My War Memoirs: A Boy on the Railway to Hell (Chapter 7.)

 

This night tasted of rain and rust, and the only sound was the grinding of gravel beneath my boots as I trudged along the twin steel tracks that cleaved the darkness. These rails, a forgotten scar on the earth, were a familiar path to me, once a daily railway line where a sleepy little "shinobus" shuttled twice a day between Osijek and Požega. But tonight, they were a bridge to another world—a world of men grown old before their time, of weaponry, and the thunder of destruction.

I was only seventeen in that September 1991. My hands, emptied of summer's labors, now clutched a rifle—a borrowed, heavy weight that felt simultaneously alien and yet, somehow, mine. Strapped to my belt, my grandfather's pistol seemed small and insignificant, a child's toy in an adult's game. My heart hammered in my chest, a frenzied drumbeat of pure, unadulterated adrenaline. It was an exhilarating, intoxicating feeling, one that made you feel invincible, that convinced you danger was merely a rumor. I wasn't brave. I was naive, a little foolish, and yearning for an adventure that would finally make me feel like I belonged. That I was more than just a kid from a small town.

War wasn't some distant concept I'd read about in a book. It was here, in the cold, wet air, in the faraway flashes of light that tore through the gloom. My neighbors were in danger. That was all I knew of patriotism. That was all I needed to know. The rest—the politics, the history, the reasons—were just background noise. I was just a kid, walking a railway track, trying to make sense of a world gone mad.

The walk felt impossibly long. Every step was a question. Was I an idiot for doing this? Was I a coward for feeling the tremor in my hands? One moment, I was an action movie hero, the next a terrified boy lost in the woods. The darkness was a comforting cloak, a soft blanket that hid my fear and my rifle. The small hill to my right was my silent protector, a shield against an invisible enemy. But I knew what awaited me. The tracks would curve, and the world would open up—a clearing leading directly to the enemy barracks and the hill of Grbavica, a fortress of steel and fire that stared straight down at our little town.

As I neared the bend, the silence shattered. Machine-gun bursts ripped through the air, terrifyingly close. I was now beneath the bridge, in the valley, in a small, sheltered space. The world above me was a canvas of light and sound. Tracer rounds tore across the sky, a frightful ballet of death. Shells wailed, exploding in the woods near the cemetery with a deafening rumble. It seemed the very earth held its breath. I lay there on the tracks, safe for a moment, and stared at this light show. It was a spectacle, an ugly but beautiful thing that simultaneously thrilled and horrified me.

I knew I couldn't stay there. Curiosity, that dangerous, childish need to see what lay on the other side, clawed at me. I scrambled up the thorny hill, the rough ground tearing at my clothes and skin. When I emerged onto the main road, the noise hit me like a physical blow. The sounds weren't just loud; they were a living, breathing entity that shook my bones and vibrated in my teeth. It was an assault on every sense, and for one terrifying moment, I felt it. The freeze. My body wanted to shut down, to curl into a ball and scream. But a different kind of wire flipped. That same chaotic impulse that made me sneak out of the house kicked in again. I wasn't a hero; I was just too messed up to feel fear. Adrenaline, that sweet, dark drug, surged once more, and I craved more of its unreal sustenance.

I was no longer a boy on the tracks; I was an actor in a play. The stage was lit by signal flares and tracer fire. I ran across the road and pressed myself against the house to the right of the bridge. That's when I saw them—the soldiers. Croatian soldiers, kneeling, their faces illuminated by the eerie glow of a firing "Zolja" anti-tank rocket. Two others fired into the night towards the barracks, their rifles spewing fire. I was a ghost among them, and they didn't notice me until I was just a few meters away. Beside the cemetery, in the park by the chapel, was a well-armed Croatian unit. They were shooting towards the JNA barracks, but I went to the right side because I didn't see any Croatian soldiers there. I was afraid of making a big mistake if I joined that mass of soldiers on the left. Still, there were a few here too.

"Whose side are you on?" one of them yelled, his voice strained by the cacophony of gunfire. My lie came easily, a smooth thing forged of fear and self-preservation. "I'm here for Djuro. He sent me!"

Another soldier, a neighbor I recognized by his voice, turned to me. "Djuro? He's lying like a dog. That's that little pest from down the street, I know him!" he shouted to the others. "Go on, get out of here, run home! We don't need to worry about you too!"

The first soldier, an experienced, older man with hardened eyes, tried to snatch my rifle. "Give me that rifle, you'll kill one of us, you little idiot!"

My grip tightened. "I won't give you the rifle. Grandpa will kill me!" I screamed back. I clung to the weapon, the only thing that made me feel like I belonged here, and I fled. I ran like a coward, like the kid I was. First down the street towards the water tower, my heart pounding with a mixture of terror and defiance. In the distance, I heard the soldier's voice, a wave of concern in his tone, "Leave him, he's messing around. He ran home. We have more important things to do than chase a kid."

And then, a flash of red. An ambulance, silent and dark, sped past me. A wail tore from the cemetery. Someone was wounded. Or worse. The film suddenly stopped being a film. It was real. I was a child with a toy gun, drawing attention to people fighting for their lives. The thrilling spectacle of war was just a thin veil over a brutal reality I wasn't ready for.

I hid in a courtyard, watched the enemy barracks, and saw the flashes of cannons and tanks. A well, half-hidden between two houses, caught my gaze. A crazy idea then struck me, the last desperate act of a boy refusing to be just an observer. I climbed onto the well and aimed my rifle at the distant flashes. I fired. The rifle struck my shoulder powerfully, a shock of pain and power that made my heart sing. I fired a few more rounds, then put the rifle down and pulled out the pistol. It was a toy, a small thing that bucked and jumped in my hand, but I emptied the entire magazine towards the barracks. Those bullets surely didn't even reach the first building of the barracks, let alone Grbavica hill. From the excitement and the pistol's strong recoil, I slowly retreated backward, completely forgetting that there was an edge to the well. I fell straight onto my back from a height of about two meters and splat onto the grass. Shocked by the sudden fall, I still expelled the air from my lungs. It took me a minute or two to compose myself and catch my breath. That was my sign that my adventure was over.

I picked up the rifle from the well's roof, took the pistol, and, coughing, awkwardly ran with pain in my back and chest. I ran back down the hill to the railway tracks and along the tracks to the house, which was about 300 meters away. I left the weapons in the armory, washed up, and returned to the shelter. All pale but excited because I had "fought in the war," and imagine, only about thirty minutes that felt like weeks. Grandpa was still asleep, and no one saw me. I was a ghost in my own home, pale and trembling, but with a secret etched into my soul. I had experienced war. Or at least, I had played in it. And in that half-hour, brief and terrible, I gained an experience I would remember for a lifetime. I had made a mistake, a foolish, dangerous one, and the memory of that foolishness was a sweet burden I would carry forever.