Due perhaps to the intriguing nature of the mysterious, scarcely a person passes the mushrooming "Science City" on Oxford Street without a fearful glance through the fence to see whether the men from Mars have arrived. Yet little more than a hoarse shout away from the Home of Secret Weapons is an underground room where precautions are just as stringent. In a small, feverish nook in the cellar of the Music Building, the University Band holds its council of war, and there, amidst sousaphones and bandstands, it plots the marching formations and intricate parade tactics that are forever eluding every other band-conscious college. The recent paint smears and Stadium grass burning are merely manifestations of the quest for the Band's know-how, and last week the fall appearance of the Band was desperately scouted to divine the how and why of the merging "W" and "M". The secret still remains.

The object of this fruitless expedition was first started in 1919 when John Phillips Sousa was the man to be reckoned with and Harvard yet to be heard from. Stomping through the halves of games in the days when Red Grange was carried two miles by jubilant admirers, the Band reached its full growth in the 30's when "Wintergreen" and other Leroy Anderson arrangements filled the Stadium when the teams weren't trying. Perfecting its half-time lock step, the Band could soon wind itself through 33 letters in 7 1-2 minutes while simultaneously playing a medley of the visitor's songs. Dormant during the war, the Band reappeared last year doing 128 letters throughout the season, and it was clear that the musicians who could also spell were back on the job.

Skilled as they are in letter-perfect footwork, the Band knows the score musically as well. Bandsmen proudly explain that "Wintergreen," their most popular number, has more to it than meets the ear and is actually a blending of 2 Harvard, 2 Yale, 1 Dartmouth, and 1 Princeton songs, all mixed in with "Of Thee I Sing" and then wafted up the aisles of the Stadium. The semicircle formation used to offset the alphabetical parade down the field is an original idea and "Wintergreen" when first heard was considered a daring innovation. People weren't sure whether concert-type arrangements should be introduced on a wind-blown field, to compete with earmuffs and razzberries but "Wintergreen" was well-constructed and came through nicely.

Every bit as staunch as the arrangements, the Band's bass drum survived a falling Yale man last November and the men, a hectic trip to Dartmouth and a serenade off the Capitol steps at Concord. Plans are afoot for a similar stunt at Richmond next week. This afternoon, the Band is armed with a new B.U. medley and a top-secret labyrinthian war dance, designed to completely out-maneuver the visitor's attempt. Whether or not the B.U. outfit is as big-time as its partisans would make out, time will tell. Meanwhile, the Band awaits the encounter, possibly thinking of the days some three centuries ago when the cries of Colonists echoed over the woods where the Stadium now stands. The woods are gone but the Redcoats are still coming.