(COLD/Posting #13). Ewald contemplates becoming a father to Nanra's & his child, then is shot at, suddenly challenged by a tribal attacker. (COLD book ends at post #16...)

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(COLD/Posting #13)

Thinking of myself as ‘somebody's son’ made me ponder my own son-to-be, with Nanra. How could she know it was a boy? That was still mysterious to me, since she said she hadn’t given birth before. But I had to believe her. She’d been right about everything else. She had certainly predicted all the pitfalls of my route so far, not to mention supplied me with tools and remedies that were essential. She had fortune-told my experiences as if she’d read about me in a history book. So with that amount of accurate soothsaying, why would she mistake the sex of the child? It wasn't worth betting against someone with a perfect record. Thusly – a son.

So what kind of father would I be? Well, first of all, I'd show a lot of affection. I'd kiss the boy, hug him, play with him, wrestle around. I'd do all the things that had never occurred with my own father. I wouldn't be distant and cold to my child. The boy would never have to doubt that I loved him. Not even for one second. My own father had supplied nothing but doubts. His love seemed in short supply, at least for me. How could I be good enough or great enough to deserve his affection? I spotted him bestowing it on my sister. She was kissed and placed on his lap as he sat near the fire. My older brothers were lucky too. Both received pats on the back, even shared some laughs when they triumphed in sports competitions. I received nothing but a slap, along with some scolding. I hadn't even reached the ‘noncommittal’ stage, when it came to paternal affiliation.

Even my grandmother on my mother's side was standoffish, an unfriendly force in our unemotional household. She must have read from the same rulebook.

#1: Don't ever act like you're happy to see little Ewald.

#2: Don't ever praise Ewald for anything he does.

#3: No hugs, no type of human contact. Ewald doesn't deserve our love, so withhold affection or basic friendliness. At least for now, and into the unforeseeable future. Maybe...if he returns a war hero...then we'll give him a little something.

How many others – soldiers of Germany, young men like me – had experienced the same sad lack of love from their parents? Were we all fighting and dying just to get a smidgen of affection from our fathers and mothers? Was that the game that had driven this war? Maybe. With that promise of appreciation we had all leapt into the void. War seemed like a blessing for a personality like mine. It was a no-lose situation. Either I'd get some medals for being brave, or I'd get killed and be put out of my misery. But, alas, neither happened.

I knew my child would have it much different. Even if I wasn't able to be there, I knew he would be loved in the most profound and intelligent way. Nanra had more love to give than anyone I’d ever met. Intelligent love. Careful love. All-encompassing love. She was a warm person and I didn't believe that anything could ever change that. So he would get his share of all that special affection. I could be warmed by that thought, sitting alone in my stinking tent, freezing by a small fire. I listened intently for wolves, stared at my empty food bag and decided to stop counting days or anything. Sleep came quickly.

Waking up, I capped off the stink-jar and assembled my things. I packed up with the thought that my present life must be separated from the past. What that meant, on that bright, sunny though still frigid morning, was that the war I fought didn't matter, my years in prison camp and the walk to it was no longer important ether. And my horrible family life – distant father and mother – should be forgotten too. Anything that tried to drag me down, turn me into a mound of dead flesh, wasn't something I would ever care about or consider again. I would survive purely by thinking of my new family, my Nanra and our child, and add new adventures. And I would live strictly in my head when I needed to. I would access images of myself sitting there on the hearth bench before the fire, spooning out some meat stew, feeling the brush of her hair, looking at her through the glow of the oil lamp. That’s all ‘the reality’ I needed. I would use only happy thoughts as my fuel to get home. If I imagined such good times correctly, it felt like I could make it.

The snow’s compacting under my feet sounded louder as I walked along. And the verticals of birch trees seemed more pronounced, more steadfast, straight up, shiny and erect to my eyes. I could suddenly see farther, more accurately, with clarity. I scanned the terrain far ahead from where I was proceeding, checking for wolves and men who might stop me. Oh yes, I felt a new energy. A new determination. I moved briskly. I was shaking off the frigid air. My thick coat gave warmth and my slit glasses saved my eyes from the harsh glare. I had some frozen wolf meat left (not very appetizing, but...), and would spend a part of each afternoon searching again for turnip roots and other foodstuffs. New me. I could do this. I could survive.

Just as I entertained these positive thoughts, a bullet slammed into the tree next to me with a loud accompanying blast. I jumped, then hit the ground quickly and spun around to the back side of the trunk. Someone had tried to shoot me! The timing of the attack was surprising, but no more than any other military experience I’d ever had. I quickly slid off my pack and grabbed my Nanra-pistol. Only five shots left, plus another gun-full of bullets available in the tribesman’s pistol.

Another shot struck the tree. Bark and dust sprayed past me, and I tried my best to evaluate where the shots were coming from. I had the tree shielding me, but I realized that the attacker could flank me if I wasn't careful. I made a quick decision to retreat to a tree farther back. Bringing my pack with me in case there was more than one foe, I ran for it. I would freeze to death without my supplies, tent pole and tarp. So I risked everything to keep all my stuff together. I heard another gunshot, but since it missed the tree I had no idea where it struck. Luckily not in me. Repeating a retreat maneuver several more times, I made it harder for the enemy to flank me and take me out with a single, well-aimed shot. I didn't plan to be a good, stationary target.

I heard a couple more shots, one striking a tree near me, but kept to my plan of pulling back. There were probably still two hours of daylight left and I had to wonder what would happen when the sun went down. A good hunter could close in then. So I made another radical decision, which was to circle in my retreat, curve myself around to a place where I could surprise an assailant. I would get relief only if I could disarm or kill the attacker before darkness fell.

Time and time again I made my moves, dragging my things along to new trees. And for a while there were no more shots. Maybe they ran out of bullets? I hoped that was the case, but didn't depend on it. I worked hard for an hour or more, maneuvering myself back and to the right. Then, suddenly, I saw the shooter, in animal skins, behind a tree. I couldn't tell if it was a man or woman. A pack was next to his/her feet. He/she was not very tall, but seemed stout, although the layers of clothes could have rounded him out. I was in position to sneak up, so I set my pack down and slowly approached. His/her rifle was aimed straight ahead, away from my present location. I had my pistol in hand and it was cocked. If he swung around I would have to take a shot, but the blood-lust wasn't really there. I just wanted to stop him from killing me.

As I got closer...40 feet...30 feet...20 feet...I felt my energy rise. At any second I would have to act. I listened carefully for the sound of my own footsteps in the snow, but couldn't hear anything. No ‘crunch’ could be detected with the light wind that was blowing past me from the front. Seeing that the attacker had no helmet, just a fur hat, I decided to hit him on the head if I could, and not waste bullets. My walking stick was in my left hand, my pistol in the right.

At about seven feet away I took hold of the walking stick with both hands (I un-cocked the pistol and slid it in my belt), took two big steps and swung hard at the head of the enemy. At contact, the man flew against the tree, lost hold of his rifle and dropped to the ground. He wasn't moving as I pulled the rifle away and rolled him over. He was a tribal man, old, with a brown, leathery face. Strangely, he resembled the other tribal man who had helped me, as if he could have been the other man's father or older brother. I guessed he had his reasons for wanting to kill me. I was a stranger. Maybe the man had been attacked himself by some of my fellow German prisoners fleeing toward Germany. Maybe Germans had killed some of his family, stolen food, women, guns? Who knew? Anyway, for now, he was unconscious.

I checked him for other weapons and found none. I knew that if I tied him up where he fell he would surely freeze to death at night. And I didn't know where his house might be. So I contemplated how to approach the situation. How could I assure myself that his attack had ended, so that I could move on without fear of a rear action against me? If I departed while he was unconscious, then there was the possibility that he would simply start to track me again, following my fresh footprints in the snow. I didn't need to always be looking back over my shoulder, or be sitting in my tent at night wondering when the man might ambush me. So to just leave him there did not seem like an option.

While I contemplated my next move, I tied him securely, hands and feet. And just in case I had to move him, I rolled him onto my sled, resting him on the platform used for tarp-tent transport. Luckily, the sticks were strong enough to handle his extra weight. He was fairly light, maybe at 130 pounds with all the fur he wore. A small man. Seeing his face close up I figured he was somewhere in the range of 50-60 years old. And he didn't look like a mean man, but just another local tribal man, someone who hunted and foraged for food. Getting that good look at him made me consider taking him back to the other man who had befriended me. Maybe he could sort this out, talk to the man, get him to back off and return to his normal life and activities. So how far would that be, to drag him all the way back to the other man's cabin? How far had I traveled? Two kilometers? Five kilometers? At least it hadn't been too long since I departed from there.

But what to do? Night was closing in, so I couldn't really enact any plan until the following morning. The best I could do was to set up my tarp there, with the walking stick, and bring him inside the enclosure. Sometimes a person didn't have to know the complete story. I would do steps a, b, and c, and then decide on ‘d’ when I got to it.

I drilled the tent pole hole, stuck in the walking stick and covered everything with the tarp. The man was still unconscious. Or maybe he was just playing possum. Hard to tell, because I hadn't fully examined him. He could have become conscious, caught sight of me working with the tent and quickly closed his eyes, monitoring me through small slits between his eyelids. So I regarded him with caution. Of course, even if he had evil intent toward me there was little he could do. His hands and arms were bound close to his body, with several strands wrapped entirely around his small frame. And his feet and legs were also thusly wrapped, so there was no chance of scurrying away. But if I was foolish enough to have my head near his feet he could have suddenly lashed out, maybe hurting me with his heels or something. And if I was stupid enough to have my face near his head he could have suddenly butted mine, maybe biting off my nose or even knocking me out with his thick skull. So even a ‘sleeping man’ was dangerous. And yet, I didn’t change my decision to keep him in my tent for the night.

I would also have to share my food, give him a piece of turnip root when he awoke, losing a full day of rations. All tough decisions ahead. But there was no choice. To keep the man alive while he was tied up, I had to keep him sheltered in the tent. Outside, he would have been live bait for wolves. It was crowded inside, but there was room for two people sleeping if the individuals were laid parallel. To make sure he couldn't squirm around and smother me or kick me, I hammered four of my tent pegs around him and lashed him down. If he woke during the night he wouldn't get a chance to go anywhere, or do anything. Once I had him secured I started my small fire and opened the stink jar. I still needed more dry brush and would need to search harder for some in the morning. I glanced over to see if the bad smell had registered on his face, but saw nothing. With the doorway laced up properly, and the fire warming us a bit, I relaxed a little. But just before sleep overtook I realized that I might have to head back to my friend's cabin. Only he could sort this out.

As a diversion I opened another Nanra prediction. It showed a picture of a man (me) caught in waves of water. I took it to say, “You will get wet.” Well, I’m sure that was going to be true at some point. The big question was when? Where? And how?

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Sometime in the night I was awakened by a loud moaning, followed by a litany of loud, angry words I didn't understand. If I were to make a guess, I'd figure he said something like, “Hey! Untie me!” And maybe he followed that up with, “Who the hell are you?” Anyway, it was all gibberish to me. What could I say back that he would understand? At the moment of being bothered and rudely awakened, I just yelled back in German, You tried to kill me, so what do you expect! Now SHUT UP!

That's what I got for not just leaving the man tied to a tree for the wolves.

He squirmed around a little, but quickly realized that I had tied him up securely. He looked agitated and wouldn't stop yelling his annoying words. I held a piece of cloth up to his face and when he still didn’t stop yelling I forced it partially into his mouth as I tied it around behind. He kept moaning and trying to speak through the gag. The tent pegs seemed to be holding as he fussed about. I watched him for a few minutes more then tried to get back to sleep. I hoped the man understood that if he continued to bother me then I must put him out to freeze or to be eaten by animals. He finally quieted down and I fell back to sleep.

I awoke at first light without hearing any sounds coming from my prisoner. I was happy he was asleep. By now I had lost track of my day count. It might be day 23, 24, or 25. Who knew? I removed his gag – it was fairly loose by then – and he remained still. I felt his wrist and it was pretty cold. I touched his forehead and it was chilled too. Touching my forehead with gloves off I could still detect some heat, so what was going on with the man? I nudged him a few times, saying loudly, Wake up! in Russian. I figured he must have heard those words in Russian sometime during his life. Still no response. I pushed him harder along his side, rocking the man toward the tent pole. His eyes didn't open. Nothing. I couldn't tell if he was alive. I sat back then and just stared at my prisoner. I couldn't believe that the gag had contributed to his demise (if that was what had happened). Yes, I had tied him up, made sure he couldn't get at me in the night, but that shouldn't have killed him.

Looking closer at his face I realized that he may have been much older than I had first thought. He now looked 70, maybe even 80 years old. Maybe he’d just had a heart attack. I hadn't mistreated him, except for knocking him out with my stick. Could that have been enough to kill him? Maybe. I’d given his old brain a big knock. A concussion? Maybe. That was possible. And in the night he had died. But could he be playing possum with me?

I had to find out if he was really dead. I took a cloth and got it wet by sticking my hand through the bottom laces of the doorway, shoving it into the nearby snow pack. I wiped his face, removing some dirt as I cleaned him up. He didn’t budge. I could see where the test was going. I might have to untie him after I got everything loaded. So I unlaced the doorway completely and crawled out.

The morning was quite beautiful, with light hitting the snow at an angle and displaying all the little sharp edges of frost in long shadows. If it wasn't so cold, I would have enjoyed it more. I pulled up the outside pegs and lifted off the tarp. There he was in full light. And he looked very pale. I had remembered him as quite tan when I'd first roped him down and pegged him to the ground. Anyway, I folded up the tarp, removed the tent pole and got my pack organized. I ate some turnip (not nearly as satisfying as dumplings), and shifted my focus back to the man. He also looked smaller in the morning light. I approached him and tried some more yelling to see what was what.

Old man! Wake up now! I'm getting ready to go! I'll take you to my friend's house and he'll tell you in your language that I'm not a bad man. Come on! Talk to me!

He still didn’t move. His hands didn't wiggle. His eyes didn't blink. He was either in a coma or dead. With the low temperature I should have seen some breath, however faint, coming out from his nose or mouth. But there was none. Probably dead. And I had killed him. Just a nice old tribal man, trying to defend his territory against another marauding German. I knew I could make myself feel bad over his death, but I tried to stop doing that. I had to protect myself. As a father to an upcoming child that was one-half tribal himself, there could have been a future connection. Maybe if the man and I had sat down with an interpreter he would have learned about my relationship with Nanra. And then he might have hugged me instead of shooting at me. But that opportunity didn’t arise.

The thought crossed my mind about digging a grave, but the ground was impossibly hard. I wouldn't even be able to honor him in that way. I was at a complete loss as to what to do next, with him – with his body. Leaving him outside meant he would be ripped to shreds by animals. That didn't seem respectable. So, what? I was losing time with this problem. I couldn't let my sympathies destroy me now. I had to move on. Since I wasn't a doctor, I couldn't do anything for him if he was still alive. I dragged him against a tree, his back to the bark, and re-started my journey. At about fifty feet I turned to take a final look. There he was, just an old man, taking a snooze against a birch. That's all. Not dead. Not dead at all.

But I couldn’t stop staring at him. I was leaving him for wolves. Defenseless. I suddenly had a vision of a wolf pack attacking him and that seemed horrible. I just couldn’t leave.

I returned to his side, and though cautious, decided to check once more for any signs of life. But still I hesitated. A thought occurred to me, that he could be playing possum. Could he have finally suckered me into extremely close contact, holding his breath every time I’d previously checked? Could he have remained that still and lifeless each time? Maybe. In any case, I decided to risk it, risk everything, and untie him. That way he could put up some kind of defense against wolves, try to climb the tree or flee, if there was still life in there. At least his horrible end wouldn’t be on my conscience.

It was difficult to maneuver the ropes. They were tight, and frozen together. So I pulled out my knife to cut them. With a weapon in hand I was a little less fearful of the man. But if he suddenly lunged at me, butted his head against mine, I would be stunned. He could then grab the blade and kill me with it. So I proceeded with great caution.

I hurried, sawing through the rope with impatience. To finish up, and not slice him while cutting, I had to push my hand in, under the fibers, to get some clearance. This was the hardest part. I had to dig in hard against his torso, sensing him with the back of my hand. And that upset me. He still seemed like a living person, something human, not yet frozen hard.

Finally the job was done. I gathered up the short ends and walked away, farther and farther, until he was completely out of sight. How many other men had I killed? I suddenly needed to know that number. I didn't mean to kill the man and also didn't mean to kill any other enemy soldiers in battle. I had just been stuck in those situations with no other recourse. Them or me.

I had been taught to kill other men, beginning at the age of ten. How sad was that? When I launched myself out of the trench at seventeen with sword in hand (nothing else...no gun or rifle), I led my troops into battle so they could kill as many Russians as possible. I was part of the killing machine. Of course none of them...none of us...got even close to the Russian line. Everybody was ended almost instantly, shot dead by the spray of bullets. So the Russians mostly had our lives on their head, not the other way around. That was their guilt, if they ever felt anything about it. Surely some of their young soldiers regretted the deaths they had caused. We were all human, after all.

Unable to completely shake the old man’s death, I again tried to recount any and all deaths that could be attributed directly to myself. And surprisingly, only that one, the tribal man at the tree, was for sure on the list. I had finally, after four-plus years in war, killed someone personally. All the horrors of war had finally caught up to me in this cold place. And I didn't mean to do it!

I just hit his head to stop him. And so he was dead.

So easy to snuff out a life? When would my turn come? When it did, I promised myself not to be angry. I would die someday because it would just be my time. My turn. Nothing wrong with that. And now I deserved it.

I kept walking. There was nothing else I could do but continue. The snow was holding in the tree branches, weighing extremities down at the ends. In the sky, the thick fog and increasing blackness told me to expect a big storm. I certainly wanted to be snug in my tent before it hit, so I stopped, drilled the tent pole hole and set my tarp, pegging the edges securely. The pegs now had a bad memory for me. By the time I crawled in, the wind direction had shifted and snow started falling. I could feel the tarp being buffeted by the thick snow and wind. I punched the tarp from the inside every so often, to clear off the buildup. That activity calmed my current thoughts, forcing most away. Finally the storm subsided and I relaxed a bit. The weather could easily bury me, but this time I’d been spared from the full force of a blizzard. Looking out through the laces I could see night closing in, darkening the piles of fresh snow in all directions. I tried not to imagine the tribal man and his snow covering, but failed.

(To be continues…)

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(COLD/Posting #14 next)

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