(See Cover)
Semion Timoshenko, the peasant from Bessarabia, had seldom seen a better stand of wheat. It was high and golden, ripening in the sun, nodding with the blue cornflowers in the summer winds which swept the valley of the Don. The grain, his peasant eyes told him, was almost ready for harvest when the Germans came.
The tanks rolled through the grain. Their treads crushed the food of Russia into the Russian earth. Or, where the Russian scorchers were quick and thorough—and they were usually both—fire curled through the grain. The...
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