The 12th Man

by Astrid Karlsen Scott

  The majestic terrain thrilled him, but it also slowed him up. In the midst of this beauty he was taken off guard when the wind suddenly bore down on him. Until now, not even the smallest breeze had whispered by him. Within minutes, the snow whipped around him at an alarming speed. The mountain peaks he’d admired moments earlier were now cloaked in ominous clouds. Steel-gray clouds moved in fast and tumbled down the mountainside. Before Jan had time to think or plan, he was in the midst of the storm’s fury. The downwind was unbearable. He struggled to keep his balance. The heavy mist and the whirling snow became so thick Jan could not see the tips of his skis. Sharp snow particles scraped his face.

  Jan turned his back to the wind and crouched to a half-sitting position but it gave him no relief. The wind blew straight through his clothes and chilled his flesh. He had to keep moving. His only escape was to descend the mountain and find his way back to the sea.

  Even as Jan inched his way forward, the ground beneath him began to slant steeply downward. He worried that the skis would just take off, perhaps over a cliff? The snow gales made seeing ahead impossible. But Jan remembered that at the end of the Bredals Lake, the vertical mountain wall sheared down to a small flat plateau. Jan feared he might be right on the edge, but he had no way of knowing. He was caught in the fury of the penetrating wind and whirling snow. Like a helpless toddler, Jan fumbled around lost in a world of giant mountains and glaciers.

  How to avoid the edge? “Snowballs!” exclaimed Jan. Now and then the raging wind ceased for a moment to gather strength for its next onslaught. In those fleeting moments, Jan would throw a snowball a few meters ahead. It was impossible to follow its trail in the thick snow, but he strained, listening for its muffled landing. If Jan didn’t hear it hit the ground, he reasoned he was too close to the edge of steep and dangerous terrain.

  It was a tedious process. Jan threw many snowballs during the storm. Many times he retreated and edged his way forward far away from what he believed to be a precipice, all the while descending steeply. Jan methodically worked his way down the treacherous mountain. He had no idea how steep the mountain was, but he had to side step most of the way down. Jan couldn’t see where he had come from or where he was going. After many hours he felt the terrain flatten beneath him. He crossed the even plateau where, without knowing, he was nearing the edge of another precipice, which ended in Lyngsdalen Valley 450 feet further down. The terrain before him was even more difficult than that above. The loose snow rushed madly away from beneath his skis. He leaned heavily on his poles and sidestepped gingerly as he kept moving downward. When he threw a snowball he seldom heard it fall anymore. Perhaps they had outlived their usefulness? The ground unexpectedly evened out once more.

  Jan wondered how far he had come. Could he possibly be in Lyngsdalen Valley? It was pure guesswork; he did not know. If he stopped concentrating for even a moment, he became aware of his suffering body. His wounded foot pained him and his hands were stiff and frozen. Even after all his struggles, the possibility remained that he could still freeze to death in the wilderness unless he could find a way out soon.

  The chill he had felt after going ashore to Vårøya had eased somewhat, but now it returned in full force. At the time he thought it impossible to ever be that cold again, but the dreadful freezing had returned. Jan trembled uncontrollably.

  Overcome by bitter cold and exhaustion, Jan yearned to stop and rest. But there was no place to hide – and besides, if he did, he would surely freeze to death.

  “Ski on Jan,” he said to himself. “Somewhere you will get down to the sea.” His strong will and naturally confident attitude enabled him to forge ahead yard by yard.

  The terrain became extremely smooth and he wondered if he had reached a lake. It felt good to ski across this smooth surface. His skiing quickened and a gentle hope began to rise. It wasn’t long before the ground rose again. The snow became powdery and he sank deep. He used considerable strength pushing hard on his poles to keep moving.

  STORM IN LYNGSDALEN VALLEY

  APRIL 5, 1943: Without realizing it, Jan had reached the base of Lyngsdalen Valley. He fumbled around totally bewildered; his sense of direction was gone. In his disorientation Jan began the upward climb. The incline escalated with each step, forcing him to turn his skis and tramp sideways up the gradient.

  Jan’s foot throbbed with pain. He yearned for relief. The raging wind stirred up the snow around him and icy particles abraded Jan’s face and eyes. The sharp Arctic air chilled his lungs - each breath he took smarted.

  Jan had no idea he was climbing the lower part of a precipitous mountain stretching upward 500 feet. The mountain was encircled by other snowy giants, except where it butted up to the Lyngsdalen Valley from where Jan had come. Some were over 5000 feet high. No matter where he turned, the snow and fog engulfed him and he could not get oriented in this murky gray and white world. Jan’s body was numb. His blood felt as if it had turned to ice.

  The buoyant optimism he had felt leaving Kjosen a few hours earlier evaporated. It would be so easy to give up here. No one would blame him. His strength was waning and maybe it was best to end it all. But negative thoughts never lingered long in Jan’s mind. “Where am I? There will be a way out! I must find a way!”

  The precipitous mountain he faced was weighted down with deep, loose spring snow. Jan could not see it. Suddenly snow, ice and dirt broke loose and moved down the mountain, slowly at first, then rushing madly toward Jan. There was no escape.

  The avalanche roared downhill, deafening and awe-inspiring. Helpless, Jan did not know in which direction to move nor did he grasp what was happening. He was offered up, a sacrifice to the crushing snow masses.

  The mountain of snow swept him off his feet, catapulting him down, backwards, sideways, then head first. Tossed like a rag doll, Jan flipped, jerked, and was propelled ever downward until he landed on the valley floor he had crossed a short while earlier.

  All went black.

  View of Lyngsdalen

  Jan opened frost-covered eyelids. His breathing was shallow and came in short spurts. As if through a foggy glass, all he could see was white snow wherever he looked. His mind was vacant. The snow masses enveloped him. Only his head and one arm were free. It wasn’t clear to him what had happened, but he’d received a concussion. No matter how hard he tried to focus, he could not remember. The last thing he recalled was how he carefully worked his way down the mountainside. He didn’t recollect crossing the valley floor or that he was on his way up the opposite mountain.

  Jan struggled to remember. Slowly his consciousness returned. He knew he must have received a terrible blow to his head, but he did not know how long he’d been unconscious. Nausea swept over him and he was clammy and disoriented. Struggling to free himself from the snow masses, Jan discovered both of his ski poles were gone, and one of his skis. The other ski was broken in half, with part of it still fastened to his boot. His mitten and cap were gone. Red spots dotted the snow. Jan touched his face. He looked at his fingers, covered with his own blood. He realized he’d survived an avalanche.

  Jan looked around and tried to focus. He saw nothing but high mountain peaks and snow. Where was his knapsack? Gone, and all the food with it. Jan was isolated in a world of snow and ice.

  The last few hours before the avalanche Jan had managed to keep moving ahead though his ability to see was impaired. Working his way down precipitous cliffs, being able to see only a yard ahead, he had arrived in Lyngsdalen Valley without knowing it. Unwittingly, he had turned right across the valley floor. He’d gone further into the wilderness and up into the mountains on the opposite side instead of turning left toward the sea. Jan was lost. The raging snowstorm had blinded him, making it impossible to know in which direction he was moving. All he knew was that he had to keep moving.

  The unseen power that had preserved him so many times before, again kept him alive against the odds. Yet, life seemed to be at cross-purposes. He was alive, but barely. Nonetheless, in his
wretched, deplorable condition Jan was driven to continue onward.

  The part of his face that had rested against the snow was scraped and bloody. It burned and stung. The avalanche had also robbed him of his mittens. His hands were turning blue. The boots that Einar Sørensen had given him at Bjørnskar cramped his feet, and the thin socks were not on a par with the Arctic weather. He blessed Peder Nilsen for making him the cellulose soles. Without them…it was too much to think about.

  Jan turned from the mountains and headed east across the flat valley floor. Each step depleted his strength. Sometimes he sank so deep into the snow that he had to dig around his leg to free himself or use his hands to lift his leg out. His fighting spirit stirred him on.

  “Onward Jan. You must keep walking,” he told himself.

  Jan battled against the frigid elements for hours. When he tried to orient himself to his surroundings, the white terrain and white vertical mountains blinded him. He was able to make out that the valley had narrowed. Towering mountains stood guard like sentinels on each side. The sound of a rushing river was near and he followed close. The terrain was hilly and rough, up for a few feet, then down, then up.

  Jan tried to concentrate but felt like a spectator watching his own drama.

  And the cold – the bitter cold penetrated every nerve, every cell of his body. He knew he had to get warm. He came to a large rock and, in his despair, he began digging with his bare hands, down, down. He crawled in, but the bitter cold intensified. It was hopeless. Lying there, Jan knew he would freeze to death. He struggled out of the dent.

  Despondency overshadowed him again. It would be so easy to give in. Nature would do the rest, and it probably would not take long.

  “Jan, keep walking. You must keep walking!” he demanded of himself.

  He trudged through the snow, sinking down to his hips, pulling himself back out again. He fought for his life minute by minute. Eternity could not last this long.

  “Jan, you must keep walking.”

  “Walk!”

  What happened during the night when darkness fell was not clear to him. His thoughts blurred. He only knew that if he stopped he would die. Wet, and frozen clear through, beset with pain, Jan forced his body to obey.

  “Don’t stop! You will die if you do!”

  “Just one more step!”

  “And another. And another. And another…”

  His inner voice refused to give him peace until he obeyed.

  “Where am I? Where am I going?”

  He lost all sense of direction in the avalanche. Jan waded through the snow hour after hour. He became aware a new day was dawning. His mind raced, and then it abruptly stood still. He battled to stay alert.

  He had won against the hostile night, but the weather conditions did not improve. Several times he tried to dig himself down in the snow, but was unable. The next day came and Jan still fought the elements and his demise.

  He continued wandering, but he did not know where he was going. He only felt snow, ice, cold and wind. He had no goal anymore.

  “Walk!”

  As the day joined with the evening, he heard voices. He didn’t see anyone. But the voices were real, and he thought he knew them.

  “Yes, it is I. Over here! Yes! It is I, Jan!”

  He exerted his last ounce of strength to move toward them.

  The voices kept calling for him. But they did not answer when he called back to them. Nonetheless, they instilled in him courage and fortitude to continue. As the night shadows crept in over Jan and eclipsed the confined valley, Jan grappled with reality.

  “Am I losing my mind? Maybe I am sleepwalking and dreaming? Am I really wandering about in a storm, alone somewhere in the Arctic? How will it all end?”

  Reality had slowly merged with imagination. The nightmare he was living got jumbled up with the voices. At that moment the Brattholm men walked toward him. One by one they came close.

  “Jan!”

  “Ja, Per, it is I!”

  “Jan!”

  “I have missed you terribly!”

  “Jan!”

  “Ja, You can see me, can’t you, Sigurd?”

  “Over this way. It is I!”

  Jan plunged forward trying to grab his pant leg.

  “Over here. Oh please!”

  Jan cried into the howling storm.

  April 8, 1943: During the afternoon the weather eased. The heavy clouds loosened their grip on the mountains and a pale glow of blue sky came into view. Jan barely saw the mighty bordering mountain walls.

  He was in a valley that continued downward, ever downward. “Was it moving toward the fjord? People? And hope?”

  Jan continued to follow the valley, staying close to the ravine. The voices he’d heard so clearly earlier came and went. In the end he tried not to pay attention to them. They never answered his call anyway. The snow was deep. In places he sank to his waist and felt imprisoned when he did. He dug and twisted and turned to free himself, just to take the next step only to have the same thing happen all over again. But something deep inside urged him on.

  “Walk!”

  “What am I doing here? Where am I?”

  “Jan, you must keep walking.”

  “Per! Is it really you this time?”

  “Keep walking!”

  “Why are my eyes burning? Why do they hurt so when I try to open them? Why are the mountains so dim?”

  The answers never came.

  About four miles from the avalanche in Lyngsdalen Valley, Jan emerged at the upper end of Furuflaten. The river rushed headlong down to the village and Jan eagerly followed along as fast he was able. He reached a clump of birch trees and wandered helplessly. A steep gradient rose before him. He gathered there was a plateau not too far up because he could make out the black marks of many birch trunks. He climbed upward, slid backwards, but continued on.

  His whole body was wracked with pain. Hunger pangs continually gnawed at him. His hands were frozen stiff and blue. He hardly felt his feet anymore, but his eyes caused him the greatest agony. “How much longer can I hold out? Is there an end to the misery?”

  He reached the plateau and could distinguish a dark block a few feet ahead of him. He pushed forward. It was almost within reach. A wall! A wall!

  LOVING HANDS

  APRIL 8, 1943: The Lyngsdalen Valley cuts a deep and narrow channel into the mighty massifs guarding it on either side. The valley’s head, near the immense glaciers, is spread wide. Winter cloaks the valley with a covering of pure white at the feet of the impressive mountain peaks Jiehkkevarri and Balggesvarri, tapering off as it weaves its way four miles eastward in a relaxed “S.” At its final point, the valley gives way to the Lyngenfjord. Close to the fjord, the valley opens up wide again and creates space for scattered homes near the water’s edge up to the highest plateau in the lower valley. This is the country settlement of Furuflaten.

  On the north side, the steep rock wall of Pollfjellet Mountain rises up more than 3600 feet. The vertical mountain wall on the east plummets headlong into the Lyngenfjord. Far down along the water’s edge, the narrow road curves with the coastline and connects Furuflaten to the hamlet of Lyngseidet nine miles further north.

  The area at the foot of Pollfjellet is extremely dangerous in the winter, because of sudden violent snow slides. The snow masses crash down, one after another, and block the roads. Since open travel year round between Furuflaten and Lyngseidet was of strategic importance, the Germans felt it imperative to keep this thoroughfare open throughout the year. Subsequent to a snow slide, the Germans marshaled manpower to quickly remove the snow and keep the traffic moving.

  Because of this, many German and conscripted Austrian soldiers were stationed in Furuflaten. They were quartered at the country school. Near the local road, there was a large depository filled with snow removal equipment and other machinery needed to keep it open. On the road outside of the depository, armed soldiers stood guard.

  Uppermost in Furuflaten, on a nearly
flat plateau, was the site of the Grønvoll farm. Marius, thirty-three, lived here with his widowed mother and two of his sisters. Gudrun was a few years younger than Marius and Ingeborg was a teenager.

  Straight across the farmyard from Marius lived another sister, Hanna. She was married and had two sons of her own, Johan, 16, and Ottar, a couple of years younger. They lived in an old, grayish-worn log cabin with a small enclosure that stored overcoats, boots, and food. The ceiling was low and the one-room cabin had only one door, which opened up toward Marius’ house.

  The Pedersen family had just enjoyed a weekday meal together in their unpretentious little home. Hanna’s husband Alfred was away at Lofoten, fishing. The kitchen table still held a plate of potato peels and fish scraps, leftovers from their just-finished dinner.

  They heard something scratching along the wall outside their cabin. Unable to make out what it was, they listened more intently. The door bolt began to move, it creaked and grated, but did not open. The scratching along the wall repeated itself as it moved further away, before it moved back towards the bolt again. There were no windows by the door, so they couldn’t look out. Hanna’s frightened eyes stared at the door.

  “Johan, open the door quickly!” The boy did as he was told.

  Hanna gasped! She stepped back and let out a stifled scream, half covering her face with her hands. A frightening being tumbled in, took a couple of faltering steps and ended up standing, barely, in the middle of the room. His body swayed from side to side. His filthy clothes were soaked. He had no cap. Particles of ice, dried blood and sedimentary grains of rock clung to scruffy coal-black hair and stubs of beard, white with frost. His face was all scratched up, dirty and bloody. His eyes were nearly swollen closed, bloodshot and watering. Frost clung to his eyelashes. Dried blood and scabs covered his cracked blue lips and his breathing was heavy and came in short spurts. He groaned and trembled violently.