The conflict between Serbian government forces and Albanians in the province of Kosovo in Yugoslavia is an almost-war, for the moment. The ground is quiet enough to allow a reporter to provide sketches of a world waiting for trouble. PNS correspondent Terence Sheridan, a former reporter for the Cleveland Plain Dealer, has been living and writing in the former Yugoslavia for the last eight years.

PRISTINA, Yugoslavia -- As wars go, this is still a storm in a teacup -- no "major" atrocities, no cruise missiles or NATO troops -- so it's still possible to crank off a few drive-by snapshots as the ugly little war speeds up.

The war has been called "confusing." Actually it's mercilessly simple. It is a nasty ethnic conflict between government forces and rebel separatists in Serbia's southern province of Kosovo, in what remains of Yugoslavia.

Serb nationalists are contemptuous of Albanians, who understandably resent it. Albanian nationalists are hellbent on uniting with neighboring Albania. The Kosovo Liberation Army (KLA) uses villages as staging areas to launch attacks against Serbian security forces. Serbian security forces attack the villages and destroy them. Civilians flee to the woods and mountains, and the KLA goes with them.

* * *

On the road from Pristina, the provincial capital, going west toward the border with Albania, the two-lane blacktop is dotted with dead dogs. Once- pretty villages of red-tiled roofs are smoking disasters, crops burned and haystacks torched. Wild-eyed horses run free and dazed cows, udders full, wander to and fro.

The war just hurried by here -- the "mop-up" phase of a month-long Serbian offensive in this province, where some 90 percent of the population of 2 million are ethnic Albanians, most of them Muslims.

Since last February, Serbian security forces have been battling the hit-and-run KLA. At least 1,000 have been killed and more than 200,000 were left homeless in the third war in Europe in seven years.

From the woods and mountains (and other villages) the KLA launches attacks, killing a policeman here and a soldier there, abducting Serbian civilians everywhere. The Serbs call the rebels "terrorists and bandits," the rebels call the Serbs "oppressors," and both sides do awful things: the Albanians kidnap and kill a group of men, women and children, cutting off one man's head. The heavily armed Serbs bombard a farm wagon full of men, women and children, blowing them to pieces. Thus the war proceeds.

Although one of their number, on average, is killed every other day, the Serbian police are politely professional at checkpoints. The "PRESS" stickers on the car windows prompt a conversation that goes like this:

"TV?"

"No, newspapers."

"The New York Times?"

Writers, we say, from Boston and Cleveland. They've never heard of Cleveland but Boston rings a bell-- John F. Kennedy and the Boston Celtics! "Sretan put." Have a good trip.

This does not mean the cops are happy to be here. They have been sent to fight a war, not street crime. One says, "I have a hard time remembering which village we are in. Maps would help."

* * *

At the Decani Monastery near the border of northern Albania, we drink good coffee and excellent brandy made for the monastery church in a nearby village. The Serbian Orthodox church is a 14th-century jewel box of purple and beige marble; the frescoes covering the interior walls have been compared to Blake, Bosch, El Greco and Mondrian. Two uniformed policemen are being baptized. Other policemen visit the church, kiss icons and reverently back out, crossing themselves as they go.

Going south from Decani to Djakovica is a scorched mess. Homes that have not been destroyed are bunkers, doors and windows sealed with sandbags. But just east of the highway, Serbian farmers, sunburned and carrying AK-47s defiantly fly the Serbian red, blue and white flag on a tall pole that can be seen for miles. Serbian and Albanian farmers continue to bring sackfuls of sweet peppers and cartloads of watermelons from fields surrounding their side-by-side villages.

In Djakovica, a bleak town full of refugees, we stop for hamburgers and beers. The Albanian owner of the hamburger joint plays Michael Jackson for us while, outside, a muezzin in a minaret calls the Islamic faithful to prayer.

* * *

On a potholed dirt road near the village of Mala Hoca, we are stopped by the KLA. They tell us that to go further is to court death -- a Serbian sniper killed an Albanian man on the road the day before. The KLA commander is perhaps 26 but looks 14 in his camouflage.

They do not forbid us to go forward but the driver decides it is not a good idea. The village is full of young men, once guest workers in foreign countries, come home to fight for independence. As we leave, villagers say goodbye in German, French and English ("bye-bye"), as their fighters prepare for an "action," changing into battle dress and shouldering weapons.

We try to visit the village of Pantina, 15 miles north of Pristina. The KLA has held Pantina since June, and this is puzzling, for the village lies between a railroad line and a highway to the capital, in an area with coal mines, a major refinery and an electric generating plant. Before the war 400 Albanian families and 17 Serbian families lived in Pantina.

Near the village two young men with guns stop us, one carrying an assault rifle, the other a vintage machine gun. Nearby a wary chicken scratches in the sunbaked dirt. The sentries call others to the scene, four older men in a dusty Mercedes. They are very polite, very proper, but say they must consult with others in the village. We decide not to wait -- it's getting late and we have far to go.

Everyone has been extremely courteous. The war, so far, is a piece of cake, if you are an American and only passing through every three to four weeks. But it's rough on the locals. The day before, a Serbian reporter and his driver disappeared, vanished. Serbs and Albanians alike say it will get much worse before it gets better.

I hate to think what is going to happen to the two young guards and the chicken, if it's still there when Serbian armor rolls down the yellow dirt road to Pantina, past splashes of lavender hibiscus and a row of tall cottonwoods.