My War Memoirs: The Fićo Adventure (Chapter 2.)

 

The air, usually crisp and clear with the promise of autumn, felt heavy that Friday evening in 1991, thick with unspoken fears. Fifty kilometers east, in the fields of Slavonia, the war against the Serbs was already a grinding reality, a distant rumble that echoed through our seemingly bustling town. Our quiet community of thirteen thousand had swelled to nearly fifty, bursting with refugees, mostly young, who sought solace and safety within its borders. Yet, even as discos pulsed and cafes hummed with an almost desperate gaiety, a mere hundred meters from the town’s vibrant heart, shadows stretched long and cold in the city park, where Croatian defenders, the Zenge—forerunners of the true army—stood watch. They were civilians, many clad in improvised uniforms, armed with a chaotic assortment of Kalashnikovs, old hunting rifles, and various pistols, their faces etched with the chilling question: would the real war come for us too?

At seventeen, my own battle was a microcosm of the chaos outside. Puberty had twisted my insides into a knot of defiance, a raw, untamed spirit chafing against the quiet life with my aging grandfather. He was a stern man, a former Yugoslav Army officer, capable of a frightening wrath, but my restless soul and craving for adrenaline always pushed me to the edge. I lived in a void of parental neglect, and that emptiness was a constant, gnawing ache, making me feel perpetually behind my peers who had the simple luxuries of security, love, and care. Grandfather provided a roof, nothing more. My escapades, these dangerous, impulsive acts, weren't just about rebellion; they were a desperate search for attention, a craving for a surge of euphoria to silence the constant hum of anxiety and the feeling of being unseen.

My best friend, a kindred spirit in our youthful naivety, was my accomplice in these nocturnal quests. We were two boys laughing in the face of the unknown. We were blind to the true danger that lurked just beyond the streetlights. That night, our target was my grandfather's dusty, slumbering Zastava 750, the old "fićo" he was too old to drive. It was unregistered, and I was unlicensed, a perfect cocktail of forbidden thrill. Late at night, with grandfather long asleep, my friend and I quietly pushed the little car from the garage into the street. Its tires whispering against the asphalt. A quick trip to the gas station, just enough fuel to match my ambition, and we were off. My usual route hugged the city's quiet outskirts, where I imagined the police were absent. I didn't know then that these very roads teemed with the silent guardians of the city—the ZNG and the police, a watchful presence against a creeping enemy.

The idea that sparked this particular adventure was bolder: the city park. It boasted a long, unpaved side road. It was a ribbon of gravel and dirt that wound for several kilometers, ending at the city limits. I’d never dared to explore it. That was an untouched path called to my reckless spirit, a challenge to conquer. And, perhaps, to impress. I’d invited other friends to meet us deeper in the park, close to the center, imagining their awe as I whisked them away in the "fićo." None of them, barely older than me, had ever touched a steering wheel. I, the lawbreaker, was their only connection to this illicit freedom.

With a shared grin, we rattled into the park near the kindergarten, while the fićo kicking up a cloud of fine dust. As we passed an old, forgotten house, a figure burst from the shadows, waving frantically, yelling for us to stop. "Just some drunk," I thought, my foot pressing harder on the accelerator, adrenaline surging, chasing that sweet euphoria. The car fishtailed wildly on the loose gravel. My tires were spitting, rocking precariously. We were speeding, recklessly close to flipping, the laughter erupting from both of us. It was a raw and loud, a desperate sound against the gathering tension.

Five minutes of this exhilarating, insane drive, our low beams cutting through the dimness, brought us abruptly to a halt. Looming ahead, blocking the entire road, was a monstrous barrier. Huge, felled trees lay haphazardly, reinforced by what looked like a hundred canvas bags overflowing with sand and soil. Above them, camouflaged tent wings stretched like giant, silent bat wings, and between the gaps, a thick, metallic pipe protruded, ominous and black. I slammed on the brakes. But the fićo, light and rebellious, skidded for dozens of meters. It was a high-pitched screech tearing through the night, followed by a settling cloud of dust. My friend and I exchanged a frantic, wide-eyed glance. The same thought, cold and stark, slammed into us: “Enemy barricade.” Fear, sudden and absolute, seized my throat, a suffocating grip. We stared at that pipe, a monster of metal that could pierce tank armor or rip through the night sky. But there were no people. Not a soul.

The fićo sputtered and died, a silence more terrifying than the previous noise. My mind, racing, screamed for escape. I jerked the steering wheel, turning sharply off the road. The tires sinking into the soft, wet grass. The car lurched, zigzagging erratically, a confused beast on the slippery ground. I couldn't decide which way to go, my hands clammy on the wheel.

Then, the world exploded around us. Gunshots. Sharp, deafening cracks that ripped through the night. Bullets whizzed, slamming into the ground just in front of the car, tearing through the air beside us. Instinct took over. I slammed the brakes again, and before the car had even fully stopped, my friend and I flung ourselves out, hitting the wet grass with a thud. The fićo rolled to a standstill, doors agape, a silent witness to our terror.

We scrambled to our feet, ready to bolt, but hands, rough and strong, emerged from the darkness. Someone grabbed my face, a brutal slap echoing through the silence, sending me sprawling. My friend met the same fate.

"Tell me who you are or I'll kill you!" an unknown voice barked, guttural and laced with menace. A cold, metallic cylinder pressed against my face, just below my nose. Other hands grabbed my shoulder, twisting me onto my stomach, forcing my face into the damp earth. A heavy body pressed down, a knee digging into my back, pinning me. The gun barrel, now terrifyingly cold, nudged against my ear.

"Who are you?" another voice demanded.

"I’m Srećko," I choked out, my voice trembling, tasting dirt. "I took my grandfather’s car for a ride. I live next to the football field, and so does my friend. We didn't mean anything bad. We were just driving."

"Are you insane, boy? We could have killed you! We thought it was the rebel Serbs storming our position!"

"Yeah, i was sure that you are rebel Serbs too! 

Then, a familiar voice, sharp with surprise, cut through the tension. "Srećko, is that you?"

It was Miro. My neighbor. Miroslav. The Miro I used to torment with silly rhymes: "Russian, cabbage, trolleybus." (in Croatian language sounds like great rime: " Rus, kupus, trolejbus"). My grandfather, for reasons unknown, had always jokingly called him "Russian." Miro was four years older than me. Back in 1990, when the first whispers of unrest between Croatia and Serbia began, he’d already signed up for the military police. By 1991, he was a trained, formidable figure. I’d seen him in his crisp uniform, and it had solidified a burgeoning desire within me: I want to be a soldier too. He looked magnificent, determined, dangerous. I wanted that power. And here I was, face buried in the dirt, a rifle barrel kissing my ear, a soldier’s weight pinning me down.

"Get out of the way, guys. That's my Srele." My nickname. Miro lifted me from the ground as if I weighed nothing. I spat out a piece of grass, my voice barely a whisper, "Thank you, Miro. You saved us."

"And this is my other neighbor, Nenad," Miro continued, addressing the unseen figures around us. "They’re just teenagers, eager for adventure, harmless." Only then did I fully register them: about twenty men, all armed, all pointing their weapons at us. their faces were so tense. They were confused too, I realized, but not with the raw, primal terror that still coursed through my veins.

Miro climbed into the driver’s seat of my grandfather’s fićo, another soldier settling into the passenger side. We made to follow, but Miro shook his head. "No, no, guys. You caused a problem, and now, as punishment, I’ll drive the car, and you have to run alongside all the way home. Hold onto the roof with one hand while you run."

"Miro, it’s five kilometers to the house!" I protested, aghast.

"I know," he said, a faint smile playing on his lips as he stepped on the gas. Then, the fićo crawling forward at a mocking ten kilometers per hour. He opened the window, lit a cigarette, and the passenger beside him chuckled.

And so, my friend and I ran. Five agonizing kilometers. One hand clinging to the edge of the fićo’s roof, and making the impossible task even harder. Every stride was a burning protest from our lungs, our legs screaming.

Twenty meters from my house, Miro stopped the car, killed the engine, and tossed me the keys. "Now, give the car back the way you took it." He paused, his gaze hardening slightly. "I won't say anything to your grandfather. This punishment is enough for you." The soldier in the passenger seat leaned out, grabbing each of us by an ear, twisting them painfully. "This is how you ruined our peaceful night, you silly kids." And with a light kick to each of our butts, he sent us on our way.

My friend and I pushed the fićo into the garage. It's tired engine finally silenced. Without a word, without a goodbye, we each veered off into the quiet, starlit night. I crawled into my bed, fully dressed and filthy, a cold sweat breaking out as the enormity of what had just transpired finally settled over me. The fear was a living thing, churning in my stomach, a dark counterpart to the earlier euphoria. But after fifteen minutes of this chilling discomfort, a new wave of that familiar high washed over me. It was a strange, perverse joy. I drifted off to sleep, a triumphant whisper on my lips: "What an adventure,  yes !"