by Kris Tualla
Fingers crossed.
The second kiss—the one Kyle initiated—was startling, to say the least. The deep passion she displayed aroused him more than he thought a kiss could, and that arousal moved through his thoughts and his body for the rest of the evening.
He assumed she was a virgin, of course. Kyle didn’t strike him as the sort of woman who would jump ahead of the wedding, especially living in a small town where everyone was in each other’s pockets. But he thought that the man who did finally bed her was going to be one lucky bastard.
Too bad it’ll be Erik.
Tor couldn’t help thinking that Kyle was destined for bigger and better things than life on a farm in Viking, Minnesota.
*****
Thankfully the weather cooperated. Tor stood near the top of the run and watched through binoculars as his men skied past him one at a time down the slope. From his vantage point, he could watch them push off, ski down to him, and then make the curve to the left. From there he could watch them for another hundred-and-fifty yards.
When a soldier disappeared from his sight, he waved for the next man to start his descent.
Tor knew his men well, so he knew which ones were going to pass the test—and which ones weren’t. Today he was making mental notes to give the strugglers some last-chance instructions in the hopes they might improve during the final week.
He looked up to see who was next.
Kossin.
Tor really liked the boy. He was always eager and never complained. Even his confession that he thought joining the ski division would be light duty was amusing.
Once Kossin realized what he was actually in for though, he’d squared his shoulders and buckled on his skis. If trying was all it took, this guy would earn flying colors.
Tor raised his arm.
Kossin settled his goggles in place, crouched, and used his poles to get started. He grinned when he skied past Tor.
Tor watched him descend, wondering what advice would best help the gangly soldier, when something went terribly wrong.
Kossin began to flail his arms, losing his balance. He tumbled over and rolled into the trees that lined the run.
And he didn’t get up.
Skitt.
Without hesitating, Tor shouted to the men waiting above him. “Radio the base! Kossin’s hurt! Have the medics meet me at the bottom!”
When they just stared at him, he shouted, “NOW!”
“Yes, sir!”
He pushed off and skied down to the soldier who still hadn’t moved.
What he saw was bad.
Kossin’s left leg was impossibly twisted below the knee, and he was unconscious and bleeding from the head.
I’ll have to ski him down.
“Oh, God.”
Tor turned to find two of his men had followed him down. They stared at Kossin, white-faced.
“I need to take off his skis,” he barked while he knelt on his to undo the bindings. “I need his belt and one of yours.”
“Yes, sir.” One soldier—Smith—was unbuckling his belt.
The second man, Graves, dug through the layers of Kossin’s clothes to find his belt, but gave up and yanked his own off. “Use mine, sir.”
“Thanks.”
Tor laid Kossin’s ski poles on either side of the twisted leg.
“We need to keep this leg from moving. Smith, buckle your belt around his thigh. I’ll do his ankle.” He pointed to Graves. “Look in his eyes. Tell me if his pupils react.”
Tor wrapped the belt around Kossin’s ankle and the two poles to hold the leg in place. “What do you see, Graves?”
“His pupils are contracting, sir.”
“Good.” Tor stood, turned around, and squatted with his back to Kossin. “Get him on my back.”
Smith and Graves lifted Kossin and draped one arm and his uninjured leg over Tor’s shoulders. Tor gripped Kossin’s wrist and ankle and settled the bleeding and unconscious private across his back.
“Help me up.”
Each of them grabbed Tor’s upper arm and lifted him high enough that he could get leverage to stand.
“You two can follow me down.”
“What about your poles, sir?” Graves asked.
Tor shook his head. “Don’t need ‘em.”
*****
Summoned by the emergency call, Kyle skidded to a halt and bolted from the jeep before the cut engine stilled. She ran through the snow to the base of the mountain and squinted up the run.
The ambulance was already there. Four medics stood by, waiting.
When Tor skied into sight, the injured man draping heavily over his shoulders, she gasped. The captain had no poles. He held the injured man by the wrist and ankle, and skied with the power and precision that proved he was a champion.
Two soldiers trailed behind him, moving with the caution of novice skiers.
When he reached the bottom, Tor didn’t snowplow to slow down like he taught her. Instead he turned his skis parallel to the base and dug the uphill edges in, sending up a frozen spray of white as he stopped.
The medics were on him instantly, easing the soldier off his back and onto a stretcher. Kyle’s stomach clenched when she saw the man’s twisted leg.
“What happened?” she asked Tor, her voice tense.
He looked at her, obviously startled.
“I got the call to come meet you,” she explained. “When the emergency was radioed down.”
“Oh. Good. That’s good.” He shook his head as if to clear his thoughts. “I saw him take a bad fall from higher up. I don’t really know what happened.”
Tor pointed to the radio. “Can you ask him to send the rest of my men down? We’re done.”
She did.
He waited there, not speaking to anyone, until all his men were accounted for.
Then he told Kyle, “I want to go to the hospital.”
“There’s blood all over the back of your coat, Captain.”
Tor shrugged out of the parka. Steam from his heated body rose in the freezing air, but he seemed unfazed by the chill. He held up the coat and looked at the streaks of blood that ran down its length.
“Skitt.”
*****
Kyle took Tor to his barracks to get his long woolen coat before she dropped him at the hospital. Then she took his parka to the laundry to see if they could get the blood out or if he would need the reversible parka replaced.
While she waited, the image of Tor effortlessly skiing down the mountain with the unconscious man slung across his back played over and over on her mind’s screen.
He was so strong. So skilled. She glimpsed for the first time the champion that he truly was. Champion, and hero.
“You should have seen him, Lieutenant,” Private Smith gushed when she returned to the hospital waiting room, Tor’s new parka in hand. “He had us take off our belts and he strapped the poles to Kossin’s leg like a pro.”
“He didn’t even blink, I don’t think.” Private Graves looked awestruck. “He knew exactly what to do.”
“I imagine this isn’t the first skiing accident he’s seen,” she posited.
Smith wagged his head. “No ma’am. I reckon not.”
Tor appeared in the doorway looking completely wrung out.
He spoke Norwegian, but looked intently at Privates Smith and Graves, not at her. “He’s in surgery. The doctor thinks he can save the leg, but it means weeks in traction.”
Kyle translated.
The two privates nodded solemnly.
“Yes, sir.”
“We understand, sir.”
“Good.” Tor did face Kyle then. “Is that my parka?”
“Yep. Your new parka.” She held it up. “They said if they can get the blood out, you can keep both.”
“Thanks.” Tor rubbed his face with both hands. “Can you take me to my barracks? I want to change clothes and then come back.”
Kyle knew that the captain was probably in the throes of an adrenaline crash.
“How about a cup of coffee, too?”
He smiled faintly. “That sounds good.”
Chapter
Twelve
January 15, 1944
Someone was shaking his shoulder. Tor opened his eyes and bolted upright on the couch.
Waiting room.
Right.
Standing in front of him were Smith, Graves, and the three other soldiers from his training group who were still at the top of the run when Kossin crashed.
He looked at his watch. It was one o’clock in the morning. Twelve hours since the accident. Why were they here?
“We need to talk to you, sir.” Smith’s expression was sober.
Tor stretched and looked around the otherwise empty room.
“She’s not here.”
Tor recoiled a little and stared up at the five men. Had Kossin died?
“We won’t beat around the bush,” Smith said. “We know you speak English.”
Tor was relieved that the injured soldier was still with this world, even if he was about to be metaphorically executed.
Tor pointed at some chairs. “Sit.”
He hadn’t meant to speak in English on the mountain; it was a reflex. He needed to be understood when Kossin was hurt, so he started barking orders in that language without thinking about the consequences.
The truth was that until Kyle asked him in Norsk hva skjedde—what happened—that he realized which language he had used.
The five soldiers pulled their chairs close and huddled around him.
“Here’s what we figured,” Graves said, his voice low. “You showed up here and the army automatically gave you a translator. Didn’t ask if you needed one. Just assigned one. Right?”
Tor nodded slowly.
Smith leaned forward. “So you take a good look at her and think, what’s the harm in keeping her around? Yeah?”
Tor shrugged a little.
“So here’s the thing,” Smith continued. “You saved our buddy Kossin’s life up there. You fixed him up real quick and got him down the mountain faster than I’ve ever seen anybody ski.”
Graves looked gobsmacked. “Me and Smith couldn’t even keep up with you.”
“And you did it with that lunkhead on your back.”
The other three men nodded their agreement.
“Wish I coulda seen it,” the radio tech said.
Smith waved his hands. “Anyway, we all talked it over, and we made a decision.”
Tor frowned, worried about what was coming next. “What decision?”
Smith sat back and folded his arms across his chest, grinning like the Cheshire cat. “We’re gonna keep your secret.”
Tor looked at each man in turn. “What’s the catch?”
“No catch, Captain,” the radio tech said. “It’s our way of thanking you for all you’ve done.”
“Yeah, you’ve been so patient with poor Kossin,” Graves observed. “Hell, you’ve been patient with all of us, sir.”
“None of us would still be here if it wasn’t for you, sir.”
Smith was still smiling. “And Second Lieutenant Solberg—we gotta be honest, sir—she does brighten our days when she’s around. I imagine you know what I mean.”
Tor looked at each of the earnest faces in front of him. Could he trust them?
Did it matter? He’d blown his own cover. They were under no obligation to maintain it, and they weren’t getting anything in return for doing it.
“Thank you,” he said finally. “I appreciate this very much.”
“We appreciate you, sir.”
“And the other eleven of you grunts have no idea?” he clarified.
All five shook their heads. “No, sir.”
“Besides,” Graves said. “It’s only for another week. Most of us will be moving on.”
“That’s true…” This could work.
“So that’s what we came to tell you.” Smith stood up and yawned. “Let’s go.”
“You coming, Captain?” the radio tech asked.
Tor shook his head and rose stiffly from the couch. “Not yet. I’m going to check in on Kossin again. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Each of the five men extended a hand. When Tor shook them, every man said, “You have my word.”
*****
Kossin looked bad.
His hair was shaved around a ragged gash that was stitched together by black thread. Both of his eyes were swollen and underscored in vivid purple and red.
The soldier had been in surgery for several hours while the doctors realigned his broken tibia and fibula, and then ran long steel pins through them to keep them in place.
Now Kossin slept with the head of his bed raised and his right leg in traction, suspended in an impressively complex web over his hospital bed.
Tor took a chance in the ward full of sleeping men and lifted Kossin’s medical chart from the foot of the bed. He opened the aluminum folder and started to read:
Severe concussion.
Scalp laceration, five inches.
Spiral fracture of the right tibia and fibula.
“What are you doing?”
Tor jumped. He hadn’t heard the nurse enter the room.
She marched toward him, radiating her irritation. “You aren’t supposed to be reading that.”
Tor faced her and held out the folder. “Spiralformet? Spiral formasjon?”
“What? What are you trying to say?” She grabbed the chart but he held on and pointed to the words spiral fracture.
“Oh!” Her eyes widened with realization and she considered him with a different sort of interest. “You must be that Norwegian skier that everybody’s been talking about today.”
They’ve been talking about me?
Why?
He dipped his chin a little. “Kaptein Hansen.”
She saluted him with her free hand. “Nurse Warren, sir.”
Tor tapped at the chart again and continued the ruse, lifting his brows in question.
“Spiral fracture.” She frowned. “What did you say?”
He refrained from heaving an annoyed sigh and spoke slowly. “Spiral formasjon.”
She nodded, her brows tugged together in thought. “Yes, I think that’s probably the same thing.”
Tor pointed to the word laceration. The Norsk word sårskader was too dissimilar for him to pretend to understand the English.
“Laceration.” Nurse Warren traced Kossin’s scar on her own head.
Tor nodded and pointed at concussion. There was no way he could get to the English word from hjernerystelse.
“Concussion.” Nurse Warren mimed hitting herself in the head as she spoke. “That’s a hard blow to the head.”
Tor nodded and released the chart. Nurse Warren hooked it back onto the foot rail of the bed and then looked up at him with one hand jammed on her hip.
“You, Sir.” She pointed at him, then threw a thumb over one shoulder. “You need to leave.”
“Først…” The word sounded enough like its English counterpart first that Tor expected Nurse Warren to understand.
“Han er god?” Tor gave the nurse a thumb up.
“Han er dårlig?” Tor turned his hand so the thumb pointed down.
“Eller, så så?” He wiggled his flat hand in front of him.
Her expression softened. It seemed that by showing concern for his soldier he earned at least partial forgiveness for the breach of regulations.
“So so,” she repeated. “We’ll know more tomorrow.”
“Takk du.” Tor smiled grimly. “God natt.”
*****
Though he was exhausted physically, Tor’s mind wasn’t restful. He walked toward the north end of the camp where the POWs were imprisoned, not really knowing why he was going there.
The camp was quiet; the sound of guards’ conversations, snow shovels scraping paved sidewalks, and the occasional brays of a wakeful mule were muffled by the snow that started falling sometime between supper and now. Tor wished he smoked,
because right now a cigarette seemed like the perfect way to occupy his hands and pass some time in thought.
The day had been hard. Obviously.
When Kossin was finally awake and coherent Tor hoped to find out what happened to send the man tumbling so horribly on a run he’d succeeded at dozens of times before. Sure, his form was bad and he never reached the bottom before time ran out. But he always reached the bottom.
Tor was walking with his head down, watching where he stepped and trying to stay on the freshly-snow-covered path, when someone walked right into his left shoulder.
Tor stumbled backwards. “Hey!”
The man caught his balance and looked up. In the dim light outside the door of a nearby building, Tor recognized him.
Dale Maple.
Maple looked frightened, like he was facing the devil himself. Without a word of greeting or apology, he turned around and continued on his hurried way.
What the hell?
Tor stood there for a minute, wondering if he should follow the jerk, but decided not to. No point in stirring anything up now, not in the middle of the night.
Wait.
It’s the middle of the night.
In a moment of curious inspiration, Tor decided to follow Maple’s tracks and see where he’d come from. Maybe find out what the man was up to.
It was easy in the fresh snow, even in the dim light. Tor walked the path that Maple laid out so clearly—and found himself at the fence of the POW enclosure.
Not only that, but there were multiple boot prints on the inside of the fence. It was clear that Maple was standing right here and conversing with more than one man on the other side.
Is Dale Maple the man the two prisoners were talking about?
The one whose contact was slow to answer?
And if so, what were they planning?
Tor turned around to retrace the steps one more time, thinking that coming on a walk to clear his mind only ended up creating more questions.
One thing was sure: Tor had to let Major General Jones know that Private Dale Maple was meeting with German POWs in the middle of the night. That had to be a breach of several regulations at the least, and probably something much more sinister judging by the man’s character.
