The corporal was from Iran, which made him a foreigner, but the soldiers didn’t pay attention to that, because he was also a bear. Sometimes this troubled him; if he were a human, would they be as generous with their cigarettes, their beer? It was hard to say, and he did not like thinking about it. He ate the cigarette that perched between his lips.
      Before him stretched a barren plain, its ruts and pockmarks disappearing into the distance. It was sad to know the world was like this now.
      Behind, human voices and excitement emanated from thick canvas tents. The corporal knew that the war would soon be over, but what did this really mean? There were many distinctions that men made that he did not understand. Dymitr told him that this was because he was a bear: “You were such a little bear when the war began! Now you are big, yes, but you are a still a bear, and you would not understand these things. Bears do not fight wars.” When he said this, the corporal wanted to respond, “Dymitr, I am a corporal in the Polish army. How can you say that bears do not fight wars?” But he could not, so instead he would look at Dymitr, long and hard, hoping Dymitr would know what he was thinking. But Dymitr did not.
      The corporal turned to Dymitr now, watched him puff away at his cigarette. The small man next to him did not understand many things himself. How could he know what a bear understood?
      “What,” said Dymitr, noticing. “Do you want another cigarette?” Dymitr pulled out the flimsy paper carton.
      I did not, but this will also do, thought the corporal, opening his mouth to accept the thin white stick.
      “I am excited to go home, Wojtek.” Dymitr said, exhaling smoke as he watched the slowly darkening sky. The corporal chewed thoughtfully on his own cigarette. Everyone was excited to go Home these days. He was excited too; he wanted to know what Home was like. He had thought about it: if the soldiers did not want to be here, wanted instead to be in Home, Home must not be like this place, with its mud and burning metal smells. That sounded nice to him. And the soldiers were Polish, so Home must be in Poland. Dymitr had told him that he was from Iran, but the corporal did not remember it and he did not care much about going back. Home sounded better.
      It would be nice to leave behind his name, too, which would not do when war was finished. Already it felt ungainly, like his winter coat come spring, out of place, unneeded. When he shed his name, he would be a new bear. He did not know if he would get a new name then, or if he would have no name at all. It would be simpler not to remember anything for some time: no name, or rank, or where he was from, or that he was a bear. These things did not matter to him, but he knew they were important in the human world. Everything he knew about himself, he knew because of Dymitr.
      How would Dymitr mark the end this season? The corporal considered him. Maybe he would shed his name too; it was better be known by smell anyway. That way, one could be known all at once, and there were no mistakes.
      “I’m heading back,” Dymitr said, dropping his cigarette on the ground. “Do you want to come?” The corporal turned his head towards the tents, which glowed in the dusk. He sniffed the air. Dymitr laughed.
      “Yes–– beer! Come, come. I will find you some.” Dymitr started walking toward the tents, nimbly making his way across the rugged terrain.
      Wojtek rose and paused, taking in the pitted field for a final moment. The bear dropped to his paws and turned, furred body ambling toward the lights.