against the blinding light.
“You!” a young and nervous voice shouted, not the leader’s. “Get up here with your mates!” When I didn’t respond immediately the same voice barked, presumably to their translator, “Tell him to get his bloody arse up here. Last thing we need here is more of them skulking around.”
“All right!” I said angrily, loudly enough that the Brits could hear me over the dark muttering of the Tigers. “Christ. Stop pointing that fucking thing at me already, will you? Jesus.” I stood up, still shielding my eyes, and walked over to the space between the Jeeps, moving fairly steadily, the sight of guns and the incipient standoff had half-sobered me in a hurry.
“Who the fuck are you?” the young voice asked, astonished. “What’s a fucking Yank doing here?”
“I’m Canadian, asshole,” I said. And then, inspiration striking: “And these are my friends, and if this is anyone’s fault, it’s mine, so why don’t you cool the fuck down and stop pointing your guns at my friends here? And for Christ’s sake get that goddamn light out of my face!”
My stew of poisonous emotions had found an unexpected outlet: the British Army.
My appearance and irritable complaints were so out of place that they alone half-defanged the situation. The Bosnians, coming from a land where you never trusted armed authorities, who could not even imagine treating soldiers as if you had rights that they dared not violate, were bewildered and to some extent impressed by my grumpy demands and total lack of fear that Brits might shoot me or arrest me, and my strange behaviour crowded the worst of their macho persecution complex from their minds. The British, on the other hand, nonplussed at finding an annoyed Canadian amidst this gang of thugs, were suddenly no longer certain what they should do.
“Redirect the light,” the leader ordered, and I could see again. “And we are not pointing guns at your friends. Not yet. Now who are you and how precisely are you responsible for this?”
“My name is Balthazar Wood,” I said. I hardly ever used my full name but I had learned that in confrontations its lengthy ring was psychologically advantageous. I indicated Dragan. “Dragan here is a friend of mine. He was telling me how they used to shoot guns into the air at parties, and I asked him if he could show me. So he did. As a favour to me, that’s all. And who exactly are you?” The best defense, it’s a good offense.
After a pause he answered me. “Lieutenant Simon Taylor, Second Paratroop Division, British Army.”
“Yeah. I had the British part figured out. Paratroopers, huh? Old friend of mine used to be in your outfit. Hallam Chevalier, ever heard of him?… okay, never mind. Look, I’m sorry. I asked for a little too much authentic Bosnian culture. I’m just a stupid tourist.” An old traveller’s trick:
Stupid Tourist
, an amazingly effective and almost universally applicable ploy that had gotten me out of countless scrapes in the past. Everyone knows that tourists are such incredible idiots that they’re effectively mentally damaged and can’t really be held responsible for their actions. “I’ve been drinking,” I continued, “we’ve all been drinking, I guess you can see that. I’m very sorry it came to this. But it’s over now, and nobody really wants any trouble, can’t we all just go home and sleep it off?”
I hoped for a “Yes.” I expected a long, stern lecture, followed by a grudging “yes.” I feared that Dragan or one of his men, who so far had been perplexed into letting me do the talking, would ruin everything by doing or saying something stupid during the lecture. I did not expect what I heard next, from a third British voice, this one rough and middle-aged and surprised:
“Chevalier? Sergeant Hallam Chevalier? You’re a mate of his? The South African?”
“I – well, yes,” I said. “Zimbabwe, not
“You!” a young and nervous voice shouted, not the leader’s. “Get up here with your mates!” When I didn’t respond immediately the same voice barked, presumably to their translator, “Tell him to get his bloody arse up here. Last thing we need here is more of them skulking around.”
“All right!” I said angrily, loudly enough that the Brits could hear me over the dark muttering of the Tigers. “Christ. Stop pointing that fucking thing at me already, will you? Jesus.” I stood up, still shielding my eyes, and walked over to the space between the Jeeps, moving fairly steadily, the sight of guns and the incipient standoff had half-sobered me in a hurry.
“Who the fuck are you?” the young voice asked, astonished. “What’s a fucking Yank doing here?”
“I’m Canadian, asshole,” I said. And then, inspiration striking: “And these are my friends, and if this is anyone’s fault, it’s mine, so why don’t you cool the fuck down and stop pointing your guns at my friends here? And for Christ’s sake get that goddamn light out of my face!”
My stew of poisonous emotions had found an unexpected outlet: the British Army.
My appearance and irritable complaints were so out of place that they alone half-defanged the situation. The Bosnians, coming from a land where you never trusted armed authorities, who could not even imagine treating soldiers as if you had rights that they dared not violate, were bewildered and to some extent impressed by my grumpy demands and total lack of fear that Brits might shoot me or arrest me, and my strange behaviour crowded the worst of their macho persecution complex from their minds. The British, on the other hand, nonplussed at finding an annoyed Canadian amidst this gang of thugs, were suddenly no longer certain what they should do.
“Redirect the light,” the leader ordered, and I could see again. “And we are not pointing guns at your friends. Not yet. Now who are you and how precisely are you responsible for this?”
“My name is Balthazar Wood,” I said. I hardly ever used my full name but I had learned that in confrontations its lengthy ring was psychologically advantageous. I indicated Dragan. “Dragan here is a friend of mine. He was telling me how they used to shoot guns into the air at parties, and I asked him if he could show me. So he did. As a favour to me, that’s all. And who exactly are you?” The best defense, it’s a good offense.
After a pause he answered me. “Lieutenant Simon Taylor, Second Paratroop Division, British Army.”
“Yeah. I had the British part figured out. Paratroopers, huh? Old friend of mine used to be in your outfit. Hallam Chevalier, ever heard of him?… okay, never mind. Look, I’m sorry. I asked for a little too much authentic Bosnian culture. I’m just a stupid tourist.” An old traveller’s trick:
Stupid Tourist
, an amazingly effective and almost universally applicable ploy that had gotten me out of countless scrapes in the past. Everyone knows that tourists are such incredible idiots that they’re effectively mentally damaged and can’t really be held responsible for their actions. “I’ve been drinking,” I continued, “we’ve all been drinking, I guess you can see that. I’m very sorry it came to this. But it’s over now, and nobody really wants any trouble, can’t we all just go home and sleep it off?”
I hoped for a “Yes.” I expected a long, stern lecture, followed by a grudging “yes.” I feared that Dragan or one of his men, who so far had been perplexed into letting me do the talking, would ruin everything by doing or saying something stupid during the lecture. I did not expect what I heard next, from a third British voice, this one rough and middle-aged and surprised:
“Chevalier? Sergeant Hallam Chevalier? You’re a mate of his? The South African?”
“I – well, yes,” I said. “Zimbabwe, not
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