raised our spirits. Once more we were alone in a hostile country, trekking along a familiar road in hell.
For three days our prisoner-of-war maintained a continuous and sullen silence. The first words he spoke were to Alte.
'There's going to be a storm,' he told him. 'You'd better get the tent up immediately, unless you want us all to die of exposure.'
Alte stuck his pipe between his teeth and looked up at the low, racing clouds on the horizon.
'All right,' he said, at last. 'If that's your advice we'd be wise to take it. You know your own country better than we do.'
The Old Man's calm seemed to agitate the Russian.
'When I say immediately, I mean immediately! The storm's going to be right overhead in less than an hour's time, and if that tent's not up we'll be dead within minutes. The temperature's going to drop right down. At least 48. degrees below freezing.'
'He's right,' declared the Legionnaire. I've seen plenty of sandstorms in the Sahara and I don't fancy a snowstorm in the middle of Russia, I can tell you.'
Porta looked aghast.
'You're not going to go by what this slob says?' he demanded.
'Why not? He knows the country, doesn't he?' 'You're bloody mad,' began Porta, heatedly, but Alte intervened.
'Shut up and get cracking with that tent.' Slowly, and with rather bad grace, we began to unload the sledge, Porta muttering mutinously to himself and Heide mouthing the usual obscenities towards the dog team, as if they personally were responsible for the weather. Quite suddenly, as if from nowhere, a tremendous blast of wind with an icy cutting edge like the blade of a knife hurled itself furiously upon us, overturning the sledge and us with it.
'Now perhaps you'll get a move on!' screamed the Legionnaire.
Working as fast as our numbed fingers and the continuing wind would allow us, we set up the frozen canvas of the tent, stiff as a board already and almost impossible to handle, and at the Russian's suggestion began hacking out blocks of ice and snow to form a protective rampart against the coming storm.
By the time the work was done we were all exhausted. We fell asleep huddled shoulder to shoulder, leaving the Professor to keep watch over us and our prisoner. Somehow it always seemed to be the Professor's turn to keep watch.
We were woken by the storm. It was a storm such as none of us had ever seen before, and it could surely only have happened in Russia or the North Pole. For four or five hours it required our combined efforts to keep the tent upright. At last the wind dropped to a more normal pitch, and the Russian relaxed and nodded to the rest of us.
'O.K. We can sleep now.'
'Sleep?' said Alte. 'It must be nearly daybreak. We've got to push on.'
The Russian smiled, pityingly.
'Why don't you try? Take a step outside and see how far you get.'
Little John, of course, had to make the attempt Uttering words of scorn and bravado, he stepped outside the tent, fell into a snowdrift several feet high, staggered upright again, was promptly knocked over by the wind and rolled head over heels back into the tent, completely covered in snow.
'Fancy a big strong chap like you being bowled over by a little gentle breeze!' jeered Porta. 'How long is this lot likely to last?' demanded Alte.
The Russian shrugged uncaring shoulders.
'Three days, if you're lucky. A week if you're not.'
His estimate was correct. For three days the storm buffeted the snow across the plains. Conversation was almost impossible and our voices became hoarse through constant shouting. From time to time we staggered outside into the freezing white world and saw the dogs curled up nose to tail in the lee of the tent, almost invisible beneath a thick covering of snow. Inside, we fought and quarrelled and slept and woke and fought and quarrelled as the monotonous hours dragged on. Little John and Steiner battered each other almost raw; Steiner then picked oh the Professor and half killed him; Heide came to the Professor's rescue and was
For three days our prisoner-of-war maintained a continuous and sullen silence. The first words he spoke were to Alte.
'There's going to be a storm,' he told him. 'You'd better get the tent up immediately, unless you want us all to die of exposure.'
Alte stuck his pipe between his teeth and looked up at the low, racing clouds on the horizon.
'All right,' he said, at last. 'If that's your advice we'd be wise to take it. You know your own country better than we do.'
The Old Man's calm seemed to agitate the Russian.
'When I say immediately, I mean immediately! The storm's going to be right overhead in less than an hour's time, and if that tent's not up we'll be dead within minutes. The temperature's going to drop right down. At least 48. degrees below freezing.'
'He's right,' declared the Legionnaire. I've seen plenty of sandstorms in the Sahara and I don't fancy a snowstorm in the middle of Russia, I can tell you.'
Porta looked aghast.
'You're not going to go by what this slob says?' he demanded.
'Why not? He knows the country, doesn't he?' 'You're bloody mad,' began Porta, heatedly, but Alte intervened.
'Shut up and get cracking with that tent.' Slowly, and with rather bad grace, we began to unload the sledge, Porta muttering mutinously to himself and Heide mouthing the usual obscenities towards the dog team, as if they personally were responsible for the weather. Quite suddenly, as if from nowhere, a tremendous blast of wind with an icy cutting edge like the blade of a knife hurled itself furiously upon us, overturning the sledge and us with it.
'Now perhaps you'll get a move on!' screamed the Legionnaire.
Working as fast as our numbed fingers and the continuing wind would allow us, we set up the frozen canvas of the tent, stiff as a board already and almost impossible to handle, and at the Russian's suggestion began hacking out blocks of ice and snow to form a protective rampart against the coming storm.
By the time the work was done we were all exhausted. We fell asleep huddled shoulder to shoulder, leaving the Professor to keep watch over us and our prisoner. Somehow it always seemed to be the Professor's turn to keep watch.
We were woken by the storm. It was a storm such as none of us had ever seen before, and it could surely only have happened in Russia or the North Pole. For four or five hours it required our combined efforts to keep the tent upright. At last the wind dropped to a more normal pitch, and the Russian relaxed and nodded to the rest of us.
'O.K. We can sleep now.'
'Sleep?' said Alte. 'It must be nearly daybreak. We've got to push on.'
The Russian smiled, pityingly.
'Why don't you try? Take a step outside and see how far you get.'
Little John, of course, had to make the attempt Uttering words of scorn and bravado, he stepped outside the tent, fell into a snowdrift several feet high, staggered upright again, was promptly knocked over by the wind and rolled head over heels back into the tent, completely covered in snow.
'Fancy a big strong chap like you being bowled over by a little gentle breeze!' jeered Porta. 'How long is this lot likely to last?' demanded Alte.
The Russian shrugged uncaring shoulders.
'Three days, if you're lucky. A week if you're not.'
His estimate was correct. For three days the storm buffeted the snow across the plains. Conversation was almost impossible and our voices became hoarse through constant shouting. From time to time we staggered outside into the freezing white world and saw the dogs curled up nose to tail in the lee of the tent, almost invisible beneath a thick covering of snow. Inside, we fought and quarrelled and slept and woke and fought and quarrelled as the monotonous hours dragged on. Little John and Steiner battered each other almost raw; Steiner then picked oh the Professor and half killed him; Heide came to the Professor's rescue and was
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