october 1981.
So we got organized somehow. Since we had nothing else to do whole day but guard duty, which was two hours out of each six, someone got the idea that we publish the rota magazine. Which turned out to be only the 1st platoon, because the other two didn't even think to participate. We had paper and pencils and then a typewriter was found, then a gestetner aka šapirograf too, so we could print the 20-25 copies. And then we got lucky, as two guys were of visual artsy persuasion. One was a Hungarian, from some village near Subotica, and accidentally spoke serbocroatian very well, which is rare in that area, the other from Krk or Brač, a Dalmatian. As soon as the two found each other, things flowed. One did the illustrations, the other the caricatures, etching them with a needle straight on the template, which printed very neatly. On the drawing across the bottom of the back page there's seven of us, me peeking in from the right edge, camera dangling on my neck. And he got the likeness right.
Between the guardhouse and the small gate there was another house, with just the room of the dežurni officer (that one was heated), and a larger room, for visits - for the guests to wait until the soldier they came for would be available, get the permit to leave the barracks etc. These two guys simply took the waiting room and turned it into a painting workshop. This being the vojska, if anything was going on it was assumed that it's by someone's order, so everything's fine. For nearly two months the guys painted there, until someone took notice, asked around and found out that there was neither an order or permission from anyone. So they packed it in and managed elsewhere. While it lasted, at least we had a kind of a social club near to the guardhouse.
By the time of the 2nd issue of our bulletin it got hairy, it was november already and the day got shorter, we couldn't just sit outside and write. The staff was three of us - Blaja, Bule Spajić from Tomaševac and I. Practically all of Zrenjanin... The lieutenant Gašparesku from Pančevo took pity on us. He did talk with us before, seeing what we were doing, and being practically our generation. I did remember to ask him about Ž.M., Đuđa's son-in-law. Ouch... there he spilled the beans. Said the guy was the worst sleaze he ever saw. They were classmates at the academy, some engineering thingy, and this Ž.M. somehow wasn't willing to work off his scholarship and stipend, and to be in the reserve later, even if he did the minimum - work as officer in the vojska year for year, and then simply leave the service, no, everyone knows that the vojska won't let you off that easily. So he found some radioactive isotope and injected it in his eyes. Did himself just enough damage to get dismissed right away, no debt, and started wearing serious spectacles ever since. So there, a diploma at state's cost, lodging and food. But this guy said nobody could stand him even before that.
So this lt Gašparesku gave us the key to his office, which was accidentally next door to the guardhouse (which wasn't a separate building, just two rooms in that one). Nothing special, two desks, four chairs and heating. Aaaaah heating. Nothing was heated, except the laundry and 2-3 higher officer's offices. Several times before sleeping there would be the dilemma whether to close the windows, and each time the folk wisdom won: „stink never killed anyone, chill did“. Except when Gile Bacin (also of Zrenjanin) made a habit to fart the worst when entering the dorm, and then walk to his bed, farthest from the door. By the time the wave hit him, he'd be already snoring. So he was given the notice to fart outside, then come in. Until then we lost twenty minutes each time, waiting with open windows before closing them.
We published two issues. Then there was some celebraton, fuck me if I remember what, mid november or early december, and the commendations and symbolic prizes were handed out. Two or three guys, who won medals for sports at the coastal military region, got ten days extra leave. Bule Spajić, as the editor-in-chief, got some book, from the throwaway run of some title which is added to libraries because it must, and thrown away at next occasion. It was clear that it absolutely doesn't matter that we telegraphists were the intellectual peak of what's possible in the vojska, it has no fucks to give for any mind, culture or anything of the kind, it loves just cannon fodder.
Mentions: Blagoje Vajski (Blaja), dežurni, Đurđa Rođanović (Đuđa), vojska, in serbian