Cabaret while the train thunders overhead. There were no railway lines or trains here, and above them, in the sky, there were no airplanes or helicopters; in fact, there was also no automobile traffic and one really had to wonder what good there was in having a checkpoint here at all. Sure, a few days ago a column of refugees passed this way, but how often did that happen? Not often, though globally speaking, more frequently than one might suspect. There are places where war never ends or where displacement lasts longer than the average human lifespan. The checkpoints there are not, as they are here, carbuncles on the face of the planet, but instead they’re a basic part of humdrum existence, though, of course, one would find it hard to describe life in a refugee camp as humdrum. Language betrays us when we least expect it to, just as, in a way, the commander betrayed us: keeping an eye on all the frenzied activity around digging the graves, he felt that if this kept up he’d start weeping and wailing. It is nothing unusual to see a soldier crying, as the commander knew, but still he felt he wouldn’t be offering the rest of the soldiers a good example if he wept. Soldiers, after all, need a firm, manly hand, and though history does record several interesting examples of women leading armies, not one of them can compare to Alexander the Great, Attila, or Napoleon. We don’t know why this is, though we wonder whether it might be an absence of vision, the inability of women to shape a visionary image of the world. Women are masters of detail, and here no man can hold a candle to them (except, perhaps, men whom many don’t consider to be men), but they are at a loss if you ask them for a global vision. How much would Attila have accomplished if he’d been keen only on the details in his corner of the world (a different question is how he even knew there was more world out there somewhere). So the commander didn’t dare succumb to his emotions: doing so could possibly lead to the ruination of the world. “Our front line remains as was,” said the commander, “because no one has told us anything, no one has made contact. If we do something wrong, the misstep will not be ours.” By this time the soldiers had dug the graves, piled the dead bodies in, and begun filling them. The commander, however, retreated to his office and by counting on his fingers and tallying, worked out how many soldiers he could rely on. He counted ten dead—nine privates and the corporal—a third of the company. If the enemy returned and attacked them full force, they wouldn’t be able to hold out for long. What a pointless loss that would be, especially as they were guarding a checkpoint and they had no idea why they were guarding it or whose it was! They could, of course, retreat, but which way to go? The time had come, realized the commander, to dispatch Mladen again to scout the terrain. And as if he’d known, Mladen was ready to go, dressed in fatigues and equipped with a hefty arsenal of weapons. So hefty that he cut down on food supplies and left the canned goods in his cubby. A well-trained soldier, claimed Mladen, never need worry about food; he will have learned how to survive; the hundreds of plants, insects, and fruits in the forest offered him a varied, vitamin-rich diet. He hadn’t mentioned mushrooms, he said, because saying “mushrooms” would make him salivate. And sure enough, a few droplets leaked out of the corners of his mouth. He brushed them away with his sleeve, shrugged, and left. The commander realized he hadn’t given Mladen a precise list of things to check, but no matter. With soldiers like Mladen, one could always expect them to go above and beyond. He called a meeting of the command staff, the two corporals, in his office; he was of two minds about whether to summon the stand-in for the corporal of the third squad, but resolved to have a word with him later. He also didn’t summon a junior officer who hadn’t been showing up and had even made himself scarce during the heat of battle. The junior officer, felt the commander, was ripe for a court martial, or maybe a hospital stay, best not leave anything to chance. He wouldn’t be surprised to learn, thought the commander, that the officer had been slipping secrets to the enemy, whoever the enemy was. Wouldn’t it be odd if only the junior officer knew who the enemy was? Or maybe he didn’t, maybe he merely hoped to give that impression, for the sake of people who appreciate such impressions? The commander looked sternly up and down at the bronzed corporals (they were, after all, outdoors all day long, while the commander sat in his office), and then his expression suddenly changed and the commander asked them if they’d like a shot of brandy. But what are we drinking to, asked one, his voice quavering, as if they needed someone or something to drink to or they wouldn’t be able to drink the shot down. “We are here,” said the commander, “to set the stage for what we’d need for a hasty retreat if faced with a superior enemy. We’re already down by a third, and if the number falls to half or less, we’ll be easy pickings for a cull or a massacre.” The corporals nodded. “So,” said the commander, “any suggestions?” One raised his hand and said he had no suggestions, but he did have questions, and he immediately asked, “Where is the enemy?” As if he’d been expecting this, the commander unfolded a map and laid it out before his corporals, almost as if setting out for them a spread of exotic fruit, kiwis, perhaps, or papayas. The commander lowered his fingertip to the red dot that, apparently, represented the checkpoint. The spot was on one of several small clearings, surrounded on all sides by dark shading that signified forest. The commander tapped the red dot several times and said: “The enemy is in the forest.” The corporal was candid in his disappointment. “In the forest?” he said. “Of course they’re in the forest, but where?” The commander shook his head. If he’d known, he said, he’d have chased them out long ago; as it was, he had no other option but to hazard a guess like everybody else. This is why he’d sent Mladen off to scout the territory, he said, and everything might soon make more sense. He looked at the corporal and again shook his head. He didn’t like the looks of this corporal much, but appearance matters less in war than skill, and the commander had to admit that the corporal was better at leading his squad than were the others. Other, he corrected himself silently, because the third corporal had been dead for some time. Not so long ago, thought the commander, and then realized he was no longer able to gauge how long they’d been there by the checkpoint. Was it weeks? Months? Years? If he’d been alone in the office he probably would have started to cry. Commanders don’t cry, he thought, and for an instant—only briefly—he felt a shade headier, though no better. You can’t have everything, the commander thought, and told himself that between “something” and “nothing,” he’d always choose “something.” The corporal meanwhile shifted from foot to foot, swaying like a sunflower, and this made the commander smile; he’d enjoyed nibbling sunflower seeds at the movies. There were always little heaps of the discarded black shells under his seat. He also liked pumpkin seeds, but there was a real skill to nibbling sunflower seeds, and the commander was, in this, unrivaled. Countless times he’d been challenged to duels, but he always bested his opponent in shelling and devouring the seeds. He could hardly wait for the war to end so he could buy seeds from the snot-nosed vender out in front of the movie theater. Meanwhile, the corporal stopped swaying and lowered his head as if listening to catch the commander’s thoughts. “Ultimately,” said the commander, “I don’t see much choice. We die heroically or surrender like cowards and commend ourselves to the enemy’s mercy. We could also, of course, kill each other off, Masada-like. No matter which we choose, history will refer to us as heroes who gave their lives for their country.” The corporal coughed discreetly and said, “You don’t think we might win?” The commander measured him from head to toe: “And you?” he asked. The corporal said nothing. Some questions should never be asked, that’s a lesson for everybody, no matter how quickly one person learns and another slowly catches on. He’d have been happiest going home, thought the commander, and then he snarled and chastised himself by the book for such defeatism. He thanked the corporals and when he was about to close the door behind them, the sound rang out of a shell exploding. It shot high above their heads, as if only testing the area that lay below it. A second, the commander knew, would be aimed much lower, with more precision, and the third would strike right among them. And that is what happened; they had nowhere to go. They ran around like headless flies, buzzing and waving with their little legs, but there was nothing to be done. The shells dropped among them like ripe apricots onto the heads of picnickers who’d fallen asleep in an orchard, but unlike the picnickers who’d gather up the bursting apricots and toss them into a barrel for distilling, the shells tossed the bursting soldiers high into the air from where they dropped to the ground and groaned aloud. At first the commander shouted orders, but soon he gave up and swore furiously. He even leaped up onto a table, or rather the bench that stood by the barrier, as if daring the enemy to shell him alone, but then, just as suddenly as they’d begun raining down, the shells stopped. The commander remained frozen atop the bench, half a swear still on his lips. “They’ve stopped,” said someone, pointlessly, as always at such moments. They could suddenly hear the wrenching screams of the wounded and then somebody shouted “Fire!” and everybody spun to stare at the flames licking the roof of the sleeping quarters and blazing up and up. Several soldiers grabbed rainwater buckets and battled the blaze, while the commander focused on the worst task: identifying the dead men. Five soldiers lay in the grass; three of them were dead, two wounded, one of them slightly while the other, as the soldier assigned to the wounded slowly stammered, probably wouldn’t live through the night, which was inching in among them like damp into bones. Then they heard shouts from all sides and the commander, who came running over, pistol in hand, saw Mladen emerging from the forest. He shouted to them not to shoot and raised his hands in which he was holding something, and only when he came closer could the commander see what Mladen was carrying: two human heads from whose severed necks the blood still dripped. This, thought the commander as he watched the soldiers press with curiosity around Mladen and his trophies, is the way other soldiers must have pushed and shoved around the first murdered savages. In line with service regulations he should punish Mladen for the unnecessary abuse and torment of enemy soldiers. He didn’t know who’d carved that in stone—it was probably somewhere in the Geneva Conventions—but who gave a hoot for Geneva, and how could he deny the therapeutic impact of Mladen’s act, because it was clear that the decapitated enemy heads were having a positive effect on the soldiers who had just been through the hell of shelling. One group had already begun tossing about the bearded head (the face on the other head was clean-shaven, though it had a dense mustache), laughing when droplets of blood fell on their faces, and then someone kicked it, and the shrieks of the soldiers became almost unbearable. Mladen turned and saw the commander. He wiped his hands on his trousers, strode over to the commander, saluted, and said: “Private Mladen Sova requests to address the commander,” and the commander, to this, replied: “Cut the shit. Sit here and tell me what’s new in the forest and would you like a shot of brandy?” Mladen took a seat and asked: “Only one?” “Two if you like,” said the commander. “For you, two.” Mladen drained the first to the last drop, licked his lips, smacked them, and said that throughout the forest there were, on the move, fighters from three armies, but there were, possibly, even more armies involved. Some were wearing our uniforms, but whether those soldiers truly were ours, he couldn’t ascertain. He came up closer to them but they communicated without words, using only mimicry and gestures. He bared his teeth, stuck out his tongue, rolled his eyes, and crossed his hands. “That means,” he said, “that they would like to sit down.” “If they want to stand,” the commander wanted to know, “what do they do then?” Mladen bared his teeth again, stuck out his tongue, rolled his eyes, and spat. “What do you know,” said the commander. “How interesting.” He, too, spat in the same direction but missed Mladen’s spittle. He hit a neighboring blade of grass just as a ladybug was climbing up it. Then he said that any men wearing our uniforms were not our men, because if they were, they’d have been talking among themselves. Our inability to be concise and to keep quiet at moments when silence is a prerequisite for any sort of action is well known. “My impression,” said Mladen, “is that all these soldiers, from all three armies, have been left to a free-for-all.” The houses they’d seen earlier were burning, and he’d come across murdered civilians and farm animals more often. The commander said this was something he’d never understood: to kill a man, even a woman, that he could understand, but a child or a cow? His head couldn’t take that in. And speaking of heads, whose were those two the army was having such fun with? Mladen didn’t know. He came across the two of them at the end of a path and thought he’d walk peaceably by them, but then they erred and aimed their guns at him and there you have it, a mistake they wouldn’t make again. He stood before the commander, smiled, and quaked like a girl who has come to be introduced to her future husband. By then night had fallen and some of the soldiers were asking where they should sleep. The sleeping quarters had burned, the cots were partly charred and partly soggy from the water used to douse the fire, but even if they were all still intact, what would happen if the enemy shelled us again? “Let’s take this one step at a time,” said the commander, but his head ached suddenly so sharply that he had to shut his eyes. That same instant, as he shut them, he felt himself lose his balance, and he would have fallen if Mladen and the other soldier hadn’t caught him in time. They straightened him up and settled him slowly into the nearest chair. It took a vast amount of energy for the commander to open his eyes and then he saw he was among unfamiliar people. They were all in uniform, mainly in boots, and many of them were wearing helmets. In the air he could smell the soot of the doused fire, and the stink of excrement and human sweat. The commander wondered aloud what he was looking for here, but then someone’s face loomed, indicated a large hypodermic needle and said it wouldn’t hurt. “You’ve got to be kidding,” howled the commander, but too late. He felt the little prick somewhere on himself or near him, he wasn’t sure, and when he opened his eyes again it was already morning. And what a morning! Sunny, fresh, drenched in the fragra