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Luka's accounting of his past to Dr. Romano was thorough enough as
far as it went. He didn't include many details for the latter. What
he told his husband was far more descriptive. After that morning,
John didn't think he'd ever get the terrible images out of his head...

Funerals are luxuries in war time. Massive re-settlements separate
families leaving numerous unclaimed dead. Draconian induction
procedures mean able-bodied men are scarce. Malnutrition practically
guarantees that any energy spent on digging is invested in trying to
grow crops which can be harvested quickly and require a minimum of
maintenance. Unidentified bodies are usually shovelled into large
pits and cremated. Those crushed inside of bombed buildings remain
where they died until they are picked clean. Rats thrive in war zones.

For a grieving husband and father, Luka was fortunate. His two-day
vigil over the bodies of his wife and children ended with the arrival
of human scavengers seeking foodstuffs, bedding, and other re-usable
debris. Their confrontation with the tragic picture of a man whose
entire world had just been destroyed, resulted in the bestowal of
that rarest luxury, compassion. These bipedal jackals became human
beings once more; long enough to help Luka carry Marije, Anja, and
Solje to a nearby park and bury them.

There were no coffins; none of the trappings associated with formal
grieving. Nevertheless, Luka had been left with something few of his
neighbors had: a gravesite to visit. He never found the food rations
that had cost him everything he loved. If he had, there would have
been no way he could have consumed them. It would have been like
cannabalism. A loaf of bread, some powdered milk, and tinned meat had
taken him away from his family when they needed him the most. To eat
that food would have been the same as eating their corpses.

As time passed, Luka began to take grim comfort in their deaths.
Until his town was bombed, the worst of the war had remained at a
distance. Now he was homeless, drifting from one abandoned building
to the next. Hearing stories of rape, mutilation, and torture was one
thing. Seeing it was worse... much worse.

Marije and Luka had been a handsome couple. Their daughters resembled
them. Beautiful little girls that Luka called his jewels. Anja's jet-
black hair curled softly as her mother's did. Baby Solje had reddish
brown hair that was thick and soft like her father's. The two girls
also had been blessed with Luka's eyes. Most people thought they were
brown, but upon more prolonged observation, it could be seen that
their eyes seemed to change color responding to the amount of ambient
light: from a tawny gold, to a deep brown that was almost black.

Had they lived, had they been with him now, he would have been hard-
pressed to protect them from the wolves in military clothing who did
not care if a woman was willing or not. Marauding bands of guerilla-
style militias were even worse. They often killed the unfortunate
women who crossed them or merely crossed their path, but only after
making the victim long for her death.

Luka had only recently completed his medical training. His course-
work and residency were accelerated by war-time conditions. Rather
than leaving him under-prepared, these crash courses in the worst of
trauma medicine made him expert at procedures no peace-time doctor
would perform more than once or twice in a lifetime. Amputations
(with or without anaesthetics), the removal of shrapnel, bullets,
bomb fragments---in addition to treating cholera, dysentery, typhoid,
and typhus put Luka way ahead of his future associates at Cooke
County General.

After two months of living like an animal, Luka returned to his work.
He'd been approached by Mateus Rovic, a former neighbor and fellow
Croatian who had recently put together a militia band. His fledgling
group needed a doctor. Luka would receive generous rations and the
chance for revenge on those who had caused the deaths of his family.
Mateus admitted it would be highly unlikely that the bombadiers who'd
actually done the deed would ever find themselves in the militia's
grasp, but nevertheless, their compatriots could pay handsomely in
their stead.

At first Luka, refused the offer. Scatter-shot vengeance was little
better than murder; making him as bad as those who'd killed his wife
and daughters. However, when he found himself eating from a rubbish
heap and drinking water from the gutters of a bombed-out church, Luka
went to find Mateus and accepted his offer with one proviso.

"I will not carry any weapons other than my wits. I will not be
trained in their use. I will wear a red cross on my person and if I
am needed to treat someone who is not a member of your group, I will
do so. My services are too valuable to be reserved solely for your
associates."

Mateus agreed to this. He would have agreed to anything to get his
hands on a real doctor with the proper training. If he charged fees
for Luka's "moonlighting" behind his back, all the better. A war was
raging. As far as Mateus was concerned, the Hippocratic Oath was
another peacetime luxury that would only be in the way. The two men
shook hands and Luka followed his new commander to a deserted theatre
where the group was headquartered.

It was like a surrealist nightmare. Bullet-pocked roccoco gilt swags
decorated balconies now used to store petrol, grenades, landmines,
ammunition, and rifles. The plush velvet seats had been ripped out of
the floor, their cushions used to form pallets for sleeping and other
horizontal activities. The raked stage stripped of its curtains and
lighting fixtures provided grotesque scenery for two performances
daily: the morning and evening meals. A steel dumpster had been
imbedded in the stage surrounded by sandbags. It served as a cooking
pit and on more than one occasion, heated other items of a more
grisly nature.

The wounded were housed in the cellarage; a network of passages and
chambers once a storage space for scenery and other theatrical
flotsam. The remains of the huge lead crystal chandelier were used
for target practice; its broken pendants were collected and put
inside of home-made bombs. This perversion of the glass-cutter's art
resulted in shrapnel that cut like a hundred scalpels. Victims rarely
survived and the few that did were maimed for life.

Luka slept on the floor of a third-tier balcony. His accommodations
were luxurious in that he had this small space to himself and it was
close to the toilets. There was no running water, so the smell was
horrific, but it was better than relieving oneself in the hallways or
in buckets next to your bed. Luka was given one other luxury. The
theatre's safe, its lock blown off, was chained to a pillar on one
side of his "box". A thick padlock now secured its precious contents:
morphine, antiseptic solutions, a meagre supply of penicillin, and
two hypodermic needles. A raid on an enemy hospital added bandages
and sulphur to this pharmacy. Luka wore the only key on a chain
around his waist, next to his skin. Anyone trying to remove it while
he slept would be forced to wake him. Although he didn't carry a gun,
he kept a knife at hand and was very skilled in its use. It doubled
as his scalpel.

Now, Luka rarely accompanied the guerilla band on their raids. When
he'd first moved in, he had gone with them as they ambushed supply
convoys, hijacking food, or more likely, armaments. Mateus always
described these transports as "enemy" convoys, and they were. He
failed to explain to their new physician that anyone who was not a
member of their group was the enemy. Thus, supplies intended for
Croatians stood an equal chance of being "re-assigned" to the Sons of
Thunder as they called themselves.

A few months after joining, Luka was with them when they hijacked a
shipment of food and medical supplies that really did belong to the
enemy. Most of the wounded were Serbs and once Luka had determined
that his group's injuries were not serious, he immediately began
treating the fallen foes. His wife had been a Serb, so Luka did not
hold with the prevailing notion that all Serbs were little better
than vermin. He was attempting to staunch a sucking chest wound when
Karloj, Mateus's second-in-command, casually blew the man's head to
pieces with an automatic pistol. Luka was speechless for all of two
seconds then he lunged at the murderer.

"What in God's name did you do that for? I could have saved that man!"

"Bullets are cheaper than bandages. You were taking too long.
Besides, he's an animal just like the bastards who killed our
families. Don't waste your time or our supplies on these
motherfuckers." Karloj sneered. "You're *our* doctor, not theirs."

"He's right Luka." Mateus had joined them. "We haven't the time or
the resources to show mercy to these people. Save your kind heart for
your own kind."

Luka protested, but the sound of an approaching patrol prevented him
from carrying his point. The Sons of Thunder vanished into the
surrounding countryside. Luka, Mateus, and Karloj got into the
hijacked truck and drove off. Having to use country roads that were
little better than cow paths, made them the last to arrive at
headquarters. The supplies were unloaded and the truck was disposed
of. Later, when Luka went to claim the medicines for his pharmacy, he
was surprised at how little remained.

"We have to share our bounty with those less fortunate, Luka." Mateus
said calmly. "There are other groups like ours who are not yet
capable of raiding on this scale. Also, there are other doctors,
beside yourself who are treating our women and children. They come
first." They did indeed and they paid Mateus handsomely for the
privilege. He tactfully omitted this part from his explanation. The
subject of treating the enemy was dropped, but it came up again and
again. Karloj's brutality usually brought a halt to these "debates".
Luka found he hated the man almost as much as he hated being made a
party to his excesses.

So Luka began making excuses to stay at their headquarters. When
forced to accompany Mateus and his crew of brigands, Luka did not
wear his red cross. Enemy snipers had discovered that if you wanted
your bullets to count, killing those who could treat the wounded was
the same as killing them too. If they did not bleed to death where
they fell, fatal infections usually followed. The debates over
treating wounded Serbs escalated. Karloj liked to torture them. Luka
now found himself urging the man to shoot them instead. Karloj
enjoyed taunting Luka even more. He always managed to be on the
opposite side of whatever argument Luka put forward.

Late one night, awakened yet again by the sounds of carousing men and
crying women, Luka realized he'd sold his soul in exchange for
regular meals and the mere semblance of a secure place to lay his
head. It was a bargain he was beginning to deeply regret. Things
could not get any worse. He was wrong.

* * * * *

Luka endured nearly one year in Hell before things between Karloj and
himself were fatally resolved. A woman had recently joined the group,
hoping that her new status as a comrade-in-arms would provide some
means of protection for herself. Luka, sensing her reluctance to
become too close to the others, offered to train her as his nurse.
Sofia lived up to her name. She was intelligent, a former graduate
student whose study of chemistry made her an apt pupil. Luka rarely
had to tell her anything twice.

Sofia managed to lay her hands on some paper and for the first time
since joining the Sons of Thunder, Luka now had the futher luxury of
keeping patient records rather than trusting to his memory. At Luka's
suggestion, Sofia cut her long red hair almost to the scalp. This
brutal hairstyle coupled with her thin build meant that she was often
mistaken for a man. This too, provided a measure of protection in
that those who took males as willing or unwilling bed partners were
in the minority.

Karloj noted Luka's new assistant and bided his time. As
Mateus' "friend", Luka was afforded privileges that rivaled his own
status as second-in-command. Luka's skill with a knife made Karloj
decide to wait for an opportunity to get Sofia alone. Surely no woman
could resist his "charms" and if she did, she died. Sofia however,
had other ideas and unwittingly brought matters to a head.

One night, she went to Luka's box to inform him that a patient of
theirs had died. Luka went to help her remove the body, a source of
infection for the others. They burned the man in his blankets; soiled
with matter from a gangrenous wound. As they sat vigil, waiting for
the flames to die down Sofia looked at her teacher. Regular, though
meagre meals had restored some of his good looks. Nevertheless, it
was his kindness that had made her realize that here was a rarity
indeed---someone who refused to become a beast despite provocations
that would have corrupted a saint.

They had shared stories from their pasts. Sofia too, was grieving the
loss of her family: her parents and brother who'd disappeared one
afternoon while she was in class. No one could tell her what became
of them and she mourned them for dead. Tales of the atrocities
committed in the so-called re-settlement camps were widespread and
she knew better than to hope for a happy reunion.

The smell of burning flesh brought tears to Luka's eyes. Now, it was
the only thing that did. So when Sofia kissed his cheek, he turned to
her startled. "What was that for?"

"You cared for this patient." Sofia offered.

"No. He was little more than a brigand. May God have mercy on his
soul."

"Then why are you crying?"

"The smoke. It stinks, just like everything else around here."

"Oh." His abrupt manner and harsh tone surprised her. Thinking his
reference to "everything" included her, she too began to weep.

Luka turned to look at her, realizing that somehow, he was the cause
for her sorrow. He took her into his arms and held her as he used to
hold Anja when she was upset. "I'm sorry, Sofia. Sometimes all of
this gets to me and I took it out on you. You didn't deserve that."

At the sound of his gentle apology, Sofia cried harder. Without
thinking, Luka kissed her forehead. Mistaking this paternal gesture,
Sofia kissed him on the mouth. When Luka pulled back, she looked at
him, confused.

"I'm so sorry, Sofia. I didn't mean to make you think I could return
your feelings for me. It's not that I couldn't love *you* I don't
think I can love *anyone* ever again. It hurts too much. The day I
buried my family, I buried my heart with them. One day, if we ever
get out of this hell on earth, you'll meet someone who will find it
oh so easy to love you..."

Sofia nodded. "I don't know if I *love* you Luka. It's just that...
You are still a human being. I figured sooner or later, I'd be forced
to give my body to someone. I'd prefer to give it to a man who at
least would respect me. Nevertheless, I understand. I'm just glad I
have some decent feelings left. Friends?" She wiped her eyes with one
hand and extended the other.

"Friends." Luka agreed. Karloj, watching and listening from behind a
pile of rubble grinned.

Author's Note:
As the late Dorothy L. Sayers said in her witty introduction
to "Gaudy Night", this entire story, especially the portions that
follow, are set in "Cloud Cuckoo Land." In other words, although
Croatia and Bosnia-Herzegovinia are real countries and a real war
happened, the events of my story are totally fictitious and take
place in a time and places out of my own mind. The Croatian, and
indeed all of *my* characters' names have been made up. If there are
people with these names I intend no slurs on *their* characters. Any
resemblence between these imaginary villains and real-life
individuals is completely coincidental. The same goes for the heroes.
KPP
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