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The commander shifted slightly in his chair. And then, making as if it were a coincidence that he had shifted, he gave his balls another good scratch. In a stern voice he asked Ziya which part of Aydın he was from. And what district, and what town. And then, glancing up at the ceiling, he said, ‘Hmmm. So you live next door to Veli Sarı, also known as Hacı Veli. Don’t you?’

‘Yes, sir,’ said Ziya.

‘Good,’ said the commander. ‘So now tell me. Is Halime Çil still alive?’

Ziya just stared at him.

‘Don’t tell me you don’t know Ebecik?’ The commander raised his hand in consternation.

‘Yes, sir. Of course I know her. And yes, she’s still alive.’

As he said those words, he saw Hacı Veli. He strolled around Hacı Veli’s house, and as he did, he suddenly saw Ebecik, and after she had looked at him for a good long while, she cleared her throat.

‘Are you from our town, sir?’ asked Ziya.

The commander shifted again in his seat. Glaring at his hands, he placed them on the edge of his desk. ‘Son of a donkey! Know your place. I’m the one who asks the questions round here!’

Hearing his answer, Ziya turned deep purple.

‘Get out!’ bellowed the commander. He lowered his head as he pointed to the door. ‘All of you, get out!’

And that was when Ziya caught sight of the brass nameplate standing there on its wooden base: First Lieutenant Necdet Belik. That stopped him in his tracks, but only for a moment. Then he raced out of the room with all the others. The sergeant stood waiting at the door, and when they were all out, he stepped inside, but he didn’t stay in there long; two minutes later, he was out again, and from the look on his face you would have thought he’d just been punched. He turned around to give Ziya a mournful look. ‘He won’t agree to your staying on here as a clerk.’

Ziya gave him a blank stare.

The sergeant hurried them over to the ammunition depot. He gave them each one canteen, one G-3 infantry rifle, two cartridge belts, one cartridge clip, and eighty rounds of ammunition, recording each consignment with the blue ballpoint pen he’d pulled from his breast pocket and then signing for it. Then they all piled under the tarpaulin at the back of a rickety truck, and with the commander in the driver’s seat, they put Ceylanpınar behind them, and with it, the State Battery Farm, and the dark little stream down from the Ali Yerelli and Sheikh Nasır brooks and flanked on both sides by lines of towering poplars. On they went in the direction of the asphalt road. With them in the back of the truck were several huge sacks of bread, and as they were knocked back and forth by the ruts on the dirt road, the sacks gave out clouds of powder that they could not stop staring at, if only because they were the only things visible under the tarpaulin.

And that was when Kenan slid over in Ziya’s direction, just a little, and whispered: ‘Let’s hope we end up in the same outpost.’

‘Let’s hope so,’ said Ziya.

He kept his eyes fixed on the clouds of powder that rose up through the darkness every time the truck swayed, contracting the tent above them only to expand it.

‘Did you see the commander’s nameplate?’ whispered Kenan.

Ziya nodded.

Briefly, they exchanged glances.

The truck began to climb up a hill. There was barbed wire running alongside the road, and beyond it was a minefield. The truck turned around a bend and stopped. They were now standing in front of the Mezartepe Outpost, and the thick stone walls that enclosed its courtyard. The commander jumped down from the driver’s seat and came around to the back. Opening the flap of the tent, he pointed to the three soldiers he saw first. ‘You, and you, and you,’ he said. When they had stepped down, he turned to the officer standing next to him. ‘I am putting these men in your charge. Now take care of the rest.’

‘Yes, sir!’ said the other.

The round-faced cook standing behind the sergeant jumped up into the back of the truck. Finding the bread sack marked ‘Mezartepe’ and cradling it in his arms, he jumped down again with a great thud.

And then they were off again. They went back down to the asphalt road, and then it was another ten or fifteen desolate minutes, until, at a crossroads, they went hurtling up another hill, this time to stop in front of Seyrantepe Station. The commander came round to the back of the truck again, lifted the flap of the tarpaulin, and, drawing a horizontal line with his forefinger, he said, ‘You two get down.’

Gathering up their things, Kenan and Ziya got down.

The truck moved on to the Ege Outpost, and as it went down the dirt road, it grew smaller and smaller, until it reached the watchtower at the end of the road, and vanished.

Once it was gone, the sergeant said, ‘Welcome,’ and shook both Kenan’s hand and Ziya’s. And then he said, ‘Go straight into the dormitory without making too much noise, and go straight to sleep, my friends. Because in just a few hours, you’re on guard duty.’

Ziya had turned to look at the graves just in front of the outpost.

Seeing this, the sergeant said, ‘Those are two soldiers who were hit during a skirmish. They’re buried here because we had no family to send them to. That’s enough fooling around. Off to the dormitory! Get some sleep!’

‘All right,’ said Ziya.

He and Kenan went across to the prefabricated building that looked like it might collapse if you so much as blew at it. The dormitory they found to the left of the entrance was no bigger than a matchbox. They lay themselves down on the two empty bunks, but surrounded as they were by so many snores and outstretched limbs, they hardly slept. Towards evening, the cook came to wake them up. Hitting the frosted glass with the back of his hand, he said, ‘Hopla! Time to get up, my fine sirs, your food is ready!’ and with that he was gone. When the men had washed their hands and faces with water pulled from the well, they proceeded to the mess hall at the back. With its uneven stone walls, it looked just like a sheep pen. And there they sat down in front of their bowls of noodle soup. After this soup, which had nothing to offer them but heat, they moved on to soggy dried beans and semolina halva that was lumpy and as hard as rock. Then they went outside, taking with them a piece of bread each, to eat during the night, while on guard duty. Some went over to the well, others to the dormitory. Others went over to stand in line in front of the roofless wooden outhouse some fifteen or twenty paces to the right. And that was when a shame-faced Kenan went up to Ziya. ‘I’ve started to itch,’ he said softly. ‘And scratch.’

‘Don’t even ask,’ said Ziya. ‘I have, too.’

Osman of Selçuk, who had been wandering amongst them like a cow let off his lead, noticed them whispering. He came to their side. Smiling slyly as he swung his head from side to side, he said, ‘Nothing to be ashamed of, friends. You can scratch to your heart’s content.’

And then he sized them up, these two, who still seemed uncertain as to how to scratch, and then, turning sad and solemn, he said, ‘Don’t get upset. You have lice, that’s all. That’s why you’re itching. But while you scratch, just remember that you’ll never get rid of them. Whatever you try, I can guarantee you it won’t work. Sometimes we put this ointment on — spread it over every inch of skin, and as if that weren’t enough, we throw all our pillows and blankets and bedding into vats, along with all our clothes, and boil them for hours and hours, but that doesn’t make a shit of difference. Twelve hours later, the lice are back. Because these little critters live inside the earth, that’s why. Sit down just once at the edge of the barbed wire over there, and you’re infested. So that’s what I’m trying to tell you. Don’t be ashamed. Scratch away, and try to get used to it. You’re three-day birds, anyway. Whatever way you look at it, you’re here for another seventeen months. You don’t mind my calling you that, do you?’