My War Memoirs: The Homecoming
The military transport truck, an old cab-over "TAM" with a canvas cover that had definitely seen better days, rattled through its entire frame as we pulled away from the outskirts of Ivanovac. Inside, in the back, a specific semi-darkness reigned, filled with the shadows of twenty men packed together like sardines in a tin can. I sat on the floor, back pressed against the cold metal side of the truck, feeling every vibration of the engine in my spine. That metallic sound, that rhythmic taka-taka-taka, was the only music we had.
The air was heavy. It smelled of damp military fatigues, of that stale sweat that seeps into a uniform after fourteen days of continuous wear, of cheap "Croatia" tobacco glowing in the dark, and of that sharp, piercing smell of diesel. But in that moment, that stench wasn't disgusting. It was the scent of survival. Every breath of that heavy air was proof that we were still here, that our lungs were working, that our hearts were pushing us forward.
Even though it was a true Slavonian winter outside—bare, without snow, with a frost that bites the cheeks and penetrates the bones—inside the canvas, there was a surreal warmth. It was the warmth of our bodies, the warmth of men who had just returned from the edge of the abyss. Fourteen days. Fourteen long nights on the front line, where every second was a bet with death. And now, after that warm cooked meal we ate quickly before moving out, the feeling in my stomach was almost religious. A warm soup in a soldier's body is worth more than any medal.
Laughter as a Shield
The atmosphere in the truck was... strange. If someone had observed us from the outside, all grimy, dirty, with dark circles down to the middle of our cheeks, they would have thought we were returning from some wild, great party. Laughter was bursting out everywhere. Someone would crack a crude joke at the commander's expense, someone else would recount how Dražen tripped in the dark and almost shot himself in the foot, and we would double over laughing.
It was the laughter of relief. The laughter of people who had just realized they would see their families tomorrow, that they would lie in a warm bed, that no one would shout "Charge!" or "Take cover!". We were celebrating life in the rawest way possible. In that truck, as it shook over potholes, no one was thinking about politics, big goals, or strategies. We were thinking about coffee, clean socks, and a peace that lasts longer than two hours of sleep at a time.
Diagnosis of Restlessness
I looked at my knees. The uniform on them was gray from mud that had hardened like stone. Me, the "rookie." Eighteen years old and zero days of formal military training. I jumped into this war like it was some teen movie, driven by that youthful fire that knows no fear because it doesn't understand danger. But those fourteen days changed me. I saw the horror. I saw the earth open up under shells and saw peaceful men turn into beasts. Yet, while others complained about the stress, I realized something in that truck that scared me: I was fine. And not only that—I had found peace in that chaos.
I remembered my grandfather. For years he sat on his old three-legged stool in front of the house, smoking and watching me rush around aimlessly, climbing roofs, unable to sit still for five minutes. He used to say, without any degree but with the wisdom only life gives: "You, kid, need a state of war to calm down. You have that restlessness in your blood that isn't extinguished by water, but by adrenaline. You are a broken machine that works best when under the greatest pressure."
The old prophet. He hit the nail on the head. I realized that back in Ivanovac, the guard duties were killing me. That static nature, that silence of the night where you have to lie motionless for hours and stare into the black space in front of you—that was my death sentence. My attention would scream then, my brain would run at a hundred miles an hour, consuming itself because it had nowhere to go with that energy. But when the action started? When the whistling of bullets and the detonations of shells began? Then I would become the calmest person in the world. My "maladjusted" brain only then found its purpose. I lived for that adrenaline rush, for the moment when everything comes down to "now or never." I was messed up, I knew it, but I was functional.
Purpose Found in Loss
Four years. That’s how long it’s been since my grandmother died. With her went everything I considered home. My grandmother was my mother, my shield, my warmth. When she died, my grandfather turned inward, to his grief and his brandy, and I was left alone in the wind. No one raised me. I managed on my own, working as a waiter in smoky dives, keeping quiet while my peers talked about going out and new cars. I went to school, cooked, and cleaned the house.
I was "nobody’s." At home, they used to tell me my place was next to the trash can because I was good for nothing. That sentence burned me for years. The feeling of insignificance, the anxiety that chokes you as you wake up in an empty house, with an empty wallet and an even emptier future—that was my war before the war. That emotional winter I lived in was worse than the frost following us now toward Našice.
And then, the irony of fate: the war gives me purpose. Here, I wasn't "nobody’s." Here, I was the one holding the line. I was someone people counted on. For the first time in four years, I felt that my existence was worth something. Bizarre, isn't it? Did I have to go toward death to start living?
Conversation with Jura: On Patriotism and Running Away
The truck slowed down abruptly. We heard the muffled thuds of shells somewhere ahead of us. The driver pulled over, seeking cover in a forest at the foot of a hill. The engine went silent, and we remained sitting in silence. "Jura," I whispered, "are you a patriot?" He looked at me with those tired eyes of his. "Why do you ask, kid?" "Well, I wonder why I’m here. You know, my peers... their parents told them 'you can't go.' No one lets them into this hell. No one stopped me. No one protected me. I wonder... am I here because I love Croatia or because I’m running away from being a nobody at home?"
Jura slowly exhaled smoke. "Listen to me, Srele. Don't be so hard on yourself. We all have our reasons. We're all here for the homeland, some because they have nowhere else to go, and some because they feel more alive here than anywhere else. But at the end of the day, you are here. You could have dodged it, you could have been waitering around town, you could have gone into the regular draft, to college, and waited for it all to pass. But you did your time on the front line. That is your patriotism." His words calmed me down. "Okay, okay..." I mumbled to myself as the truck started up again.
Entering Našice: A Collision of Two Worlds
The journey stretched out over an hour. Every time the truck bounced over a bump, I felt the muscles in my face relax more and more. That clench, that expression of "eternal alertness" I wore at the front, was slowly disappearing. They say secret agents read faces by the wrinkles—my wrinkles will be deep, but at least they will tell a story of a boy who survived. And then, we entered Našice.
The truck stopped in the large parking lot in front of the courthouse. I jumped out of the back and felt the asphalt under my feet. It was a strange feeling—asphalt. Not mud, not frozen earth, but solid, city asphalt. I looked around. The main street was full of people. Women were walking with bags from the department store, couples were strolling, someone was sitting quietly in a cafe leafing through the newspapers. For them, the war was news on the radio. For them, the detonations heard in the distance were just background noise in their daily lives.
The air in Našice... it was incredible. You could cut it with a knife. It was the air of safety. It smelled of peace, of normalcy, of life flowing regardless of the fact that fifty kilometers away, people were fighting for every breath. I felt my face completely relax. That furrow on my forehead, that anger at the parents who didn't protect me, all of it vanished in that moment. Because in that Našice, all dirty and grimy, I realized: I was no longer "nobody’s." I was someone who had passed the trial by fire. I was someone who mattered. I headed toward home, carrying that grandfather’s peace within me. The war had, paradoxically, taught me how to stop warring with myself.
Asphalt That Doesn't Smell of Gunpowder
I stood in that parking lot in front of the courthouse, legs spread as if I were still trying to keep my balance in the speeding truck bed. My comrades were jumping out around me, swearing quietly but with a smile, patting each other on the back and adjusting their rifle slings. That sound—the dull thud of a combat boot against a firm, flat surface—was my first real contact with freedom. In Ivanovac, the ground was a traitor; it was either sticky mud that wanted to steal your boot, or a frozen, uneven crust that cracks under weight and gives away your position. Here, the asphalt was silent. Secure.
I looked toward the department store. People were passing by, and I felt like a ghost emerging from some black hole. A woman, carrying a mesh bag with bread and a quart of milk, paused for a moment and looked at me. In her eyes, I saw a mixture of pity and fear. Maybe she saw my youth, that disproportionate mismatch between my eighteen years and a grimy face that looked like someone had plowed a field over it. I turned my head. I didn't want her pity. At that moment, I was rich—I had four days of life ahead of me.
I started walking home. Every step was strange. The muscles in my legs, used to constant tension and readiness to jump for cover, now rebelled against a relaxed gait. I walked slowly, soaking in the town. Našice shined in that cold, winter grayness. The windows on the buildings were intact. There was no plastic sheeting instead of glass, no shrapnel holes on the facades. That normalcy hurt me more than anything. How is it possible that here, just fifty kilometers away, life goes on as if nothing is happening? As if my boys, at this very moment, aren't looking through a scope, finger on the trigger, while the steam from their breath freezes on the rifle barrel?
Anger That Warms Better Than Brandy
As I passed by familiar cafes, that anger I felt in the truck rose up in me again. I looked through the glass of one place. Guys my age were sitting inside. They were laughing, slamming their palms on the table, maybe commenting on some girl or a soccer match. Their parents were there. Their mothers baked pancakes in the morning, and their fathers nagged them about grades or a messy room.
My parents... they were somewhere else. Far away. Building their new worlds where there was no room for me, the "by-product" of their failed youth. In that moment, as I trudged along with a rifle thumping against my thigh, I realized the harsh truth. I’m not here just because I love this country. I’m here because the war was the only place that didn't ask whose I was. The army took me as I am—lost, angry, and nobody’s. The state turned a blind eye to my youth because it needed people for the trenches, and I gave myself gladly, just to escape that feeling of worthlessness at home.
I was angry at them, at the parents who didn't stop me. Any parent who loves their child would scream, threaten, lock the door, just to save them from the "belly of the war." Mine remained silent. That silence of theirs was more bitter than wormwood to me. But then I remembered Jura’s words: "You are where you’re supposed to be." And that thought slowly extinguished the fire of anger. If they rejected me, these men in the truck accepted me. I became part of something bigger. I became someone who protects those same people in the cafe who don't even notice me.
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