LA PLACE DE LA CONCORDE SUISSE

A sparkling report—if that's what's wanted—on that choice anomaly, the Swiss Army: a 650,000-man militia, always battle-ready, in a country that hasn't fought a war for nearly five hundred years. "Thorn and rose, there is scarcely a scene in Switzerland that would not sell a calendar, and—valley after valley, mountain after mountain. . . there is scarcely a scene in Switzerland that is not ready to erupt in fire to repel an invasive war." McPhee's chief guide, on a refresher course with the Section de Reseignements, is winemaker Luc Massy: "trim, irreverent," thoughtful. (The norm, it comes irreverently to seem.) Yet McPhee is light-fingered, ambidextrous. "Switzerland defends itself," we hear, "on what it calls the Porcupine Principle: you roll up in a ball and brandish your quills." The meticulous preparation, the assiduous practice, are as impressive as the platters of viands, the array of wines. To the strategy—"Our lines of defense are deep—one, two, three, four, five, six, seven. If all the lines are penetrated, if the enemy comes into the Alps, guerrilla warfare follows"—he juxtaposes the skepticism: Massy's and the others'. But they are nonetheless believers—even the rare rebel capitulates, becomes "a citizen who has a gun at home." (Service is for 30 years; gunownership is mandatory.) And, however willful or insubordinate they consider themselves—"in an emergency," as Massy says, "if there's a job to be done we'll do it." In today's Swiss view, disaffection balances perfectionism—but McPhee's is the version of a connoisseur, to be savored in itself.