PROLOGUE

The procession moved slowly on the loose ground that the teams had scattered at midnight, in their rush to finish digging the Unknown Soldier’s Grave. The crowds had settled it at dawn, when they came to honour the victims disposed of in the huge common grave. According to the will expressed in the nations’ protocol, they would all grieve together in a single ceremony that comprised the specific national features, to satisfy all factions and avoid any susceptibility.
After sunrise, the dignitaries tried to mingle in the mourning crowd with all due deference. Dressed in their typical garments, they were entitled to reach the high official sector that was meant to legislate the Memorial Truth for eternity.
To attain the desired spiritual community, no borders had been established among the participants. However, they were separated instinctively, by the colour of their mourning clothes. Most of them were women. Mothers, sisters, fiancées all gathered to stay close to those they hoped to save through their love for the last time, though they couldn’t be sure whether their dearly departed were really lying under the stones spread around the impressive monument. Former brides shivered in the cold that seemed to have fingers and grope their hidden parts.
The procession, a thin ribbon winding through the huge crowd, consisted of priests, shamans, ministers, preachers, sent by their nations to comfort the grieving souls. They were carrying their cult objects so that the crowd could see and worship them. They went round the crowd until they reached the monument, where they laid down their offerings: hair, blood, holy water, milk, teeth, chrism, all kinds of fetishistic items laid at the head of the Unknown Soldier. Meanwhile, several officials scourged themselves and begged for forgiveness.
But the prayers and the ostentation did not complete their purpose. A kind of wickedness was floating in the stale air, one that the solemn talks, the invoked divine treats and the conjured fraternal sincerity could not hide. This was something the participants were aware of; those truly humble had been preparing for it some time, for one day was not enough to soothe the troubled souls, still lying in the dust.


I 11.000 THE BARRACKS, FROM ONE AND TO THE OTHER FEBRUARY

The fallow land was completely frozen - a deserted, bumpy vastness covered in withered grass and ice crystals, bordered by a wild trench, beyond which rose a defying brand-new barbed wire fence. The heavy boots of the periodically changing sentries paced heavily and steadily on the path that followed the enclosure on the inside. The sentries could sense the everlasting snow in the aurora-coloured dawn at any moment on their route. When passing by the piquet, each of them reported: “Nothing to report”. But the officer on duty had the opportunity to hear the last shift reporting something different:
“A soldier who was gadding about started to make a small mound of stone. He said he was good at it.”
“Didn’t you challenge him?”
“Yes, I did. He introduced himself. Sergeant Opal, tombstone cutter. They say the satellite detected him. I sent him away. Are we to put the stones back?”
“No, certainly not. It may bring bad luck. Dismissed!”
There was nobody at the regimental gates. Once the compulsory assembly had finished and the soldiers were off duty, those on leave of absence would jostle one another in their attempt to steal away into the town, pretending to respect the rule: first they would crawl on all fours up to the gate, then they would slow march in front of the guard room, and finally, they would return on all fours from the gate to their quarters. The barracks were also empty except for the soldiers on duty, which wasn’t unusual for a working day. When the last officers hurrying to the schedule had passed through the lateral swing door near Gate A1 that opened to the thoroughfare, the guard chief sent a clerk to have those under arrest carry logs. Small groups of soldiers watched over by an armed soldier started carrying heavy baskets of logs chopped by two volunteers to the iron stoves in the piquets. Those were the only buildings that didn’t have central heating, because of the investment instalments, said some, or because of the racketeers, said others, who also added that the supply store had disappeared before anybody realised it wasn’t meant for repairs. Anyway, a huge log pile was rising near the western fence, the supply for training and for the field kitchens in case they ran out of liquefied gas.
At eight o’clock the officer on duty responsible with the whole unit started to make the rounds. It was an occasion to see all the sectors in action. For this purpose he had the second off-road vehicle of the patrol guard at his disposal.
For an ignorant watching the area from far above the ground, the continental base of Division 13.3 resembled an enormous puzzle with very similar modules; the only “real” structure was the Headquarters, a three-storey office building “swarming with pen pushers”, as the active officers said, “three for one soldier.” The other buildings were Stillman quarters distributed in clearly marked geometrical sectors. Paint hadn’t been spared, so the yellow officers’ mess and the green privies struck even a recruit’s eyes. The entrances were marked with white arrows, the doors at the two ends of the quarters were brown, as were the window frames; the sheet iron roof of the Headquarters had its own nice light blue tint, a bright skylight opened in the dull season. The main alleys that delimited the units were paved and bordered with thin green strips of land surrounded by wire; the others, growing narrower and narrower as they advanced between the inferior subunits, were made of compacted gravel.
The daily schedule started according to the rules, with the homogenisation drill. The regiments were out on the training field, the first two standing by the armoured vehicle and service shed, the other two by the Stationary, the medical company area, right near the transmissions Battalion. They moved in parade march against the frost that reigned beyond the barracks perimeter.
Scattered on the limitless field covered in moss, lichen, herb tufts and rare, low shrubs, the troops looked insignificant and dissembled in the landscape. The orders sounded less and less firm, the sound alarms were diluted. Only the whistles of the sergeants managed to produce sounds as high as the biting wind that hardened the whitish soil coating. The manoeuvres, distributed with the subunits, had been repeated many times before, and the new soldiers took advantage of any break to ask questions or exchange information and impressions. Each break they got together in restless groups animated by warming gestures. The various actions of the constantly regrouping detachments that blackened the snow on the ground stopped for the eleven o’clock break; the physical training was to follow, so the formations concentrated on the central training area, where there was hardly room enough for a small part to move freely.
Some of the soldiers surrounded the so-called sportive drill “cabins” - portals made of metal poles with joined bars, ropes and ladders on the four sides; others ran to the neighbouring tracks, mobile gates and lateral obstacles. Taking advantage of the idle periods and the random distribution, a small number of soldiers vanished in the northern privies, but most of them concentrated around the football ground, because the instructors had arranged a game between the selected teams of Battalions 24 and 34. The crammed spectators were having fun giving indications to the amateurs players that ran carefully on the frozen hard earth, whose boundaries one could never guess.
Trampling to warm his feet, soldier Fergans, 3rd Company, Battalion 31 addressed his closest comrade:
“The worse the weather, the richest the year… unless the frost isn’t too hard. Weather… Back home, my people have finished planting the potatoes and are now planting cotton; the almond trees have lost their leaves the second time and the peach trees are in full bloom, while here… The buds are frozen and the ground cannot be prepared for sowing…”
“Why are you following me like a sheep? asked the other, looking him in the eyes. You’re a farmer, I’m a tradesman, we don’t fit. As I see, you don’t even understand football!”
“I hope all you get when you’re hungry will be football”, said Fergans offended and left that unfriendly company.
Regiment 13.32 had serious reasons to worry about their team. Wentchowsky, whom the soldiers had called a bloody monster from the very first contact and whose rank as a captain did not stop him from feeling in excellent shape and very privileged, was playing for Battalion 34. Though a defence player, he always went beyond the centre line and demanded to receive the ball; then he would retreat slowly and block the adversary attackers to ruin their combinations, bent and push his adversaries in their ribs. Now he did this to Bakel and knocked him down and the supporters booed at him. Bakel, a well built Creole, rose and cursed him. The referee blew his whistle when he saw that Wentchowsky was ready to fight back and the regimental trainer used the interruption to send his secret weapon on the ground – Ruiz, from the special research detachment of the Staff, secretly co-opted in the Battalion 24 team. Rough but well trained, like all his kind, he knew what he was supposed to do: when the game was resumed, he took the first opportunity to lunge in front of frantic Wentchowsky, positioned near the area, and hurled him in a spectacular plunge, ignoring the referee’s whistling. The other players gathered in a minute, some placatory, some ready for a short scuffle. Face to face with massive Ruiz, who was smirking and standing in a queer guard, Wentchowsky stopped, subconsciously recognising the typical brawler species that he also belonged to, then shook his head:
“I’ll see you some other time, lad” he threatened. “Seems you’re not much of a football player.”
“Captain”, the referee broke in, “it’s just a game.”
“Whenever you like, captain”, replied Ruiz. “Seems your company needs some real action.”
“Are we playing or are we fighting? Isn’t it cold enough? Show them the red card and get over with it!”
The shouting of the fighters put an end to the dispute. Red with anger and limping, Wentchowsky made for the edge of the improvised football ground and signalled to the reserves. He heard Ruiz shouting: “If only I had slapped him once!” It was enough for him to set free his dark thoughts, as one could easily notice after the way he snapped at his solicitous assistant who was trying to put his uniform back in order.
The game was resumed, but Bakel didn’t want to see how it ended. Shivering in his cold coat, he left with Toma and Parsi, the friends he had just made in Platoon 3, 2nd company of the Battalion, who were carrying his stuff. Their instinctive friendship worked from the very beginning, since dawn, though it seemed rather inappropriate. It was a relationship among very different people apparently. Sergeant Toma, a former farmer, was agile and energetic, enthusiastic but cautious. Parsi, a former shop assistant in a department store, was sensual and languid and wore a small bluish-black beard, while Bakel, who used to be a hunter, was a strong built young fellow free from any complexes.
“The bastard wanted to break my bones”, Bakel complained. “I can feel a twinge here in my left side. I shouldn’t wonder if I were to lie in the hospital.”
“If the worse comes the worst, the nurse will sit on top of you”, Parsi encouraged him.
They laughed. From what they had seen so far, there were no women in the medical staff. The only females in the bivouac were the bitches that found shelter in the service sheds.
“You’re like a young bull, Bakel”, Toma patted him on the back. “Go wash yourself, change your clothes and I’ll give you the perfect remedy for starters.”
The sergeant went to the regimental food station, eager to discuss with the regimental adjutant Tezel about the planned acquisition. But the station was closed, the schedule said, and nobody opened the door though he knocked at it several times, which told him that the owner was really not there. He returned to his comrades as they followed the marks that indicated the road to their barracks.
The man he was looking for, in charge with the Battalion supplies and the Supply-Transport Platoon, was not very far. Actually he was at the supply station of Battalion 31, where he was lecturing the clerk who had come to him with the idea of a small business:
“Do you think you’re the first to do this? I did it myself wherever I went. I’ll give you a leave of absence record, all sealed in advance. You hand the leaves to people during your shift as events require, that’s for you to know better. Once a record finished, you submit the counterfoil and get another one. It’s very easy! Welcome to the „pharmacists”!”
“The pharmacists?”
“Yeah, haven’t you noticed that the leave of absence notes are like medical recipes?”
“I see. But what if a “patient” makes much ado about it?”
“Do you see those three over there?” Tezel pointed at the soldiers tinkering about the store shelves. “They are called “The Diggers” because they are so quiet and obliging; they had to find shelter here, outside it was too hot for them, do you get it? You tell me, I tell them and the job is done!”
“Did you ever?” exclaimed the clerk. “If you hadn’t warned me, I shouldn’t have known. Ok then. Give me one of those books!”
Together with the other soldiers who enjoyed a free half our before the call for lunch, Toma and his two friends walked on the narrow alleys of the geometric labyrinth to their quarter, the quarter of the 2nd company. The front door was blocked so they went to the other one. The dark rows of bunk beds looked very similar, but they knew precisely where to find theirs. The orderly gave them a suspicious look when they hung their coats without looking at the rack. Bakel took his soap and towel from his locker before going to the left lavatory. Briefly he stuck his tongue at himself in the shining mirror and his swarthy face shone and winked back at him like an accomplice. Toma fumbled through the night table, took out a full bag and started with Parsi to the company club.
People had already gathered in the low club room. Most of them were watching TV. The passionate gamblers were slapping their cards on the table, encouraged by the kibitzers breathing behind their napes, ready to take their seats. Bakel joined the two people who were browsing the illustrated magazines on the chess table. Through the window, a few yards away, he saw the window of the 3rd Company and a soldier climbed on a chair standing on a table.
“Now that we know the truth”, started Parsi, “maybe we should make a decision.”
“This war’s not clean”, said Toma and shook his head.
“It’s all the same to me”, Parsi shrugged. “It’s just a job like any job, but better paid. The officers get a lot of money.”
“Maybe demobilization”, said Bakel dreamy. “If I were discharged, I’d never stop running till I reach the middle of the woods!”
“You couldn’t do otherwise. Once you’ve reached the center of a wood, you can only get out of it. So you’d go back to being a hunter.”
“Yes, but I’d hunt animals, and only to make a living. I know them and they know me, while here…”
The club door opened. A soldier stood in the doorway. He squinted his eyes. He was a handsome Dravidian, despite his uniform. Behind him, a yellow face with Asian features showed up. After a short hesitation, they made for the three soldiers.
“I’m Cafid”, the Dravidian introduced himself, “3rd Company, Battalion 31. And this is my friend Fusi, same company, different platoon. We came to say we’re sorry, Bakel. I’ve seen all the games since I was a child and I can tell you that what Wentchowsky does is called anti-football. You deserve all my respect. The honour of the Battalion is a slogan, I swear on this quarter!”
“Thanks”, said Toma. “Forget about that stupid captain for a while and spend some time with us. What did you do before you joined the army?”
“I was a wood carver. Fusi here was a fisherman.”
Fusi gave a short, approving nod.
“But I prefer warm-blooded animals”, he added. “We understand each other better.”
When the trumpets finally sounded for lunch, the soldiers streamed out of the quarters, assembled under the adjutants’ surveillance and started for the central terrain, where each unit formed a hollow square for the report. From there the companies marched in groups, each to its mess. The first group had already gone in when the trumpets sounded the salute to the General, indicating the arrival of the division commander. The troops murmured. It wasn’t the right time. The officers were also stunned. They radiotelephoned the superior echelons asking for details but all they got was dull confirmations.
The General was indeed at the Headquarters where, following the urgent calling, the regiment commanders, the arms commanders, their deputies and the unit coordinators had gathered in the council room at the ground floor, eager to meet their new commander. They watched the General seated at a small table and taking a bunch of papers from the map case his aide-de-camp had handed him. They turned their heads when he raised his scrutinizing eyes.
“I’m Lieutenant-General Marmon and you are temporarily under my command”, started the division commander. “I’ve got two envelopes. One contains the order of battle, which I shall read at once, so that we can go into details. The other  he fluttered the sealed envelope  contains personal instructions, so-called sealed dispositions. He stopped and pointed his finger to the vacant seat in the first row. Where is Mr… ?” Full of deference, his aide-de-camp provided him with a name. “Where is Colonel Doman? Write down his absence! Gentlemen, I convene the task force!”
The officers stood up all at once, eager to talk to the General unofficially. While gathering his papers, the General added something like “Be good shepherds and take care of your herd”. They all knew the task force implied the marching order, but they could guess the objectives. The first to talk to the General was Major Aht, the officers’ head, who wanted him to sign the observation report of the assembly.
“A special mission, General?” asked the divisionary deputy cautiously.
“As when the Alliance won victories á la Pyrrhos”, answered the General ambiguously.
“General, would you be our guest at our mess?” Colonel Lastings, the commander of Regiment 13.31. broke in ceremoniously.
“I was planning on going to 13.33”, said Marmon. “But I’m taking this opportunity to inform you that the officers can get their monthly pay in advance, so that they settle their accounts with the mess and make things easier by skipping some stages.”
The officers looked at one another meaningfully. Suddenly they knew enough. Their files had been obviously read, as the commander of regiment 13.33 was Lieutenant-Colonel Ghirin, twice promoted to exceptional so far.
“Come on, Lastings, I’ll honour you some other time”, said Colonel Tamay, the commander of regiment 13.32, tapping him on the shoulder. “I’ll bring the desert!”
The two colonels were the first to leave, as their position entitled them; the rest of the officers followed them. Outside they gathered in small groups saluted by the soldiers who were streaming to the quarters.
The second series had just finished eating when the trumpets called for the assembly, so they were directed to the central area. “They are cutting our break short again”, the soldiers in the quarters mumbled when the sergeants whistled and the adjutants shouted while they were putting their uniform on again. “It’s high time the officers learnt the regulations themselves.”
The subunits streamed to the “larger square" that included almost all the division. Jostling and trampling, the soldiers crammed into one another in a dense mass within which the addicted smoked furtively, hidden from the their superiors’ eyes aligned in the first rows. Periodically, the realigning effective stopped the murmurs. At long last, the officers in blue coats appeared saluting the General. A vehicle stopped in the middle; the weak silhouette of the division commander was standing on it.
“Soldiers”, his strong voice came from the loudspeakers in the terrain corners, “we have received the marching order!“
He waited for the murmur to soothe.
“Go on with your schedule, while your officers will take care of the secondary aspect. The preparations will take an hour over the schedule! Tomorrow we shall be far away! Good morning, soldiers!”
“Good morning, General!” thundered the military.
The General and his staff started for the Headquarters followed by the rest of the officers. The soldiers started making comments, small smoke clouds rising above their berets. The square became a shapeless expanding stain. Then at the adjutants’ order, the only remaining commanders, the companies regrouped and went back to the quarters.
“We’re going straight to the front”, Toma told his friends in group A of Platoon 3. “You’ve heard it yourselves, but I bet the captain’s got more to tell us.”
“So much for our well-being”, Parsi complained. “Just when I was getting used to it.”
The soldiers spread noisily to their quarters to take off their uniforms, wash and go to bed for the next half an hour, as the regulation dictated. They stopped to read the notice board, but the information was old. They were too troubled to go to bed at once. Most of them wanted to know which things were theirs personally and which belonged to the company and what was the marching direction  a stream of questions nobody was able to answer. Some of them had just discovered what their comrades were really like and started questioning them: “What are you doing here? How do you make a living at home? What’s your neighbour’s name?”
Dragging their feet on the brown floor of quarter 32.24.04, the soldiers climbed into their bunk beds, the iron frames creaking under their writhing bodies.
“Move your feet away”, said a platoon guide to his neighbour who was dangling his bare feet over the bed panel.
“I can’t. I’ve got a professional disease, you know. I’ve had it since I was a waiter… Flatfoot, they call it. Doctors have so many names for a disease. I even gave them intimate details and they said I was nosy.”
“Hey you, nosy guy, your feet stink.”
“That’s not true”, objected the former waiter. “It’s because of the effort!”
“If I tell you they stink, then I’m right. And you know why they stink? ‘Cause you’ve stuck them into your ass!”
As the joke was repeated, the guffaws propagate to the other end of the quarter of the 4th Company, Battalion 24; one of the comrades was so overjoyed that he raised a leg and announced:
“Right bassoon, heavy fire!” and he farted five times in a row, much to the delight of the audience.
Postman corporal Edin of the 36 Service Company was among the military who weren’t quite sure about what the preliminary preparations were about. As usual, he delivered the mail to the Battalion 33 group commanders at the mess entrance, fighting those who didn’t get anything, then he went to the services sector, carrying in his mind a vague remembrance of a public school for orphans where he hadn’t been able to adapt. He decided to find Captain Cotis, the Battalion priest, and confess. To his amazement, the place was full and he had to queue.
To respect everyone’s spiritual inclinations, every regiment had its own House of Prayers on the alley of the first Battalion. It was a Stillman quarter painted in pink and white, like a lollypop. Besides the four religions with employed staff, the House had separate doors for different cabins. The cabins were organised and decorated with proper symbols: Shintoist, Confucian, Taoist and Mosaic. There were also several “white” cabins, presumptive shelters for animists, totemist, fetishists, heavenly body adorers or possible misanthropes. The news spread quickly that Father Cotis was able to provide a good piece of advice for anybody irrespective of the problem and he was available permanently, no matter what the timetable said.
All the commanders and their substitutes were crammed in the Headquarters. They moved from one office to another to get, if possible, written instructions about their immediate missions. The phone buzzing mingled with the active officers’ harsh voices and the monotonous calls of the speakers on the hall. Whoever one was and whatever he had to do, he had to wait for long periods during which, though face to face, people hardly said a word. By five in the afternoon the scurrying stopped and the officers returned to their sectors where they were to instruct their NCOs.
Staff Major Bersul called a messenger and told him what to do:
“Get your rattletrap and take this sealed map to the garrison. Deliver it and make sure you get some written proof. On the way, drop this personal letter into a quick post box. Mind you, don’t miss the slot!”
“Yes, Sir”, the messenger smiled when he noticed a woman’s name on the envelope. “I’ll do it by the book!”
“That’s my boy!” The major tapped his shoulder. “Now go!”
Actually the letter was very short: “The division is to leave southwards through Krons at once. Unspecified final objective. I’ll send the possible details gradually.”
At five p.m. the trumpets sounded the schedule display and the NCOs hurried through the quarters to stimulate the military. Most of the soldiers had hardly had time to take a nap. They had either chatted or tossed about under their blankets. Now they put on their uniform and went out again, two platoons through the one entrance, two through the other, grabbing their coats from the rack and tightening their belts. Outside they read the notice boards again but there were no news, just a small announcement stuck above the timetable that summoned all the faithful to a Te Deum after the evening meal.
The afternoon schedule, which included “administrative activities”, deserved its name that afternoon. The soldiers had to clean their weapons and sort their equipment, all sorts of additional toils imposed by the services, whom all the companies had given some of their manpower. This was only for the infantry. The armoured vehicle and artillery regiments were concerned mainly with checking their tools and the fuel tanks.
Taking advantage of the break in the armoured vehicle repair shop, private Schalio of Battalion 14 went to a locksmith bench, opened the tool kit and started working at something. For the beginning he decorated his belt with little aluminium rivets, then he decided upon the war helmet. It took him some time to undo its double lining. The low drone of the drill encouraged his gestures to be more precise.
“What are you doing here?” came a voice from nearby.
Schalio startled and stared at the officer behind him, an infantry major whom he didn’t know. He saluted clumsily, careful to hold the helmet on the bench.
“Sir, I’m improving my personal equipment, Sir!”
“For you information, I’m Major Denosc, Battalion 33. Are you any good? Can you fix a lock?”
“I’m the best in the trade, Sir!”
“Then come to me in ten minutes, got it?”
“Yes, Sir!”
Schalio gave a relieved laugh watching the officer exiting the workshop without looking back. He returned to punching his helmet, but he stopped, his mouth wide open: somebody or something invisible and merciless was strangling him. He shook the sensation away. “Bad sign”, he thought. “I should stop and get out of here immediately.”
Crouched on the lower bed, private Titubé of Battalion 32 waited for his comrades to leave. He made sure he was alone in the quarter, took his nail clippers and started cutting his finger nails carefully. He counted every nail piece and put it on a white sheet of paper. He had wrapped his rough hair locks in coloured thread. Each distant noise made him startle. If anyone turned up and saw him, his body would fall to pieces. The intruder could take one living piece of him and thus take his body into possession. He gathered the nails in a paper ball, put on his coat and made for the main depot, below which the soil was loose enough to hold his offering.
The transmissions Battalion was silent. Its soldiers were used to moving and ready to change places any time; the only thing that counted for the superiors was the easy-fitting uniform in the overheated stations. There was a story about a High Command General who had been locked deliberately in the station because he demanded that the typical uniform should be worn. On being released, he declared that the sauna had been a real delight compared to the stinking morass he had to stay in.
The Stationary – the medical company – was also quiet. Here the trailers were counted on a daily basis and the consumable supply refreshed in case intervention became imminent. Two or three people were inside, the rest were distributed with the other regiments. The shining windows contrasted with the darkness outside. Private Halaf, a chauffer, of the 26 service company, regiment 13.32, after hiding his pornographic pictures back under his things in the night table, came out whistling a tune. He seemed to have no worries and went to the regimental dispensary to look for Polihen, medical orderly and stretcher-bearer.
“I say, comrade, get me some glycerine.”
“Why, have you run out of vaseline?” asked Polihen, smoothing his hair longer than the rules allowed.
“Don’t get smart with me. I put it in the gasoline`. It improves performance, especially if the cold is going to last.”
“I can get you some fifty grams if you really need it.”
“I can’t do anything with less than a litter. Come on, I’ll return the favour.”
“I’ll get you two hundred grams from the pharmacy now”, said Polihen after a short hesitation. “And I’ll see what I can do tomorrow when I talk to my comrades.”
“You’re a whale of a fellow!”
“Don’t say that”, snapped the orderly looking behind his left shoulder. “I don’t want you to stick to me like a leech. Wait here while I’m doing my own investigation.”
The quarters were lit brightly, as if a celebration was ready to start, a hint that they wouldn’t be turned off before the evening call. The soldiers were dismissed to their quarters. They were to arrange their uniform, wash up, get their cutlery – all reflex gestures for the last part of the schedule. Impatient, entering both sides of the buildings, the soldiers jostled against the others carelessly between the night tables on the crowded space.
The last transport of soldiers granted short leave of absence was coming on the by-road. Sergeant Anaka with his olive complexion was swinging joyfully among his fellows in Battalion 31. He explained them that his former profession as a sailor made him see the horizon changeable. His smart comrades had had time to find out that he was an expert in stealing money called “interest on goods”. They passed by the guard room to hand in their leaves of absence and to be checked against smuggled objects by the checkers who were looking for hidden recipients, aware that one had to be really stupid to make use of such a channel. They went back to their quarters, pleased in their hearts.
When the trumpets sounded the evening meal assembly, the subunits hurried to fit in the schedule. The companies were grouped on the alleys corresponding to the quarters, so that they could march to the mess right after the call. Suddenly a cold gust swept the southern thoroughfare, cursed by the soldiers.
“Had I been a raven, my balls would have broken already!” a fierce voice said.
In parade march, the first series of Battalion 24 entered the mess quickly; the groups grabbed the food trays and sat on the benches siding the long tables, cramming to make room for everybody, except the sergeants responsible with the tables, placed at the ends. As that was the last dinner in that place, the people were shining with contaminating joy.
“Close your eyes and gobble whatever you have on your plate!”
“He’s from Oha’s country, he can’t tell which is which!”
“I’ve had enough, says the sow. Maybe only this one, ‘cause it’s hot.”
“The cook makes excellent macaroni: he mixes holes with dough!”
“Ha-ha, that’s a good one!”
“He who laughs last laughs best.”
“Stupid invention”, mumbled Bakel, studying the tray with different holes for the different dishes. You have to spin it a hundred times to eat everything on it.
“Do you think this is better?” asked his neighbour, licking his “paddle”.
The object was a folding spoon with a fork at the other hand. An amateur philologist from the administration sector had tried without success to naturalize the term “teaspork”.
“Do you want a second helping?” shouted someone in the second series, putting his head through the door and withdrawing it quickly when his saliva dropped because of the huge bread crumbs in his mouth.
Those outside felt frustrated not only because the evening was cold, but because they kept thinking about the officers’ mess, a nicely lit place like the neighbouring club, always full of people and without time restrictions.
Inside the club, the officers of the regiment 13.32 had joined three tables and were having a hot conversation. They were drinking the brandy Colonel Tamay had brought and avoided the camping topic with obstinacy. Colonel Doman, commander of regiment 13.34, who didn’t care a fig about the absence recorded in his file, had also joined them.
“What do you expect? You can’t miss such a great opportunity. She’s an actress, she’s blonde, and all the rest. I had a feeling we were to be put on a diet.”
People always liked listening to him when he was talking; he was an imposing male, always ready to party. His file, however, revealed that the former soldiers’ son had graduated the Institute of Chemistry before going to the Military Academy. He was an educated officer for whom discipline was something natural and who considered the military secrets a second nature.
“A diet indeed”, repeated someone with a sigh. “They gave us our pay in advance as food money. This way we can’t save anything.”
The few officers sitting around the tables a little farther were of the same opinion. They drank beer from the canteen attendant and made polite conversation; lost in their thoughts, they left for their rooms by turns to finish their preparations, drink up their beverage supply or just chat; it seems nobody wanted to sit and wait for the lights to go out and the prolonged schedule encouraged various recovering activities.
After leaving the projection room, lieutenants Canciano and Papas, 4th Company, Battalion 31, preferred the club to the temporary room they had been given. Lying comfortably on their beds, they recalled the films they had once watched and enjoyed remembering their preferences that helped them forget about the present, passionate film lovers as they were, always finding confluences in their new comradeship.
“Ghandi was more impressive in its world”, said Canciano. “Leaving the prize criterion aside, I was very impressed by Amarcord; you know, the lunatic taken for a walk and all the people around.”
“You’re taking the social aspects into consideration”, replied Papas, “because things in this big world do not happen as in our own little world. In this way you can think about The Sand Woman or Z. But tell me, when you see a bloody conflict, a terrible fight, don’t you get emotionally involved? A good film touches your personality…”
“Still” said dreamy Canciano, “the strangest sensation I felt when I graduated the military school. You know, the ‘christening’ in the quarter…Everybody is naked and jostling… the incantation… a mixture of disgust and ecstasy that no woman has ever offered me… the feeling that glory and death are forever natural…”
“Come on, Can, cool down, this is the quarters”, his comrade interrupted him calmly.
They looked at each other pleased both, pleased: two young men looking lovely in their uniforms, their souls comforted in similar dreams, troubled by the tramping subunits on the way to the quarters.
Behind the separating wall, another pair of lieutenants was in, but not saying a word. They had met in the morning, scrutinised each other on the instruction field and at the mess, and then checked their hand luggage with prudent movements and ceremonious apologies in the room. Lieutenant Jean Paul turned on the radio expecting a sarcastic remark from his room mate, whose terrier-like profile was always contemptuous. But Lieutenant Cannes didn’t say anything. He just put on a woollen vest over his pyjamas and lay on the bed. Jean Paul went to bed soon after him, leaving the lights on. They lay down like that for a while, until the monotonous singing of a band came in through the window.
“Idiots”, hissed Jean Paul’s room mate.
He turned around and studied Cannes’ profile. “He seemed to be talking to the ceiling.”
“Why idiots?” he wanted to know.
“Because they don’t realise they are part of a system. Everybody does what they are supposed to do.”
“You mean we don’t live only for the sake of living?”
“For survival only! But that’s exactly what the army does, it kills your preservation instinct so that you can carry out orders.”
They kept silent, lost in their thoughts.
The quarters looked packed because the half-naked soldiers kept walking both ways, concerned with the preparations. Some fumbled through the night tables sorting trifles and cramming their packs; other were queuing at the showers, shaving or doing their laundry. The water heated in the boilers was barely warm, causing a lot of cursing. The wires stretched above the radiators were loaded with laundry oozing with water that damped the air. Several soldiers went into the club to write their last letters, bothered by the few careless individuals who watched TV and the eternal gamblers. Little radio sets played everywhere to satisfy all kinds of tastes.
Captain Willeb had finished his dinner. He decided to chat with the men in his company. They gathered with difficulty, mumbling and pretending to be busy. In the end they made a small group interested in the possible news.
“Are we going to fight, Captain?” someone asked.
“Boys, you’re young, but I won’t hide it from you that we’re starting a long, very important campaign. It’s up to you to maintain your unity, that’s the secret. I have a son, he’s a college student. I have always advised him to be disciplined, goddamn it, discipline is crucial… You’ll be in unusual situations yourselves!”
Before ending his digression Willeb felt twinges in his stomach again. He’d been feeling them a lot lately. He tossed his cap, took out his handkerchief and wiped his eyelids, tossed his cap back, touched the twisted strands on his left shoulder, said “damn it” again and left.
Corporal Rufus jumped in the interval, pulled his beret over his nose and faked crying. He wiped his eyes with a dirty handkerchief, then spat among the others.
“Goddamn it”, he shouted, can you hear me? My son… a COLLEGE student!”
“Take him to the spittoon!”
“Why is he talking nonsense? What’s his son got to do with us?”
“You should have heard him lecturing the three of us and the one over there during the break. He said: ‘Boys, we’re a big family here. One has a pound of sugar, all of us of have a pound of sugar. Don’t get greedy!’ He said we should show some sense of justice!”
A soldier in underpants dashed between the bed rows and vanished through the door, chased by another one who was half naked and threatened to kill him if he caught him. The others guessed the former had been caught pinching. He was chased in several quarters, but he was skilful enough to avoid the frozen paths. The noise bothered Cafid.
“Let’s have a smoke outside”, he asked Fusi and grabbed his coat.
The constantly blinking lights in the quarters and the rumours coming from everywhere underlined the unusually prolonged schedule and the strain among the military. The Blind, a skewbald dog of Battalion 31, stopped on the green strip in front of the two soldiers. Fusi slid down to the ground slowly and started grumbling. Down on his paws, the dog approached him little by little. They lay face to face, staring at each other. Suddenly the dog gave a moan, licked something invisible, and fell on one side without making a move.
“You could tame snakes”, Cafid said.
“There were plenty of snakes in the lagoons I used to fish in. I called them in a low voice. They understand messages, you know?” Fusi got up slowly. “This world of ours has so many strong ties, but some of us have forgotten their roots. ”
“I swear on the Youma woods, you shouldn’t have become a soldier. You’re a damn pacifist.”
They shook hands and went back to the quarter, peace in their souls. The Blind sprang up, smelt the air and stole away by the quarters to the wire fence where a sentry in a long coat and a hood under his beret was patrolling. The sentry ignored the animal even when it started making long-drawn howls with its muzzle smelling the surrounding mist.
Sergeant Anaka had a chiefly practical goal: once he had been informed of the news he asked the sentries where he could find private Pujoltorak, the shoemaker of company 36(S). He found him sitting cross-legged and sewing on the bed.
“Listen, comrade”, he started, “give me a pair of insoles.”
The initiated knew that Pujoltorak’s main concern was to make small improvements to the military boots – sponge lining, insoles, leather laces, little belts – to bring them as close to perfection as possible.
“I’ll pay you”, promised Anaka. “I went in town today but do you think I had time to play the spy? My woman wanted me to have her on the bedside so I tied her properly with my coat belt. She looked like an anchor hawse from behind.”
“Dash my buttons!” Pujoltorak salivated with interest.
He never got tired of stories about women if they contained any unusual detail. The sergeant’s colourful story, good to attract the attention of those around him, helped him make the deal so he left for his quarter very pleased. Through the club window he noticed a soldier from Battalion 24 sitting on a chair standing on a table.
The soldier in that superior position was Ubart, 2nd Platoon, 3rd Company. Sometimes he cast despising looks on the neighbours who dared protest and blew smoke circles towards the TV set and the polo championship, the only schedule he allowed, to spite his comrades in the room. Every now and then he snapped a remark to soldier Gudina, who was lying on two chairs, his elbow rested on the table. They had become friends early that morning, from the first conversation they had. Ubart was neither solid nor aggressive, but his poker face and cold eyes broke off the words and smiles on the faces of the few who had planned on sounding him during the morning schedule.
The plaintive trumpet sounding the tattoo rose above the military complex. As usual, the trumpeter of regiment 13.33 added a Dixie turn; several confinement notes had already been written in his file to reduce his enthusiasm, but he didn’t care. The lights in the Stillman quarters went off, only the reddish flickering of the watch lights and the white flashes of the TV screens that were always on. Quite a few soldiers took advantage and stayed in the clubs, if not for the sportive shows or the card games, at least to hide their worries about the following days.
In the club of the 2nd Company, Battalion 24, sergeant Toma was heating a teapot he had taken from the kitchen on the electric stove under the TV table. The men around the TV screen filled their mugs by turns, went to Parsi who poured some rum from a flask in them and returned to their places to talk about the world outside the barracks. Most of them didn’t even remember it very clearly and said they had just been born that morning.
“What’s going on here? Haven’t you heard the trumpet?” shouted adjutant Honzo from the doorway. He was doing his round. “Back to your quarters! Now!”
“You’re looking for a fight”, somebody whispered.
“Who said that?” he thundered, approaching them with a lantern. Report and confinement! No, no confinement, double toils!”
“Wait a minute, Honzo”, Toma broke in. “The General has prolonged the schedule and from tomorrow on we shall be in the first line, as they say. People are making preparations, how can you think they will be able to sleep tonight? Have a mug of tea, it’s cold outside.”
The adjutant hesitated. The only book he read was the military regulations that he detailed with extreme pleasure. The pessimists said he had gone crazy because of this, others thought he was taking care of his future. Reemployment was a sure food source. He understood he had to solve his dilemma.
“No more than ten minutes”, he allowed, taking a mug. He tossed it and went back to checking the rest of the quarters.
At the door he stopped corporal Rufus who was dressed and ready for a night walk.
“What are you, a sleep walker?” he asked him ironically.
“Honzo”, the soldier replied unceremoniously while grabbing his arm, “I’ve got to find a medical orderly. Somebody fired a buck-shot between my shoulders, can’t you see I’m bleeding? Please don’t tell anybody, I’ll be right back.”
“But you’re…” the adjutant mumbled. The he exclaimed, suddenly illuminated: “I’ll see to it right now.”
He opened his jacket, turned him around to pull his collar and uncover his back. He used his thumb to press strongly several points between the shoulder blades, levelled the indexed positions, pulled back his jacket, turned him around and shouted in his white face:
“Fit!”
The corporal saluted, about-faced and went back in.
In the quarters, the soldiers had wrapped their belongings and put them on the tables near the lower beds. They wore pyjamas and warm clothing, but very few were really asleep. Those in neighbouring beds chatted and told jokes and burst into laughter; the gamblers went on playing fervently under the watch lights, trying to change their luck; a couple were lying on their back with their helmets on the head. Sometimes they shivered. The sentries, having checked the water taps in the lavatories, the windows and the space distribution, were standing by the doors, their senses alerted to catch any sign of inspection.
The sentry of the 3rd Company, Battalion 42 almost had a heart attack when a roar came from behind him.
“Quiet, you idiot!” shouted private Uriat, swinging his huge head over the bed panel.
The gamblers burst into laughter and one of them gave a sudden burp. But Uriat had nothing to do with them; he climbed down and shook his comrade who was snoring peacefully on his back with his mouth wide open. He climbed back in his bed, ignoring the people who were entering the quarter to undress and get their things ready – the regular club attenders who had stopped their favourite entertainment for that night.
The military retired gradually; the low voices and the exclamations were replaced by snores and sobs. If anybody writhed in his bed, the whole structure creaked. As the doors were closed against the cold draught, the windows became clouded, the glittering ice flowers on the outside darkened and the smell of disinfectants and military gear penetrated the quarters.
The sentry of the first company of Battalion 11 left the quarter to get some fresh air. He stopped in amazement. General Marmon was watching him from less than six yards away. He reacted to the energetic gestures of his accompanying officers:
“General! I’m …”
“Take it easy, lad”, the General said. “Is everything all right?”
“Yes, Sir!”
“The last night of peace”, whispered an officer.
The sentry watched him leaving and came back to the quarter. Walking on the corridor to take the biscuit pack he kept in his night table, he felt a weakness in his groins. He saw movement in Number 23’s bed and stopped. Number 23 was the nickname the soldier had had in his detention period. In the red light of the dim bulb, the sentry watched with satisfaction two bodies writhing under the blanket. He pulled an ankle.
“Just a little more, you swine”, begged Number 23, panting. Tell on me if you like, you copper, but now bugger off!”
The ankle shook itself free and the sentry went away with a brief shudder. He fumbled for his biscuit pack and returned to his post near the first lavatory. When he finished chewing he heard the dog barking mingling with the vibrant activities of the company – a magma of burning dreams.


II. 10.000 A NIGHT IN THE CASTLE JANUARY

The atmosphere changed before dawn, when the thin layers of fog above the field grew thicker and thicker, shrouded the enclosure, crept between the buildings and confused the guards. The soldiers in the second shift came to the guard room at the fix piquet in Battalion 33. They were whistling Watch out, the skunk, as the patrol head had told them to do, in order “to avoid collisions”, but the officer on duty gave them a good dressing down.
“If he says another word, I’ll call him names”, promised the sergeant when the officer left slamming the door. “Don’t tell me he’s coming back!”
Pounding at the door was not the officer, but The Dancer, a black dog who must have got that sector when the mongrels had distributed the bivouac among them. The creature crawled in, very happy and sniffing at every soldier.
“Close that damn door”, shouted a soldier lying in his uniform on the bed. “We’ve only got a few hours left to sleep.”
“Just wait and see what I’m going to do”, said Oro-Ta-Sini. “I saw it sniffing after the skewbald bitch at the depot only yesterday.”
Seated on the bed side, the soldier grabbed the dog by the back of its head, laid it along his right hand, and started to masturbate it. The dog licked its muzzle and started making frantic mating movements. The people in the recovery room opened their eyes wide in amazement and swallowed hard. Suddenly Oro-Ta-Sini strangled the animal. It writhed a couple of times, then ejaculated and fell down, all worn out. The soldier released it and it rose slowly, cast a lazy look around, went to the door hesitatingly, pushed it and vanished.
When the trumpets sounded the reveille, sounds started to come from all over, mixing in the rolling fog. Suddenly the windows turned bright, shining over the alleys. The quarters sounded with a general sigh; at the adjutants’ orders, the shrivelling soldiers finally got up and ran to the lavatories and toilets. The more meticulous ones dealt with their bedding first to have it ready and then they put their packs on the bed. By the doors, the smokers were already enjoying their first cigarettes for the day.
“Wake up, you sluggards”, shouted Wentchowsky when he entered the quarter of the 4th Company of Battalion 34, pretending to be busy and doubling his deputy. “Stop lolling, you lazybones, the mess is closing!”
On seeing the officer and hearing his words, the soldiers put on their uniforms in a great hurry. They tried to stay off the way of their superiors who were wandering on the intervals.
“The bastard didn’t even go to bed”, someone grumbled.
The NCO’s had spread quick word about the party Wentchowsky and his room mate, Major Matia, and a couple of others had thrown the night before. Not that is was necessary. His rigid posture and bloodshot eyes betrayed him.
The morning exercises were done near the quarters, after ten minutes of body hygiene. Next the soldiers dressed in their uniforms and packed the bedding to return it in as soon as the trucks had arrived. The subunits broke into columns for breakfast under the deputies’ scrutinising eyes and the platoon leaders made for the depots to wait for their turn in taking their equipment and rations for the road. On passing by, they read the notice boards of the companies: leaves of absence, punishments, announcements, schedules  all meaningless now that the marching order had been issued.
At the service depot of regiment 13.33, chief adjutant Briss was having fun giving problems to solve to his assistants and solving them himself while they were busy with their PC’s. A mathematician by inclination and, according to his file, a former university professor, Briss was irreplaceable in organising the regimental equipment; he knew all the ranges of goods by heart, how their were distributed and when to be rejected, stocks, prices, coefficients, a combination that would baffle any inspector. The only question he couldn’t answer was why he had chosen the NCO rank. Tired with not sleeping and sorting the rations, his three assistants were looking forward to show the platoon heads the latest announcement: AFTER THAT, COUNTING WILL BE USELESS!
On the training ground, the subunits assembled for the schedule were listening to the preparation and embarking instructions and had simultaneous reactions to various implications. The engines could be heard roaring in the armoured vehicle depot. Dragging their feet in the fog, the companies marched to the depots to get their fighting kit, then to the main alleys, to wait for the truck. As the sun was rising, the people grew more nervous: troops were crisscrossing but going nowhere, so most officers allowed their men to wait in the quarters where it was warmer.
Lying on the metal structure of the bed, with his head on his pack, private Ubart was whistling indifferently. His poker face worried Gudina who preferred certitudes. Curiosity urged him, according to the rules that had both learnt when they became men.
“The marching order has been issued.”
“That’s true”.
“Technology is what matters now.”
“Yeah, against people.”
“But they come back home, ‘cause they have to.”
“Technology follows them there too.”
In the armoured vehicle repairs room, Captain Gellako of Vehicle Repairs Company 36 was being more and more sarcastic in evaluating his people’s performance.
“You’ve got no more than ten minutes to get that jalopy out of here!”, he said with eyes wide open that always had the expected impact on his subordinates.
“One does what one can”, answered calmly Conall, recently reemployed. “I’d rather replace the injection pump, if you agree to sign a check.”
“Don’t you give me justifications, just make it work!”
The “gang” private Neske had gathered from Battalion 12 sat in a circle on one of the empty beds of the quarter and played cards on two overthrown night table drawers. For a while the game went on with the usual announcements, but Neske complained the cards were too sticky.
“I hope no one’s had the courage to…”, he said, looking round from one embarrassed partner to the other. “It’s out of the question!”
“Upon my honour!” burst one of the players. You can have me checked.
“Come, come, this is a freely consented communion. But it is also very important, if we want to come back. YOU KNOW THAT!”
The others nodded, their heads bent down. The game was resumed slowly; each participant pulled a card carefully and used it ostentatiously. Nobody counted the money pushed on one side or another.
In the same way, nobody noticed the sun had risen. Its diffuse rays made the atmosphere colder. The column of the armoured vehicle regiment was displayed on the side road; the humpbacked tanks, individualized by all sorts of names – Rosamund, the Sow and the Puppies, The Friend – advanced ostentatiously with racing engines. Half out of the turret, the commander scanned the horizon. The training field was spread with covered trucks, one for each platoon and formation that arrived in marching steps but had to run from one location to another to find the embarking point.
The groups climbed in with difficulty. The soldiers placed their packs and blankets under the seats, and sat with their arms between their knees. The officer on duty pulled down the back tarpaulin. The platoon head and his deputy climbed into the cabin, A few berets could be seen through the lateral openings. The noisy soldiers grew noisier until the radio call came. During the next moments of waiting the voices went down, and the motorized column of the Battalion moved slowly around the enclosure and sped up towards the hills guessed in the distance.
“Farewell, sweet camp!” exclaimed private Entana of Battalion 33 ironically when the truck started.
He was right to be displeased: he managed to order a hang-glider from a specialised company with great difficulty in the hope that a demonstration would persuade the battle training officer to accept a sportive group. Now his only chance was lost.
Annoyed that the groups didn’t know how to form four rows and climb in the truck at the same time, the adjutant of the 2nd Company, Battalion 42 had the 1st Platoon run to the fence and back with depth alignment. After two such races the soldiers fell down on the truck floor colliding with one another and sat down all worn out. The adjutant praised them ironically before hauling the next platoon over the cools.
“This is how I ran after my fiancée when her noble family moved from their native town”, said private Yuriva calmly.
“I don’t understand how you can still talk after running like this and almost get laryngitis?”
“I can,” replied Yuriva in the same soft voice. “I never get tired. At school they called me The-one-who-never-pants.”
His collocutor waved his next question away and listened to Yuriva’s story, which was as good as any for a long road.
The division bivouac was emptying and cooling gradually. Just a few people in uniform of the permanent administration wandered about the quarters. Behind them, the cleaning teams sprayed all corners with large amounts of disinfectant. In the Headquarters building, the members of the mixed delivery-reception committee filled in duplicated forms. Every now and then one of them came to check the activity downstairs. Smoke rolled above the lavatory unit, a sign that it was working at full capacity, as the crematory.
The road on which division 13.3 was going was made of cubic stone; it didn’t have landmarks, just two lateral furrows. The changing weather had softened the mud on the road and then hardened it in narrow paths, now hidden under the snow. The field laid vast under the drivers and the commanders’ eyes, here and there covered with shrubs and small trees. Keeping the regular distance between them, the trucks advanced slowly at the low speed of the first vehicle in the column. Isolated from the world under the tarpaulins , the soldiers were trying to pass away the time until the next stage of their military life.
“A car stopped at the gate, get my sister ‘cause she’s dead”, sang Corporal Firuz, 1st Company, Battalion 34.
His platoon comrades would have liked to hear more of it; the corporal was famous for mixing lyrics from different hits to create funny combinations.
Sergeant Anaka was in a more organised truck: as they sat in a line, people started playing cards. There were at least four groups of passionate players and skilled kibitzers. The contestations were shouted in a loud voice to be understood clearly. From time to time, a cold breeze spread the smoke rolls. From the corner, Anaka was just making hints, sad that nobody took notice of him. He tried to strike up a conversation with Ah Moi, his left neighbour, but he smiled in silence and stared into vacancy. Another candidate for Heaven, he thought and found a better position as the rocking truck made him sleepy.
The column advanced on a light slope, among grey hills that hid part of the landscape and muffled the noises. The hills were left behind gradually, but the trucks slowed down on the main winding road in a locality with small houses surrounded by thick fences.
“Hooray, you swindlers!” cried Victor, the platoon guide unexpectedly. He cursed and pushed his head out of the truck, but the sergeant pulled him back. Too excited, Victor wouldn’t give up. Everybody feared his outbursts. He was a former pugilist. “Did you see that? They are going to the carnival!”
The others looked through the transparent tarpaulins. The column advanced through men in frock coats and top hats and women in long dresses and coloured scarves. A couple of carriages pulled over to free the road.
“Is this the New Year party?” asked Cafid wistfully.
“Celebrations come about when the soul needs them”, replied Fusi softly, after a while.
Twelve miles in front of the column, the soldiers in the reconnaissance battalion noticed further details. Knights in shining attire were riding away shaking their spears, while barefoot peasants dressed in brown mantles with hoods on their heads, urging along domestic beasts, stopped to bow in admiration.
“I’ll be damned if these people have ever seen troops like ours”, Ruiz told the driver.
“They are a bunch of idiots”, replied his comrade. “We should be close to the point now.”
The reconnaissance head, commander Yasena, was not satisfied. He marked all the information from the operative reports on the first map of the set he had received from the General Staff. It was a strange map in azimuth projection with very few indications that could not be used to make a summary of the region they were crossing. He contacted the advanced guard by radio - the accommodation officer, the chief of transport, even the operations chief, but nobody could give him further indications.
“It seems I am the one to discover where we are heading to”, he exclaimed exasperated. Had they been my subordinates, I would have gelded them on the spot!
His aide-de-camp, who was making an effort to hold the board still on his knees, agreed with him immediately.
“Only the Book of Meanings could tell us something about these lands!”
“What book?”
“The one that contains everything that’s written in the world. Also called the Blue Book.”
But Yasena didn’t swallow esoteric remarks. He grabbed the board from his hand and ordered him to climb up to the cupola – the transparent hood used for reconnaissance purposes – and “keep his eyes wide open until they reached the next locality.”
Meanwhile the convoy stopped unexpectedly and the vehicles pulled over in order. Each company displayed a line perpendicular to the road axis. The questions the concerned soldiers asked were given a brief reply: “the eleven o’clock break”. By turns, the platoons were aligned facing the road before they were ordered to break ranks and allowed to spread on the grey filed. Most of them crouched near the trucks, lit their cigarettes and took out the portions received from the mess.
“It’s very cold, but it’s nothing compared to the frost in the land of eternal snow”, said Ipuver, the machine-gunner to his friends in the 2nd Company, Battalion 42. “I went on an expedition to the Roof of the World, for so-called sportive and scientific reasons. I was in the escort detachment, because the area was not safe. While escalating the heights, my bosses kept mentioning “difficulties of the sixth degree”, ice guards, you know, that special language. I had the chance to see some huge beasts, a mixture of bull, horse and goat that grunted… And some monasteries in which the prayers made by spinning windmills… just like now!”
Ipuver fell silent and stared down the road, as did the others. A small group of people were coming limping from the opposite direction, grotesque creatures wrapped in dark-coloured garments under which moved wounds and broken members. The man leading them was a man with a hood on the head who was spinning a wooden cracker. The news spread quickly among the troops: Lepers! Real lepers!
A huge stone building of circular pillars was standing in the middle of the field. According to the rumours, it was a tomb. Curiosity urged private Dai to study the monument closer. The circle was made of unfinished vertical blocks surrounding an oversized ingot. “Gritstone”, he thought, “but where did they bring it from?” Carefully, he went round the structure that didn’t resemble anything familiar. At one moment he thought he saw some symbols on the foundation. He bent and turned around until the image became clearer: a row of footsteps, suggesting that someone had stepped on the path to death. “They were right”, he mumbled, somebody passed away here. I’d better go back.” And so he did, overwhelmed by the strange feeling that the traces he left on the ground followed the ones engraved on the monument.
The familiar whistles of the sergeants accompanied by horns, racing engines and shouts indicated that embarking was ordered. The division went heavily to the places from where the reconnaissance units transmitted periodic information about the stage of the route. Precisely at lunch hour, the accommodation deputy officer signalled his people to stop. The district was a large depression; far away, the road crossed the bed of a stream bordered by frozen willows.
“This damn map is no good”, stated the deputy. “The azimuth and the board meter indicate that we drove a longer way.”
The soldiers of the service sectors started stake out the terrain. They shaped a rhombus with one point at the road, crossed by two large access routes; the regimental deputies took their positions in the quadrilaterals, and the transport platoons of the regiments laid the tents in the ground. Soon a flat copy of the former stationary was shaped at a smaller scale. The dominant landmark was the telescopic mast of the flag.
Two reconnaissance vehicles crossed the wooden bridge and drove on the uneven road. Deprived of their rest, the occupants hoped to discovered something unexpected in compensation.
“At least a minor ambush”, said Ruiz’s comrade.
Jolting on the deep holes in the dusty road that replaced the stone road, they crossed a deserted locality. The houses were made of adobe and reed, some looked stronger and had small windows like dirty patches; smoke rolls and animal noises suggested hidden activities. Near the cemetery and a flat piece of ground, the recently painted church raised, imposing. Beyond the gardens separated by brambles, a castle stood on a hill. Its four towers sheltered a heavy stone building and a huge dungeon with a flag. A mobile bridge was descending over the ditch. People with weapons could be seen through the battlements. Stakes with hay tuft on top were spread on the surrounding field. The reconnaissance soldiers reported what they had seen and were ordered to return to the base.
The cantonment of the first step of the division swarmed with soldiers who were trying to adapt to the new conditions. As the accommodation deputy officer explained to the commanders, while reminding them of the instructions they had received at the chanceries, the camp had two perpendicular axes oriented after the cardinal points. Their intersection was the centre, with the Headquarters and division flag. The four squares were the four infantry regiments divided in four Battalions, and so on. “A plain geometric plan”, repeated the deputy in a hoarse voice while distributing Xerox copies with the bivouac map.
Trucks were still arriving, guided to the intersection of the access routes where they were to unload the human loads near the marks and retreat to the temporary sheds. The numb soldiers identified their sleeping places, put down their accessories and broke into columns to make for the field kitchen. The groups on duty had a lot of trouble: they rose the tents, better say, they swole them, found the gear trucks and took the quilted bundles to be used as mattresses and crammed the whole equipment inside, leaving behind pyramids of automatic weapons. Only the officers’ messes had protective tarpaulins, so the soldiers stood by the tents, on the rolled blankets, and put the mess tins down at their feet. The food was not great, just some stew and coffee. The platoons trampled in exasperation. Eating was not allowed in tents, but the soldiers kept going in to get stuff from their luggage, mainly the remaining cold portions.
The green tops of the privies were visible among the other blackout tarpaulins. There was a permanent queue, but the winding paths towards the willow line indicated the many had chosen less sophisticated methods, despite the cold.
“Beware, farts!” called out a soldier from among the trees when he saw the enormous adjutant of the antichemical protection platoon forced by his physiological needs to neglect the etiquette. The adjutant pretended not to have heard the shout and kept limping on the slope searching for a refuge.
Private Terieeto of Battalion 12 made more than one way: he climbed the tilted trunk of a willow and picked a bunch of twigs. When he turned around and jumped on the ground he found himself face to face with a lieutenant he didn’t know who in turn stared at him in surprise:
“Do you feel like playing?” the officer inquired and spat right at the roots of the willow. Tree climbing is not included in the training schedule, do you understand?
“I do”, answered Terieeto, fascinated with the new saliva stream coming out from the officer’s black mouth.
“It’s Yes, Sir, Lieutenant Nativit!”
While the soldier repeated the answer clearly, the unknown officer turned around and headed for the camp. Terieeto took the opportunity to twist a vegetal trap and threw it after him, adding “forever with you”.
At the edge of the training field, if there had been a training field, sergeant Toma’s group made a circle with their tarpaulins. They put the cold portions, generous common extra portions, in the middle. Two of them had finished eating and were smoking. From the distance the refuge resembled a fumarole exhalation. The soldiers hurried to finish their cigarettes before dark and before the night call. They exchanged small thoughts.
“This stage seems quite long”, said Parsi, trying to lie down on one side.
“It’s only the beginning”, Bakel encouraged him.
“I wonder how long the race will be”, muttered Toma. “Too many supplies…”
“That’s the limit!” flared his neighbour. “My box isn’t working!” He shook his radio, tried the buttons, and then cursed the batteries.
A little farther people separated in teams. Some were playing minifootball and improvised gates, others at leap frog or the usual buzz game, while the rest wandered here and there to recover after the monotonous trip.
There was a queue in front of soldier Aterin of Battalion 31. The soldiers had come to have their radio sets repaired and to reward him. He gave the first offer a thorough examination, cursed the second, then made up an answer valid for the rest in the queue.
“The ionosphere is interrupted… unfavourable atmospheric conditions. Get a walkman.”
Screams came from the stream. In the dark, the soldiers were running towards the tents. The orderly duty gave the alarm. The officers on duty couldn’t see the reason for it and hesitated. The runners started saying they had seen a large crowd on the opposite bank. Finally the assembly was sounded and the companies gathered in front of the tents to wait for instructions. The chief adjutants reacted immediately to the quaint-looking uniforms of the soldiers taken by surprise. They had them do something about them.
The reconnaissance Battalion was displayed on the bank. The soldiers were silent, distributed in a chain of shooters. They listened to the orders shouted noisy bivouac and the murmur of the procession on the opposite bank. It was a long display of beings crammed o the bank, with several leading flags. Every now and then the soldiers sang in a drawling voice. The 4th Company, transferred near the bridge, were the first to see the procession closer when they crossed the bridge: teenagers with sunken cheeks, large shirts of harsh fabric, some wearing fur caps or hoods, others fur vests. A few had foot wrappings, but the rest were all barefoot.
The reconnaissance Battalion commander reported that a harmless formation was passing by so the break ranks order was issued and the soldiers massed along the road. They were curios to see the locals. Battalion 31 had a favourable position and noticed with annoyance that the procession consisted only of fragile boys with old poker faces. There seemed to be no connections between them and no one said a word. They walked exhausted and indifferent, as if driven by the monotonous tunes of those who didn’t care what they sang. Their muddy feet made a dull sound; the flags above were mere fabrics painted superficially with saints and crosses.
“Did you just see that?” asked Cafid. “Clubs and scythes, those are their tools, I swear on the company boiler!”
His friend Fusi took a few steps forward and shove a slice of bread under a child’s arm; his white hair shook briefly, but he kept going. More soldiers decided to give them part of their supplies.
“Look, I think he’s eating it!” exclaimed Fusi excitedly. “He’s sharing it!”
“The march of the poor”, Colonel Tamay was telling the officers. “A typical exodus for agrarian regions.”
“In the middle of the winter?” someone wondered.
“Yes, gentlemen”, Captain Willeb broke in. “Because they have finished their supplies and fodders. Trust me, I know what I’m saying.”
The trumpets sounded the assembly. Absorbed in their thoughts, the soldiers regrouped and marched towards the edge of the encampment, where the square was to be formed. The subunits displayed in two rows, the regiment commanders waited for the reports to finish. General Marmon and his suite showed up on the inside side, preceded by the “to the General” signal.
Ignoring the road and the moment, an off-road vehicle approached the assembly at high speed; it jammed the brakes near the regimental flags and the officer on duty dashed out of it and ran to the General. He stopped a few steps in front of him, saluted and reported:
“A delegation of the locals has arrived. I think they are carrying a message. I thought it was important to report this to you in person!”
“Lead them here!” ordered Marmon. “Form the square!”
The report was tensed. On their way to the new display, the people looked up the road where the bridge was, despite the irritated gestures of the officers.
“Division, on the feet up!”
A group of knights advanced solemnly around the units, entered the square from the right of regiment 13.31 accompanied by the murmuring troops. “They’ve put on their best clothes…” “Here comes the local committee…”. The knights aligned on a single row in front of the General. The messengers were dressed in richly decorated garments: large coloured mantles that hid shining armours, reddish slacks and feathered berets. One had a cylindrical helmet on his head. Two held up spears, one with a white flag, the other was torn, but had with an imaginary animal embroidered on it. The horses were adorned with thick caparisons and masks with holes for eyes and muzzle. The knight in the middle dressed in a two-coloured garment, pulled a shiny trumpet from the saddle bow, While moving on on his horse he sounded it and started reading from a yellowish paper scroll.
“Translate!” ordered the General.
The translator officer stepped forward from among the staff officers and stood one step behind him.
“It’s primitive French, General,” he concluded. “Their master, the powerful Signore, offers to cooperate with us. He’s reading the confirmation paper. Signore invites our commander and his noblest comrades to his castle this evening…”
“Fetch a loudspeaker from the sports officer”, ordered the General to his aide-de-camp.
“…closing sentences. They are waiting for our answer.”
The herald sounded his trumpet again and gave the paper scroll to a knight who had dismounted. The later stepped forward majestically, touched the ground with one knee and handed it to the General.
“You give him the answer”, the General told the translator. “Tell them our army knows the military honours and we shall be leaving soon, without causing them any trouble. We shall honour his invitation at nine o’clock this evening, but we shall send a watch and guard detachment ahead of us. Signore should not worry, we are not interested in his territory. Use the loudspeaker!”
At the first amplified words that the division listened to in amusement, the messengers’ horses got up on their hind legs. The answer was read in silence. The messenger removed his beret with a wide gesture and bowed. When the small embassy had left on the same route it had come, the officers resumed their reports.
“A minor occurrence imposed by the circumstances”, appreciated the General. “We shall make a list of accompanying officers so that the schedule won’t suffer. A rather exotic delegation, don’t you think?”
“ All I have seen since we left the base is nothing but exotic. They haven’t even heard of toilet paper!” shouted the accommodation officer angrily.
“They like the classical protocol”, Lieutenant-Colonel Ghirin broke in.
“Then we’ll familiarize them to the modern one, then”, decided Marmon. “The commanders are to evaluate the assembly area display in the most critical manner. It was a disaster. Then order the evening schedule!”
“Looks like a practical joke to me”, said Colonel Lastings after a while to his high-ranking comrades on their way back to the tents. All those costumes…
“Old world traditions”, answered Colonel Tamay. “To stand on ceremony…. But the General doesn’t seem surprised at all. Well, tonight we’ll see the local committee in its splendour. That’s new.”
The division cantonment looked like a field of termite cathedral mounds. The military were moving ceaselessly. The blackout lights in the swollen tents and the fire in the field kitchen enlarged the shadows and deformed the volumes, but for the soldiers there was a meaning in everything they did: fill your tin trays, grab your bread, and eat your dinner with the rest of your group crammed by the tent. The messes were being installed and there was some confusion, so the adjutants took the opportunity to order the series of troops to adapt to the schedule. Those who had already eaten were making their beds, arranging the packs and clothes at the bed head. Some wrapped themselves in blankets and smoked their last cigarette before the lights went out. The platoon leaders instructed their sergeants to respecting every stage of the evening schedule before they retreated to their four-people shelter.
Crouched in his truck cabin, looking at pictures that recalled faraway lands, private Halaf the chauffer was mumbling: “A silly mission, this stage… where are we going to? All I’ve seen is just misery. It might be a whim of our superiors. We were doing too well… Wow, what a splendid position for these bandy legs! Now we’re having fun with the masturbation competition. The faggots will be thrilled!”
Dark thoughts hunted Polihen, the medical orderly, while he listened to the medical company 28 surgeon telling his evening jokes, half encouraging, half cynical, making the medical tent burst with laughter. He wondered what he had done wrong that day to feel overwhelmed by malefic presences for which the material the tent was made of was thinner than the spider web. He fumbled in his sack, took a garlic piece, tore the top and drew crosses on his bedding, then found the courage to go out and draw a cross on the exterior of the flap. He came back a little calmer to say his prayer, still seeing the diffuse image outside behind his eyelids: a cloudy sky watching the vast fields where the tents were.
The activity was still going on at the Headquarters; after listening to the general staff brief reports and talking to the weapon heads, General Marmon dictated the order of battle missions. At his subtle gesture, his aide-de-camp distributed the papers together with a small glass of brandy.
“To this unconventional stage”, toasted the division commander. “May our destiny be blessed! In half an hour we are going to the carnival, gentlemen, the full dress is compulsory!”
With this he dismissed everybody “to get ready for the visit”, as he said himself.
Postman corporal Edin prepared his bed carefully; lying down, he put his hand in the official case where he kept two letters containing wrong destination codes waiting to be returned to the sorting centre. He touched them gently, wondering what the hands of women could write to their far away husbands. His comrades chatted around, figures came and left, the neighbours were moving in their beds. He whispered the familiar words and in his mind he saw the former public school and the girls playing in the neighbouring yard. He heard the rude boys shouting and the girl who had ridden upon his nape in the White Flower Sunday… Racing engines made him run outside in the freezing air. He saw the column of vehicles with the blackout lights on heading for the wooden bridge. “They’re going to the party”, he thought, shivering in his leather shirt, then he went in the tent leaving the other curios comrades behind to imagine a family party in a high-class society where the lights never went out.
Driving carefully on the rough road, with an armoured vehicle in front, the representatives of division 13.3 noticed contrast between the dark poor houses in the locality and the brightly lit castle on the hill, flames shaping a huge cross. The searchlight of two subunits lighted the large platform in front of the castle entrance. On the left was positioned battery I of the artillery division, on the background rose the tall dungeon, a huge vertical block marked by torches in every opening. On the right of the platform, the 2nd company of the Armoured Vehicle Battalion 15 supervised the high battlements crowded with guards carrying torches. A few yards ahead, the group of knights in heavy mantles and their leader could be seen clearly. The vehicles in the column were aligned and the engines stopped.
Signore dismounted and made a bow. General Marmon jumped out of the car came closer to him, straightened his body and embraced him. The castle lord signalled and a servant showed up carrying a necklace on his stretched hands. Signore took it and put in around the General’s neck. In an instant the General removed his white scarf and put it on Signore’s shoulders. That moment battery I fired three salvoes. The knights had to use their ability to calm down the scared horses. The welcome committee vanished and the movable bridge could be seen at the castle entrance. Back in his car, General Marmon radio-ordered the column of vehicles to move and the officers to salute. The vehicles passed by the triple fortification of the bridge and entered an enclosed space with thick walls and large boulders on the ground. The military get off and searched the surroundings.
“An ideal trap” suggested an officer.
“The old man knows what he’s doing”, added someone else. “To accompany the present of the master of ceremony with those salvoes was a matter of great inspiration!”
Meanwhile the knights had dismounted and left their horses with the grooms. They aligned in two rows to the entrance in the great dungeon. The castle lord took General Marmon respectfully by his arm and led him to the right, to the base of a gigantic staircase carved as a tunnel in the very thick wall of the building. A few lanterns blinked, to the amazement of the locals. Hosts and guests all climbed the spiral staircase. Here and there rushlights blinked hidden in recesses. At the first floor they entered a large circular room in which numberless torches cast deceiving shades. Here, in what must have been the main hall of the castle, the two groups parted: the guests went ceremoniously to the right, while the guests stood waiting for the protocol to end. On both sides of the entrance stood the four gunners from the special detachment, appointed as advanced defenders.
The 13.2 division officers cast curios looks at the thick reed mats on the stone floor and the lateral pillars that rose to the pointed arches. Six feet up, a circular stone gallery like a portico hid narrow windows and cast shadows upon the furred benches in the upholstered recesses. A massive table made of thick boards fastened on sawing jacks was standing in front of three hearths. On the far long side of the table were aligned benches and individual cubicles; heavy chairs stood at the two ends. The table was full of various wooden and ceramic recipients, goblets, huge trays covered with napkins, tin plates. Dry herbs had been spread everywhere among them.
Signore led Marmon to the high-backed chair at one end of the table. The General’s suspicious officers formed a row behind him. Signore went to the other end and sat in a similar chair and signalled his companions. They sat on the benches, leaving a little distance between them and their master. Some stayed behind, ready to serve the food. On taking off their heavy mantles, some goffered in gold, the hosts revealed gaudy tunics with embroidered emblems, loose sleeves with crenated edges, knives and bags hanging from large belts with bells and trinkets; trousers made of rough fabric in various red hues; reddish leather footwear with pointed tips on bare feet. In turn, the hosts examined their guests: pale, bearded faces and fur-lined velvet capes. They used the appellative “noble” whenever they addressed anybody, as the translator pointed to his comrades while they hung their coats in a recess to make themselves more comfortable.
A local came to Signore whose mission was to take his goblet and fill it from the jug at the edge of the table. He tasted it before humbly handling it to his master who raised it above his head, made a toast, sipped from it and handed it back to the bearer. The bearer knelt in front of General Marmon and offered him the goblet.
“Signore wishes you to be strong, lucky and happy, General”, translated the officer. “They are now sure that the beverage is not poisoned.”
“Give them our gratitude”, answered the General, sipping from the goblet. “Use their own style. An interesting brandy, gentlemen, I recommend that you drink it with care.”
The hosts listened tot the General’s message and welcomed it with acclamations. A richly adorned priest entered the hall. The lord of the castle must have been waiting for his arrival, for he immediately invited him to sit down. The priest sat on the free side of the table and gave the food a prolonged blessing. General Marmon and his suite rose and made a cross, a gesture that warmed up the atmosphere at once. The knights started to laugh and bow, and those standing poured drinks for the guests. They were replaced by the people dressed in rough garments, allowing those who had started the honours to be seated themselves. The rough fabric covered trays filled with tarts, hard boiled eggs, ham, cheese, artichoke in white sauce, crescent-shaped crisps, bacon. The hosts helped themselves with their bare hands, using their knives to cut their large helpings. The knights encouraged their neighbours to try the tasty pieces on top of their knives.
“You know, General”, said the translator, “the father blessed the food, but he also mumbled something about sending away the demon followers, sorcerers and evil spirits!”
“Ok”, said the General, “”call the liaison officer!”
When the liaison officer came, the General asked for a report.
“It’s silence everywhere General; the local garrison is at the ground floor. Their permanent guards invited the boys inside, I let go in by turns to get warmer, these archers seem ready to party…”
“What about the artillery battalion and the armoured vehicle company?”
“Nothing to report, Sir. They’re using infrared rays but haven’t seen any troop concentration.”
“Switch to the division and give me the radiophone!”
After making sure that the division cantonment was in no danger, Marmon dismissed the liaison officer and scanned the central area where a musical band and some jugglers performed their number. A jester shook his bells and shouted riddles that made the guests burst into laughter; a number of dressed up women entered the circular gallery. The smiled and waves to certain knights who took deep bows. Signore was having fun by himself throwing bits of meat to a pair of hounds brought in by a servant.
The table companions started to feel the heat from the three hearths in which log were thrown all the time. The officers unbuttoned their vests, the hosts gave their mantle to their ever-present servants. To the delight of the companions, a singer replaced the acrobats and sang a plaintive cantilena accompanied with his lyre. He sang about glorious bloody battles and the sobs of one’s lady love.
A new series of trays with roast chicken, game fish, fruit and sauce were brought. The older food was collected in baskets from which the servants ate while taking them outside. If the translator understood correctly, the rests were to be shared between the ordinary inhabitants of the castle. Using their knives, the hosts cut large portions, put them on bread dipped in sauce and devoured them with great appetite.
“A strange mixture of dishes”, Lieutenant-Colonel Ghirin dared say.
“These are sauces made of wine, honey, garlic and mint”, explained in a hurry the translator who was speaking with the knights around him. “Something especially appreciated here. They have plenty of wine. As you can see, they keep bringing it, but it’s boiled with various flavours. This is how they preserve it.”
“Nevetheless, it’s wine”, appreciated Colonel Doman. “To your health, General!”
“May you have a long life”, answered General Marmon. “Now pay attention to the little surprise that it’s about to come. I have prepared a demonstration of illumination at midnight precisely.”
For a while the table companions tasted the food in front of them as the band accompanied the tricks of three acrobats who used a pole for their number. At one time stripes of coloured radiations penetrated through the windows. The women in the gallery started to scream and vanished all of a sudden. The knights jumped from the table. The servants helped them with their mantles and their swords. A bunch of guards dashed in the middle of the room and uncovered a big wooden trap door through which the lord of the castle shouted to the guards downstairs. Guttural sounds came in reply. Part of the knights took defensive positions against the guests, ignoring the four gunners that protected the hall with their automatic weapons.
General Marmon raised his arms, a goblin in his right hand. He kept them raised until the lights went out and imposed his calm on the people. In the end he addressed the lord of the castle:
“Powerful Signore should not worry. We only wanted to contribute to this banquet according to our possibilities. We would like to express our great consideration for our hosts. May they have a long and happy life. Cheers!”
A choir of lively voices acclaimed his libation. As if nothing had happened, the knights gave their mantles and swords to their servants and returned to their seats. The trap door was closed, the musical band and the acrobats returned to entertain the guests. The General’s companions picked at the meat and sipped the wines. The gunners went back to guard the entrance. The liaison officer reported that people had been fretting downstairs, but the garrison archers had attacked their defensive disposition as soon as they had heard their master’s message, but they waited for further orders, but not a particular code word.
“This society”, said Marmon to those near him, “denotes a mixture of bravery and innocence that makes me think of forming a council of honour and nobleness. As our predecessors did, this council should evaluate the compatibility with the position as an officer. I think it is much more relevant than the score mentioned in your files.”
“I couldn’t agree more, General” said Colonel Doman meaningfully. “To your health and to no points in the files in the future.”
Meanwhile, a procession showed up in the doorway. The band left. Two guards brought in a half-naked hirsute man with his hands tied at the back. A man in a long waistcoat carrying a broadsword on his shoulder and two servants carrying a thick log followed them. The prisoner was pushed to the ground in front of the table. The herald in two-coloured garment who had brought the message to the camp that day uttered several words in a loud voice. The guards put the prisoner’s neck on the log. The man raised the broadsword and beheaded him. The horrified officers and the careless hosts saw blood gushing like from an artesian well. The whole room smelt like blood.
“A slave that stole something” translated the officer. “His master punished him on the spot, according to that spokesman!”
“An emotional outburst, in revenge for what we have done to them”, remarked Marmon. “What an shocking dessert they offered us!”
“But it was a murder, General”, an officer burst out. “At least a sham trial and defence…”
“Maybe we only saw the end of it”, someone murmured, “I didn’t hear anything about guilt.”
“Disgusting barbarians!” the aide-de-camp shouted.
“Stop it, gentlemen. This is not our jurisdiction”, the General said. “Signore wants to talk to us.”
The last words repeated the invitation of the castle lord. The two leaders rose simultaneously to make for the side of the room, ignoring the execution traces. The other guests, mostly officers, took their movement as an invitation and rose in groups. Some went out, others started talking on their way below the gallery. Most of the knights remained seated at the table, picking at all the foods. The smokers went to light their cigarettes farther away, to the stupefaction of their hosts who pointed to the smoke rolls.
“Great Commander”, said Signore slowly to allow time for the translation, “this castle is the fief I inherited thanks to God’s will and my strong arm. Here is the skull of my celebrated grandfather, in one piece.” He produced a skull covered in silver from a richly decorated coffer, kissed it and put it back. “A small army can immobilize all the population in this kingdom, it could even make its citizens starve. But it takes a fearless army to conquer the whole world and collect its wealth for the glory of Christianity!”
When he had finished his proposal, the lord of the castle sat on a bench covered with furs, in a recess between the hearths. Marmon came to sit near him. Their few co-operators kept their standing positions a little farther.
“Powerful Signore”, replied the General, “this castle is everything a noble who honours his ancestors desires. But for some to stay, other have to travel where duty calls. It is not recommendable to allow miscellaneous spirits to stay together for too long!”
“Clever words”, agreed Signore, “each with his own way. And if fate brings you back on this realm you will find a helping hand and a brother’s soul at your disposal!”
In the camp the orderly duty saw the coloured signal flares. He alerted the guards, but at higher levels the action was familiar, so the agitation stopped soon. The few soldiers who couldn’t sleep heard everything through the transparent tarpaulins.
“A wonder!” exclaimed a voice on the other side of the interval, right in sergeant Toma’s ears.
He startled in the dark and shook his numbness away. Then he asked what was going on.
“The light shining inside the tent shaped a piglet with eagle claw”, confessed the voice.
“You must have had a nightmare.”
“There is no such thing”, Parsi spoke in a low voice from nearby.
“Yes, there is, especially if it’s a bad omen!”
“How about sleeping?” suggested Bakel in a deep voice. Not that it really matters, but this is not a serious talk, it’s bullshit!”
Right then the platoon entered the tent, as he did periodically to get warmer. His presence broke off any possible reply.
At the castle the party was stagnating, though the hosts did their best to warm it up; a curious song was heard from the common table: “Make two! Make one-one-two!”. The initiative was Colonel Ghirin’s who, imitating the shoulder arms manoeuvre, started tossing goblet after goblet while conducting a mixed group. The universal gesture language animated the people in a lively picture of happy-go-lucky atmosphere.
“General”, reported the aide-de-camp confidentially, “the locals even have privies, some kind of stone chairs in a certain room near the terrace, where I went to relieve myself. The situation is rather promiscuous, but it’s ok for us, men. All this fuss about the torches and their bearers…”
“They have adapted, officer, I bet they have about as many facilities as our division in official trips. Check with the liaison officer again!”
Absent-mindedly, Marmon studied the walls painted with brownish animals and black lines; his eyes fell longer on the three hot hearths half-loaded with logs and arranged in a semicircle, then on the coffers that, according to the hosts, hid human relics and in the end back to the table. Meanwhile the table had been cleaned and reloaded with cookies, pies, and baskets with nuts, apples and dates to go with the new wine, more liquors, according to those who had already tasted it. It seemed that the dessert was much more fun for the locals, for they tasted from everything. Some of them lay down on the surrounding blankets, others played cards, while several nubile youngsters danced tenderly in front of the musicians. Signore himself murmured an indistinct tune and drummed his fingers on the table. His servants were watching carefully, ready to react at any sign he would make. Part of the division 13.3 officers had retired on the stone benches waiting patiently for the withdrawal signal and watching the agitation in the huge castle room.
Finally, General Marmon rose and signalled the departure. Nonetheless, he and his suite had to stay a little longer, to allow the gunman to check the road and the knights to give farewell allocutions and make repeated invitations to prolong the party. Finally they all came down the dungeon stairs, a swinging suite for which the fresh air outside was a blessing.
Signore insisted on saying good-bye solemnly and generously and he gave Marmon a hug. The servants started cramming the cars with all sorts of baskets, small barrels, casks, fabric bundles, so they had to cross the movable bridge and take some of the stuff to the 2nd Company of Armoured Vehicle Battalion 25 and battery I of the Artillery Battalion. All those gifts had been received naturally, as they had been brought.
The stentorian shouts of the knights who were brandishing their arms and the sound of trumpets accompanied the column of vehicles driving the guests on the familiar winding road to the temporary cantonment that left behind a closed world. The two heavy weapon subunits retreated in ten minutes; the dark castle walls echoed the racing engines.
Mounted on the seat of the reconnaissance vehicle, Ruiz started talking excitingly to his dozing comrade:
“They’ve got huge outbuildings back there, kitchens, stables, full of all busy peasants and plenty of women. I had one myself, leant her on the wall, they can’t see very well. Do you get it? To bang something that resembles an ocean fish! There was a dunderhead there too, I only slapped him once, and it was terrific!”
“You’ll get gonorrhoea”, his comrade mumbled. “At least did you wear a condom?”
“No, well… Just a few lice, maybe… I’ll use some ointment against them. Pooh, they are all whores! Just wait until I recover, then you’ll see what high quality stuff I’ll choose…”
“You’re so right”, confirmed Ruiz’s comrade. “You’re damn right, especially that my balls are hard frozen.” He let the window down a little and his hunch proved true: the sound of a trumpet, clear but weird, was calling the reveille from far, far away.