Bassim
VIP Member
- Joined
- Mar 1, 2008
- Member Type
- Student or Learner
- Native Language
- Bosnian
- Home Country
- Bosnia Herzegovina
- Current Location
- Sweden
Would you please correct the second part of my text?
One autumn morning we loaded a truck with ammunition and drove to the train station in town. There we had to load the boxes onto the train, which would transport them to a port on the Adriatic Sea, from where a ship would take them to their final destination. I looked at the hands of the lieutenant who accompanied us and noticed that he had tattooed suits on the knuckles of his hands. On his right hand there were clubs, spades, hearts and diamonds, and on his left, acorns, leaves, hearts and bells. He must be a gambler, I thought, and couldn’t explain otherwise his reason for having them on his hands. He was a man in his thirties with dark piercing eyes and a moustache. As most of our officers, he was laid-back and seldom raised his voice. After all, he and his colleagues had no motives to worry because they earned well, had a privileged position in society, and were a state within a state. Their only problem could have been boredom in this little town where not much was happening.
I asked him what was the final destination of the shipment, and he told me it was Iraq. At that time, the war between Iraq and Iran was in full swing, and I watched on the news how Ayatollah Khomeini was sending children on suicide missions, promising them paradise. They carried a key around their neck, which would open the gate, although I doubted if they would ever reach the final destination. It was terrible to watch them and see a child’s eyes looking at the camera before his mission, and know that he should have been playing with his mates instead of going to a certain death. Our shipment was enough to kill thousands of people, and I thought how sad it was that many of soldiers of our age were going to be killed in that war with ammunition we carried in our hands. At that time, I couldn’t understand that two neighbours were killing each other for no reason at all, and I couldn’t have imagined that only a six years later we were going to kill each other in our own bloody war.
As we were carrying the boxes onto the goods wagon, we glanced longingly at a kiosk selling burek. The smell of freshly baked pies wafted towards us, whetting our appetites. What would I give for a burek now? This was the only thought on everyone’s mind. We had forgotten why we had come here. We didn’t care what we were doing, Our eyes saw only that little kiosk just about15 meters from us. We murmured and whispered, “Burek, Burek”, but nobody was brave enough to talk to the lieutenant until a Belgrade boy, Dragan, a man with a high self-confidence, went up to the lieutenant and said, “Comrade lieutenant, there is a kiosk selling burek over there, may I go and buy us some? He looked at the kiosk, stroked his moustache and pondered for a moment before saying, “Of course. Here is the money, buy one for me too.” Dragan took the money from everybody and ran to the kiosk as fastest as he could, while we stopped working and stared at him, still in doubt that we were going to have a feast. About ten minutes later, he came back carrying in his hands seven pies in greaseproof paper.
We sat on the grass bank close to the track as Dragan doled out the pies. I unwrapped the paper and the smell of the warm dough and cheese wafted into my nostrils, transporting me to my home and that lush orchard filled with ripe fruit, bird songs and buzzing of insects. I chewed the pie and it melted in my mouth, bringing back the pleasant memories from the pies I had eaten not only in my, but also in other people’s homes. I was not in the army anymore but with every bite I took I was feeling high as if on drugs. I looked at my comrades and saw that they were going through the similar experience, savouring every morsel as if wanting to prolong the magic of the moment. Even the lieutenant seemed to be under a spell, chewing slowly, his eyes staring into the distance. I imagined him seeing in his mind's eye the day when he as a teenager was taking leave of his family on his way to the military academy, in his bag a still warm pie wrapped in napkins, which his mother had baked for his journey.
THE END
One autumn morning we loaded a truck with ammunition and drove to the train station in town. There we had to load the boxes onto the train, which would transport them to a port on the Adriatic Sea, from where a ship would take them to their final destination. I looked at the hands of the lieutenant who accompanied us and noticed that he had tattooed suits on the knuckles of his hands. On his right hand there were clubs, spades, hearts and diamonds, and on his left, acorns, leaves, hearts and bells. He must be a gambler, I thought, and couldn’t explain otherwise his reason for having them on his hands. He was a man in his thirties with dark piercing eyes and a moustache. As most of our officers, he was laid-back and seldom raised his voice. After all, he and his colleagues had no motives to worry because they earned well, had a privileged position in society, and were a state within a state. Their only problem could have been boredom in this little town where not much was happening.
I asked him what was the final destination of the shipment, and he told me it was Iraq. At that time, the war between Iraq and Iran was in full swing, and I watched on the news how Ayatollah Khomeini was sending children on suicide missions, promising them paradise. They carried a key around their neck, which would open the gate, although I doubted if they would ever reach the final destination. It was terrible to watch them and see a child’s eyes looking at the camera before his mission, and know that he should have been playing with his mates instead of going to a certain death. Our shipment was enough to kill thousands of people, and I thought how sad it was that many of soldiers of our age were going to be killed in that war with ammunition we carried in our hands. At that time, I couldn’t understand that two neighbours were killing each other for no reason at all, and I couldn’t have imagined that only a six years later we were going to kill each other in our own bloody war.
As we were carrying the boxes onto the goods wagon, we glanced longingly at a kiosk selling burek. The smell of freshly baked pies wafted towards us, whetting our appetites. What would I give for a burek now? This was the only thought on everyone’s mind. We had forgotten why we had come here. We didn’t care what we were doing, Our eyes saw only that little kiosk just about15 meters from us. We murmured and whispered, “Burek, Burek”, but nobody was brave enough to talk to the lieutenant until a Belgrade boy, Dragan, a man with a high self-confidence, went up to the lieutenant and said, “Comrade lieutenant, there is a kiosk selling burek over there, may I go and buy us some? He looked at the kiosk, stroked his moustache and pondered for a moment before saying, “Of course. Here is the money, buy one for me too.” Dragan took the money from everybody and ran to the kiosk as fastest as he could, while we stopped working and stared at him, still in doubt that we were going to have a feast. About ten minutes later, he came back carrying in his hands seven pies in greaseproof paper.
We sat on the grass bank close to the track as Dragan doled out the pies. I unwrapped the paper and the smell of the warm dough and cheese wafted into my nostrils, transporting me to my home and that lush orchard filled with ripe fruit, bird songs and buzzing of insects. I chewed the pie and it melted in my mouth, bringing back the pleasant memories from the pies I had eaten not only in my, but also in other people’s homes. I was not in the army anymore but with every bite I took I was feeling high as if on drugs. I looked at my comrades and saw that they were going through the similar experience, savouring every morsel as if wanting to prolong the magic of the moment. Even the lieutenant seemed to be under a spell, chewing slowly, his eyes staring into the distance. I imagined him seeing in his mind's eye the day when he as a teenager was taking leave of his family on his way to the military academy, in his bag a still warm pie wrapped in napkins, which his mother had baked for his journey.
THE END
