He led off down the open valley. He sheered off to the right, heard the hissing of the others' skis behind him. He slowed, glided towards the bottom end of the small lake; step by step he moved down the bank until he could walk upon the snow-packed ice. He waited for Grant and then they were off again, poling their way across the head of the lake, where the river began its course down the valley to Helligskogen.
It was hard work here without the slope. He moved rhythmically, his arms swinging, shoving with his sticks. Glancing over his shoulder, he saw Grant diverting to the left, where the snow seemed less deep. Irritated, the corporal shouted at him to get back into line.
Burns was reaching the head of the lake, when he heard a sudden yell from Tucker, just behind him. There was a sudden crack! like a pistol shot — and then the sound of splintering ice. He slewed round, in time to see the dark, unwieldly shape of Grant, complete with rifle, snow-shoes and sticks, disappearing beneath the collapsing ice of the lake.
'For Chrissake help!' The frenzied cry shattered the stillness. The hoarse croaking of a ptarmigan echoed from somewhere behind them and then Tucker and he were frantically clawing off their ski bindings. 'Take the rope,' Bums yelled, as he tossed one end to Tucker who was already slithering on his belly towards the black hole. The ice was crackling and exploding around them, long splits splintering as Tucker approached the floundering Grant, whose mitts were reappearing above the ledge.
'Quick, round your shoulders, Grant.' Burns tied the bowline, flipped it to Tucker who looped it over Grant's shoulders. ' Heave… now, Corp.… now…' and they both leaned backwards with all their weight, gingerly digging the heels of their boots into the slippery snow.
It seemed an eternity before they got him out… each second which passed brought death nearer for Grant. At any instant, the ice could collapse completely, drowning them all in the icy water. Then, panting and exhausted, Grant emerged, his dripping clothes suddenly freezing solid where he stood shuddering in the arctic night.
'Quick, Tucker, on with your planks. Nip like hell and get the fire going in the camp.'
Bums took no more notice of Tucker, but concentrated on forcing the shocked Grant into movement. With mitted fists, Burns pounded at the immobile man who was freezing to death before his eyes. If Grant had been naked he could not have been in a worse predicament, because the water was freezing inside his clothing., ' For God's sake, get cracking, Grant! Get moving, or you'll be a survival case. Move, man, move…' Yelling at him like a maniac, Burns tried to get him back on his skis; but the dazed marine fell, clambered to his feet, then stumbled again while he tried desperately to synchronize his limbs with his failing brain. Burns fought to help him, crawled under him to support his weight.
'Get your planks off!' He was shouting at him now, trying to make him register. At least, they had reached the edge of the lake safely. Tucker had disappeared.
The snow felt deep and solid beneath them, as Burns saw the river bed running down the valley to his left. Unclipping his own boots, he floundered in the snow while Grant looked on dumbly, trying futilely to aid Burn's frantic endeavours. Then Grant's skis were off, and he slumped into the snow. Bums fitted his own snow-shoes, then began fumbling frenziedly with Grant's boots. He had finished slipping on one snow-shoe when he heard shouting from the trees above him.
Tucker was in the van, skiing down between the birches, four Marines at his heels. Seconds later, they were swarming around Grant, pummelling him, ripping off his clothes. They dragged sweaters over him, shoved him into a sleeping bag, inserted it into another. They left his skis where they lay, slapped him on to the pulk, whipped on their own snow-shoes, then thrashed their way back to the camp.
Bums did not know how long the emergency had lasted, but Grant had lost consciousness before the flickering flames of the fire showed through the birchline. They placed him on the windward side, two men pummelling him, chafing his cheeks, his ears, his nose, his hands. As soon as he came round, life restored by the heat of the crackling fire, they took him inside the snow-hole, his buddy, Marine Hughes, yanking at the sleeping bag to get it through the narrow tunnel entrance. They slapped Grant on the lower shelf. Hughes unzipped the bag and crawled inside, his body transferring the life-saving warmth. There was no ribaldry this time: this was for real….
Burns watched, praying as he had not prayed for a long time. Slowly, as they carried out the survival drill they had so often exercised, the waxiness disappeared from Grant's finger tips, the edges of his ears, the tip and bridge of his nose; the spasms which shuddered the length of his body, gradually became less frequent. His terrified eyes began to take on a semblance of intelligence: Grant seemed okay, need not be pulled down to the town or to Zulu that night.
Watching the flickering candle (if it petered out because they were using up all the oxygen they'd have to evacuate the hole bloody quickly), Corporal Burns crawled outside into the night. ' Get going, O'Malley and Holmes… what you waiting for? Get your gear on, you skiving layabouts — you've got your sentry posts, haven't you?'
The cold hit Burns as he clambered to his feet outside the tunnel. He was shaking inside his clothing, shocked by the accident which had nearly claimed more than ten per cent of his section. He was a bloody lunatic to have taken them so close to the lake's exit; he should have known better. Then, waiting in the silence, he heard the howl of a wolf, and then another, down in the pine forest a thousand feet below — and the hairs prickled at the back of his neck. Perhaps Stoddart wouldn't leave them too long here, marooned in this desolate spot. Though it was isolated, the lemmings, the peculiar arctic rats, would soon be keeping them company, burrowing into the snow-hole.
20
On that same day, when Captain Stoddart's troop was deploying to its ambush positions in the mountains of Troms, HMS Icarus was steaming at twenty-five knots towards her rendezvous at 1800 with COMSTANAVFORLANT. The weather had eased and Captain Trevellion felt that he would be well up to time.
'Clear of the minefield, sir.'
Trevellion nodded at his navigating officer.' Even Brian Neame seemed to have got the message: he was anticipating events and no longer could Trevellion complain of the pilot's slackness or slipshod methods. If Neame continued as he was going, he could be taken off the Captain's Report.…
Icarus left the swept channel buoy astern, then, taking his departure from Grimsholm lighthouse, Neame set his mean line of advance towards the rendezvous. It would be good to gain sea room and, perhaps, to clear the enemy's effective blanket jamming. 'Woodpecker', as it was known in STANAVFOR-LANT, blotted out everything, radar and radio, so that communications were now impossible. Fortunately, Woodpecker was a two-edged sword affecting the Russian communications as adversely as our own. Electronic Warfare was a military science on its own; whoever won EW supremacy would be the victor in a clash at sea. For the past twelve hours the Russians had been blotting out the south-eastern sector of the Norwegian sea and the North Cape area, presumably to conceal the movements of their Northern Fleet into the Barents Sea.
The first lieutenant appeared on the bridge, spruced up after his morning watch. He'd had much to do reorganizing the watches since the departure of the Royals.
'Ready for NBCD exercise, sir. You'll be RASing port side?'
'Can't be sure yet. I'll let you know definitely when we get a bit nearer.'
'Will you see requestmen now, sir?'
Now that Icarus was on war routine, Trevellion found the mundane, everyday routine, a reassurance: normality continued in men's lives. At the table, two men were for rating-up, one for his first good conduct badge. Even under war routine and after a night's watch, they had smartened themselves up.