by Kris Tualla
Kyle stopped the jeep. “Will you still come to supper?”
“I think so.” Tor looked at his watch. “I’m going to catch a nap in the meantime.”
Two hours later when Tor entered the mess hall behind Kyle applause broke out. He waved it away and told her to keep moving.
Though she led him quickly toward the food service line some men, and a lot of women, were pushing past her to shake his hand.
“Save me,” he begged her in Norsk.
“What can I do?” She smiled at him like she loved every uncomfortable minute of the impromptu show of appreciation. She picked up a tray and started moving down the line. “People are glad Hackles isn’t dead.”
April 18, 1944
The United Service Organizations—USO—was performing at Camp Hale this weekend and Kyle was clearly excited about going to the show.
“They’re performing tomorrow night at seven in the lounge of the new Station Complement Service Club,” she read from the Ski-Zette. “And on Sunday it’s at two o’clock in the Red Cross auditorium at the hospital.”
“Gee. It’s too bad we don’t have any connections with the nurses anymore.”
She lowered the paper and glared at him. “Not funny.”
“Sorry.”
She returned her attention to the newspaper. “Here’s the line-up. First is Ramee Sami, a magician who’ll do a comedy burlesque of fortune tellers.”
“Never heard of him.”
“It says he was formerly associated with Houdini and has forty years of show business experience.”
“Oh, wait…” Tor tilted his head. “Nope. Still never heard of him.”
Kyle stuck out her tongue. “How about ventriloquist Dick Bruno? His dummy was made by the same studio as Charlie McCarthy.”
“I’ve heard of Charlie,” Tor offered. “Is he the dummy or the puppet?”
“Stop it, Tor.” She was clearly trying not to laugh. “These are legitimate entertainers who volunteer to support our armed services.”
“Okay. Who else?”
Kyle consulted the paper again. “Murray King, an accordionist who solos—”
“Oh, no. No accordion solos. Huh uh.” Tor shook his head. “I’d rather have my eardrums punctured.”
Kyle looked desperate. “Betty Wilson, petite dancer from New Jersey? Radio songstress Georgette Starr? She’s been on Broadway.”
“So I’d have to suffer through a magician, a ventriloquist, and an accordion player to get to them?” Tor’s mouth twisted. “How much alcohol is available?”
Kyle folded the paper angrily. “You’re impossible.”
“I’m impossible?” Tor waved a negating finger. “No. What’s impossible is the idea that America is at war on both sides of the world, but we’re sitting here in safety and relative comfort with second-rate performers deigning to come entertain us.”
“Well what would you have us do? Just twiddle our thumbs?” Kyle glared at him. “You know what you’re all preparing to do!”
Tor put his hands up. “All I can say is that in Norway—”
“Would you please shut up about Norway!” Kyle jumped to her feet. “If it’s so wonderful being occupied and worrying the Nazis’ heels like a disobedient dog then why did you even come here?”
Tor gaped at her. “That’s not—”
“I don’t care!”
Kyle whirled around and stormed out of the mess hall.
Torger Tokle watched her go as he sauntered over to Tor’s table. “I was coming over to tell you that I entered the Pikes Peak tournament, but it looks like you might have other matters on your mind.”
“Yeah.” Tor huffed and stood. “I guess I better get going. Looks like I have to walk to the mountain today.”
April 19, 1944
Tor suffered through the magician, the ventriloquist, and the accordion player to get to the dancer, Betty Wilson, and the singer Georgette Starr, but admitted to Kyle after the show was over that it was better than he expected.
“I appreciate you coming with me after all,” she said for the third time. “And I’m really sorry about what I said about Norway.”
He opened the jeep’s door for her in an intentional display of chivalry. “You’re Norwegian, but you’re not. I understand.”
He closed the door after she climbed in then went to the passenger side and joined her. “Because we speak Norsk all the time—and you’re so fluent—I forget that you’re actually American.”
She started the engine. “I haven’t been in the best mood this week.”
That, he knew. “What’s going on?”
“I still don’t have a roommate, so while that seems like a luxury, the truth is it’s lonely.” She looked at him, the full moon shining through the windshield onto her face. “I spend most of my time with you, and because of what happened with the POWs I don’t have other friends anymore—or the time to make any.”
Tor bit his tongue but couldn’t stop himself from asking. “And Erik?”
She was quiet for a while, finally offering, “It’s so hard trying to maintain our relationship when we’re so far apart.”
“Especially when he’s not happy at the reason you’re gone.”
Stop trying to sabotage her.
“Sometimes I wish I could just get a discharge and go home. But then I get to go to an amazing ski tournament in Steamboat Springs and I actually know the competitors.” Her expression brightened in the moonlight. “Or even a night like tonight—I’d never get to see a show like that in Viking. Probably not even in Fargo.”
Her words made Tor feel worse about his attitude than he had before. He was so focused on the idea that Americans were at war without actually suffering that he forgot that there were millions of Americans whose horizons were being broadened by the world-wide conflict.
“I travel countries like you travel states.”
Kyle’s brow furrowed. “What?”
“As a European I forget that your country is as big as my continent. You can travel as far as I do, but you’re still in America.”
“Um, yes. But—”
Never mind,” he interrupted. “It was just a random thought. I’m very glad you enjoyed the show.”
“Oh. Okay.”
“So will you come to the Pikes Peak tournament?” Tor smiled encouragingly. “Torger finally signed up.”
Kyle smiled. “I’d love to.”
Don’t kiss her.
Tor leaned forward.
Kyle’s eyes widened but she didn’t pull away.
Don’t kiss her mouth.
Tor’s lips brushed her cheek.
“I’ll take the plain handkerchief this time,” he whispered.
Kyle turned her face to his.
Don’t—
Her lips briefly met his, sending a jolt of surprised pleasure through his frame before she pulled away. She shifted the jeep into first gear and drove to his barracks in silence and without looking at him.
Chapter
Twenty Five
April 23, 1944
“The Tournament of Superlatives is what they’re calling it.” Kyle read the paper to Tor as they rode the bus to Colorado Springs. “It’s the first of its kind ever to be held on America’s best-known mountain peak, an all-military event, open only to members of the Army, Navy, and Marine Corps.”
“That’s interesting.” And another example of America’s odd response to war. “It must be true that the best known skiers in the world are in the American armed forces.”
Kyle looked up from the paper and over the seatback between them. “You’re here, aren’t you?”
“I’m not known outside of a very small group of skiers who competed to make our Olympic teams,” he demurred. “And that was over four years ago. I’m nobody now.”
Kyle gave him a disbelieving look. “You’re not nobody. At least not to Kossin and Hackles.”
Tor sighed. “I only did what I was supposed to do, and it worked. I’m not a hero.”
“W
ell if people want to think you are, you can’t stop them.”
Kyle’s attention returned to the paper. “Do you want to hear more?”
Tor watched her for a moment. The early morning sun cast a rosy light on her hair from behind as she leaned against the side of the bus. She was a very beautiful woman, more beautiful than when he met her. Was that reality? Or the result of his growing affection for his spunky sidekick?
She looked at him again. “Yes? No?”
“Yes.”
Her eyes dropped to the paper and she scanned for the spot she left off. “Looks like they plan to make this an annual event. It says one perpetual trophy will be awarded, with the winners’ names to be engraved each year, while six trophies and ten prizes of skiing equipment will also be awarded.”
“Skiing equipment?” Tor grunted. “That would be worth winning. Much more useful than a name on a trophy.”
Kyle laughed. “For a world-class competitor you don’t have much of an ego.”
“I told you, Lieutenant, I ski because I love it. And because I love it, I got very good at it.” Tor looked out the windows on the opposite side of the bus. The passing mountain peaks were topped with sunrise-colored snow. “Skiing is life.”
*****
Kyle examined Tor’s profile. He was just as handsome as the day she met him, but now she knew that his attractiveness was as strong on the inside as it was apparent on the outside.
She was angry at herself for kissing him the other night, albeit briefly. But he was right there. And the evening had been so delightful. Kissing is what people did at the end of a date.
Even if it wasn’t a date.
Not officially, anyway.
Kyle’s heart was waging a battle with her brain, and so far her brain was still winning. When summer ended and the weather changed the men of the Tenth Division would be sent to Italy to do what they’d been training for: knock out the Nazis by attacking them in the Alps.
It was obvious that she’d never see the Norwegian captain again once he left Camp Hale. She wouldn’t even know if he lived or died there.
But…
There was no but—she made a promise to Erik to be his wife. Kyle had no intention of breaking that promise.
But…
A brief affair of the heart didn’t mean she would have to break that promise. As long as she remained a virgin, then she could return to Viking unsullied and walk into Erik’s arms without guilt.
Could I really?
Kyle pretended to read the Ski-Zette while she thought about the startling thought.
That kind of arrangement between them meant getting Tor to agree on strict limits to any physical play between them. That would be a hard line she must hold to. It was not negotiable in any way.
Her virginity was the one thing she would give Erik without question, even if her heart had been temporarily distracted.
Erik’s birthday was coming up. Should she request leave and go see him before she decided? May was a busy time for him, getting the livestock and their newborns out of the barns and into the pastures, and plowing and fertilizing the fields in preparation for planting.
Erik was twenty-eight, three years younger than Tor who’d quietly turned thirty-one back in January. And much like the Norwegian, he never liked to celebrate the occasion.
“I got born and survived this long,” Erik always said. “A toast with my friends at Viking Arms is plenty of fuss for me.”
Kyle could either write to her fiancé and ask if he’d like her to come home, or she could just show up and surprise him. If she surprised him, that meant enlisting her parents to pick her up in Fargo.
And hope Erik has time to take me back.
Kyle wished she had someone—besides Tor, of course—whose advice she could solicit. Maybe she should write to her best friend from high school. Heidi got married at nineteen and her three young children ate up all of her time now, but she still lived in Viking and knew everything that happened in the tiny town.
Heidi it is.
The bus slowed down and made a westward turn.
“Are we there?” she asked Pfeifer who was sitting a couple rows ahead of her.
“Not yet.” He pointed out the side of the bus. “We need to climb that mountain. Pikes Peak’s at the top.”
*****
Tor retrieved his skis and poles from the bus and walked to the base of the runs to see if snow conditions were posted. They were. The board stated there was a six-foot base of packed snow covered with four to five inches of dry powder.
Perfect.
Tor slapped Torger on the shoulder. “Times today will be fast. Maybe set a few records.”
Torger squinted at the hazy clouds overhead. “As long as the weather holds.”
“It will.” Pfeifer stepped up behind them. “Those are stratocumulus clouds. Nothing there but a welcome lessening of the glare off the snow.”
Kyle returned from the restroom facilities, set up for the large tournament crowd already milling past a multitude of food vendors. “How’s it look?”
Tor grinned at her. “Like iced lightning.”
She loosed an appreciative chuckle and shaded her eyes. “Where is the run?”
Tor led her back to where the spectator bleachers were set up. Then he turned around and pointed. “Up there.”
Kyle looked alarmed. “Are you skiing straight down?”
“Looks like that from here. But no, there’s a slope. Do you have the binoculars?”
“They’re inside my coat.” Kyle looked at him again, this time with fear in her eyes. “I’m scared for you.”
“Don’t be. These are new runs, but the men setting them up had to ski down them many times before they were decided on,” he assured her. “And I’ve skied where runs hadn’t been created. Just like we will in Italy.”
Kyle didn’t look placated. “Please be careful.”
Careful wasn’t the issue. Skill was. And he had skill to spare. “I’ll be fine.”
Army trucks were lined up and waiting to carry the skiers to the top of the peak. After the men checked in and got their assigned times they knew what time to catch the ride—an hour before their scheduled races.
Tor saw that he wasn’t racing at the same times as Torger or Pfeifer, which meant that with no witnesses present he could converse with the other skiers and officials in English. That was going to make his day easier.
The tournament started promptly at nine. Since Tor had some time to spare, he and Kyle walked back to the vendor area and bought a second breakfast; their first one was five hours ago. Then he settled her in the stands, retrieved the blue wax from his bag, and headed for the trucks.
Tor climbed into the canvas-covered back of the army truck and took the farthest forward seat on the bench. The mood among the competitors was jubilant—obviously he wasn’t the only man itching for the challenge of the steep slopes.
“Where you from?” one man asked him.
“Tenth Division, Camp Hale,” he answered.
Someone else said, “You have an accent.”
Tor smiled. “I’m Norwegian. I came to teach skiing to the American soldiers.”
“Er du Tor Hansen?” came a query from the back of the truck.
Tor leaned forward. The man’s face was familiar. “Einer?”
“Yes, it’s me. I haven’t seen you in five years!”
“That’s because you left Norway before we were invaded, you cowardly bastard,” Tor teased.
“That’s smart bastard to you.” Einer laughed. “When’d you get here?”
“November.”
“Welcome. You shipping out with the Tenth?”
Tor nodded. “I expect to, yes. Somebody has to lead these guys to the Nazis!”
When the truck squeaked to a stop at the top of the run the men filed out of the back two at a time. Once on the ground, Tor retrieved his skis and turned around to look for a spot to sit and wax them. What he saw claimed his ability to breathe.
He was standing on top of the world.
At well over thirteen-thousand feet, and about a thousand feet below the rocky top, he had a nearly three-hundred-and-sixty-degree view of the mountains around him.
He drew a deep breath of the thin, frigid air, and thanked God he was there.
Then he brushed the snow off a small boulder, sat down, and began waxing his skis.
*****
Kyle waited in nervous anticipation for Tor’s name to appear on the board. Several men had already successfully skied the terrifyingly steep course without incident, so she was a little less apprehensive than when she first saw the steep run.
Even so, the times posted for the mile-and-a-half downhill course started in the two-minute range.
That’s forty miles per hour.
Kyle wrapped her hands around her cardboard cup of coffee and watched the skiers’ times shrink with each competitor.
One minute and forty two seconds was the time to beat when Tor’s name was announced as next.
Fifty miles per hour.
Kyle set her coffee down and fished the warm binoculars out of her coat. She pressed them to her eyes and turned the focus knob until she could see him. Even on the highest setting, Tor was nothing more than a featureless figure at the starting line.
He pushed off before the faint pop of the pistol reached her. She followed him the best she could while refocusing the binoculars as he skied closer. He was moving impossibly fast.
God keep him safe.
When he reached the bottom he skied in a snow-throwing semi-circle to stop but hit the barrier before he could and he fell to the ground.
Kyle gasped.
Tor unfastened one ski then stood up and waved.
The crowd cheered.
They cheered even louder when his time was posted on the electronic sign: one minute and thirty-four seconds.
Almost sixty miles an hour.
Kyle cheered louder than anyone.
*****
“Are you hurt?” Kyle’s expression was etched with fear.
“Not badly,” Tor said. “Just a little sprain. It happened when I hit the fence.”
