My War Memoirs: The Rifle, the Rubbers, and the Last Hole in the Belt (Chapter 12.)

 

The phrase struck me like a chisel, sharp and undeniable, embedding itself in the soft tissue of my mind like a mantra: "Našice is defended in Ivanovac!" It resonated with a hollow, patriotic clang as I crossed the threshold of the classroom—now the makeshift barracks of the 132nd Brigade in Čepin. The school, a former haven for children, now contained the brute reality of war, its atmosphere heavy with the faint scent of sweat, stale chalk, and the metallic tang of fear.

Ivanovac. A name that now tasted like ash and iron on the tongue, fifty kilometers east, on the very scar where the aggressor first tore into the proud, sovereign flesh of Croatia. It was the crucible, the fierce, burning line where the enemy’s brute advance—spewed out from across the border—had been arrested by the sheer, unyielding will of our countrymen. Here, in Našice, we were merely a few dozen kilometers from the second line in Čepin, near Osijek, a brief, strained respite before we rotated back to the inferno.

They said the sky and earth themselves were on fire in Ivanovac. Here, a deceptive quiet had fallen, though the night was never truly silent. The distant, rhythmic cough of artillery from the front was a gruesome lullaby. Flares of tracer fire—like vengeful, streaking comets—painted brief, hellish calligraphy on the horizon, punctuated by the heavy, earth-shaking thump of a detonation. Yet, around me, in this impromptu barracks, there was no flinching. The twenty men of our platoon, packed shoulder-to-shoulder, had developed an awful, essential immunity to the sounds of their own impending destruction. It was the eerie smoothness of men resigned, functioning with the robotic efficiency of a school excursion—a grim, absurd comparison that only further emphasized the profound abnormality of our lives.

My gaze fell upon Jura and Gajo. They lay close, a human palisade of mattresses against the chipped, cream-painted classroom wall. Their bodies—hardened, yet slumped with the invisible weight of recent battles—spoke of an exhaustion that went beyond the physical, a deep-soul weariness only true defenders knew. They moved just enough to grant me a sliver of space, welcoming me into the sardine-can camaraderie with a quiet kindness that was the true currency of the front.

The Comfort of Plenty

Dawn, a reluctant, misty gray, crept through the high school windows, finding us already heading for the canteen. The breakfast that awaited was a shock to the system, a bizarre feast of abundance that seemed entirely incongruous with the scarcity of war. Eggs, bacon, a generous spread of cheese and meats, fruit, coffee—it was the kind of hearty fare you’d expect at a family celebration, not a temporary shelter on the edge of the abyss.

An old man, a veteran cook with eyes that held the shadow of past conflicts, explained the logic with paternal wisdom: “Large meals. It is important. We need the strength for war; there is no saving on that.” His words resonated with a simple, profound truth: this wasn't mere sustenance; it was an act of psychological warfare against despair. It was the state, through this simple gesture of generosity, saying: You are valued. You are needed. We will not let you starve. After a dinner missed through pure, knotted nerves, I fell upon the food, the anxiety-driven hollowness in my gut demanding to be filled.

It was Jura, his voice gentle but firm, who brought the necessary, immediate transition. "Keka, you have to go to our warehouse now—you will be given a uniform. You can’t parade around in this.”

The words uniform and rifle ignited a flash of Hollywood heroism in my mind: the crisp, American-style fatigues, the sleek, wicked profile of a modern automatic rifle. I saw myself, suddenly transformed, worthy of the bravery I hoped to possess, a figure of strength, not a nervous civilian. I choked down the last of my tea and bolted toward the warehouse, a classroom in the school's basement, the logical, hardened refuge for our precious matériel.

A Uniform of Shame

The man they called Čato, the quartermaster, met me with an unsettlingly knowing smile. Karić. Even my surname sounded provisional here.

"Look, I have a problem with your uniform," he said, his eyebrows rising in an expression that was half-apology, half-mockery. "All our sizes are L-Large, XL, or XXL, and you’re not even M-Middle, but S-Small. That’s not here."

The air went instantly cold. My heroic fantasy evaporated, replaced by a sudden, sinking shame. The simple logistics of my smaller frame had become a humiliating obstacle.

"Eh, yeah, we're not really good with weapons or boots either," he continued, the casual cruelty of reality settling in. "You've come at the wrong time... I have to order new goods today, and they’ll arrive next week. Until then, I have what I have."

He placed the rifle on the counter first. The shock was visceral. It was a Zastava M59/66, a Papovka—a heavy, wood-stocked, semi-automatic relic from the 1950s, a design inextricably linked to the old Yugoslav People's Army (JNA). I remembered the rifle from shooting with my grandfather, the heavy, clunky action, the very sight of it bringing to mind the cynical, poignant joke often repeated by my comrades: "Papovka is good, only if you're a communist." It was the antithesis of the sleek, modern weapon I had envisioned, a weapon of outdated loyalties and compromised power.

Next, the boots. Not leather, not combat-ready, but a pair of high, heavy, rubber rain boots—the kind we called buce, used for working in muddy fields or during the annual, bloody ritual of pig slaughter.

And then, the uniform itself: a mountain of rough, olive-drab fabric, easily twice my size.

I retreated to the school toilet, the only place I could be momentarily alone with my profound sense of betrayal. The sight in the cracked, utilitarian mirror was devastating. My shirt, my sweater, my jacket—everything fell ten centimeters past my fingertips. The pants bunched at my ankles, the belt cinched down to the very last, agonizing hole, still failing to hold them securely. I looked not like a soldier, but a scarecrow, a child playing dress-up in his father's clothes.

Tears, hot and angry, welled up. "How can I look like this in front of people?" The question was a silent, desperate scream. That heavy, useless rifle, those ridiculous rubber boots, this sack of a uniform—it all conspired against me. Perhaps this is a sign that I don't belong here? The insidious thought, born of shame and self-doubt, was the worst injury of all.

The Embrace of Brotherhood

It was at that moment Jura and Gajo entered, having tracked me down. The moment they saw me, the wave of laughter that erupted was not just loud; it was explosive, echoing down the empty school corridor.

"Good soldier Švejk!" Gajo roared, referencing the classic character from the bestseller, the hapless, bumbling conscript. He continued, wiping tears of mirth: "You look like a drunkard going to the pen for a pig slaughter! Take that off, Keka! You stay in your clothes." He gestured toward the rifle. "We all carried that for a week. That barrel is so bent you can't hit a barn door!"

His laughter, though rooted in genuine amusement, felt like a physical assault. My own anger surged, mixing with the sharp sting of humiliation. I clenched my fists, a desperate, childish desire to lash out, to defend my ridiculous appearance, warring with the sheer misery of the situation.

Then Jura was beside me. He didn't laugh. He simply pulled me into a hard, close hug, his voice a low, rough whisper against my ear.

“Keka, we’ve all been through that. That’s how it is for the first week. Grit your teeth and hold on. The rifle stays—it'll be replaced soon. But return the rest. You'll stay in your own clothes for another week.”

The embrace was a lifeline. His words weren't a dismissal; they were an initiation. His empathy—grounded in the shared, absurd reality of the war's haphazard logistics—broke through the wall of my shame. I was being welcomed, not as a movie hero, but as a flawed, very human part of this desperate defense. Patriotism, I realized, wasn't just in the flag and the rhetoric; it was in this quiet, fierce fraternity, the bond between men who had nothing but each other, and a fierce, shared love for the land they protected.

I changed back into my own, civilian clothes. As I left the toilet, rifle still in hand, I felt the immediate, profound relief of being authentic, of being me, among my friends. The shame was gone, replaced by a quiet, determined resolve. The uniform didn't make the soldier. I was here. That was all that mattered.