There are thirty kilometers on the road from Suwalki to Augustowo and the thirty kilometers were strewn with the tangle and débris of war. I found myself counting caps--round Russian caps of goatskin and fur, and the black peaked caps of muster day. I counted these caps until I counted thirty-three in an unbelievably short time and I found myself thinking of them as thirty-three dead. For a soldier will discard his coat before his cap. Near Szszepki which is where the forest opens into a brief snow gray plain, ringed with a dreariness of sky, we met the woman, a young peasant woman, her loose hair wreathing her sullen eyes with thick black curls. As she saw us, she made the sign of the cross. "Stop the car," I called to Tzschirner. He got out with me, the woman gave a scream and fled down the road. We ran after her. "Please, Madame," the Rittmeister asked her, "why did you make the sign of the cross when you saw us?" She began mumbling a prayer; her shaking finger traced the sign in the air. "Why," said Tzschirner gently, "do you fear us?" When she spoke it was without looking up. "Our soldiers," she said, losing her fear, "told me you were devils, so I thought if I made the cross you could not pass it. They told me you would burn my house and kill me." "Has your house been burned?" "No-o." "And you will not be killed, Madame," said Tzschirner, touching his hat. "I promise you." We left her looking after us in a bewildered way and when we climbed into the motor she fled up the road. "They have bad minds, the Russians," remarked Tzschirner. "They know what they have made in East Prussia." And then near Szczobra we overtook the "clean up squad." We saw them advancing, as in extended order, the teeth of a great comb, cleaning woods, fields and ponds, of the dead. We saw segments of the line abruptly stop, and come together and begin digging in the snow. "How," I asked Tzschirner, "did they miss the dead we saw along the road?" "They have not been there," he explained. "They first work where considerable actions have occurred; then they take up the more isolated points of the line." All this time the grumble of the guns had grown more distinct. We were nearing Augustowo. A horde of prisoners stolidly shuffled and I saw that their hands and faces were black with the battle. The German light wounded commenced to straggle along, holding a white bound hand, or unconcernedly handling a cheap cigar while the other arm hung cradled in a sling. I thought they all looked tired but their step was alert. And always the roll of the guns grew louder, monstrous drums insanely beating their Miserere from somewhere beyond the tops of the pines.