My War Memoirs: Long Nights in the Trench- The War Against Winter, Snipers, and the Mind (Chapter 35.)

 

Long Nights in the Trench: The War Against Winter, Snipers, and the Mind

Ivanovac, winter of 1992. Ten consecutive days on the front line erase the boundary between man and earth. When you’ve been in a trench that long, you cease to be a soldier with a name and a story; you become just another piece of damp tissue trying not to become part of the frozen Slavonian mud.

The stress is a constant, dull background hum. The whistle of incoming rounds and the thud of mortar shells slamming into the soft black soil nearby eventually turn into something like bad weather—something you curse at, but ultimately grow numb to. But there is an enemy more cunning than a sniper and more persistent than a mortar crew. It’s the cold. That winter, Pannonian chill that crawls into your marrow slowly, almost gently, until you are completely paralyzed.

During the day, adrenaline keeps you upright. But when night falls and that heavy, tomb-like silence settles over the line, it’s just you, the darkness, and a slow-motion death that begins to extinguish your senses. You become so hypothermic that your brain starts to malfunction. I would drift into these shallow, feverish naps for a few minutes—a desperate glitch in the system that felt like the only way to keep from losing my mind in that endless black. Then you bolt awake, shake your head, and face the cruel truth: you’re even colder now than you were five minutes ago.

Movement in the trench or at the forward observation post was practically forbidden. Every sound, every silhouette popping above the rim was an invitation for a bullet. Even the most basic human needs, like relieving yourself, became tactical nightmares. There was a natural gully connected to our trench, a kind of runoff that led out into the fields. I’d walk those twenty yards hunched over, my knees making that sickening crack-crunch sound with every step—like dry wood splintering—until they finally warmed up and "greased" themselves.

But the body rebelled. Often, I didn't even want to urinate, even though my bladder was screaming. Subconsciously, I knew: if I let that warm liquid out, I was losing the last atom of internal heat keeping me alive. You know that shiver you get outside in the cold after you pee? That "brrr" effect? In a trench, that shiver meant you just surrendered a piece of yourself to the frost. We had strict rules, too—no one "shat on anyone’s head." The gully was a lifesaver because the stench didn’t linger in the fighting positions, and we had a precise method for where to go so no one would step in a comrade’s fresh waste in the dark. Even in that hell, we fought to maintain a shred of dignity.

My salvation, my little slice of heaven in that muck, was my "work" sleeping bag. It smelled like stagnant earth and sweat, but it was warmer than anything else in the world. Back at the safe house, I had another one—clean and fresh—but this "field" bag was my armor. Every time I went on night watch inside the trench, I dragged it with me. I’d slide into it only halfway, keeping my boots and legs inside while draping the top over my back. My arms and shoulders had to stay free, ready for the rifle.

I even practiced jumping out of it at the safe house. I’d lie on the floor in that position and see how fast I could slither out if the enemy launched an assault. It went smoothly—you’d slide out like a snake shedding its skin. That bag kept my sanity from 8:00 PM to 7:00 AM while I stared into the void, waiting for either a bullet or the sun.

And the dawns... the dawns in Ivanovac were the worst. Up until 6:00 AM, the temperature would hover around freezing or just above—tolerable in its own miserable way. But then, it was like someone in the celestial machine opened the door to a massive industrial freezer. This morning breeze would kick in. The temperature would plummet another three or four degrees in an instant. That breeze didn't just chill you; it tore at your nostrils. That was the moment I wanted to cry from the sheer, grinding misery of it all.

I’d stare into that darkness and wonder how any sane person could endure this without snapping. Luckily, we weren’t always on the jagged edge. There were ten of us, and we’d rotate every hour or two—depending on the cold—into a small hut made of branches, cardboard, and sandbags in the center of the position. It was warmer there. I’d drift off for thirty minutes, just a short "unplugging" to make the boredom and the madness of staring into nothingness pass faster. The rest of the time, I spent huddled against my comrades, our bodies warming each other as we shook from the cold.

I tried everything to kill time on watch. You can’t read in the dark; you can’t light a match. I even thought about masturbating, just as a way to generate some heat through movement, but the second I imagined my filthy, frozen hands and my privates shriveled up into my abdomen along with my testicles from the sheer cold, I just felt a wave of "nauseating" disgust. All I had left was my imagination.

I went elsewhere. I told myself beautiful stories about warm rooms, the smell of home, and summers that felt like memories from another life. I’d dream for fifteen minutes, then force myself back to reality—I’d scan every shadow in the field, check my rifle, and then dive back into my stories. Those were the little puzzle pieces I used to buy the minutes until morning.

But the tenth day broke me. I was "in the red." Dehydrated, starving, exhausted to the bone. I didn't want to ask the guys how they were holding up; I was terrified of looking weak. I shut up and took it, and that was a mistake.

That morning, around 7:00 AM, the world started spinning. My tongue felt like dry leather when I tried to whisper to my bunkmate. My vision began to tunnel. I stumbled, and my rifle simply slipped through my fingers and thudded into the mud. The loss of feeling in my hands was total.

"Karić, when’s the last time you drank some water?" I heard my buddy’s voice. He grabbed me by the arm to keep me from collapsing onto the ice or stumbling into the open where a sniper was already waiting for his morning trophy.

"I don't remember... a long time ago... I couldn't even eat..." I managed to croak through the fog.

He dragged me toward our hut. Inside, it smelled like stale tobacco and dampness, but to me, it was the smell of safety. I watched him pour water into a plastic cup and tear open a packet of sugar for coffee from our 24-hour rations.

"Drink this," he commanded.

The first few gulps of that sickly sweet, metallic water were like an electric shock. I felt the strength returning in tiny doses, flooding back into my muscles. He found my canteen and dumped another sugar packet in. Then he shoved an apple into my hand. It was wrinkled and ice-cold, but I bit into it like my life depended on it. I swallowed it half-chewed, along with some pâté and a piece of stale, frozen bread that crumbled like sawdust under my fingers.

The nausea vanished. It was replaced by a raw, animal urge to survive. I looked at my filthy hands and realized the truth: I was a "greenie" who had to learn in ten days what others took years to master. Jura and Gajo were right—a soldier who doesn't eat or drink isn't brave; he’s just a corpse on a waiting list. You have to know how to balance, to satisfy your needs and feed your body as if it were a set of "minimum technical requirements" for a job. Without that, a soldier puts himself out of commission—which is exactly what happened to me. And that can cost you your life. On a position like this, there is no room for mistakes.

Just as I was coming to, the usual morning ritual began. First, the sniper "greeted" us, his rounds buzzing just inches above our heads. Then came the rattle of machine guns, spraying directly into our trench, followed by a few mortar shells that shook the ground and pinned us to the floor. We heard the distant cough of a tank waking up, ready to blow half a cubic yard of dirt off the earth right behind us.

I sat there, in that pathetic hut, with a spoonful of pâté in my hand and the taste of sugar on my lips. I didn't feel like crying from the misery anymore. I had just won my first real battle—the one against my own body that wanted to quit.

The night was over. I was alive. And in war, that was the only victory that actually mattered at the end of the day.