began. This can’t go on all night, she tried to convince herself. The room was getting cold again, and the candle had died an hour ago. She crept out, flinching in anticipation of the next shell, felt in the black till she stumbled against the dresser, then found and lit another candle and placed it on the table. Then she pulled Jovan’s mattress under the double bed, helped the boy wriggle on to it, and covered him with blankets. The shell landed a hundred metres away and she felt the shock, almost dived back under the bed and felt the plaster fall from the ceiling. Sometime this has to stop, she told herself, sometime the war has to end. Be all right, she prayed to her husband. Don’t die. Don’t let us die.

      

      It was ten in the evening, six hours since the bombardment had begun.

      ‘In Vienna negotiations are going well and the ceasefire is holding.’ MacFarlane and the others huddled round the table and listened to the news on the BBC World Service. ‘All sides have stated their positions, and the Bosnian Serb leader has emphasized once again that he believes peace is possible.’

      ‘Zero. This is Four One Delta.’ MacFarlane called Vitez on the net.

      ‘Four One Delta. This is Zero.’

      ‘Four One Delta. Update on Maglaj. The shelling is continuing. One hundred and twenty ceasefire violations in past four hours. Shelling has not stopped, repeat, has not stopped, since last report. Over.’

      ‘Zero. Roger. Over.’

      ‘Four One Delta. Roger. Out.’

      They made themselves hot chocolate from the ration packs, and rolled out the sleeping bags on the camp cots.

      ‘Two-hour shifts,’ MacFarlane told them. ‘Three men sleeping and one on duty for the shell count.’ He laughed. ‘Sorry, the ceasefire violation count.’ Because we’re UN, therefore we don’t deal in anything as simple as shells and mortars.

      Good man, MacFarlane, they understood, good leader. Kept you going when you might be inclined to wonder what the hell you were doing in a place like this.

      ‘I’ll do the first shift to midnight, Paul next, then Sven and Pierre.’ Which meant that, theoretically at least, he would have to do another shift, beginning at six, but he was in charge and they would all be awake by then anyway. If they slept.

      It was getting cold now, despite the Helly Hansen fleeces and Norgies – Norwegian semi-fleece army shirts – and thermals they were wearing. The Tilley lamp popped and died, and the black enveloped him. Another shell landed. Range a hundred and fifty metres, nothing to worry about. He switched on the mag light, refilled the lamp with kerosene, and lit it again. The night was quiet, only the sounds of breathing as the others slept or tried to sleep, only the constant crash of another round hitting another building. So the night’s quiet, he thought. It was midnight. He updated the shell count, shook Umbegi’s shoulder, took off his boots, and climbed into his sleeping bag.

      At two in the morning he heard Anderssen replace Umbegi. In the past two hours there had been another sixty-two violations. He had lain awake and counted them, known the others were doing the same. At four Belan replaced Anderssen. Another fifty-eight rounds. There was no point sleeping any more, no point pretending to sleep, because no one was. He climbed out of the bag and put on his boots. Umbegi was making a brew. Umbegi was a good man. When the shit hit the fan, because the shit was going to hit the fan, Umbegi was the one he’d have at his shoulder. Christ, they were all good men.

      Today he was going to die, he suddenly thought. Calmly and clearly and soberly. Today he and his men would meet their Maker.

      ‘Zero. This is Four One Delta. Over.’ He took the mug from Umbegi and called Vitez. Not that the peacemakers and the pen-pushers would know, because they would still be asleep.

      ‘Four One Delta. This is Zero. Over.’

      ‘Four One Delta. One hundred and twenty-seven ceasefire violations in the past four hours, all incoming. A total of three hundred and seventy-two in the past twelve hours, all incoming. Over.’

      ‘Zero. Last report already sent to HQ.’ Which was good, MacFarlane thought, because it meant the guys in Vitez were with him, supporting him, knew the trouble he was in and the bigger trouble which was about to engulf him. ‘Will send latest immediately.’ Even though the bureaucrats wouldn’t read it for another four hours.

      ‘Four