My War Memoirs: The Longest Night (Chapter 9.)

 

The city was a corpse, its heartbeat a faint, exhausted rhythm. It was a silence that carried the weight of a world on the verge of collapse, punctuated only by the distant, phantom rumble of a war that hadn't yet reached our doorstep. It was past midnight, that haunting hour when time becomes an enemy, a tormentor in its slow, deliberate march. Soon, it would be four in the morning. That was when Jura, my friend and a squad commander in the brigade I longed to join, was set to arrive.

He lived in Dudić, our little patch of the neighborhood, and his path to the city center—where the war was becoming a grim reality—led him right past my street. By five, the brigade would load its soldiers into military trucks bound for Eastern Slavonia, a mere fifty kilometers away but a world away in every other sense. Jura, a commander, had to be there earlier. Gajo, another friend, was to be our third, a silent conspirator in this pre-dawn ritual. We would meet him and walk to the center together. But for now, it was just me and the oppressive stillness of the night.

Sleep was a stranger. My mind, a frantic film reel, replayed every possible scenario. My stomach, a tight fist of dread, twisted with each new thought. The core of my being was a single, agonizing question: what if he rejects me? It was the most likely outcome. I, an eighteen-year-old with the face of a fifteen-year-old, a barely-there mustache, and a child’s optimism, was trying to convince a company commander to let me fight. How would I handle the rejection? The shame of it. And what if he said yes? How would I fit in the truck’s trailer, a new boy among seasoned men who had already tasted the bitter grit of combat? They had faced a superior enemy—the JNA army and its paramilitary Serbian forces—for over a year. I was a child playing soldier.

My armor was a costume. I wore green pants with cargo pockets, a faded echo of a military uniform. The belt, an artifact from my grandfather's closet, was a heavy, reassuring presence around my waist. A black turtleneck and a black vest, topped with a replica of an American pilot’s Avirex jacket, completed the look. My boots were new, a recent purchase from a military surplus store in Zagreb. I had meticulously crafted this facade, hoping it would fool the commander, make him see a seasoned warrior, not a naive boy.

But I knew my face would betray me. It was the face of a child. My grandmother had always said our family matured late, a genetic quirk that now felt like a curse. I thought of Oscar Wilde’s words, "A man's face is his autobiography. A woman's face is her work of fiction." My face was an open book, and it told the world I was too young for this. It gave me away every time I needed to be serious, to project danger. What could I do? It was who I was.

And then there was my bag. A military backpack, a powerful, imposing thing that I had carried since the start of high school. It was made of sturdy, waterproof material and looked new, despite its years of service. It was my secret weapon, a physical manifestation of the warrior I wanted to be. In my hands, this school bag was my "Supersack," like the one from the cartoon series Sport Billy. It was a small home, a portable world, a turtle’s shell. It was three times the size of a normal school bag, a testament to my chaotic, nomadic life since my grandmother’s death at fifteen. I never knew where I would be, where I would live. My bag was my security, holding everything I needed for a week. It had been a pillow on a park bench and a makeshift blanket. It held the spare clothes Jura said I'd need for the ten days on the battlefield. I had packed it according to my grandfather's instructions, a silent apprenticeship in the art of war. I hoped the commander would notice it, see its readiness, and be impressed.

My thoughts swirled, a maelstrom of fear and hope. My grandfather didn't know I was here, waiting. Our relationship was strained, a tight rope of love and tension. He was an old man forced to raise me because my parents, who were alive, did not care. The weight of that abandonment, of having to care for myself, was the heaviest thing I carried. I took a deep breath, trying to anchor myself, to find a prayer in the quiet chaos of my soul. I asked God for guidance, for a sign, even though I didn’t know how to speak to him.

Knock. Knock.

Two soft taps on my window. Jura. A smart move. He was a commander, after all. He knew not to wake my grandfather. The window slid open and his face, grim and serious, appeared in the dark.

“Srećko, it’s time. Are you ready?” He looked at me, his gaze full of the hard-earned wisdom of a veteran. "You can still change your mind. No one will hold it against you. It's easy to die there. I’ve already put some friends under the black soil."

My breath caught in my throat. I looked at him, at the truth in his eyes. My mind went blank, all the scenarios and fears dissolving into a single, resolute thought.

“Jura, I’m fine. Let’s go.”

I picked up my school bag. Now, it is my military backpack.