On the Bosnian-Herzegovina border lies Delvanta, a town inhabited mainly by Bosnian Serbs. Months of relentless bombardment had turned the city into a desolate ruin. People hurried through shattered buildings and piles of rubble, desperately searching for any food to fill their empty stomachs. NATO's economic blockade and military siege had drained the residents of their last hope. As for the food dropped by American transport planes, it was often stolen by militias and ended up as rations for the army.
Even worse, civilians lived in constant fear. Serbian militias like the Tigers and White Eagles, operating without formal restraint, frequently used small-caliber rifles equipped with sniper scopes to shoot Croatian children who ventured to the river to fetch water or play. Each gunshot meant another child fell by the riverbank, a small bucket rolling beside the lifeless body, blood seeping deep into the mud.
No one dared to rescue the fallen child—the sniper's scope was still hunting along the river. Only the mother could watch from afar, sobbing silently as wild dogs tore at her child's body. In this chaotic land, the innocent were always the victims.
This was not just a civil war between armies but a war fought in every individual's soul. War magnified humanity's darkest nature. Survivors faced a daily moral test: to save the unfortunate or to steal their food, medicine, and bullets for their own survival. Some abandoned conscience to live another day; others fell beneath the barrel of a gun for a scrap of bread. War was political cruelty in flesh and blood. Those who never experienced it could never understand the true price of peace.
Delvanta was more unfortunate than most—repeatedly contested between the Croatian army and Bosnian Serbs. One day, vicious Serbs controlled the city; the next, Croatians fought back. The Croatians would pillage Serbian food supplies, while Serbian forces feigned ignorance. The Croatians had held Delvanta for five days—the longest stretch yet. The Serbian residents no longer cared who ruled, only that the war would end and survival return.
But surviving had become an unattainable luxury.
On a rare day without artillery fire or gunshots, Serbian residents cautiously peeked from the ruins and anxiously scoured ruined shops and rubble-strewn streets for any scraps—an expired can or a small box of hard biscuits—to ease their gnawing hunger.
Suddenly, gunfire shattered the uneasy calm. Residents looked up to see a man robbing a package from another and shooting him dead in the street. The locals, numbed by war, merely shook their heads, watched the man's lifeless body slump, then returned to scavenging. Hope was just to stay alive.
As they busied themselves, two military-green trucks sped down the street. Terrified, many fled, fearing Croatian soldiers were coming to loot again. But the troops halted them with rifles—it was a Serbian unit. A silent relief spread; at least their food was safe today.
But it was not that simple.
The lead officer stepped forward, his eyes cold as he scanned the dusty residents. "Are you all Serbs?" he demanded.
Though pointless, the residents nodded vigorously, fearing death if they denied their identity.
"How many of you are here?" the officer pressed. Silence.
Growing impatient, he pulled a pistol, aiming at a man's head. "I'll ask again—how many?"
The man, eyes closed, teeth clenched, whispered, "Three... no, forty-two."
The officer nodded coldly. "Very good." Turning to his soldiers, he ordered, "Kill them all. Don't leave a single one alive."
Gunfire erupted. Flames leapt. People dropped like wheat before a scythe. Blood mingled with shattered cans and dust as bodies fell among the ruins, chests burning. The officer lit a cigarette, smiling faintly, as his men executed every last one. When silence returned, he ordered thorough searches and a few extra shots to confirm no one survived. Then, the trucks rumbled away.
No Croatian patrol would return today. Corrupt Croatian officers would look the other way. Only Colonel Kavelav, a Yugoslav volunteer, knew this massacre had been ordered by their own superiors.
"They're all war's victims," Kavelav told his adjutant coolly. "Their deaths give Bosnian Serbs more leverage at the negotiation table. Why not use it?"
He flicked a nearly burnt-out cigarette from the window and muttered, "We'll pour sewage on the Croatian army and paint ourselves as ruthless thugs. That's why our leaders forbid open attacks on civilians unless provoked. We must not only defeat them militarily but seize the moral high ground. War is dirty, and if it wins the day, the means don't matter. Understand?"