The winding roads that run through the smiling hills near Dover, N. J., were populated with sadness; no laughter broke through the stillness; even the pudgy children, bronzed as rust, trotted, wondrously solemn, beside their stolid Slavic folk. Short-statured women, sunburned, stocky men, trudged ploddingly, bewilderedly, home. Whispers. Tears. Vague muddle.
Two weeks ago shattering explosions had prostrated their cottages, snorted through their gardens, shells from the lightning-struck U. S. arsenal mutilating kin, pigs, treasures. (TIME, July 19.)
Over at the arsenal crawling soldiers and marines had squirmed through the charred ashes of...
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