COLD/Posting #2. Here's next episode––Captain Ewald Loeffler prepares to walk 6000 km/miles home. (<https://www.amazon.de/COLD-1918-19-Siberian-Captain-Loeffler/dp/3741808695>).

Captain Loeffler now departs from the "safety" of the Siberian prison camp, to face unknowns; wolves, getting food or starving. (COLD on Kindle & paperback n US: <https://www.amazon.com/dp/B076VBJB62>

5.0 out of 5 stars Chilling is the word for this German prisoners epic trek ...

“Chilling is the word for this German prisoners epic trek out of a frozen WWI Siberian prison camp abandoned by guards off to join the Russian revolution. It is a tale of survival that will make your fingers feel numb as you turn the pages. And turn them you will, as you walk with a cold and hungry man endlessly attacked by packs of wolves who are also hungry, 3000 miles across Russia to his home in Germany. This is a classic search for one's father, and it is based on the true story of the author's own father.” ––Beverly Connor, screenwriter

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(COLD/Posting #2).

Before I departed for good I took a long last look back at the camp. In the place I'd called home for almost four years I saw only shabbiness. It appeared as nothing more than a very poorly constructed series of shacks. The terrain around the structures was flat and white from new snowfall. I wasn’t going to miss any aspect of it, not even its inhabitants. Well, maybe that was too harsh and probably untrue. I might devote some thoughts to my fellow officers and their oddities as I began my journey. I had made some friends during my incarceration. In any case, I knew if I couldn’t succeed in obtaining some food those first days outside I would be dead along with the good and bad memories. It would all disappear. I would become a mound on the ground, a snow- covered specimen of frozen human flesh; with perhaps something still sticking out – cap or helmet protruding, like a sign pointing somewhere. My skull? Maybe just my snow-covered midsection would be visible, a bloated torso, curved and frozen solid, hard as a piece of wood, all softness gone. Maybe there would be a vacancy where animals had feasted. Wolf food. Happy thoughts.

On the second evening of my freedom it was clear that (a.) I would find no food anywhere in the camp, and (b.) if I didn't leave soon, just begin my journey back to Germany, then I would die there. And strangely, I could still feel my determination waning. There was some sort of mysterious force holding me back after that brief period of organizing, planning, taking stock. What was it about the human brain that wanted to keep the host-body rooted wherever it stood? It was almost as if we humans were actually trees and didn't know that particular attribute about ourselves.

Yes, we had branches (of families), needed water and sunlight, could grow from a small acorn to fully realized adult. We could produce various kinds of fruit, could sometimes live a hundred years before rotting and dying. So for me, at the end of day two, it took a great deal of willpower to finally decide to leave my prison, wrench myself from the familiarity of the barracks

No wind-milling or lighthouse exercises that morning I finally exited the camp, joined the procession of fellow prisoners heading south. Walking and surviving out in the elements was all the exercise I needed. As the day proceeded along, there was no food to be found. I scratched the earth in several spots, tested the possibilities, but the snow was much too dense and solid to penetrate. So I decided to rule out turnips or other roots as a food source. I’d have to begin my 5000-kilometer jaunt without nourishment, concerned how long I could last. Not long. Probably. I was bundled as warmly as possible against the sub-zero weather, but the rags I was wrapped in let much warmth out. My shoes weren’t any better; an amalgam of leather, stuffed newspaper, with a rags wrapped around my feet to cushion my steps. Many men had only one rag layer and surely their journey home would end prematurely with black frozen feet unless they met another person with whom they could switch for newer boots in better repair. Any sane person walking the tundra realized that they would ultimately die without good shoes.

Crunch, crunch. The snow sounded loud under my feet. To keep my mind clear I started counting, adding a number with each landing of a foot. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven...I reached five hundred before I discontinue this type of psychological prompting. But it was of interest to learn that a certain distance of landscape equaled five hundred steps. I used this discovery to plot my movements, analyze the effort while examining a particular quadrant for food. With the 500-step template I could visually investigate the rise in a hillside, evaluate it for some tangible items of survival. So for a while I lived my life in chunks of those five hundred counts, surging forward while visually examining a much wider swath on each side, to take advantage of whatever edibles might appear. I still had hope, for some reason.

As I amassed my counts that first walking day it became clear that without any food whatsoever I would soon be finished. No animal or machine can run forever without some kind of fuel. I was desperate for something to convert into energy, but saw nothing but white and flat land directly ahead. There was no town or village, and even if there was, who would help a German prisoner?. I needed to meet a person who would accept my work for food. I didn't want to resort to stealing or, heaven forbid, killing for survival. I did believe in fate and karma. If I killed them then someone would kill me. It was simple math. Beyond the usual particulars of war, I hadn't been tested with the lure of trading someone's life for mine. And I refused to resort to that now.

Walking steadily on that first day away from camp, I’d made perhaps four or five kilometers. I pressed on another 500 steps or so (now guessing instead of counting...) further south, but without any sign of food. I used my short metal tool to dig at the surface but found nothing. I tried to maintain my hope a little longer. It was too soon to just lie down and sleep myself to death in the snow. After maybe another half-hour I arrived at the foot of a small mound and inspected it. Knocking off the snow covering, a body was revealed. Did I know him? A thin man, maybe around six feet tall. This soldier had not died in a straight line. He'd curled up like a fetus, like a big baby just left there. And his hands were crossed flat together against his chest, shoulders hunched, head nodded down to guard fingers against the wind. He could have been praying. But what I discovered with my digging tool was that he was clutching something. It took some work to pry open his fingers. Suddenly I became excited. It was a frozen piece of bread! The dead man had food for me. My spirits soared, allowing some hope to build against the horrible doubts. I placed the frozen lump inside my pocket to defrost it against my leg and started proceeding again. I couldn't afford to lose my forward momentum for too long.

Maybe I’d traveled another kilometer and a half before I checked my pocket, hoping the bread had softened. I could now make out a crust. As I gnawed on it a particle broke off in my mouth. I sucked it, then bit down slowly. I knew a broken tooth would be disastrous. With some patience, then, I found that I could taste the nutrients of the wheat. My disposition improved. Adding a small handful of snow to the food hydrated me and brought on some new energy. My mood became a happier one. By nightfall I had covered possibly another five kilometers in total. Before the sun flattened down and disappeared I used twigs to construct a loosely- formed lean-to.

2.

The night had been cold and I slept fitfully under a blanket of snow. How I survived isn’t clear, but suddenly there I was, alive still though shivering, for another morning. The view from my makeshift lean-to was less than hopeful. I had been fortunate to find a few twigs along the way which formed the tiniest of a windbreak. The bleak landscape seemed to promise no more food or shelter if I dared to continue. Of course, I had no choice but to proceed in the general southerly direction of Germany, praying aloud (please God!) that food would be somewhere on that path. What else could I do? What would anyone have done? If I failed I would be just another name written in ink on a piece of paper delivered to and read by my family. ‘Missing in action.’ Parents would cry maybe, for a few minutes, feel some sorrow certainly, then be jerked back to their own survival needs during wartime. Was there enough meat, some milk or eggs, or fuel to heat the house? What to feed the dogs and chickens? Did they have bullets in their rifle to shoot an intruder? These were everyday worries for civilians. So when my letter arrived, if and when it did, there would be little time to mourn.

Wolves howled somewhere in the distance, and my thoughts shifted to present dangers. Wouldn't wolves like to get their teeth on me? Warm flesh instead of the frozen dinners they'd become accustomed to. It was with new haste that I gathered myself, rolled up a few twigs in my thin cloth bundle and started walking. As I hurried along I used my little metal tool to try to sharpen the tips of the sticks, nicking them here and there so I'd have several weapons with which to stab back. Not much of a defense, but I had to make do with what I had.

For a while there was no howling. Good, I thought, they're gone. But then a paranoid thought took its place. What if they're running fast toward me and they don't have time to howl! Whatever was true, the danger was quickly mounting in my mind. I needed to find some shelter.

A barn would be nice. A house even better. As I hurried along I began to imagine a warm hearth, sitting there on a hearth-bench in front of a full-blazing fire, the sweet smell of hickory ablaze. What a blessing it would be, to peel off my imperfect boots and shed wet, frozen socks, flaunting my feet and ankles toward the flames. Solid, impenetrable log cabin walls, the friendly face of my benefactor urging a hot bowl of soup against the cold.

As I rounded a hilltop this milk-dream suddenly burst into vision. I saw it! A cottage ahead was half-hidden by a large barren tree. Oh, God! sprang from my frozen lips I hurried, my legs churning faster against the deep snow, as I prayed it wouldn’t just disappear. Getting closer I heard yelps. The wolves were nearby. Coming fast. I lifted my feet higher, now charging ahead as fast as a frozen man could move.

Maybe fifty feet from the door I saw the first wolf racing in. I can make it to the cabin, I thought, but the door will still be closed! Only if I crash through will I be safe. There will be no time for a friendly knock and a “Good Evening,” or “How do you do.” Maybe I will be shot as an intruder. Or, just thrown back out, to the wolves. Certainly what any brash intruder deserved to be. But I was out of options. The wolves will certainly finish me off if I’m outside.

Twenty feet...ten...I reached the door with only some seconds to knock loudly and desperately (the door was much too solid to crash through). I glanced back to see the pack closing in at full speed, five, six of them. My mind was preparing for the onslaught. I could see mouths foaming, teeth chewing the air hungrily. They were so close. Suddenly the door cracked and I pushed in hard. As soon as I was clear, a woman closed it with a bang, dropping a crossbar down into the jam. I could hear wolves flinging themselves against the wood, angered that I had deprived them of such good feed. And who could blame them?

I sunk to the floor, exhausted from the exertion. I cried a little, or felt as if I did. The extreme danger had confused my senses. No one said anything. She walked away, peered out a tiny porthole, then switched to another wall. I could still hear the wolves barking. Icicles obscured my eyes, so I couldn't see exactly what the woman looked like, noticing just that she moved around the cottage in a spry fashion. It took a while to realize that I was safe, that I actually lay in that cottage I had fantasized about earlier. And getting warmer. Was I alive and dreaming, or dead and in heaven? I wouldn't have been able to swear the truth in any case.

The woman peered at me through her long hanging hair, and I could feel her youthfulness. Not at all like one's traditional belief; that all peasants were old and haggard. I caught a glimpse of her lips and they were perfectly shaped. Perhaps it was because of my desperation in escaping from the wolves that I was so hyper- sensitive to her body language, but there was a definite kind of magic in her looks, her body and the way she moved. People rarely give off what she had, that kind of electricity. And, of course, I hadn't seen such a woman, much less an attractive one, in years.

She turned toward the cooking pot hanging in the large fireplace and stirred the contents with a wooden-handled spoon, quickly replacing the lid. I looked her over from the back, and though her figure was camouflaged with layers of cloth, I could again feel her essence. Her shoes were of the Eskimo kind – mukluks – the kind I’d seen when travelers tried to sell the camp guards such goods and delicacies as they passed through the upper territories. Sealskin sewed together with fur seemed the best combination for the cold and wet lands.

(To be continued…)

(COLD/Posting #3 next)