My War Memoris: Salt in the Wounds: A Gripping True Story of Fear and Betrayal in the Croatian War (Chapter 32.)

 

My War Memoirs: Salt in the Wounds- A Gripping True Story of Fear and Betrayal in the Croatian War

The day was dragging its feet, heavy and slow, the way it always does in Slavonia when the front goes quiet and you know it’s just the calm before the next round of hell. Our chores were wrapping up—at least the daytime part where we’d pretend to be normal in the basements. But as dusk settled over Ivanovac, you could feel that familiar metallic taste of nerves in the air. We were gearing up for another 24-hour stint on the forward observation post.

Now, when you say "forward" in soldier speak, it usually means one foot is already in someone else’s yard and the other is on a banana peel. But this time, the orders were the "house special." We were going to the furthest point out, right of the church, all the way to the end of that creek bed that snakes toward Paulin Dvor. That’s where the enemy doesn’t sleep; they just sit there listening to you breathe.

I’d heard stories about that spot. It wasn’t a position; it was a punishment. Miles from the village, stuck in the middle of nowhere on an open field where only the fog and God’s mercy can hide you. The guys said you were literally eye-to-eye with the enemy there. Apparently, we were so close we could have pelted each other with apples by hand—like kids in a neighbor’s orchard—except these "apples" had pins in them and bit a hell of a lot harder. That clearing, that "kill zone"... it sent shivers down the spines of guys much tougher than me.

And then—get this—it falls on me. The rookie. The "FNG" who’s still trying to figure out which end of the rifle is the dangerous one. A bitter, cynical thought crossed my mind: Look at these old pros, dodging this one like it’s an Olympic sport. I figured they’d pulled some paperwork magic just to stay off that field. Later, I realized—or maybe I just told myself—that they were looking out for me, thinking I’d face a worse fate elsewhere. But in war, there’s no such thing as "out of turn." Death doesn’t wear a watch; it just wanders around and picks.

The Gut Never Lies

I’m the kind of guy who doesn’t think with his brain. The brain is a liar; it always finds a logical excuse for being a coward. I think with my gut. I’m an empath—I feel people and places before they even speak. The moment my stomach starts churning its own dark symphony, I know things aren’t what they seem. The signals were there, screaming at me, but a soldier doesn’t listen to his stomach; he listens to the order.

I got ready. We were moving out after midnight. Deep darkness was our only ally then—that black cloak that hides you from the snipers across the field. I was cleaning my SKS "Papovka." Lord, that rifle looked like it had survived both World Wars and a few peasant revolts in between. Rotting wood, a hundred years old... I watched my buddies checking their Kalashnikovs—modern toys that give you at least a fake sense of security—while I was holding a museum piece. But hey, museum pieces kill too, right?

Our company was a mixed bag. Like some bad movie about misfits. You had the guys who’d rip their hearts out and give them to you if you needed them—men who’d die for others without asking why. But then you had the "artists" who dodged every corner like they were on a racetrack. They weren't volunteers. They were guys who got drafted for those famous six months of mobilization. Jura and Gajo, my mentors and commanders, took me under their wing right away.

"Keka, watch out for those guys," Jura whispered once, nodding toward a group of five who were always whispering. "Those are the ones who’ll cough in your face just so you think they’re on their deathbed and let them off guard duty. They’re just looking for someone to blame for their own screw-ups."

The Secret in the Shed

We were bunking in an old farmhouse. The basement was our home, our bunker. Next to the house was everything a proper Slavonian farm requires: a barn, a stable, a shed, a smokehouse. That outbuilding was pretty big, chewed up by shrapnel, but it still stood proud as a shield. It was our "buffer zone"—it caught the bullets and fragments that would’ve otherwise ended up in our windows.

Since there was no water in the house, “business” was done out back. An outhouse in the field, under the stars, with shrapnel whistling overhead—romantic, isn't it?

I was passing the tool shed when I heard whispering. The night was clear; the moon had decided to show up uninvited, lighting up everything that should’ve stayed hidden. My eyes were used to the dark. I saw a silhouette with a cigarette—that cherry glowing like a firefly. The shed door was half-blown off from an old blast, just enough for me to peek in.

First thought? They’re drinking. I crept up, ready to talk some trash, but what I saw... I couldn't have made it up in my wildest dreams.

It was those two “dodgers” Jura and Gajo warned me about. They were sitting on some overturned barrels, barefoot. Boots and socks tossed aside. They had salt in their hands. They were rubbing that salt into their bare feet. I watched, frozen. Then one of them pulled out a knife. Not to fight, but to lightly score the skin around his big toe, his pinky, and his heel. Just enough to see raw meat, just enough to peel back the protection. And then—more salt. They rubbed it into the cuts, swearing under their breath and wincing.

I went cold. Was the fear that big? Was the urge to run so strong that you’d mutilate yourself, rubbing salt into wounds just to stay off that field in Ivanovac? I was stunned by the sheer misery of it. I walked further into the field, did what I had to do, and on my way back, I let out a loud, soldier’s cough. They went silent instantly. I just kept walking, never looking back.

Silence in the Basement

I stepped into the basement. Jura and Gajo were there, fixing some gear. I looked at them, and there was a lump in my throat the size of a Slavonian clod of dirt. I wanted to tell them. I wanted to "rat out" those two losers. But the words wouldn't come. They were nearly fifty. Slow, worn down by booze—men who just wanted to survive their six months and get back to their warm beds, far from the trenches. In some twisted way, I understood them. I understood their fear, but I hated their method.

Two hours before we moved out, here they come. Limping like they’d walked through a minefield barefoot. They stood before Jura and Gajo, faces twisted in “agony.”

“Commander, we can't go,” one whined. "Our feet are on fire… tight boots, the cold, the walking... we can't even stand.”

Back then, blisters and frostbite were standard equipment. We all bled in our boots. But the rule was clear: show your feet. And they showed them. Their feet were a mess—red, angry, inflamed by that damn salt. It looked like a brutal infection.

Jura and Gajo just shrugged. I saw it in their faces—they knew, or at least they suspected.

"Alright," Jura said coldly. "You two are excused again. Tenth time in three months."

Then he turned to me. "Keka, you’re going to the forward post with me. Instead of one of these two. I wanted to spare you that spot since you’re new, but you see how it is... we’re short-handed."

“No problem, Jura," I snapped. Short and sweet. I didn't even look at those two as they pulled their socks over their “heroic” wounds. They disgusted me—not because they were afraid, but because of their “pedicure,” someone else had to pick up the slack.

Walking Toward the Meadow

As we pushed through the night, hugging the walls of the houses toward that creek, the moon was so bright it stripped away the shadows—I could see the stitching on Jura’s back as clearly as if it were high noon.My heart was thumping in time with my boots.

"Jura," I whispered as we stopped for a second in the shadow of a collapsed fence. "Those two... is it really possible for feet to get that bad? I mean, it looked nasty."

Jura turned around, and in the sliver of moonlight, I saw that cynical smile of a man who’s seen too much.

"Keka, don't give me that," he whispered, but there was no anger in his voice, just a tired sort of peace. "I saw them too. I went to pee a minute before you did, and I saw you watching them. I know exactly what happened.”

I froze. “Then why did you let them off? Why didn't you rip them a new one?"

"Let them stay in the house," Jura said, putting a hand on my shoulder. “Look, Keka... I feel safer with you next to me. Gajo does too. I’m safer with a 'green' kid like you who’s actually here than with two guys who’d shoot me in the back or run and leave us stranded the second things got real. They’re useless anyway. Just underfoot and stealing rations. Better they stay in the basement than have someone die because they panicked on the field. One more month and they’re out. To hell with them."

We kept moving. That field, that "kill zone," suddenly didn't feel so scary. I realized a big truth they don't teach you in the manuals: War doesn't change people. It just strips them naked.

Those two always had that salt inside them. They just needed an excuse to rub it into their own skin. And us? We walked toward a post where you throw apples by hand, happy just to know who was watching our backs—even if it was just a rotting "Papovka" and a tired commander who trusted my scared eyes more than their “salty” wounds.