THE BRIGADIER
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cracked down the middle, is still affixed to the wall near my desk
and on it you can read a lesson in the enemy's language, written
by one of his children; when the chalk began to fade, I had it care–
fully restored and covered with a coat of shellac. I can read the
enemy's hand-which is sometimes difficult even for scholars, as
the script is spidery and irregular and varies not only with the dialect
but with the very temperament of the writer. The broken lines read:
"... of the cat and the dog? What will she ... "; here the first line
ends, broken off at the jagged edge of the board. "We," runs the
second line, "know that the ... [several words are obliterated] while
the bird was singing...." The third and last line: "... is what
we all love. It makes us very happy." I like to imagine, although I
know this is nothing but a child's exercise, that these broken lines,
could I only complete them, would tell me more about the enemy
than all the work of our specialists combined.
As
for my subordi–
nates, I have led them to believe that these scraps of writing have
something to do with logistics-which is all they care about.
The benches, the charts, the books and other blackboards of
the schoolhouse have long since been removed. The rooms are now
occupied by sturdy desks of our own design, developed during the war,
and the walls are lined with filing cabinets and hung with maps of
the region. The sides of the house have been reinforced against blast
with sandbags, and the windows have been covered with inttrsecting
strips of wire and tape which, when the sun is right, cast patterns of
shadow upon our papers.
If
there were nothing else to do, it would
be a pleasure to trace some of these patterns. The glass-these are the
enemy's original panes-is very bright and clear. The enemy is known
for the quality of his glass works. A strange people.
Our office is a relay station among the various fronts. The posi–
tion of the fronts has grown so complicated through the years, that
I never attempt to give our location with reference to the lines of
battle. We are well in the center of one circle of fighting, on the
periphery of a second, and connected by a long tangent with a third.
From time to time our position appears enveloped, and we pack our
papers, dismantle our immobile equipment, and prepare to retreat.
Subsequent intelligence, however, informs us that the first reports,
owing to the complexity of the warfare, were erroneous in many
respects and that, far from being encircled, our position may be
described as part of an arc thrown round the enemy's flank. The
lines of battle
1
the longer I study them, seem to me more and more
like the arms of many embracing bodies.
