The Ice Soldier

by Paul Watkins

  I made sure that my rifle and Webley revolver were loaded and stuffed two Mills grenades into my pockets. From my pack I removed the trench club I had been given by Carton. The cold ball of lead at the end of the club seemed to glow. I looked across at the others.

  Sugden’s eyes shone in his mud-crusted face. He was watching me.

  I wondered if he was waiting for me to change my mind and give the order to fall back.

  But then he started crawling forward.

  I began to move as well, keeping the rifle across my back and the Webley in my hand.

  The rain was falling harder now. The black air hissed as if snakes were slithering above our heads.

  We were fifty yards from the wire when I heard a cracking sound.

  I knew immediately that it was a flare. I even saw the yellow sparks as they left the flare gun’s barrel, just behind the wire. It was as if the flash had exploded in my chest. A trail of burning white sliced the darkness above us.

  THE BLARING HORN of a truck on the road outside St. Vernon’s jarred me to my senses once again. I struggled back to the curb.

  My cigarette papers lay ground into the road by the wheels of passing cars. The rest had blown away.

  Twilight blurred the traffic racing by. Now and then, one of the automobiles ran over the flattened remains of my emergency ration tin, which clacked against the macadam.

  Until that moment, I had not known what I should do.

  But now I understood.

  The answer lay in the passing of these cars, the two lanes of them heading relentlessly in opposite directions. They were like the streams of time itself, one flowing into the past, the other into the future. I was stuck between them, endlessly spinning around. I had to do something to get out of it, or I would be trapped there forever.

  That something was to honor Henry Carton’s last request.

  What I needed was the courage to go through with it.

  Suddenly I knew I had just made the third and final wish, which I’d been keeping all this time and hoping that I’d never have to use.

  SEVEN

  I WALKED BACK TO MY FLAT and trudged up the stairs, hand gliding along the old sweat-polished banister. I fumbled in the deep pocket of my mackintosh for my keys, wondering aloud what I would have for dinner. Then I unlocked the door and, swinging it wide open with a jab of my toe, was startled to see a man standing in my living room. He was glancing out the window and had his back to me.

  “Jesus Christ!” I blurted and staggered against the door frame. I was trying to decide which piece of furniture to hit him with when the man turned around and I realized it was Sugden.

  The way he stood there smirking, he looked exactly like his picture in the newspaper advertisement.

  “Bloody hell, Sugs!” I shouted. “You just about gave me a heart attack!”

  “Sorry, Auntie!” He grinned unapologetically. His face was red, the tip of his nose and his ears flaky white with sunburned skin.

  “What are you doing here?” I asked, trying not to sound nervous. I was not afraid of Sugden. Not of the man himself. What I feared were the memories his presence kindled in my mind.

  “Making some tea.” He nodded at the stove. My kettle muttered as the water warmed inside it.

  I hung my umbrella on the coat stand, then shrugged off my coat and laid it over a chair. “Look, Sugs,” I said. “No offense, but you can’t just walk in here anytime you feel like it. This isn’t the bloody dorm.”

  “I haven’t had a decent cup of tea since I returned from Patagonia,” he said, staring out the window.

  “I read about what happened,” I told him. “I’m sorry you had a rough time.”

  “Where do you keep the tea?” he asked, as if my words of condolence had not even reached his ears.

  “Left cupboard in the kitchen,” I said, resigning myself to the fact that Sugden had not changed since school, and that he probably had no idea he was doing anything unusual by crashing into my flat. I sat down at my kitchen table and halfheartedly swept away some bread crumbs from the bare wood surface. “What is it you want? Besides a cup of tea, I mean.”

  “It was a bloody mess in Patagonia,” he said, stepping past me into the kitchen, where he began opening and closing the cupboards. “Men dead. Sponsors all cheesed off.”

  “But it was an accident. At least that’s what I read.”

  “It was indeed an accident. Couldn’t have been avoided.” He found the tea tin and shook it to see if there was anything inside. “The whole thing was running like clockwork. Until it went wrong, anyway.”

  “People will understand,” I said reassuringly.

  He made a sarcastic sound with his lips. The water had boiled now. He turned off the gas and poured some of the water in the teapot. Then he cradled the pot in his hands, tipped out the water, and spooned in some tea leaves. “People won’t understand. Doesn’t matter why things go wrong. Only that they do.” He poured hot water onto the black crumbs of the tea leaves and breathed in the steam, closing his eyes. Then he threw a dish towel over the pot to keep it warm while it brewed.

  “Patagonia must have been beautiful,” I said, hoping to steer the topic towards something more pleasant.

  “Oh, it was.” He turned again to face me, arms folded across his chest. “Speaking of beautiful places, I heard someone was making travel plans for you recently.”

  I shook my head, not understanding.

  “Oh, come along!” He snapped his fingers in the way that our old teachers used to do when we could not answer questions fast enough. “Carton. The Alps. The coffin!”

  “But how did you know?” I stammered. “I only just found out myself.”

  He was smiling now, pleased to have the edge on me. He came out of the kitchen, sat himself down at the other end of the table, and pattered his fingertips on the wood, as if giving a drum roll before making his next pronouncement. “It just so happens that Dr. Webb is my doctor as well as Carton’s. He was giving me a checkup yesterday, to make sure I was still in one piece after coming back from South America, and he mentioned this business with the coffin.”

  “It’s an extraordinary request,” I said.

  He nodded. “It certainly is. And damned awkward for you as well, I imagine.”

  “How so?” I asked.

  He shrugged. “Well, evidently Carton had never heard of your Society of Former Mountaineers.” He said these last words with a mocking plum-in-the-mouth pomposity. “So look,” he continued, “the reason I’m here is because I think we can both do each other a favor.”

  “We can?”

  “Yes, I’ll explain”—he jerked his chin towards the kitchen—“while you pour the tea.”

  Too unnerved to protest, I obediently got up and poured the tea.

  “I need to get things back on track after this business in Patagonia,” he began, “and since you’re not going to do it, I thought it would be a perfect thing for me. The publicity would be great. The sponsors will soon be lining up again. I have to keep my eye on that sort of thing, you see. Mountaineering is an industry, just like selling cars.”

  “Sugs,” I said. “I’m sorry to tell you this, but I’m actually thinking of doing it.” I set the chipped red mug of tea in front of him.

  He was staring at me. “What?” he asked.

  I told him again.

  “No,” he shook his head. “No, that won’t do at all.”

  I sat down at the other end of the table, ready to explain why I needed to do this. But I didn’t get the chance.

  Sugden’s face grew suddenly dark, as if a shadow had passed through his blood. “Henry Carton was a great man,” he said.

  “I know,” I replied, “but what’s that got to do with it?”

  “There are two blemishes on the name of Henry Carton,” he said, “and two only. The first”—he bent back one finger until it looked as if it was going to break—“is his wretched nephew, whom I once made the mistake of calling my friend.”


  My jaw clenched. “You don’t have to talk about Stanley like that.”

  “The second,” he continued, “is that God-awful mess you got us into in the war.”

  “For the love of God, Sugden!” I said, rising slowly to my feet. “Do you still blame me for the fact that we didn’t turn back after Armstrong and Whistler got killed? Have you actually thought about what would have happened to us if we had tried to make our way out through the Palladino Valley? The nearest Allied troops were hundreds of miles to the south, with the entire Fifteenth German Army Corps between us and them. It’s almost as if you think I killed those men myself. Well, Carton didn’t think so, and why should you?” By now I was almost shouting.

  Sugden’s eyes were filled with hate. “I don’t think you killed them. What you did was to bring us all together in the first place. So that we went there. So that those men died.”

  “But I had no way of knowing what would happen—”

  He raised his doubled fist and smashed it down on the table. Tea jumped from his mug and splashed onto the bare wood. “It doesn’t matter if you knew!” he howled. Then immediately his voice sank back almost to a whisper. “It’s the same thing as with the sponsors for my expeditions. What matters is what happened. Not how or why or what excuses you are able to make up. We can sit here talking about it until hell freezes over, but the fact remains that if it wasn’t for you, those men might still be alive. You were put in charge, whether you wanted to be or not. It all comes down to you. That’s all there is to it.”

  I felt as if I were choking. “The board of inquiry …” I started to say.

  Sugden breathed out noisily. “The board of inquiry was headed by Carton, and he put his own reputation on the line to make sure you were cleared. And why? Because he let himself be swayed by that coward you call a friend.” He could not even say Stanley’s name.

  I managed to gasp in a breath. “You don’t know any of that for a fact.”

  “You’re right.” He smiled coldly. “I don’t. The only fact I know for sure is that you have no right to be alive when our old comrades are dead.” He looked at me for a long time before he spoke again. “But I guess that’s just something you’ve learned to live with, isn’t it?”

  My hands were shaking.

  He fetched his coat and stood in the doorway. “You listen to me, Bromley. This is what you’re going to do. You’re going to tell Dr. Webb you’ve decided not to go. He’ll know to pass the offer on to me. I’ve already explained it to him. I’ll get the word out to the press. I’ll even put in a good word about you and your friend. That way, you won’t have to walk away from this with your tail between your legs. Then I’ll get some good people together and make sure the job is done properly. This isn’t some offer I’m making, Bromley. This is how it’s going to be.” He shook the anger from his face, like a dog shaking water from its back. “Thank you for the tea, Auntie.” After flashing his Trust-in-the-Machine smile, he walked down the stairs and out of the flat, leaving the door open.

  I heard the striking of a match and then the click of his iron-heeled shoes as he walked away. A moment later, a faint wisp of tobacco smoke reached the place where I was sitting.

  Sugden’s voice still echoed in my head. It was as if a dozen people were speaking at the same time. They were all saying the same thing: that I had no right to be alive when my old friends were dead. The voices grew louder, each one shouting to be heard above the others and all of them saying the same thing.

  Suddenly I understood, with total clarity, that there was only one way to make them stop and if I did not stop them they would howl at me for the rest of my life.

  I walked through the kitchen and into my bedroom. There, I hauled out a small metal trunk from under the bed. I opened it, and dug around under the pile of my old service clothing, Sam Browne belt, jerkin, balaclava, and God knows what other rubbish until my hand closed around the smooth leather slab of a holster. I opened it, drew out the Webley, surprised at the weight because I had forgotten how heavy it was. I got back on my feet and started walking towards the kitchen. As I walked, I pressed the release button and brought the barrel down to check that the cylinder was fully loaded, which it was.

  I had no time to think this over. If I started thinking, I would only come unraveled and not be able to go through with it. I would sit down at the table and I would finish the business. The way to do it, I thought, is with the barrel in my mouth, gun upside down with the butt pointing towards the ceiling. That way, I did not have to pull the trigger with my thumb and risk messing things up.

  Entering the living room, I almost walked right past Stanley, who was standing in the doorway.

  “The door was open downstairs,” he said. “Where are you going with that gun?”

  I stopped and stared at him. I was shaking all over and sweat was running down my face.

  “Are you going to shoot those pigeons finally?” he asked. “You know, I didn’t want to say anything about it before, because I thought you were only kidding, but I think it’s illegal to shoot them.”

  I had no idea what he was talking about, or what he was doing here. “Pigeons?” I asked. My throat had become so dry that I could barely speak. Each breath felt like hot ashes drawn into my windpipe.

  Stanley tugged at his ear. “Well, I heard it was illegal, anyway. Not that it should stop you necessarily, but someone’s bound to hear the noise.”

  I looked at the gun in my hand. Then, hurriedly, I set it down on the table.

  “You heard about my uncle’s last request?” he asked.

  I nodded.

  “It’s excellent!” He picked up Sugden’s tea and took a sip.

  “It is?” I mumbled.

  “Of course! Didn’t you hear? If the trip falls through, he’s going to be cremated and I still get my inheritance because I agreed to go. All I had to do was agree. And since you’re not going, I don’t have to go either.” He looked at me and frowned. “Are you all right? You’re sweating.”

  I wiped a hand across my face. “Sugden was here,” I said.

  Stanley’s eyebrows rose. “What?”

  I sat down and told him what Sugden had said about taking over the expedition.

  “Bastard!” shouted Stanley. “He ought to just leave you alone!”

  The gun was still lying on the table.

  Stanley was staring at it. “Wait a minute,” he said slowly.

  I looked at him.

  His eyes were narrowed into slits. He gestured towards the revolver. “You weren’t thinking of …” He couldn’t finish his sentence.

  “Of course not,” I said.

  But he saw right through me. “My God, you were!” He lunged forward, took up the gun, and waved it at me. “Don’t you bloody dare do something stupid like that!”

  “Careful,” I said. “It’s loaded.”

  “I know it’s loaded!” he shouted, still brandishing the gun. “That’s the problem!” Then he began trying to wrench the gun apart so he could remove the bullets.

  “No,” I said, as he twisted the gun first one way and then another. “It doesn’t go like that. Give it to me and I’ll show you.”

  “I’m not giving this to you,” he grunted.

  “Look, you’re going to hurt someone.”

  He glared at me. “And you aren’t? To hell with you!”

  I held out my hand. “Just give me the gun, Stan.”

  He was breathing hard, his eyes wild. Suddenly he set the barrel of the gun against his temple.

  I stood up, chair skidding back across the floor. “Put … that … down … right … now!” I shouted, punching each word from my lungs.

  “See how it feels?” he asked, still not lowering the gun. “How dare you even think of checking out and leaving me to clean up the mess. You bloody coward! First my uncle and now you! You’re both bloody cowards.”

  I breathed in slowly. “I think all three of us are cowards, Stan, in one way or another. Now you’ve made your point
so put the bloody gun down before …” I fumbled for the words.

  “Yes?” asked Stanley. He was smiling, and it would have been a less demented-looking smile if he hadn’t kept the gun against his head.

  “ … before I tell Miss Paradise about our nonexistent Himalayan expedition!”

  He blinked. “You wouldn’t.”

  “Try me,” I said.

  Looking a little dazed, he at last set the gun down on the table.

  I retrieved my chair and sat down. Then I reached across, took hold of the gun, opened the barrel forward, and tipped the bullets out on the table. I scooped the bullets into my hand and put them in my pocket. When that was done, I set the gun in front of me.

  “What the hell happened to you up in those mountains,” asked Stanley, “that simply being reminded of it should … ?”

  “You know what happened,” I said. “The mission was a failure. Some of our friends died.”

  “But what happened? You’ve never told me.”

  I wanted to tell him, but I couldn’t. There had been a moment, years before at one of our binges in the Montague, when he’d asked me if I wanted to talk to him about the deaths of Forbes and Armstrong and Whistler, and the failure of the mission in general. But I had guessed from the halting way in which he’d asked the question that he was asking only because he felt he ought to.

  I never did discuss it with him. Since he hadn’t been there himself, I simply didn’t think he’d understand. Until this moment, the subject had never resurfaced. But now I realized that even if I wanted to talk about it, I could not find the words.

  Instead, I just sat there.

  “It must have been terrible,” he said quietly.

  At the sound of his voice, tears spilled down my face.

  “I didn’t mean to call you a coward.”

  “It’s all right.” I knuckled the tears from my eyes. “I called you one as well.”