A/n: While doing spontaneous research on weaponry, I came across a sniper rifle that caught my eye. The Zastava M76, a rifle of Yugoslavian origin manufactured by Zastava Arms. It was used in the Yugoslav Wars, the Kosovo War, and Operation Iraqi Freedom.
I figured, hey, I don't have anything to do today. Why not make a story based around the Zastava M76? I figured some flashbacks were required, along with some general musings from the characters. Possible historical inaccuracies ahead.
Here is the product of my boredom. Enjoy.
Xxx
Three of the Balkans owned one.
For Macedonia, it was damaged, collecting dust in a safe in the basement of his house. For Croatia, it was always sitting in a case under his bed, able to be accessed quickly should he ever need it again. And for Serbia?
Well, for Serbia it was kept clean and polished, sitting atop the mantle of his home's fireplace. A few bullets were perched up beside it; Serbia always needed a reminder of his past.
And what was this "it"? Well, "it" was a Zastava M76. A Yugoslavian weapon.
Of course these four representations owned one; they had used them in conflict. They had fought alongside their soldiers, and had learned quickly that for a semi-automatic sniper rifle, the Zastava M76 was surprisingly accurate.
Croatia would be the first to experience just how painful the weapon was.
Andelko lay in a large circular ditch made from an artillery shell along the countryside of his nation, Agram 2000 submachine gun in his right hand. He knew this was a dangerous area; the Croatian forces had only recently tried to recapture the area from the JNA. It was 1991, and fighting was rampant.
A few Croatian soldiers joined their representation in the ditch in the ground, clutching weapons in their hands.
"We have to keep moving forward." Andelko said to them.
"We can't! There are snipers hidden along the pathways; we'll be killed once we get out of this ditch." One of the soldiers responded.
"If we move quickly the snipers will not be able to focus in and shoot." Andelko barely lifted his head up to see the surrounding area. "There is a small building to our left side, maybe twenty yards away from where we are now. If we run, we'll make it." He informed them, ducking his head back down.
"We'll have to go one at a time. Going in a group is risky." One of the soldiers said. "It'll give them less to shoot at if we send one man to the building at a time."
"Precisely."
"I'll go first if you guys won't." A young soldier offered.
"You're smaller than the rest of us… You'll be a lot quicker. I'm sure you'll make it. Just don't stop running until you know you're hidden from fire. Good luck." Andelko reached over and patted the shoulder of the young man.
The soldier got to his hands and knees then sprung up from his position, running as fast as he could and making it to the stone building. He crouched down behind the wall, chest heaving from the sprint.
"He made it… That's one out of five." One of the other soldiers in the ditch commented.
"We'll go from smallest to largest. Since I am probably the biggest target out of us, I want you three to go before me. Which one of you is the quickest?" Andelko questioned. One of the men raised his hand.
"Alright; you go."
Soon, only Andelko was left in the hole the artillery shell had made. The other four had made it to the building unscathed, but if there was one thing Andelko wasn't good at, it was running. The representation was no athlete. He was just over six feet tall, and was an easy target for the snipers in he didn't get to that building quick enough.
He took a deep breath, checking to make sure that his boots were tied before getting to his feet and starting to run. With the equipment he was carrying, he definitely found himself a lot slower than the other men.
He got about ten yards before a shot was fired at him. It missed, but then a second shot rang out and Andelko felt an intense pain in his right shoulder. He continued to run, and didn't stop until he reached the building. He sat against the wall and set his weapon down, clutching the bullet wound in his shoulder. He cringed and breathed heavily, resisting the urge to cry out from the pain.
"Shit… Does anyone have bandages? Anything we can use to stop the bleeding?" One of the uninjured soldiers asked.
"Yes; here." The youngest of the soldiers reached into his pocket and pulled out a roll of white bandages, handing it to the older man.
Andelko let go of his wound and unbuttoned his shirt hastily, removing the part of the article that was covering his shoulder.
"The pain won't go away, but this'll keep you from bleeding everywhere." The soldier with the bandages said, starting to wrap up Andelko's shoulder.
"Does anyone have… a long range rifle with them?" Andelko asked through grit teeth.
"I have a MACS M3 sniper… but these rifles can only be fired from the right shoulder." One of the soldiers informed him.
"I don't give a fuck… Just give me the weapon… I'm going to climb up onto the roof of this building, and take out those damned snipers…" Andelko replied, standing. He exchanged his Agram 2000 for the MACS M3, and then used a shot out window to climb up onto the low-angled roof of the building his citizens were hiding behind.
He slowly got into position, pressing the stock of his weapon against his injured shoulder. He let out a slight groan of pain as he looked through the scope of the rifle, searching ever so carefully for the opposing snipers.
A glimmer of a scope in the distance caught his eye, and he focused in, soon spotting two camouflaged JNA snipers; one right next to the other. Andelko was using a bolt-action rifle though; he would need a second bullet.
"Do you have another bullet, down there?" He asked the soldiers hiding below.
"Yes. I'll toss it up."
A .50 Caliber round was tossed up to the roof, which Andelko caught. He shoved it in his pocket and returned his right eye to his sniper rifle's scope, shutting his left eye. Luckily, he still had perfect view of the two camouflaged soldiers.
He inhaled deeply then squeezed the trigger, the recoil of the rifle sending sharp pain through his damaged shoulder. He left out a groan of pain and reach for the bullet in his pocket to reload his sniper. He wasn't safe anymore; firing that shot had exposed his position to the remaining sniper. He heard a shot go off, but it didn't hit him. Instead, heard a choking sound coming from below.
"Shit; Tomi
is down!" One of the remaining soldiers said.
Andelko assumed that Tomić had taken a shot to the neck from the slightly disturbing sounds that were coming from the ground. Regardless, the Croatian representation managed to reload his weapon. Once he had the remaining JNA sniper in his sights, he pulled the trigger and eliminated the threat of another casualty.
Andelko jumped down from the rooftop and set the sniper against the wall, crouching down to check on the man who had been shot. His assumption was correct; Tomić had been shot in the neck. It was futile to try to save him; there was no way the man was going to be able to breathe. Within moments, the soldier suffocated, and all went silent. Andelko placed his hand over the eyes of the fallen soldier, closing them.
"Let's keep moving… We'll have to leave him behind to be found by Croatian forces who can take his body to safety." He told the three soldiers left.
As then neared the area where the snipers had been, Andelko approached the two bodies. He removed the two bullets from the chambers of their weapons and put them in his pocket. He then picked up one of the Zastava M76 rifles and slung it over his left shoulder by the strap. He gathered what ammunition he could find, and then turned back to the Croatian soldiers nearby.
"Let's go. The rest of the Croatian forces shouldn't be too far ahead."
Croatia still had that rifle he had taken from the JNA soldier that day in 1991. He also still had the two bullets that he had collected from the chambers of his defeated enemy's rifles. They were a sort of reminder of what he had done; and it was sort of a sniper culture. You would go and take the bullet that was supposed to kill you, and it represented that you had control over your own death. Of course, Croatia knew he didn't. He was a representation of a country; he could fall out of existence within years.
Macedonia had promised himself that he would never use his Zastava M76 ever again. Not after how much pain it had caused him.
So his weapon was out of date. It was something he had kept throughout the years; ever since the Yugoslav Wars. It was March of 2001, and he, as the representation of Macedonia, was going to fight alongside his soldiers one way or another. The Albanian Insurgency had claimed some of his people; he was not going to let them get away with it.
He was in a building, peeking out the window through the scope of his Zastava M76, watching the conflict below. Every few moments he took a shot at an Albanian, but he missed poorly a high percentage of the time.
Macedonians below fired at the Albanian insurgents while they were distracted with trying to find Nikodemos in the buildings. The Macedonian representation smirked slightly; things were going well so far.
But it was only a matter of time until things went wrong.
Remaining Albanian insurgents located him, and within a flash, Nikodemos screamed in pain, clutching his eyes and dropping his weapon. A bullet had struck the scope of his weapon, sending the shattering glass into his eyes.
A fellow Macedonian running some communications in the room hurried over to him. He grabbed Nikodemos and sat him down against the wall, forcing the representation to bring his hands away from his eyes.
"You've got glass in your eyes, sir… Don't touch them or there will be more damage done. Try to open your eyes; I'm going to pour water over them to try to get the glass out." The soldier took a water bottle and opened it. As Nikodemos opened his pained eyes, he poured the water in them in an attempt to save the representation's vision.
Once they had decided it was enough, the soldier wrapped bandages around Nikodemos' eyes so that the representation would be deterred from rubbing at them and making things worse. Even though Nikodemos represented an entire nation, he could easily lose his sight from this. He was almost as human as the rest of the men fighting. Almost.
"I'm going to get you out of this building and to a safe zone where there is a hospital. From there they will deal with your eyes. Hold onto my wrist and I'll guide you."
Nikodemos, in pain and trembling out of shock, could merely nod. The soldier placed his wrist in Nikodemos' hand, which the representation clutched tightly. The other man stood, and Nikodemos got to his feet. Stumbling his way through the building, they eventually reached a door. But it led out to the street, where the Albanians and Macedonians were firing upon eachother.
"We have to move quickly across the street to a transport. It'll take you to safety. I'll have to remain here, but remember; do not touch your eyes." Nikodemos heard the man guiding him say. When the man started moving quickly, Nikodemos stumbled along behind him, trying desperately not to trip.
The Macedonian representation's luck ran out when he was mere yards away from the truck that would take him to safety.
A bullet struck his boot and his footing was lost. Nikodemos fell to the ground, hands now holding tightly on his bleeding foot. It was almost as if the Albanians had targeted him; an injured Macedonian who couldn't see anything.
The soldier guiding him grabbed a hold of the representation's shirt and resorted to dragging him the rest of the way to the truck. Once Nikodemos was hoisted into the back, joining a few other injured men, the soldier went around the side and spoke to the driver.
Soon the truck was on it way down the street to a safe area. There must have been a medic in the back tending to the wounded, because Nikodemos found himself being laid down then having his bloodied boot removed. His injured foot was tended to, but the blinded Macedonian could only think of one thing.
The Zastava M76 that had ruined his perfect vision. As a nation, he knew he would heal a bit quicker than a regular human, but his vision would never be the same. It was damaged; he knew of nations who had once had perfect vision, but due to wars and circumstances, that 20-20 vision was taken. He knew that Canada, a nation forgotten by many, had lost his perfect vision in World War One due to gas bombings from the Germans. Now he had to wear glasses; Nikodemos would most likely have to do the same.
A few days later, after Nikodemos had been treated at the hospital, he returned to the area where his vision had been impaired. He was wearing glasses now, but he still couldn't see too well. Doctors had told him that his sight would return, but that he would have to wear glasses or contacts for the rest of his existence in order to obtain that temporary perfect vision. One the glasses were off, that's when his vision would be slightly weakened.
Nikodemos walked into the building, limping slightly on his foot that had been shot, and navigated the area until he found the room he had been in. Still lying there on the floor was his rifle.
He approached it and picked it up, inspecting the damaged that had been done to his scope. It had been a near perfect shot right down the center of the cylinder that had been the one to send the glass into his eyes. The bullet hadn't gone all the way through, though. Nikodemos tipped the rifle a bit, and shrapnel fell out of the damaged scope, along with shards of a bullet. He sighed a bit. How lucky he was.
He took a deep breath then clutched his damaged weapon in his hands, walking out of the building with it.
"You're keeping that?" One of the men who was with him questioned.
"Yes. But I'm never going to use it again. Not after what happened." The Macedonian representation responded.
Macedonia in modern days never wore his glasses. His piercing blue eyes, despite their damage, would never be hidden behind such things. No one ever bothered to ask the representation why he had a pair of glasses always sitting on his kitchen table. And even if they did ask, Macedonia would never tell them. He preferred to keep his damaged sight a secret.
Serbia, unlike Macedonia, would never keep secrets.
Tightly held in Novak's hands was his Zastava M76 sniper rifle. It was his prized possession, he supposed. He never let it get damaged, but that didn't mean he wasn't going to use it in conflict. It was 1992, and Novak was fighting alongside the JNA; it was a war he thought was just.
He sat on a chair behind a ring of sandbags, awaiting the Croatians that would inevitably go through this area. It was just outside of a small town that was a vital point to the recapturing of Croatian land by the Croatian forces.
He set his gun steadily down on the sandbags, looking through the scope of his rifle for any enemies. When he spotted movement, he watched the people for a few moments in order to recognize who they were. Croatians. They had arrived with quite a bit more firepower than the JNA had suspected.
"Thirty plus Croatians heading down the road. Should we open fire?" Novak asked a nearby soldier.
"Pick off who you can. When they try to get to cover, we'll pursue them, sir." The other man replied.
"Alright. Relay around town to any JNA forces that we're opening fire on a group of Croatians to the west." With that, Novak focused his sights on an opposing soldier and fired. The Croatian went down with a shot to the chest, and soon the enemy forces were scattering for cover. Novak did what he could, shooting then switching targets to someone exposed. Eventually though, he couldn't get a clear shot at anyone.
Not until he saw a familiar figure walking alone down the center of the street towards the town. Novak froze, his sights trained on the man before him. It was Andelko Begovich. Representation of Croatia.
Andelko had bandages wrapped around his exposed right shoulder; the man's uniform shirt was only halfway on, and bloodied from the wound he had received.
"Hold your fire. Tell everyone to hold their fire." Novak told the soldier beside him, who was slightly confused but listened regardless.
Novak stood and went around the sandbags, walking forward towards Andelko, who was carrying the same weapon Novak was.
"Why're you here, Andelko?" He asked once they were a short distance away from eachother.
"I am reclaiming what is lawfully mine. This is the result of your actions, Novak. Leave this town with your forces now or we will have no mercy on you. I'm giving you a chance to save a few lives. You have already taken six of my soldiers with that rifle, Novak. It's a wonder that I don't just shoot you now."
"I will not allow you to simply walk into this place and take it, Andelko. You will receive the JNA's resistance. You will not have this town."
"Then I suppose we must take it by force."
Novak raised his rifle and aimed it at the other representation. "Return to your men, and then we will commence this fight. You will learn of your mistakes, Andelko. And you will learn them the hard way."
"Why don't you just shoot me now? It'd be so much simpler than to let a battle drag out what we could finish right here."
"I'm giving you options, Andelko. Either you can retreat, or you can go back over to your men and lead them through a battle. There is no point in trying to kill a man who cannot die as humans can."
"You know you would much rather shoot me now. But, since you're too much of a merciful bastard I suppose I will go back and fight with my men like I have since the beginning of this war."
"Very well."
The two turned their back on eachother, and Novak sighed. Before he even got back to his position behind the sandbags, he gave an order.
"Open fire!"
Bullets were soon blazing out of barrels, and as Novak set himself up to pick off the Croatians once again, he realized how outnumbered the JNA really was here. There were at least thirty Croatians, and only fifteen JNA soldiers who could fight.
Even with Novak's rather skilled sniping, and his soldiers loyally defending the area, the Croatians soon overtook them and they were forced to retreat. Novak made sure that everyone else got to safety first, and as he was finally making his own retreat, he was shot in the calf.
"Sir!" One of his soldiers started to turn around to assist him.
"Go! I will be fine!" Novak shouted at the other man. The soldier listened and retreated off to safety. Novak remained on the ground on his hands and knees. There was no way he could run and make his retreat.
He grunted as his back was stomped on by what was inevitably a Croatian. He collapsed onto his stomach and soon felt the rough sole of a boot on the back of his neck.
"Have you had enough, Novak?" It was Andelko.
"You will not win this war…" Andelko pressed harder on Novak's neck, causing him to struggle with speaking. "…I-I promise you…"
The boot was lifted and Novak found himself tugged to his feet by a hand clutching the back of his shirt.
"Leave here, Novak. I will not give you another chance before I decide to keep you prisoner." Andelko said. Novak picked up his Zastava M76 that was lying on the ground and used it as a sort of cane to make his way to safety.
He didn't say another word to Andelko for years and years ever since that day.
Serbia approached his fireplace with a somber look on his face. The gun he had kept for so many years sitting on the mantle had been both a blessing and a curse. The bullets that sat around it were the ones that had been in the cartridge the day he had been shot in the leg.
His physical wound had healed, and the scar was barely there anymore, but the mental wound he had never eased away.
The Zastava M76 was significant to all three of them; it connected them to old wounds, both physical and mental.
Croatia's injured shoulder. His strive for an independence that should have been declared before things got too hard.
Macedonia's damaged eyesight. His wrongdoing to the Albanians that caused him to forever hold the guilt for a sort of hidden conflict that never should have happened.
Serbia's injured leg. His defense of something that wasn't his to begin with.
Scars that would never heal were all linked to one mere firearm.
The Zastava M76.