Not On My Watch!

As the out of tune singers burst out the last words of Happy Birthday, they were quickly replaced with laughter and cheers. I joyfully watched as Lisa blew out her candles-all 40 candles! How was that possible. I thought I was full of hot air.

As Lisa made the final cut of her cake, it was now ready to be inhaled by all her salivating guests. You see, this was not any ordinary cake, this was a double chocolate mousse cake. With Bernard Callebaut milk chocolate coating, and fudge center. A decadent masterpiece, hand crafted by Robert’s Patisserie. The finest, and most expensive bakery in town.

Only the best for my gal!

The sight of cake still triggered my PTSD, this however was a joyous occasion, and I was in complete control. Who knows, I may even be able to eat a piece this time? First, I needed to catch my breathe.

Even after trying to make myself invisible, I was still hunted down and handed a way too generous piece. I thanked Lisa’s sister Deb, who was unaware of my fragility, and headed inside to be alone. Maybe not alone, as I was accompanied by my kryptonite cake and the trauma that came with it.

As I slid the patio door closed behind me, I did not realize I was closing off all the progress I had made over the past 12 years. Transporting myself back in time, to a place I wanted to obliterate from my memory banks.

I had come to Bosnia as a peacekeeper. A mission my whole squadron looked forward to. Most of us had gone through basic training together. We had grown to accept, tolerate and protect one another. Mostly we shared, we shared everything, especially time, and a lot of that time was spent training for these moments, sharing thoughts and cocktails.

The alcohol helped us numb what was going on around us. What was going on around us had no rhyme or reason to me.

Suddenly, I could smell the leaves in the never-ending poplar forest. Hear the wind whisper through their boughs calling me back to a time of chaos where nothing made sense. I could feel the earth that anchored their trunks and see myself back in time. To an unyielding war that was going on around them.

They had prepared us for every detail of combat and survival in basic training. They had not prepared us how to combat our emotions. These emotions grew stronger with every atrocity that we witnessed or were part of. They did not teach us to survive with the memories left tattooed on our souls, I had tried everything to remove these tattoos, the ink had just run too deep. So, I learned to numb them with alcohol. I had done a lot of training and had become very good at drowning my sorrows over the years.

I was naïve thinking we were going to make a difference here. I really wanted to; it was the reason I joined the forces.

We had been stationed just outside of a town called Zepa. In 1993, the UN had declared it, and a few others as “safe havens”, to be disarmed and protected by international peacekeepers.

Why did they have to use the term Safe Havens?” This thought haunted me repeatedly.

We were not involved in any combat, mostly mundane daily routine patrols. One particularly sunny afternoon I decided to go for a walk to kill the boredom. We had been parked outside a small village for what seemed like the entire day, without sighting a single civilian. Not too far into the bush I came across an abandoned railroad car. What an odd place to be left, with no tracks for miles around. Who on earth brought it here? It had become a canvas for the local graffiti artists and had such a positive vibe.

I noticed that most of the trees had been stripped of all their bark. “Rather odd”, I thought. Must be a lot of deer in the area? The silence and solitude were welcome, so much so, I decided to chill and enjoy it for a while. I sat my a** down and leaned up against a tree beside the artful wreckage and dozed off.

I was soon startled awake at the sound of someone approaching behind me. I sprang to my feet, grabbed my weapon, brought it to my waist and pointed it in that direction. There, to my surprise was a girl singing joyfully, dressed in a red and white dress that was entirely too large for her. I lowered my gun and smiled, she smiled right back at me. A smile that lit up the entire forest, wholesome and genuine.

She introduced herself as Armina. She must have been all of 12 years old and had a swagger about her that made her seem much older. A spiritual magnetism that drew you in. With perfect English she asked very confidently “what is your name and why are you out here all alone?” I stuttered,” it was Sergeant Williams-Bill Williams-Bill... um you can call me Bill”.

After a brief conversation I asked her “what she was doing all alone in the forest?” She was gathering food and had to come out further and further every day. She was peeling bark off the trees, the main ingredient for the broth in their soup they would have for dinner that night. They boiled the bark to get the nutrients, then used the broth and whatever scraps of food or fresh potatoes to create dinner. Food was very hard to come by in her village since the “Enemies” had blockaded the road leading into Zepa.

This explained the state of the trees in the forest.

Yet here she was, happy and determined. She proudly shared she was wearing her Mom's lucky dress. That it brought her luck when worn. She often found berries and the odd mushroom or two. Today she was on a quest to add some flavor to dinner.

As quickly as she appeared she was gone again, serenading the bark-less audience surrounding her.

That evening in the mess hall, I heard a familiar echo throughout “pork chops again?” From most of the guys in line. I had mentioned to a few of my squad the heartfelt conversation I had with the young girl. How content she was with her daily “bark broth soup” and we were all complaining about our “gourmet meal”.

Half the guys left at least one chop on their plate, which I quickly scooped up well they loaded up on strawberry shortcake for dessert. I also loaded a few apples and bananas in my kit bag and headed back to dorms.

Where I was met by Pete, my longtime friend from back home. We joined the forces together, as many others from the Maritimes had. He put his hand on my bag and whispered, “are you f*****g crazy?” If Cap catches you giving food to locals, he will bust your a**- or worse.

We were all made very clear of protocols before arrival, and this was not our role. I knew the consequences, but I thought of my own boys back home, “I had no choice”, I concluded to myself. I was just sharing food that would be thrown away.

How could we live in a world where people set up a blockades to starve out families and we as “peacekeepers” threw away more food than her village could consume. I was not going to let that happen. Not on my watch.

The next day I left a bag, labeled “Armina” against a tree beside the boxcar where we met. Hoping she would be the first to find it. Two days later I brought another, this one twice as full, as a few of the guys began to contribute now.

There taped to the tree was an envelope, in big red letters was the word “Billy”. It was a letter written by Armina’s mother thanking me for the food. It had fed her three children, husband, parents, and grandparents. It was the first non-soup meal in months. I was now considered their “miracle”.

Days turned to weeks, and the bags grew larger. One day, there sitting on top of the boxcar was a dark hairy man. He introduced himself as Armina’s father, Adin. He was almost in tears and humbled by the entire experience of war. He came to warn me of landmines being buried in the area, and not to risk my life for his family. I proudly swore, “I would be sharing a bag with him daily, until I either left the country or was arrested” He shook my hand firmly and smiled as we parted ways. Turning back to me he shouted, “remember Bill every day is worth living, make sure you do!”

When we got back to the base, the mess hall was decorated like the circus was in town. We found out it was the base commander's birthday, and there was to be a party! Barbecued burgers, potato salad, watermelon and chocolate cake for dessert. Washed down with all the “Gorstak” beer we could drown ourselves in, in three hours.

For most of the guys this became their new mission. For me, it was salvaging all the uneaten pieces of cake to share with my new adopted family. Next morning, I loaded a watermelon, eight pieces of cake, some burgers and my hangover into a truck and headed to deliver my bundle of joy.

Armina was there to greet me. I told her to eat a piece of cake herself before heading home, she said that they had been sharing the food with many of the other families in the village, that this was enough food for more than just her family. She had become the most popular person in the village! I could not decide if she was more happy or proud. Either way no one could remove that smile from her face. I proudly watched, as she skipped happily away.

The next day I was greeted by a very thin, pale lady with long straight hair. She introduced herself as Armina’s mother Ema, who immediately broke down in tears. As I tried to console her, she cried out, “Armina had been killed this morning. She stepped on a landmine delivering the last piece of cake to some seniors who secluded in the bush outside of town. Armina was bound and determined that every person in the village got their mouthful of pleasure”. “That is what she was calling it all day”.

Ema had come to warn me not to bring any more food, that she did not want to see anyone else die in this silly war. The death of her daughter was all she could bare. I fell to my knees, mortified. This Angel of a person had died because I gave her cake! What had I done?

I was not sure I could survive through another day. My posting would last nine more agonizing months.

I snapped out of my flashback, trembling.

As I drew up the courage to pick up my fork, I thought of Armina. I might even try a bite this time. Without hesitating I stabbed the decadent piece of art, took a bite, and almost moaned aloud in delight.

Just then Lisa opened the door looked down at me coyly and smiled. A tear streaked down her cheek and she kissed me on the forehead. “This was the best birthday present you could have ever given me” She whimpered. Wiping the crumbs from the corner of my mouth she kissed me more passionately then in a 1930s silent movie.

“Every day IS worth living”, and now it was my turn to take a bite out of life.

I dug the fork back in and stuffed half the piece in Lisa’s mouth and both laughed aloud.