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the warrior says. It is like the world has stopped for a moment. No planes, no bombs, no presence of the enemy. Some of the men grab hold of themselves -- are they all dead, with no memory of their actual passing? Without a thought of where he is going, the warrior staggers forward -- he only knows that he must reach the top of the ridge, and then the province beyond, and then perhaps the province beyond that, his once and future home. The other men trail him at a safe distance, without a word. The sun is rising, the morning mist is dissipating. Good-bye, cloud, he thinks sadly, looking down to see his knees, the khakis tattered by rocks and gunfire, a boot with a single hole slightly to the right of where the big toe would be. Amazing, he muses. He was shot  |
and the bullet went through the space between his toes. He is atop the crest, on the ridge. The enemy encampment there has been abandoned, and all that is left are circles of stones for fire, a tarp stretched taut across man-high poles, the center of the tarp slashed open and the sun streaming down on the dead commanding officer's face. It has the garish unreality of a museum exhibition. And this is the type of encampment used by the imperial military in this area. Notice the organization of the firepits, and the placement of the command post… A handful of rebels have survived the climb up the hill, and they stare at the warrior, who is unscathed, bloody sword in hand, his face  |
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