Читать книгу Where You Belong - Barbara Taylor Bradford - Страница 8

I focused my Leica 35-mm on the ragtag collection of children ahead of me, a short way down the road. There were about five of them in all, sitting together against a ruined wall. As I peered through the lens, I took in their pallor, their haunted expressions, and the fear clouding their innocent young eyes.

A heartbreaking little band, I thought, so forlorn on this bright sunny day. A day for playing. Not a day for war. I repressed a sigh and began taking pictures.

And then the sound of gunfire was breaking the quietness of the afternoon, and I instantly abandoned the shots of the children.

A flurry of unexpected activity had begun to erupt all around me…exploding bombs, mortar fire, the rumble of tanks in the distance. Closer by, I heard terrified screams, the sound of running feet, people scattering, seeking safety. And then more screams filled the air, along with the staccato rat-a-tat of machine guns, and guns not so far away at that.

All of my senses were alerted to danger, and my chest tightened, and I sucked in my breath sharply when I saw Tony rushing out of the copse just behind me. I had left him there only a few minutes ago, sitting on the rocks with Jake, eating a sandwich.

Now he was sprinting towards the line of fire.

I raced after him in his wake. And dimly, in the distance, I heard Jake behind us, shouting, ‘Val! Val! Don’t follow him, for God’s sake. It’s too dangerous.’

I paid no attention.

Tony was our leader, and as always he was hell-bent on getting the best pictures, whatever war we were covering and no matter what the cost. Taking risks meant nothing to him. He seemed to thrive on danger, as well I knew. Tony was consistently in harm’s way, and so were we because of him, although, as he frequently reminded us, we did have a choice of whether or not to follow him into the fray.

Once again, Jake’s voice carried to me above the noise of exploding shells and deafening artillery. ‘VAL! STOP! Don’t follow Tony.’

I did not stop. Nor did I look back. I was hard on Tony’s heels, my camera held tightly in my hands, my mind, my entire being, concentrated on one thing: doing my job as professionally as possible and getting the best pictures for the photo agency I worked for.

Leaping forward, Jake now streaked after me and Tony. I realized his warnings of a moment ago had been pushed to one side, indeed probably forgotten altogether. What he always wanted was to reach me, grab hold of me, and pull me out of danger.

Kalashnikovs were spraying bullets from all sides and the shelling was rapidly growing heavier; the summer air was thick with smoke and dust, the smell of cordite mingling with that of blood. And the stench of death was suddenly all pervasive, numbing, and I wished we had never come here.

We had arrived late that morning to take a few simple photographs of the Kosovo Liberation Army’s leaders; now, unexpectedly, we found ourselves in the midst of this violent battle between the K.L.A. and Serbian troops. I couldn’t help wondering if this was a deadly ambush, a trap we had walked into with our eyes wide open. And where was Ajet? I hoped the young Kosovar had been smart enough to stay in the copse, and that hopefully he had driven the jeep into the trees for safety.

I knew that Serbian troops had been moving south for days, keeping up the deadliest fighting along the way, brutally driving the Kosovars out of their villages and towns. Thousands of terrified civilians were already on the move, a steady stream of humanity being cruelly driven from their homes and homeland, seeking safety across the borders in Albania and Macedonia.

Unexpectedly, a small boy appeared as if from nowhere, and began to totter forward on his thin little legs, heading directly into the line of fire, oblivious to the fighting and the mêlée spinning around him. I saw him out of the corner of my eye, and reacted instantly. Veering to my right, I sped over to the child and threw myself on top of him, all of my instincts compelling me to protect him no matter what.

Bombs continued to explode, and pieces of shrapnel were swirling like deadly snowflakes, although they were much more lethal. I covered the child with my body, put my arms around him, and held him tightly. He was shaking, and this did not surprise me one bit. I detested the sound of the guns and bombs myself; they were discordant and frightening, and most especially to a small child.

After a moment, I lifted my head and glanced up.

The sky was a perfect cerulean blue, without cloud, and the sun was shining brilliantly. Summer, I thought; I ought to be on vacation with Tony, not spreadeagled on the ground with my face pressed into the dirt in some obscure village in the Balkans.

Small, rubbery legs and arms began to wriggle, eel-like, under me, and I finally rolled off the child, jumped up and pulled him to his feet.

He gazed up at me soulfully with a faint, perplexed smile; I smiled back and gave him a little push towards a young woman who was rushing towards us, calling out something I did not understand. With a nod to me and the words, ‘Thank you,’ spoken in carefully pronounced but accented English, the young woman grabbed the boy’s arm and dragged him away. It was obvious that she was scolding him as the two of them moved away from the shelling and went behind one of the houses on the side of the road.

I was glad to see the child taken to safety; at least I hoped he was safe. Many of the nearby houses and shops had been bombed, had crumbled into heaps of stones and bricks and there were fires flaring everywhere.

Wondering where Tony and Jake were, I glanced around, suddenly saw their backs disappearing down a narrow side street. Immediately I jogged after them, trying to catch up, not wanting to be left behind.

The shelling had now reached a climax and I knew Tony and Jake were heading right into the maelstrom, their cameras poised. I followed them into the fray, but for once, much to my surprise and consternation, I realized I did so against my better judgement. I had to admit to myself that for the first time in my association with Tony and Jake I had certain misgivings about following Tony’s lead. A curious sense of foreboding swept over me and this feeling was so unfamiliar, so unprecedented I was startled, and I stopped in my tracks, discovered that for a splitsecond I was unable to move forward. I was rooted to the spot.

Then the moment I’d had nightmares about, had forever dreaded, was suddenly and frighteningly upon me. Tony was going down, his camera flying out of his hands as he was struck by a stream of bullets. He was thrown backwards by the impact, lay sprawled on the cobbled street, still and unmoving.

‘Tony! Tony!’ I screamed and began to run to him.

Jake, who was closer, also shouted his name, and went on, ‘I’m coming to you, Tony, hang in there!’ But the words had hardly left Jake’s mouth when he toppled forward, and fell to the ground, hit by a sniper’s bullets.

Without giving any thought to my own safety, I pressed on through the curtain of gunfire and shrapnel, heading towards my friends, knowing I must do something to help them, although I was not certain what I could do under these horrific circumstances.

Out of breath and panting, I paused momentarily next to Jake, bent over him and gasped, ‘How bad are you?’

‘I’ve been hit in my leg and hip but I’m okay, don’t worry about me. It’s Tony I’m concerned about.’

‘Me too,’ I muttered and sprinted away. When I reached Tony I dropped to my knees next to him. ‘Darling, it’s me.’ As I spoke I moved a strand of black hair away from his damp forehead and stared down into his face.

Finally he opened his eyes. ‘Go, Val. Find cover. Dangerous here,’ he told me in a low, strangled voice.

‘I’m not going to leave you,’ I answered, looking him over swiftly. I was appalled at his gunshot wounds, and I felt myself filling with dread. He had been hit in his chest, his shoulder and his legs, and other parts of his bodyas well, as far as Icould make out. I was frightened and alarmed by all the blood; he was covered in it, as if he had been riddled with bullets. Oh God, oh God, he might not make it. I swallowed the cry that rose in my throat. It took all my self-control not to break down; I leaned over him, brought my face close to his. ‘I’m not leaving you, Tony,’Irepeated, endeavouringtokeep my voice as steady as possible.

‘Go,’ he whispered. Summoning all of his strength, he managed to say, ‘Get out. For me.’ His voice was very shaky.

RealizingthatTony was becoming undulyagitated by my continuing presence, and knowing that I must try to find help for both men, I finally acquiesced. ‘All right, I’ll go,’Imurmured against Tony’s face. Istroked his cheek. ‘Just stay calm, lie still. I won’t be long. I’ll be back with help very soon.’

I kissed him lightly and began to crawl away on my hands and knees, keeping low and close to the ground in an effort to dodge the flying bullets. I was making for a small building nearby, one of the few which remained standing, and I had almost reached it when I felt the impact of a bullet slamming into my thigh. I slumped down in a heap, wincing in pain and clutching my Leica to my chest. Then I glanced down at my thigh; blood was already oozing through my khaki pants, and it occurred to me that I wasn’t going to be much use to either Tony or Jake.

Turning my head, I glanced over at Jake. ‘How’re you doing?’

‘Okay. Are you hurt very badly, Val?’

‘Idon’tthinkso,’Irepliedandhopedthiswasreallythe case. Although deep down I was fairly certainitwasn’t, I nevertheless had a need to reassure Jake.

He asked over the battery of noise, ‘What about Tony?’

‘He’s not good,’ I said, and my voice wobbled. ‘He’s terribly shot up and in need of medical attention, urgent need of it, and much more than we are. I saw a Red Cross ambulance up on the ridge over there; let’s hope the medics get here quickly. Tony’s losing masses of blood…’ I swallowed. ‘It’s…it’s touch and go with him…I think…’

Foramoment Jake couldnotspeak. Hewas obviously distressed by my words. At last he said, ‘Tony’s going to beallright, Val. He’stough, and don’t forget he’salways said he has the luck of the Irish.’

‘He also says he’s blessed by the saints,’ I replied tensely. ‘I hope he’s right.’

Jake called back, ‘Just keep cool, hang in there, honey.’

I could hardly hear him. His words were almost but notquitedrownedoutbytheexplosions andthe thunder of mortar fire, which seemed to be closer than ever. In a few minutes troops were swarming everywhere, both the K.L.A. and the Serbians; they were filling the village, running through the streets, fighting. I wasn’t sure who was who. I looked for distinguishing emblems on their uniforms but without success, then remembered that those who wore the black paratrooper berets were the Kosovars. They seemed to be outnumbered. I closed my eyes, hoping I would betaken for dead, and overlooked. I knew there was no longer any possibility of dragging myself over to Tony. My spirit was more than willing, but I was just too weak physically, and the troops were converging now.

So I resigned myself to wait for the Red Cross ambulance I had seen not long ago. Surely it would drive down into the village soon. Putting my hand under my T-shirt I found the gold chain on which I’d hung Tony’s ring. He had given it to me only a couple of weeks ago, when we had been in Paris together. Suddenly tears were dangerously close to the surface as memories of those happy days rushed back to flood my mind.

Myfingers closed around the ring. I began to pray: Oh God, please let Tony be all right. Please don’t let him die. Please, please, let him live. I went on praying silently and the fighting raged on around me unabated.