The Tartar Steppe. Dino Buzzati

bright against the deep sky, only to be swallowed up in the ranks – all extinguished together. The colonel had disappeared from the window. The steps of the seven guards echoed as through the labyrinth of the Fort they marched off to their respective stations.

      An hour later Giovanni Drogo was on the topmost terrace of the third redoubt on the very spot where the evening before he had looked towards the north. Yesterday he had come sight-seeing like a passing visitor. Now he was master there; for twenty-four hours the whole redoubt and a hundred yards of wall were under his sole command. Below him, in the interior of the fortification, two artillerymen stood by the two cannon which covered the end of the valley. Three sentries divided between them the perimeter of the redoubt; four others were set out along the wall to the right at intervals of twenty-five yards.

      The relief of the sentries coming off duty had taken place with meticulous precision under the eyes of Sergeant-Major Tronk, who was an expert on rules and regulations. He had been in the Fort for twenty-two years and now did not stir from it even on leave. There was no one who knew as he did every corner of the fortifications and often the officers came on him by night making a round of inspection, when it was as dark as pitch, without a light of any kind. When he was on duty the sentries did not lay down their rifles even for a second nor lean against the ramparts – they were even careful not to stop pacing up and down, for rests were granted only exceptionally; Tronk did not sleep all night, making the rounds with silent tread, causing the sentries to start. ‘Who goes there? Who goes there?’ they challenged, bringing their guns to their shoulders. ‘Grotta,’ replied the sergeant-major. ‘Gregorio,’ said the sentry.

      The usual practice was for the officers and N.C.O.’s on duty to make the rounds on their own stretch of wall informally; the soldiers knew them well by sight and it would have seemed ridiculous to exchange passwords. It was only with Tronk that the soldiers carried out the regulations to the letter.

      He was small and thin with an old man’s face and a shorn head; he spoke little even to his equals in rank and in his free time preferred to study music in solitude. That was his mania – so much so that the drum-major, Espina, was perhaps his only friend. He had a fine accordion which he hardly ever played, although the story went that he played wonderfully. He studied harmony and was said to have written a number of military marches. But no one really knew.

      When he was on duty there was no risk of his beginning to whistle as he usually did when he was free. Mostly he made a round of the battlements, scanning the great valley to the north as if looking for something. Now he was at Drogo’s side and was showing him the mule-path which lead along precipitous slopes to the New Redoubt.

      ‘There is the guard which has been relieved,’ said Tronk pointing with his right hand; but in the twilight Drogo could not pick it out. The sergeant-major shook his head.

      ‘What’s wrong?’ asked Drogo.

      ‘It won’t work like this – I’ve always said so – it’s mad,’ answered Tronk.

      ‘But what has happened?’

      ‘It can’t go on like this,’ Tronk repeated, ‘they should change it earlier, the guard at the New Redoubt. But the colonel won’t hear of it.’

      Giovanni looked at him in amazement. Did Tronk really permit himself the liberty of criticising the colonel?

      ‘The colonel,’ the sergeant-major went on with the utmost gravity and conviction and with not the least attempt to correct himself, ‘the colonel is perfectly right from his point of view. But no one has explained the danger to him.’

      ‘The danger?’ asked Drogo – what danger could there be in moving from the Fort to the New Redoubt along that easy path and in such a deserted spot?

      ‘The danger?’ repeated Tronk. ‘Sooner or later something will happen in this dark.’

      ‘What should they do then?’ asked Drogo out of politeness, for he was only very mildly interested in the whole story.

      ‘Once upon a time,’ said the sergeant-major, delighted to show off his knowledge, ‘once upon a time the guard at the New Redoubt was changed two hours before it was at the Fort. Always in daytime, even in winter; and then the whole system of passwords was simpler. They needed one to get into the New Redoubt; then they needed another new one for that day’s guard and for getting back to the Fort. Two were enough. When the guard had dismounted and was back in the Fort the new guard here had not yet been mounted and the password was still valid.’

      ‘I see,’ said Drogo, no longer trying to follow.

      ‘But then,’ Tronk went on, ‘they were afraid. It’s risky, they said, to let so many soldiers who know the password go about outside the Fort. You never know, they said, of fifty soldiers there is more chance of one turning traitor than one officer.’

      ‘So they thought only the guard commander should know the password. So now they leave the Fort three-quarters of an hour before the changing of the guard. Take today. Guard mounting takes place at six. The guard for the New Redoubt left here at quarter past five and got there at six sharp. They need no password to leave the Fort being in column of march. To get into the New Redoubt they needed yesterday’s password – and that only the officer knew. Once the guard at the Redoubt has been relieved today’s password comes into force – that again only the officer knows. And so it goes on for twenty-four hours until the new guard comes to take over. Then tomorrow evening when the soldiers get back to the Fort – they may get there at half-past six, the road is easier going back – the password has changed again. So a third one is needed. The officer has to know three – one for the march out, one for the tour of duty and one for coming back. All these complications so that the soldiers won’t know what it is while on the march.’

      ‘And I say,’ he went on without bothering whether Drogo was paying attention or not, ‘I say, if only the officer knows the password and suppose he turns ill on the way – what do the soldiers do? They can’t make him speak. And they can’t go back where they came from because in the meantime the word has changed there. Haven’t they thought of that? And then if they want secrecy, don’t they see that this way they need three passwords instead of two and the third, the one for getting back into the Fort, is given out more than twenty-four hours before? Whatever happens they must enforce it, otherwise the guard can’t come back into the Fort.’

      ‘But,’ Drogo objected, ‘they know them perfectly well at the gate, don’t they? they should see that it was the guard coming off duty?’

      Tronk looked at the lieutenant with a certain air of superiority.

      ‘That’s impossible, sir. There is a rule at the Fort. No one, no matter who he is, may come into the Fort from the north without giving the pass.’

      ‘But then,’ said Drogo, whom this absurd inflexibility irritated, ‘but then wouldn’t it be simpler to have a special password for the New Redoubt? They could be relieved sooner and the password for coming back given to the officer only. That way the soldiers would know nothing.’

      ‘Of course,’ said the sergeant-major as if he had been waiting for this very argument, ‘it would perhaps be the best solution. But you would have to change the regulations, you would need a new law. The regulations say’ (he put a didactic tone into his voice) ‘“The password shall remain in force for twenty-four hours from one guard mounting to another; there shall be only one password current in the Fort and its outposts.” That’s what they say – “its outposts.” It is quite clear. There’s no way round it.’

      ‘But once,’ said Drogo, who had not been listening at the beginning, ‘once the changing of the guard was carried out earlier at the New Redoubt?’

      ‘That’s right,’ said Tronk, then corrected himself. ‘Yes, sir. There has only been all this business for two years. Before it was much better.’

      The sergeant-major fell silent. Drogo looked at him in amazement and horror. After twenty-two years in the Fort what was left of this soldier? Did Tronk still remember that somewhere there still existed millions of men like himself who were