My War Memoirs: The Short Fuse and Lesson in the Dust (Chapter 13.)

 

The day was a glass marble, perfectly round and shining, balanced precariously on the edge of the known world. It was mine. A full, uninterrupted day stolen from the ravenous maw of war, a brief, fragile reprieve before the expected drop into the earth's damp embrace behind Čepin. The routine of the changeover was ritualistic, a desperate counterpoint to the endless, hammering chaos. It always happened in the hour before the birds awoke, or in the weary lull of the evening when the great iron beasts of mortar and tank went silent, allowing the living to move without immediate consequence.

The Second Line of Defense was not just a location on a map; it was a psychological state. Deeply dug trenches, stretching for miles, were not mere cuts in the mud; they were fresh scars, a palpable border between real war and the constant, agonizing fear of it. Every fifty meters, the earth would swallow a bunker—a rough, claustrophobic tomb made of pine logs and heavy sandbags, forever smelling of stale sweat, damp canvas, and the metallic taste of fear. It was an illusion of permanence against the transient reality of a tank shell, a place where ammunition, food, and life itself were hoarded, awaiting an attack that could stretch on for days.

We were the cogs in a complex, weary machine: the 132nd Brigade. Four companies from one battalion rotated for 24 hours on that second line. Twenty-four hours of readiness, a vacuum of sleepless vigilance that somehow felt like only a handful of minutes once it was over. Then came the first line at Ivanovac, replacing another four companies in their own rotational purgatory. The “field”—up to ten days of this grinding, unpredictable existence—followed by two days of fleeting, truck-driven peace back home.

This was the rhythm, a drumbeat that was never, ever consistent because the maestro was war, not some fair-weather football match. People were dying, getting wounded, succumbing to the crushing stress that settled on the spine of every defender. I knew nothing of its true, cumulative cost yet. To me, the logistics were dry, unimportant details. The only truth was that I was here, exactly where I wanted to be.

Behind the school, the dusty yard was our small, necessary stage. Paper targets, fluttering like startled white birds, and empty cans, their tin bodies dimpled and waiting, were the audience for our skill. Jura and Gajo, lean and efficient, worked their AK-47s—Kalashnikov's with folding stocks—with the easy familiarity of masters. The rifles spat controlled bursts; they were perfection.

Then came my turn. My old rifle, heavy and alien, settled into my shoulder. The first shot was a lie. The bullet kissed the dirt a full meter to the left. A flush of hot, unreasonable shame rose from my neck to my temples. I knew the rifle, but this one was a fickle, twisted thing that betrayed me. I forced the instinct down, overriding it with a calculated, ridiculous over-correction—aiming far to the right. Clang. Bullseye. The hollow sound of their laughter, a dry, amused sound, felt like grit in my teeth, a disrespectful sound against my newfound, fragile pride.

I struggled for ten minutes, my fury building, tightening a cold, sharp knot in my stomach. I fired the last round in the frame, the brass casing scattering around me, and then the fuse blew. I didn't get up; I launched myself, a spring of pure, unthinking rage unwinding from the lying position. I snatched the warm, potent authority of Jura’s AK-47 from his grasp. My heart hammered a brief victory drum. I sighted, fired, and nailed eight out of ten targets. "Ah, ha, now you see it’s the rifle, not me!" I roared, the satisfaction a bitter, momentary sugar rush.

The next second was not a second at all, but a thick, compressed moment of brutal, professional instruction. Jura was behind me, quick and silent as a striking snake. His hand locked around my neck, and the world became a blur of brown earth and blinding sky. He shook me—not violently, but with the controlled, absolute power of a commander teaching a soldier not to commit suicide. I hit the ground with all my weight, the air knocked out, the borrowed rifle skidding away, inert and empty.

My face, tasting dust and humiliation, was pressed hard against the cold soil. His voice, close to my ear, was a low, dangerous rumble: "Never, never have you ever taken a comrade’s weapon without asking. Do you understand?" His anger was quiet, terrifyingly absolute, etched into the rigid muscles of his arm holding me down.

Gajo’s face, looming over us, held no humor—only a deep, grave disappointment that stung more than the impact. "A rifle is part of a soldier," Gajo continued, his voice serious, judgmental. "It’s like you’ve taken someone’s hand if you take a rifle. At the same time, it’s disrespectful to your comrade, and in this case, the commander."

Luckily, we were all three good friends, and this kind of harsh instruction was nothing new. Jura and I often used to shove each other around during street football or wrestling; here and there, the neighborhood boys would fight fiercely but always make up within five minutes, carrying on that old, rough “tradition”.

But I realized instantly that this moment was different. The familiar pushing and shoving of the old street life was, in a single second, brutally overtaken. The rules here were rewritten in blood and mud. This was not a friendly tussle; this was discipline. My short fuse, the wild, untamed brawler I had always been, had no place in this terrible, serious place. That realization was a cold, hard stone in my gut.

The weight lifted. Jura, his face softening, his eyes holding the weary, complex affection of an older brother, offered his hand. I took it, pulling myself up, managing only a sour, internal laugh. I had been wrong. They had been right. It was a humiliating, essential truth. We walked back toward the school’s shadow, and Jura’s final words were a balm, a promise of acceptance: "Son, put up with this rifle for a week. Then the real weapon will arrive for you." It was an acknowledgement that the weapon was secondary; what mattered was the man holding it, and they were still working on the man.