Operation Antarctica

- 12 -

Everything was quiet for several hours, and Banks started to believe the worst might be over, and that they’d be given enough respite to make it through to the arrival of their relief. But all such hopes were dashed when it was time to change shifts and Parker went over to the bunks to wake Wilkes and Patel.

As soon as Wilkes got up out of the bunk, and as if something had been waiting for just that moment, a voice called out from outside, somewhere distant, but loud. It was Hughes — dead Private Hughes — and he was singing at the top of his voice, bellowing in his immediately recognizable off-key shout, somewhere out in the night.

There was a soldier, a Scottish soldier, who wandered far away, and soldiered far away. There was none bolder, with good broad shoulder, he fought in many a fray and fought and won.

“What the fuck kind of bollocks is it this time?” Wiggins said.

“It’s Hughes,” Wilkes said. “He’s alive.”

The private stepped forward, heading for the door. Hynd stood to get in his way.

“Dinnae be daft, lad. You saw him. We all saw him. His neck was broken, and he had been dead for hours when we left him back in the hangar.”

Wilkes tried to push Hynd aside.

“Aye, we left him. And that was a mistake, wasn’t it? The poor bugger has woken up all on his lonesome.”

Hynd spoke.

“That’s not how it happened, lad. And you bloody know it.”

Wilkes shook his head.

“You’re right. I thought he was dead. But maybe he’s back. Like that Jerry officer.”

The singing continued outside.

Because these green hills are not Highland hills, or the island hills there not my lands hills. And as fair as these foreign hills may be, they are not the hills of home.

Hynd put a hand on Wilkes’ chest to stop him.

“If he’s anything like that Jerry officer, then you don’t want anything to do with him. Use your head, lad. Your pal’s long gone. You know that.”

It was Patel, not Wilkes who replied. He had moved to the door when everyone’s attention was on Hynd and Wilkes.

“Aye. But he’s our pal. I owe it to him to make sure he’s okay. Would you leave one of yours out there on his own?”

He didn’t wait for an answer. He opened the door and walked out into the night before anyone had time to move to stop him.

The squad only moved once Patel had gone outside. Banks reached the open door first. He hadn’t even been aware of doing it, but he had his weapon unslung from his shoulder and was aiming straight ahead, anticipating any attack. He called out.

“Patel, get your arse back in here right now. That’s an order.”

There was no reply, no sound at all now from outside. Hughes — if it had been him — had stopped singing, and there was only a soft whistle of wind. He felt its cold bite on his cheeks as he reached the doorway. He only got two steps outside, then stopped, although he didn’t lower his weapon. The reason Patel had not complied with his order was immediately obvious.

The tall oberst, back in his pristine black uniform, peaked cap, and both pale eyes staring, stood on the path that led to the jetty, with serried ranks four wide of the dead behind him. They all faced the doorway of the hut and the officer had Patel in a half-nelson grip. Banks knew that a simple, sudden movement would be enough to break the man’s neck. He looked for Hughes among the frozen ranks, but didn’t see the dead man. He heard him again though, the song coming clear across the cold slope from higher up, from the direction of the hangar.

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.

“Earplugs,” he said, loud enough for everyone to hear. “Plugs in now.”

They all complied. For several minutes, the chanting seemed to recede and fade, but it was still getting louder, and eventually, the plugs weren’t enough to mute the sound, and Banks felt the pull of the dance, the twitch in his muscles as they remembered the dark and the void.

“Dhumna Ort!” he muttered, hoping for the same protection as previously, but the chanting kept getting louder. The pounding came at the door again, keeping time with the beat, a rhythm that tuned into his breathing, his heartbeat, even the crackle of flame on the damp wood in the stove, everything dancing in time. He felt the tug and call of the infinite, knew that the stars and dark spaces were waiting a heartbeat away, and all he had to do was let it take him and all would be well. But it wasn’t the stars he was seeing in his mind now — it was Patel, dark eyes pleading just before the German broke his neck.

“Dhumna Ort!” he shouted, and this time he got something, a certain distance from the relentless beat, a dimming of the chanting. He shouted the phrase again, and the distance between him and the darkness increased farther. Hynd had also got the message and he and Banks started into a chant of their own in an attempt to beat back that of the distant choir, the two words repeated over and over.

“Dhumna Ort!”

The ice that had been stopped six inches from their feet retreated, only by the width of a finger, but definitely noticeable.

“Come on, you buggers,” Hynd shouted to the other three men, “join in. Or would you rather wait until your bollocks freeze off?”

It took several seconds before they all got it, but once the five of them chanted the words in unison, the ice retreated even faster. Their shouting, discordant as it was, muffled the monkish chanting, their stamping and clapping nullified the pounding at the door and sent the frost melting away from them across the floor leaving only damp floor behind it.

Banks almost yelled in triumph but could afford to break the rhythm of their chant. Besides, the closer the frost got to the doorway, the slower it retreated, until finally the retreat stopped where the foot of the door met the floor. Although the crawl of tendrils of frost on the walls had also disappeared, the ice on the surface of the door itself remained as thick as ever. They had reached an impasse, but had bought themselves time, and a larger area clear of the biting cold. But Banks knew that if they stopped chanting and stamping, or if the stove were allowed to burn any less fiercely then the ice — and the call of the stars — would be back in full measure. He kept shouting, kept clapping, and kept stamping.

“Dhumna Ort! Dhumna Ort!”

The night wore on. Banks’ palms ached from the clapping, his ankles throbbed from the stamping, and his throat threatened to dry and close from the strain of the repetition of the Gaelic. He saw the same effort show on the faces of the others. But they all knew they could not afford to stop. That point was proved all too noticeably when McCally had to take a break in order to stoke the stove, which was in danger of not burning hard enough to keep the frost at bay. In the few seconds that the corporal’s voice and clapping was not raised with the others, the frost crept in from the door, six inches closer across the hut floor, and Banks felt the bite of cold at his nose and cheeks.

He couldn’t afford to stop his own shouting, but he saw the look that McCally gave him after throwing three more short-cut logs in the stove. The area under the stove itself was now almost empty.

We’re running out of fuel.

There was no point in worrying about it. All they were able to do was keep up the shouting, clapping, and stamping and hope it was enough to keep the encroaching cold at bay. And if it wasn’t, well, there was always Wiggins’ option of opening the door and going at it all guns blazing. That was going to be Banks’ last resort, but he was coming to think it might also be his last available option.

It wasn’t long before McCally reached under the stove for more fuel and came up empty-handed. Banks didn’t stop stamping or shouting, but stopped clapping long enough to motion at the table and chairs. Thankfully, the corporal got the message, and quickly kicked and stomped the chairs and table into timber small enough to be fed into the stove. But the new fuel wasn’t as dense as the old logs, and burned faster. It was only ten minutes later that yet more fuel was needed. The frost grew another six inches across the floor as McCally and Parker tore planks and facing from the twin bunk beds and fed it into the flames.

Beds, bedclothes, shoring planks and all went to feed the ravenous stove, and all were too little to hold back the frost from creeping ever closer to their toes. The five men took turns, circling while stamping so that one of them was always closer to the stove and got a modicum of heat, for a time. But the spells between their turn at the warmth got colder, bitterly so, and despite their best efforts, they were all tiring now, their clapping and stomping and shouting not loud enough to drown the chanting.

As if sensing their weakened state, the thumping at the door started up again, and the frost crept faster across the floor, and also upward and outward, spreading along the walls in a spider-web crawl across the interior timbers.

Finally, McCally fed the last of their available fuel into the stove. Short of burning their own clothing and gear, there was no more they could do — all they had was the shouting, clapping, stamping, and what diminishing heat they could draw from the stove.

They kept circling.

Banks felt the cold with each breath when he wasn’t the man nearest the stove, felt ice crackle at his lips. His feet were like lumps of cold stone and he couldn’t feel his fingers when he clapped his hands. The monkish chanting was louder still and the tug of the darkness and the stars called hard now. Their shouting and clapping fell into the rhythm of a parade ground drill, and Banks put everything he had into it, one last effort. The others heard, and replied with a renewed burst of energy from all of them, but all they managed was to stop the ice coming any closer for a matter of minutes, and all too soon it had started to creep again.

All Banks knew was the stamping and circling, the clapping and the shouting. “Dhumna Ort!” he uttered, barely able to manage much above a coarse rasp.

It wasn’t enough. Slowly, remorselessly the cold crept in, reaching their toes, their heels and their ankles. They kept circling for a time, or at least it felt like they did, but gray crept into Banks’ sight with the cold, gray that became black, a deep well that was filled with stars. He tried to remember what it was he should be doing, words he should be saying, but another rhythm had him now, a cold throbbing in the dark. He tasted salt water at his lips, saw the void spread out like a blanket in front of him.

He fell into it, lost in the dance.