And now this soldier, this Scottish soldier, who wandered far away and soldiered far away, sees leaves are falling, and death is calling. And he will fade away in that far land.
Banks had always previously thought of that particular song as being almost jolly, a tune to bind Scots together during New Year’s Eve festivities back home. But hearing it sung by a dead man, as a dirge at almost half speed, it sounded as mournful as any bagpipe lament and it had the same effect, tugging directly at his heart. He had a tear in his eye that he had to brush away to pay full attention to the scene in front of him.
The German officer was still looking straight at Banks. He lifted his free left arm and pointed up at the hangar, at the same time tightening his grip on Patel’s neck. Patel’s throat was too constricted for him to speak, and Banks saw the pleading in his eyes clear enough. And the oberstleutnant’s meaning was clearer yet.
Get back to the hangar. Go into the saucer, or I will kill this man.
Banks was of a mind to comply — he’d lost men in the call of duty before, but always when he knew what he was fighting for. This current situation had him so conflicted he scarcely knew what to do for the best, but he knew he couldn’t just let Patel be a pawn in the bigger battle. He was about to nod to give his assent, but Private Wilkes had other ideas.
“Let him go, you wanker,” the private shouted and barreled out of the door, knocking Banks aside in the process. The oberst hardly moved, but as Wilkes ran forward and aimed the butt of his rifle at the frozen head, the officer made two movements almost simultaneously. The first was with his right arm, and the crack of Patel’s neck breaking echoed around the still night air of the bay. The second, with his left arm held out stiff, hit Wilkes in the chest like a sledgehammer. The private’s ribs caved in under the blow, then Wilkes was off his feet and hurtling away, limbs sprawled, to smash, just a bundle of bloody wet flesh now, against the wall of a neighboring hut. Banks had two men downed in as many seconds.
Hynd and McCally stepped out, weapons raised to flank Banks.
“Cap?” Hynd said, and Banks knew it was a request to start shooting. But that hadn’t worked out well for them so far.
The oberst raised his left arm again and pointed up toward the hangar. Banks considered it, but now it felt like it would be an insult to the two dead men to give in to the demand. He raised his voice and spoke so that his squad behind him would hear the conviction in his voice. They needed to hear it, and Banks needed to say it.
“The answer’s still fucking no,” he said, then turned to Hynd.
“Back inside, right now. We don’t have the firepower to take them down. We need to try something else.”
The others complied with his order and seconds later, the five of them were back in the hut. McCally closed the door, but within seconds, something pounded heavily on the other side, the force of it shaking the door in its frame. At the same time, a layer of frost grew, impossibly fast, across the inside surface. McCally had to forcibly peel his gloved hand from the door; it had been flash-frozen against the wood in seconds. Banks saw his breath condense in the air and felt cold bite at his nose and lips.
“Heat. We need more heat,” he shouted. “Get that fucking stove stoked as high as you can get it, Cally.”
The corporal moved quickly to the stove and threw cut logs into the open grate, as many as the small stove could hold comfortably. All of the squad stepped away from the doorway, instinctively looking for more heat. The logs cracked and crackled as the flames took hold.
“Will this work, Cap?” Wiggins said.
“It did in the hangar, lad,” Banks said, trying to put some reassurance into it, although he wasn’t sure he believed it himself. “It’s all we’ve got, so get to it. Let’s warm things up a bit around here.”
The extent of the frost spread quickly, crawling along the walls as if being laid down by some invisible painter, creeping across the floor towards Banks’ feet, tendrils reaching out, looking for prey.
He stepped further backward, trying to get even closer to the stove. Flames roared in the grate at his back but it seemed to give out little heat. In truth, he had never felt such cold, not even in the far north in the waters off Baffin Island. It was as if his blood thickened, freezing solid in his veins. A strange lethargy began to take him. He was looking at the doorway, but he saw stars, the infinite blackness, calling him to sweet oblivion. He took a step forward, towards the door rather than the fire, then another.
“Cap!” Hynd shouted and pulled Banks back towards the stove, putting his own body between the captain and the creeping ice. Banks’ head cleared immediately, all compulsion gone as quickly as it had come.
“Thanks,” he said to the sarge. He raised a hand, intending to pat Hynd on the arm, and saw to his dismay that his hands were almost as blue as those of the German Oberst outside. A thin layer of frost ran, all the way up to his wrists.
“Best warm your hands, Cap,” Hynd said. “It’s turned a bit on the nippy side.”
Banks turned and faced the stove, feeling the heat tighten the skin across his cheeks. The frost on his hands quickly melted away, although it was going to take a bit longer for them to lose the blue tinge of cold. His blood began to move again, but he still felt sluggish.
The ice thickened on the inside surface of the door, freezing faster than the heat from the stove could melt it. Hughes’ singing rose up from immediately outside the door.
And now these soldiers, these Scottish soldiers, who wandered far away and soldiered far away, see leaves are falling, and death is calling. And they will fade away in that far land.
“Fuck this shite, Cap,” Wiggins said. “I’m a soldier, not a fucking ice cube tray. Open the door. Let’s go down shooting.”
“I’m not ready to give up yet. Stoke the flames, man. Keep stoking the flames. It’s all that stands between us and a cold grave.”
The fire had grown so as to fill the interior of the stove and there wasn’t room for any more fuel. They had to stand back away from the waves of heat, but still the ice crept across the room towards them from the doorway and the squad huddled closer together in the space between the stove and the table.
“It’s getting right cozy in here, Cap,” Hynd said.
“Funny, that’s what your wife said too,” Wiggins replied.
The old familiar banter bought a round of laughter and raised their spirits. But the good humor didn’t last for long. One by one, the men fell silent, each lost in his thoughts. The thudding on the door stopped, and now the only sound was to be heard was the crackle of the logs as the fire ate through fuel as fast as they could throw it on the flames.
But it seemed to be working. The spread of the ice slowed and finally it stopped six inches from their feet. It did not retreat, but Banks began to believe that they might yet survive this.
“Is it over, Cap?” Parker asked. Despite the heat, Banks saw that the private’s lips were gray, almost blue, and that a layer of frost coated his thick eyebrows.
“Maybe aye, maybe no,” Banks replied, hoping for one thing, fearing the other.
And then it came, the exact thing Banks had been dreading. *
It started quietly again, the same far-off chanting, the monkish choir in the wind. Banks didn’t know what was worse, a dead man singing, or this insistent, far too seductive plainsong.