My War Memoirs: The Currency of Survival (Chapter 14.)

 

Evening fell over the schoolyard like a sheet of damp, gray canvas, muffling the usual sounds of the barracks and leaving only the harsh, metallic rustle of movement. It wasn't the silence of peace, but the tight, held-breath hush of an imminent operation. The air, heavy with the scent of wet earth and institutional detergent, seemed to hum with suppressed adrenaline. We were preparing for a move to the second line not far from Čepin, and the preparation itself was a study in grim, necessary physics—the reduction of a human life to its most essential components.

The company was drawn up in an uneven line on the cracked asphalt, an around hundred men suddenly quiet, their faces drawn taut in the twilight. Each man presented his pack for inspection, a ritual that had nothing to do with trust and everything to do with survival. My mind was a hyper-focused calculator, tallying the weight of existence: at least 250 rounds, the absolute currency of life and death; spare socks, underwear, and a T-shirt, because dampness was a slow, insidious killer. And then, the rations—the legendary JSO package. I itemized the contents in my head as I tucked them away: the canned fish, the cold cuts, the sugary Jaffa biscuits that tasted like childhood, the life-saving pâté, and the goulash. Two full liters of water and, almost incongruously, one orange and one apple. Twenty-four hours, a lifespan we were meant to carry on our backs, the measure of how long we could survive cut off from the rest of the world.

I placed it all in the receptacle of my civilian past: a slightly faded, green school backpack I’d used just months ago for textbooks and notebooks. It looked better than the issued military pack, but it also felt shamefully wrong, like bringing a picnic basket to a siege. The regulation camouflage travel bag, a bulky thing more suited to moving house than moving through a trench, lay beside it—the one I knew, instinctively, would be jettisoned in the first genuine moment of chaos.

This forced minimalism was a psychological revelation. I thought of the frantic, self-inflicted stress of packing for a seaside trip with friends, the dozens of "just in case" items that ended up gathering dust, the entire house seemingly moved into the car. Here, the necessity was absolute, the judgment swift. No one forbade us from bringing two bags, but the tacit understanding was lethal: an emergency meant abandoning 90% of your possessions. Only ammunition, food, and water mattered. The rest was a liability. I remembered the stories of men entangled in heavy packs, slowed down, exposed, and killed. You had to measure the burden against your concentration and strength. Too heavy, and the weight didn't just slow your feet; it dulled your mind.

All of this was new, overwhelming, but my grandfather's old lessons—the officer's ruthless pragmatism—had given me a head start. He taught me the difference between what was essential for survival and what was merely a comforting redundancy. I had never tested my strength under full combat load, and I prayed the second line wouldn't force that ultimate trial. The danger there was aerial, the arbitrary, senseless rain of shells that could erupt from the sky and turn a trench into a mass grave without warning.

We stood in line, a wall of serious, shadowed faces. My inner turmoil was less about enemy fire and more about procedure. I was intensely sensitive to ridicule, and my lack of military drill knowledge felt like a visible flaw. I was watching everyone else, trying to mirror the set of their shoulders, the rigidity of their stance. How did you salute? How did you correctly answer a commander?

The company commander reached me. I was breathing so shallowly, my chest barely moved. The older soldiers before me snapped off crisp reports about their gear, but when the commander looked at me, he simply nodded.

"Karić is a new comrade. He's the youngest. Watch him, he might mess up. Keep an eye on him. And Karić, I think you did everything as I said. Jura, right?"

"Yes, sir commander. I checked Karić. Everything is under control," Jura's voice was sharp, professional, and entirely official.

I let out the breath I hadn't realized I was holding. Jura’s calm, protective words had just saved me from immediate humiliation. The ordeal of the inspection was over, and I hadn't been exposed as a (maybe) incompetent fraud.

The trucks, dark silhouettes, began to roll in without their lights.

"Let's get into the trucks by the dozen!" the commander bellowed, then paused. "But before that, brothers in arms… Prayer. Who will?"

One of the comrades stepped forward, and the air shifted, filling with an unexpected, raw solemnity. "Lord Jesus Christ. Give us the strength to endure night and day. Into your hands we surrender. We are yours and we want to remain yours. We do not hate, we are only defending our home. Protect us and watch over us because we are your children and have mercy on our brothers on the front line…"

The entire company joined in the "Our Father," a deep, unified chant that vibrated in my chest. At that moment, the fear of the second line, the fear of inadequacy, vanished beneath a powerful, electric surge of belonging. We were one entity, bound by faith and cause.

Then came the end: a thunderous, collective "Amen," and the snap of dozens of hands crossing themselves. I clumsily mouthed the prayer, moving my lips in a dark, inarticulate pantomime, copying the rhythm but not the words. In the fading light, the shame hit me harder than any fear of death. Being a Croatian defender, I suddenly realized, meant being a Christian. I was a pagan Samaritan among the Israelites, a spiritual outsider in the very act of unity. I had prepared for war, but I hadn't prepared for the soul of the war. That, I knew, was a lesson I had yet to learn.