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 fragrance of flowers and somehow full of promise. The commander twisted around and realized that he was lying in his cot, in his room, except that above the cot where there used to be a ceiling, he saw a tarpaulin stretched. The chamber pot wasn’t where it should have been and the commander thought the soldier who’d failed to bring it in should be punished with at least three extra duty shifts. “The army means order, or it isn’t an army,” said the commander to himself and then he staggered out, stood by the nearest tree and began emptying his bladder. He squinted with pleasure at the relief this brought him, but suddenly he went rigid and froze. There, only sixty feet from him, was a group of journalists. He was first spotted by a woman in a red dress and red-framed glasses, and then they all turned to him and pointed their cameras and photography equipment, as well as tiny recording devices, in his direction. The commander barely had time to shove his private parts back into his pajama pants and then, as the reporters slowly but surely advanced on him, he thrust out his chest and announced, “Not one step further! You are in a zone that is off limits to civilians, and anything you record, write down, or take pictures of must receive the approval of the military authorities. You’ll be given the forms for your request for approval a little later, and there will be a tax to pay for a fee regulated by law.” “Just one question,” said a tall photographer. “Yes?” said the commander. “Do you accept credit cards?” asked the photographer. “Why, of course,” said the commander, and turned toward his room. “If you take a closer look you’ll see that Visa and MasterCard are our sponsors.” Where did all of them come from, wondered the commander, and who gave them permission to move around the barrier? He thought heads would roll for this, and then he remembered the two heads with which the soldiers had played soccer and he was swept by a terrible crush of shame. Dressed in his uniform, cap in hand, he came out again, but now on the other side of the barrier. Nowhere, however, did he see a single soldier. Not many of them were left, of course, roughly half had already been killed, but still there ought to be at least one sentry on duty. Then he thought: “What if they all deserted?” and suddenly he went pale. Then he had to admit that he wouldn’t have held it against them if they had, because they were clearly fighting a hopeless battle. His company was halved, out of the thirty soldiers only some sixteen were still alive. At least that is what his calculation had told him the day before, but that was last night, before he fell asleep, who knows what horrors had played out while he slept. Then someone’s words reached him, fragments of a conversation, and when he peered around the corner, he saw all his soldiers. They were sitting in a circle eating cornmeal mush. The junior officer was the first to catch sight of the commander, he leaped to his feet and inhaled noisily, but the commander didn’t allow him to speak; he ordered him at ease and said they should go on with their meal. “We’re eating cornmeal mush with cheese,” said some of the soldiers and the commander decided to join them. Soldiers need, as the commander knew, to see as many examples as possible of officers with the highest ranks and medals doing what they’re doing or eating what they’re eating. The rank and file was thereby shown that the officers were flesh and blood like them, and despite military hierarchy they were only human. “Real people, first and foremost,” the commander liked to say. However, this time he didn’t say it because he, too, loved cornmeal mush, especially when mixed with milk, and if there wasn’t milk then cheese would do. He turned to look in every direction and only then saw the extent of the damage from the shelling the day before. Had that been only yesterday? It might have been yesterday, thought the commander, or maybe ten days ago. All the days were the same, though the deaths differed. When he dwelt a little more on it, in fact, all deaths are the same, death comes to everyone the same way. As the poet said: “Death will come and will have your eyes.” It won’t have my eyes, thought the commander, I’d rather pluck them out myself than let death carry them off on its face. A face with nothing anyway, because death is a skeleton that walks and carries a scythe instead of crutches. Death walks with a limp, and since it’s terribly vain, it leans on the scythe as it approaches those who are on its list. It doesn’t carry the scythe to cut anyone down because death doesn’t kill, it comes to fetch those who are already dead, and the scythe simply serves to channel the flash of light in the eyes of those waiting for it, so that, blinded, they won’t have the time to see how lame death is. The commander finished his portion of mush and burped. In another situation he would have asked for seconds, but now there was no time. And besides, he wanted to know why nothing was functioning. Where, for instance, were the sentries? Were the observers in their positions? Had the radio operator attempted to reach somebody? What was the condition of the wounded, and, more important, why had they let him sleep? The commander rose slowly to his feet, cleared his throat, and waited for the soldiers to quiet down. Then again all the questions, adding in the end, as if summing it up, “Who’s at fault for this morning’s chaos?” The junior officer raised his hand and, without hesitating, said he’d made the decision because it was clear to everyone that this is a pointless battle, a battle that makes sense only if it is understood as an insane clash in which they are condemned in advance to death. “It’s obvious,” added the junior officer, “that we were sent here with one goal only: to stave off the enemy as long as possible, meaning as long as there were soldiers alive. That’s why I decided to free the soldiers of their duties, and we are prepared to surrender to the enemy as expediently as possible.” The commander, who until then had been listening closely, his head slightly tilted to the side, howled that this was treason punishable by death and reached for his gun. Before he’d had the chance to unbutton his holster, everywhere around him he heard the chink-chink sounds of weapons being cocked and found he was surrounded by barrels of the most varied assortment of guns, including a mortar. “Fine,” said the commander, “I understand.” And besides, hadn’t he himself thought the very same thing, hadn’t he said he wouldn’t hold it against any soldiers who deserted? Shooting began just then, and everyone dashed for shelter. They needed a breather to figure out that the bullets weren’t intended for them, somebody else had joined the game, renegades or rebels, or the residents of yet another country, in any case someone whom the commander and the remaining soldiers knew nothing about. The commander shouted to the radio and telegraph operator that he should try to locate the frequency of one of the enemies and do what he could to ascertain who they were. A little later, he lay down beside the operator and listened to voices that sounded Chinese, though it could have been any Asian language. The operator turned the dial to other voices, equally agitated, but by then the commander had no doubt. The language was Czech, and the commander thought back with regret to the many trips he’d taken to the former Czechoslovakia, where, for a person who had foreign currency—and the commander had a pocket full of deutsche marks and American dollars—life was cheap, beautiful women were easily accessible, not to speak of the beer. In a word, paradise. Yes, yes, old chap, said the commander to himself, that was the life and not this crap with only death to offer, as if death were something you could taste-test for a few hours and return if it didn’t suit you. But there was no answer to the question of whose side the Czechs were on, the same as a question the commander might have asked: whose side are we on? Who is who in this mess, thought the commander, and then a hand grenade, activated, rolled his way. So that’s that, thought the commander, this is it, and he decided to let it explode. Then he caugh