You are ClassSeven, a soldier who's been involved in just about every armed conflict in the twentieth century. How will you spend your Christmas in Sarajevo?

This is my first Reddit post, so I apologize if I posted this in the wrong place. Also, warning: it's a long one. In 1992, I'm squatting in a gutted stone building just off a highway that's been seized by the Croats. When I peek through the single window good enough to see the road, I glimpse a few stragglers running from the fighting and a single family, doubled up on a bike, looking like they're doing whatever they can to enjoy a Christmas. Now and then, a group of Bosniaks whizzes by in a pickup truck, overweight with men and lugging a machine gun large enough to knock out a tank. Once in a while, the big gun will fire, and I can hear its report echoing against the mountains as the Bosniaks speed off toward the front lines. Sometimes, I forget that I'm not one of them. Not only do I look like them, but I've been with them for a while, too. I've been in Bosnia for about five months, and with the exception of a few bender weeks, I've never had any trouble getting out of Sarajevo, especially since it doesn't seem that anyone here really cares that I'm an American and that the United States doesn't even see this as a war. From the beginning, though, I've known that I'm not here to fight for a nation. I'm here to fight for my son, and more importantly, to fight for my husband. This is the most important thing I can tell you about me. In 1945, I found a way to cheat death in exchange for never dying. Since 1945, I've been ClassSeven. I've fought in Korea, Vietnam, and the Gulf War, and I've lived through every one of them with nothing but a few scars to show for it. I've worked in a nursing home. I've been a cook in the army. I've been a lorry driver in London. Through all of it, I've never forgotten Christopher and Anthony, and I haven't seen them in almost fifty years. That's why, when the news breaks out about the war in Yugoslavia, I know that I have to do something. For months, I read everything I can about the conflict. I save up all of my money, and in the fall of 1991, I quit my job and fly to Croatia. When I get there, I realize that there really isn't any sort of front lines or army to join. Instead, I find a whole lot of contradictory loyalties, a whole lot of bloodlust, and a whole lot of death. I've been a soldier for almost fifty years, and even I had no idea of how much death there would be here. After a few months of trying to do good and finding that it really isn't that simple, I find a man named Joe. He's an old man, older than you'd think by looking at him, but he's a veteran of the Second World War, and he's seen more than I could ever imagine. He's an American, too, from New York City, and he flew to Bosnia to fight with the Bosniaks when he learned that they were being massacred by Serbs who claimed that they were the descendants of the defenders of Europe. We meet when I'm drunk at a bar. I find out that he's an old soldier, and I ask him all the questions that I've been saving up for someone like him. I ask him what it's like to be a real veteran, someone who really fought for something. I ask him if he was scared. When I ask him why he came here, he says it's for the same reason that I did. I ask him what he means. "I mean you're after someone," he says. "A girl?" "Nope," I say. "No girl." "Then it's for a boy, I'd guess. I've been there before." "How'd you know?" I ask. "Experience," he says. "I've felt the same way." Joe and I talk for a while. We trade stories about the things we've seen. And when Joe finds out about my deal, that I'll never die, he tells me that he's been looking for someone like me for almost fifty years. He tells me that he believes I can help him find the man he's looking for, a man named Jack, and that if I do, he'll help me find the people I'm looking for in return. "That's quite a deal," I say. "You don't know what I'm looking for." "No," he says. "But from the looks of things, I think you're probably looking for the same thing as me." "Why would that be?" "I just know," he says. "I can't explain why, but I believe you," I say. "Good." He takes a swig of his whiskey. "I've been looking for Jack for almost fifty years. I've been all around the world, and I've seen a lot of blood and horror, but neither of us has given up. My gut says that he's in Bosnia. I think he's fighting for the Serbs." "I think you're right," I say. "I've heard a lot of stories about an American who's fighting with the Serbs." "What's his name?" he asks. "I don't know," I say. "But I'll find out. And when I do, we'll find him." "We will," he says. "Together." Joe and I spend the next few months talking. I tell him about Christopher and Anthony, and he tells me about Jack. He tells me Jack was a medic while we were in Italy, and that he was the only guy in the company who made Joe feel like he was at home. He was the guy who let Joe see just how awful war was, because he'd do the things that Joe couldn't do. He'd go out into no man's land and pick up the wounded, even though he knew that it would mean his death if he were caught. He'd comfort the dying while medic after medic left them behind. One day, Jack went out to pick up the wounded, and he never came back. Joe looked for him, but he never found him. He's spent his whole life looking for Jack, and it's gotten him to the places that it's gotten him. Bosnia. Vietnam. Korea. Joe tells me that sometimes he feels like Jack's an imaginary friend, like he made him up to get through life. He tells me that sometimes he wants to give up, that he doesn't know if Jack is really still alive, or if he's just a figment of his imagination. "But when I'm alone, when no one can see me, I still talk to him," he says. "Sometimes I wish I could stop, but I can't. He's my brother." "I know how that is," I say. "I've been looking for my own brother for years." I tell Joe everything about Anthony and Christopher. I tell him about the day that Anthony broke up with me, and the day that I enlisted. I tell him about the horrors I saw, about all of the good men I watched die. I tell him about the things I did in Italy. I tell him about the peace I found in England, and how quickly I lost it. I tell him about everything, and when I'm finished, I feel like I've known him for a lifetime. "You're a good man," Joe says. "Seven," I correct him. "Alright, Seven. You're a good man." "I know," I say. "I'm just not a very good person." "Whatever that means," he says. "It means that I'm probably going to hell," I say. "Ah," he says. "Then there's hope for you." "What do you mean?" "I mean that there's a war to be fought," he says. "So let's fight it." Seven months pass, and in August 1992, I finally find what I'm looking for. I'm walking down the road with one of the men from the brigade I've fallen in with, a younger guy named Amir, and I ask him about the American with the Serbs. "You don't know?" he says. "No," I say. "Why would I know?" "Because he's been here for a while," he says. "He came in early 1992. He's been around for longer than you have." "I guess I didn't hear about him, then," I say. "Yeah," he says. "He's something else." "What do you mean?" I ask. "He's an animal," he says. "He doesn't take prisoners." "Shit," I say. "Yeah," he says. "He's particularly bad to the women." "Shit," I say. "You okay?" he asks. "Yeah," I say. "It's fine." "No," he says. "It's not fine. I've seen what he's done to the women. He's a demon. We should kill him." "I know who he is," I say. "We should kill him," he says. "He doesn't deserve to live." "I know who he is," I repeat. "And I'm going to kill him." "Why?" he asks. "Because he killed my son," I say. Amir's face contorts. "I'm sorry," he says. "It's alright," I say. "He's been dead for fifty years." "Fifty years?" he says. "That's not possible." "It doesn't matter," I say. "I'm going to kill him anyway." "I'll help

You are ClassSeven, a soldier who's been involved in just about every armed conflict in the twentieth century. How will you spend your Christmas in Sarajevo?

Comments (6) 10240 👁️