Read Online We Die Alone: A WWII Epic of Escape and Endurance by Stephen E. Ambrose, David Howarth - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Stephen E. Ambrose, David Howarth
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Ringvassoy on
skis might have been a pleasure. Certainly it would have been quick
and easy. But of course his skis had been blown to pieces like everything else; and there can hardly be anything less suitable for deep
snow than rubber boots.
He had started with the idea of following the shore, where the
snow would be shallower and harder and he would have the alternative of going along the beach below the tidemark. But on the very
morning he found it was not so easy as it looked. He soon came to a
place where a ridge ran out and ended in a cliff. He tried the beach
below the cliff, but it got narrower and narrower until he scrambled
round a rock and saw that the cliff face ahead of him fell sheer into
the sea. He had to go back a mile and climb the ridge. It was not very
steep, but it gave him a hint of what he had undertaken. The wet
rubber slipped at every step. Sometimes, where the snow was hard,
the climb would have been simple if he could have kicked steps; but the boots were soft, and to kick with his right foot was too painful for
his toe. He had to creep up slowly, one foot foremost, like a child
going upstairs. But when the snow was soft and he sank in it up to his
middle, the boots got full of it, and came off, and he had to grovel
and scrape with his hands to find them.
At the top of the right, when he paused to take his breath, he
could see far ahead along the coastline to the eastward; and there was
ridge after ridge, each like the one he was on, and each ending in a
cliff too steep to climb.
He started to go down the other side, and even that was painful
and tedious. Down slopes which would have been a glorious run on
skis, he plodded slowly, stubbing his toe against the end of the boot,
and sometimes falling when the pain of it made him wince and lose
his balance.
But still, all these things were no more than annoyances, and it
would have been absurd to have felt annoyed, whatever happened, so
long as he was free. He felt it would have been disloyal, too. He
though a lot about his friends as he floundered on, especially of Per
and Eskeland. He missed them terribly. Of course he had been
trained to look after himself, and make up his own mind what to do.
In theory he could stand on his own feet and was not dependent on
a leader to make decisions for him. But that was not the same thing
as suddenly losing Eskeland, whom he admired tremendously and
had always regarded as a bit wiser and more capable than himself,
someone he could always rely on for good advice and understanding.
And still less, in a way, did his training take the place of Per, who had
shared everything with him so long. Jan knew his job, but all the
same it was awful not to have anyone to talk it over with. As for what
was happening to his friends, he could not bear to think about it. He
would have welcomed more suffering to bring himself nearer to
them in spirit.
In this mood, he forced himself on to make marches of great
duration: 24 hours, 13 hours, 28 hours without rest. But the distances he covered were very short, because he so often found himself faced
with impassable rocks and had to go back on his tracks, and because
of the weather.
The weather changed from one moment to another. When the
nights were clear, the aurora glimmered and danced in the sky above
the sea. By day in sunshine, the sea was blue and the sky had a milky
radiance, and the gleaming peaks of other islands seemed light and
insubstantial and unearthly. The sun was warm, and the glitter of
snow and water hurt his eyes, though the shadows of the hills were
dark and cold. Then suddenly the skyline to his right would lose its
clarity as a flurry of snow came over it, and in a minute or two the
light faded and the warmth was gone and the sea below went grey.
Gusts of wind came whipping down the slopes, and clouds streamed
across the summits; and then snow began to fall, and frozen mist
came down, in grey columns which
skis might have been a pleasure. Certainly it would have been quick
and easy. But of course his skis had been blown to pieces like everything else; and there can hardly be anything less suitable for deep
snow than rubber boots.
He had started with the idea of following the shore, where the
snow would be shallower and harder and he would have the alternative of going along the beach below the tidemark. But on the very
morning he found it was not so easy as it looked. He soon came to a
place where a ridge ran out and ended in a cliff. He tried the beach
below the cliff, but it got narrower and narrower until he scrambled
round a rock and saw that the cliff face ahead of him fell sheer into
the sea. He had to go back a mile and climb the ridge. It was not very
steep, but it gave him a hint of what he had undertaken. The wet
rubber slipped at every step. Sometimes, where the snow was hard,
the climb would have been simple if he could have kicked steps; but the boots were soft, and to kick with his right foot was too painful for
his toe. He had to creep up slowly, one foot foremost, like a child
going upstairs. But when the snow was soft and he sank in it up to his
middle, the boots got full of it, and came off, and he had to grovel
and scrape with his hands to find them.
At the top of the right, when he paused to take his breath, he
could see far ahead along the coastline to the eastward; and there was
ridge after ridge, each like the one he was on, and each ending in a
cliff too steep to climb.
He started to go down the other side, and even that was painful
and tedious. Down slopes which would have been a glorious run on
skis, he plodded slowly, stubbing his toe against the end of the boot,
and sometimes falling when the pain of it made him wince and lose
his balance.
But still, all these things were no more than annoyances, and it
would have been absurd to have felt annoyed, whatever happened, so
long as he was free. He felt it would have been disloyal, too. He
though a lot about his friends as he floundered on, especially of Per
and Eskeland. He missed them terribly. Of course he had been
trained to look after himself, and make up his own mind what to do.
In theory he could stand on his own feet and was not dependent on
a leader to make decisions for him. But that was not the same thing
as suddenly losing Eskeland, whom he admired tremendously and
had always regarded as a bit wiser and more capable than himself,
someone he could always rely on for good advice and understanding.
And still less, in a way, did his training take the place of Per, who had
shared everything with him so long. Jan knew his job, but all the
same it was awful not to have anyone to talk it over with. As for what
was happening to his friends, he could not bear to think about it. He
would have welcomed more suffering to bring himself nearer to
them in spirit.
In this mood, he forced himself on to make marches of great
duration: 24 hours, 13 hours, 28 hours without rest. But the distances he covered were very short, because he so often found himself faced
with impassable rocks and had to go back on his tracks, and because
of the weather.
The weather changed from one moment to another. When the
nights were clear, the aurora glimmered and danced in the sky above
the sea. By day in sunshine, the sea was blue and the sky had a milky
radiance, and the gleaming peaks of other islands seemed light and
insubstantial and unearthly. The sun was warm, and the glitter of
snow and water hurt his eyes, though the shadows of the hills were
dark and cold. Then suddenly the skyline to his right would lose its
clarity as a flurry of snow came over it, and in a minute or two the
light faded and the warmth was gone and the sea below went grey.
Gusts of wind came whipping down the slopes, and clouds streamed
across the summits; and then snow began to fall, and frozen mist
came down, in grey columns which
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