The lieutenant would quickly burn all the half-frayed letters with all those words with a lighter, and then he would squash the ash into the gravel with his heel, he would light a cigarette and wait for the arrival of the commanders and police at the base. The green, circular patterns on the outfit of the dead soldier would resemble reedless marshes, and the potato-colored ones would resemble waterholes. I wonder if there are fish in the marshes? Next week you could have taken a hook, come, sat for hours on the hot peat and watched the swaying reeds and the rippling moss under the water. But suddenly you would hunt for yourself, walking barefoot through the waterholes, you would walk up to the soldier’s mouth, crouch down, take a cigarette out of the pack, put it between his lips, and ligh
