The Ice Soldier (33 page)
But out here, I had to force myself to understand, the only
decisions that mattered were the ones that kept us alive, no matter how they would be seen when we returned. Only we could know what we were living through. Only we could make a balance of the danger and the drive to succeed. If I allowed myself to forget that, the chances were that we would not be coming back.
decisions that mattered were the ones that kept us alive, no matter how they would be seen when we returned. Only we could know what we were living through. Only we could make a balance of the danger and the drive to succeed. If I allowed myself to forget that, the chances were that we would not be coming back.
The wind was all around us in an awful banshee squall which vibrated through my body as if it meant to shake apart my bones by the force of sound alone.
Plumes of snow were rising from behind the rock, corkscrewing like devil horns into the air.
I turned to look at Stanley. I could not see his face, only his stooped form and the mechanical rising and falling of his legs, almost lost in the seething snow.
I realized now that we would have no time to pitch our tent, nor would it have done us any good to try to find shelter inside it. This storm was too strong. It would blow the canvas to shreds. We should have gone back down into the valley. At least there, the wind might have left us alone.
My eyes were playing tricks on me. The streaks of snow on the rock seemed to be changing shape, forming letters and numbers, then disappearing again into meaningless blurs of white. Then the letters reappeared again. It was maddening. I could even read them now, a huge letter J and under it the numbers 231135.
I turned my head just in time to see Stanley raise his arm and point towards the stone. His mouth moved but his words were lost in the wind.
Looking back at the rock, I realized suddenly that it was not a stone at all but the tail fin of a plane. The ridge of snow that trailed off to its left must be the rest of the plane.
We were close now. There was no doubt about the letters.
Windblown snow poured like an inverted waterfall from behind the tail fin. The ground shook underneath us. The sky had disappeared.
Windblown snow poured like an inverted waterfall from behind the tail fin. The ground shook underneath us. The sky had disappeared.
We reached the fin, which was much larger than I had thought. Wind shrieked around the weather-beaten metal.
Stanley and I tore off our harnesses and undid our ropes. Then we began kicking and clawing at the ridge, moving away the snow until we reached the side of the aircraft. My gloved hand passed over the olive-painted metal, feeling the bumps of rivets, but no way in.
Then Stanley cried out. He was farther down the ridge and had found a hole in the side of the plane. It looked like some kind of doorway. He bent down and scrabbled inside. I saw his feet kicking like a swimmer's, and then he was gone. A second later, his head reappeared and then an arm, beckoning me in. I left the Rocket and dove at the hole, flailing my way into the dark and then falling onto some kind of step. From there, I rolled onto a narrow, bumpy floor.
Outside, the storm had overtaken us. Only the dimmest yellowish light showed through the hole in the snow.
I covered my face with my hands, feeling the torn wool of my gloves clogged with ice. I was sure this wind would rip the plane apart. I imagined Carton's coffin being swept away back in the direction we had come.
Stanley crawled over to me and we lay there, listening to the storm. The wind changed pitch, growing even stronger, and the sloping metal walls groaned around us.
After a minute, I pulled my hands from my eyes and looked around. There was almost no light now. The hole through which we'd crawled had already been covered by snow, dampening the noise of the storm, which we could feel more
than we could see, in the shuddering of the ribbed fuselage. I fished in my pocket for my torch and switched it on. The air glittered with tiny drifting crystals of snow. The torch beam passed over tangles of wire hanging from the ceiling. Lifting myself up, I saw that the narrow floor space on which I lay was made of plywood, and the bumps were in fact empty bullet cases, each one the length of my palm and as thick as my thumb.
than we could see, in the shuddering of the ribbed fuselage. I fished in my pocket for my torch and switched it on. The air glittered with tiny drifting crystals of snow. The torch beam passed over tangles of wire hanging from the ceiling. Lifting myself up, I saw that the narrow floor space on which I lay was made of plywood, and the bumps were in fact empty bullet cases, each one the length of my palm and as thick as my thumb.
Stanley raised his head up off the floor. Immediately in front of him was a low, curved dome of metal, looking strangely like an eyeball in the half-light.
Attached to a metal post directly behind me was a large machine gun, pointing at the ceiling. A snake of ammunition wound out of the breech, the copper-headed bullets sheathed with ice. There was another large post on the side through which I had crawled into the plane, but only a shred of torn metal where a second gun must once have been fixed.
It looked like an American machine gun, probably a .50-caliber, in which case I guessed this machine was one of those B-24 Liberators I had once seen flying overhead.
Towards the front of the plane lay a tangle of boxes, a large yellow object rounded at both ends like a giant vitamin pill, and, at the bottom of this heap, a pair of legs in heavy, rubber-soled boots.
I did not register any sense of horror at seeing the dead man. Perhaps this was because, to judge from the ferocity of the storm outside, I had narrowly escaped becoming one myself. Maybe it was also because he must have been dead for a long time. Instead of sadness or revulsion or pity, I found myself preoccupied with little details, like the way the rubber soles had been worn down at the heels, the way his legs were
wrapped in some kind of sheepskin trousers with a shiny lacquer finish on the outside of the leather.
wrapped in some kind of sheepskin trousers with a shiny lacquer finish on the outside of the leather.
The dead man, and everything else which jammed the passageway, must have been thrown forward by the impact of the plane hitting the glacier. I knew that somewhere up ahead of it must be the cockpit, unless the whole front of the plane had been sheared off in the crash.
Stanley got up and hobbled over to a seat built into the wall just to the left of the jammed corridor. Above the seat was a small table, on which rested a radio receiver. Next to it was a Morse code tapper. The plate and the receiver were completely covered in a thin layer of frost. Stanley wiped away some of the crystals, revealing a metal plate on which the Morse code alphabet had been printed. Then he cleaned off the receiver and read aloud the white letters printed on its black surface: “Signal Corps. U.S. Army Air Forces. BC-348-C.”
“I thought this was an American plane,” I said, my breath fogging the still air. I remembered what Carton and Lindsay had told me at Achnacarry, about planes crashing into the mountains. I wondered if the men who flew this plane would have made it home safely if we had managed to put the beacon on Carton's Rock.
“Are you all right?” asked Stanley.
I told him what I was thinking about.
“It may be true that they would have reached home, but if they had, you and I would now be dead out there in the snow.” Stanley pressed absentmindedly at the Morse code tapper. “You didn't bring any food in, did you?”
I shook my head.
Stanley peered around at the metal sides of the plane. “I think I know how my uncle feels right about now,” he said.
“I wonder how long the storm will last,” I said.
Then we were both silent, as if some answer from the storm itself might reach us on the moaning wind outside. The arched walls shuddered all around, planting in my rattled brain the thought that we had somehow stumbled into a real rocket ship and the noise of the storm was the sound of our engine as we climbed up through the airless stratosphere.
T
WO DAYS LATER, the storm still screamed around the carcass of the plane, which groaned as if it were a living and tormented thing.
WO DAYS LATER, the storm still screamed around the carcass of the plane, which groaned as if it were a living and tormented thing.
Inside the creaking hull, we lived in dead men's clothes and passed the time by smoking dead men's cigarettes. After my torch batteries gave out, the only light came from a candle lamp which Stanley had been carrying in his pocket. He had forgotten to store it away the last time we made camp and had been too lazy to unpack the bag where it belonged. We rationed ourselves to a few hours a day, crowding around the greasy flame like two pale and gloomy moths.
Three times we had gone out into the storm to find the Rocket, in the hopes of unpacking our sleeping bags and retrieving some of our food, as well as the miner-type head-lamps we had brought. The first time, I could not find the
Rocket and staggered around in the whirling clouds of white, afraid not only that the coffin had been blown away but also that I would not be able to find my way back to the shelter of the plane.
Rocket and staggered around in the whirling clouds of white, afraid not only that the coffin had been blown away but also that I would not be able to find my way back to the shelter of the plane.
Something happened to me out there which filled me both with terror and with awe. As I wandered about in the snow, twisted this way and that by the wind, I had the sudden feeling that I was not alone. Everyone has had this sensation, sitting in a room, perhaps, and realizing that someone else has entered. You turn and see that other person. You make yourself believe you must have heard something, because otherwise how could you have known? It was that same feeling, and I immediately assumed that Stanley had come out to join me in the search. I spun around, trying to see where he was, simultaneously annoyed that he would have left the shelter of the cave, because now we could both be lost, but also glad to have his company. I kept turning, the storm ripping at my clothes and snow spraying across the ground and peppering my legs like ivory shotgun pellets. There was no one else. I even reached out into the gray haze, not trusting my eyes, afraid that there might be someone right in front of me whom I could not see and at the same time worried that my eyes were right and nobody was there. But the more my empty hands reached out into the screeching wind, the more certain I became that my first instincts had been correct. It was as if, in leaving behind the world we knew, Stanley and I had stumbled into a place where not only the boundaries of space had changed but also the boundaries of perception. My mind, once contained within the white walls of my skull, now seemed to flood out through its shield of bone.
And now I knew, or thought I knew, that this presence in
the air around me was Carton himself. Not the doctored remnants of the man inside his coffin but all of him, here and alive and aware, only hidden from the flimsy powers of my sight.
the air around me was Carton himself. Not the doctored remnants of the man inside his coffin but all of him, here and alive and aware, only hidden from the flimsy powers of my sight.
But in that instant I forgot about the cold, and the wind, and about everything else except standing there, my arms outstretched, too amazed to let the fear take over.
After some time, I didn't know how long, I stumbled back to the plane and crawled inside.
Stanley had torn up a piece of plywood from the floor. We used that as a primitive door to seal up the snow hole.
I shook my head when Stanley's wordless question showed across his face, the right side of which was swollen from his broken tooth.
He sat back beside the candle and folded his arms and sighed.
I wanted to tell him what had happened out there, but as I tried to put it into words, I realized it couldn't be done. And now that the event had passed, I could no longer be sure, as I had been before, that it had actually taken place.
The second time, after staggering around in the swirling white for half an hour, Stanley found the Rocket buried under a mound of snow about a hundred feet back from where we had left it when the storm hit. By then, Stanley was too cold to be able to dig away the snow and was forced to retreat to the plane.
Although our hovel in the fuselage was sheltered from the wind, it was still below freezing inside. At first, it didn't cross our minds to take the clothing from the dead man. Then, as we sat shivering side by side, Stanley and I found ourselves staring, by the candle's feeble light, at the sheepskin trousers and the clunky fur-lined boots. There was no need to discuss what we were thinking. We had extra clothing, and sleeping
bags, too, but all of that was buried in the Rocket. If we could get to that, we might be able to avoid the unpleasantness of stripping the corpse. But one way or another, we had to find a way to stay warm, or we would freeze to death in here. After twenty-four hours trapped inside the plane with the storm still raging outside, the threat of this was no longer a possibility but a certainty.
bags, too, but all of that was buried in the Rocket. If we could get to that, we might be able to avoid the unpleasantness of stripping the corpse. But one way or another, we had to find a way to stay warm, or we would freeze to death in here. After twenty-four hours trapped inside the plane with the storm still raging outside, the threat of this was no longer a possibility but a certainty.
We decided to make another attempt to retrieve our gear from the Rocket. On the first two trips out, we had gone only one at a time, in order to be able to keep the hole open and make sure the one outside could find his way back. This time, we decided we would both have to go. We armed ourselves with pieces of plywood prized up off the floor, removed the door, and stuck our heads outside.
“Straight ahead,” Stanley shouted in my ear over the screeching of the wind. His mittened hand chopped in the direction of the Rocket, now completely buried under snow.
I slapped him twice on the back and we crawled out.
The wind was so strong that we could barely stand. We lumbered forward, hunched like animals unused to walking on two legs, constantly glancing back at the entrance to our cave. Afraid of losing track of each other, we held hands. By the time we reached the bank of snow under which the Rocket had been buried, our mittens had fused together in a frozen handshake.
Already I was imagining myself tucked into my sleeping bag, eating bean stew from a can, a dozen candles burning around me. We worked fast, grunting with the effort.
Even though he was standing right next to me, all I could see of Stanley was a bowed gray form with a misshapen head, as if he were not solid but only a bizarre compression of the air.
Almost as soon as we began work, our plywood shovels struck a layer of ice, like a blanket of glass over the coffin,
against which the wood splintered and broke. When we tried to use the smaller pieces, they broke and splintered once again. We could see the perforated sides of the cargo container and the outlines of the bags lashed neatly in place. Beneath the ice, only a few inches away, lay all that we needed to survive.
against which the wood splintered and broke. When we tried to use the smaller pieces, they broke and splintered once again. We could see the perforated sides of the cargo container and the outlines of the bags lashed neatly in place. Beneath the ice, only a few inches away, lay all that we needed to survive.
As Stanley's shovel cracked into yet another piece, he gave a strange, whining growl and threw away the scraps of wood. Then he tore off his mittens and began scratching madly at the ice. This did no good at all, leaving only faint chalky trails on the surface.
I threw away my own shovel and patted him on the arm, to tell him it was no use.
But he swatted my hand away and began to pound against the coffin, the strange, bestial cries continuing.
I hooked my hands around his chest and began to drag him back towards the plane.
At first he resisted, but then he went slack in my arms, as if he had fainted. He hung there, dead weight, while I shuffled backwards towards the plane.
I fell into the entrance and the two of us floundered into the fuselage.
For a while, we both just lay there, half on top of each other, huddled in the darkness. Then I reached across and fumbled for the candle lamp. Once I had it in my hand, I lit a match.
The first thing I saw, when the flame hissed into life, was Stanley's face.
The sight of him shocked me. It was his eyes. They were exactly like the eyes of my father's mastiff when I'd brought it to the vet's to be put down. The old dog, grown tired of its silly name and helpless owner, had become so weak that it
could not stand up. My father had been too upset to come along, so I'd had to carry it in from the car by myself, no easy task since the mastiff weighed over a hundred pounds. From the look in its eyes, I could tell that it knew what was about to happen. I set the dog down on the floor of the vet's office.
could not stand up. My father had been too upset to come along, so I'd had to carry it in from the car by myself, no easy task since the mastiff weighed over a hundred pounds. From the look in its eyes, I could tell that it knew what was about to happen. I set the dog down on the floor of the vet's office.
The vet, a red-faced man named Plunkett, with white hair and a white mustache gone yellow at the ends, was already filling a syringe. Dr. Plunkett turned to me and nodded. “It will be all right,” he said.
I took one last look at Trouble.
He was watching me, his jowls draped on the floor and his black nose twitching as he drew in shallow breaths. I looked for some forgiveness in those eyes, but there was only the blindness of fear.
Now those eyes were Stanley's.
I was also beginning to break. I seemed to be falling away inside myself, growing fainter, melting away.
I don't know how long I had been lying there when suddenly a jolt passed through me, like the shudders of an earthquake against the insides of my ribs. I scrambled to my feet.
Stanley remained on the ground, eyes closed, lips turning blue.
“You'll die if you lie there any longer!” I shouted at him. When he did not move, I kicked him.
His eyes opened.
“Come on!” I yelled. “Get the clothes off that corpse before you turn into one.”
I stamped over to the pile of wreckage and began tearing away at it. I was expecting it to be incredibly heavy but, to my surprise, some of the boxes were only made of cardboard instead of metal. Even more surprising, most of them were
filled with long strips of tin foil, which spilled out over the floor like confetti. The only heavy objects were the large yellow cylinders, which turned out to be for oxygen, although these were cracked and empty now.
filled with long strips of tin foil, which spilled out over the floor like confetti. The only heavy objects were the large yellow cylinders, which turned out to be for oxygen, although these were cracked and empty now.
The dead man lay at the bottom of this heap, arms at his sides, hands inside brown fur-lined gloves. His head was swathed in a leather flying helmet and face covered by a rubber oxygen mask with only a shred of the hose remaining. The rest appeared to have been violently torn away. He wore large goggles with a single lens over both eyes, unlike the goggles Stanley and I wore, which had separate lenses for each eyepiece. Mercifully, we could not see his eyes, as the lens had been shattered and the inside was coated with ice.
He was completely frozen, and even though we managed to undo the zipper on his sheepskin jacket, we would have had to break his arms to remove it. So instead, we lifted him carefully off the floor and cut the jacket down the middle of his back. We were then able to peel it away.
Stanley immediately put this on and fastened it around him with his trouser belt, while I removed the sheepskin trousers, which, thankfully, had zips from the top to the bottom of both legs and so did not have to be cut.
Beneath the sheepskin outer layer, the dead man appeared to have several more layers of clothing, all buried beneath an olive gabardine flying suit. In one of the leg pockets attached to the front of each shin, I found an unopened emergency-ration tin.
After five minutes of flapping his arms, Stanley pronounced himself warm. “For the first time in bloody ages,” he added. He then went and tugged the gloves off the dead man's hands.
This was our first real look at the corpse. Until now, he had remained anonymous beneath his clothing. But now the
alabaster-white fingers, the nails flat gray and blackened at the tips, pointed at us as if casting a spell. The shape of them reminded me of Carton's hands, and the way that he aimed them in greeting.
alabaster-white fingers, the nails flat gray and blackened at the tips, pointed at us as if casting a spell. The shape of them reminded me of Carton's hands, and the way that he aimed them in greeting.
Stanley's own hands were held in front of him in the same rigid shape by the still-frozen gloves. Slowly, as the minutes passed, the fingers of the gloves began to wiggle as the warmth of Stanley's body loosened the leather. He bent down, picked up some of the tin foil, and sprinkled it over the dead man, covering him up as if with a matting of flowers.
Meanwhile, I struggled into the trousers, and soon my kneecaps stopped feeling like chips of ice beneath the goose-bumped skin.
Beyond where the boxes of foil had piled up was a door. I turned the handle, set my shoulder to it, and fell into an empty space where, I realized from numbers printed up and down the metal supports, the bombs must have been stored. Beyond this point was the cockpit. I could see the backs of the seats belonging to the pilot and copilot, and between these the engine throttle handles. The front of the plane had caved in, and it looked as if the controls had been smashed into the seats. Moving forward, I saw that both seats were empty. The rest of the crew must have bailed out, leaving the dead man behind. I wondered how far the plane might have flown without anyone at the controls. Miles perhaps. Maybe hundreds of miles.
I returned to the foil-strewn cave to find that Stanley had discovered a parachute, which had been hanging on a rack on the wall. He had opened it and now stood draped like a monstrous bride in the folds of the white shroud. He had opened the emergency-ration tin and was nibbling at the rock-hard chocolate.
I stared at him.
He gave me a haughty look. “Not exactly Friday afternoon at the Montague, but at least things have improved enough that I feel confident in saying that they could be worse.”
I took the piece of chocolate he held out and gnawed at it until a lump broke free. It was not like regular chocolate, even when it wasn't frozen. The stuff contained a gritty mixture of coffee, cocoa, and, I think, some kind of milk powder. It was better than nothing but not by much.
Further rifling of the man's pockets revealed a half-full pack of Lucky Strikes, with the logo “It's Toasted” on the green-and-red packaging.
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