Fight Snow As Well As Foes In Balkans.

New York Times 100 years ago today, March 9, 1913:
American Tells How Men of Montenegro Live and Battle in the Winter
RECRUIT CAME FROM ALASKA
Dropped His Work There and Traveled 52 Days to Join His Relatives in the Army.
Special Correspondence The New York Times.
    TOGAI, Montenegro. Feb. 20.— After four days' camping with the soldiers at Shirotskagora, I have made my way across the snow-clad hills to Togai, where I am now waiting for a boat for Cettinje. It has been a hard time, far more so for the soldiers than for myself. The biting winds and snow are playing havoc with the men. They come down for occasional relief and rest, hollow-eyed and hungry men, but full of pluck and determination.
    Everything I have is saturated with melted snow. My bread and biscuits are a wet pulp, and everything else is wet after five hours' struggle over the mountains and many falls into snowdrifts. My servant left without informing me two days ago, leaving me alone, facing the problem of carrying all my kit, camera apparatus, &c. But all is well so far, in spite of the blinding snowstorms and many bruises.
    By good fortune I fell in with a band of soldiers on arriving at Shirotskagora, who have fed and looked after me for some days. For two days I could not walk — feet and ankles too badly bruised.
    My special friend has been John Martinovitch, a man who speaks good English. He was in America for ten years. He is fighting with his family — I call them that. They number 175, and have come together from all parts. All have the name of Martinovitch, and are related.
    John paid his fare from Alaska. It cost him $245. The journey rook fifty-two days. He made it his business to look after me when he was not in the fighting line on the hills. Another member is a Captain of a Russian battleship, salary 700 kroner, who has been twenty-five years in the Russian Navy. He got leave to come and fight for his country as a common scoldier.
    Another of the family fought for Russia against the Japanese. He told me he would like to fight the Turk with stones and knife. I presume he means that there is more satisfaction in killing a hated enemy in that way. He is a big, rough, specimen of a man, and would certainly be dangerous at close quarters. It seems typical of the real Montenegrin that they hate the taking cover part of fighting. They prefer the old-fashioned stand-up style.
    Down in the valley are many of the Martinovitch womenfolk. They remain there and look after the men. A soldier returning from the hills is sure of food and a good log fire, which his womenfolk have ready for him. An old man of 70, who slept beside me, lost his only son last Sunday. These people seem to expect to lose those near and dear to them, and there is no upsetting scene when the news comes that a brother, father, or good friend is dead. John told me that in this war he had lost thirteen cousins killed, one brother badly wounded, and thirty-three cousins wounded. That makes forty-seven of his family, as he called it. As soon as I was fit enough to walk, John got permission from his officer to show me Tarabosh and Scutari. We made a long day of it on the mountains. It was certainly brimful of incident, and I got many photographs. The Turks were firing all the time with big guns, and rapid-fire guns. One became accustomed to the pom-pom-pom-pom of the "quick. firers." We crawled along the granite ridge of Shirotskagora, and got in front of the first line of Montenegrin mountain guns. Straight in front was Tarabosh, and one could plainly see with the naked eye the Turkish trenches and men. Only 300 to 400 yards from the Turks lower down Tarabosh were the Montenegrins crouching behind the rocks and making trenches. My difficulty was to get photographs without exposing myself. John was anxious and insisted on keeping a grip on my arm. He really used rather strong language at times, and said he would not take me out again unless I obeyed him. It was rather comical bobbing up and down to photograph Scutari and Tarabosh, for stray bullets continually whistled overhead.
    From here we paid a visit to a big gun on the hillside, which was trying to smash a Turkish gun over the lake and on the other side of Scutari. The Turks replied with no effect at all. Their shells either fell into the lake or far down the hill and burst there harmlessly. Nothing came nearer than 300 yards, although the bursting shells sounded uncomfortably near, and the showers of plowed up earth and stones made one easily realize what might happen.
    Blood-bespattered rocks are found everywhere, and in the gun shelters were to be seen the dried blood and pieces of clothing of dead gunners. The men took rather a pride in pointing out these not too cheerful sights, and gave graphic descriptions by signs how this and that man was killed. The soldiers themselves were quite unconcerned about it all.
    My permission to see and photograph these things was from the King himself and came about in a curious manner. A woman newspaper correspondent had interviewed the King at Rjeka. She came out with Princess Vera of Montenegro. The Princess asked me "Would I care for a motor ride?" I went, and on the way mentioned that I would like to go to the front.
    "It is impossible. It is much too dangerous," she said.
    I said that I really had come to Montenegro to take pictures of the soldiers for The Daily Mirror. The Princess remembered the paper and said how pleased the King had been with the pictures early in the war. We went back and Princess Vera said she would ask her father to let me go. She soon ran down the stops and jumped into the car, saying it was all right and she would take me to see the Minister. At Cetinge the Princess took me to my hotel and said she would return in one hour with my pass. She came, and I started at 5 o'clock the next morning.