(COLD/Posting #10). The war-stories that Ewald tells are TRUE ones about my father--military school age 10, who later, as Captain, led men against a gatling gun & survived, just to end up in Siberia.

Ewald is befriended and fed by a Russian family, thanks to Nanra's shamanistic magic, More from my book COLD: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B076VBJB62

Captain Ewald reminisces about how he survived fighting the Russian troops and their gatling gun. And even though he was shot was able to challenge the commandant of the Russians. In Siberia, Ewald is befriended and fed by a Russian family, to his amazement.

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(COLD/Posting #10)

Guessing it was around noon – the sun glowing high overhead through swirling clouds – I sat on my tarp backpack, ate my dumpling and rested, just like Nanra had told me to do. Her words/lessons/directives/orders were still ringing in my ears. Suddenly, thoughts of my first days at military school jumped to mind. Maybe it was the extreme cold and the everyday exertions that were bringing back these early memories. I had, after all, been only ten years old when my mother told me I was being sent to a military school. I remembered the feeling of fear. Where would I sleep? Why was my parent getting rid of me? Who would I meet there? My brothers had also been ordered there, so I guess I should have realized I’d be next. The trip to the Corps of Cadets of the Emperor didn’t take long from our house. After a short carriage ride we’d been ushered through large metal gates. Two student guards, donning high horsehair helmets and epaulette-covered jackets, beckoned us into the main, circular driveway. At every step of the way there were additional student-guards at their respective posts. I began to lose all hope as we got deeper into the place. I became despondent. There would be no chance of escape. And my mother gave no recognition that I wasn't enjoying it. She just remained cold and distant, as usual. Well, I finally did get to leave the place at age seventeen. My escape was going off to war, and...

I jolted out of the daydream.

The sun was down near the horizon and there was a chilly wind. I had spent too much time remembering. If wolves had picked that particular time for an attack I would have woken up by being eaten. What an idiot! Nanra would have been incredibly peeved at me for being so careless. As I began walking south again, it occurred to me that I wasn't getting enough sleep. The wolf attacks had interrupted my slumber. That night I would try to catch up, before a fatal mistake (like the one I’d almost just made) took my life. It would be unfortunate to fail now, after all of Nanra’s help.

With the night upon me I quickly switched my walking stick into the job of tent pole, and set up camp. Day eleven was almost up. Had I found another food source with my drilling for roots? No. So I made a decision to just drill around the vicinity during the next morning, while keeping my tent erect. After a thorough excavation, I would either discover some turnips and continue walking, or I would stay put and rest until I did.

***

Day twelve/one dumpling. My day to find food. I had set a goal and would stick to it. I kept my tent in place as I began drilling holes in search of edible roots. Proceeding in a thorough way, I attacked the nearby turf as if it lay in quadrants. If there actually were some turnip roots within a couple of hundred feet of my tent I would certainly discover them. I realized that without the security of having a second food source I could now start to lose mental and emotional energy. And, as Nanra had warned me, once that energy drops, once I allowed myself to get depressed, my survival would be in question.

As I drilled the holes, first in the immediate area around my tent, then in a widening perimeter, I wondered how Nanra had had so much knowledge of what I was going through.

Had she walked this far in the dead of some Siberian winter? It seemed so. Her lessons had anticipated all of my moods and challenges. And surely without her tent instructions I would have supplied the wolf pack with a hearty meal.

As I worked I kept myself alert. I looked over my shoulder constantly, kept surveying the far off trees for any wolf attacks in progress. It was hard to imagine that Nanra was correct about them smelling me from five kilometers off, but I had to take that as fact. After all, without all their predatory abilities they wouldn't have been able to survive the wilderness for so many eons. Their abilities for finding food in such a frigid climate was incredible. Five kilometers. How many feet away was that? 3373 feet was a kilometer. At least I remembered that much from military school! Five times 3373 equaled more than sixteen thousand feet. I wouldn't even see the running approach of a wolf pack until the distance was a half-kilometer away – around 1700 feet.

How fast could wolves run? Nanra said they could run as fast as a horse. Twenty kilometers per hour? If I didn't keep alert in all directions, I would definitely be killed by those fast-moving carnivores.

With each drilling I did a few spot-checks, first on the view in all directions, and second toward the location of my tent. I certainly didn’t want to be cut off from my hiding place! As soon as I spotted wolves I would jump back into the tent, re-tie the laces to secure the door, start a small fire and open the stink-jar.

How many holes had I drilled without any success is anyone's guess, because I didn't keep track. But the area was suddenly covered with my sad efforts. No edible roots yet. By noon I was getting depressed (I'll admit it, even though if Nanra was here I wouldn't have). Where in the hell was the food?

I ate the last dumpling. That was it.
None left.

I had been getting tired and had felt the effects of the weather more than usual. In any case, my trip was faltering. I sensed failure, disaster, perhaps even death. So I gave myself a break, returned to the tent, laced up the entrance and started a fire, perhaps wasting some starter. I had an emotional need to see flames. I spared myself the stink-jar for the moment.

Checking the eyeholes in the tent-sides, I saw no wolves approaching. Who needed wolves to be tested in Siberia? I was failing all by myself. I couldn't even find a root when I penetrated half the landscape. Without enough food intake I would need to walk less and work less. Nanra had warned me about this. So I would rest more.

I was getting drowsy. Just before I bedded down I opened the stink-jar. Holding my cottoned-stuffed nose against my parka hood I dozed off even though the day still glowed through the tarp. Memories of sitting with Nanra on her hearth bench came to mind. We were warming our feet together before the fire, and...

Loud sounds!

I awoke to the sounds of barking and howling, horrible growls all around. They had found me! It was still daytime, sometime in late afternoon.

Several paws were digging in near the bottom of the tent so I quickly grabbed my combination hammer/hatchet and smashed their feet. Yelping sounds could be heard in several directions. More paws and more hammering got even more loud responses. So I just kept waiting for the next paw and hammered it when each became visible. I would cripple every wolf around if necessary!

By the sound of pained howling, there were at least ten quadrupeds attacking. Nanra told me wolf packs can be as large as twenty. I quickly glanced out the back eyehole and saw about six or seven. And that scared me thoroughly, even though only three were large. Trying to control my fear after seeing that was difficult.

I saw one wolf licking his own foot while another was getting licking attention from another. The smaller ones kept moving back and forth, racing around in extreme agitation. I pulled back toward the center tent pole and kept my hatchet and gun ready. No other attacks came. By the time it was dark I could only wonder if they had all left or were silently waiting around. I didn't dare leave the protection of the tent.

***

Hours later, while I sat there feeding the fire, I decided to keep myself busy by drilling a couple of more food holes right under me. And you wouldn't believe what I found on the third try. A turnip root! I was sitting right over it the whole time. I drilled a couple more close holes and found more roots. Suddenly I had food for three or four days. I won't even try to express the thrill of happiness I felt over those root-drillings. I was never so grateful as I was that night. I had beat down the wolves and now I also had found food to nourish me. Nanra's baby might have a faraway father after all.

After some undeterminable hours of sleep I woke up in the dark. The tent seemed to constrict me in those first instants, but I quickly became conscious of the dangers. The fire had died and I quickly fired it up. I fanned the fumes of the stink jar through the air toward the laced doorway. Were wolves around? I checked the back peephole and tried to see in the darkness. The moon was high in the sky so I should have seen them if they were nearby. Nothing, no outlines or movement that I could make out. Seeing the glowing sphere in the sky told me the fog had lifted. But cold invaded my thoughts again. How cold? Maybe minus thirty? Of course I had no thermometer, so I could only guess.

As soon as I got everything done (the tent was warming up) I bit down on the turnip root and chewed the food thoroughly. As I ate, I remembered more of Nanra's words. She told me that I must (1) find turnip roots if I were to survive. But after that, I must (2) add fat back into my diet. Turnips wouldn't be enough. Her drawing had shown these two essential items, sketched roughly, but close enough for me to comprehend. So I must kill a rabbit or some other animal and cook it to refurnish my fatty needs. So far I hadn't seen any rabbits, but I hadn't been looking for them in particular. Maybe with new focus I'd see some. As before, one need led to another.

Nanra had sent me off with a bit of gold metal – several good-sized nuggets – to use as trade money. The chunks had come from her father and had been hidden in her house. And while the gold would help me keep going if money was ever needed, other people's knowledge of my wealth might lead to robbery, bodily harm, or even my death. People were desperate and would risk their lives to steal such money-metal from me, especially in war-torn Russia. That meant I must be very careful to whom I showed it. She cautioned me to only spend it with good people, good-natured souls deserving of such a gift.

Nanra said that I would spot some small villages as I traveled south, Her hand-drawn map had indicated where such bunches of cabins would appear. The local women shamans there may have heard of her, she explained, and that could inadvertently help me gain access to food and shelter. Maybe meeting someone like that could help me get protein back into my diet.

***

When the morning daylight finally broke through I gave another look around, first through the back peepholes, then out the front laces. No wolves as far as I could tell. To be on the safe side I looked a second time out the back. It was all clear, unless I was completely blind to their white coats. I slowly ventured out of the tent and surveyed the area as if with new eyes. I was still in a forest, and the black-rimmed knotholes still stared at me with prying eyes from all directions. But far to the south I noticed something new. Either the forest was giving off fog or there was smoke being generated by something. Maybe it was a village. If so, I needed to prepare myself for fitting in, not being German, either in looks or accent. That had been the biggest warning from Nanra. A German would be killed by villagers.

With a bit of walking I found out that the vague images I had seen in the distance was actually a village with a series of log cabins. I heard a dog bark from one of the houses and I halted for a minute. During that short period of caution, waiting to see if it was safe to approach, I thought back to how I had had villages on my mind...and then it had appeared. If I thought of something and then it suddenly materialized, it was either magic or one in a series of amazing coincidences.

As I carefully approached the little cabins I saw some movement up ahead. From behind the tree I spotted a man carrying a long saw blade in a wooden yoke. He walking toward a barn, probably to cut his daily wood for the fire. And I somehow did get a good feeling from him even though he was a hundred feet away. So I made a decision to approach, reveal myself, communicate with him if possible. Of course, I would present myself as a friendly fellow, as someone close to Nanra, from her village. I’d use her name at the first opportunity, to increase my chance of being accepted.

As I approached I used my mind to alter myself. I walked differently, thought differently – not German-military anymore, but just a simple traveling man. And I prepared myself for speaking only in the most basic tribal Russian dialect using words Nanra had taught me. I thought repeatedly of Nanra and fed off that relationship. I remade myself: Just a Russian family man, father-to-be, someone who lived in a similar-type cabin only twelve-days-walk away. So, was I not a neighbor?

At the barn door I knocked to be polite and not scare anyone. Within a few seconds the wooden door swung opened. An old man stared hard at me. He resembled what Nanra taught me to expect in that area – a Yakut tribesman. His head was wrapped around the top in a hand- woven cap with large earflaps. Below his long woolly scarf he wore a hide coat with several layers of woven sweaters dangling just below the bottom edge. His thick pants (also hide-looking) ended with fur-boots. The man probably felt none of the bitter cold, except if it made actual contact with the bare skin of his bearded face. Even his overly bushy eyebrows were perfectly suited for fending off extreme chill.

Nanra had made it clear to me that no tribesman would completely understand my Russian dialect, and she had warned me repeatedly not to revert to anything German-like when under pressure to communicate. The tribes hated Germans. She had drilled that into me on many an occasion. What I should do, she said, was to first feel out the friendliness (or not...) of the person or persons I met. And then, secondly, say her full name – Nanra-naw – as I showed them her beadwork on my walking stick, dangled it right before their eyes. And that’s what I quickly did.

When I lifted my tent-pole stick and pointed to the beadwork, the tribesman immediately nodded. He seemed familiar with something about the design or the style of beading, even repeated her name – Nanra-naw – mostly to himself, before he beckoned me along, indicating I should follow him. I was relieved by how effective Nanra’s advice had been. Here she was, still saving my life, protecting me at this far distance. I crossed the yard, following him to a thatch- covered dwelling.

It took me years later to realize that the name my wife gave, what she called herself...”Nanra” or the longer “Nanra-naw,” meant “alone” in tribal language. She had just described her situation. Alone was what she’d been after her father and future husband died. To be in such a situation, not surrounded by generations of family, was quite unusual in those parts. So I had accepted that often repeated ‘nanra’ word as her actual name, and she had allowed me think that. What was her actual name, then, I wondered? Did she have one? Had she purposely done this so I wouldn’t really know? This question has haunted me.

My research years later, in America,1920 and beyond, only resulted in a dead end. With no name and no precise location of her dwelling, I was left with only a distant memory, a story to be penned by an old man trying to reconstitute his war years and a precious early love. I realized that this is how real love should feel. And that I’d had a severe shortage of it when growing up.

My mother supposedly loved me. That is, until my father entered a room. As soon as she heard his footsteps coming down the hall she released her arms, withdrew her hug, straightened up and acted like she had never touched me with affection in her entire life. I experienced this repeatedly. She went dead on me time and time again. Father didn't tolerate any affection for me from Mama. That was utterly forbidden. So finally she stopped taking the risk. He had stated emphatically, It will make him soft. And queer! So I existed in a periphery orbit around father, watching from the edge as his face shone with pride for my older brothers. I couldn’t earn even a speck of approval for myself no matter what I did. The competition for his attention was just too one-sided. So I adjusted to it. I sunk down into my own reserves, kept more and more to myself, engaged in activities distant from the family members. Drawing, painting, building things, totems of sorts, was my only defense. Then I suddenly got the bad news: I was enrolled in military school. And I developed a stomach ache.

I again recalled my first day of being dropped off at the military school, to be trained as a cadet in the Corps of the Emperor. It was an honor, I was told. A privilege, for sure. Following in my older brothers footsteps...was something special they said. Mama had promised my brothers would watch over me. Not true. They had avoided me, teased me with their friends, made me feel even smaller and punier than my 5'2" to their 6.' They repeatedly reminded me of my defects. They especially enjoyed my designation as ‘the family runt.’

In war, especially when I had left the trenches to face Gatling gun fire, I had never thought I would die, even though all logic said I would. Why was that? After all, I had seen many men, almost all of them, mown down by bullets before it was my turn. But still, I imagined myself surviving. And I had. Had many others felt the same way I did, almost laughing at sure death...before meeting their untimely demise? Why had I been so lucky?

We were many yards back from the Gatlin guns that mowed us down, turned us into fleshy planks for the next advancement of horses, marching men, towed armaments heading across those fields of combat. None of the thirty or so men under my command had come anywhere close to either shooting the enemy or sticking their bayonet into a foreigner's flesh. I, alone, had survived the volley of bullets.

Four bullets struck my body as I led my men out of the trench against Russian forces. I had been struck instantaneously in my arm, leg, side and buttocks, ripped into and spun around, dropped hard to the ground. Somehow I had remained conscious, aware enough to crawl with my leaking wounds over soldiers' dead and bloodied bodies. The four bullets had needed to miss my vital organs or you would not be holding this manuscript!

Making my way over to a nearby dirt road I arrived just as the enemy’s victorious battalion came marching up. Would they shoot me on sight? While I lay on the ground in critical condition, a Russian Commander leading the column momentarily glanced down at me from his festooned horse. In my best Russian, I shouted up to him, We German soldiers don't let your officers to die in the gutter like dogs!

What I said, as in the Russian language, would have appeared as something like this:

Since I’d learned Russian as a requirement in military school and later picked up more in the camp, my diction was a bit more conversational than formal. At any rate, I’d used up all of my energy to shout that declaration, and I crumpled back down.

I lay there helplessly, as the Commander swung his whip-staff to one side. He stared down at me, then looked over to his men. Finally looking back he proclaimed loudly, for all to hear: Mbi he (Neither do we). He then ordered his officers to fetch me. I was carried several yards over to the horse-drawn ambulance and installed there. My red German blood stained their finely woven wool blankets as medicine and bandages were applied to my wounds. Then the ambulance started rolling. Through the bubbled glass window I watched as the battle landscape passed by. Bodies mixed with dark mud. Men bent, stretched, flopped over each other to form sculptures of the grisly kind, with every kind of grimace and odd arrangement imaginable. The bumpy road, along with the pain from my wounds, finally knocked me unconscious.

After several months of rehabilitation at a Russian hospital I was finally moved back to the normal prison population. I learned that my right leg would always be an inch shorter than my left and that I would be incarcerated in Siberia. And how long did that trip to Siberia take? For weeks we suffered over 1000 kilometers in the freezing snow . Many died along the way . But again, not me. Was that because of my imagining? Were my thoughts of ‘Not me’ the same kind of magic I was using in Siberia? Did I really have control over such physical outcomes? Nanra had told me that I had a lot of power in my mental activity. After all, hadn’t she accepted me, loved me, prepared me for what I was going through now? She said she had been transformed by my mental force- field. I must believe her, since she was right about everything else. She explained I believe it, because she had special powers too. And so would our baby.

So, did I create the tribal man who befriended me? What was real? As I entered the tribal cottage I felt a surge of warmth burst past my head. A large fire was raging inside. Near the hearth a woman was nursing a tiny baby. Whatever Nanra’s beadwork had told this man, it must have been something he trusted explicitly. What man would grant entrance to a stranger, invite him into his inner sanctum where stood his defenseless wife and child?

When the man removed his thick coat he motioned for me to do the same, pointing to a bench where he dropped it all down. I stripped off my layers for the first time in almost two weeks. Just the loss of all that extra weight gave me a psychological lift. Hat off, gloves off, and then I was rewarded by a hot drink of a stew-like broth with meat chunks. Once again, by imagining, I got what I needed. Meat fat had been delivered my way. It was day twelve with no dumplings left, and I was unexpectedly gifted by this grand food and shelter. Yes, I was careful not to eat too much meat, that could have shocked my body and done it ill.

I sat on a bench and pulled myself up to their table as dictated by the man’s sign language, and continued eating. During this meal the woman got up, walked with her baby to a wooden crib and laid him down. Then she returned, spoke a few words to the tribesman that I couldn't understand, and followed his eye line to the beadwork on my stick. She reached out and ran her hands down the beads, rotating the stick as she looked it over thoroughly. After that examination, a broad smile crossed her thick lips. She gave me a couple of knowing nods, before heading back to the fireplace to prod the stew with a long wooden spoon. Nanra's beadwork had been powerful enough to transform these complete strangers into my new best friends. Nanra’s magic again. Her beadwork contained some language within it. Something within those designs of colors, wrapped and spiraling against adjoining colorful designs and stick-words, had told them volumes. She had remarked that others of the tundra might respond to it within her extended region. In any case, something crucial had certainly been transmitted, because I was given food, drink, and a nice padded spot to sleep, all within the warmth of a grand fire.

The advent of day thirteen certainly proved good luck. When I woke up there was light shining through the small windows of the cabin. I had certainly slept too soundly for a wolf attack. I was served a hearty breakfast soup, with bread-type biscuits included. I wondered how had the woman cooked all this without waking me up. Sitting with her and the tribesman at the table, I appreciated the physical affection they showed. It was clear that they were just as married as Nanra and myself were...had been...are. I suddenly felt a hollowness, of being cut off from my love, my woman. This train of thought bothered me, but I worked hard to keep my feelings to myself as the morning progressed. Strangely , whenever I neared the door to look out through the weather-holes, a hand of the man, sometimes the woman, stopped me. I was told through hand language to wait, to resist leaving. It was soon clear why. The woman was preparing a whole new batch of meat dumplings for my continued journey. What a relief it was, that I'd have more traveling food...just when I had run out.

There was also a period of time when the tribesman beat on a drum, and the woman too – not so loud as I had heard Nanra do, but equally solid and compelling. Maybe they believed that bad spirits would flee, that the house could be cleared of any harmful spirits. I can imagine that, because the enclosure did feel more open and positive by the end of the music. They kept me in the cabin all that morning, until the man brought me outside to help carry in some cut wood from the barn. Good, I thought. I could at least return some of the favors they had bestowed on me.

Later that same day, through finger pointing at an old paper map, they showed me where I was and where I would find more villages and assistance up ahead. When they finished with their instructions they handed it over. I tried not to take it, but they insisted, urging me to place it in my coat pocket. In the space of our little discussion they pointed to the beadwork a couple more times while nodding their heads. What had Nanra said with those beads? There was certainly no doubt about her shamanistic power. She had enchanted these people into becoming my benefactors.

Night fell and I returned to my soft padding near the fire, full of food and good tidings. Sleep came soon. When I finally left the following morning, day fourteen, I left with fifteen fresh dumplings in a cloth bag the couple had supplied. And I felt refreshed, but more than ready to move on. I didn't want to settle in any more than I had. Heat and cabin-shelter were like a narcotic, the enemy of my waiting journey; I needed to shed those comforts. We bid farewell with our waving hands and hugs. I let the image of that tribal family – baby cradled in the young woman’s arms, man standing by – etch into my mind before turning. I now had love and gratitude for people whose names I would never know.

(To be continued…)

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(Full book COLD: <https://www.amazon.com/dp/B076VBJB62>.

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(COLD/Posting #11 next)