My War Memoirs: Long Johns and Cortisol – How I Realized at 18 That War Isn't a Video Game (Chapter 30.)

 

My War Memoirs: Long Johns and Cortisol – How I Realized at 18 That War Isn't a Video Game

And here I was again. The basement of a “safe house” in the middle of Ivanovac. If by “safe” we mean a damp hole with a ceiling that peels off onto your head every time someone nearby sneezes or, God forbid, fires a mortar, then yeah, it was a freaking fortress. We were packed in there like sardines in a tin that had expired back when the country was still one piece, but with that bizarre, almost sickly feeling that we’d finally made it "home." Ironic, isn't it? Home becomes a place where the walls smell like stale mildew, other people's sweat, and gun oil, and the only real luxury is that the roof isn't currently leaking shrapnel. At least not at this exact second.

Last night we did that famous hand-over in the ditch. Our first forward line. That’s the place where the enemy feels so close you think you can hear them flipping the pages of a newspaper. While you’re freezing your ass off in the mud for 24 hours, wondering exactly which life choice led to your eighteen-year-old self sitting in frozen clay. When our comrades finally emerged from the dark to relieve us, I felt what junkies must feel when they get a fix—pure, unadulterated relief washing through every cell. But, in war, there’s no such thing as a free lunch, and no going to sleep without a little stress-induced cardio.

The Clearing: The Fear Olympics

We had to cross "the clearing." That miserable stretch of open field between the trench and the first houses in the village was my personal testing ground for reflexes. The gap between us and the guys "on the other side" was just the night—dark, thick, and opaque as a bad bowl of army beans. Sprinting across that clearing is a sport of its own. It’s like diving into a deep pool and swimming underwater for a full minute; your lungs are burning, your heart is hammering against your ribs like a drummer on heavy amphetamines, and your brain is screaming: "Shrink! Get lower than the grass!" Every rustle was a bullet; every shadow was a barrel. When you finally grab the brick of the first house, that’s the moment you break the surface. That first lungful of air tastes like victory over your own mortality. Then comes the second dive: sneaking down the street, hugging facades that lost their aesthetic value a long time ago thanks to shrapnel, all the way to our basement castle.

The Ritual of Becoming Human

Only after I clawed my way out of that heavy, damp uniform—which weighed as much as the entire village of Ivanovac—did I feel the weight lift. I stripped down to those magnificent military winter thermals—you know, the "long johns with the flap and long-sleeve top" model where nobody looks like a badass warrior, but more like a patient who just escaped a psych ward. But at that moment, those long johns were worth more than an Armani suit.

I pulled on fresh, thick wool socks—a tiny, warm slice of heaven on earth—and slid into my sleeping bag. Right then, as my body melted into the bag like a pat of butter on a forgotten hot skillet, I became aware of the cortisol for the first time. I didn’t know the technical term back then; I was too busy trying not to die. But that weird pressure in the back of your skull that keeps you awake like you’ve chugged five gallons of the worst Turkish coffee started to let go. I felt my shoulders drop about two inches.

"I’m gonna get seriously sick if this keeps up," I thought, staring at the dark basement ceiling while my breath still misted in the air. I was an 18-year-old kid with the attention span of a goldfish that accidentally wandered into a piranha tank. What if the war stayed at this intensity for years? I remembered my grandpa’s stories about trenches and those articles about "Vietnam Syndrome." War stays in a warrior's head when he goes home, someone said in a movie once, probably with a cigarette dangling from their lip. Back then, in my infinite arrogance, I thought I was immune. I figured my head was too hollow for anything to stick permanently—even a war.

Before I totally went under, I did my little masochistic hygiene ritual. Cold water in the palms, then splashed on the face. Shock. Then quick action: groin, armpits, and feet that smelled like a wet ditch. That extra hit of cold was like an interior jump-start, but after that, I dived into the bag and—nothing. I wasn’t shaking like last time. My body had clearly sent an official memo to my brain: "Listen, you moron, this is our life now. Adapt or die." I adapted.

Waking Up to Reality

I fell asleep around 2:00 AM, convinced I’d earned at least a week at a spa. It felt like I’d only blinked, like maybe three seconds had passed, when I felt a heavy hand on my shoulder. "Keka, let’s go, up! Briefing and work assignments for the next 24 hours!"

Jura. Of course, it was Jura. A man who was probably born in combat boots, with a freshly greased rifle and a to-do list in his hand instead of a rosary. I looked at him with blurry eyes, naively believing we were "off duty." That we’d spend the next 24 hours like tourists on an exotic vacation, just with less sun and way more mold. God, I was stupid.

I’d overlooked the tiny, negligible fact that the entirety of Ivanovac was basically the front line. There was no "back." There were forward trenches, points of contact where you stared at each other through scopes, but this village was the edge of the world. We got 24 hours to eat something that didn't come out of a tin and to warm up, but our alertness had to be at the level of a ninja on speed. This wasn't Čepin, where you could walk to a cafe and play the tough guy. Here, you were a target the moment you poked your head out a window.

Portrait of a Brat

Again, I was naive, reckless, and frankly, completely unfit for the situation. “Mature responsibility” was never my strong suit; I was more prone to explosive reactions, illogical moves, and “incidents” that would drive any sane commander into early retirement. I was too immature to realize that war isn't just "camping with guns." To me, it still felt like some twisted video game. Whatever, nothing's gonna happen. It's fine. We'll have a few laughs and go home.

Our tasks were “top-tier”:

• Perimeter Guard: Two guys, two hours in a ditch behind the house. Just so you don’t forget the smell of dirt.

• House Hygiene: Because bacteria and fungi were multiplying faster than enemy plans. Cleaning was mandatory so we didn't die of some plague before a piece of shrapnel got us.

• Logistics & Survival: Prepping lunch and figuring out how to handle basic human needs with the minimum risk of becoming a hole in the statistics.

I tried to understand the “order” of things, but my brain was constantly looking for shortcuts. Looking at the other guys, I realized how “broken” I actually was. Most of them had done their ten months of mandatory service in the JNA. They had that peacetime drill; they’d learned tactics; they’d learned how to be a cog in the machine. Me? I’d come straight from a high school desk, skipped the instruction manual, and threw myself straight into the fire. I had zero clue about military tactics, and even less about how a responsible soldier behaves.

I was a walking chaos theory, looking for joke material in every tragic situation. While others were seriously analyzing wind direction and potential attack routes, I was probably thinking about how these long johns made my calves look weird. I was a total outsider in my own uniform—naive as hell, but with a strange feeling that I was exactly where I was supposed to be, even if I had no freaking clue what I was doing.