Cross a mist-shrouded mountain pasture pitted with craters, past four dead horses eviscerated by scavengers, over a trampled barbed wire fence and you are in Kosovo. A thin trail leads down through light green scrub oak to a rutted dirt road, which in turn winds deeper into the cleft of a narrow valley. The mighty crash of 110-mm mortar rounds resounds from the hillsides, interspersed with the delicate crack of Kalashnikov rifles. Wisps of munitions smoke mix with the low mountain clouds spreading over the Dukadjin plains in the distance. About a mile and a half in stands a small, bullet-flecked...
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