As they crept farther to the west the trees showed signs of damage, a few broken in two, a few uprooted, many more shorn of their upper branches. But old snow lay on the wounds like penicillin dust. They still had not reached the area of the barrage. But then the wounds began growing black and heavier, and suddenly they passed a copse of smoldering pine. A moment later they had to manhandle the jeep around a shell hole so fresh that it bore only the very faintest dust of the very newest snow. The shells that had landed here were probably all shorts, but if there had ever been a firm and settled front in this neglected backwood Franz guessed they were already across it. He accelerated a little, still watching carefully.
“Still no sign of the God-damn’ Amis.” Tannenbaum might have been read
