My War Memoirs. Rosary (Chapter 11.)

The air, thick with the scent of diesel and damp earth, was a suffocating blanket in the back of the truck. We were packed in tight, a sardine can of humanity rattling toward the capital of Slavonia—Osijek. I was told we’d be on the second line of defense in Čepin for three days. A buffer zone, a holding pattern. A chance to prepare my mind for the unspeakable reality of the front line, where the symphony of war played in a continuous, deafening crescendo.

I watched as soldiers returning from the front, ghosts of their former selves, shuffled past our convoy. Their eyes were hollow, their uniforms stained with the grotesque art of battle. I could feel their exhaustion, their silent screams, and their sheer will to simply stay upright. I was, in a twisted way, grateful for the reprieve. The second line was still a dance with death, a gamble with mortar fire and the unseen hand of fate. But it was a different kind of terror, a slow burn instead of a searing inferno.

I sat hunched, a knot of anxiety, my head bowed as if in prayer. The truck was a cacophony of laughter and chatter. They were old hands, these men, most in their thirties and forties, a mix of volunteers and reservists torn from their everyday lives. A world away from the professional army, the young, hardened soldiers forged in the crucible of war. But here, in this moment, we were all just men, hurtling toward the same uncertain fate.

I held myself aloof, a silent observer in a sea of shared camaraderie. The forced cheerfulness was a stark contrast to the churning storm within me. I expected a solemn silence, a reflection of the grave purpose we shared. Instead, there were jokes, stories of home, and thunderous laughter that echoed in the confined space. They were a flock of birds, chirping and preening, while I was a lone crow, waiting for the first sign of danger. I felt their gazes on me, a young, unfamiliar face in their midst. I waited for the inevitable taunt, the punchline at my expense, the moment when my inexperience would be exposed. But it never came. They were gentle with me, as one would be with a lost child.

A warmth bloomed in my chest, a fragile ember of gratitude. I was battling a war of my own, a silent struggle against the rising tide of my own thoughts, when I noticed him. A man, maybe forty, with a face weathered by time and a quiet strength that emanated from him like a palpable force. His eyes, dark and knowing, were fixed on me.

"Boy, everything will be fine, just stick with us," he said, his voice a low rumble. He smiled, and in that simple gesture, I felt a flicker of hope. A flicker quickly extinguished by a voice next to me.

"That jacket is nice on you. You look like Tom Cruise in the Top Gun movie," the voice drawled.

"Avirex, a replica of a pilot's jacket. It was a birthday present from a friend," I replied, my voice a whisper.

"Just be careful, Tom Cruise. Don't look too pretty, or the Chetniks will catch you. You'll be their main girl!" he cackled, a cruel joke that hung in the air like a venomous cloud.

"Leave the kid alone. Why are you scaring him?" the older man's voice cut through the laughter. The jokester, chastised, snorted and turned away.

The older man, the one with the quiet strength, stood and reached for a necklace around his neck. It was a rosary. He held it out to me.

"Do you know what this is?" he asked.

"Yes. A rosary. A symbol of our struggle," I answered, the words feeling foreign and clumsy on my tongue.

"No, not really," he said, and his voice was full of a passionate, unyielding faith. "This is your weapon. The only one that truly matters. Now is the time to pray. Only God can save you. The rosary will be your best, perhaps your only, weapon in this war."

He spoke of our shared identity, of being Croats, Catholic Christians, a God-fearing people. He spoke of prayer, of our purpose as defenders, as God's army. He spoke of a superior enemy, and of our own bravery, born not of physical strength, but of the faith embodied in the small, wooden beads of the rosary. I took the rosary, the crucifix cutting into the soft flesh of my palm. I nodded, a silent acknowledgment of the weight of his words, of the weight of this new burden he had placed upon me.

"But you have to learn to pray," he continued, a gentle admonishment in his voice. "This isn't jewelry. It's a real weapon against evil. You will pray, won't you? For your own good?"

He patted my shoulder, a simple, paternal gesture that sent a shockwave of warmth through me, down my spine. It was the first moment of genuine human connection I had felt since leaving home. It was the feeling of being cared for, of being part of something larger than myself.

The truck shuddered to a halt, the sudden silence a stark contrast to the roaring of the engine moments before. We had arrived. I stumbled out, disoriented, a stranger in a strange land. My eyes scanned the unfamiliar surroundings. A school. Our new temporary home. I stood frozen, unsure of where to go, what to do. Then a hand grabbed my jacket collar.

"Keka, you're here." It was Jura, a friend from before, a relic of a past when war was just a word in a history book. In that single moment, the facade of a hardened soldier I had so desperately tried to maintain crumbled. I was just a boy, a boy given a nickname by a friend, standing on the precipice of a new, terrifying reality.