“So, how was your first night of the war, ‘Lizard’?”
The word—Lizard—snapped in the humid air of the school mess hall, thick with the aroma of wartime goulash and stale sweat. It was an insult reserved for the greenest of soldiers, the ones most likely to panic, whose shelf-life was measured in hours, not months.
I kept my gaze fixed on the generous portion of beef stew on my plate, a hearty, almost ridiculous comfort after twenty-four hours spent in a deep, mud-lined trench. I didn't flinch, but the muscles in my neck tightened, a biological defense against the venom dripping from the man across the table.
He was a bulky figure, prematurely bald, his face permanently etched with irritation. His eyes were tiny, bloodshot beads, swimming in the puffy, jaundiced landscape of someone who spent more time with a flask than a rifle. I instantly recognized his type—a loud braggart whose bravery was directly proportional to the amount of šljivovica he’d downed that morning.
“A shrug won’t save you, rookie,” he went on, leaning forward, the smell of stale drink replacing the goulash. “Guys like you come and go. All you do is bring trouble. Honestly, I’d trade my life insurance for a guarantee not to be on your squad. I wouldn’t feel safe. Hope you understand?”
I performed another, more elaborate shrug, imagining the satisfying thud of my knife, sharp and silver, plunging precisely where his carotid artery pulsed. It was a fantasy I clung to fiercely—an instant, violent anchor that kept me from rising to the provocation.
“I'm just curious what you'll be like when we actually hit the front line,” he sneered, his voice amplifying, drawing attention from neighboring tables. “You know, they don't issue diapers for guys like you when you piss yourselves and call for mama.”
The humiliation was a physical burn, hot and acidic. I felt my hand tremble, threatening to let the metal spoon clatter against the ceramic plate. But just as the dam was about to break, a familiar, deep voice cut through the noise.
“That’s enough, Miro.”
My salvation arrived in the form of Jura, who slid onto the bench beside me, his presence immediately calming the emotional chaos like a heavy blanket. Jura was quick-witted and pure loyalty, a man built like a solid oak door—unwavering, dependable, and always on guard. Especially for a friend.
“Keka was excellent last night,” Jura stated, using my nickname, which somehow sounded less pathetic than 'Lizard.' He speared a piece of meat from his bowl. “Remember how you complained your first night, Miro? That was almost half a year ago, wasn't it?” He paused. “Do you want to open that up now, when you didn't know which end was up, completely lost?”
Miro’s already mottled face flushed a deeper, angrier shade of crimson. His jaw worked furiously on a piece of half-chewed bread. He slammed his hand on the table, violently scraping his chair back.
“My life is on the line, and I won’t play nanny to kids they dragged in here!” Miro spat, relocating to a farther, safer table. “It’s exactly snot-noses like this one that can cost the rest of us our lives!”
Jura didn't even turn his head. He just sighed, the sound of deep, world-weary exhaustion.
“And it’s exactly guys like you, friend, who cost the rest of us because they like to sneak a drink when they shouldn’t, and get sick when they need to go into battle!” Jura retorted, his tone now sharp and dangerously angry.
He waited until Miro was safely out of earshot, chewing his food with the manic energy of a cornered badger, before turning to me.
“Don’t worry, Keka,” he whispered, his voice low enough to be confidential. “He was and remains an idiot. There’s one more just like him in the company. Avoid them both like the plague.”
He explained the grimy reality in one quick, efficient breath: both men weren't volunteers, but mobilized personnel, forced by their companies to report for six months of service. They never wanted to be there, but they had to. We were all just waiting for those six months to pass because they were useless.
“They are the loudest, Keka, always raising a fuss. But the moment something concrete needs to be done, they're crippled by mysterious aches and constant drunkenness. They always have a hidden bottle. We have to tolerate them until their time is up. Unfortunately, it's an order, because we lack soldiers, and then we have to take in the fools, too.”
I was genuinely surprised. “I didn’t know people like that existed here,” I admitted, picking at my food again. I was from Slavonia; I knew the local penchant for a bottle of brandy. But clinging to vice when your existence was measured by the accuracy of incoming artillery? It seemed like a parody of self-destruction.
“For every hundred soldiers, Keka, you’ll always have two or three opportunists who will exploit the situation, scheme, and manipulate,” Jura concluded, finally returning to his meal. “They just wait for things to heat up, because the demon of alcohol drives them. They look for a victim they can feel superior to, but they’re actually cowards.”
We finished dinner in a tired, deep silence. The exhaustion of an adrenaline-soaked, sleepless day had finally settled into my bones like lead. I craved a bed with a hunger that overshadowed even the generous goulash.
The improvised military dormitory, a former school classroom, felt like a luxury spa compared to the cold, claustrophobic trench. A warm meal had settled my stomach; a hot shower, though brief and faintly smelling of disinfectant, had washed away the stale fear, the grime, and the persistent, strange smell of gunpowder that had burrowed deep into my hair and skin.
The mattress was thin, the air slightly stuffy, but the sleeping bag was clean and faintly fragrant. I slid into the simple comfort and, as they say, instantly fell into the deep, unburdened sleep of the righteous.
Morning arrived with a rough shove.
“Keka! Keka!”
It was seven o'clock. Jura was standing over me, already impeccable, his uniform neatly folded, his face radiating the terrifying energy of someone who’d had eight hours of quality sleep.
I blinked, confused, disoriented. What’s happening? Where am I going? Is it an attack?
“Formation in fifteen minutes, Keka.” Jura's voice was firm, allowing no arguments. “Weapon, gear, everything with you. Morning roll call and flag raising.”
Roll call? I thought, my brain still coated with the sticky residue of sleep. We don’t get a day off from formation!
I fumbled. I mechanically brushed my teeth, shoved my hopelessly tangled hair under my cap, and rushed out to the school yard, one of the last. I felt like an overgrown kid on his first day of kindergarten. I had no idea where to stand or what to do with my hands. I was still wearing the same uniform from the previous day, my boots caked in fossilized trench mud—the only soldier in the formation who looked like a walking archaeological dig.
“Attention! Dress right!” the company commander roared.
Everyone around me snapped their heels together in a single, sharp, unified crack. They extended their right hand to measure the proper interval. I stood, frozen, my arms hanging uselessly like a confused flamingo’s. My shame was immense, but also strangely comical. I was the one single, dirty, utterly disorganized cog in a perfect, rigid machine.
The company commander turned, saluting the Croatian flag as it began its slow, majestic ascent up the pole, accompanied by the national anthem thundering from the old school loudspeakers.
Suddenly, the minor embarrassment over my dirty boots vanished.
As the flag unfurled, an almost unbearable wave of pride shot through me. I was a part of this. An imperfect, dirty, late, and untrained part, but a part of the team nonetheless. A strange, powerful feeling of purpose, happiness, and deep connection restored strength to my tired body and mind. Croatia was symbolized through the flag at this moment, and I was on the right side of the line.
After the anthem and a formal report to the hitherto unknown battalion commander—detailing last night’s action and the general state of the company—we were given our morning tasks: clean rifles, polish boots, and prepare for tomorrow’s departure to the first line of defense in Ivanovac.
No one criticized my muddy state; they knew I didn't have a spare uniform. They even ignored my involuntary fidgeting during the formation. The others had spare boots and a clean reserve uniform ready for the roll call. I was the muddy outcast, but only temporarily.
Jura approached me as I sat on a school bench in the hall, dismantling my old rifle, waiting to replace it with a more modern one next week, like the others.
“Keka,” he said, lightly tapping the barrel of my rifle. “Today, I have to teach you how to properly salute, how to move in formation, and everything else you missed in the basic training that we all went through. The squad arrived, trained almost a year ago. You were brought here without any practice or knowledge. It’s going to be hard for me; I have to endure a rookie who can’t even stand still.” He winked. “Clean that rifle well, I’ll inspect it. We meet behind the school in half an hour. We’ll practice until you’re ready.”
“At your command, Mr. Commander!” I replied, using the official greeting for my friend.
Jura nodded, a gentle but satisfied smile on his face. “Good job, Keka. That’s how it’s done.” He left me alone with the bench, the silence, and the disassembled parts of my ancient, irritating rifle. I knew, even as I began scraping away the gunpowder residue, that the hardest part of the war wasn't the bullets, but the training—and the fools you ran into even here.
Comments
Post a Comment