My War Memoirs: Chicken Paprikash at the Edge of Sanity
In war, a man shrinks down to his most basic needs: warmth, safety, and a full stomach. But there exists a fourth need, one often ignored in military manuals—the need for dignity and the illusion of normalcy. You don't break the rules out of rebellion, but out of an instinct to preserve your sanity. My "love language" is caring for others, and my "disobedience" is actually a creative adaptation to impossible conditions. While commanders see a position, I see an opportunity for a home. While others see a wounded animal, I see medicine for my comrades' sick guts. Is this a supreme act of empathy packed into an improvised military pot, or just a selfish act to please myself?
How One Chicken Cured Our Guts
Ivanovac that winter was a place where time was measured only by the arrival of the relief squad and the number of shells fired. Anyone who has never felt a Slavonian winter in a trench does not know what true cold is. It’s not the kind of cold that just makes you put on a heavier coat; it’s an icy hand that creeps under your skin, deep into your bones, and refuses to let go, even when you bury yourself under three blankets. But I entered that trench on the front line of defense thirty kilograms lighter. At least, that’s how it felt to me.
It was all because of that infamous bath in the deep freezer. That absurd, improvised wellness treatment in the middle of nowhere had worked a miracle. It is unbelievable how much a little warm water and soap can reset a human being. It was as if I washed away not just the filth, but half the fear that had been accumulating for days. A man feels reborn after washing, as if he has received a new layer of skin, one more resistant to whatever lies ahead. And what lay ahead was the trench. An exposed outpost. The place where you are the first point of impact, where only a few hundred meters of open ground and your own alertness stand between you and the enemy.
This time, fate gave me a little wink. I received what we jokingly called the "chamomile" position—a soft spot. While every trench in Ivanovac carried the risk of becoming your grave, this one had a strange aura of security. It was located on the edge of the village, along a field canal, where the meadows and small woods blended together towards Paulin Dvor. Our commanders were wise enough to rotate the company. The system was clear: everyone had to take their turn on the hardest lines, the medium ones, and these "easier" positions. It was fair, because nothing kills morale faster than the feeling that someone else is always pulling the shorter straw.
But that "chamomile" was an illusion. In war, safety is just the most beautiful lie. If a full-scale infantry assault starts, your position on the edge of the woods becomes Target Number One. If an enemy tank gunner wakes up on the wrong side of the bed, or a mortar crew decides to "plow" the field, your trench will become the collection center for hundreds of tons of jagged steel and explosives. The only real advantage here was that the enemy sniper was at a deficit. Several ancient, giant trees and a small, dense thicket created a natural screen. In addition, a small hill on one side and the skeletal remains of bombed-out houses on the other shielded us from direct view, and protected us from the shrapnel of stray bullets. Here, we could afford to be a tiny bit more relaxed. We didn't need ten men to hold the line; four were enough.
Of course, the commanders were constantly riding our asses: "Just because you don't see them doesn't mean they aren't waiting for you to fall asleep. Your focus must be tighter here than on the worst position!" And they were right. Precisely because of this relative comfort, we were their eyes. We could slip out of the trench, crawl up to that little hill which served as a perfect observation post, and see things that others, dug deeper into the village, could not. We were the backup support, the silent observers guarding the back of the entire company.
But, while the spirit was willing, the body was slowly staging a mutiny. More specifically, my digestive system.
Two weeks straight on the field takes its toll. The ration system was merciless on our guts. One day you are in a safe house, in the warm, eating something cooked, with a spoon. And then for the next 24 hours, or an entire week, you survive on cans. Dry rations. Cold beans from a tin, pates, "lunch meat" (our equivalent of spam) where the grease had solidified like candlelight wax. It was a joke compared to American MREs; we would have killed for an MRE. After ten days of that diet, your body starts sending out SOS signals. We all suffered. Nausea, cramps, gastritis that burns like you swallowed live coals, and that worst enemy of the soldier—you’re completely backed up and can't use the bathroom. We sat in the trench, staring towards the enemy, but in our heads, we were only replaying movies of our mothers’ soups and warm stews.
And all around us... was absurdity. Life refusing to stop.
When the civilians were forcibly forced to leave Ivanovac, they left everything behind—from family photos to livestock. Over time, the army tried to evacuate the remaining cows and pigs to a safer area, but the poultry? The poultry became part of the guerrilla force. Chickens, ducks, and geese scattered across the village after the first shellings. Animals, just like us, learn quickly. The ones that survived became half-wild. They learned to run at the sound of a whistle, learned to scratch for food beneath the snow.
So, a small group of about ten chickens had settled into the canal right next to our trench. I watched them for hours. Among them was one large hen, clearly advanced in years, who was a living monument to the war. She was mutilated; a shrapnel piece had taken off part of one leg, and her wing was always a little bloody and drooping. She struggled, poor thing, hopping on that one leg, desperately trying to keep up with the rest of the flock.
I watched her, and a battle raged inside me. The first thought: Poor animal, she’s suffering, someone needs to put her out of her misery. The second thought, the honest and hungry one: She is actually a walking stew. The third thought: If she dies from the cold, no one benefits. If I cook her, four defenders get a lifeline.
"Darko," I said to my comrade, and my voice sounded way too cheerful for a gray winter day in a trench, "I could whip us up some chicken paprikash!"
Darko looked at me like I had just suggested we walk all the way to Belgrade on foot. "Come on, Srećko, how? With what? Where? Have you lost your damn mind from this cold?"
"It’s easy! You see that wounded hen? She’s written off anyway. I just need a little time and a few things," I replied, never taking my eyes off the unfortunate bird.
The other two just smiled wryly. They knew me. "Here he goes again, Srećko pulling his stunts. Now he’s going to get us all in trouble over a chicken."
But I was not to be deterred. First, I made my way to those semi-ruined houses. I scavenged through the debris of someone’s life, stepping over broken rafters and bricks. In one kitchen that looked like a tornado had ripped through it, I found a large, heavy pot. It was filthy, full of dust and plaster, but intact. I went outside, found a barrel with rainwater, and started scrubbing. Ice from a nearby creek served as my steel wool. I scrubbed until the aluminum began to shine in that weak, toothless sun.
Catching the chicken took less time than I thought. Poor thing, wounded as she was, she didn’t stand a chance against Slavonian stubbornness. One swift move, a snap of the neck—brutal, yes, but that’s life in the country, and especially in war. There is no room for sentimentality there, only pragmatism. In the trench, I pulled a little trick: instead of plucking her for hours and leaving a trail of feathers that would blow everywhere, I simply skinned her. Skin and feathers came off in one move. A few cuts, and the meat was ready.
While my comrades watched suspiciously, I began to slip outside the trench itself, into that space behind the houses where the enemy couldn't see me. I knew people had planted gardens in the autumn. I started digging into the frozen earth. And lo and behold—nature was guarding treasure. I pulled up a few carrots that had been left in the ground, a couple of potatoes the size of a fist, even a head of onion that had shrunk from the cold but smelled more intense than anything from a store. I also found a little cabbage. I tossed all those root vegetables into the pot with the chicken and filled it with water.
The whole excursion lasted perhaps thirty minutes of being mentally "away," which did not compromise the position's focus towards the enemy. We had those dead zones in the day anyway, where it wasn't too smart to expose yourself too much. It was the night that represented the challenge.
Now came the problem. Fire.
We had two tiny gas canisters for heating up cans. I lit the first one, the flame started licking the bottom of the pot, but after half an hour, all I heard was a sad pffft. Empty. The second one lasted an hour. The dinner was barely lukewarm, and the meat was tough as rubber.
"There’s your paprikash," one of the guys quipped. "We’re going to be eating raw hen and washed vegetables."
But I did not surrender. I had a secret stash—several packages of those thick, heavy candles we were issued for illuminating the bunker in the trench. No light emanated through the bunker because it was practically hermetically sealed. A mixture of earth, sandbags, and logs. I set the pot up on a few bricks I brought from the ruins. In that small space underneath, I jammed twenty lit candles together. Candles don't give a fierce flame, but they provide a constant, quiet heat. I knew I couldn't light a real fire—the smoke would have been spotted for miles, and we would have become target practice for enemy artillery. But candles... they were invisible inside the bunker.
And so, it simmered. For hours. One hour, five hours, ten hours. The entire day passed, and evening arrived. The pot slowly released a scent that began to dominate the trench. It was a smell that did not belong to war. It was the smell of civilization, of safety, of home. Candles burned down, I replaced them with new ones, like a pharmacist on duty carefully watching a precious serum.
By late evening, what was supposed to be lunch had transformed into a very late dinner. But what a dinner!
When I lifted the lid, steam filled the trench. The meat was falling off the bone, the vegetables had turned into a thick, aromatic gravy. I dished out four portions into our metal mess tins.
We ate in total silence. The first sip of that warm, fatty liquid was a shock to the system. I felt my digestive track literally thank me. It was not just food; it was medicine. The warmth spread from my stomach through my whole body, all the way to the tips of my toes which finally stopped tingling. I watched the faces of my comrades—that wry smile from the beginning of the story was replaced by an expression of pure, childlike bliss.
"Bravo, genius!" – those words meant more to me than any medal. I basked in that validation that I was worth something. My "love language" was always the affirmation that I was not damaged goods, to bring a sliver of normalcy to where everything was abnormal. Even though my actions were technically abnormal. Yes, I was the one who was "always pulling stunts," the one who engaged in mild breaches of military doctrine, but at that moment, my "breach" saved the morale of the entire group. Our guts were healed, our spirit was lifted.
That trench in Ivanovac was the most beautiful restaurant in the world that night. We didn't care about the artillery shells occasionally tearing across the distant sky and landing around the trench. We were full, warm, and bound by something stronger than just a uniform. We even had food left over for breakfast, so we carried it with us, and we left a portion for the relief squad that arrived in the late evening.
When we finally received the order to go on a five-day leave, I felt like a victor. We had feared they would leave us there for another two weeks, but luck was on our side. I left that front line not just physically lighter from the wellness, but spiritually stronger. I had proved to myself and to others that a man does not have to surrender his humanity, not even in the darkest trench. Sometimes, all it takes is a little stubbornness, a handful of frozen carrots, and twenty candles flickering in the dark. However, I still had the reputation of the one who was "screw loose" and pulling "kerefeke"—shenanigans.
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