In A Dangerous Place

Another day in Tomislavgrad, much like any other. Two troops are standing at the bar in one of the numerous little Kaffee-Bar establishments and arguing loudly. One is bouncing an old U.S. Army "steel pot" helmet on the bar and shaking his head negatively while the other shakes his head positively and crosses his arms. Now a couple of their buddies are getting into it. Just when it looks like there is going to be real trouble, the guy with the crossed arms who's been nodding his head "yes, yes," decides to limber up a little by drawing his Tokarev. Uh-oh. Screw real trouble, this was a situation. But wait, amongst all the screaming in Croat, the drunks start to slam wads of dinars down on the bar. Translation: the guy with the Tokarev says the.30 caliber Tokarev pistol bullet will not penetrate his U.S. Army steel pot. Okay, I've seen discussions like this beforeargue, make some bets, throw the helmet, flak jacket, etc. in the alley and fire it up. Come back inside. Have some more drinks. No problem. Standard scenario, I muse. More bets are made. Then the guy with the Tokarev cocks the pistol, grabs the helmet, and plomps it on his head, and Oh Shit! Ka-Blam! Redecorates the wall with his brains. Instant Jackson Pollock canvas.

If only he'd asked me, I could've told him.

Some of these Croat civilians, turned defenders of the homeland, have a strange attitude toward firearms. The fact that some of them are even carrying weapons scares the hell out of me. The Muslim and Serb yahoos are no different. Ignorant slivvovitz-swilling pig farmer gets automatic weapon. Yippee!

Ever wonder what became of the banjo boy in Deliverance? They gave him an AK and sent him to Bosnia.

One of the kids in Tomislavgrad had an uncle or third cousin six generations removed or some damn thing in New York, Chicago or Toronto (take your pick). Anyway he writes a letter begging for a bulletproof vest. So in the mail comes a Second Chance ballistic vest. Good quality stuff. Probably about $600 worth of Kevlar. He's so proud of his "bulletproof vest" that he wears it around town. Outside of his shirt. Shiny, bright white cover and all. But of course a few of the boys, jealous no doubt, have been making comments to the effect that it might not be as good as he thinks. This starts to gnaw at the sensibilities, limited as they may be, of our combat fashion victim. One day he's at home sitting in the kitchen showing off the vest to grandma. She thinks it's so nice that her boy Damir or Vlad or Stefan (take your pick) has this nice vest. So attractive too! He takes it off and says, "Here, grannie, you try it on." So the sweet little old 90-some pound Croatian baka tries on the vest. (Know where this is going, already, huh?) Grandson has a bright idea as grannie pirouettes, so he draws his Tokarev. Bang! Bang! Bang! Hits grannie three times-point blank. She lives. A couple of broken ribs... no problem. Grandson then shows the vest around town to all his buddies. Hey, it worked, and what the hell, the bullet holes weren't a problem. They were in the back.

Tom Myers and I roomed next door to each other for six months at Fort Benning in 1985. We were students in the same Infantry Officer Basic Course. After three years in the U.S. Army as a lieutenant he got out and joined the French Foreign Legion for a standard five year contract. When he was discharged he went to Bosnia and eventually ended up in Tomislavgrad, just after I'd left. There he met Dave, a Rhodesian war veteran, who had left after the political sell-out and went to South Africa where he served in the Recces. As Tom somewhat understatedly said, "He was a bit psycho." Probably because he used to play Russian roulette with a.357. You know, go into a bar, get everybody's attention, whip out a revolver, load one round, spin the cylinder, snap the weapon shut, put it to your head and then: Click! A real macho stunt. Mercenary theatre. Always a winner. Tough way to earn a free drink. According to Myers, "He finally lost one day, in a hotel in Split sitting there at the bar in front of God and everybody." Fred Verduin, another American "volunteer," occasionally hung out with the Russian roulette player who wanted Fred to try the game. Fred was tempted, he thought there had to be a trick to it. He found out this was not the case as he was sitting next to Dave that day in the bar in Split.