CHAPTER THREE
“Well, here we are.” Two trucks had been drawn up beside the road, their headlights showing the way along the ruts in the fresh snow. Young Haig Ballantyne dragged a crosscut saw that had fallen off another truck ahead. He patted down the ear flaps on his khaki melton hat and blew through his mitts to warm his fingers. He kicked his feet through the thin layer of snow on the flinty ground and waved at the dark, enveloping pine trees. “We really must be in the rear echelon.” George Ballantyne, struggling along beside his brother, looked at his watch. “Nearly twenty-one hundred hours. I guess we just forget the blackout away back here.”
Haig ignored him. “Another part of the forest,” he said. “The lovely forest of Arden. I never thought we’d make it.”
“It’s the forest of Ard
