The Blue Ice

by Innes, Hammond;

  ‘’Ere, take anuvver swig o’ this.’ He passed the flask across to me and, putting his gun down on the table, got out a knife and began cutting bread and butter and cheese from the food on the table. ‘We’ll ’ave a bite to eat. Then we’ll get movin’.’

  Get moving! My limbs cried out in one great ache at the thought. But he was right. Our only hope of catching up with Lovaas was to get moving and keep moving. ‘All right,’ I said and got stiffly to my feet.

  And at that moment a voice said, ‘Sta stille!’

  I saw Sunde freeze in the act of cutting the square slab of brown cheese. He dropped the knife and started for his gun which lay at the other end of the table. ‘Sta stille ellers sa skyter jeg.’ He stopped and stared at the window. I followed the direction of his gaze. Framed in the opening were the head and shoulders of a man – and the muzzle of a gun. The flickering firelight shone on him with a ruddy glow. His face was dark and bearded. His eyes were like two coals. He wore a fur-skin cap with ear flaps. ‘Hva er det De vil?’ Sunde asked.

  The man’s voice was harsh as he replied in Norwegian. And when he finished his teeth showed white in his beard as he grinned.

  ‘What’s he say?’ I asked.

  ‘’E says ’e won’t do us no ’arm, s’long as we don’t cause no trouble. ’E’s the third of Lovaas’s party – Lovaas an’ ’is mate ave gone on a’ter Farnell. Seems they spotted us just as it were gettin’ dark. ’E’s bin ’anging ara’nd, waitin’ fer us ever since. Gor blimey! Couple o’ mugs we are.’

  I looked at my revolver. It lay more than a yard away from me. And suddenly a deep sense of drowsiness crept over me. This meant I couldn’t go on. I could just stay here and rest. But something in Sunde’s eyes caused my lethargy to vanish in a flash. His small body was tense, his hands crooked like claws under the table. ‘Kom inn,’ he said quietly.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  ON THE SANKT PAAL GLACIER

  The man at the window hesitated, considering how best to lever himself through the narrow gap. The room was very still. The only sound was the hiss and crackle of the logs blazing in the stone grate. The flames threw flickering shadows on the walls of the hut. Sunde’s motionless figure was a shadowy giant scrawled from floor to ceiling. I felt my limbs relaxing. God, how tired I was! The luxury of knowing that it was impossible to do anything further, that the matter had been taken out of my hands, stole over me in a comforting wave of lethargy. My whole body sighed luxuriously as the muscles relaxed.

  But I could sense Sunde’s alertness. He glanced at the fire and then back to the window.

  The man put both his hands on the window sill. ‘Sta stille!’ he ordered, and his eyes gleamed in the firelight.

  Sunde took a step back as though he were scared, tripped over nothing and sprawled flat beside me, his head almost in the grate. The man at the window tensed, the gun gripped in his hand. My stomach turned over inside me. For a moment I thought he was going to fire. ‘Hva er det De gjör?’ he snarled. Sunde moaned. His right hand was almost in the fire. He pressed his left hand over it and squirmed as though in pain. At first I thought he had burned himself. But as he explained what had happened in Norwegian, I saw his supposed injured hand move out towards one of the blazing logs.

  I turned back to the window. The man was still watching us tensely. The muzzle of his Luger seemed pointed straight at my belly. The dark metal circle of it gleamed dully in the light of the flames. Then he relaxed. He held the revolver over the sill and, with a quick jerk, lifted his body on his two hands and got his knee on the sill.

  In that instant, Sunde half rose from the floor. His right hand came up and a blazing log flew like a flaming torch across the room. It crashed against the dark shadow in the window with a burst of sparks and then fell flaming to the floor. There was a cry of pain, a curse, and then the flash and crash of a gun. I heard the thud of the bullet hitting something soft as I rolled over towards my own pistol. Sunde was twisting round by the table. There was another shot from the window. I seized hold of my gun. The rough grip of the butt was comforting to my hand. I pushed up the safety catch. And just as I raised it to fire, there was a stab of flame from beside the table and in the sound of the explosion, there was a ghastly, choking scream and the figure in the gap of the window sagged like a rag doll and then slowly toppled backwards.

  The next instant Sunde and I were alone in the smoke-filled room. Everything was silent as before. The only sound was the hiss and crackle of the flames in the grate. And the only indication of what had happened was the single log blazing on the floor below the window. The window itself was an open rectangle, showing the glimmer of white snow beyond. I picked up the log and threw it back on to the fire. Sunde leaned heavily on the table. His face was white and strained. ‘Anybody’d fink we was at war again,’ he said uncertainly. Then he straightened up and went to the door. A moment later his head appeared at the window. ‘Give us a torch, will yer, Mr Gansert,’ he said.

  I got the torch from my rucksack and took it across to him. He shone the beam on the body huddled in a heap in the snow below the window. He turned it over. The skin of the man’s face was very pale below his beard. His mouth was open and his eyes were beginning to glaze. A trickle of blood ran from the corner of his mouth. It had marked the snow in a blotch of livid crimson. A neat hole showed in his forehead.

  I felt a shiver run down my spine. To Sunde this was just one more man killed up in these mountains. This was the sort of thing he’d been doing all through the war. But to me – well, I couldn’t help thinking of the repercussions. Killing men during a war is legalised. But this was a peacetime killing. And Norway is a law-abiding country.

  ‘We’ll take ’im da’n ter the lake,’ Sunde said.

  I went out into the cold night air and helped tie the body to a pair of skis. Then we dragged it across the snow to the lake, near where the stream flowed down. We tied stones to the man’s feet and tossed him in. I can still remember the cold, sickening splash with which he hit the dark water. For a moment ripples showed. Then all was still under the stars again. If it had been the carcase of a dog it couldn’t have been disposed of with less ceremony. And I remember wondering then – as I have wondered before and since – whether man was as important in the scheme of things as he would like to believe.

  Back at the hut again, Sunde began to get his rucksack on his shoulders. He had some trouble with it and I had to help him. Then he helped me on with mine. ‘Where now?’ I asked as we went outside and fixed on our skis.

  ‘Steinbergdalen and then Gjeiteryggen – both turisthytten,’ he replied. ‘After that we’ll see. Maybe Finse via the Sankt Paal Glacier. Or maybe he’ll turn off to the west, to Hallingdal and Myrdal an’ pick up the railway there.’

  ‘How far is Gjeiteryggen?’ I asked.

  ‘’Ba’t twenty miles.’

  ‘Twenty miles!’ My heart sank. I glanced back at the flickering glow from the saeter window. My feet felt like lead as I followed the track of Sunde’s skis through the snow. Twenty miles! He might as well have said two hundred. The pack tore at my shoulders. My feet felt blistered and raw. Every muscle in my body cried out against further movement. I put my head down and trudged on, automatically, trying to think of something other than the utter weariness that engulfed me.

  At the top of a long incline Sunde paused. I stood beside him and looked back. The stars were a myriad pinpoints of light in the frosted darkness of the sky. Below us stretched a wide plain of virgin snow. And in the centre of it lay Osterbo saeter, a dark huddle of huts with the firelight still shining a dull, warm glow through the window. I thought – A man has been killed down there tonight. We have killed a man and thrown his carcase in the lake. But it meant nothing. It was as though it had never happened. Like a dream, it seemed unreal. Only my feeling of exhaustion was real. Nothing else mattered.

  We turned and trudged on up the path, winding steadily until we were climbing below cliffs that reached their dark shadows to the
stars. A curtain of silvery water, like flowing lace, rippled down from above. We climbed and climbed until I thought we should never reach the top. But at last there was nothing above us but the stars. And ahead of us was the distant murmur of a waterfall.

  We went on, down to the water, and then turned away along the side of a racing torrent till we reached the bridge. The moon came up, throwing the serried edges of the mountains into black outline before it topped their summits. Then suddenly the circle of its light was shining on the silver tracery of countless lakes running up a long valley. And beyond were the mountains, hard and crystal-white with snow and ice.

  We descended by sudden rushes to the lakes, our skis sizzling pleasantly on the frost-glistening snow. The joy of moving without effort! And always we followed in the track of the other skis. Farnell and Lovaas had been this way before us. Along by the lakes the going was better. Our skis slid forward with little effort. Only my pack seemed heavy. But soon we were climbing again. Whether it was the cold freshness of the night or the fact that my muscles were becoming resigned to the unaccustomed work I was giving them, I couldn’t tell. But I found I was now able to keep pace with Sunde. Of course I was bigger than he was. And plenty of pully-hauly work on the boat had kept me fit. Diving wasn’t a particularly healthy occupation, sweating underwater in a rubber suit.

  He was pausing quite often now. And whenever I caught glimpses of his face in the moonlight, it looked white and strained. Once I suggested he took a rest. But he replied sharply: ‘Lovaas won’t be restin’, will ’e now?’

  And the mention of Lovaas turned my mind to the chase that was going on ahead of us. Farnell had had a longer rest than Lovaas. He was slight and wiry and his muscles were probably hardened to this sort of work. But Lovaas was bigger, more powerful. He was probably a good skier – he had all the winter in which to ski. Soon perhaps we’d catch sight of them. There would be Farnell out in front, a lone small figure, in the waste of the moonlit snow. And behind him two other figures, seemingly connected to him by the slender twin threads of his ski tracks. And Lovaas would stop at nothing. That was obvious from what had happened to us down at Osterbo. He knew now what he was after – knew that the prize was big enough for him to get away with anything so long as he held the information Farnell had possessed.

  The thought made me press on faster. And now I found myself held back by Sunde. Several times I moved out ahead of him and had to wait for him to come up. Now strength seemed flowing into my muscles, whilst he flagged more and more. I began to chafe at his slowness. His face looked white and drained in the moonlight. The sweat glistened on his forehead, whilst I was no longer sweating. Twice, when he paused, he peered at the map. His breath was coming in short, haggard gasps.

  We came to a waterfall, tumbling down to the lake we were leaving. I waited for him and let him pass to lead the way. As I followed, my eyes bent on the ground as we climbed through a jungle of giant boulders, I suddenly noticed a red spot on the snow. A few yards on was another, and another. I glanced up at Sunde. He was bent forward under the weight of his pack and his left arm hung slack in front of him. Good God! I suddenly had an awful sense of shame at my feeling of impatience. At the top he paused. I came up to him and glanced at his left hand. Blood was dripping slowly on to the snow. It had congealed on his fingers, but down the back of his hand a crimson line glistened wet in the moonlight. ‘You’re hurt,’ I said.

  ‘It’s nuffink,’ he answered. ‘The bastard got me in the shoulder.’

  I thought of the weight of the pack he was carrying and squirmed inside. God, how that pack must hurt him! ‘Let’s have a look at it,’ I said.

  But he shook his head. I saw his lips were bleeding where he had bitten through them with the pain. ‘We’re not far from Steinbergdalen. I’ll stop there. You’ll have to go on alone.’

  I shook my head. ‘I can’t leave you alone up here.’

  ‘I’ll be all right,’ he said angrily. ‘It ain’t nuffink serious.’ And he turned and went on, trudging steadily forward on his skis.

  I followed, my head bent, seeing nothing but the crimson spots on the snow that became more and more frequent. And I had thought I was tougher than him, that diving had softened him up! I thought of all the times he had paused for me on the way up to Osterbo. And I hadn’t been wounded. I’d just been tired.

  The rocks gradually became less frequent. Then suddenly we topped a ridge and there in the valley ahead of us was the hut. It was a square building, constructed of logs. At the back were outhouses. The little colony of huts, looking like models in the moonlight, was set on a big outcrop of rock, that showed black through powdery, wind-driven snow.

  Ski tracks ran straight up to the door of the hut. I told Sunde to wait and skirted round the back, coming down on the far side. There, clear in the white light of the moon on snow, were the ski tracks going on and on until lost in the infinity of cold whiteness – three separate and clearly defined tracks.

  I whistled to Sunde. ‘They’ve gone on,’ I told him as we approached the door of the hut. I lifted the latch. The door opened. Inside it was warm. The ashes of a log fire smouldered in the grate. With the door shut the warmth of the place stole over us like a soporific. I realised once more how tired I was. It was two o’clock. I had done some twenty-six miles of stiff climbing on foot and on ski in twelve hours. I dropped my pack on the floor and kicked the embers into a blaze. I got Sunde’s pack off and then went out into the kitchen and found more logs. With a blazing pine fire to warm us I hacked at the blood-hard clothing of the little diver’s shoulder. At last I had cut it free. The bullet had torn through the muscle on the outside of the upper arm, just by the shoulder joint. I heated some snow to water on the fire, bathed the wound and then bandaged it with strips from a torn shirt.

  When I had helped him into a jersey, he pulled a wooden settle to the fire and sat down. ‘Nah, Mr Gansert, yer’d best get movin’ if yer goin’ ter catch up wiv the others,’ he said. ‘We lost time on the last leg.’

  Lost time! What sort of a pace did he expect us to keep up? I sat down on a bench and removed my boots and stockings. My feet were red and swollen. The flesh was tender and the bones ached as though they had been bruised. I looked across at Sunde. His face was white in the long moonbeams that slanted in through the windows. The firelight threw a grotesque shadow of him on the great logs that formed walls and ceiling. I cursed myself for not having realised that he’d been wounded. He’d lost a lot of blood. There was no question of his going on. But to go on alone! With him for company the mountains had seemed remote, but friendly. But now I thought of those white, jagged monsters waiting for me outside – and they suddenly seemed cold and wild and cruel. We were still climbing. Soon, if I kept on going, those ski tracks would lead me up to the ice-capped summits, on to the glaciers. Sunde knew this country. He was at home here. I had not had to trouble about direction. I had relied on him. But to go on alone – that was different. Suppose mist came down? Then I should still be able to follow the others’ ski tracks. But what about a snowstorm? With the ski tracks obliterated, how should I find my way then? I shivered. Every bone in my body cried out to stay here by the fire. I opened my mouth to tell him that I wouldn’t go on alone. Then I remembered Farnell, and instead I said, ‘I’ll just change my socks, then I’ll get moving.’

  He nodded as though there had never been any doubt. And whilst I got myself ready, he produced map and compass from his rucksack. ‘The next leg ain’t so bad,’ he said. ‘Keep followin’ the line of the river till yer come ter a lot o’ lakes. Yer’ll find Gjeiteryggen there. Yer can’t miss it.’

  ‘I seem to have heard that one before,’ I muttered as I pulled on my boots.

  He grinned. ‘Well, just you remember ter keep along the course o’ the valley. There’s a bit o’ a climb at first up ter the Driftaskar – that’s a pass up above the valley here where the farmers used ter ca’nt their cattle as they passed through. After that a good deal of the route’s da
’n ’ill.’

  ‘How far to Gjeiteryggen?’ I asked.

  ‘Aba’t fifteen kilometres,’ was his reply.

  Another eleven miles! I got wearily to my feet and began to eat flatbrod and goat’s cheese. ‘What’s at Gjeiteryggen?’ I asked. ‘Another tourist hut?’

  ‘That’s right. Ain’t as nice as Osterbo or Steinbergdalen. A bit wild like. But you’ll get shelter there.’

  ‘And after Gjeiteryggen?’

  He hesitated. ‘My guess is he’ll make for Finse an’ the railway. He’ll be gettin’ tired by the time he gets to Gjeiteryggen.’

  ‘And how far is Gjeiteryggen from Finse?’

  ‘Aba’t another fifteen kilometres. An’ it’s tough going. Yer turn sa’f at Gjeiteryggen an’ climb from aba’t thirteen ’undred metres, right up ter seventeen ’undred. Let’s see nah.’ He screwed his leathery little face up till it looked like a monkey’s. ‘That’ll be a climb of near on fifteen ’undred feet – right up ter the Sankt Paal Glacier. Yer go right across the top of the glacier. You’ll find a hut up there if yer need a bit of a rest. An’ there’s posts markin’ the route – or should be. Take my tip an’ if mist or snow comes da’n, don’t lose sight o’ one post before you’ve located the next. You’re right up in the Hallingskarvet an’ if yer lose yer way, well—’ He shrugged his shoulders. ‘’Ere’s compass an’ map. The map ain’t much good. It’s one the Germans made and it ain’t accurate. If mist or snow comes da’n, see you got a bearing before it closes in on you.’

  I took the map and slipped it into the side pocket of my rucksack. The compass was an elementary little thing, the sort I was given to play with as a kid. I put it in my pocket. ‘You stay here until I organise a relief party,’ I said as I humped the rucksack on my aching shoulders.

  He shook his head. ‘You don’t need to bother aba’t me. Oi’ll make my way back by easy stages. Oi don’t aim ter get cut off up ’ere. It’s still early enough in the year for a bit of a blizzard to blow up. Only sorry Oi can’t come wiv yer. But it wouldn’t do no good. Oi’d only ‘old yer up.’ He got to his feet and stood, rather weakly, holding on to the settle. ‘Well, good luck!’