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I hear a low, deep, mechanical noise. It isn 't the sound of a Hind gunship. It's different. Above the low thrum is the metallic clanking and grinding sound of tanks. The man in charge sends his second-in- command up to the top of the left ridge to get a better look. He looks, puts the binoculars down and looks again. Then he yells down, "Tanks!" Lots of them, it would appear by his gesticulations, coming directly towards us on our left and right. When he comes down off the hill there is a hurried conference. I ask him how many tanks. I hold my fingers up and ask, "One? Two?" He holds up both of his hands and I say "Ten?" He shakes his head and smiles then flashes his outspread fingers three times. Shit. He means thirty. Now the slow steady rumble is the beat of a horror film. I look back at the line of defenders: eight men, one RPG, two machine guns and five AK-47s. The commander says "We will not give Shali to the Russians." What else can they say? The fighters' favorite expression is "If we die, we win ." I know that their spirit may not be lagging, but the sheer number of approaching Russians is going to make this a long night. I have a decision to make. Stay and be part of the battle first hand, or leave. The commander makes the decision for me. They don't want dead journalists. It is time to go. THE HARVEST DANCE Back in Shali, there is nothing to indicate that the town is surrounded by Russians. Fighters in the market mill around, waiting to head out to the lines. Our guide, Khampash, knocks on the first door that has a light on and asks if we can stay. We stop to buy some food: warm sausage-filled buns, bread and Snickers bars, five for a dollar. Ibrahim, the young man of the house, is happy to see us and opens the green metal gates as if we are entering a luxury resort. It is now 6:30 PM, pitch-black and the mud has turned to rock-hard ice. As if to signal the arrival of night, a thunderous volley begins. It is the Russians softening up the front lines a few hundred yards away. Inside the dimly-lit house, the windows rattle and the yellow kerosene lantern flickers with each rocket and bomb blast. Ibrahim's mother is frail and thin. I can see her sitting inside by the stove, saying nothing, just staring into the flames. I teach Ibrahim English and he delights in constructing simple sentences from a handful of words: wall, window, door, roof. Using his new words, he takes my flashlight and shows me the damage done to his house in the last war-back when a Russian gunship attacked a tank parked behind his front gate. The gate is sti ll perforated with shrapnel marks. In the next house there is a group of young women scraping kernels off corn. They dance with just hand claps for accompaniment. Their claps compete with the light arms fire, which sounds like popcorn next to the massive concussions of the tank shells. In the star-filled night sky a long, thin streak of flame whizzes by-a cruise missile. It lands to the south. There is a dull white glow on the horizon and a deep boom. Two more streak by as we stand outside. The time between the glow and the thunder is about 14 seconds. "Grozny," Ibrahim says. He tells me they are now using gas in Grozny. Khampash overheard terrified requests for gas masks and saw two young victims who the doctors said have lost their sight. It probably doesn't matter. There is no one here to witness th is horror. For the third time there is war in Europe. Bosnia, Kosovo, Chechnya. This time I wonder if anybody cares. As the night goes on, the bombardment gets uncomfortably erratic. Grad and Uragan rockets are flying over the house from Argun towards Shali . Something is happening. The Russians are taking the city. I bolt out of bed. We should leave. Not just to escape the house-to-house fighting that will soon begin, but so the Russians won't find and imprison us. We pack quickly, exchange gifts with our hosts and leave. There is no one on the streets. 48