Evening star., 1940-02-17

friendly curiosity; the rest snore on.
Most of the work of this army Is
done at night when bombers and
scout planes are at roost; then the
roads are crowded with supply
trucks, moving over the snow with
out lights. We soon become used to
these bomb shelters full Of sleeping
men.
AS we leave we are followed up the
path by soldier with broad-lipped
shovel. With this he fills in his
own and our footprints in the deep
snow, smoothing it over, leaving not
q trace. A beaten-down path from
this dugout to the farm house could
be seen from the air by day; would
tell the Russians this farm was still
occupied.
And at last our passes. Prom
here on up the danger is very real;
any can stay here who wish TO-"
We know. We 60 at our own
risk"
During the morning this question
and answer become q familiar ritual.
We have left our cars and are now
walking toward the front over a hard
beaten trail in the deep snow, wider
than one man needs, but not quite
broad enough for two. Then we see
how 1t was made, for we step aside
to let six soldiers on skis glide past,
all In white camouflage sheeting,
fiuttering over their furs and WOOL
ems. Even their German-type steel
helmets are painted white or covered
with cotton hoods. Enortlessly,
easily as though skating, they float
on down the winding trail toward
the sound of the guns. This is now
continuous, the crack of one inter-
rupting the dying echo of the last.
And now appear shell craters. In
warmer countries crater is a vivid
black or yellow cash in the green
turf. But here in this war of the
SHOWS the pure white becomes slowly
little gray as though it were soot-
stained city snow, and in the exact
center of this great circle of gray is
the deep pockmark of the shell.
Even this Is also white-gray, for
the explosion throws up into the air
not only dirt, but several feet of
snow as well, and this, being lighter,
f1utters down last, covering the torn
black clods of the crater.
Shells Blast Down Trees.
Ahead the forest seems to thin, but
it is an artificial clearing. For some
reason, no one here knows why, the
Russians concentrated their artillery
fire here, blasting down every tree
| for. 200 yards. Their shattered
trunks, covered now by fresh snow,
| lie everywhere. What, in this patch
OF forest, did the Russians think
they had located, that they should
spend thousands of dollars In shells
battering it down? A Finnish bat
terry? A post of command dugout?
The sound of the guns is nearer
louder. and I clock it with my stop
watch, 80 explosions per minute
about one every 2 seconds, or, say
1000 an hour A quiet day in this
sector, we are told.
Now and then, of in the forest, q
soldier pauses to look up at US, waist
deep in the round hole He is digging
He wipes sweat from his forehead
with the edge of his white camou-
fage hood. In this bitter weather
80 degrees below zero, it quickly
freezes there, stiffening the cotton
cloth. He is making a post for an
anti-tank sentinel. When the hole
is deep enough a man can squat ir
it with only his head sticking out;
if tank comes crashing through the
forest he, ducks down out of sight;
when it Is near enough he pops ur
from nowhere to hurl q potato
masher hand-grenade with Q
package Of dynamite tied to II
against the tread Of the tank.
The trail ends In front Of a second
line dugout. In front Of 1t, vel
camoufiaged, Is . rack where thu
soldiers park their skis. Out Of 4
steps the major commanding thii