My War Memoirs: A Fighter's Genesis- Vukovar's Echo (Chapter 4. )

The year was 1991, and the world outside our window in Slavonia, Croatia, was tearing itself apart. I was seventeen and a half, still navigating the labyrinthine halls of my final high school year, when the war thundered onto our television screen and, shortly after, into our very lives. I remember it with a visceral clarity: the chilling, grainy images of Vukovar, once a proud city, now being systematically devoured by an unseen enemy. Each explosion, each plume of smoke on that broadcast, felt like a punch to the gut, a tearing of the very fabric of our homeland.

Beside me, slumped in his worn armchair, was my grandfather. Seventy-two years old, with eyes that had seen too much history unfold, he was a retired, high-ranking officer from the former Yugoslavian army. The absurdity of it still echoes in my mind: his own army, the very institution he had served with unwavering loyalty, was now turning against him, against us. He, a man who had once been part of their machine, now sat teaching me the tactics and intentions of our enemy, the Serbian forces determined to deny Croatia its independence, hungry for our rich resources. His quiet resolve for a free Croatia, a sentiment shared by every Croat I knew, burned brighter than ever.

A knot of shame and frustration tightened in my chest. "Why is no one going?" I muttered, the words barely a whisper but loaded with a teenager's indignant fury. My father, my uncles – none of them. They were all too old, too sick, their bodies betrayed by time and ailments that rendered them unfit for the battlefield. And me? I was too young, a cruel twist of fate that kept me tethered to schoolbooks while my country bled.

But youth, I soon learned, was a malleable thing, especially when forged in the fires of necessity. I had grown up with the cold metal of shotguns and various firearms familiar in my hands, thanks to my grandfather, the officer and avid hunter. Our woods were often filled with the echo of gunshots, the thrill of the chase. Of course, as a kid, carrying a shotgun was strictly forbidden, but my grandfather was a force of nature, a “boss” whose military past seemed to grant him an unwritten immunity, even from the local police. Rules bent around him.

That naive bravery, that yearning for purpose, reached its zenith one unforgettable night. Twenty kilometers away, dangerously close to the Serbian villages, my stepdad was on night patrol. I insisted on going with him. Under the cloak of darkness, the weight of a shotgun familiar in my grasp, I experienced something profound. It wasn't just the chill of the night air or the tension of potential danger; it was the raw, unyielding desire to be a Croatian soldier, to stand on that line, to defend our homes. It was a clarity that resonated deep within my soul.

The very next day, a Monday filled with a renewed, almost manic energy, I found myself walking past the Ministry of Defense on my way to school. My military backpack, which had served dutifully as my school bag throughout high school, felt less like a carry-all for textbooks and more like a uniform. I walked in, heart pounding, ready to apply for the war.

The men behind the counter, grizzled soldiers with weary eyes, exchanged amused glances. They couldn't hide their smiles. My face, still betraying the softness of fifteen despite my eighteen years – a family trait, this youthful appearance – only added to their humor. I was a baby-faced enthusiast, perhaps, but my brain, sharpened by martial arts and fitness, possessed an older, more experienced clarity. I was brave, quick, and possessed a grumpy nature that fueled a stubborn obsession with comic book superheroes. If they could fight for justice, why couldn't I?

“ Come back when you're eighteen. You need to finish high school, kid”, one of them drawled, still smiling. "Then ten months in the regular army for basic training. Then maybe you can think about the front".

My blood boiled. Their humor, though perhaps well-intentioned, stung like a thousand wasps. I knew how young I looked, how ridiculous my military backpack might seem, but their dismissiveness felt like a personal insult. “I have a few months left of school!" I shot back, my voice trembling with indignation. "Another ten months of training? Half the country could be killed by then! These are special times; they demand special measures! I'm the grandson of an excellent soldier, no stranger to weapons!"

Their laughter intensified, ringing in my ears like a final, humiliating dismissal. They escorted me to the door, patting my shoulder. “Hot-headed, immature,” they chuckled. “You don't know the consequences of war. But report back when you're done with school. We'll get you into the regular army. It's nice to see a young man who wants to contribute."

I walked towards school, seething with anger and humiliation. They hadn't wanted me. Not then. Yet, I’d heard the whispers from the front lines, from cities under siege: no one there asked about age. When a superior enemy betrays you, and your people have no choice, even minors pick up guns. I was determined. I would find a way to the front, a loophole in their laws, and I knew, deep down, I would succeed.

Realistically, perhaps it was an appetite for adventure, a fierce need to prove my worth. Unlike other children, I didn't have the security of living with both my parents; their divorce and struggles had left me feeling complex. I wanted to prove myself, to show I was more mature than my peers. I couldn’t claim to be a patriot, nor did I truly understand the word. My grandfather, a staunch communist, had raised me without religion, without any ingrained longing for an independent Croatia.

But then came the television horrors, the endless streams of refugees pouring into our city, their faces etched with loss and fear. Something shifted within me, a profound need to act, stronger than any youthful recklessness. I looked at my military backpack, still serving its dual purpose as a school bag. It was more than just canvas and zippers; it was a symbol, a beacon, a promise. It whispered of a future where I belonged on the front line of defense, even if the constitution, and those smiling men, disagreed. My “normal” parents, had they not been consumed by their own struggles, would have surely forbidden such a “stupid thing," pushing me towards college, away from the war zone, perhaps even out of Croatia entirely. But they weren't normal, and I wasn't a normal teenager.

No, I looked like a child, but my spirit was already strapping on its armor. That school bag would become my military backpack. It was a sign, my guide for the future. I just had to be patient, a little longer.