Field of Blackbirds - Clayton Jeppsen & Lindsey Jeppsen (me reader txt) 📗

he would clean bathrooms for the rest of his life, but he would never bury another child. Nikola just laughed as he motioned Lazar away with the flick of his wrist.
When Lazar joined the Yugoslav People’s Army, he felt that he was doing a good thing. He even thought Milosevic was a good president with a vision for Serbia. But over the last three months, he felt his core beginning to rot. His convictions were buried in Slatina and he wasn’t sure how long he could stay afloat in the blood of the innocent. It was everything Mr. Nowak tried to warn him of. Mr. Nowak had no clue what was happening now. Lazar doubted he would ever tell him. How did he become so quickly entrenched?
In the military you don’t have time to think for yourself. There is no vacancy for choices or decisions. You are only reacting in a moment or doing what you are told. But then Lazar wondered why he was left all alone to bear the guilt. If these were not his choices, Lazar thought to himself, why did he feel so guilty? This wasn’t the life he chose. Oh, what he would give to be making a move on that chess table right now. He imagined himself leaning over the broomstick, analyzing the table for his next move. It would be a simple move, like advancing a pawn, just to buy himself more time. Lazar wished he could slow things down a little. He wished he had time to organize his life before the rest of the seams unraveled. He wanted to get off this fast, disparaging train. He wanted to find Milla.
Just as Lazar was prepared to decorate the side of the truck with his lunch, they hit asphalt and the ride began to steady. Lazar could see old farmhouses in the distance accompanied by old mills made of stone. The dawn was barely breaking, but a herd of sheep moved slowly in the field to graze. He saw a creek that crawled around the farmhouses and headed off into the distant town of Tuzla. This part of the trek seemed to be more pleasant.
Lazar rested his head against the side of the truck in hope to relax. It was then that he spotted a new soldier in their unit. He was across from Lazar and all the way against the cab. Lazar wondered why he wasn’t told of his report or even introduced to him. He was the first addition in four months. He didn’t look like the new, ready-for-battle recruit. He looked as though his mind were somewhere else, not necessarily at home but on greater things. He wasn’t as muscular as Lazar, but he was taller. He had more of a stringy runner’s build. He had fair skin, but like Lazar, his eyes were bright blue. He had dark brown hair that was perfectly in place. He even had sideburns that were cut perfectly straight at the bottom of his earlobes. That was odd, Lazar thought. It would only be a matter of time before a Sergeant would see them and make him shave them off. His nose was straight, but rounded like a marble at the tip. Lazar saw that he had the crest of Montenegro on his shoulder. Serbia and Montenegro had combined forces after the break-up of Yugoslavia. What caught Lazar’s attention was that he seemed organized, not you typical soldier. He carried a briefcase and occasionally thumbed through the papers inside.
He’s a private. Lazar thought. He couldn’t possibly be that important.
Lazar leaned forward a little to read his nametag; R. Gavrillo. The name sounded so familiar to Lazar but he couldn’t place it. Was he from his first unit? He was curious.

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Radenko noticed the Corporal’s curiosity and closed his briefcase. He looked over at Lazar and gave a nod.
“The color is back in your face Corporal, you must be feeling better.”
“You’re very observant.” Lazar was impressed. He didn’t think anyone noticed.
“I think I’ll be fine. It’s nothing that can’t be cured by fresh air and good company.” assured Lazar.
Radenko gave another nod and a grin. He made his way up the isle, using the truck railing for balance and sat across from Lazar.
“Private First Class, Radenko Gavrillo, Sir.” Radenko extended his hand.
Lazar noticed a little sarcasm as he belted “Private First Class.” Lazar returned a hand and fired back with,
“Corporal Katich, You can call me Lazar.”
Radenko wondered if the Corporal knew who he was. He wasn’t sure what kind of talk had gone around before he got there. After all, this was the unit that he defended after the Slatina incident.
Lazar was about to inquire as to why Radenko looked so familiar when their convoy came to a stop just around a bend. Lazar and Radenko were in the second truck. They heard commotion coming from the first truck. Suddenly, a command was given to turn around and a lot a yelling was heard. What was happening, questioned Lazar. Cautiously, he stood up and looked over the truck cab. . . . . . . . He saw a tank and small artillery in the middle of the road. There were about three hundred men blocking passage dressed in camouflage and wearing black handkerchiefs over their faces – The Croatian Paramilitary Force, the HOS. Just then, the tank hopped backward as a round was fired at the first truck.
“Get down!” yelled Lazar.
The truck was transformed into a magnificent fireball with projectiles. Then a wave of small arms fire collided with the convoy. Lazar could feel the heat from the truck in front of them. He saw men running past them in hysteria as they were trying to put out their own flames. Then he saw their own driver leap from the cab. Lazar reached for his rifle as his unit began to scramble out of the truck. He grabbed the back of Radenko’s jacket and motioned him to jump over the edge. Because of the traffic jam, the driver wasn’t able to back out. Suddenly the truck began to lift off the ground as the tank fired another round; this time into their truck. A prolific sense of pressure strangled them. Everything went black. Lazar felt cold and then he was out.
Radenko was injected with pain. It surged through his whole body. Everything seemed to be quiet except for a suppressed ringing sound. As hard as he tried to focus, his vision just got blurrier, but he did recognize the yellow and orange flames erupting from the trucks. He was on the side of the road in a ditch. He was nearly twenty feet from the blast. Radenko still held fast to his rifle, but began to panic when he lost site of his briefcase.
His next instinct was to reach into his coat pocket where he kept the picture of Mary and Baby Jesus. Radenko felt comfort when he found it. He lifted himself to his feet. He felt tremendous pressure pulsating in his head. He knew he had, at least, suffered a concussion. Men from his unit were scrambling past him, away from the blast.
“Get to the back of the convoy.” They were shouting.
Radenko saw the Croatians walking toward them, firing their weapons into the chaos and flames. Radenko raised his AK-47 and headed back toward the blast, offering a small degree of resistance to the Croatians. He had to find his briefcase. If the documents inside fell into the wrong hands the consequences would be disastrous.
The trucks themselves provided a little cover, and he was able to close the gap fairly quick. He began searching frantically for the case. It was nowhere in site. All of Radenko’s comrades who were still alive had already evacuated the area.
The ground shifted as another wave of pressure lifted Radenko off his feet and slammed him back to the ground. Shrapnel and debris littered the sky. This time Radenko couldn’t hear anything, not even the ringing sound he heard before. The heat from the blast was getting to him and confusion was setting in. The percussion was almost more than he could stand.
Radenko detached a grenade from his jacket, pulled the pin and lobbed it into the road in front of the Croatians. He hoped this would buy him a little more time. He no longer had control of his rifle. He unholstered his CZ 9mm pistol and began kicking around the debris that surrounded the blast. He moved toward the channel between the two trucks.
Radenko wasn’t prepared for what he saw: a vile display of fallen comrades. He doubted any of them survived the first blast. The vision of lifeless bodies warned him to retreat, lest he be numbered amongst them. Resolutely, Radenko accepted the idea that he would not find the case and bullets were ricocheting into the trucks. He would now have to rely on his last two companions to get him out of there alive: Adrenaline and Fear.
Just as Radenko was prepared to make an about-face, he looked down and noticed whom he was standing over. The nametag read; L. Katich. “The Corporal,” Radenko announced out loud.
The Corporal was still breathing. Radenko wasn’t sure if he could do it, but he had to get him out of there. He grabbed Lazar’s right arm and hoisted him over his shoulder. Only then did Radenko begin to feel the damage in his neck and left shoulder. But it didn’t matter, in a few moments they would both be dead. He detached his last grenade and threw it as he left the cover of the truck. He wasn’t sure if the grenade reached a safe distance but he began running as fast as his body would allow. Radenko was surprised by his strength and was actually moving at a good speed. As he approached the ditch where he had initially landed, he almost stopped in his tracks. He couldn’t believe what he saw; his briefcase, only about five feet from where he had landed. He must have held on to it during the first blast. The ironic thing was; he couldn’t pick it up now. He would have to drop the Corporal. He knew he was risking his life by carrying him out of this mess.
So many things were going through Radenko’s mind. He didn’t know Lazar that well, but he told himself he was probably a good man and might do some