My War Memoirs: The Unmarked Path (Chapter 10.)

 

Although it was a winter night in early 1992, an uncharacteristic warmth hung in the air, clinging to the skin like a forgotten memory of summer. It was one of those rare, almost miraculous winter days that defied the season, a gentle and deceptive pause between storms. The air was still and crisp, and if not for the gnawing anxiety that settled deep in the pit of my stomach, one could have mistaken the scene for a romantic evening. The sky, a vast, velvety expanse, was swept clean of clouds, exposing a breathtaking mosaic of a billion stars—each one a silent, indifferent witness to the absurdity of our lives below.

The air felt thick with the unspoken weight of the world. "The true soldier fights not because he hates what is in front of him," the words of G.K. Chesterton whispered through my mind, "but because he loves what is behind him." I tried to find solace in the sentiment, to root my worry in some noble purpose, but the truth was simpler and far more terrifying: my only purpose was to take my next step without tripping over my own fear.

My two shadows, Jura and Gajo, moved ahead of me, their silhouettes cutting through the impenetrable darkness that blanketed the streets. The night lighting had been a casualty of the war long ago, a small sacrifice in a nation giving up everything to survive. We navigated the familiar, now-spectral streets of our small town, a place of comforting childhood memories now haunted by an unseen enemy. My face was a mask of grim determination, a flimsy facade for the storm of uncertainty raging inside. Each step brought me closer to the company commander, to the moment where the abstract idea of a soldier would either be rejected or branded upon me forever.

Jura, sensing my emotional freefall, nudged me with a playful elbow, his voice a low, teasing balm against the tension. "Lighten up, Karić. You look like you're heading to a lecture on ancient philosophy." He was trying to draw me back from the precipice, to remind me that before the war, before the uniforms, we were just friends from the same street. Gajo, always the theatrical one, stumbled comically in front of me, weaving a tale of a fake trip and a charming girl. His stories were a lifeline, a desperately needed reminder of a world where life was simple, and the biggest danger was a bruised ego.

They were a sight to behold, Jura and Gajo, two soldiers straight out of a movie. Their American military uniforms were flawlessly tailored, the crisp lines and perfect fit a stark contrast to the shoddy, ill-fitting Croatian uniforms that many of our countrymen were forced to wear. They had friends in the diaspora, a network of support that delivered these sartorial symbols of freedom and resistance through Germany. I, on the other hand, was an imposter. My clothes were a patchwork of whatever I could find, an amateur's attempt to fit in. I was a child in men's clothing, and next to them, the feeling of inadequacy was a cold, sharp knife.

They were not ordinary soldiers. Jura was a sergeant, a squad commander. Gajo was an ensign, a platoon commander. They were leaders. And in the casual cruelty of friends, they found a way to mock me, to gently tear me down before building me back up. They joked that I would become the "assistant assistant to the commander's assistant" with the rank of "nobody." I had to laugh; the absurdity was a release. Their humor, a raw, jagged thing, was just what I needed to break the suffocating silence of my own thoughts.

The deep, rumbling sound hit us long before we saw anything. As we rounded the final corner, the humming of a dozen military truck engines filled the night, a low, constant growl. The vehicles were a dark, looming presence, their lights off, a fleet of mechanical beasts waiting for a signal. The scene was alive with a barely contained energy. The low murmur of hundreds of men—Croatian defenders—filled the air. Here, in the heart of our small town, in the deep night, the absence of light was a sign of life, not death. Enemy planes that prowled the night sky could easily spot a congregation of lights. But the sounds—the low thrum of engines, the hushed voices—were a testament to a secret life, a hidden strength.

Jura and Gajo stopped their joking the moment we arrived. The change was so instantaneous, so complete, it was chilling. The friends from the street were gone, replaced by leaders, their faces hardened, their bodies straight. They became men of action, men of purpose. The lighthearted banter was extinguished, replaced by a command presence. I felt a brief, disorienting moment of fear—not of them, but of the people they had become. They barked orders, their voices cutting through the engine noise. The soldiers were a river, and my friends were the rocks that directed its flow. They were forming squads, platoons, and companies, each soldier a single part of a greater whole, preparing to go to the defense line. I just stood silently on the sidelines, sinking deeper and deeper into the asphalt, an outcast, a ghost. I was not part of their story. A renegade with a school bag, trying to pass it off as an army backpack.

"Don't move from here. Stand there!" Jura's voice, now a menacing command, was foreign to me. He pointed a firm finger, a gesture of authority I had never seen from him before. I obeyed, and the minutes stretched into hours.

Suddenly, an unknown figure, a giant shadow in the gloom, materialized in front of me. "What are you doing here all alone? Stand in your squad!" he bellowed. "I, I don't have a squad," I stammered, the words feeling pitiful and small.

He stepped closer, his face inches from mine, and I felt the intimidating heat of his breath. "Jura, is that your little green guy you were telling me about?" he roared, his voice a booming echo in the dark. Jura sprinted over. "Yes, sir, that's the little guy!" The company commander's gaze, sharp and assessing, was fixed on me. "And why did you bring me this child? What am I going to do with him?"

"I know how to use weapons and I want to go with you. I'm not going home," I said, my voice clear and steady despite the trembling in my knees. "I didn't ask you anything, kid," he shot back. "When I ask, you answer. When I don't, you keep quiet. Is that clear?" "It's clear," I replied. "It's clear, Commander," he corrected. "It's clear, Commander!" I repeated, my voice a fraction of his but full of a new resolve. The tension broke. A ripple of laughter, then a wave of it, passed through the group. Gajo had arrived and was laughing, too, a warm, familiar sound. The company commander's face softened, a genuine smile replacing the scowl. "Come on, kid, we're just kidding you. We're all like brothers here. I know your grandfather, your parents," he said, his voice now a low rumble of comfort.

He turned to Jura and Gajo. "Take care of Karić. Let him get into the third truck at the end. Jura, he's in your squad. Gajo, in your platoon. We'll figure out what to do with Karić on the front line," he said, his words a final, firm blessing as he moved towards the trucks. Jura patted me on the shoulder, the gesture a silent apology. "We already agreed on everything the day before. We knew you were coming with us, but we didn't want to say anything. The company commander knows you and said there was no problem." He spoke quickly, the truck engine's rhythmic hum a backdrop to his words. "We just have to figure out logistically how to justify you not being in the regular army first, but there's a way to leave that blank in the papers for a few months. After that, if you survive, you'll already be a warrior, and then no one will ask you anything. We can just write that you're also serving in the regular army through our brigade, because we're chronically short of men. That will pass. We still have to figure out what to do with you on the front line of defense. Where to put you somewhere behind so you don't get hurt on the first day," he finished, a mischievous grin on his face.

"Come on, get in here," Gajo shouted from a truck, his voice now full of the familiar warmth of our old friendship. And with that, I stepped from the unlit streets of my childhood into the humming, rattling belly of war.