My War Memoirs: The Boy Who Wore a Man's War (Chapter 8.)

 

The air in the city was a deceptive thing. It was January 1992, and a cold, crisp Slavonian wind carried the scent of woodsmoke and damp earth, a familiar, comforting smell that felt out of place amidst the turmoil. A month had passed since my eighteenth birthday, but looking at my reflection in the darkened window of the Central Hotel, I saw nothing but a boy. A boy with too-wide eyes and a jawline that hadn't yet learned the definition of an angle. A boy who, despite his youthful appearance, was consumed by a single, desperate desire: to enlist in the Croatian army.

I adjusted my jacket, the cheap fabric doing little to hide the thinness of my frame. The reflection sneered back at me, a silent, mocking reminder of what I was up against. I knew my youthful looks were a punchline to most, but I pushed the feeling down, a futile attempt to ignore the ridicule. An almost manic energy coursed through me, a raw, unyielding adrenaline that had no other outlet. It felt like the only thing that mattered, the only thing that made sense. Every other path, every other aspiration, felt hollow and insignificant. I wanted to fight. I wanted to belong.

My friend, Jura, was already a veteran in every sense of the word. Just two years older than me, he had served in the JNA—the Yugoslav People's Army, before the world had turned upside down. When he returned home, the war in Croatia had just begun. The absurdity of it all was a sharp, bitter pill to swallow. One day, you’re serving in the army of your country; the next, you’re fighting against it. The JNA, once the symbol of Yugoslav unity, was now the Serbian army, a force of aggression and occupation. Like so many others, Jura had shed his old uniform and immediately donned the Croatian one, a quiet testament to his loyalty. He had risen quickly, a natural leader with the quiet authority of a man who had seen too much. Now he was a sergeant, a squad commander.

Beside him, in this new life forged by conflict, was Gajo. A year older than Jura and a distant neighbor, he too had made the same dramatic switch. He was now a platoon commander, an ensign. They were both part of the Croatian brigade I so desperately wanted to join.

The problem, as I’d been told repeatedly, was my lack of military experience. The newly independent Croatia had an army, but it was a structured one. They trained conscripts for ten months, giving them the choice to serve. They had a mandatory call-up for men twenty-five and older. I fit into neither category. I was just a kid, naive and full of misplaced bravado. I looked at the war not as a grave reality but as a thrilling, larger-than-life video game, a movie playing out on a distant screen. I heard the stories, of course, but they never quite felt real. Death and injury were abstract concepts, things that happened to other people, far away, shrouded in a fog I couldn't penetrate. All I knew was that I had to be a part of it.

Life, for the most part, went on in my town. The hotel, with its weekend entertainment, was a testament to that surreal normality. People danced and laughed, and soldiers, home from the front, sought a temporary escape. The city, though in the heart of war-torn Slavonia, had been spared direct attack, a small, fragile miracle. The fallen JNA barracks had given way to a strange, almost peaceful existence. Yet, a palpable tension lingered, a dark cloud of unspoken grief that hung over the city's outskirts. The influx of refugees had swelled the population, and the nightlife felt more alive, more desperate than ever.

That evening, I was sitting with friends in the hotel, nursing a drink, when I saw them. Jura and Gajo. Their camouflage uniforms were a stark contrast to the casual clothes around them. They carried the weight of the front lines with them—in the set of their shoulders, the weariness in their eyes. They had returned just the day before and were on a brief, precious rest period before heading back. My heart pounded with a mix of excitement and anxiety as they approached our table.

They greeted us with smiles, but I could see the subtle lines of exhaustion around their eyes. Gajo, with the authority of an officer, extended his hand. "Good to see you, kid," he said, and the words, though kind, were a stark reminder of our age difference. I didn't waste a second. I launched into my desperate plea, the words tumbling out in a rush. I wanted to join them. I was ready.

Jura listened, his expression unreadable. He exchanged a quick, knowing look with Gajo before speaking. "Look, we can't just take you to the front lines. It’s not possible," he said, the finality in his tone almost crushing my hope. "But there’s a way. Our military company comander is a good guy. We could talk to him."

He paused, a flicker of something—was it pity? concern?—in his eyes. "He’d probably take you on as a cook or a 'chato.'" He explained the term, the old JNA slang for a company clerk. "It’s safer. You’ll be on the second line of defense."

A wave of relief washed over me so profound it almost made me dizzy. I didn't care what the job was. It was an opening, a foothold. "I'll do it. Anything," I insisted, my voice thick with emotion.

I hugged both of them, a raw, spontaneous act of gratitude. My friends, my neighbors, were about to become my commanders. This was it. This was my chance.

Jura put a hand on my shoulder, his grip surprisingly firm. He leaned in, his voice a low, serious rumble. "The day after tomorrow. Early. Four in the morning. I'll knock on your door. Pack your clothes. Wear something that at least looks a little like a uniform. The commander needs to see you as a man, not a child."

He didn't need to say another word. I understood. It was a challenge, a test, a first step into a world I thought I wanted so badly. I stood there, watching them walk away, their uniforms a symbol of a life I was about to enter, oblivious to the true weight and danger they carried. The fog was starting to lift, just a little, but I was still blind to what lay beyond it. All I knew was that in two days, I was going to war.