 
INEKE'S MITTEN

Tragedy and Triumph in World War II

### BY CHARLES MCNAMARA

Copyright 2017 by Charles McNamara

SHOW&TELL, Publishers

Littleton, Colorado

Thank you for downloading _Ineke's Mitten_. For background on the development of this story visit the Ineke's Mitten Daybook on the publisher's website.

TABLE OF CONTENTS

BY CHARLES MCNAMARA

INVASION

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ESCAPE TO VERMONT

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THE GREEN MOUNTAINS

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NEW HOPE

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ESCAPE TO COLORADO

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CAMP HALE

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TABOR OPERA HOUSE

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MOUNT OF THE HOLY CROSS

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REVENGE

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RIVA RIDGE AND BEYOND

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OTHER BOOKS BY THE AUTHOR

# INVASION

March 1940 -- The winter dawn rose over the large meadow at Sørkedalen like an overture Nels Torkle's soul could hear, but his ears could not. A new day had come to preside over the race that would determine the next Nordic champion.

Hundreds of Norwegian and Swedish national flags waved in the cold air, waiting for the ski racers and the crowds.

Nels knelt down and scooped up a glove full of snow. Through a small magnifying glass he peered at the shape of the crystals thinking about his wax selection, imagining the start of the race and breathing deeply to suppress his anxiety.

Twenty pairs of parallel ski tracks were packed into the snow running the length of the meadow then disappearing into the trees.

At the edge of the meadow, a herd of reindeer shuffled back into the forest.

Nels looked at his father, Arne, who helped him wax his skis as he had done before every race since Nels was twelve years old. Nothing was said between them.

He and his family had traveled overnight on the Ofoten Railroad Line from Narvik, one hundred miles above the Arctic Circle, south to Oslo, for the start of the fifty-kilometer Holmenkollen Ski Festival, the world's greatest ski race.

Then Arne interrupted the silence.

"You've skied the length of Norway many times over in your training. You never gave in. I'm proud of you."

"I had you with me all the way."

Arne smiled and put his arm around his son's broad shoulders.

As Nels smoothed the wax on his skis with his bare hand, Arne watched where the competition was lining up for the race.

"I see him. Jernberg, the Swede. Over there. When you're ready, we will get you in the tracks closer to him."

Nels had lost many times to Jernberg. But today he would not lose. He looked in the direction his father was pointing to see the number on his racing bib.

Number 53.

Nels rubbed the wax harder and faster, determined to be ready.

Within two hours, more than six thousand racers lined up in the meadow and triple that number of spectators. As the start time neared, the Norwegians began singing their national song declaring their love of their homeland and the national sport of Scandinavia.

_Ja, vi elsker dette landet,_

(Yes, we love this country)  
_som det stiger frem,_

(as it rises forth)  
_furet, værbitt over vannet,_

(rugged, weathered, over the water,)

The Swedes responded with their national anthem pointing at the Norwegians around them trying to drown out their singing.

_Du gamla, Du fria, Du fjällhöga nord_

(Thou ancient, Thou free, Thou mountainous north)

_Du tysta, Du glädjerika sköna!_

(Thou quiet, Thou joyful [and] fair!)

"Don't lose contact with the Swede," Arne shouted above the singing. "I think he's the one to beat. If he gets too far ahead of you, you'll never catch him."

"He won't."

Nels hugged his father.

"Your mother and the Holters and I will be inside Holmenkollen Arena for the finish. See you in three hours."

Nels felt his courage leave him as he watched his father walk away.

He slid closer to the starting line, gritting his teeth to banish his anxiety.

The shot from the starting gun released a rush of adrenaline transforming him into a Viking warrior -- unstoppable, fearless. No pain could hold him back now.

### ~

As the pack spread out, Nels struggled to match Jernberg's pace. At every uphill slope, the Swede broke into a run. Nels responded each time, running when his adversary ran and tucking when he tucked. They moved stride for stride in the same tracks mile after mile.

Halfway through the race, Nels glided along with the leading pack of one hundred of the world's best skiers. The remaining racers were strung out behind them, like long ribbons through the forest and open meadows.

His heartbeat pounded in his neck. He ignored the pain in his shoulders, shutting out the scenery and the raucous flag-waving spectators that streaked past him in a never-ending blur. Snow began to fall, cooling his face and giving him a boost of energy. He felt unstoppable.

Three hours later, the tracks left the trees and turned beneath the towering Holmenkollen ski jump into the stadium. Nels was now one of eight racers striding side by side in four tracks. None of them gave in to the others. His legs and lungs burned.

Jernberg broke from the pack, double poling as fast as he could in his sprint to the finish. He ran up a steep incline pulling farther ahead. Nels knew this was the time to find a new source of strength. _Ineke_ he gasped. Arms pounding, legs flying, his chest heaving and his eyes full of sweat, he closed on the Swede. With all his remaining strength, Nels vaulted between his poles, launching himself over the crest then tucking his chest to his knees cutting the wind resistance.

The Swede skated and poled as fast as he could, but it was too late. Nels leapt across the red finish line and dropped to his knees – the winner at last.

He lay in the snow, his chest heaving. Sweat stung his eyes and the oncoming group of cheering fans was only a smudge of color. He didn't even recognize his fiancé, Ineke Holter, until she dropped next to him in the snow and yelled in his ear, "You're Norway's new champion," cradling his head in her arms. "You did it."

Nels kissed her pink cheek then steadied her against the pressing throng. The crowd was jubilant, thumping his back and hugging him. They sang songs of victory and waved red and blue flags, punctuating the winter chill with whoops and hollers.

### ~

Bright shafts of noonday sun shone through the living room windows at Nels's house illuminating the smorgasbord of cold meats, cheeses, shrimp, smoked and pickled codfish, salads, jams, and various breads spread before him on the long wooden table that extended from the dining room into the living room.

The aromas made his mouth water and beckoned him to lean closer to the open-face sandwiches. Which one? Smoked salmon and egg or, the cheese and cucumber?

Someone's arm slipped under his and he stood upright, embarrassed at sticking his nose so close to the food.

"Let's see. Which one you will choose?" Ineke whispered in his ear. Her soft breath and the aroma of her long, flowing golden hair was tantalizing. A true Norse goddess. He wanted to bury his face in her neck but hesitated, afraid to show his affection in front of all the guests.

"I think I will have the _geitost_ (yay-toast) and cucumber," he said looking into her eyes, partly for approval, partly to express his enjoyment of having her close.

"I knew you would. _Geitost_ is your favorite." She squeezed his arm and, letting go, put a smoked salmon and egg sandwich on her plate and sat at a small table. The guests kept shaking his hand and patting him on his back.

Ineke smiled. "You spent the winter away from me training and racing. Now I must share you with everyone in Narvik. Will we ever have time to ourselves? What will you do now that you are the champion?"

"Take a week off, but then I will have to start running and lifting weights."

"And avoiding me."

He realized he would have to adjust, now that they were engaged to be married. But how?

"I don't like sharing you with everyone else who idolizes you."

"But it's our national sport."

She bit her lip and lowered her head. "Never mind. I must have been naïve to believe you'd ever be as devoted to me as you are to racing."

Nels saw the pain in her face and wished he could retract his comment.

### ~

Ineke took Nels's younger sister Ebbe with her for her weekly visit to the nursing home, part of her college assignments. They sat down next to a frail woman named Karin who stared out a large window etched with patterns of frost.

"Hi, Karin," Ebbe said cuddling up to Karin's arm resting on her chair. Karin put her withered hand on Ebbe's head, stroking it as if she were a kitten.

Ineke looked into Karin's eyes, which were not focused and moved randomly. She smoothed Karin's wispy hair and asked, "What are you watching out your window, Karin?"

"Those ships," Karin replied. "They are up to no good. What are all the Huns doing on the street outside my window? They aren't tourists."

"No, they've come for the Swedish iron ore on our docks."

"They had spies everywhere."

"Spies? When?"

"The Great War, my dear. The Great War."

"The Germans spied on us here in Norway back then?" Ineke asked.

Karin nodded, her gaze fixed across the harbor.

"War with Fritz soon," Karin said. "Mark my words, my dear."

"The British will keep the Germans in check," Ineke said.

"Jerrys won't stay," Karin said.

"Where will they go?"

"They don't want this war."

"I hope neither side wants a fight."

Ebbe looked at Ineke, puzzled by Karin's comments.

"It's okay," Ineke said. "Karin struggles sometimes."

Karin turned toward Ineke asking for something without speaking.

"Everything will be fine," Ineke said.

"Not with the Boche here."

"Is it time for your tea?"

Karin smiled. "Yes, please. Oh, I'd like that."

"Look what Nels gave me for my birthday," Ineke said showing Karin her new red mittens.

"How old are you, my dear?"

"Twenty-one."

"Twenty-one," Karin said, adjusting her gaze to somewhere long ago.

By mid-afternoon, Karin was ready for bed. Ineke pushed her wheelchair down the hall to her room. Karin held her fingers out and dragged them along the wall feeling the bumps and dips. Ineke helped her stand next to her bed and lowered her. Leaning back into her pillows, she drifted off to sleep, slowly, then all at once. Ineke smiled and let go of her hand.

As she left, she looked out Karin's window at the ships in the harbor realizing for the first time that an invasion might be imminent. Her breathing became shallow as she tried to release the tension.

### ~

Several days later, Nels skied along the Ofotfjord, watching British and German warships anchored at opposite ends of the harbor.

Above him, ribbons of green light from the Aurora Borealis snaked across the sky. The blue-green polar twilight was all the illumination the heavens provided during the long arctic winters.

German launches, with bright blinking lights, shuttled crew and soldiers to the docks, sending chills down Nels's spine. He feared they wanted more than the Swedish iron ore on the docks.

No sign of spring was visible. No flowers poked through the late winter snow. None of the trees had buds. A gloomy overcast of ice crystals, smoke, and gloom shrouded the harbor. _Morketiden_ , The Dark Time.

He skied back through town to his house where his mother, Julia, and Ineke's mother, Sigrid, stood in the street, putting on their skis. The distant wail of the ore train whistle let Nels know his father had returned from the Kiruna iron mines just across the border in Sweden.

" _God morgen_ ," Nels said. "So many battleships in the harbor. Makes me crazy," he said catching his breath. "What if they attack each other? Or us?"

Julia gripped the opening of her coat. "The Germans control the iron ore already."

"They brought an armada and soldiers just to load more ore?" Nels was surprised that his mother didn't see the danger. "Where are the freighters?"

"Don't worry, son," Julia said. "The British are just trying to make a deal for their share. They know we are a neutral country and won't fight them for the ore."

Nels's insides quivered and he shifted from side to side unable to get comfortable. "What if the British are here to stop the Germans and take the ore for the Allies? What if the Germans are infiltrating with no intention of ever leaving?"

"We'll have to wait and see," she called over her shoulder and pushed off down the frozen street toward the elementary school where she and Sigrid taught.

### ~

For most of the night, Nels rolled back and forth in bed, twisting and pulling on the covers, anticipating the alarm clock signaling the start of his daily workout. A booming explosion startled him. He jumped out of bed and looked out his window toward the harbor. The warships were firing at each other.

Moments later, a shell landed near them rattling the house and the lampshade on his dresser. He held his hands over his ears and ran into his parents' bedroom where his mother sat in bed, clutching his father's arm.

"Arne," she said, "What's going on?"

Worry lines creased his father's face.

"Came from the harbor. It's not dynamite."

More thundering explosions drew all three to the window.

"Oh my God," his mother whispered as red tracers sailed across the sky.

The muscles in Nels's legs tightened, ready to run for cover.

His ten-year-old sister Ebbe ran into the room. "Don't let them kill us, Mother." Julia pulled her close.

They watched salvos from both sides streak through the dark sky. A shell screamed overhead exploding just beyond the nearby railroad tracks, rattling the windows. Books crashed to the floor.

"I'm going to check on Ineke," Nels said.

"Wait," Arne said as he pulled on this pants. "I'll get her father and go to the train. Be packed and ready to leave. We may need to evacuate."

Nels held his breath, worried his father would not come back, just as he had as a child watching him leave on the ore train into the snow-covered mountains. He remembered that Arne always returned bringing small gifts and captivating stories of mountain scenery. Nels's thoughts returned to the present as his mother pleaded, "Arne, be careful." She began to sob.

Nels followed his father to the front door but his father stopped him. "Take care of the women."

Another shell landed, slamming into the roof of the house across the street collapsing the front façade. A fist of orange flame reached toward the two men and a deadly rain of glass and brick splattered in front of them.

Nels held his forearm over his face to divert the heat as his father, and Ineke's father, disappeared into the orange glow.

"Father," he screamed.

"Stay where you are," Arne called from the smoke. "I'm okay."

What about Ineke? He ran next door to the Holter's.

"Ineke," he screamed. She and her mother stood trembling, holding each other in the flickering shadows. He hugged them both.

"The men are okay," Nels said. "The last explosion missed them. We may need to evacuate the town," he said. "Pack food and clothing and wait 'til I come get you."

### ~

Nels stared at the kaleidoscope of lights swirling on the ceiling, unable to sleep as the battle raged throughout the night.

The next morning the gunfire was silent. Nels walked through the house peering through each window, waiting for the next explosion. Could the battle be over?

He got dressed and left the house to find out. Silent and unseen, Nels skied along the line of smoldering German ships moored in single file along the docks. Smoke, mixed with the smell of oil and gunpowder, lingered in the freezing air. Burning debris, floating bodies, and half-sunken ships littered the harbor.

From the shadows, he watched an endless ant trail of gray-clad, yakking, clanking German infantry troops flow down the gangplanks, along the docks, past the large piles of iron ore, over the railroad tracks, and into the narrow streets of Narvik.

Nels gripped his ski poles and jabbed them into the snow. If he could somehow frighten the invaders away, he would. He shifted back and forth on his skis, unable to relax.

He skied along the frozen streets of town to the railroad office where his father and Torvald Holter watched iron ore being unloaded.

"We were worried about you," Nels said. "I skied past the harbor a few minutes ago. The Germans are unloading hundreds of soldiers."

"They are also getting off the ore train. They're everywhere." Shouts in German drew Nels's attention to the station window. Germans standing on the freight cars were supervising the unloading of the ore.

Shocked, he turned to his father, "How did those Germans get on the train for God's sake?"

"At the mine in Kiruna yesterday," Arne said lifting an eyebrow.

"This is treachery," Nels said. "The Swedes have sold out to the Nazis. Before long, we will be the only neutral country left."

" _Uff da_ ," Arne said shrugging his shoulders. "Not much we can do about it. Hitler isn't about to let a little thing like neutrality stop him from getting what he wants."

"Father, we must find a way to resist them. We shouldn't just welcome them."

"What would you suggest?" Arne said, pinching his lips together.

Nels fumbled for an answer.

"We could start by not speaking to them, or...Give me time. I will think of something."

### ~

A week later, Nels and Ineke joined their parents in the hallway outside the auditorium of the elementary school. The Germans had ordered the residents to assemble.

"Look at this nonsense," Nels said, looking at the swastika flags and posters in the hallways.

"Every bulletin board has propaganda posted portraying Germans as the master race and Jews as racially inferior," his mother said. "There is nothing we as teachers can do about it. German guards walk the halls all day."

"We should warn our Jewish friends," Ineke said.

"They know already," her mother said. "Some of them have asked the fishing boat captains to take them to the Shetland Islands."

"Didn't know that," Nels said, making a mental note for an article he could include in the underground newspaper he and Ineke were secretly planning to publish.

Nels took Ineke's hand and followed their parents into the auditorium. Most of the town sat quietly looking at a German general standing in the middle of the stage. His arms were behind his back and his eyes looked straight ahead. Four armed soldiers dressed in battle fatigues and holding machine guns flanked him. A small, embroidered Edelweiss flower adorned the side of their wool field caps.

"I am delighted to inform you that Norway is peacefully occupied in the name of _Der Führer_ ," the general began. His booming voice carried throughout the somber room. Nels glanced at his father and shook his head in disbelief.

"I want to assure you that we wish to avoid any bloodshed. We will be taking over the management of the railway and essential communications to keep them operating efficiently. You need to immediately exchange your Kroner for our Reichmarks. This will be your currency from now on."

I knew it. This is bad. We will need the newspaper to keep everyone informed.

The general continued. "We are here to protect our Aryan-Nordic racial brethren and to bring the European New Order to Norway. We will instruct your teachers about the New Order so they can indoctrinate the children."

You mean protect the ice-free harbor and steal the Swedish iron from the Allies.

" _Sieg Heil_ ," he said, holding his arm extended in a Nazi salute.

"Horse shit," someone yelled from the back of the auditorium.

Unperturbed, the general clicked the large heels of his gleaming hobnailed jackboots and strolled off the stage.

The crowd was speechless.

The protestor's outburst encouraged Nels. They will support us, if we publish the paper.

Sigrid handed a box of paperclips to Nels. "Put one on your collar and pass it on," she said. "The teachers have decided the paperclip will symbolize our resistance to the German presence and their propaganda. We're calling it The Ice Front -- our silent protest."

Nels put a clip on his breast pocket patting it with his hand. A silent protest. I like the idea. But we need something stronger. This is too passive.

### ~

The more Nels thought about the general's speech during their walk home, the redder his face became.

"A peaceful occupation. That's absurd. The European New Order -- how can the German people fall for such nonsense?"

His father nodded. "Hitler buys their loyalty with minimal taxes, high wages, and good benefits. He can only afford that by plundering the countries he has invaded. Now he has control of the Swedish iron ore."

"The soldiers on the stage had a flower embroidered on their hats," Nels said. "What does that represent?"

"They are _Gebirgsjäger_ ," Arne said, "the German mountain infantry. The Edelweiss represents their love of the mountains and their dedication to Germany."

They approached a group of soldiers smoking cigarettes in the middle of the sidewalk. The Germans made no attempt to move. Nels and his family walked into the street to get around them.

One of the soldiers whistled and made kissing sounds at a lone Norwegian teenage girl across the street. She looked down at her winter boots, hastened her stride, and turned into a tobacco shop to escape the insults.

Ineke turned and faced the soldiers then stepped toward them. Nels hooked her arm and pulled her back. Ineke looked at him with a crimson face as heat flushed through her body. "Easy girl," he said. "We'll get even."

### ~

At the Narvik Lutheran Church, Nels and Ineke sat with the pastor in his office, discussing the details of their upcoming wedding. As they finished, Nels changed the subject. "Ineke and I need your help, Pastor."

"Certainly."

"Our king has been exiled in London. Food is getting scarce. The Nazis confiscated our radios. No one knows what's going on. We are almost ready to publish an underground newspaper that would keep everyone informed and hopeful."

"That's risky, son. How will you get information?" the pastor asked.

"We have been setting up a network of informants. My father hid our radio so he could listen to Allied broadcasts at night. I can relay any news through the paper."

The pastor nodded, "Clever."

"I ski around town past their lodging and headquarters. They are used to seeing me. Ineke watches them at the University. Our mothers tell us what is going on at the elementary school."

"You've given this a great deal of thought."

"Thank you. I can produce the paper using the presses at work. But distribution remains a problem. Would you allow us to approach our friends in the congregation to help us?"

"If the Germans find out," the pastor said, "They would close the church which is worse than not having any news. Fellowship among believers is as crucial to our survival as the newspaper."

"We can't remain passive," Ineke said.

"Caring for each other is not being passive," the pastor said. "Are you sure you want to take this risk together?"

Ineke looked at Nels. "We do."

"Be careful who you ask," the pastor said. "I don't know who would betray you."

The pastor looked at Nels for a long moment and then walked behind his desk.

"I will, however, offer a small contribution to your effort. I'll withhold a portion of what goes into the collection plate for your newspaper. No one will know who contributed."

Nels thrust his hand out to shake the pastor's hand.

### ~

Nels stamped the snow off his feet at the front door of the printing shop where he worked. The colorful signs above the adjacent shops glittered with a dusting of fresh snow. Commerce functioned normally, despite the presence of armed soldiers, who wandered like aimless tourists back and forth in front of the shops.

Toward the end of the day, he finished proofreading a Nazi document he was about to print. His paperclip dropped from his shirt collar onto the document. He paused to slide it back into place and eyed the shop's German supervisor. He reminded Nels of a bookworm with tiny glasses magnifying his suspicious eyes. Everyone called him Shorty behind his back. He wore a dark suit with a large Swastika on the lapel and did nothing but stand at the front counter, smugly watching customer transactions.

"I'll see you at church," Michael Petterson whispered to Nels on his way out of the shop.

Shorty stepped up behind Nels startling him. He grabbed the proof sheet and inspected it.

"Acceptable," Shorty said. "Time to close the shop. Lock up when you leave." He yanked the paperclip from Nels's collar and held it between Nels's eyes. "Your resistance to us is a joke. This only proves how weak and silly you are."

He tossed the clip onto the table, spun around, and strode out of the shop.

"Hun bastard," Nels muttered under his breath. He slid the clip back onto his collar. Weak and silly? Wait until I expose the treachery your soldiers have been up to.

Muted voices drifted by the shop, and soon, those faded as well. All the lights in the shop were off except one near him.

Nels turned toward a three-foot-high stack of printed book pages on a pallet next to his press. He checked the windows for leering eyes, then removed the top quarter of the stack and set it aside, revealing a newspaper printed on the same paper. The masthead read NORGEPOSTEN.

Propping the papers upright, he put them in a cloth sack to which he had sewn canvas straps. He leaned his six-foot tall body back against them, sliding his arms through the straps. Adjusting the bundle on his back, he put on his long overcoat to cover the papers.

As he locked the door to the shop, he glanced in all directions looking for soldiers. Walking casually at first until he heard voices and stepped into a deep doorway. A dog barked in the shadows behind the shops. No one appeared.

Back on the street, Nels looked up and saw two reindeer grazing on stubs of wind-blown grass in the nearby park.

### ~

Safe at his house, Nels sagged back against the front door and whispered, "Thank you, Lord."

His mother looked up from setting the dinner table. Her brownish-blonde hair was tied in braids on top of her head. Red yarn was woven through the braids. "We're almost ready," she said. "Ooh, another paper? Tell me what it says."

"Well," Nels said, "Thor Odd wrote an amusing article on how we should make friends with the Germans. We should win their confidence so they don't watch our every move. Sabotage is predicated on trust, he says. He also points out they are short on coffee and tobacco and love codfish. They can be charmed with these kinds of gifts, which might give us a few bargaining chips."

"See there, Julia," Arne said. "We should have kept our fishing boat. Our cod would be as valuable as gold."

Julia rolled her eyes and smiled. "Right. A railroad accountant hauling nets and cleaning fish. You're such a dreamer. The Holters will join us tonight."

Sigrid, Torvald, and Ineke entered as if coming to dinner happened every night. Each carried a steaming cast iron pot.

"You're dressed for skiing, I see," Julia said to Ineke.

Ineke wore wool knickers, knee socks and a sweater with the traditional _Setesdal_ gray and black pattern. Brass clasps joined the red and green border down the front.

"Have you heard any more about the two soldiers who were run over in the plaza yesterday?" Julia asked as she and Sigrid set silverware on the table.

"Does anyone know who did it?" Sigrid asked.

"No, not yet," Arne said. "I hope there is no retaliation. Come on everyone, let's eat. Nels and Ineke have work tonight."

As the group gathered, Ineke and Nels took their seats and held hands under the table waiting for Arne to ask the blessing.

"Holy Father, we thank you for the new snow, for this food and our families. We ask your blessing on the preparations for Nels's and Ineke's wedding. We especially ask your protection from these miserable invaders, that no evil would come to any of the children, or us. Calm our fears and help us to resist as you see fit. We give thanks for the hands that prepared this meal. Lord in Heaven..."

"Hear our prayer," the friends responded in unison.

After the meal, Nels and Ineke folded the newspapers on the dining table as the husbands washed the dinner dishes at the sink.

"Is this true, Nels?" Julia asked. "A German tanker was stopped last week trying to take Norwegian prisoners to Oslo?"

"Ineke wrote the story," he said.

"The worst part," Ineke said, "is that a Norwegian fishing trawler was leading the German vessel through the coastal passage. _Milorg_ , our underground resistance, is looking for the captain of that boat."

Torvald turned toward Nels and Ineke. "Why do you two risk everything to produce this newspaper? Everyone values your efforts, but the Germans will put you in prison -- or worse -- if they catch you."

"How else can we dedicate ourselves to our country and our way of life?" Ineke said.

"The readers should know we're united in our resistance and feel proud," Nels said. "Isn't that why we love Nordic racing, for the pride and self-respect it brings?"

"Don't neglect your training, young man," Torvald said. "Ski racing agrees with you. Keep up the hard work and don't let all this fame go to your head."

Nels's shoulders went limp. Fame? What about my marriage to your daughter? What about resisting the invaders? Only skiing matters to you.

### ~

Outside, Nels and Ineke put their skis on their shoulders and hurried along an icy side street. The dim streetlights and an eerie ice-green glow of the Aurora Borealis lit their way to the church. As Nels looked around, he noticed, hanging in the sky above them, a mysterious lime-green swirl of light. One moment he felt the light was a singular path pointing the way to Heaven. The next moment, it appeared to be an army of many colored lights marching, marching toward freedom.

"Quickly now," Nels said and hurried up the long stone stairway leading to the arched entrance of the Narvik Lutheran Church.

Inside, near the colorful hand-painted altar, a small group of men and women talked quietly among themselves. Michael Petterson, Nels's coworker, was part of the group.

Nels and Ineke handed a bundle to each person.

The pastor scanned the headlines. "Four workers shot in labor slowdown in Bodo? The resistance is growing braver. Nels, thank you for keeping the paper alive. Did your staff get the kroner we collected last week? There will be more soon."

"Ya, thank you."

"This is our lifeline. You are a loyal _Nordman_. You are being careful at work, yes?"

"Yes, sir," Nels answered. "The supervisor, Herr Strudlemeister, suspects nothing. I appreciate the financial support, but I am not the lifeline. You are the lifeline. You are the ones risking your lives to get the papers to the villagers."

### ~

Outside, Ineke pulled her blue wool ski cap over her long blonde hair as Nels knelt and clamped on their bindings. She ran her fingers through his soft brown hair.

"Thank you," she said, pulling on the new mittens Nels gave her for her birthday. She turned the mittens over to see the delicate floral pattern woven on the back. "I love these," she said. "The pattern reminds me of the bed of wildflowers where you first touched me."

Four German soldiers emerged from a side street two blocks away, laughing and talking in muffled tones. Ineke grabbed Nels's arm and pulled him back into the shadows. They watched the soldiers stamp their feet and swing their arms trying to warm themselves. They soon disappeared behind a group of shops.

Ineke led the way into the blue polar twilight of the East Meadow. They glided in and out of aspen groves and over rolling open meadows, casting long shadows across sparkling, untouched snow.

As they stopped to rest, Nels kissed her cheek. "Ooh, you taste delightfully salty tonight."

"Yes and we'll both be good and salty by the time we reach the cabin at the pace we're going," she said, smacking his butt with her ski pole.

"Then we won't have to wait for the old smoky stove to heat our bed," Nels replied, tapping her butt with his pole.

"We never do."

Nels held Ineke's mitten-covered hand to his cheek. "You're more beautiful than I've ever seen you. My heart is pounding," he whispered. "Is that because I'm touching you?"

"I hope so."

"When we're married, will we still come here to the cabin?"

"It's where we first made love," Ineke replied.

"You made me tremble that night. I've trembled since we first held hands. I even tremble when we're apart."

"Well, then you can never leave me," Ineke said.

Ineke took a deep breath and looked at the stars. Nels was mesmerized by the gentle patterns of moonlight illuminating her golden hair.

Behind them, the sliding metallic _schlick-schlink_ of a rifle bolt closing pierced the silence. Ineke grabbed Nels to steady herself. They stood motionless, holding their breath. Then she gasped, "Oh my God, the Germans followed us."

Nels pushed her forward. "Hurry." His pulse raced and terror pounded in his throat. A rifle shot thundered behind them and threw up a puff of snow in front of them. Ducking, Nels's panic overcame him, making his brain freeze.

Silence surrounded them, as if everything around them was collectively holding its breath.

An instant before Nels heard the next shot, Ineke groaned and collapsed into the snow.

Nels looked back at the three charging white-clad soldiers and tried to help her back on her skis, but she hung from his grasp like a limp rag doll swinging by one arm. As she slid back into the snow, one of her mittens came off in his hand.

He gasped at the wet red stain in the middle of her back. His head began to spin and his limbs felt too weak to move.

Holding her bare hand to his chest, he squeezed it trying to revive her. Ineke's radiant touch had gone cold. "Don't leave me," he howled like a blizzard blowing through his soul.

In that eternal second, he felt her presence, remembering their last kiss. His mind struggled to stay in that moment, to keep her close. Another rifle shot jerked him back to reality. Nels stuffed her mitten inside his jacket and jumped back on his skis. Anger flared his nostrils. Another bullet landed next to him. Panic pushed him to leave her side. His brain screamed for him to go back, but his skis kept pushing him forward. Distance from the bloodthirsty Germans was all that mattered.

He raced across the open meadow and began to climb one of the surrounding slopes. Every time he looked over his shoulder, he realized he was not pulling away. His confidence began to falter. These bastards are strong and relentless.

Another rifle shot ripped the night air. It sounded closer this time. Nels renewed his resolve and skied faster. To discourage them he turned eastward up the steep slopes of _Fagernesfjellet_ Mountain overlooking the fjord below.

As he climbed, his skis began to feel sluggish. He knew small crystals of ice were forming on the bottoms caused by the colder snow. He knew clumps would soon form unless he could scrap off the ice or descend to a lower altitude.

The shouting of the soldiers behind him pushed adrenaline through his veins and made sweat run down his forehead. He took off his hat and stuffed it inside his jacket next to Ineke's mitten. Higher and higher he climbed weaving between rock ledges.

Gasping to catch his breath, he followed another contour, shortened his stride, and let his arms hang by his side so his muscles could relax. He turned again searching for his pursuers. They had fallen behind and were struggling to stay with him.

He came to a steep opening in the rocks that headed straight for the lights at the edge of the harbor far below. He jumped to his left and dropped over the edge into the chute and streaked past the soldiers. The ice and snow flaked off his skis and he skied faster. He made a sweeping telemark turn to the right, away from the soldiers, then dove straight down the slope again. He repeated the turn, rapidly pulling away until he could no longer see them.

Moonlight flickered on the slopes around him. He was alone now under the glow of the arctic twilight. He slowed to a stop, looking in every direction straining to hear any sound. Have they given up?

He sank down in the deep snow against a rock outcropping. He could see faint signal lights marking the Iron Ore Rail Line below him. I am east of Narvik now. The rail line will guide me to the coast.

He watched the lights with a distant, empty stare. The moonlight and Ineke's mitten were his only companions. Looking up, he followed the ribbons of the Northern Lights and wondered if she was leaving a trail to Heaven, a light in the dark night that he could someday follow to find her.

The image of his love lying helpless in the snow overwhelmed him. He was numb from exertion and numb from the pain of losing her.

Sadness flowed through his veins and deadened his mind like poison killing off his other emotions until it was the only one that remained. The love, the light, and the laughter he shared with Ineke were now an aching hollowness.

All I am is sadness. He struggled to stay awake, but sleep overcame him.

_Wake up Nels_. Sunlight glared in his eyes as he turned his head to find her, but she was not there. Shivering, he stood up and swung his arms and stamped his feet trying to get his blood moving. He looked in all directions but could not see the soldiers.

The sun's shimmering rays warmed his face and he pushed on toward the coast where he hoped he could hide from the Nazis.

The blue sky faded into dusk as he continued his lonely journey. Now all color had faded into blackness with no stars and only enough moonlight to find his way. All that seemed to exist was the chilly wind that bit his face. His bones were chilled, yet he pushed onward.

# ESCAPE TO VERMONT

Morning arctic light angled across the rocky shoreline in front of Nels. Constant wind had stripped it bare. Exhausted, he clung to the scraggly trees.

A few yards away, a weathered shack sat at an angle on slanted rocks, in line with a small cluster of sheds in this isolated fishing hamlet.

Still wearing his skis, Nels stumbled out onto the windblown rocks toward the nearest shack. With one last effort, he pushed the door open and collapsed face down on the floor, unconscious.

### ~

A fisherman walked up to the legs and poked one with the toe of his large boot. There was no response. Puzzled he opened the door. He poured a splash of hot coffee from the mug he was holding onto the legs. No reaction.

Without putting his coffee down the man rolled Nels over and with one arm lifted him into a sitting position and slopped coffee onto his lips. The fisherman touched the hot mug to Nels's cheek and got only a slight reaction from the heat.

"I am Ehrling Norheim, and this is my village. Tell me your name," he demanded shaking Nels back to life.

"Na. Els. Na. Nels."

"Nels? Where do you live Nels?"

"Na, narv. Ick. Vik. Narvik."

"Narvik? Nels of Narvik? Nels Torkle? The skier?"

Norheim cradled Nels. Nels lifted his head in response and gasped, "White parkas...Ineke...hide me...my parents...I won," then dropped his head.

Norheim released the ski bindings and dragged Nels into the shed. The wind slammed the door shut, bringing Nels to his senses.

A paper clip glinted on the collar of Norheim's blue long-sleeved shirt.

" _Milorg_. Find _Milorg_ ," Nels whispered.

"The resistance," Norheim said nodding his head. "I understand. You stay here."

Norheim couldn't wait to leave. He needed to find someone from the resistance. He yanked the door open to the bright morning light, and left.

### ~

Nels drifted in and out of consciousness. Slivers of light streamed between the boards. Waves slapped rhythmically on the dock's pilings. The horn of a fishing trawler sounded in the distance.

It seemed like only a moment had passed until the shed door opened blasting midday light into the interior. A man and a woman stepped in and settled next to Nels. It was Norheim and a woman he called Anna.

"You've contacted his family?" Norheim asked.

"Water," Nels gasped. Anna handed him a bottle of cool water. He coughed and drooled trying to take large gulps.

"Yes, they know," she replied as she held the bottle for him. "The Germans killed his fiancée two nights ago. I spoke to his father. He sent money to pay to get his son to Scotland. Ehrling, I'll take it from here. I'm glad you found me."

"What did he do to the Nazis?"

"He published the _Norgeposten_ ," Anna said. "We think local German sympathizers gave him away, the bastards."

"Ya, the _Norgeposten_ , I take copies with me to the exiles at Lunna. Is he going to live?" Norheim asked.

I will live.

"Well, he's in shock, exhausted, dehydrated, broken hearted, sentenced to death, and starving. Would you go on living or give up?" she asked.

"He has to live. He is our lifeline letting us know what the Nazis are doing in our village."

### ~

Nels huddled with other refugees on the cold, grimy floor of a storage room on board a fishing trawler headed out to sea. He still wore the knickers, gloves, and red-and-blue racing hat he'd escaped in.

Wrapped in blankets, he rolled back and forth with the tossing of the ship. The ship's engines pounded and clanked masking his groans of sorrow.

"Ineke," Nels moaned. Your laugh, your smile, all gone from me. Lord, what will become of me?

"Let me die and be with her," he said.

Like Nels, the ship's steel frame moaned, sometimes screeched, twisted by the terrible force of the North Atlantic storm.

Through the eerie yellow-green light that illuminated the room, an old seafarer emerged and knelt next to Nels. His baggy wool sweater was stained and frayed. He wore a wide canvas hat turned up in the front. A soft white beard hung from his ears and dangled below his chin.

Nels searched the man's piercing eyes that had a distant stare as though they watched the horizon on an endless sea. Holding Nels in his arms, he rocked back and forth humming to himself.

"You cannot die here, my young Norseman. Oh no. This voyage is neither the time nor the place. I suspect the Beast himself has surprised you, and all this is the Tempest ragin' for your soul."

Nels blinked to see if the apparition would disappear, but it would not go away.

The man whispered in Nels's ear, "Oblivion. Oh, beautiful Oblivion. It would be so sweet. But you won't find it in this life. You're not dying, my friend, you're cowering in fear. Oh, how we all run and hide when we suffer.

"You think you can hide in Scotland? In England? Ha! The Beast lives there too. No, my fragile wanderer, no. Your suffering will haunt you until you stop desiring it more than life. We writhe in fear of the son of a bitch, but it is so easy to stand up to you, you conniving, evil bastard." He spat in the face of the invisible, but looming evil. "Leave this place," he shouted.

Nels's head swayed with the roll of the ship turning away from the old man, searching to see the evil he confronted. Seeing nothing, his head rolled back to face the man eye to eye. Lord, are you speaking to me?

"Stop cowering, my friend. You can't give your life away in fear; the evil one is offering you death, not love."

The lone man spoke now in a fading voice, "That's it. Be steady. You have a future. This is not the end. Face the pain of grief and look ahead. Ahht! Don't look back."

He cradled Nels. His lips were moving but without utterance. And then he was gone.

Nels hands trembled. He struggled to stay awake. Is Ineke safe with you, Lord? Help me stay alive.

### ~

Sea gulls squawked and swooped above the fishing trawler tied to the dock. The lights on the boat, and the docks, were off, concealing the port from low-flying German aircraft. Nels shuffled single file with other refugees along the deck. He touched the bulwark to his left to steady himself in the dark. He shifted his weight back and forth, testing his balance, aware that the boat was not rising up and slamming down. The eerie howling of the tempest had ceased.

The odor of seaweed mixed with the smell of diesel fuel and creosote from the pilings. Nels felt at home as though he stood on the edge of the Ofotfjord watching freighters loading iron ore.

"May I please have your attention? Everyone listen to me, please," a young sailor spoke to the group huddled on the long wharf. The insignia of the Norwegian Navy was stamped on the black silk tails of the tally ribbon trailing from his round, flat, visor-less hat.

"You have arrived at Lunna, in the Shetland Islands, north of Scotland. You were lucky you got across the North Sea last night in that storm."

Nels looked at rays of morning light that flashed through small openings in the clearing sky trying see the storm, but it had vanished.

"While the Germans occupied Narvik, we set up this remote base and secretly began moving ships out of Norway. From here we conduct covert operations throughout the North Sea. We are known as 'The Shetland Bus.' We make the crossings at night to hide from German aircraft and patrol boats."

"If you are patient, we will try and get you to family in other countries, but it is impossible for you to return to Narvik until this war ends," the sailor said.

The brass hooks on one of the flagpole halyards slid around the pole making a _schlick-schlink_ sound. Nels jerked his head in the direction of the sound and panicked. The clanking sounded again as the hook drifted back and forth in a breeze.

Nels screamed, "Run! The Nazis! Follow me. This way. This way."

The sailors and refugees looked at him in disbelief. As he staggered toward the edge of the dock, a sailor took his arm and steadied him. He lifted Nels's hands onto the railing and stood with his arm around his trembling waist. Nels stared at the heaving gray water of the North Sea reliving the moment Ineke was shot.

### ~

Nels stared at the gray water of the Hudson River, his hands clung to the railing of the Norwegian merchant ship as if clinging to his memories of everyone back home. The morning sun hid behind a winter cloudbank draped like a shroud over the New York shoreline. He realized he was exiled from Norway, banished from his loved ones. How long until I can return to Narvik?

A young Norwegian Naval officer leaned on the railing next to him. Icy winds of change bit their faces.

"We will dock along those slender finger piers which extend more than nine hundred feet into the Hudson River from the New Jersey side," the officer explained. "They were built just after the turn of the century by what were two of the world's largest and busiest shippers, the Hamburg-American Line and the North German Lloyd. They continue to share the docks and offices with us, despite the war," he said.

Nels nodded as if he understood, but he didn't care. His face was blank.

"It has been a pleasure to meet such a famous Nordic champion. We hope you will find a new life here in America and continue your victories. There's a man from the American Olympic Committee who will find you on the dock and help you make your living arrangements. His name is Bergman."

I just need a place to hide for the rest of my life.

### ~

Hal Bergman walked back and forth along a wooden railing separating him from the shuffling mass of weary refugees carrying leather suitcases and cloth bags.

He walked on his tiptoes, a cigarette dangling from his lips, trying to see into the crowd and holding a large scrap of cardboard over his head on which was printed "Nels Torkle."

The crowd of greeters around Bergman was shouting foreign names.

"Torkle. Nels Torkle," Bergman shouted. "Shit. Norwegian Day. Everyone here has blonde hair and blue eyes. Torrrrrkelllll, where are you?"

Nels emerged from the crowd and touched Bergman's arm.

"Are you Mr. Bergman? I am Nels Torkle."

"Yeah, the pleasure's all mine. Hal Bergman. The Olympic Committee office sent me to meet you. My car's outside. Well, ah," extending his hand, "welcome to the United States and, I guess, well, 'how was the boat ride' is not a very good question. Where's your stuff?"

"I have nothing."

Bergman hesitated, watching Nels look beyond him at a large door with dirty glass panes.

"There's a whole new life for you out there," Bergman said.

Nels took a step toward the door.

### ~

Nels put his hands on the dash of the car. He stared at Bergman for a long moment. "Where are you taking me?" Nels asked turning his attention to the cars lined up in front of them on the ferry from Hoboken to Manhattan. Cigarette smoke streamed from many of the drivers' windows.

"Let me explain what's going on," Bergman said. "The Olympic Committees of some countries in Europe have been trying to keep track of their athletes and get them to the United States to keep them alive and away from Hitler. Ever since the 1936 Summer Games, Herr Hitler doesn't want to be challenged again -- Jews and Jesse Owens, you know."

"He should have never come to Norway," Nels said.

"One of the Norwegian Navy folks recognized you when you landed at their base in the Shetland Islands. Otherwise, you'd still be doing odd jobs or training in the Norwegian Exile Army in Scotland. Why aren't you blonde? Sorry. Well anyway, we're putting you on the train in Connecticut and sending you to Norwich University in Northfield, Vermont. I just discovered it's the oldest private military college in the U.S. Their cross-country ski team needs some help."

### ~

Nels stared at the New England countryside through the train's wet window as he replayed Bergman's comments in his head.

The athletic director there is a well-known ski jumper named Bill Mack, and he knows about you. He'll probably be the one who meets you at the train depot in Northfield. Anyway, you can sit out the war in Vermont, teach the cadets how to win races and keep on training.

The voice in his head faded, replaced by the _tum-tump-lick-lit, tum-tump-lick-lit_ of the train's steel wheels thumping like his heartbeat. Bare trees and fallow fields flew past through the rain streaming down the windows like tears. How will I find my way back?

He put his hand on the window, trying to feel the rhythm of his heartbeat, but he felt nothing. His hand dropped away from the glass into his lap, his palm was turned up, motionless.

# THE GREEN MOUNTAINS

Northfield, Vermont 1941. . .Nels skied alone through fresh, ankle-deep snow. The trees drooped in submission to the weight of the new snow, bowing in salutation as he passed. Snow crystals landed on his cheeks and stuck to his eyebrows awakening him to his new life. The stubbornly persistent fog of depression that haunted him elsewhere left him alone in these woods. I love it out here.

An opening in the trees allowed him to see his destination -- the Camel's Hump, a solitary pyramid above the rolling hills. He had been disappointed that the Green Mountains were more like hills compared to the jagged peaks of Norway. Unlike the home country however, thick forests woven with game trails and streams blanketed them.

Stabbing his poles into the snow, he inhaled deeply, removing a wrinkled handkerchief from his jacket pocket to wipe his dripping nose. Opening the palm of his hand, a large snow crystal landed and stood erect.

"Did Ineke send you?" he said.

For a moment he felt he was with Ineke skiing in the wilderness above Narvik, wandering along plateaus through stands of pines coated in thick layers of ice. The trees stood like snowmen watching snowwomen parade by in long white evening gowns.

His memory faded as the crystal melted in his hand. Shrugging his shoulders, his small rucksack slid down one arm. He took a long drink of water from a dented Army canteen. Loose snow slid down the cliff to his right sifting through the trees.

Replacing the canteen, he swung his backpack over his head. More snow fell through the trees making a louder crashing sound this time. A rope slid through the trees and dangled in front of him. Startled, he stepped back and looked up.

The snow above him cascaded through the trees engulfing him. A man rappelled through the midst of the flurry, landing a few feet from Nels.

" _Santa Maria Madre di Dio_ ," the man yelled. Spitting snow, he dusted himself off not noticing Nels behind him.

Nels yanked his snow-covered wool hat from his head and hollered, "What in God's name are you doing?"

The young man spun around, tripped on his rope, and fell sideways in the snow.

"Jesus, Mary, and Joseph! You scared me," the man gasped. He scrambled to get up.

"I thought I was being buried in an avalanche," Nels said wiping snow from the neckline of his jacket.

"Damn! I didn't know anyone was down here. Sorry, I was climbing the rock face and then rappelled back down. Are you alright?"

Nels didn't respond and continued to brush snow from his shoulders. His face grew redder the harder he slapped his shoulders.

"My name is Alberto Bisio," he said extending his hand.

Nels did not reply. He started to ski away but turned to Alberto.

"I thought rock climbing was a sport for summer. Why do you risk your life on these rocks and on the ice?" Nels asked.

"The excitement I guess. Taking a little risk every once in a while helps me believe in myself. I work on the cliffs of a granite quarry as a stonecutter. No hesitation or lack of confidence can follow me up there. You ski in this area a lot?" Alberto asked.

"Not anymore if I know you're around." Nels turned away.

"I didn't mean to frighten you. The woods are so peaceful in winter. I'd jump out of my skin too. Sorry. Where are you from?"

"Norw....Northfield. None of your business." Nels continued to move away from Alberto without looking back. That was careless. What if he tells someone about my favorite place to ski?

### ~

In the dining hall, the uniformed Norwich cadets eating breakfast surrounded Nels. He sat with the cross-country ski team. No one but the upperclassmen were allowed to speak during meals and those that could usually only spoke to each other. So he ate in silence longing to be back home around the dining room table in a room filled with laughter.

The silence made him feel like he'd lost his life's rhythm. But, as he ate, his thoughts were filled with the gleeful chatter of his friends in school, the music of his family as they sang songs together, the roar of the crowds at the Nordic races, and Ineke's soft voice. He smiled, not caring what those around him thought.

With the meal concluded, the cadets stood at attention and marched single file out of the dining hall. He was alone with no idea how to occupy his free time. Maybe go to the library and read, or take a long walk into the hills behind the campus? Nothing appealed to him so he walked back to his room in Jackman Hall to sleep. It was all he could think to do.

### ~

A knock on his door surprised him and pulled him back to reality.

Nels opened the door dressed only in his underwear. His hair lay in twisted patterns on his head, and his eyes squinted against the mid-morning light. It was his boss Bill Mack.

"Well, I came by to see if you were sick or something but clearly you're not," Bill said. "When you didn't show up for our weekly meeting, I got concerned. Would you like to go somewhere and talk?"

"I don't know what to say," Nels answered rubbing his eyes. He knew was in trouble but didn't see a way out.

"I've seen you wanderin' alone around the campus. I'm guessing you're struggling to fit into a foreign culture, or are lonely. Not too sure. But why don't you get dressed and I'll buy you breakfast at Creamies. Let's see what we can do."

### ~

The owner of Creamies, Wayne LaPoint, came to the handmade wooden booth where Bill and Nels talked.

"Mornin', Bill," Wayne said. "Who's this young fella?"

"Wayne, meet Nels Torkle. Nels coaches the cross-country ski team," Bill said. He removed his black hunting cap with the earflaps tied by a bow above the wool brim.

"Please to meet ya. What'll you have, you?" Wayne said.

Nels stared at him. He thought he looked and sounded like the old seaman that comforted him on the fishing trawler when he left Norway.

"Hot chocolate please."

Wayne wiped his hands on his stained white apron. His eyes were bloodshot. His green work shirt and matching green pants were crumpled.

"That sounds good. Bring me one too," Bill said. He waved at the owner's wife behind the counter. "Mornin', Mah-gret." His gesture was a flick of his hand, fingers extended, half reaching and half waving.

At the end of the row of booths, hung a color poster of a young woman sitting in grass, wearing shorts and a halter-top, drinking a bottle of Coca-Cola. The headline read, "The good old pause that refreshes."

White porcelain pedestal stools stood at attention in front of the counter, motionless, like the ranks of Norwich cadets at their morning formation.

Nels stared at the stools wishing he could fit into this new world. He realized he was clinging to the world he left in Narvik. How can I let go and join in with these people?

Bill scratched the top of his head. His hair was short. His heart-shaped face had a reddish complexion. He was in his mid-forties, muscular and thin.

"I can see you are having a bit a trouble," Bill said. "What can I do to help?"

"A lot of terrible things happened to me in Norway and that's why I ended up here."

"The Olympic Committee only told me they were trying to hide you from the Germans," Bill said.

"I am grateful for that. But I'm banished from my homeland, and may never return. Back home I lived in a close community with dependable friends and family routines. So much is gone, including my courage. I will never see Ineke again."

"Who's Ineke?" Bill said.

Nels hesitated to answer. "Norwegians are not accustomed to sharing their feelings. I hope you understand."

His distress returned. He thought he had hidden from the twisted whirlpool of emotions by sleeping in his room and avoiding others. Could he trust this man? He felt he would collapse if he didn't let the pain out. Maybe it was time.

"She and I grew up together," Nels said. "We were engaged to be married. The Nazis followed us to a secluded cabin one night and shot at us, killing her," Nels said. Tears filled his eyes and he lowered his head to hide them.

"I can see why you're troubled."

"The support of my family and friends gave me the courage to pursue Nordic racing, concealed my activities with the Norwegian resistance, not to mention dealing with intense cold and the long, dark arctic winters. We call it _Morketiden_ – The Dark Time."

"The Dark Time," Bill said. "That says a lot about what you've been through I guess."

"Would you give up completely if you'd just been beaten in a ski race? What would you do after such a defeat?"

"Renew my resolve. Train harder," Nels said.

"Well, maybe you're onto something. Maybe we need to get you onto a regular schedule. Help you figure out new routines -- something to achieve every day. Let's start with some human interaction. Ever seen an American football game?"

Nels shook his head no.

"Well, let's go watch Norwich play Saint Michaels on Saturday. Sound interesting?"

"Sure."

"I'll meet you at my office at eleven and we can walk right into the stadium."

"Bill, I appreciate your concern. Thanks for letting me tell my story."

"I'll see you at the game."

### ~

On Saturday, Nels wandered from Jackman Hall under a canopy of yellow and orange leaves. Some rustled in the wind, others ran playfully across his shoes. Many twitched in a blur of color. The smells of old leaves, wet bark, and wood smoke were the smells of fall he loved. The light mist of rain around his face reminded him of the sea air along the Narvik harbor. Moments like these made the isolation tolerable.

Sabine Field was an open-air stadium surrounded by the red, green, orange, and yellow fall colors that ignited the surrounding hills. The corps of cadets marched in to the cadence of snare drums and booming base drums. The commander turned and walked backwards.

"Mark time, march," he shouted with a practiced command voice, the tone and snap with which he delivered the order demanded a willing, correct, and immediate response.

The cadets marched in place, moving their legs as though marching, but without stepping forward.

"Ba-tal-yon. Halt," Nels was silent as though he was being addressed as well.

"Righ-yit. Face." The cadets turned toward the bleachers, all at the same time.

"Take seats," he commanded. The cadets relaxed and moved into the vacant section of bleachers reserved for them.

The crowd rose for the kickoff. A Saint Michaels halfback caught the ball and was immediately flattened by a maroon-and-gold horde of Norwich players.

Nels applauded and cheered as though this was his college, his town, and his normal life. The music of the band reminded him of the Constitution Day Parades back home. It was Norway's national day. Every year he and Ineke walked together in the parade through Narvik, proud of their country and excited by the hundreds of fluttering Norwegian flags.

At halftime, Bill stood to applaud the team and turned to Nels, "Well, what do think?"

"Oh, very exciting. Thank you for including me."

"Ever had an American hot dog?"

" _Ya polse_ is what we call it in Norway. It's a grilled sausage."

"Our hot dogs are made with probably the same mystery meat as your sausage, but they come with a green relish I bet you never tasted. Come on, let's get a couple."

Nels's mouth watered longing for the taste he'd forgotten.

### ~

Back in the stadium, after halftime, the roar of the crowd and the music began its crescendo, lifting Nels's spirit. The scoreboard showed Norwich was leading Saint Michaels twelve to nothing.

For the first time since his escape, he felt included in a community. His loneliness had stolen his motivation to do anything. Until now, Northfield was a foreign place. No one knew him and he didn't care. He just wanted to go home. But today he felt like he belonged and belonging was the opposite of loneliness.

### ~

The bugler's trumpet echoed reveille around the quadrangle to start the day for everyone else, but not for Nels. He was dressed and gone on his first training run in weeks.

The next day, his alarm jangled at four-thirty a.m. Nels put on his sweatpants and a sweatshirt and tiptoed down the hall eager to start another day of training.

Each morning the colors of fall faded and snow began to settle on the landscape. As the snow pack increased, he skied from the base of the Norwich ski hill to the top. He felt his strength and his confidence returning. He could now make the circuit up and back four times. When he was done, he skied along the shoulder of the road toward the armory where Bill's office was.

"Been working out I see," Bill greeted Nels from behind his desk.

"I wanted to let you know I've started training again," Nels said, "and to tell you how much I enjoyed going to the game with you. The fall colors reminded me of home, and I enjoyed cheering for the team. I felt like this could be my new home, for a while. Thank you -- _tusentakk,_ as we say."

"I think you will find you are welcome in our little village. We pretty much know everyone here, but Vermonters are a bit distant if they don't know you. That's our fault for not making ourselves known to you. Give us time."

"I think I was hiding," Nels said. "I didn't want you to know much about me. "

"Well, we've never lived anywhere else so we don't know what it's like to be an outsider," Bill said. "If the training goes well, do you think you might try racing again? There are local Nordic races you could enter if you wanted to. Besides, the team needs you."

"Like recovering after a bad loss?"

"Exactly."

While they were talking, Colonel Norris Kingdon, the Superintendent of Norwich, opened the door to the office.

"Good morning, sir," Bill said.

"Mornin', Bill. Nels, how are you doing?" the colonel asked.

"Bill's got me training again, sir."

"Good. Will we get to see you race?"

"I'm close to being ready."

"Nels, your parents have no idea where you are, do they?"

"No, sir."

"The Olympic Committee cautioned Bill and me not to let you send letters home or the Germans would track you down and kill you. There appears be a price on your head for whatever you did to them. I think they are also determined to eliminate any non-German athlete who could embarrass their athletes in future competitions.

"What are your parents names?"

"Arne and Julia Torkle."

"I may have found a way to get letters to them. If a letter were sent to the Norwegian merchant fleet headquarters in Hoboken, New Jersey, perhaps it would make its way by ship to their base at Lunna in the Shetland Islands. From there it could be smuggled into Narvik on what they call "The Shetland Bus."

"They helped me escape. It would mean a lot to me to let my parents know I'm alive."

"You give me your letters, and I'll make sure you're not discovered," Kingdon said.

"The colonel knows how the military works," Bill said. "He also knows how German spies operate. During World War I, as a young infantry officer, he was tracking German saboteurs who were disrupting American transportation throughout New England," Bill said.

"That was a long time ago," Kingdon said.

### ~

That evening Nels pulled a box of Norwich University notepaper from his dormitory room desk and started writing. Realizing he would give his location away by using the school stationary, he tore the sheet to shreds and put the notepaper back in his desk drawer. He tore a sheet of lined paper from a composition notebook and started again.

Dear Mother and Father:

I am alive and living in the United States, but I cannot tell you where in case this letter is intercepted by the Nazi filth.

There are mountains where I am, and snow. I am able to ski almost every day. I have a nice place to stay, food, and a job, which gives me a little money. Nothing however takes away my loneliness and sorrow at leaving Norway, or losing Ineke.

I remember when we were kids, and we would all ski around town and up into the mountains along the _Rallarveien_. What good times those were. I miss you all very much.

Nels paused and stared out the window at the new snow. He continued writing the letter.

The little store near where I live is called Lemrey's Market. They sell goat cheese, but it is bland, nothing like my favorite _geitost_. Breakfast here comes with what they call "hash browns," but they are different from our _lefse_ potato pancakes.

I haven't made any friends yet except for my boss Bill Mack. He is very kind to me. I did find a Lutheran church nearby, but it is not like church at home. People come on Sunday and leave. I don't think they visit each other's homes. How lonely. It is as though winter for them is a burden to be endured, not a time to enjoy together.

You may have wondered what happened to Ineke's other mitten. I have it. When the soldiers killed her, I took one of her mittens and carry it with me every day inside my shirt next to my heart.

I think I see her smiling face in the blossoms from time to time. I am sure I've heard her soft voice in the wind. Tell the Holters her mitten is a treasure reminding me of all we shared. It is as though she is still next to me. Let them know I will return it someday.

My prayer is that the war will be over soon, and I can come home to you and Ebbe. I would like to visit Ineke's grave and take flowers. I am guessing that she is buried in the Old Cemetery.

When I come home I will climb into the hills and pick alpine flowers from the meadows for her grave, and bring you fresh berries for your Sunday _koldtbord_.

I give all my love to you.

Nels

### ~

Nels stood with the six cadets of the cross-country ski team in a lightly wooded area at the edge of a snow-covered field. He smoothed the wax on the bottom of his narrow, wooden cross-country ski with the heel of his bare hand.

As he did, he wondered if there was something he could do to smooth over the tension he felt from the team? He had been hard on them before he withdrew to his room and ignored them. Had they lost interest completely?

If he'd told them now how alone and helpless he'd felt, would they understand? Would they still respect him as their coach?

"Let's take a look at our wax," he said. "Today is a blue wax day because the sun was on this field yesterday. The points of the snow crystals are melted, and you skied over them yesterday shaving the edges off. The buildup will slow you down, and you won't win. You want to win don't you?"

None of the cadets responded.

"If it had snowed last night, what wax should we have started with today?"

Cadet Anderson responded, "Green, sir."

"Why green?" Nels asked. "That's the hardest wax."

"Because it's cold," Anderson said.

"No," Nels responded, stabbing the heel of his ski into the snow. "Why green?" he asked turning to intimidate another student.

Cadet Yocum responded, "Because the new snow crystal is sharp so you need a harder wax to keep it from sticking to the ski."

"Correct. You must understand the crystal's life since it landed. In your hand, new snow looks delicate, but on the bottom of your ski it can act like spikes, or ball bearings. You must know the difference and change your wax or you will never win.

He softened his voice.

"I know I've been hard on you. I'm trying to show you what it takes to be champions. Now, all of you run the length of this field five times and then tell me how we should adjust the wax."

Nels stepped into his bindings and jumped into the frozen tracks eager to hear the crunch of ice at his feet. From the first day of training he knew they did not share his dedication to Nordic racing and that upset him. If you don't want to be champions, why did you join the team? Representing your university is a heavy burden.

# NEW HOPE

Nels met Bill outside Kingdon's office.

"Why does the colonel want to see me?" Nels said.

Bill shrugged his shoulders.

Nels removed his tattered wool red-and-blue racing hat and smoothed his static-charged hair as they entered the office.

"I'm glad to see you, Nels," Kingdon said. "The cross-country ski team is showing some promise this year, thanks to you. Wins at Dartmouth and Clarkson. Had a little trouble with Middlebury. What are our chances against Vermont next week?" Kingdon motioned for them to sit in the maroon leather Queen Anne chairs in front of his desk.

"I don't know, sir. No one has his heart in it. They win because there is little competition."

"What about you, Nels?" the colonel said. "How are you surviving in this crazy foreign country? We haven't talked in a while."

"I am hunky-dory okay, as you say here."

"My sources tell me the letter you sent your parents was delivered to them."

"Thank you for arranging that for me. My family didn't know whether I was alive or not. I miss them with all my heart." Nels wrung his hat in his hands.

"Despite the complications of war, letters are always a blessing. They always kept my mind off the dread and despair when I was isolated and alone overseas. Perhaps you have felt the same way since coming here?"

Nels nodded turning over the words _dread and despair_ in his mind. The colonel knows how I feel.

"I asked you here this afternoon because we wanted to talk to you about the team. They've told Bill they are unhappy, and you seem unhappy, angry with them," the commandant said.

"Nothing motivates them to win. It is only recreation to them," Nels said.

"I'm going to ask you to be more patient with these boys," the colonel said. "It is only a sport here. We have no need to master the snow, like you Norwegians, only to enjoy it. If you're not careful, they will quit the team and then what will we do with you?

"You've been skiing and racing since you were a small boy, but these guys have only known alpine skiing. Maybe you need to explain to these young men why you are so dedicated to racing."

They wouldn't understand.

"Look, you're one of the best Nordic racers in the world, but the Germans have cancelled the Olympics. Our Army doesn't have any mountain infantry units where we could send you like the Germans, Norwegians, or Italians.

"I know more than racing, sir," Nels replied. "I am a journeyman printer and a journalist. I also know death and separation. I cannot go home to see my sister, my parents when Spring Break comes, or this summer, or maybe ever. I know too what it is to be a champion, to bring dignity to my town, to give my country pride. That is more than just knowing how to ski."

"I know very little about what happened to you in Norway, but, that is over," Kingdon said.

"No, sir! Not until the Nazis pay for what they have done."

Nels rose from his chair. "May I be excused, sir?"

Kingdon pulled an official looking folder from his desk and removed a small envelope, handing it to Nels.

"This I believe is from back home," he smiled. "Your parents sent this letter to the American Olympic Committee and asked that they somehow get it to you. I didn't mean to offend you, young man. Perhaps this will give you some comfort."

### ~

As Bill and Nels left Kingdon's office, Bill asked, "You ready to try racing some locals? There's a cross-country race at the Stowe Winter Carnival in a week. Some of the better college athletes, a group of Canadian Olympic racers and two Italians who live in this area are entered. I'm going to be the starter."

"I think I can hold my own," Nels said.

"Perhaps it would help the cadets if they went with you to the race. They might enjoy seeing a champion at work. That might help them understand why winning requires so much preparation and effort."

Nels liked Bill's idea. But if he was going to teach them about winning, he'd have to win. Nothing felt better than a win.

### ~

The racecourse began in a rolling meadow at the base of the ski slopes on Mount Mansfield. Halfway up the slope, the tracks narrowed from four groomed tracks to two and turned into the woods.

Nels prepared his skis an hour before the starting time, surrounded by the six members of the Norwich team. It was as though he was in Norway and his family stood with him. He thought about the Swedish wax designer he'd met before a race in Kiruna, Sweden.

"Would The Pride of Norway be interested in testing our new waxes?" the designer asked Nels.

"Only if it keeps me ahead of your Swedish racers," Nels said, laughing.

"I understand the fierce competition for Nordic skiing supremacy between our countries. For the new wax design, we stopped using traditional ingredients such as tar, melted bicycle inner tubes, beeswax, melted phonograph records, and animal fat and turned our attention to synthetic resins and refined petroleum waxes," the designer explained.

Nels shook his head in disbelief.

"You'll have a hard time overcoming the old ways. May I take some to test when I get home?"

"How long is the race, sir," Yocum asked.

"Twenty kilometers, so maybe twelve miles," Nels answered. "What do you think the temperature is?"

"Around twenty degrees," Yocum said.

"The cloud cover will mean consistent snow conditions whether I'm in the trees or out in the open. No icy spots in the shade and no melted spots in the sun. So I don't need to mix waxes."

"I tested my glider this morning. I won't need wax on tips and tails. I did put a light coat of paraffin on them and smoothed them to a glossy shine. The snow is two days old and it was sunny yesterday, but cold. What do you think I should use for my kicker?" he said.

"Well, the start is all uphill and the sun was directly on that slope," Anderson said. "The crystals are probably rounded, perhaps we should try the blue paste stuff?"

"Very good, cadet. You are learning."

Nels took a small magnifying glass from his pocket and looked at a few snow crystals on his glove. He moved around to each student and let him see the crystals. They agreed with Anderson's assessment.

"In most conditions like this I would apply a thin base of blue _klister_ first. Today is a little icy and I think the snow will wear a single layer off before I'm even halfway around the course. So, I'm going to use three light layers. That will be more durable than one heavy layer."

"Is klister a Norwegian word?" Yocum asked.

"Yes, it means paste. Why don't you finish waxing the skis for me while I pick up my racing bib," Nels said.

Nels walked to where Bill was sitting at the entry table. He signed the entry form and handed it to Bill who was the race marshal.

"Helmut Stinkie? Is that how you pronounce your name?" Bill asked.

"Helmoot Schtinkie," Nels replied. "It's German."

Bill smiled. "Good luck there, Herr Schtinkie."

### ~

More than one hundred racers stood behind the red starting line painted in the snow, sliding their skis back and forth and swinging their arms. Puffs of white breath lingered in front of their faces.

As Bill walked to the starting line, the racers leaned on their poles and became motionless. He raised the pistol he was holding and fired--POOMB--and the racers charged the hill.

Nels accelerated to the front and quickly lined up with five others climbing the steep slope.

Over the first hour, Nels passed three of the racers in front of him. He was not sure what his position was to the leaders. The trail wound through the woods and had not come to an open field, or a long straight run, where he could see those in front.

For Nels, time passed slowly, but exhaustion advanced quickly. He ran to the top of a long climb and leaned into his poles, launching himself over the top to take advantage of the unseen downhill to come, and there, in the track, was a fallen racer.

Nels jumped to one side landing on his left ski and raising his right ski waist high to avoid hitting the man. He struggled not to fall. Waving his arms to regain his balance, he pushed himself back into the tracks. The hill was steeper than he expected, but he tucked over his knees to cut his wind resistance. Now he could rest and breathe deeply for a few seconds, the blessing of the downhill runs.

At the bottom of the hill, he flew out into the open meadow he had hoped for and saw only one skier ahead of him. Despite his aching arms and thighs, he knew it was time to find a faster rhythm and a stronger push. This was the point of determination, the point he came to in every race -- the will to win no matter what the cost.

Kick. Glide. Kick. Glide. His three layers of kicker wax were perfect. Nothing stuck to the skis.

He pushed hard on his kicking leg and leaned farther forward over his gliding leg. His rear ski rose almost perpendicular to the track. Nels concentrated on relaxing his grip on his poles so he could use the straps to push behind him. He flicked his wrists with every push trying to get one more ounce of thrust.

Saliva ran out of his mouth, down his chin and mucous flowed out of his nose over his upper lip into his mouth. He knew this was the final effort and nothing, not even the drool on his face, could stop him.

As he emerged from the woods, he heard the crowd come alive. The cadets yelled and jumped, cheering him on. They had never seen him race.

Nels trusted his skill during those long, isolated stretches of the course, but now the race was on. Now was the time to take control and overcome. Arms pounding, legs flying, his chest heaving and his eyes full of sweat, he closed on the leader.

Fifty yards from the finish line he passed the leader. His opponent pulled back alongside, but Nels put his head down, reached out with both poles and pushed as hard as he could, extending his right leg across the finish line, winning by the tip of his ski.

The cadets ran to him and lifted him to his feet, slapping his shoulders and cheering.

Nels's lips were dry and rough. His mind was fuzzy and his neck ached.

"Nice race," the runner-up said to Nels shaking his hand. Nels immediately noticed the embroidered Edelweiss on his ski hat. "You must have a secret wax. Do you live around here?" the man asked.

"No," Nels said and skied away. Even though they spoke perfect English, after seeing the Edelweiss, Nels knew they were German. Only the _Gebirgsjäger_ wore the Edelweiss. As he left he heard one of the Germans say," No one has ever beaten me. That guy is the best I've ever seen."

Bill approached Nels and yelled, "Wow that was terrific." Nels walked past him with his skis on his shoulder.

"Nels, wait. What's going on?"

Nels disappeared into the crowd of spectators. He had to hide, but where? He never considered the Nazis would come this far to find him. He glanced over his shoulder to see if they followed him. Am I going to have to race for my life again?

### ~

Back in his room at Norwich, he closed the curtains and sat down on his bed in the dark. His mind was dark. He struggled to remember what the Germans looked like? Could he recognize them again? He lay back on his pillow still wearing his knickers, knee socks, and racing hat.

He must tell Bill about them. Where could he hide? How would he coach the team? The churning options subsided and he fell asleep, dreaming of Ineke.

As he had done after many races before, he looked for Ineke in the crowd. She always ran to him and hugged him. "I love you," he shouted to her above the crowd noise. Ineke pulled off his racing hat and slid it over her long, golden hair. Her bright smile and radiant cheeks filled his mind with a ravishing joy. But Grief whispered in his thoughts. They've found you. Did you think you could hide in Vermont? The Dark Time will go on forever.

Bill Mack's words thundered in his head.

What would you do if you'd just lost an important race?

Renew my resolve. Train harder.

He sat up wide awake. Is that why I race so hard? Does winning give me a sense of revenge? Can I transform my grief into pride by asserting dominance? The Germans were the losers in the race. Defeated, not victorious.

They were beaten so they shot at us to get revenge. The German who shot her had no idea how sweet and loving she was.

Nels imagined standing before the soldier. If he showed him Ineke's Mitten, would the killer feel remorse for what he had done?

He realized he could not reverse the injury, his humiliation, or his loss. Revenge won't bring her back. It won't change my life.

### ~

The next morning, Nels realized he was late for breakfast in the dining hall. No matter. Applesauce pancakes with maple syrup at Creamies sounded good. He pulled his clothes off and Ineke's mitten fell out on the bed. Holding her mitten to his heart, he walked to the window and opened the curtains. Frost etched delicate patterns resembling ferns on his window. He held the mitten up to the window. "See, just like home."

Outside he slipped and shuffled toward Bill's office. His boots made a high-pitched creaking sound on the frozen snow. His breath lingered in front of him. Why had a good sleep not removed his concerns?

Nels poked his head into Bill's office.

"Where are you headed this fine morning," Bill said.

"Creamies, for breakfast. Want to join me?"

"Nope, got paperwork to catch up on."

"I didn't speak to you after the race because the man I beat was German mountain infantry. I'm sure of it. He and his friend both had the Edelweiss on their hats. Only those units wear the Edelweiss. I think they've found me. What am I going to do? Where can I hide?"

"Did they follow you?"

"No. I left as quickly as I could."

"Let me see what the Colonel thinks of this," Bill said. "Don't tell anyone what you saw and don't enter any more races. Try not to venture out alone. Move your training with the team into the field house for a few days. Lay low."

"I thought I was safe here," Nels said.

"Maybe you are, and maybe you aren't. No sense getting too worked up about it yet," Bill said.

"Do you have a gun?"

"You don't need a gun. Relax."

"I can't relax, Bill. They want revenge. What do you think they will do to me?

"Not sure. Just don't give them anything to shoot at."

### ~

Nels skied the back way from Norwich, along the Dog River, where he couldn't be seen until he arrived at the Northfield Common. Small shops, the town's municipal building, the National Guard Armory and the train depot surrounded the village's central gathering place. Gliding to a stop, he took off his skis and clapped them together to remove the snow. Putting them over his shoulder, he crunched across the street to Creamies.

With a cup of hot chocolate in front of him, he opened his jacket and removed the first letter he'd received from his parents since fleeing Narvik more than a year ago. Ineke's red wool mitten fell out on the table. He looked at the floral patterned mitten and whispered to Ineke, "Okay, you can read along with me."

Dear Nels,

Yes, we buried our beloved Ineke in the Old Cemetery next to her grandmother. Half the town was at the ceremony. Your friend Michael Petterson threw a rock at a group of Germans who were watching. They knew better than to say a word.

After the ceremony, many people asked us how you were doing. They miss you as much as Ineke. Michael tried to keep the _Norgeposten_ going after you left, but he was not the editor you were. The donations began to dry up and the newspaper folded.

Ebbe is growing and growing. She often adds a tearful prayer to you and Ineke during grace before meals. She misses you both as we all do.

About a month ago we took the train down to _Mosjøen_ with the Holters for a weekend. The historic town was quite peaceful. It was good to get away and relax, but our grief follows us everywhere. We are still empty at the loss of Ineke and the loss of our fine son.

Your father sends his love, as do the Holters. The Holters have Ineke's other mitten which they cherish as you do. We miss you and love you. We pray every day for the war to end, and for your return.

Love, Mamma

The door to the café opened and subzero air blew in along with Alberto Bisio. He dropped a coil of frosted rope on the floor and removed his mittens.

"Hey, you're the avalanche-maker daredevil," Nels said.

"Hey, how you doin'? How's the skiing?" Alberto asked.

"Very peaceful," Nels said.

"Especially with no one dropping snow on your head."

"That's for sure. You have been in the woods too, yes?" Nels said gesturing toward the rope.

"I started to try another rock face, but my ropes froze. There are limits to what I'll attempt," Alberto replied.

"Maybe I teach you Nordic skiing and then you'll have two things to do in winter."

"I'd like that. Hey, let me buy you a hot chocolate."

"Sure."

Alberto hung his rucksack on a booth hook and removed his coat. He had not shaved in a week. Beneath his black hair was olive skin, with golden undertones, giving him a tanned look. His eyes were dark brown, almost black.

Sitting across from Nels, he asked, "Got a letter from home?"

Nels placed Ineke's mitten on top of the letter trying to disguise the fact that he was receiving forbidden mail.

"Ah, no, well not really, I..."

"And someone sent you a mitten?" Alberto commented.

Nels removed the letter, and the mitten, and put them inside his jacket. He didn't know Alberto enough to trust him.

Wayne LaPoint came to their booth.

"How's the hot chocolate?" Alberto asked.

"Oh it's wicked good," the cafe's owner said wiping his hands on his apron. "It's Mahgret's ideah to add some spices. It'll pick ya right up,"

"Well, we'd like two please."

"That all?"

Alberto nodded.

"That'll be a nickel each." He held out his hand so he wouldn't have to write a receipt.

"You boys ain't from around here. Where ya from?" he said pointing to Nels.

"From Norway. I coach the cross-country ski team at Norwich."

"That's right; I met you when you was in here with coach Bill Mack. You a ski jumpa like Billy Mack? He was born and raised in Na'rthfield ya know."

"No, jumping is not for me."

"And you, you look Eyetalian," the old man said looking at Alberto.

"My parents are Italian. I grew up in Chicago and we moved to Lucca, Italy when I was in fifth grade."

"Rock climber huh?" Pointing to Alberto's climbing rope lying on the floor behind the booth. "You know anything about cuttin' stone? Lots of Eyetalians working up there at the Rock of Ages granite quarry in Barre."

"Yes, I work there with stonecutters I knew from Italy. I also spend time at the Northfield Granite Works sculpting figures on a few headstones for Charlie Cheney."

"You know Chisel? He's a fine memorial mason. Comes in ever now and then. So, what do you wanna be, a stonecutter or a sculptah?"

"Sculptor," Alberto said. "But cutting granite at the quarry pays the bills."

"Well, youse betta take care," Wayne said then turned and waved at another customer.

"You grew up in Italy and now you live here?" Nels said.

"Yeah, I'm hiding here until the war ends."

"Hiding? Hiding from the Nazis?"

"No, from Mussolini's Fascist Blackshirts. Mussolini, that bastard. He's relentless, trying to force young men into his stinking army. My friends fled into the mountains north of Lucca. I didn't go with them because the farmers don't have any food to share. The army, or the Blackshirts, might have found me no matter where I went. The safest move was to get out of Italy. Many Italian stonecutters have been coming here to the Rock of Ages since World War I. It was my turn to leave Italy."

Nels took a sip of hot chocolate. "Separation from your loved ones is painful, yes?"

"Heartbreaking. I left many friends behind. I think about Tavio Pietro and Aldo Merruci every day. We worked in a marble quarry together. We went to school together. Six months ago the Blackshirts stormed into the quarry and took them away. They gunned down two apprentices, murdered before they even understood the nightmare of Italian politics."

Alberto opened his fist releasing the napkin he crumpled in his hand. "They lay motionless on the ground. Blood flowed from their wounds, mixing with the white marble dust. They died lying next to a block of marble -- their headstone with no names and no inscription."

"Is that why you carve headstones at the shed?"

"I hadn't thought about it that way. I think memorials to the dead are part of my life now. Just before I left, I was trying to finish a sculpture of a young peasant girl. It was my mentor's daughter, _Beatricé_ , whose husband was a Blackshirt. Mussolini declared all women should have five children. She gave him a child every year. It killed her."

"Was your statue beautiful?" Nels said.

" _Si, Si, è una belladonna_. She wore a long flowing skirt. Her long-sleeve blouse had bands around her wrist just above the lace cuffs that covered part of her hands. She wore a folded cloth on top of her head with a flat section that angled down to the base of her neck. With one hand on her hip, it appeared she was dancing."

"Sounds like you were in love with her."

"I ran my fingers along her young chin and felt a spot above where her smile would be soon. A dimple here, maybe, or a faint wrinkle, I would ask her."

"I did the work using the worn wooden mallet given me by Niccolo Campanile, my mentor. I treasure the old man's mallet. When I hold it, I feel like he's guiding my hand, showing me where to strike."

Alberto pulled the wooden mallet from his rucksack and handed it to Nels.

"This must be a treasure for you."

"Niccolo and I may never meet again, but the work I create with his mallet will last forever. The mallet reminds me of our friendship and his love for revealing life in the marble. I carry it with me every day. I've started carving small figures on headstones working with Chisel Cheney at the granite shed."

"Memories are all we are holding onto since the war chased us from our homes," Nels said. "The war changed everything for both of us."

"Yes, it has," Alberto said. "I think we are making the best of it don't you?"

"You seem to do better than I do. You don't feel any sorrow?"

"Sometimes when it overwhelms me. So, I just stay busy. Enough with the grief. The challenge of rock climbing replaces the grief. Would you like to work with Chisel too? He told me he needs someone to run the rock crusher at the shed."

"It will give me something to do for the summer, whenever that comes," Nels said.

### ~

Colonel Kingdon stared out his office window. Bill knocked on the open door. "Hey, Bill. Come in, please. When is it going to warm up so we can get on with maple sugaring season?" Kingdon said, removing a scarf from around his neck.

"Don't know, but I may lose my toes before spring comes around," Bill said, blowing warm air into his cupped hands.

"Sir, I wanted you to know there may be Germans sniffing around after Nels. I don't know what to do."

"How do you know this?"

"Nels told me two of the racers he beat at the Stowe Winter Carnival were Germans. They had an Edelweiss embroidered on their hats, you know, the insignia of the German mountain infantry."

"That's close enough for me," the colonel said, slamming his fist on his desk. "I've seen these nasty fuckers sneak up on people before. They're masters at disguise. Let me do some research and I'll get back to you. Don't say anything to Nels until we know what we're going to do. And if the two of them show up anywhere else, let me know right away. I'm going to contact the OSS. They'll know. They may already be tracking these two."

"What's the OSS?"

"The new Office of Strategic Services," Kingdon said. "They were formed when the war started to coordinate espionage activities for the various branches of the armed services."

### ~

Nels and Alberto went to the granite shed to see if the job on the rock crusher was still open. Nels looked at the many headstones in various stages of completion sitting on the floor or on worktables.

Sunlight and shadows from the trees outside the tall wooden shed door flickered on the stones. Chisel Cheney chipped pieces from a grave marker. The top was cut in an arc and the edges were gouged, giving the slab a traditional hand-carved look. The face was polished evenly, surrounded by a textured border.

"Chisel, this is Nels Torkle," Alberto said. "He's the one from Norway I told you about. Coaches the Norwich cross country ski team but could use some work during the summer."

Chisel chipped a sliver from the edge of the stone he was working on. The chip flew across the worktable and disappeared over the edge landing on the dirt floor. Chisel's beard was short as was his hair. Both were graying.

"I can tell you've been doing this a long time," Nels said.

"Ayut. My job is to prepare memorials for the cemeteries. We set up a number of designs we think families will want to buy. We finish the inscriptions and artwork later as they direct. We masons call this the art of remembering," Chisel said, putting his tools on the worktable.

"To be a good memorial cutter you must be able to drive a clean face on a ten-inch slab of granite," Chisel said. "Can't leave any point marks or sloppy corner lines. That's the sign of failure in stone cutting. You interested in learning to cut stone?"

Nels tried to imagine Ineke's gravestone as he stared at the polished area in the center of the stone.

"I don't know how," Nels said.

"What brings you to Northfield," Chisel said.

"The Nazis invaded my hometown of Narvik two years ago. I've been hiding here ever since," Nels said.

"So you're a wartime refugee like Alberto. Whataya goin' ta do when school lets out?" Chisel asked.

"Sit in my dorm room I guess, wander around, like the past two summers, unless the war comes to an end, and I can go back to Norway," Nels said.

"Nonsense. I'll put you to work. Real Vermonters don't take summers off. You can start tomorrow."

As Nels stared at the blank gravestone, he imagined he saw the name Ineke Holter being carved into the smooth face, letter by letter, by a magical stream of air. Below the name, the outline of her mitten appeared, etched by the phantom sculptor.

"Whose name do you see on the stone?" Chisel asked.

Nels's gaze was intent on the blank stone, as if he was in the churchyard in Narvik.

"Do you have a grave you visit in Norway?"

Nels jerked his head up returning from his trance. He looked at Chisel and back at the stone and back at Chisel wondering how this man could know what he was thinking.

"Ineke Holter," Nels said. "My wife, I mean, my life." Nels walked away from the gravestone and out of the shed.

Alberto followed him outside. "You okay?"

"How did Chisel know about Ineke?" Nels said. "I never told you so it couldn't have been you."

"You can't hide grief from him. He can see it and feel it on people."

"I imagined her name carved on the grave marker. Could he see that?"

"Sculptors have a way of seeing into the heart of stone, and people, so they can reveal what's hidden inside. I remember my first trip to the Vatican in Rome to see Michelangelo's _Pietà_.

"I walked back and forth in front of the limp body of Jesus cradled by Mary. Until I saw this work, I never conceived of the agony of death or the parting of two friends. Michelangelo found, hidden inside the marble, the Virgin Mary and the body of Jesus. How he must have agonized over the events of Christ's death before he decided on this moment -- the parting of two friends."

The parting of two friends. How I'd wanted to hold Ineke's limp body and sit in the snow, never saying goodbye. I would have turned to ice to be with her forever.

Chisel hollered from the doorway of the shed. "You two going up to Bill's farm on Saturday? Free beer."

"We'll be there," Alberto said.

"Thanks for the job, Chisel," Nels said and waved.

"You want to see what raw stone looks like still trapped in the earth?" Alberto asked. "I can take you to the quarry and you can meet some of the stonecutters, the _scalpellini_ as we say in Italian."

"Are any of the stonecutters German," Nels said.

"Nope, all Italians. Been that way pretty much since World War I."

### ~

Alberto stood alone, in the crisp morning air, surrounded by the lofty walls of the quarry. As Nels joined him at the entrance, two stonecutters walked toward them carrying lunch pails.

"You are not working today _Signore_ Alberto?" one asked.

" _Si, si_ , but first I am showing my new friend what we do here."

"You have a friend? It can't be one of us. We know you too well," the other man said.

"Kiss my _culo_ ," Alberto said pointing to his ass.

They pointed at their asses and laughed.

" _Buongiorno,_ Alberto." They waved and walked on.

Nels followed Alberto up a winding trail to an overlook at the top of the quarry. From there he could see the many vertical rock faces carved into the mountain. Many ropes dangled down walls. Wooden ladders leaned at various levels. Men swarmed around the quarry intent on their tasks.

" _Bella ciao_ ," Alberto shouted down the valley, spreading his arms full width as if he were about to hug a beautiful woman.

"What does that mean?" Nels asked.

"Hello, beautiful," Alberto said.

"What a beautiful thing is a sunny morning," Nels said. He held out his hand in the warm rays of the sun. He could not feel any despair in the light, only healing. He recognized the Camel's Hump rising in the distance.

"Do you suppose God makes a sunrise such as this to brighten the face of the granite?" Alberto said.

"I think he does. It brightens my face too. What makes the black lines in the rock?"

"Minerals. Wouldn't that make a great sculpture? I have a block set aside in the grout pile for the figure of a grieving woman I have in mind. The black streaks will be her hair."

"You love carving stone don't you?"

"I do. When I moved from Chicago to Lucca, Italy, I fell in love with stone carving. Stone is everywhere in Italy. There are so many beautiful statues. I started carving with the help of Niccolo Campanile. He was also a great sculptor. He spoke to the art teacher at our school, Father Orsino Romano, and that's where I began to learn to cut stone. I miss their encouragement very much."

"So do I," Nels said. "What I mean is, I miss having encouragement from people around me. The other morning at Creamies you said you left Chicago. Why did you leave Chicago?"

"My father was a wine merchant. Lucca, Italy, was his source for a great Sangiovese wine that sold well in Chicago, so he bought the vineyard. It cost him his marriage and I lost my best friends," he said shrugging his shoulders.

This man understands grief, Nels thought to himself as he watched Alberto walk to the edge of the cliff. He picked up one of the ropes tied to a tree behind them. He tied a rappelling seat around his waist and hooked onto one of the ropes with a carabineer.

He backed to the edge and called to one of the stonecutters below.

"Hey, Fabiano. Stop playing with your dick and turn on the steam drill. Can't you tell the difference? You played all night, now the sun is up."

The steam drill hissed and began to bounce on the rock for a moment, then stopped.

"Alberto, come down here and I'll give you a good morning steam job. You asshole," Fabiano yelled. Other stonecutters below whistled and hollered. The drill began to chatter on the rock. Nels enjoyed their banter.

"Meet me at the bottom," Alberto said. He walked backwards to the edge and stopped to say a prayer. He made the sign of the cross and pushed away from the cliff disappearing over the edge.

Nels went to the edge to watch Alberto. He felt like a bird soaring over the skyscrapers of a city. His eyes widened in disbelief at the sensation. He stepped back from the edge feeling disoriented.

He walked back down to the base of the cliff, and watched Alberto, who had stopped next to Fabiano. Fabiano sat on a wooden board suspended by ropes. His powerful arms lifted a large steam drill from his lap and he began to drill holes in the rock. His hands shook and his arms vibrated. A large respirator covered his mouth and nose. A handkerchief held the respirator in place. An old T-shirt covered his head.

When the staccato pounding of the pneumatic chisels stopped, the shouting and laughter of the Italians hanging from the cliffs filled the air. Their loud, vulgar teasing was as rough as the edges of the stone.

"What do you think?" Alberto asked. He wore bib overalls, a long-sleeved shirt and a flat tweed cap.

"You fit in well with the scaloppini, as you say," Nels said.

"No, that's _scalpellini_ ," Alberto laughed. "Scaloppini is food. _Scalpellini_ are stonecutters."

"Those cliffs must be fifty feet higher than where you are working," Nels said.

"What you can't see is the six hundred feet of the quarry below us in that pond of milky-green water."

"You tease each other a lot don't you?" Nels asked.

"We enjoy each other. We're proud of our profession. We know the stone will become part of buildings, statues and gravestones -- a lasting tribute to our trade. I appreciate their hard work to bring the stone out of the mountain. My art teacher, Father Romano, told us once 'Who is the sculptor without the stonecutter – _lo scultore senze scalpellino?'"_

"Would you show me how you slide down the ropes? It looks like fun," Nels said.

"Only if you show me how to ski."

### ~

Saturday blew in chilly, but sunny, nipping the bare branches of the hardwoods. Nels and Alberto parked next to Bill's gray weathered barn along Stony Brook Road. The small farm lay on either side of a dirt road just outside of town. Dark, weathered clapboards covered the old house.

Nels looked up at the maple tree in the front yard. It stood as a sentry looking up and down Stony Brook and across the fields at the hills beyond.

As they walked up the hill to the house, Bill stepped out on the front porch and waved to his guests.

"Bill, this is a magnificent maple tree," Nels said.

"Yes, he's an old friend -- always there, valiant and honest," Bill said. "Quite the symbol of endurance and strength. Been here since before I was born."

"Isn't it remarkable that winter is preceded by the colorful carpet of leaves he spreads," Nels said.

"And summer can't return until the maple puts out new leaves," Bill said.

"When was the house built," Alberto asked.

"The historical society says it was built in 1815. My father bought the land as a woodlot in 1912."

Inside, Chisel relaxed by the wood stove in an overstuffed chair. The aroma of kerosene and wood smoke permeated the house.

"Good morning, Chisel," Nels said.

Chisel raised his bottle of beer acknowledging Nels.

"You still looking for someone to rattle and dance on the stone crusher?" Bill asked.

"No, this young man should work out just fine," Chisel said. "Hired him three days ago. Hey, _Il Scultore_ ," Chisel said, raising his beer to greet Alberto.

"Do you all know how good a sculptor Alberto here is?" Chisel asked.

"What does _Il Scultore_ mean," Bill said.

"The sculptor," Alberto said. "It was a nickname my mentor gave me in Italy when I was learning to carve," Alberto said.

"You ought to come by the granite shed and see what he's working on," Chisel said. "I'm pleased to have Alberto adding to my headstones. I rough out a design on paper and he adds a figure, maybe a bird or a fawn.

"The crying angel you finished last week was amazing. He carved a small angel draped over the edge of a headstone. Dark streaks of black granite for her hair. There is so much detail in the wings, and the emotion -- I can almost hear the angel weeping for the deceased," Chisel said.

"Thanks, Chisel. I'm happy to be sculpting again," Alberto said.

"I've relied on Chisel to tap my maple trees for many years," Bill said. "In return, he brings jugs of fresh syrup which I store in my kitchen, in my barn and I keep some on the seat of my pickup truck so I can give it away to everyone who deserves a quart," Bill said.

"My ancestors have been boiling down sap for two hundred years, a skill we taught early settlers on both sides of the border," Chisel said. "We Abenaki learned that boiling syrup was easier than leading a team of horses through snow in the sugar bush to collect the sap. One gallon of pure maple syrup requires forty gallons of sap.

"I haul the sap up to my brother's _cabane a sucre_ , or sugar shack, on the Quebec side of the Vermont border, just outside Mansonville along _Chemin Bellevue_. My people are scattered from southern Quebec to southern Vermont, never settling far from Lake Champlain, a place we hold sacred."

Bill went to the kitchen to get more beer. Chisel joined him.

"When Nels first came to the granite shed, he told me he fled from the Germans in Norway. I didn't think much of it until just now. A couple of weeks ago two men came in looking for a headstone for their mother.

"They asked about pricing and stopped after I showed them only one marker. There wasn't any grief in their eyes like I'm used to seeing. I see the faces of grief every day. Visitors to my workshop are overcome by the loss of a loved one and only stare at the stones. They don't know which stone to choose. They usually just point at one and leave.

"I asked them for her name."

"Gitta. Gitta Kepplinger, they told me."

"Sounds like a German name."

"That's what I was thinking. You know any German families from these parts?"

"Not off the top of my head. Did they say their parents were farmers from around here?"

"No. Didn't say. They bid me good day and left. Didn't order a stone. Spoke good English though."

"Thanks for telling me, Chisel."

"Is there an issue?"

"Yeah, we're pretty sure those two are here in Vermont looking for Nels."

"Why?"

"He was part of the Norwegian resistance, and they don't want him to challenge their athletes in the next Olympics, whenever that might be," Bill said.

### ~

Two days later, Bill sat down next to Colonel Kingdon in a pew at White Chapel in the middle of the Norwich campus. The other pews were empty. Early morning light brightened the interior.

"Thanks for meeting me," Bill said. "I thought we should keep this just between us."

"What's up?"

"A stonemason I know at the granite works told me two young men came in asking about a headstone for their mother. She had a German name and I don't know anyone around here by that name. The mason said they didn't have a German accent and were about the same age as Nels."

"Why would they go to the granite shed?" Kingdon asked.

"Nels just started working there part time."

"Shit. They're closing in. We'll have to move quickly. I talked with a friend at the OSS. He suggested Nels join the new Tenth Mountain Division based in Colorado. That would throw the Germans off his trail here in Vermont. They would have to start a new search in every state.

"Show him this article about the unit. Get him interested. If he decides to volunteer for the division, let me know. I will inform the American Olympic Committee. The OSS will take care of the red tape to get him enlisted and assigned to the Tenth Mountain," Kingdon said.

# ESCAPE TO COLORADO

Nels and Alberto were talking to Wayne as Bill came into Creamies and sat down in the booth with them.

"Thought I might find you two here." Bill said. "Mah-gret, good morning. Coffee please."

"Nels, the Germans who saw you at the Stowe race were in the granite shed a few days ago."

"Oh no," Nels said. "I never thought they would find me here," Nels said. "Now I do need a gun."

"Not a chance," Bill said. "I just met with the colonel. It's clear to him you can't stay here in Vermont any longer. He may have found a place for you to hide for the rest of the war. But you need to move quickly."

He unfolded a page torn from a magazine. "The U.S. Army has formed a mountain infantry division and is looking for volunteers like you two who have mountaineering and skiing experience," he said, tapping the page with his finger. "That would throw the Germans off your trail here in Vermont. The Colonel gave me this article and said the unit could be used against Nazi alpine units in France, Italy, or Norway."

Nels took the article and read the first few paragraphs out loud.

"Army trains assault climbers in Colorado.

"Soldiers being trained to lead attacks against Axis mountain positions.

"An assault climber is taught to attack up steep mountains using sophisticated rock climbing techniques. They work in small groups, to find assault routes and to help each other up and down mountains. They are the newest breed of the Army's fighting man, all part of the Tenth Mountain Division, training at ten thousand feet near Leadville, Colorado.

"Only volunteers are accepted. Known as the Phantoms of the Snow, they will become the fighting guides who will lead the way in wresting mountain strongholds from the Axis. Their mountain training will save many lives."

Nels handed it to Alberto.

"Can we do this?" Nels asked. "Am I allowed to leave Vermont?"

"Kingdon said he would take care of the details," Bill said.

Alberto looked at photos of soldiers climbing a cliff. "I'd be right at home doing this. You want to enlist and go to war, don't you?"

"You know how much I hate the Nazis. Let's join together. They need expert rock climbers. What if we're sent to Italy, or Norway? You could meet my family."

"If we are sent to Italy, I can show you the Villa Bissi, my father's vineyard."

"What do you think?" Nels said.

"I might enjoy this adventure," Alberto said. "It will keep the Germans away from you. Maybe we have found a way to stay together and do what we love. Never been to Colorado."

"You can make bigger avalanches," Nels said, poking Alberto in the shoulder.

"So, I will tell the colonel to set this up," Bill said. "In the meantime, you need to get ready. Alberto, maybe you can show Nels how to rappel and, Nels, you need to get this guy up to speed on Nordic skiing."

### ~

A week later, Alberto and Nels hiked back to the lookout on top of the quarry, each carrying a large coil of rope over one shoulder. No workers. No sun. No wind. No new snow. No one to watch me make a fool of myself , Nels thought.

"What are these?" Nels asked holding one of the spikes Alberto pulled out of his musette bag.

"Pitons. We wedge them into cracks in the rock as an anchor point for our ropes."

Hammering a piton into a seam, Alberto clipped a carabineer through the eyehole of the spike. Next, he tied the climbing ropes around two trees for additional safety.

"Hold this," Alberto said, handing one coil of rope to Nels. He carried the other coil to the edge of the cliff and threw it in a looping arc. It sailed to the ground without tangling.

As Nels stood on the edge looking down, he felt disoriented. He hesitated to throw his rope. Taking a step back from the edge, he forced himself to throw his rope out and over the edge.

Alberto tied a rappelling seat around his waist, showing Nels each step as he looped two ends between his legs and back under his waistline. Pulling on the leg straps to tighten them, he tied the loose ends at his hip and hooked another carabineer to the front of the seat.

"As you descend, stop and check the rope dangling behind you to make sure it is hanging free and not caught in the rocks. But first, make sure you can see extra rope lying on the ground."

"Okay. Now let's back to the edge and feed the rope through your carabineer with our right hand. Your right hand is your brake hand. This controls your rate of descent."

Nels felt his pulse pounding against his wrists.

"Now, lock your brake hand and lean back until you are ninety degrees to the rock face," Alberto said leaning and extending his legs as he stepped over the edge.

"Keep your legs extended in front of you, like this, and use them to keep you square to the rock face. If you get off balance, you will fall sideways and bang into the rock."

Nels inched toward the edge and then stopped, stepping back. He gasped for air.

"I can't do this."

"Neither could I the first time," Alberto said. "I couldn't overcome my fear of leaning over backwards this high off the ground."

Nels tried it again. His hands clenched the narrow rope. He wanted to take his gloves off to get a firmer grip. His right forearm began to ache.

"Your uncertainty is trying to control your mind," Alberto said. "I always say a little prayer to my guardian angel Dizzy before I start."

Nels's head swayed as though he was rolling on the fishing trawler that carried him from Narvik. He heard the old seaman saying, "That's it. Be steady. You have a future. This is not the end. Face the fear."

"What if I fall?"

"Your harness will hold you. Trust the harness."

Nels pulled the slack from the rope and squatted to test the harness.

"Ready to try again?" Alberto said looking up at Nels.

Nels stood at the edge of the precipice and looked over his shoulder. He clutched the rope with both hands. A sudden shiver surprised him. He froze. His powerful legs trembled. The chill in the air made it hard to stop shivering.

In his mind, he saw Ineke twitching her head in different directions looking for the Germans. She grabbed Nels to steady herself. They stood motionless, without breathing.

"Oh my God, the Nazis. Run," Nels screamed.

Alberto pulled himself back to the top of the cliff. He stood with his arm around Nels's shoulder. "Nels, relax. There aren't any Nazis up here. Maybe we should call it a day. You're shaken up."

"Why can't I force myself to step back?"

"Too much on your mind. I don't come up here just for the thrill. Rock climbing reassures me that I can succeed at whatever I am about to attempt. No hesitation or lack of confidence can follow me up here."

"I need that," Nels said. "I need to discover whether I can go on and face my new life," Nels said.

"Beat this fear of the edge first. One step at a time."

The two stepped back to the edge. Alberto coaxed Nels to lean back. As Nels stepped over the edge, he realized his harness was secure. He took several more steps until he sat squarely in the harness looking straight at the top of the cliff in front of him.

"Okay, now start to walk backwards down the cliff and let a little of the rope out with your brake hand as you go. Start slow at first. Focus completely on every move," Alberto said.

Nels looked over his shoulder at the cliff below and shivered again. Inch by inch he descended. His heartbeat thundered in his ears.

"You're doing great," Alberto said.

Nels focused on the muscles in his hands rather than his heartbeat. He forced his brake hand to relax for a moment and was able to descend a few more steps.

Step-by-step Alberto talked him to the bottom. Nels shuffled his feet to feel the solid ground. Alberto pulled the remaining rope through his carabineer.

"You made it," Alberto said, helping Nels untie his harness.

"Since the day you fell on me in the woods, I wondered why you risked your life like this. Doesn't it scare you?" Nels said.

"Of course it scares me. It's walking this tightrope between risk and security that keeps me coming back for more. Rock climbing brings out the best and the worst in me. It scares me to death, but the consequences of giving in to fear is a guarantee my fear will overcome me. It's something I have to fight every time I climb," Alberto said.

"I haven't been this afraid since I arrived in New York. Nothing was familiar anymore. I felt I was about to fall off a cliff into oblivion. It has chased me ever since."

"And now you can control your fears, right?" Alberto said.

"Whew. The adrenaline is making me shake all over. It's like I just won a race."

"Overcoming fear does that to me, too."

"I would like to try again please. Maybe this will be the start of a new life for me," Nels said, "one without anger and without grief."

"What happened to the old life?" Alberto asked.

"It died and I have been afraid ever since," Nels said.

"What are you afraid of?"

"Loneliness. That God would leave me alone without friends."

"Are you religious?" Alberto asked.

"Lutheran. But lately I feel like an Israelite wandering alone in these mountains."

"Searching for God?"

"Trying to find Hope. I lost her somewhere."

"Lost hope? Lost her? Wait a minute, what happened to you?" Alberto asked.

"When the Germans invaded my country, they took over our town and we were powerless to fight them. Most of us just refused to speak to them. They shut down all the newspapers so a friend and I started an underground newspaper.

"I also raced cross-country skiing against their best German mountain troops, the _Gebirgsjäger_. I felt it was my duty to defeat them in every race, and I did. They hated losing. That was another reason they wanted to get rid of me.

"Ineke Holter and I were engaged to be married. We would ski to a secluded cabin at night to make love," Nels said, his voice quivering.

"One night a German patrol followed us. Don't ask me how they knew where we were. Must have been a collaborator who betrayed our hiding place. We started to run and they shot Ineke."

Nels slumped to one knee and buried his face in his hand, sobbing. His sobs ended quickly like the passing of rain.

Alberto touched Nels's shoulder.

"I ran back to her side. She was lying face down in the snow. Oh, Ineke, Ineke."

"I'm here," Alberto said. "Let it out. Let it all come out."

"The soldiers were closing on us fast. I touched her soft face and looked for life in her eyes, but the spark I cherished was gone."

"When I tried to help her, one of her red mittens came off in my hand. She was lifeless.

"I was desperate to escape capture. As I fled, I swore I would kill them. Someday, I will find them and kill them.

"This is all I have left." Nels pulled Ineke's mitten from his jacket and handed it to Alberto.

" _Madre de Dio_ ," he whispered. "What a treasure."

He handed the mitten to Nels.

"You loved her deeply," Alberto said.

"Yes. My heart beat faster every time I saw her."

"May I hold her mitten again," Alberto said.

"It is a treasure, isn't it," Nels said, handing Ineke's mitten to him. "Every time I'm alone, my mind returns to all the moments we shared. We grew up together. We were neighbors. We hiked in the mountains together."

"We have both been separated from friends and loved ones," Alberto said. "Some of my memories make me sad. The good ones make living bearable."

Nels sat on a square block of granite without speaking. Alberto, holding the mitten, sat next to him remembering what Niccolo had told him about friends. Time is a good thing to give to a friend. I think I'm just here to listen.

### ~

The snowfall overnight was gentle but sincere. Having made its presence known, it withdrew, leaving the trees to carry its weight.

As Nels finished waxing their skis, the familiar scent of cold pine needles drifted in the air.

"I waxed our skis to match this new snow so you should be able to just walk along without backsliding. I'll teach you about waxing some other day."

Alberto brushed a branch as he knelt to clamp on the bindings of his cross-country skis. Snow dropped on his arm and a slight breeze scattered flakes into the sunlit air glittering like confetti.

"Fairy dust," Nels said. "Your angel Dizzy is here."

Alberto stood erect and still, knowing at any moment he could slip and fall into the powder. "It gives the morning a once-in-a-lifetime quality where everything seems possible."

Nels started along a narrow path into the forest. "Slowly now, one step at a time."

"Must be a game trail," Alberto said.

The winding trail turned downward through a grove of maple trees and hardwoods. Nels stopped at the bottom and turned to watch Alberto.

Alberto leaned forward balancing himself with his poles until he sank into the softer powder next to Nels's tracks at which point his skis crossed and he fell forward.

Rolling on his back, he spit snow, thrashed and swore, only to sink deeper into the fluffy quicksand.

Nels held out a ski pole and helped him back on his feet. A small brown bird with a spotted breast and reddish tail flicked its tail watching the commotion from above. It sang a series of clear, whistling phrases, each on a different pitch, much like the sound of a tin whistle.

Alberto wiped snow from the back of his neck.

"Now we're even," Nels said, laughing.

"What?"

"You buried me in snow when we first met. Now you're the one covered with snow."

"Tell that damned bird to shut up. Do you Norwegians just endure winter, or is there a secret about it that you hide from the rest of the planet?" Alberto said.

"Are beauty and solitude secrets to you?" Nels asked.

"No, I just don't expect to see them after a winter snow."

"You will if you ski alone. You climb mountains alone, don't you?"

"I guess, but that takes effort. No time for solitude, at least not during the climb. So the secret of winter is a spiritual one?"

"Let's find out."

Nels led them out of the trees into a meadow that followed the edge of a stream. Theirs were the only tracks. Not even deer or rabbits had discovered the place.

Nels led the way back into the woods breaking a trail for Alberto who seemed a bit more confident as long as the path was flat.

They wandered into a cathedral of trees frosted with snow. Blue shadows surrounded them as they walked down the aisle. Frozen gargoyles looked down acknowledging their presence.

Nels took out a canteen of water from his rucksack and sipped the cool water.

As they emerged from the arches, lights glowed from the windows of a small farmhouse nearby and a spiral of wood smoke drifted into the winter dusk. Nels slid to a stop. Alberto slid into the back of Nels, trying to stop.

"Haven't got the hang of stopping yet," Alberto said.

Nels laughed. "Well, you buy the hot chocolate then."

"So I get the solitude part now, but the hard part for me is that it is dark all winter. It is especially worse in Norway, isn't it," Alberto asked.

"Above the arctic circle it isn't completely dark. The polar twilight illuminates everything. It streams in our windows even in the middle of the night. The Northern Lights dance overhead. You've never seen the angels dance in the heavens have you?"

"Where would I see that?"

"The Aurora Borealis. Vikings called it The Quivering Roadway."

"So, what's our secret?" Nels said. "I just love everything about winter -- the crunch of boots on frozen snow, frost patterns on windows, the smell of wet wool mittens, hot chocolate, hot ski wax. Skiing is only one part of the season. I think the secret must be your own. You must find it for yourself."

"I've had enough of this love affair with winter for today," Alberto said. "Let's get a hot chocolate."

"Good thing we both love hot chocolate."

"That's 'cause it only costs a nickel and that's all we can afford," Alberto said.

### ~

May 1943 . . . The spring morning was soothing carrying the fragrance of fresh blossoms and the anticipation of new life.

Nels sat alone on a granite bench in the Northfield Common across from the train depot. His two suitcases were beside him. He unwrapped a chunk of maple sugar candy from Bill's harvest and bit off a piece. He and Alberto would board the train soon, leaving for Colorado, but first he wanted to be alone and talk to Ineke. In the background, a Hermit Thrush sang a series of clear, whistling phrases. He turned his head in the bird's direction.

Today is May 24 and the yellow sun of spring has arrived behind a slight, humid haze. What do you call today in Heaven?

The grass is pushing through the matted weeds from the end of last summer. The wet blanket under my feet is a quilt of delicate gray and red flowers like the pattern of the sweater you were wearing the night you died.

The crimson and white blossoms here smell like spring in Narvik, except it has come in May, not July. The days are getting longer, but not as quickly, or as long as the arctic days. Spots of snow dot the hills around the valley, not enough to ski on anymore. Remember a spring like this back home?

I see your face in the blossoms from time to time, smiling. I watch the water from last night's rain drip from your lips, and listen for your next breath to drift past me. Is that your soft voice I hear singing to me? No matter what I try, I can't overcome the pain of losing you.

The train whistled imitating the whistle of the thrush.

### ~

Inside the small train depot, Nels stood with Alberto and Bill. They looked down at their suitcases, not sure what to say to each other. Bill broke the silence, "You two stay outta trouble."

"Thanks for all you have done for me," Nels said, shaking hands. "I hope I can come this way again when the war is over."

"You're both welcome here anytime. Hey, send me a Tenth Mountain patch when you get settled. I'll keep my eye on the newspapers for stories about your adventures."

He shook hands and walked across Depot Square to Creamies.

# CAMP HALE

Nels slid the window down to let in the morning breeze as the _Royal Gorge_ train swayed and rumbled for another endless day, full of eager volunteers for the Tenth Mountain Division. How far? How far until my wandering ends?

He and Alberto sat side-by-side facing two other men. No seats were assigned and after more than a week, they had gotten to know many of their cohorts. Today, a dark-haired man with a bright smile and brown skin sat across from Nels. "Good morning," Nels said.

" _Buenos dias_ , good morning to you," the man said, holding out his hand. "My name is Ernesto Jose Rosondo."

"Nels Torkle. And this is Alberto Bisio."

"Nels and Alberto. Where are you coming from?" Ernesto said.

"Vermont most recently, but I grew up in Norway, and he's from Italy."

"I just left my job as a chef in New York City to join up. Grew up here in the mountains near Leadville before heading for The Big Apple. This is my homecoming."

Next to him sat a young man with a large, drooping mustache. He spoke with an accent Nels had never heard.

"Olney Rideout. How'dy."

Nels stared out the window at the expanse of cloudless, royal blue sky. To the north, an approaching storm front made an arc in the blue expanse.

Antelope appeared to his right. They raced ahead of the train, then veered off and stopped to graze.

"Those can't be deer," Nels said. "What are they?"

"You've never seen an antelope?" Olney said.

The antelope looked skyward. So did the prairie dogs at their feet. Two hawks soared overhead.

"Pardon my ignorance, but those don't look like gophers there in the grass."

"Nope. Them are prairie dogs," Olney said.

"Never saw one of them. The grass here seems to go on forever."

"More than a million square miles. The French called it _prairie_ , which means meadow. It was even prettier when I was growing up, but then came The Dust Bowl. Still haven't recovered from that disaster. It killed my parents and left me and my brother alone out here."

Nels felt the panic of being alone well up inside him. "How did you survive?"

"Running whiskey for the gangster wops out of Pueblo. Stinking Italians owned the liquor during Prohibition, but they paid us pretty good." Olney looked at Alberto, "Are you Italian? No offense."

"Just don't call me a wop. My father was a wine merchant and still is. He isn't a gangster and I'm not a guinea, or a dago or a spic either."

"Spic?" Ernesto said. "Now you're irritating me, amigo."

"Just as long as we know what not to call each other," Olney said, stroking his moustache.

The train began to slow and the Negro conductor walked through the car announcing in his clear voice, "Water station. This is the Cheyenne Wells Tank. Take twenty minutes to stretch your legs while we take on water."

The _Royal Gorge_ stopped with a hiss of steam. Nels and Alberto followed Olney to the door leading out onto the open prairie.

Olney walked into the long, dry grass beyond the tracks. He broke off a strand and put it between his lips twirling it with his tongue. He wore baggy denim pants with a large silver buckle on his belt and cuffs turned up above his pointed-toe boots.

Black-tailed prairie dogs stood erect by their burrows watching the passengers by the train. Some dove into their holes, and inside somewhere, turned around and popped their heads up. Others were motionless. A few chirped to each other.

"Where are you from?" Nels said.

"Grew up on a ranch along the Kansas border, just north of the Oklahoma Panhandle," Olney said.

"I've never been there. Did you ski there?"

"Not hardly. Just more of what you see here. Horseback ridin'. Huntin' and fishin' mostly. Sleepin' under the stars. Ever seen a sky full of stars? Real peaceful and quiet watchin' them twinkle."

"Yes, I have," Nels said. "Angels dancing in Heaven."

"You betcha. That describes it real good."

"No wops or spics out here," Alberto said.

"You're right. Guess I better watch my mouth around you boys from now on," Olney said.

Next to them a man held a Big Chief Tablet sketching the tank dripping water from its leaky sides. Many steel cables encircled the wooden slats preventing them from bulging from the weight of the water inside. The slats were brown weathered wood, once painted green.

Nels, Alberto, and Olney looked over his shoulder.

"What are you drawing?" Nels asked.

"A new cartoon." He turned the tablet so they could see his sketch.

Below the metal spigot arm on the tank, he had drawn a group of cowboys, Indians, antelope, and prairie dogs taking showers together. Two hawks perched on the top of the tank watching their friends below. Two rattlesnakes tried to catch drops of water in their mouths. Below the cartoon the artist printed the caption: AND THE HAWK WILL LIE DOWN WITH THE PRARIE DOG.

"What's your name pardner?" Olney said.

"Lyle Payette, from Plattsburgh, New York, on the Canadian border."

"Pleased to make your acquaintance," Olney said. "You goin' to be the division cartoonist?"

"No, it's just my way of commenting on what I see. I joined up because I loved hiking, skiing, and canoeing in the Adirondacks. This sure is a change of scenery out here."

"Canada. Italy. Norway. Shit fire, you boys are comin' from all over the world," Olney said. "What name should I avoid calling you?"

"Canuck, frog, snow frog," Lyle said.

"I git it," Olney said.

"All aboard," the conductor shouted.

### ~

The train resumed its wearisome journey toward the mountains. Nels picked up a worn copy of the Saturday Evening Post and began turning the pages for the fifth time.

Ernesto sniffed the air in the compartment. Onions. Tomatoes. "Hey, follow me. Let's see what's cooking."

Nels stood with the others in the doorway of the train's small galley. Negro cooks were laughing and chopping vegetables. The cooks wore spotless, white, double-breasted jackets and checkered pants. A traditional chef's toque covered their close-cut hair.

Ernesto stepped between them, picked up a chef's knife and quickly diced half an onion.

"Man you fast with that blade," an overweight cook said.

"Hey, call me 'Coosie.' It's short for _cocinero_ \-- that's Spanish for chef."

"Okay, Coosie. Man, where did you learn to slice and dice like that?"

"Practice, practice -- they all finished the phrase in unison with him -- practice."

Other recruits crowded the doorway and the pass-through window looking over each other's shoulders at the chefs.

"An onion can sure make a man cry, but, never been a vegetable that can make people laugh," Olney said.

The cooks put several large platters of tacos on the galley counter.

"Dig in, _amigos_ ," Coosie said.

Returning to his seat with a plate of bulging, steaming tacos, Nels sat face-to-face with two new men who had taken the seats facing him. Olney and Ernesto were still in the kitchen.

"My friends were sitting there," Nels said.

"Well, we're your new friends. They can find another seat," said one of them.

"You don't want any tacos?" Nels asked.

"I don't eat Mexcrement," the man answered.

"Ernesto was a chef in New York and these don't taste like what you're describing," Nels said. The stranger had large eyebrows and hair swept-back on the sides with a small flip above his forehead.

"You going to join the Tenth Mountain?" the man said.

"Yes. Nels Torkle," he said, extending his hand.

"Terry Clendenin," he replied. "What kind of accent is that?"

"Norwegian."

"You could have just stayed in Norway and fought the Germans. Why come all the way over here just to join up with us?"

The man next to Terry yelled in an obnoxious voice, "Maybe he likes to party like the rest of us." He stood and waved his hands over his head as though he were dancing. Nels looked at Alberto. Embarrassed, he looked down at the floor.

"That's it," Terry said. "He wants to party with us for the rest of the war." He pulled a bright silver flask from his back pocket and took a sip, passing the flask to his friend.

"It's not like that," Nels said. "I came to fight, not to party."

"Well, I'm a ski racer, not a fighter," Terry said.

Nels started to say he was a racer too, one with a good reason to fight, but he just looked out the window. _Uff da_. What's the use?

Nels hoped this was the only offensive man he would meet on this trip. Who does he think he is? His words feel like an attack.

The hue of the blue sky shifted to dark gray as evening approached and the train rumbled on.

An abandoned farmhouse close to the tracks swept past his view in the dim light. Nels leaned against the window and watched it disappear from his view. The trees next to the house were dead. A windmill wobbled in the night air. Tumbleweeds rolled past, ignoring the old mud structure.

The train's cabin lights came on. A Negro porter worked his way down the aisle of their car, rearranging each seat to form a sleeping berth. A curtain screened each berth from the aisle.

Terry and his friend stood up as the porter approached. "We're going to the dining car," Terry said. "Don't want to have to tip the ape."

Terry pointed to his seat, "Hey, George, do ours next." The porter showed no reaction to the slight. His eyes looked straight ahead at the cushion he was adjusting. Terry jabbed his friend and smiled, "He's one of George Pullman's boys."

Courteous and dignified, the man wore a starched white jacket, black pants, and an accommodating smile. Without looking at Terry, he pointed to the nametag on his jacket. "Phillip," he said bowing slightly. "My name is Phillip." He finished the beds and moved to the next berth.

Nels watched Phillip make the next bed. What a pleasant and caring man. It is as though he is making the bed for his children. His thoughts must be elsewhere to brush off such insults.

### ~

Alberto was ready to sleep. The monotony of the long trip made him lazy which was not his usual inclination. The curtains across his lower berth muffled the conversations around him. Alberto could hear every whisper. He rocked toward sleep with the motion of the train. His eyes drifted shut.

Beyond the curtain, Phillip whispered to another porter. "We'll be pulling into Pueblo tomorrow. Make sure these boys get showers. Whew, God knows they need one. We'll be there longer than other stops so we can take on coal and water for the five-thousand-foot-climb to Leadville."

"How much for the Dizzy Gillespie album," the other porter said.

"That'll cost you a buck."

"Deal. Best jazz and blues this side of Chicago. You keep bringing these phonograph records to us country boys so we can keep up with the times, you hear?"

Dizzy Gillespie. Alberto remembered seeing his face on a theater poster back in Chicago when he was in fifth grade. They walked past the theater every day after school.

The theater man put the poster of Dizzy on the sidewalk and taped a new poster inside the glass cabinet.

"Hey, look here. Louis Armstrong," Alberto said, calling to his friends as he stopped to look at the new poster of a trumpet player. "Satchmo. What does Satchmo mean? Why does he hold his trumpet with a white handkerchief?"

"He must have sweaty hands," one of his friends said.

"Louis 'Satchmo' Armstrong. This Week Only. I wonder what he sounds like?" Alberto said.

"Can I have the poster of Dizzy," he asked the theater man.

"Sure. Here let me roll it for you."

His friend stood looking up at Louis Armstrong. "Look how big his eyes are, and his smile. Looks like jazz to me."

"Hey there, Satchmo, whatcha playin' tonight," Alberto said.

Good night, Dizzy. He yawned.

### ~

June 1943, Camp Hale, Colorado . . . "The replacement train just pulled in," Sergeant "Hannibal" Storms said trying to catch his breath from climbing in the thin air at eleven thousand feet. Hannibal was the First Sergeant for Able Company, Eighty-Sixth Infantry Regiment.

Next to him was Captain Marty Knowles, the company commander. They stood on black rocks that protruded from a wind-blown ledge on one of the highest peaks in the Sawatch Range.

The brilliant midday sun forced him to squint and pull his hat almost over his eyes. He wore dark brown pants with a tan Army ski parka.

He lifted his binoculars to get a better view of the activity at the Leadville train depot in the valley below.

"How many of the replacements are earmarked for the 86th?" the captain asked.

"Many as we want, sir. My personnel buddy at Camp Carson assigned the whole bunch to us."

"Reckon you'll love this, we got Ernesto Jose Rosondo, the head chef at the Hotel Commodore in New York. The guy grew up over here in Red Cliff. His father was a hard rock miner. He volunteered for the Tenth to get closer to home. And this shipment includes lots of skiers. There are two guys who were ski instructors at Sun Valley; some guy who was a mountain guide in Switzerland; and Josh Wright from Steamboat Springs."

"Huh, I knew Josh from college ski racing," Knowles interrupted. Knowles graduated with a commission from the University of New Hampshire in 1939.

"Looks like Able Company will be a happier bunch of troops with full stomachs and some ringers who can start winning some of the division ski races for us," Knowles said.

"That'd be nice," Hannibal said. "But first, we have to get 'em to breathe at this altitude. Even the college ski club boys find skiing hard with a fifty-pound rucksack on their back. And no one likes camping out in ten feet of snow."

"They'll learn soon enough in your capable hands," Knowles said.

"Maybe we shoulda tried to turn soldiers into skiers rather than turning skiers into soldiers. My hero Hannibal would never have put up with skiers."

"I understand you fought with the Finnish ski troops against the Germans."

"Mostly as an observer. It was during The Winter War of 1939. The Russians, not the Germans, outnumbered the Finns three-to-one. The most important lesson I learned, though, was from them Chinese observers who were with me."

"Chinese? In Finland?"

"China had their hands full with the Japanese, and with fighting in snow. They were scared the Russians would try and cross into their country to get at the Japanese in Korea. They used the term _Gung Ho_. It means to work together, to help each other, to work in harmony.

"The training will prepare our boys to fight from rock face to rock face, up and down steep slopes, at high altitudes, and in sub-zero temperatures, but the one thing I demand is working together. If they don't, they'll never survive."

"That's what makes you one of the best mountain infantry trainers in the Army," Knowles said.

### ~

Nels shuffled toward a large warehouse in a slow-moving line with the other volunteers wearing their new uniforms and shaved heads. A sign above the door read "Camp Hell Garment District."

Inside, Hannibal stood on a plywood stage with a large map of Colorado behind him.

"Knock off the bullshit and sit down," Hannibal bellowed with his Southern accent.

"My name is Sergeant Storms. Hannibal Storms. I'm gonna teach you how to kill Germans. That's the easy part. Simple. Pull the trigger. Throw the hand grenade. That part of your training will be over in a week."

Nels was alert to every word. He had found what he came to Colorado for -- someone to show him how to kill Germans. Hannibal was in his mid-thirties. His face was round and pleasant, but his hair was cut so close that his white scalp shined through. Nels wondered how he'd look with his own head shaved.

"The hard part will be to find your way across the worst mountain terrain in the world and bring with you enough food and ammo to kick their asses after you get there, if you get there."

Nels swore to himself he would be one of the ones to get there. This will take everything.

"We won't fight in open fields or flatland forests. You'll never see a beach or the streets of a city. We fight in the mountains climbing steep slopes in freezing wind and deep snow, where even the damned pack mules cain't go.

"Right now, you don't have the strength or the stamina, but, by God, when I am finished with you, you will. I am gonna turn you into mountain fighters."

Nels sat up straighter. Hannibal deserved his full attention.

"Welcome to the Tenth Mountain Division. To build our ranks, we've allowed everyone from college boys to cowboys to join up. You hotshot skiers are gonna get a lesson in humility. You've only seen groomed slopes, with ski lodges nearby."

"There are many here who can teach you how to ski, to rock climb, to hunt, and how to dress for the cold. But you don't know how to spot danger. Not the danger of the enemy lurking behind a rock. That's usually obvious. What ain't so obvious is danger in the wind like hypothermia and frostbite. Danger in the rain. Danger in snow crystals. Is the snowfield stable or about to slide? We don't ignore any sign."

Nels nodded. He knew what the sergeant was talking about.

"You will learn not to let the enemy sneak up on you. But what about a blizzard? What about lighting? These are more cunning adversaries. What does an avalanche look like just before it lets loose?"

Nels recalled streaks of pure white crackling against a stormy blanket of grey in the mountains above Narvik. The thunderous boom always called its warning too late. The thought made him uncomfortable even though no storms clouds threatened.

"What you call exhaustion is not the inability to continue, it's your unwillingness to go on. Despite what your mind says, your body is able to continue. I'm gonna prove it to you. It will demoralize your enemy.

"We will not slow down. Nothing will stop us, is that understood?"

Some just nodded their heads while others shouted, "Yes."

"Don't nod your heads at me, you maggots. Respond with a cheerful and forceful 'yes, sergeant.' Is that understood?"

"Yes, sergeant," Nels shouted in unison with the others.

"And remember one thing from here on out ... As the famous Carthaginian general Hannibal once said -- 'don't look back.'"

### ~

Nels dumped his bundle of government-issue clothing and boots on his bunk. He and Alberto, and most of the men from the train, were assigned to the Second Platoon of A Company. Alberto put his bundle on the top bunk.

Nels looked at him, glad he had come to Colorado with him. It felt good to have him close in this unfamiliar place. You were strength when I needed it. I felt trapped in a cage and you opened a door I didn't know was there. You took out the pain and made it bearable.

Terry Clendenin stood next to Steve Falkenberg in the middle of the barracks as if the two of them were in a fashion show, making fun of the way the Army named everything in reverse order.

"This man is wearing the latest in American ski fashions," Terry said, "starting with the one-size-fits-all ski, mountaineering boot. Two or three pairs of felt insoles will customize the fit to any of your tender feet."

Terry pointed to each item as he went. "Ski cap, goggles, mittens with the clever trigger finger, and the ever-popular, one each, parka, olive drab, ski. This addition to our wardrobe is reversible for winter featuring a stylish hood and a long cut body with a drawstring. The large pocket in front is accessible with either hand."

Terry's sense of humor surprised Nels after what he had seen on the train.

When the show was over, Nels filled out the Army's standard form Last Will and Testament and the Next of Kin Notification. He listed his parents Arne and Julia Torkle, Ofotveien 42, Narvik, Norway.

He put the completed forms in a cardboard box sitting on a table by the entrance. "Wills and NOKs" were drawn on the side in red crayon. Hope you never get these Mamma.

As he walked toward his bunk, he recognized Lyle Payette, the French Canadian he'd met on the train. Lyle was busy sketching on his tablet.

Lyle had sketched Hannibal wearing a bronze-plumed helmet and long flowing cape over a Roman chest protector. There were sergeant's stripes on the front of the helmet. The background showed steep mountains with a line of elephants in the snow.

"Very clever," Nels said.

"Thanks."

"I can't draw at all."

"Just think of funny situations and I'll draw them for you."

"It's good you can see the humor around you," Nels said. "I think I'm too serious to notice. Nothing funny ever happens in my life."

"If you look, you'll find it. It's all around us. Lighten up, don't take things too seriously."

"I wish I could," Nels said.

The others sat on the bunk beds in various states of undress examining their new dog tags. Nels looked at his. "Hey, mine has a P in the corner. What does P stand for?" he asked.

"Mine has a C," Coosie said.

"It's your religious preference," Steve said. "P is Protestant. C is Catholic. Mine has an H."

"What does that stand for, heathen?" Olney said. Laughter filled the bare, unfurnished barracks. Green footlockers sat at the end of every bunk.

Nels walked across the bay and introduced himself to Steve explaining he was from Norway. Steve was skinny with brown hair and olive skin.

"I'm from Michigan," Steve said. "You must be a good skier. I need to get you to teach me how to ski."

"You never learned to ski growing up in Michigan?" Nels said.

"No, my parents owned sled dogs and I've been racing them ever since I was in junior high. When I heard about the formation of the Tenth Mountain Division, I decided I'd spent enough time doing research."

"What were you researching?" Nels asked.

"My job was to translate the German Ski Training and Tactics Manual."

"That doesn't sound interesting."

"It was though. The descriptions of highly-trained, fast moving ski assault units involved in strenuous night operations lasting several days inspired me. The tactics they used were designed to surprise the enemy who were often stymied by deep snow or freezing temperatures."

"We have our work cut out for us, don't we?" Nels said.

"Oh we do, for sure. They brought me here because I speak fluent German. I have been creating English translations of German National Socialist propaganda for the new Office of Strategic Services, the OSS, since I graduated from Calvin College in Grand Rapids."

"I'm familiar with the OSS. It was their idea for me to join the Tenth Mountain," Nels said.

"Why did you put Hebrew on your dog tags instead of Jewish?"

"I've studied Hebrew since I was in grade school. 'Jewish' has a more religious connotation than 'Hebrew.' I don't see myself as religious and, Hebrew for me, is my third language -- the language of the Israelites."

"Nice to meet you, Steve. I'll know who to call when we capture a Nazi, or a Jewish refugee."

"Or, a Jewish waitress in a bar in Leadville."

They both laughed.

"I guess we start basic training tomorrow," Nels said trying to conceal his eagerness.

### ~

Nels loved running. He ran like a winter breeze rustling through the pine trees. He jumped over sharp rocks and heavy tree trunks. He didn't care where he was nor did he care where he was headed. All he knew was he had to keep running forward, heading for his rendezvous with the Nazis.

His platoon ran to church and ran to class, singing as they ran, "The heads are up and the chests are out," the drill instructor sang.

"The heads are up and the chests are out," they replied.

"The arms are swinging in cadence count."

"The arms are swinging in cadence count."

They sang as they ran to the baseball diamond.

"Ain't no use in lookin' down."

"Ain't no use in lookin' down."

"Ain't no discharge on the ground."

Running is all they talked about. It ran in their blood.

"Sorry, can't talk right now. Gotta run," Nels said.

"Hate to eat and run," Coosie said.

"I'm running on empty," Lyle said.

### ~

Another week of training was over. Hannibal shouted to Able Company, catching their wind standing before him.

"You boys run out of gas?" Hannibal asked. "Gather round gents. It's time for you to take my grueling eighty-eight-mile walk--Leadville, back to Leadville, crossing fourteen thousand foot mountains, the General Hannibal way.

Nels had heard about The Walk from others who had been through it. He was eager to take on the challenge.

"Time to test what you think you know, this time at altitude. What's your oxygen capacity? What's your endurance capacity? Can you work together?"

Hannibal pointed to a map on an easel behind him. "You'll start by walking down to the Eagle River Bridge, into Red Cliff for the night, and then up and over Shrine Pass the next day. It will only get worse from there."

"This will not be just another training hike. This time aggressors posing as the enemy will confront you. You will have to show me you can outthink them. Nothing is more demoralizing to the enemy than to be outsmarted."

Nels thought that this would be the key to beating the Germans. Outsmarting them.

"So many battles have been won by an impressive display of courage. The more you overcome the enemy, terrain and weather, the more your reputation spreads, getting the enemy to think twice before taking on the Phantoms of the Snow."

Nels recalled the reputation of other racers he had faced. He knew the sergeant was right.

"Your two worst adversaries will be the terrain and weather and there will be plenty of both where you are going. Showing you are relentless and unafraid in the midst of insurmountable obstacles will demoralize the enemy. "

"From here on out, you must be unflinching and unwavering and, even in the face of impending suffering, you must not yield. It is this persistent single-mindedness of iron will that has distinguished the American soldier for centuries.

"Are you ready to be that kind of soldier?"

### ~

A week into The Walk, Nels and the second platoon approached the old mining town of Breckenridge from the Frisco end of the valley. The sun was settling behind the Ten Mile Range. It was 4:30 p.m.

The platoon leader, Lieutenant Edwin Spahr, walked from the rear of the thirty-man group and signaled for them to halt.

Nels stepped off the dirt road with the others and sat in the thick brush and grasses along the Blue River.

Floating in the river was a large gold dredge scooping up bottom sediment using steel buckets on a continuous conveyor.

The ear splitting rumbling and grinding of rocks falling on a rotating sorter, mixed with the pulsating roar of the engines made it impossible to hear. Nels put his fingers in his ears. A roaring waterfall of water sorted the smaller particles into boxes forcing the gold out of the jumble. The larger rocks rode a snarling conveyor behind the floating monster crunching and rasping along the riverbank.

Nels walked over to help Olney with the mule. Holding the frightened mule took all Olney's strength. Nels rubbed Hambone's to reassure the animal.

"No sleeping tonight gentlemen," Spahr yelled, then put his fingers in his ears and shrugged his shoulders at the futility of speaking above the noise.

As if on cue, the dredge engines rattled to a stop leaving stranded rocks to roll back into the Blue River. The operators climbed out of the tin shed in the middle of the dredge and ran down the motionless conveyor to the shore.

The lieutenant sat for a moment. "Is Hambone okay?" he asked Olney.

"He's still shaking, but we'll make it, LT."

"As I was saying, no sleeping tonight gentlemen. Your mission will be to skirt Breckenridge in the dark. We don't want anyone to know we are here, so treat the locals as the enemy. If they discover you, I'll send you back to Red Cliff and you can start The Walk all over again."

"Each squad will plan its own route. Four squads, four teams. Small groups are harder to detect. We'll join up at the beaver dams here at Blue Rock Springs before heading up and over Hoosier Pass," LT said, pointing to his map. "That's about nineteen clicks from here."

He assigned new squad leaders to the four groups for the night operation. "Torkle, you take charge of second squad."

Nels stared at his map for more than fifteen minutes. He was looking for the safest route and terrain features they could recognize in the dark. He looked up several times at the dredge and looked south along the riverbank. He was apprehensive, afraid to make a mistake. Finally, he had a plan.

"That gold dredge gave me an idea," Nels said to his squad. "The dredge dumps the washed gravel on the west side of the river. The east side looks like wetlands the whole way. If we move along the west side of the river, it will take us around the town on dry gravel. If we get to exposed areas, we'll move farther to the west into the trees and then back to the banks of the river. Keeping the river on our left will give us a guiding terrain feature."

"South of the town, the river crosses under the road and heads for the Goose Pasture Tarn. That's where we stop following the river and use the road to our left as our guide."

"We will then come to a good-sized creek called Spruce Creek. It crosses under the highway from east to west. That will tell us we are close to the beaver dams and well out of town. The dams are our destination."

"Lyle, you take point. Steve, you watch the map for us and show Lyle where we are when we stop for breaks. Coosie, you keep track of the time. We want to stop every thirty minutes to rest. Olney, you need to keep Mr. Hambone quiet for us. Make sure the gear in his panniers doesn't rattle when he moves. Same for the rest of us. Jump up and down and make sure nothing rattles or clanks."

Terry stood up and shook his head. "So, if we follow your plan, we'll spend the whole fucking night sneaking around. That will take forever. I would like to sleep sometime."

Alberto looked up at Terry. "It's a good plan. I have no intention of starting over and adding another week to this shit. Anyway, sleep is not a priority."

"Well, I tell ya," Olney said, "complaining is what quitters do, and we don't need no quitters in this outfit."

"Thinking is what smart people do," Terry said. "And we don't have many thinkers in this unit."

Olney jumped up. "Who you callin' stupid?"

Nels stepped between them. He had not expected Terry to cause trouble. "Knock it off. Check your gear and let's get going."

Nels wondered why Terry was so distant, so uncooperative. Is he looking for his place among us, a place where he fits in? Maybe I should have given Terry a task for the night. Next time, Nels thought.

The men helped each other silence their equipment, then lined up in single file. Minutes passed as they waited for the increasing darkness to cover them in secrecy. Adjusting his eyes to seeing at night, and his senses to high alert, Nels could see they were ready.

The bright twinkling stars in the black velvet sky drew Nels's eyes heavenward. A hush came over them and he pointed his finger toward the river and started to walk stepping lightly over the gravel path.

### ~

Within two hours, Lyle held up his hand and dropped to one knee. The river led them alongside the main street. He saw they were exposed among the small houses on either side of them. Nels knelt down next to Lyle.

"Sorry, Nels, the houses just appeared in the dark. Give me a minute to check this out."

Nels looked behind him, then left and right, looking for any movement near them. His hearing grew sharper and his mind paranoid. He could hear faint voices coming from beyond the houses.

A few minutes later, Lyle emerged from the shadows.

"Must have been choir practice at the church. Two men are sitting on the stoop talking."

"Okay, take us to the west away from them and keep your eyes open."

They moved like the trout swimming in the stream under water. As they walked through the town, a man walking a dog along the road approached in the distance. The seven men disappeared into the shadows. Their alertness and their silent reaction to the threat impressed Nels. He relaxed sensing he was among soldiers.

As they approached the beaver dams, Lyle signaled to stop. A half moon was up in a clear sky improving their night vision. It was 10:30. He pointed at faint silhouettes of five soldiers standing by a pond. He turned and whispered to Nels, holding up five fingers. "Only five. There should be more by now."

Nels put a finger to his lips and motioned for Lyle to back away from the pond. He turned and whispered to Alberto, "Pass the word. This is a trap." His heart began to pound in his ears.

He motioned for the men to move closer to him. He tried to subdue his heavy breathing as he considered what to do. Surround and capture them, or, wait until dawn and see what they do? He knew they would fall asleep if they waited.

He whispered and signaled with his arms. "Surround them. Take them prisoner."

The men stepped like deer, placing every step and lifting their heads after each move to watch the unknown figures.

Once in place, behind the unknown group, they stood motionless for a long time until one man turned to take a leak and stood face-to-face with Olney.

"Fuck. You scared me," he said jumping back. "How did you find us back in here without us hearing you?"

Before Olney could answer, ten aggressors stepped from the darkness and held Nels and his squad at gunpoint.

Nels spun around frantically looking for a way out. This must be joke. His heart sank. They would have to start over again.

LT stepped into the group with his flashlight on. "Well, phantoms, you are our prisoners. Tie 'em up. Did you think you could just waltz in here and capture us?"

"We only saw five men," Nels said. "There should have been three other squads here by now and we didn't recognize anyone."

"So you took a chance you could take us prisoner. Well congratulations, you almost got past us. We had two men sitting at the church and they didn't see you. One of us walked a dog through town and sat on a bench and didn't see you."

"But we knew we'd get you when you walked in here. Now tie them to the trees and let's got some sleep. We'll deal with your punishment in the morning."

Nels couldn't sleep. Escape was the only thing on his mind. He would not give in. While the aggressors snored, Nels twisted his arms at odd angles and yanked on the rope that held him. The rope burned his wrists. He pointed his fingers and squeezed his hand into a point pulling it back halfway through the loop. His hand cramped as he tugged and he gasped for breath to overcome the pain. Finally he was free.

He crawled to each of his men, woke them and untied them. He put a finger to his lips and motioned for the squad to follow him.

After sneaking away from the aggressors, Nels turned to Lyle, "Lead us away from these ponds and up into some cover toward Hoosier Pass. We'll hide there for the night."

### ~

It was about 2 a.m. when Steve rolled over inside the two-man tent and woke Nels. He was shivering. He crawled out of the tent into an inch of new snow. Standing in the snow without his boots, he wrapped two blankets around his shoulders. Nels gave him his two.

Nels walked to the next tent. "Terry, wake up. I need some help out here. Will you make Steve some hot coffee? I think he's getting hypothermia."

"What am I, the mess sergeant? Let him make his own. I'm freezing."

"Make me one too," Lyle said. "I'm freezing. I don't know why we don't get sleeping bags instead of these wool blankets."

Terry and Alberto came out of their tent and stood with the other two. Alberto swung his arms in a circle. "Jesus, Mary, and Joseph it's cold. It's July for God's sake."

"The map showed us at ten thousand feet," Lyle said. "No wonder."

Steve's shivering got worse. He gasped for air. He dropped his blankets and started to remove his field jacket. Nels recognized Steve's confusion and his lack of concern for his condition, sure signs of the first stages of hypothermia.

"Let's start a fire," Terry said. "I'll get some wood."

"No, we can't risk a fire. They'll see us for sure," Nels said.

"Oh, my little soldier boy, always obeying the rules. We need a fucking fire and soon," Terry said.

Coosie fired up four gas stoves and started boiling water for coffee.

"There are rules out here," Nels said. "If the aggressors see the fire, they'll chase us all the way back to Camp Hale. What if they were Germans?"

"Germans?" Terry said snickering. "We're never going to have to face any Germans. We're not going to war."

Nels refused to accept Terry's opinion. His adrenaline spiked pushing him to the brink of outrage. He would normally ignore such emotion.

"You don't know that," he said.

"Oh yeah? How come the rest of the division has never been sent overseas? Don't have an answer do you? So what do we do now? Just stand here and freeze to death?"

"Its past 2 a.m.," Nels said. "We'll have to pack up and walk the rest of the night to keep our circulation going. Each of you eat a chocolate bar from your rations. Drink the hot cocoa Coosie is making.

"Terry, if you want to help, would you keep track of the time? Let's stop every thirty minutes to eat and take on water." Nels waited for Terry's "I'm-not-interested-in-helping" response, but none came.

Olney draped his tent over this shoulders. Some of the others did the same. Nels put his over Steve and rubbed his shoulders.

"You'll be okay as soon as we get moving."

Without speaking, the men packed their rucksacks and stood ready to walk. Nels led them in the snow on the long climb toward the top of Hoosier Pass.

### ~

The morning sun flashed on the horizon around 6 a.m. The snow had stopped. Nels looked into the glare and welcomed the soothing light.

Alberto walked up next to Nels. "Why do you put up with Terry's shit? He's so sarcastic. Who does he think he is? You don't have to put up with his mouth."

To Nels, Terry's opinions felt like an attack. He felt humiliated but, in his culture, the only power he had was to walk away.

"Arguments and confrontations are foreign to me. Norwegians have learned to endure each other without showing their feelings or complaining. When I don't know how to respond, I retreat into silence. Who knows? We may need to depend on each other someday."

Nels's and his squad waited for the rest of the platoon at the top of Hoosier Pass. A large brown sign with white letters, and a line down the middle, announced the location of the Continental Divide.

"Eleven thousand five hundred forty-two feet," Terry read the sign out loud. "Pacific Ocean watershed to our left, back the way we came, and Atlantic Ocean watershed to our right down there," he said looking into valley.

Nels watched LT and the rest of the company as they arrived at the top of the pass. Nels braced himself the tongue-lashing he knew was coming. He rubbed the rope burns on his wrist. There was no way I was going to give in to being captured.

LT walked up to Nels and stood silently glaring into his eyes. Nels glared back defiantly.

LT's mouth twitched as though he was fighting a smile. He held out his hand and shook Nels's hand. Nels was relieved and shook the lieutenant's hand firmly.

"Lead us to Alma," LT commanded.

Nels turned and proudly motioned to his squad to take the lead. They began the descent eastward toward the Atlantic Ocean, following the dirt road to the bottom of the pass toward the town of Alma.

Nels no longer felt defeated. He had overcome the disaster of being captured and made a good decision to keep Steve alive. He was sure when Hannibal heard about the incident he would shake his hand too and say well done. He looked up into the bright sunlight and walked with long strides down the mountain.

### ~

The rickety town of Alma sat at the base of a range formed by five mountain peaks. Winter winds, snow, and summer sleet blowing down from fourteen thousand feet had stripped the paint on the buildings.

A group of locals stood on the porch of the general store, in the late July sun, waving at the soldiers.

"Where you boys headed?" a girl with pigtails, brown overalls, and a blue long-sleeve work shirt asked walking beside Nels.

"Mosquito Pass," Nels said.

"Stop and say hello to the Tommyknockers at the Little Daisy Mine when you get there."

"Where's that?"

"It's just above the Orphan Boy and just below the Sweet Home Mine," she said. "You'll pass them on your way up. My dad and I put the names of each mine on the buildings so everyone would remember. Our ancestors worked up there and some of them never came down.

"Sometimes at night, if you sit and listen near the entrance of the mines, you just might hear the Tommyknockers at work, mining the gold that was left behind. Tap, tap tap, tap. That's the tapping of their picks."

The squad shuffled along the road. They were tired. Their heavy packs dug into their shoulders. "Buck up now boys," Olney shouted. "We look like a bunch of rag bags. Look sharp."

Alberto walked up next to Nels. "Do you know what the hell a Tommyknocker is?"

"I heard miners back home talk about them -- _Huldrefolk_ , they called them. They are miners who have been trapped in cave-ins and pounded on the rocks for rescue. They believed that the ghosts of these miners go on knocking in the mineshafts long after they're dead.

"The miners told me that the little men amuse themselves with random acts of mischief, such as stealing unattended tools, or your food."

### ~

Nels trudged through short meadow grasses. Tiny wildflowers whispered to him as he climbed high above the town. He inhaled the faint smell of the mountain meadow.

The landscape gradually changed to barren rocks, cascading talus slopes, and small drifts of discolored snow. Streams of water trickled along his path in the heat of the sun.

The terrain, at thirteen thousand feet, was raw and windswept. The only points of interest in the endless fields of rock were the skeletal frames of old mines clinging to their foundations fighting to stay erect.

Nels heard a jeep struggling up the road behind them and called a halt. Hannibal and a rosy-cheeked driver made their way up the rocky road, bouncing every few feet.

As they stopped, Hannibal tossed a rolled up sleeping bag to Nels.

"I think you'll be able to use these tonight," he said.

They handed out the bags, and the private drove back down the mountain to Alma.

"Mind if I join you for the trip down to Leadville?" Hannibal said. "These new down-filled bags just came in yesterday. They're supposed to keep you warm down to fifteen degrees. Thought you could use some comfort tonight."

Nels was thankful he would not have to shiver through another night. He was glad to have the sergeant with them. He missed his light-hearted jabbing and endless instructions. Maybe Hannibal would put Terry in his place so Nels wouldn't have to.

LT appointed Terry to be the squad leader for the final descent into Leadville.

"See if you can avoid being captured," he said looking at Nels.

Hannibal stood in front of them with his hands on his hips. "How's everybody doing? Ready to make the final descent back to Camp Hale?"

Nels looked beyond the pass at the distant shape of Leadville in the valley far below. "This will be harder than it looks."

"It's always harder than it looks, and much farther. You're right," Hannibal said. "As General Hannibal would say, 'Conquering mountains is hard, but overcoming ourselves is much harder."

The others streaked their faces with sunscreen. The sun's rays were blinding. They all wore their dark mountain sunglasses with canvas side shields.

Nels offered Terry a tube of the sunscreen. Terry held up his hand, "No thanks. Good day to get a tan," Terry said.

Of course that would be your response. Nels wanted to tell Terry he was careless and stupid.

"You'll look like a raccoon," Nels said.

Terry shrugged.

As Terry led the team to the top of Mosquito Pass, Hambone snorted and nodded his head, smelling something the others had not sensed. Dark clouds rolled up in the distance. Lightning flickered beyond the horizon.

"Hold up a minute, boys," Hannibal said. "Terry what's your plan? This weather can change in a heartbeat. The temperature up here can drop more than thirty degrees in minutes."

Frustration wrinkled Terry's brows. "It's not coming this way."

Hannibal's face got red. "You'd risk your life, and the life of these men, on that assumption? What if it turns suddenly?"

Terry balanced on one foot. "Then I think we should stand on one foot and give the storm the finger."

Hannibal snapped a smart salute. "Oh excellent, Mr. Squad Leader, and kill everyone just to amuse you? You'd better give me a good answer or I'll relieve your sorry ass on the spot."

Nels was eager to see Terry bullshit his way out of this one. Oh, please do. Bring up the wind. Cue the lightning. Let's see this stunt.

Terry saw an old mining structure perched on a pile of discarded rock tailings above them. The roof was gone in places, along with much of the siding, but it rested on thick timbers.

"How about under that?" Terry said.

Their walk toward the mine became a race against the weather as the skies darkened. They rushed under the mine and sat down as pea-sized hail pelted the mine and bounced off the rocks outside. Thunder exploded above them. A sign on the entrance read Sweet Home Mine.

The hail gave way to a hard rain. The men lay on the dirt floor on their blankets. Coosie started his gas stove and put a canteen cup of water on to boil.

Olney pulled out his harmonica and blew into it to warm the reeds. He began playing a slow melody. The music was crisp with a hint of brooding.

"Olney, you surprise me. Music for a thunderstorm, Opus Twenty-One." Terry said.

"Oh, it's just a tune on my Hobo Harp. Usually only play when I'm alone, but this seems like a good time. A migrant passing through Kansas during the Dust Bowl taught me. He killed snakes he found along the roads and hung them belly-up on fences to make it rain -- Brother Goode he called himself."

"You make a lonesome blues sound," Terry said. "He must have been a jigaboo."

"Don't call him that. He was talented and had a gentle heart. What if he'd been a sodbuster like me?"

"That's different," Terry said.

Nels sat up. Anger glared in his eyes. "No, it isn't." He'd had enough of Terry's put-downs. "You can't think of a nasty slur for a white guy, but you know how to humiliate a black man, like you did to the porter on the train."

Terry waved him off.

Nels was shaking. He sat down and took a deep breath.

Olney played another song. The mysterious wail of the harmonica drifted across the wet rocks and faded over the top of the pass like a haunting mist.

That song matches how I'm feeling right now. Weary and troubled. The tune soothed his anger.

He watched the gray sky grow darker and wrapped himself in his new sleeping bag leaning back against a timber and closing his eyes.

"Not going to run today?" his mother Julia asked him during breakfast.

Ineke's frustration from the day before haunted him. _Never mind. I must have been naïve to believe you'd ever be as devoted to me as you are to racing._

"I need time to think," Nels said. "Ineke feels taken for granted because I'm training all the time. I'm not sure what I should do."

"You're learning what makes her tick. That's the first step in showing affection. You've grown up as classmates and neighbors, just friends. Now you need to go deeper. She wants you to reassure her of your devotion. Every day."

"Would you gather wild berries for me in the mountains?" Julia said, peering slyly over her cup of coffee. "You could take Ineke with you. I'm sure she would enjoy that. And why don't you ask her out for lunch. You'll both be twenty-one next week."

### ~

The men lined up single file shifting their packs back and forth on their weary shoulders. Nels could only see one other man in front of him in the dim light. Terry pivoted on his heels and took off into the gloom alone, not waiting for the others.

Nels rubbed his hand over his dark stubble. He's going to kill himself one of these days.

"Hang on everyone," he said. "Pull out your ropes and let's tie in together."

The wind rose up through the shroud and ambushed the soldiers. Small pebbles tumbled along the ground. The men barged back into the mine. The wind slapped the mine's lumber making a rapid succession of sharp knocking sounds, like the striking of steel against a hard surface. It wailed through a gap under the roof boards, like Olney's harmonica, crying the blues.

"This is gonna be a bitch," Nels said.

Terry ran out of the tempest, groping for the entrance to the mine as though he were blind. Nels hesitated to help but saw his anguish and ran out of the mine. He took his hand leading him back to the shelter.

Steve yelled to be heard. "I can't feel my fingers."

Coosie knew what he needed to do. Holding up his gas stove he yelled, "Line 'em up, _compadres_." The others pulled their gas stoves from their packs and put them on the dirt floor of the mine next to Coosie's.

Nels helped Coosie fill the cups with water, coffee, and hot chocolate. When the first one was steaming hot, he took it to Terry.

Terry struggled to hold the cup steady. His voice quivered. "Thanks, buddy."

Nels sensed this furor was drawing them closer together. _Koselig_ , he heard his mother say to his school class. _Koselig_ , in a single word, expresses all the things we Norwegians love: friendship, comfort, trust, and most of all happiness, doesn't it?

### ~

For Nels, the ten-mile walk downhill to Leadville took forever. He knees buckled often and his neck ached from the weight of his pack. He was nearly out of water and only took small sips from his canteen.

As he crossed a small streambed, he stopped and spoke to Terry.

"Terry, hold on a minute. I'm out of water. How about if we detour to those two ponds and refill out canteens."

"How about if we just keep going and you borrow a few sips from somebody else?"

"May I have a sip from you?"

"No way, I want to get back to Camp Hale without dying of thirst."

LT stepped between them.

"Give him a sip of water or you can walk back to Breckenridge by yourself."

"Steve, you're in charge now. Terry, you're relieved. You take everyone's canteens and go over to those ponds and refill them by yourself. Everyone give Terry three of your canteens."

"That's twenty-one canteens to fill and carry."

"Better get a move on wiseass."

### ~

Two days later, Nels and Alberto walked out of the mess hall at Camp Hale, after a breakfast of scrambled eggs, creamed chipped beef on toast, and bitterly strong coffee.

"Glad that's over," Nels said.

"Eating the Shit on a Shingle?" Alberto asked.

"No, the walk over Mosquito Pass. I'm exhausted. Never been so constantly worn out. I guess that's what soldiering is all about. Endurance under stress."

"Better check my mailbox," Alberto said. "After three weeks, I might have a letter or two. You comin'?"

"No thanks. I just want to sit here and enjoy the summer warmth for a change."

Alberto checked his mail slot in the company office hoping for at least a postcard. Nothing. He bent over and looked into the slot again.

"Alberto Bisio?" a voice behind him said. Alberto did not recognize the voice.

"Yes?"

"Casey North. I'm with the Office of Strategic Services out of Washington, D.C."

The stranger wore a long, tan trench coat and carried a leather briefcase. His black hair had a deep part on one side and a small flip above his forehead. The faint line of a mustache lined his upper lip.

North pulled a photo identification card from his pocket and handed it to Alberto.

"We coordinate intelligence operations between our military and the British Special Operations Executive. Can we go somewhere private and talk? I'd like to ask you about Lucca, Italy."

"What about Lucca?"

"We are trying to support a network of Italian partisans we can trust to disrupt the German Army in those mountains. The partisans have been harassing the Germans since early in the war and Fifth Army wants to step up their work. We need your help verifying who we're talking to for this new operation."

Alberto led them across the company street to the library. North closed the door and pulled the shade over the glass in the center of the door as they sat down at the small table in an empty office.

"What do you want with me?" Alberto asked.

"Is the name Niccolo Campanile familiar to you?"

"Yes. I worked with him at the Carrera marble quarry. He also taught me to carve stone. He's a fine sculptor."

"He's helping recruit partisans in the area north of Lucca," North said. "He's also putting _Alpini_ mountain troops, who defected from the Italian Army, together with the partisans."

"So, you are going to take him prisoner with my help? _Non una possibilità_."

"I understand," Casey said. " _Ti capisco_."

" _Parli Italiano_?"

" _Si, si, si._ I grew up on the South Side of Chicago, just like you."

Casey's accent was familiar. Alberto relaxed. " _Come posso aiutarla_ , how can I help you?"

"Mussolini is finished as the supreme leader and our sources tell us he will be deposed soon. His Fascist government will be dissolved once he is out of the way. General Eisenhower is conducting secret negotiations with the provisional Italian government to replace Mussolini. We are hoping a new campaign will force the Germans to divert troops to a second front."

"In Lucca?"

"Well, all along an east-west line below the Apennines," North said. "Aldo Merruci. You know Aldo?"

"Yes. We worked in the marble quarry together. How do you know so much about my friends?"

"Aldo works for us now. He set up a radio transmitter in the mountains and is our primary link to the British. We asked your mother, Giada, and she told us where we could find you. We already knew about Nels. It was our idea to put you two in the Tenth Mountain."

"Some of the partisan radio traffic keeps mentioning Villa Bissi, a place they are using as a rendezvous point. Do you know where this is?"

Alberto scratched his head and wrinkled his eyebrows. "That's my father's vineyard. Giada is the supervisor, not my mother. What's happened to them?

"Relax. They're fine."

"Can you protect them?"

"They are quite capable of protecting each other. We just want to get oriented to what we are hearing from the resistance. Aldo is coordinating British parachute drops to the partisans. We could use your help verifying the drop zones he is recommending, someone we can trust who has been in that area and can pinpoint what he is telling them. So these are people you would trust?"

"With my life I assure you."

"Do you know Octavio Pietro?"

"Yes. Tavio we called him. Is he alive?"

"Very much alive. He commands one of the partisan units in the mountains."

Alberto sighed with relief. "Tavio was my first, and closest friend, when my father moved us to Lucca from Chicago. He and I started sixth grade together. Our friendship -- you probably don't want to hear all this."

"Yes, please. I'd like to know more. "

"I was twelve years old when I started sixth grade at the cathedral of _San Michele in Foro_. The medieval cathedral's four colonnades of white marble towered above the surrounding piazza. I remember a blue-orange sunrise bathing the top half of the entryway," he began.

"Tavio helped me learn Italian. That eased my struggles with a new language, and eased the transition from life in Chicago to life in a rural village. I was alone and he took away my loneliness."

"The Blackshirts captured Aldo and Tavio during a raid on the marble quarry. That's when I left Italy."

Casey nodded in agreement. "No one likes the _Fascisti_. Tavio sounds like a good friend."

"Tell me more about Aldo, please."

"Aldo was a homeless orphan. His father was killed during Italy's military occupation of Ethiopia in 1935. His mother, in desperation, ran off with a sculptor she knew, forcing Aldo to quit school and become a beggar."

Alberto saw Casey was moved by the story. Casey looked out the library window. "No wonder Aldo volunteered to work against the Fascists."

"Tell me about Vidi-cia-tico? Is that how you pronounce it?"

" Vidi-chá-tico," Alberto said.

"Show me on the map please."

Alberto pointed to the map. "Vidiciatico is north and east, here, near Mount Belvedere along the Dardagna River, at the base of this ridge of mountains."

"One more, if I may. Gaggio Montano. "

"Gaggio is a crossroads town just east of Mount Belvedere in this valley. Why these locations?"

North sat back and clasped his hands on top of his head. "The Germans are using more than fifteen thousand slave laborers to build a belt of fortifications we call the Gothic Line. So far, there are more than two thousand well-fortified machine gun nests, casemates, bunkers, observation posts, and artillery positions. They are fortifying the passes and mountaintops, some fifteen to thirty miles in depth, north of the Arno River."

North traced the Gothic Line on the map. "It stretches east from the Ligurian Sea, above Pisa and Florence, and beyond. We bomb them by day and Pietro and the partisans blast what we can't hit from the air."

"Can you let Tavio know I am helping?"

"I don't know about that. We would have to transmit your name in code -- a word he would recognize as referring to you. I can't use your name in the transmissions."

Without hesitating Alberto said, " _Beatricé_."

" _Beatricé_. Who is that?"

"He'll know right away who she is and who sent the password."

"Well, we are a suspicious bunch. I need to know more about her and what she means to the two of you. That isn't a secret between you is it?"

Alberto smiled and shook his head. "No, she was Niccolo's daughter.

"These people mean a lot to you, don't they?"

"Yes, they do."

"Niccolo taught you how his art came from his heart," Casey said. "Thank you for telling me that story. Please keep our visit top secret. You must tell no one. I'll contact you again. And, thank you for your insights. You've been very helpful."

He turned and walked out of the library.

# TABOR OPERA HOUSE

Waiting in the bleachers at the base of the Black Rapids cliff, Nels sat with other soldiers who amused themselves with chitchat, or Chesterfields. None of them was older than twenty-five.

Terry read from "The Denver Post" out loud.

"Two days ago more than one hundred and sixty thousand Allied troops landed along a fifty-mile stretch of fortified French coastline, to fight Nazi Germany on the beaches of Normandy, France."

"More than five thousand ships and thirteen thousand aircraft supported the D-Day invasion, and by day's end, the Allies gained a foothold in Continental Europe. The cost in lives on D-Day was high. More than nine thousand Allied soldiers were killed or wounded."

Terry folded the paper and put it on the bleacher seat.

"I guess they don't need mountain climbers or skiers like us at sea level."

Nels began to feel Terry was right. Would the war end before they were called to fight?

Hannibal stepped in front of the group and commanded, "Awww-tensh-hut."

The soldiers snapped to attention. "Take seats," he barked.

"We climb to glory," they replied in one unified voice, then sat down.

### ~

Alberto checked the carabineer at the back of his harness, and the ropes threaded through it, then jammed his heavy leather gloves between his fingers to make sure they were tight. He signaled thumbs up to the instructors next to him who started the fireworks. Rifle blanks pop-pop-popped. Dummy hand grenades exploded nearby and smoke canisters hissed blowing purple smoke across the top of the cliff.

He made the sign of the cross, then leapt through the smoke, over the edge, with both arms spread like a swan in flight. He held the rope across his chest with his right hand, and fired blanks from a carbine with his left hand.

He tightened his grip on the rope, which slowed his death leap. The rope drew him back to the cliff. He ran face first down the rock feeding rope across his chest. Landing at the bottom, Alberto pulled the remaining rope through his carabineer. He was as breathless as the soldiers watching.

"What a great morning for soaring. Welcome to Black Rapids, home of the Army's finest rock climbers. I'm Corporal Bisio. I wanted to get your attention with the famous 'Australian Rappel,' the only way to run down a cliff and kill your enemy at the same time. We'll teach you this maneuver later."

Hannibal joined Alberto in front of the bleachers. "Today's class is on methods of evacuation. Corporal Bisio and his instructors will now show you two methods of evacuating the dead and wounded from difficult terrain. It doesn't get much worse than a cliff. Please direct your attention up top."

Two of Alberto's instructors secured ropes to the trailing end of the stretcher. Two other instructors took rappelling positions on either side of a stretcher, ready to walk it down the cliff. They lowered the stretcher over the edge with a man, acting wounded, lashed to it.

The four of them guided the victim down the rock face, one man on either side, to the bottom of the cliff.

Nels thought, I hope I never have to do that.

Another team at the top attached a wire stretcher, loaded with a soldier, and sent it down the cable of the suspended tramway.

Halfway down, the stretcher jerked to a stop and the wounded soldier sat up and threw cans of Spam toward the bleachers. Everyone let the cans fall without trying to catch them, but Coosie jumped up, grabbed a can and hollered, "Time for the Spam Song."

The boys from second squad jumped out of the bleachers and formed a semi-circle as though they were on stage around a microphone. They started clapping in rhythm and begin chanting in unison:

You can mix it up with crackers,

You can fry it 'til it's done,

You can spend a hundred smackers on a chef, a number One.

You can make it look like chicken,

You can make it look like ham,

And if you're really clickin'

You can make it look like lamb.

But no matter how you treat it,

With the best care that you can,

When you finally come to eat it,

The stuff still tastes like Spam.

Nels leaned over the knife-edge of the cliff shocked at how far it was to the bottom. He had been up here before, but the anticipation of walking over the edge backwards made his heart race. He shivered and turned to listen to the instructors demonstrating how to tie an injured man on their back.

He struggled to tie his rappelling seat around his hips and legs. His heartbeat throbbed in his ears. Alberto walked by and pointed to Terry. "You ride on Nels's back."

Terry jumped on Nels's back forcing Nels to lean forward and stagger to regain his balance. Cold sweat glistened on his forehead as every muscle in his body tightened, partially to balance Terry's weight, and partially to overcome his fear of leaning backwards over the cliff with someone else's life in his hands.

He struggled to tie a short rope around the two of them knotting it across his chest. Walking to the edge, he labored with Terry's weight, working to maintain his balance. Using all his strength, he knelt down to pick up his assigned rope for the descent. He looped it into his carabineer and backed to the edge of the cliff. Only the strength in his hands held the two of them from sliding down the cliff.

Once over the edge, most of the burden shifted to his carabineer and his descent was easier, controlled, and gradual. Nels's rapid breathing subsided.

Before he could recover, Terry's weight shifted as he waved to a friend several ropes over and shouted, "Hey, like my pack mule? This is the only way to travel."

The muscles in Nels's arms began to cramp. He held back his anger and fear that was about to make him scream. He gasped for air and paused to catch his breath. He shifted Terry's weight to a more comfortable position.

"Hey, you outta steam?" Terry teased. "You know it's too late to switch places."

In a shrill voice Nels said, "I'll make it, asshole. Just give me a minute."

He looked down the face of the cliff looking at the rope below them and his next foothold. He stepped down with his left foot and shifted his weight and then stepped with his right foot and rested. I will not be defeated.

Terry started moving again, hollering to another soldier, "Hey, Jerry, nice mule you got there."

"Stop it! You'll kill us both," Nels screamed, releasing his anxiety.

"Sorry, pal. I thought you could handle it."

As they landed at the bottom, Nels untied the ropes and turned to face Terry. His eyes narrowed to crinkled slits. He held the rope between his hands and bent it in a loop moving toward Terry.

Terry turned his back and walked away with his hands up, shunning Nels's anger. Nels wrapped the rope around Terry's shoulders and spun him around.

"Why don't you take any of this seriously? You're not ready for combat. You can't keep playing. We invaded France two days ago dammit."

Terry snatched the rope from Nels's hands and threw it on the ground. "Combat? We're never going to see combat. We've been here for a year doing the same thing over and over. You think this division is going anywhere?" Terry said.

Hannibal and Alberto walked up to stop the fight.

"Ya, you vill see dees mountains for de rest of de var," Terry said imitating Nels's accent. "Dats vhat you vill see."

Nels stabbed a finger at Terry, "Our time will come. You will see."

"Oh, horseshit. Someone should have told you right up front, the Tenth Mountain Division was created so us college ski club boys could play in the snow and avoid combat."

"You're a liar!" Nels yelled shoving Terry. Terry rushed Nels, but Alberto stepped between them keeping them at arm's length. He grabbed Nels by the arm and dragged him away from Terry.

"Nels, stop it."

"Get out of my way." Nels tried to push past him but Alberto was too strong and pulled him back.

"Terry is a punk, but what in God's name is wrong with you? When did you decide you wanted to fight him?"

Nels glared at his friend. "He's full of shit." He swung at Alberto. Alberto dodged the blow and one of his powerful hands flashed forward, grabbing Nels's throat.

"Terry could be right. We aren't in the war. They never saw a German soldier and don't really want to. Feel this? Your anger is choking you to death. There may never be a chance to fight back."

Alberto released his grip. "Had enough?"

Nels gasped and coughed as he walked away holding his throat.

Screw them both. I am sick of being told we will never face the Germans. His jaw locked so tight his teeth ached. Tears welled up in his eyes. More tears. I'm tired of crying, too. They won't bring Ineke back.

### ~

Alberto sat down on the bleacher next to Terry. The other soldiers had left. Terry turned his handsome, self-assured face toward the rays of the brilliant sun as though nothing had happened.

Removing his army ski goggles with canvas side shades, he asked, "Got any of that new army-issue sunscreen on you? I don't want to look like a raccoon when I get to town tonight."

"That Coppertone wax? No, I don't. Sorry. You got any plans for this weekend?"

"Not me. Some of the guys are going to Aspen to party. Maybe I'll visit the USO in Leadville and dance with a miner's daughter."

"Hannibal says they all work in the mines around here and are not the beauties you are used to," Alberto said.

"Beauty is not what I'm after right now."

"Terry, that stunt on the cliff just now was out of line. What's the matter with you?"

"I was just joking around. Can't Norwegians take a joke?"

"It's not a joke to him. That's why the two of you butt heads. You aren't serious and he is. I also know that rappelling frightens him."

"Well we share something in common then. I'll admit, only to you, that I was shaken up coming down the cliff on Nels's back. I don't like letting someone else be in control and being on the cliff has always bothered me anyway," Terry said.

"A little nervous?"

"More than a little. I think I deal with my fear by being loud and assertive."

"Like you are yelling at the fear?"

"Exactly," Terry said. "Skiing doesn't scare me like rappelling and rock climbing do."

"I know how you feel. I tense up and have to say a prayer before I start," Alberto said.

"You do? You seem fearless all the time."

"Only because I've learned to control those emotions. But that won't solve the problem between you and Nels. He's suffered a great deal since the war began. The Germans killed his fiancé and he had to flee Norway. I wanted you to know so you would understand his dedication for getting into the war. He is our squad leader now. You have to support him and not compete with him. Do you think you can do that?"

Terry turned his face away from Alberto, looking up at the sun. "Spare me. I'm not interested in fighting, only skiing. That's why I joined this unit. No chance we're going into combat. Why did you sign up?"

"Nels needed a friend. He was alone in a foreign country separated from everyone he loved. Difficult experiences are easier to bear with a good friend."

Terry sighed and gazed down the valley. "I have lots of friends, but no difficult experiences."

### ~

Nels got off the Army bus in Leadville at the Masonic Hall. The USO gave out free coffee and donuts on Saturdays.

He mingled with the townspeople. Merchants, men in their sixties, mothers wearing print aprons. Priests. Children. Stranded wanderers. Carpenters. Miners and soldiers.

Red Cross Donut Dollies circulated among the soldiers holding out grease-stained paper bags full of sugar donuts.

Their smiles were affectionate. _I think I come here on Saturdays just to get a smile._ Nels watched a blonde-haired beauty hand coffee to a soldier. His heart flickered thinking she could be Ineke.

As those next to him introduced themselves, he shook their hands with affection. He felt he was among family again. His anger from yesterday began to release its grip.

Alberto walked up next to Nels and touched his shoulder "Thought I might find you here."

Nels turned away and folded his arms across his chest.

"Sorry about yesterday," Alberto said. "You were out of line but so was I. Everyone knows Terry's a piece of shit. You don't need to prove it. We all saw what he did."

"He ignores us like he doesn't need us," Nels said.

"He won't if we get into combat. Wait until the bullets fly, he'll come running."

Nels took a sip of coffee. "I like being here with these people. I feel welcomed. I've been focusing on all this training so much, I've lost sight of everything else. I pit myself against each difficulty as if I had to conquer it immediately."

"Unless you are victorious, you feel defeated, am I right?" Alberto said.

Nels looked down at his coffee cup and nodded.

"That's the heart of a true champion, right?" Alberto said cocking his head to look into Nels's eyes. "For you it's not a game."

"It was never a game."

An old man appeared in front of Nels and Alberto. His weathered, calloused hands trembled slightly. Coffee stained the side of his paper cup. His bloodshot eyes glistened in the morning window light, gazing through his long, yellow, cigarette-smoke-stained beard. He had a newspaper tucked under his arm.

"Used to be all miners came here for the free coffee. Now it's all soldiers. Can't say I miss them ole' bastards. Do miss the sporting ladies though. Great way to spend a payday. You boys tasted any of that?"

"No sir. That's off limits and we don't have the money anyway," Nels said.

"Spent some time up on Fancy Pass. What a character she was. There's a set of peaks you won't forget. Wore my ass out trying to find gold in that glory hole."

Nels thought the man was feeble-minded, confused after so many years alone in the mountains.

"They call me Mississip," he said tipping his floppy, dog-eared hat. "Rumor is you boys is leaving soon to fight in Burma up there in the Himmerlayers. That true?"

"Not that I know of. Just another rumor. There's a new one every month," Alberto said.

"Might rain tomorrow," the old timer said. Mississip handed his copy of "The Leadville Herald Democrat" to Nels and disappeared into the crowded hall. Big Band music played on a record player. Nels stared after the old gentleman wondering why he'd spoken to them.

Alberto nudged Nels. "I'm in love with the brunette Donut Dolly with the short hair. I'm going to ask her to marry me."

Nels laughed as he sat down at a folding table.

Alberto took a bite of donut, reading the front-page headlines.

"Hey they just arrested Mussolini. I would love to kill that arrogant piece of shit, or a fucking Blackshirt. Here we are," he announced to the world. "Send us."

Nels was not enthused. "The war will be over before we get there."

"The Swedish government announced it will no longer allow German troops to use its railways," Alberto continued.

Nels remembered the morning with his father at the train station in Narvik when they discovered the Nazis getting off the train from Kiruna.

"I can't believe it," Nels said. "They finally came to their senses."

"And, the Allies bombed Rome for the first time two days ago. Five hundred American bombers destroyed the district of San Lorenzo in Rome killing more than four thousand five hundred Italian civilians."

"War kills everybody," Nels said. "Too bad civilians have to suffer to get at the soldiers."

Alberto folded the paper and laid it on the table.

"Speaking of painful suffering, there's an opera playing this evening down at the Tabor Opera House. Let's go get a tuna sandwich and hot chocolate before we go, at The Golden Burro Cafe, just like the old days at Creamies."

Nels smiled and agreed. He had developed a taste for tuna and hot chocolate in Northfield and he enjoyed his talks with his friend Alberto.

### ~

From where he sat in the opera house, Nels felt he was drifting in a small boat along the blue river painted on the curtain across the stage, headed for the rapids in the distance.

The colorful tableaux looked up at the tallest bridge in the world from the bottom of the canyon of the Royal Gorge.

Contrary to the transient intention of its maker, the hand-painted canvas survived the silver boom, World War I and The Great Depression, enhancing the enduring spirit of the theater itself.

As the curtain rose, music once again filled the old opera house, welcomed by the spiders and field mice like a family reunion. Flakes of dust drifted like silver falling into the stage lights below. Nels wrinkled his nose, sensing he might sneeze.

The performers on stage ended one part of the opera. Nels applauded as the orchestra began the introduction to the next aria.

Nels looked up at the thirty-foot-wide circular dome that towered above him. The massive three-story Victorian structure was constructed of stone, brick and iron. The seats were covered with crimson plush. The interior color scheme was red, gold, white and sky-blue, illuminated by brightly burning bulbs.

"You'll love this," Alberto said. " _Federico's Lament_ by Francesco Cilea. It is my favorite." A flute played quietly alone as the singer began. Alberto whispered his translation of the Italian lyrics to Nels.

"He's saying this is the story of a poor shepherd boy who wanted to tell his story, but fell asleep," Alberto began.

The violins whispered in unison.

Opera singer -- _C'e nel sonno l'oblio. Come l'invidio_...

"In sleep there is oblivion. How I envy him," Alberto whispered above the slow agonizing flute and violin melody.

Singer on stage -- _Anch'io vorrei dormir cosi, nel sonno almeno l'oblio trovar. La pace sol cercando io vo. Vorrei poter tutto scordar..._

The violins raised their voices.

Alberto whispered, "If only I could find sleep like this--oblivion. I am searching only for peace, to forget everything."

Nels's thoughts drifted back to the East Meadow. The lovers stopped and kissed in the moonlight surrounded by the shadows of bare aspens on fresh snow. _That is where I knew peace._

The singer on stage strained his voice to express his agony. His face twisted with grief. " _Fatale vision, mi lascia. Mi fai tanto male. Ahime._

"Oh fatal vision, leave me. You hurt me so deeply. Alas." The audience cheered and whistled, rising to their feet.

Nels envisioned Ineke laying helplessly face first in the puffy snow. Tears streamed down his cheeks. He twitched in agony as he stood up and walked quickly out of the theater.

The street was empty. Nels looked up at the night sky through his tears. A gentle rain started to fall as though every angel in heaven was crying with him.

Alberto followed Nels outside. "Oh Nels," Alberto whispered. "The grief is back isn't it? I'm sorry. It didn't occur to me the opera would torment you. Forgive me."

Alberto touched Nels's arm for a moment and then hugged him.

Nels pulled Ineke's mitten from inside his shirt.

"I am empty," Nels said. "I have nothing but this pain that pursues me. Alberto, I wish I had died in that meadow with Ineke. I can't get rid of my grief."

"Before, I was a ski racer loved by my country, and I was devoted to the sweetest women I ever knew. Now I have nothing. No purpose. No direction."

"Your suffering has taken your strength and your sense of purpose," Alberto said. "But no one can hurt you any deeper. That should give you peace and courage."

"I see her face in every flower, every sunrise, every song on the radio makes me think of her and I can't fight it off. The hurt is unbearable. All I can think of is that revenge on the Nazis will remove the torment. But how will I get revenge? I'm trapped here in Colorado. We may never face them. Am I condemned to be tortured my whole life?"

Alberto put his arm around Nels as they started to walk through town. The evening shower was over.

"You're not crazy. You're still in love. I'm sure Ineke misses you in heaven as much as you miss her here on earth. Remember, you have eternity to go on together."

"If I ever get there," Nels said.

Alberto stopped and looked at Nels. "You do have a purpose here whether you realize it or not. You have a drive to succeed that I see, and the men see it. That's why you were appointed our squad leader. The men believe in your strength and trust your judgment."

They walked in silence.

Alberto stopped. "Maybe, in order to get free, maybe it's time to say good-bye to Ineke, good-bye for now until you're together again in heaven."

"I have so much to tell her. Good-byes are important aren't they?"

"I think so. They are appointments we have to keep."

"Appointments?" Nels asked.

"Uh huh, from Ecclesiastes -- a time for every event under heaven. A time to weep and a time to laugh. A time to mourn and a time to dance. A time for war and a time for peace, and in your case, a time to hold on and a time to let go," Alberto said.

Nels listened thoughtfully. He still held Ineke's mitten in his hand.

"Remember when I was teaching you to rappel and you were afraid to let go and trust your lifeline?

"I do."

"When you did, you found not only peace, but also strength, that you could go on and not fall."

"You are a good friend Alberto. I'm glad you fell on me in the woods in Vermont," Nels said. Friends, he thought to himself. What a wonderful gift, to have even just one close friend in this life.

# MOUNT OF THE HOLY CROSS

Major General Donald Haines, the division commander, stood at his office window watching the snow train clear the tracks. Three days of new snow submerged Camp Hale.

The giant spinning blades of the rotary snowplow created its own blizzard throwing snow off the tracks. A pair of locomotives, encrusted in ice, strained to push the plow forward, blowing two towering plumes of dark coal smoke into the gray sky.

The general turned away from the window and spoke to the regimental commanders gathered in his office.

"Today is the perfect day for the start of Operation Battle Mountain. For the next thirty days we will test their knowledge and endurance in simulated mountain warfare conditions. Thanks to your planning, we have created a marathon of survival for these men."

"Thank you, sir," one of the commanders replied. "We will put them in real life combat conditions, without bullets flying and people dying."

Haines turned toward the frosted window. "The men need to know they can rely on the strength of each other. They must discover their ability to withstand adversity and hardship."

He stepped over to a map of Europe hanging on the wall. "I know the war appears to be coming to an end and we may not be engaged in Europe. But, gentlemen, we cannot allow ourselves the luxury of relaxing."

He pointed to Scandinavia on the map. "The Finnish ski troops must remain diligent in case the Russians invade again. The Norwegians must maintain a military with mountain ski troops, and what if we have to chase the German _Gebirgsjäger_ out of the Apennines in northern Italy? No, by God, this division will be ready for anything," Haines said.

"Sir, do you know which of those places we are destined for?" another commander asked. "The men grumble that they will never be used in combat, that the war will end before they see action."

"It might. But then the mop up begins," Haines said. "When the troop ships sail for home at the end of the war, we could still be fighting in the mountains to take out pockets of resistance."

### ~

Yellow morning light rose between the distant peaks and illuminated a cluster of white mountain tents set among twisted pines and covered with an overnight snowfall.

Nels looked out the opening of his tent at a grove of bristlecone pines bent in strange shapes by the relentless pressure of the wind at this altitude.

A row of single-burner gas stoves hissed, heating canteen cups filled with water and powdered coffee.

Someone moved inside the tent next to him trying to untie the front flap. Coosie, encapsulated in his mummy bag, flopped out onto the snow.

"Ahh, the womb. Conceived by the gander, cooked by the goose. In fuzzy down I was given life," Coosie sighed.

"You were conceived in pigeon shit, Rosondo," Terry shouted from inside an adjacent tent.

"Hey, Coosie, is the coffee ready, buddy?" Olney called from his tent.

Coosie unzipped his bag, rolled over and dipped a finger into a steaming canteen cup.

"There's plenty for me, but none for you _pendejos_ ," Coosie said.

Nels and Alberto crawled out of their tent bundled in their parkas and unlaced boots. Coosie handed them a canteen cup filled with steaming coffee.

Hannibal trudged up to them on snowshoes.

"Everyone out of the fart sack. It's time to head out. For the next three weeks you dog faces belong to me."

Coosie stood over one of the stoves stirring the contents.

"Hey, Coosie. What C-ration concoction would you suggest for this morning's breakfast?" Hannibal said.

"My suggestion for these hardy mountain men of second squad is to mix one can of pork and beans with one can beefsteak with potatoes, one can of dried crackers and one can of cheese spread together with a little water. Heat to a boil and _Órale_ , Eagle River Stew." He handed Hannibal a steaming metal cup of coffee.

"Hey, Sarge, what do you get when you cross a snowman with a vampire?" Terry yelled from inside his tent.

"I give up."

"Frostbite."

"Very clever, Clendenin. But today the jokes are over. Get packed up and be assembled here in one hour," Hannibal said.

"I thought it was funny," Nels said to Alberto.

### ~

"Lieutenant Spahr and the other platoon leaders have been briefed on the next phase of Operation Battle Mountain," Hannibal said. "You will live at these altitudes from here on out."

Nels was ready, unafraid of what might lay ahead.

"Your worst enemies, to be sure, will be the terrain and the weather. You will also encounter aggressor forces along the way. Each unit will take different routes to different objectives. All the routes are designed to test your mountaineering skills, your ability to work as a team and your tactics when you encounter aggressors."

"LT will not advise you. He will be there as an observer and will grade you after each phase. The aggressor forces you encounter along the way are from other Tenth Mountain units so they aren't rookies."

Nels shrugged his shoulders. They'd better be good or we'll send them running.

Hannibal held a pine twig pointing at his map. "Your first adventure will be to deploy with first squad. You will make this loop over Half Moon Pass up to the summit of the Mount of the Holy Cross, then find your way down to the Teardrop Couloir and then loop back around to Notch Mountain."

"What's a coo-lo-are sergeant," Olney asked with his cowboy accent.

"It's a French mountaineering term. It could be a runoff gully or an avalanche chute, you won't know until you get there," Hannibal replied.

No matter what we find, it will be treacherous.

"From Notch Mountain you will work your way back down to our rendezvous point here at the Fall Creek trailhead where I'll meet you and give you your next objective. Remember, no fires. They can only be used for signaling if we have to come get you. Understood?" Hannibal concluded.

Did you hear that, Terry? No fires.

Nels offered to take the lead, breaking a trail for the others through the deep fresh powder. The long snaking line of soldiers climbed along narrow contours through the spruce forest of the Holy Cross Wilderness.

Their mission, given them by Hannibal, was to sneak through this area pinpointing enemy positions and observing any movement that would threaten the main force that would follow. They were challenged to get in and out without being detected. If detected, they were instructed to decide whether to withdraw or kill or capture those they discovered.

As they climbed above the timberline, their white skis, parkas, pants and rucksack covers made them invisible. The bright sun sparkled off their dark goggles. Their rifles swayed like black spears. For Nels, this was not a game but a real combat patrol.

Every so often he stopped the group to listen and to scan the area with his binoculars. He and Alberto looked at their maps verifying their location to make sure they wouldn't get lost. He had Lyle, the cartoonist, sketch the terrain features along their route and make notes about what they saw.

Before entering the barren reaches of Half Moon Pass, Nels and his squad hid in the last line of trees, drinking icy water and eating candy bars.

As he scanned a wide meadow around Cross Creek below them, icy winds whipped them from all directions. The other squad, for some reason, kept going over the pass and skied down a long slope into a grove of trees in a meadow.

"Wait. Don't follow them," Nels said. The squad gathered around him. "What are they chasing?" Nels said.

"Probably just want to get out of this wind," Terry said. "We should too."

Nels ignored him. "That looks like a danger area," Nels said. "If I were the Germans, I mean the enemy, I would be waiting in those trees and hit you as you skied in at full speed. Maybe I'd wait until you had your packs off making camp, and then ambush you when you weren't looking."

"Nah," Terry said. "They're smart enough to head for shelter. Let's get off this ridge."

Nels started to respond, but Alberto spoke up.

"How about this? Let Terry and me descend into the north end of the meadow and hide in those trees. The timberline will conceal our movement the whole way. Then the rest of you follow us. When we meet, we'll leapfrog, one group at a time, the rest of the way to the creek."

"Now we're thinking like mountain infantry," Nels said. "If the aggressors hit you, we'll finish them from behind."

Terry and Alberto skied down to the first group of trees and hid. Terry took out his binoculars and spotted a group of aggressors standing in the trees about two hundred yards below them, unaware that the afternoon sun was illuminating their backs. Below them, the first squad made camp.

As Nels and his team descended into the trees, he saw Terry waving his arms trying to make them stop. Terry put a finger to his lips signaling for quiet.

Terry pointed at the aggressors and whispered to Nels, "We need a new plan."

Nels thought for a moment.

"I'll take my team to the right and set up so we are firing toward their right flank. You stop just above them and fire down on them so we don't shoot each other."

When the firing began, the aggressors seemed completely disoriented scrambling to ski away. Nels's group cut off their escape route. The aggressors turned and skied the other direction but ran into Terry's team. They had nowhere to hide. They turned downhill toward the squad making camp.

Nels's group flew down the hill trying to cut them off. Nels made an aggressive telemark turn increasing his speed and overtaking one of the aggressors. The man swerved and snagged his arm on a pine branch. It pulled him over backward and ripped open his jacket. His arm started bleeding. Nels shot him with a blank from his carbine.

Another aggressor stumbled and fell face first in the deep snow. Nels fired a blank at his back as he swooped past him.

Nels stopped next to Alberto. Alberto dropped to his knees for a shot but fell sideways in the powder. Grabbing the trunk of an aspen, he pulled himself out of the snow and as he did, the stub of an aspen branch stabbed the middle of his forehead. Blood ran into his eyes.

The aggressors put down their weapons and put up their hands.

LT skied into the melee. "Cease fire. The exercise is over for now. Gather in here."

Nels ripped open a compress bandage and put it on Alberto's wound. Several others were holding bandages on each other's cuts. Dots of blood stained the snow around them.

Lyle limped into the group. He'd twisted his ankle.

"Thanks to you, first squad, you set everyone up for this mess. We'll talk about this in the morning. Right now, fix each other up and call it a day."

The men pitched their tents and stuffed their sleeping bags inside before it got too dark to see.

Inside the two-man tent he shared with Alberto, Nels tied a fresh compress around Alberto's head, feeling like a nurse.

Nels pulled his sleeping bag around his shoulders. Finally, we got to attack. Our first skirmish.

### ~

Instead of enjoying the aroma of salmon and eggs, and a slice of _Jarlsberg_ cheese wrapped in _l_ _efse_ potato flatbread, Nels awoke to the smell of bubbling canned ham and the smell of compressed gas from a Coleman pocket stove.

The aroma of powdered coffee unsettled his stomach, already churning in anticipation of an ass-chewing from LT for yesterday's setback.

LT had the two squads, and the aggressor force, gather around him. Coosie handed the lieutenant a steaming cup of coffee.

"First squad, did you send out a scout team to look around before you skied in here?" LT asked.

"No, sir," the squad leader replied looking around at the others in his squad.

"Did you send out scouts to look around after you got here?"

"No, sir." His chin dropped and he grimaced.

"You must have had a good reason for being that careless."

"We were cold and tired and glad to be out of the wind," the squad leader responded.

"Don't you think the aggressors were cold and tired too? Is that our new motto to replace Climb to Glory? We climb to glory when the conditions are just right? How about, we will conquer as long as we aren't cold and tired?"

"No, sir."

"Good job to the rest of you," LT said looking at Nels's squad. "So, first squad, did you learn anything from your absolute disregard for your own safety yesterday?"

"Yes, sir," they answered together.

"Yes, sir," LT mocked them. "Do you think you can spot a danger area like this next time? Never be in a hurry and always put out scouts, dammit. The enemy is just waiting for you to make these kinds of mistakes."

Nels was thankful he had thought twice before advancing.

"Enough said. Choke down some C's and get packed up. We have to clear the summit of the Mount of the Holy Cross by noon or we'll freeze to death. You aggressors can return to the rendezvous point you were given last night."

Lyle opened a can of crackers using his P-38 can opener. Coosie looked into Lyle's canteen cup at the concoction he mixed. "What the hell is that mess?"

"Let's see, one chocolate fudge bar, three hard rock crackers, three sugar cubes and a packet of instant coffee, boiled 'til it melts."

"What do you call it?"

"Coffee FUBAR."

"Ick. What does it taste like?"

"Hot, soggy, sweet, chocolate-flavored shit. Um! Delicious," Lyle said.

### ~

The climb from Cross Creek to the narrow edge of North Ridge took more than three hours on snowshoes. Nels leaned into the slope trying to balance the load in his ninety-pound pack. He looked ahead following the ridge leading the summit of Holy Cross, the next objective.

Stopping just below the ridge in a flat area, he sat down and leaned back against his pack and sighed. The sun warmed his face. The wind was silent. Such beauty and solitude reminded him of why he loved winter. Not a cloud in the sky as far as he could see, except on the far horizon, where the sky was a turbulent gray.

Without warning, the entire snowfield around him sank several inches groaning like a dying animal.

"Oh my God we're in the middle of an avalanche," Steve screamed, scrambling to stand up.

"Hold on," Nels said. "Be careful. The snow's only sinking, not sliding. Climb up there. Spread out. No need to be afraid. The slope we're on is not that steep. At this altitude, the snow below the surface is frozen to the layers below it. It may not slide at all."

"But it moaned like we'd stepped on its face," Steve said. "I never heard anything like that back in Michigan."

"Snow up here is always moving," Nels said. "It never rests. We're fine. Let's put our skis on. We can move faster from here up. And, do a buddy check for sunburn and frostbite. Drink plenty of water."

Coosie and Alberto checked each other's faces. "Your nose is getting a little _rojo, amigo_. Here, use my sunscreen," Coosie said, handing him a cardboard tube.

"Sure this isn't ski wax?" Alberto asked.

"No, it says right on the side, Bear Grease, one each." Alberto sniffed the wax to make sure. "Hmm, this is grizzly bear grease."

"I wouldn't give you polar bear grease," Coosie said.

Next to them, Lyle made a call to base camp on the radio.

"Hannibal, this is Caesar, over." No one responded. The radio static sounded like scraping burnt toast.

After several more attempts, with no response, he removed the large square battery from the bottom of the radio and put it inside his parka.

"Frozen battery?" Coosie asked.

"Yup. I'll try again later."

At the summit of the Mount of the Holy Cross, Nels stood in single file with the others along the jagged, narrow edge. The view in all directions was a sea of churning mountain peaks as though they were white caps in an ocean storm. The distant gray clouds were closer, and the wind was more assertive.

"It's going to snow a little I think," Alberto said, scanning the sky.

"It never stops," Olney said. "Fifteen days and a wakeup and we'll be done with this roundup. Then, I'm takin' my lucky buckle into town for a little dancin' and romancin'."

Olney pulled up his parka to show a large silver rodeo buckle on the belt around his brown wool pants.

"Maybe we all should rub your buckle for luck," Nels said. "We're still at least a day from the shelter at Notch Mountain. If this snowstorm comes in on us, we'll have to dig in. Let's get off this summit. The snow isn't deep enough up here for snow caves."

Gliding on their skis, the soldiers followed the contour lines toward the Teardrop Couloir, their next landmark. The fast-moving clouds tumbled over them making it harder to see.

They stopped to rest and pulled out their canteens and placed the cold metal to their stiff, dry lips.

Next to them, windblown rocks formed a steep chute. The sides of the chute were solid ice and the funnel dropped several hundred feet to a frozen lake below.

"Holy shit, we could have fallen down that ravine in a snowstorm," Steve yelled.

"This must be the Teardrop Couloir," Nels said. He moved to the edge and looked down the chute. Gasping, he realized they were standing on a fragile cornice, which broke off at that instant. The ice splintered with a loud pop followed by several explosive booms like gunfire.

"Get back," he yelled as he leapt to his right landing on his chest, clutching jagged rocks. A fast-moving crack traced a semi-circle across the cornice and the unstable slab of snow and ice broke away, roaring five hundred feet down to the frozen Bowl of Tears.

Nels waved to the others to let them know he was okay. He stared wide-eyed at the wreckage below. His thumping heart blurred his vision. The image of his twisted body tumbling in the snow scared him. That would have killed me. No one could have saved me. He looked away. He was even more frightened that he hadn't recognized the danger.

He crawled toward the others, afraid to stand. Alberto and Olney helped him to his feet.

"Nice move," Terry said. "That was careless."

"Shut up, you asshole," Alberto said. "That could have been you out there."

Terry shrugged. "Not me. I'm not that stupid."

Nels tried to pull out his map, but his hands trembled. He fumbled and dropped it in the snow. The knees of his pants were torn.

"Let me help," Alberto said. "You okay?"

"I could be dead right now."

"But you aren't and you're better for it. Stop shaking. You're making me nervous. Relax. You're alive."

Alberto unfolded the map and Nels pointed to a ridge.

"We need to follow this ridge from here. It will bring us around the valley above The Bowl of Tears, and put us on the route toward the steep climb below the Notch Mountain shelter."

Nels looked up from the map and sighed. "Alberto, you take the lead. I can't do it right now."

"That's why we're out here, so we can make mistakes now instead of in front of the enemy. I've got your back."

"Keep on a heading of one-nine-zero degrees," Nels said. "That will follow the ridgeline approximately. Have Terry bring up the rear and make sure we don't have any stragglers. You need to stop our descent every twenty minutes and have him send up the count."

Alberto pulled his compass out of the chest pouch on his parka. "One-nine-zero degrees. You got it, buddy. We'll make it."

Alberto led them down to easier terrain along the rock face of Holy Cross Ridge that towered to their left. The wind whipped in sudden gusts. They struggled in deeper snow and reduced visibility. Their pace slowed to a crawl.

"Hey, there's no one behind me," Olney hollered. "Shit, we've broken contact with Steve and Terry. Send up the word to the front."

The alarm rippled forward through the column. Nels stopped, cursed, and stabbed his ski poles into the snow. They couldn't have wandered far. Is one of them hurt?

"I'm going back to find them," Nels told Alberto and Olney. "Keep everyone here so I can find you."

Nels took big steps in the snow and turned his face away from the wind that was driving snow to stick to his clothing. He skied out alone for several minutes. Not seeing anyone to his front, he kick turned and trudged back to the closest man.

"Who was the last man behind you?" he asked Lyle.

"I don't know. They were just there a few minutes ago."

"Stay right here. Make a line across their path in case they come in at a different angle."

Nels turned around. "Don't come get me if they come back here. I'll find you. You understand me?"

"Gotcha," Olney said.

Nels struggled through the snow. He squatted to look for tracks. Finally he yelled, "Terry," and paused to listen. "Steve. Hello? Anybody hear me?" We are in trouble now.

Terry's faint voice answered, mixed with the howling wind.

Nels moved toward the sound and found Terry and Steve.

"You guys okay?" he asked.

"Yeah, we slowed down in this wind and then lost sight of you guys," Terry answered.

"Okay. Let's get back to the others."

Nels retraced his tracks back to the faint line of men standing in what was now a blizzard.

"Bring everyone up here. Gather in tight," Nels yelled.

The group sidestepped closer to him.

"Everyone, get your ropes out and tie into this main line. Olney, you stay in the lead. Terry, you stay at the rear. Let's find a drift along this ridge and dig in."

Tied to each other with a single rope, they leaned forward into the wind and took slow, awkward steps. Their parka hoods were drawn closed and ice formed on their goggles.

By two p.m., the light had changed to an eerie ice-blue color. Nels shifted his weight onto one ski and took a step, and then the other. The effort to pull each ski out of the snow took strength, and determination. Two steps forward, pause for a few seconds, and gasp for air.

The wind screeched and wailed, whistling to Nels to stop, to sleep -- oblivion, oh sweet oblivion.

His labored breathing grew louder. Despite his strength, the blizzard overcame him. The ripping of the wind and ice became muted. Now, all he could hear was the clanking of their equipment and his heavy breathing.

The wind made a tense twang like wire snapping, first high pitched, then low moaning like an orchestra. First the cello, next the flute, and then a solo piccolo in a shrill tremolo.

Nels stopped, gasping for air. His head dropped in resignation, burdened by his equipment, fatigue and his decision to stay in the storm. Ice surrounded his face. He raised his head and turned to the others who were kneeling in the snow, as if praying. His voice was weak. "Dig in," he gasped for air, "make a cave," catching his breath.

"You dig. I need sleep," Coosie said.

Nels took Coosie by the arm and pulled him closer. "You will die in your sleep."

Nels took off his pack, removed his snow shovel, and began to dig into a large drift. The squad took turns helping. The wind was unmerciful. One at a time, men stopped working and dropped to their knees, exhausted.

Nels dragged himself from one to the next shaking each one and screaming, "Come back. You will die. Don't give up."

Lyle sat chest deep in blowing snow. His chin sagged to his chest.

"Lyle, fight. Don't give in," Nels said. "Get in the cave. You have the will to live. We are mountain men. Don't let this beat us."

Nels shook the next man and pulled him out of the snow onto his feet. One by one, the squad dragged themselves inside the cave lit by several candles. They untied their sleeping bags from their canvas packs. The cave muffled the sound of the wind. The candles glowed, sentinels over the exhausted soldiers.

Nels knelt at the entrance and counted his men. Terry, Coosie, Olney, Steve, Lyle, Alberto--Where is Alberto? He went back out alone to find his friend.

Nels admitted to himself that he should have hidden from the storm sooner. Now he was disoriented, unsure of himself. The cold will kill me. He cried out for Alberto, but the wind blew the sound of his voice away faster than he could speak. The blizzard erased everything around him including his friend. He screamed again in desperation.

There was no way to know which direction to go. Everything was hidden behind the white that swirled so densely. All he could do was to bow his head until his chin touched his chest and keep walking. Each step sank into the drifts of snow until he wanted to give up. He reminded himself that each step took him closer to Alberto.

He could feel his blood cool. His feet were beginning to freeze.

He prayed that his heart would continue to beat warm blood around his veins until he rescued his friend. _You cannot die here my young Norseman. Oh no. This is neither the time nor the place. I suspect the Beast himself has surprised you, and all this is the Tempest ragin' for your soul._

He gave up trying to see though his goggles and began to feel for anything under the snow with his feet and his ski poles. All the while the wind raged without end until Nels fell on his face in the snow and landed on Alberto.

### ~

Alberto was hidden under the deep snow. Am I asleep or awake? Who cares? He imagined he was in Dante's Ninth Circle of Hell surrounded by condemned souls, frozen in ice, doomed to suffer separation from the source of all light and warmth.

Above him, three creatures, half woman, half serpent, shrieked and laughed, mocking Alberto and the others motionless in the ice.

The Furies stopped and withdrew at the approach of a force, a young peasant girl with flowing black hair.

The girl hovered above the men. The Furies recognized her and moaned, "Beatricé."

She wore a long, flowing skirt and bodice over a glowing, white, long-sleeve blouse. Lace cuffs covered parts of her hands. A square, folded cloth covered her head with a flat section that angled downward covering the back of her glowing neck. One hand rested on her hip as though she were dancing.

She looked Alberto in the eye through the thick ice and smiled. Her resplendent voice whispered, "Arise, my fragile wanderer. It is I who will lead you from here toward salvation." Alberto blinked and saw Nels beside him. Nels dragged him into the cave and helped him into his sleeping bag.

### ~

"What happened?" he asked Nels.

"I found you asleep in the snow."

Alberto yawned and sat up in his sleeping bag.

"I heard you saying _skol_ in your sleep. What were you trying to say? What does _skol_ mean?" Alberto asked.

"I must have been dreaming. In battle, Vikings urged each other forward determined to drink from the skull, or _skol_ , of the vanquished leader that night. It was a sign of respect for the enemy. Only then could a valiant opponent enter Valhalla, the Hall of the Slain."

Nels nudged Olney who snored next to him. He groaned and opened one eyelid part way.

Olney poked a hole in the entrance of the cave with his snow shovel to see if it was morning. Coosie was awake too and, as he sat up, a luminous ray of brilliant sunlight lit up the interior of the cave.

Nels pushed his way through the drift that covered the entrance. He looked around at the beauty of the mountains glistening with new snow. The tips of their white skis stuck out of the folds of the new blanket illuminated by the glare of the sun breaking over Notch Mountain to the east.

Coosie, as usual, gathered everyone's stoves and started the morning coffee ritual.

Lyle pulled the radio from the snow cave and installed the battery he'd slept with.

"Hannibal this is Caesar, over."

Static scratched inside the handset.

"Hannibal, Hannibal, this is Caesar, over."

"This is Hannibal, go ahead, over."

Lyle turned to the group and smiled. "Well, what do you know?" Everyone cheered.

"Hannibal, we are alive and well. It's a beautiful morning up here. Sure you don't want to take the next Weasel up here and join us for breakfast, over," Lyle said.

"Not a chance, Caesar. I have too much snow to shovel down here. What's your next objective, over?"

"Notch Mountain, over."

"Let me know when you get there and check everyone's condition."

Nels sat next to Lyle sipping powdered coffee. He was worn out from yesterday's ordeal. Relieved to have cheated death, he turned his face to the bright sun and inhaled renewal along with the aroma of hot coffee.

Lyle finished sketching a new cartoon his Big Chief. He turned it so Nels could see the drawing.

The first panel was a sign that read -- U.S. ARMY SKI RESORT AHEAD. It was almost buried in snow with two sets of ski tracks in front of the sign.

The second panel showed two soldiers sitting in the snow next to a small fire drinking hot coffee. Their skis stuck out of the snow behind them. One put a handful of snow on top of his canteen cup.

"Don't tell the others we discovered how to make cappuccino," the first soldier said.

"Now I know why they call them C-rations," the other soldier said.

### ~

Even for Nels, traversing the contours toward Notch Mountain was difficult. One ski was always higher than the other. Added to the ordeal were deep snow, low oxygen, heavy packs and apathy, brought on by the exertion to survive the blizzard. Even worse, the route ended at the base of a cliff.

"Way to go Nels," Terry said. "A dead end. You couldn't kill us yesterday so let's try again today. Why did you lead us to a cliff for Chrissakes?"

"It's the only way up to the shelter from here," Nels said, pointing at his map. "If the aggressors are up there, they'll be watching this trail that comes up from the southeast. That's the easy way up from where we are."

"Fuck the aggressors. Who told you they are up there? I vote to take the easy way."

"Me too," Steve said.

"If we climb the cliff, we will be about two hundred yards north of them at the top. They won't expect us to come up the cliff," Nels said.

"And if we climb the cliff we'll be exhausted. Someone will get hurt," Olney said.

"I didn't expect to climb that," Alberto said, looking at the rock face. "You climb it and pull me up."

Nels folded his map and put it inside his parka. Am I pushing myself way past my limit? Maybe the easy trail is the answer. He felt himself giving in.

But then Coosie said, "Nels is right, _compadres._ One more push and we'll be home free." Coosie's _gung ho_ attitude lifted Nels's spirits, as it usually did.

Alberto stood back and stared at the rock face, calculating various routes. "A long detour around this place might take as much strength as climbing it. I think we can get everyone up through that hourglass. No overhangs, lots of handholds and toeholds. Not much frozen ice. We can just brush the snow off the ledges. I'm going to make the climb and set a guide rope, assuming this will be our route. I'm too tired to climb this twice."

Nels put his arm around Alberto's shoulders.

"I'll call on Dizzy to help you," Nels said, trying to encourage his friend. "And, I'll pray that Saint Michael the Archangel is watching you from the top."

"Tell Dizzy to just fly me up there," Alberto said and smiled. "Let me find out where the enemy boys are, if they're even up there. If they are, and this looks like a good route, I'll throw down two climbing ropes. If they aren't, I'll wait for you at the top of the easy trail."

"They'll be there," Nels said.

Alberto tied one end of a climbing rope to his harness and handed the other end to Nels. He slung two more coils of rope over his shoulder.

Nels looped the rope around his waist and sat behind a boulder and braced himself with his feet. He was ready to stop Alberto in case he fell.

Ten feet up the face, Alberto stopped and drove a piton into the rock as an anchor point. His hands shook and he called on Dizzy to calm his usual apprehension at the start of a climb.

He looked down at Nels and gave a thumbs up.

"On belay?" he hollered.

"On belay, test," Nels said.

Alberto put his full weight on the rope, pulling against Nels to make sure he could belay his fall if needed.

Nels was immovable. "Climb," he called back loosening the tension on the rope.

"Climbing."

Nels let the rope slide around his waist watching Alberto's every step, ready to catch him if he fell.

Alberto stopped and drove another piton. "Slack," he called. Pulling the rope toward him, he looped it through a carabineer in the piton.

"Tension," he said. "Climbing." He repeated the process until he had driven more than twenty anchor points along his path up the cliff.

At the top, Alberto scanned the flat plateau around stone shelter with his binoculars. There they are. A few aggressors sat in the sun against the walls. The others gathered at the top of the trail to the south anticipating Nels's squad would appear. Alberto realized he was several hundred yards north of the aggressors. No tracks led in his direction. He blew a long breath of relief that the climb was over, and no one heard him hammering.

Exertion warmed his entire body and the sun beat down on his neck. He uncoiled the second rope, anchored it around a large boulder, and tossed the rope down the cliff.

"Does he see the bad guys?" Lyle asked Nels.

"Yes," Nels said. "We agreed he'd lower the ropes if they were up there."

Steve pulled off his hat and scratched his head. "What if we trick them into believing we actually are following the trail through the boulder field. I'm sure they monitor every transmission we send to base camp."

"Vhat are you tin-king?" Terry said with a fake German accent. "Trans-mit in German?"

"What if we get up the cliff and wait until dark, then tell Hannibal we tried to climb up the trail," he said. "Tell him two men fell and one has a broken leg. We need a medic and stretchers. Wouldn't they call the bad guys and tell them to lower stretchers to us?"

"That might work," Nels said. "Very ingenious my friend. They will be focused on the trail while we sneak up on them."

As they got ready to climb, Nels tugged on the climbing rope to signal Alberto. One man climbed at a time.

Terry was the first in line. Nels saw he was climbing too fast and taking risks. Oh shit, his rope is trailing behind one of his legs.

Before Nels could signal him, Terry lost his footing and fell, twisting to his left. The rope behind his leg tightened flipping him upside down. He waved his arms and shrieked trying to right himself.

Nels's heart began to race. If Terry could not right himself, someone would have to climb to save him before he passed out.

Dangling from the top rope, Terry pulled himself along the face until he reached the guide rope and yelled, "Slack."

Alberto lowered Terry so he could pull himself upright. Terry recovered and continued, waving at everyone as though they were applauding his acrobatics. White breath surged in rapid succession from his mouth like he'd seen a ghost. That's his cavalier attitude toward everything, Nels thought to himself.

As Coosie began his ascent, Nels handed him several pitons. "Test every piton on your way up," Nels said. "You'll be fine."

After more than one hundred feet, Coosie stopped and pulled on a piton to his right. He wasn't sure whether it was loose so he yanked on it again and this time the rock crumbled and the piton came out throwing him off balance. " _Hijuela chingada_ ", he yelled in surprise at having lost his connection to the rock. The lifeline choked his waist. Gasping for air, Coosie paused to compose himself. _Madre de Dios_. He made the sign of the cross on himself and drove another piton into a new seam. "Slack, God dammit," he screamed. Holy shit, that hurt.

Alberto watched Olney arrive on the final foothold at the top. Fighting exhaustion, Olney's crimson face showed his determination. There's a good climber, Alberto thought. He motioned Olney toward nearby boulders where the others hid, nearly invisible in their white parkas, their hoods over their heads against the cold.

Twilight drifted across the cliff as Nels reached the top. Lyle sat next to Alberto with the radio. Before they climbed over the top edge, Lyle whispered into the radio handset, "Hannibal, this is Caesar, over,"

"Hannibal, go."

"Hannibal, we need help near the Notch Mountain shelter. Two men hurt on the climb through the boulder field, over."

"This is Hannibal, what's the problem, over."

"One broken leg and one man might be going into shock, over."

"This is Hannibal, wait, out."

The three waited in silence. The radio crackled back to life. "Caesar, Caesar, this is Hannibal, over."

"Caesar, go."

"This is Hannibal. Help is on the way. Stretchers being lowered to you. Report back when the injured have been recovered. Hannibal out."

"They took the bait," Lyle said.

Nels and his squad watched the enemy from their hiding spot. The adversaries walked to the top of the trail, anchored ropes and lowered the stretchers. Six of the soldiers did the work. The other ten huddled in the shelter where it was warmer.

Nels whispered to Terry, "Take Coosie and Alberto and move toward the shelter to block the others. They may come up behind us once they hear the noise."

The squad crouched down, slinking like wolves over the rocks, intent on their prey. They stood undetected and motionless behind the aggressors.

"Put up your hands or die right here," Steve commanded first in German, then in English. The enemy six turned in surprise.

"Where did you guys come from?" the closest man said. "Jesus, you scared us."

"Up the cliff," Nels said.

"Up the cliff? In the dark? You guys are crazy."

"Crazy? No, just smart. We weren't dumb enough to come up the trail through the boulders."

"How did you know we were over here at the trailhead?"

"We sent Alberto up the cliff to spy on you."

"I don't get it. Hannibal said you were hurt down on the trail, one guy with a broken leg."

"We lied so you wouldn't see us come over the top," Nels said. "What's the word you use? Snookered?" Nels said.

Steve nodded. "That's it, we snookered you."

"That's cheating," the aggressor said.

"If this were a game, yes," Nels said. "But war is not a game." He and Steve yanked the rifles from the bad guys and motioned them toward the shelter.

### ~

As everyone came into the shelter, LT called an end to the exercise. "Let's get some sleep. In the morning we can go back to being cowboys and Indians."

As he sat with them, he reflected on the deception the squad devised. He could have stopped them, but didn't. The ruse was a violation of the rules, but he admired their creativity. If this were actual combat, deception would be a good solution.

Anticipating an ass chewing for allowing the stunt, he thought about the explanation he might use facing Captain Knowles, or worse, Colonel Townsend. Wasn't it Hannibal who said, creativity is about taking risks and breaking the rules?

### ~

Nels started a fire in the stone fireplace using a pile of firewood and kindling someone left in the shelter.

"Nice touch there, Nels," Olney said staring at the orange flames.

Lyle moved closer to the heat of the fire and rubbed his hands together. "How in the hell do you Norwegians put up with winter, darkness, blizzards -- all those polar extremes?"

"The same way we've been doing. We enjoy our friendship and camaraderie. We laugh, or moan, about the day's events. We create the atmosphere out of friendship and trust. The Norwegian word for it is _koselig_. _Koselig_ describes how we feel when visiting in each other's homes, or enjoying a meal together.

"Ko-se-lee," Alberto pronounced the word slowly. "I'm glad we have koselig instead of frostbite," he said. "Enjoying this fire together gives us that atmosphere, right?" Alberto asked.

"It does." Nels answered. "Along with the trails we have skied together, the fun we have shared. The food at the mess hall."

"Even that?" Coosie said, holding his nose.

Nels laughed. "Even that."

"Hey, where does a snowman keep his money?" Terry asked.

Everyone groaned, avoiding the effort to solve the puzzle.

"In a snow bank."

### ~

Lyle, Alberto, and Coosie stood next to Nels admiring the entire Cross of Snow across from Notch Mountain. Standing at the edge of the plateau, the morning sun warmed their backs as they peered down at the frozen dark-blue lake at the base of the cross, shown on their maps as the Bowl of Tears.

"Wow, you ever seen this place, Coosie?" Nels asked.

"Oh yeah," Coosie said. "It's how my old man made a living at his restaurant in Red Cliff. Hundreds of pilgrims come through town on their way up here every summer to worship at the cross. We had a copy of the first photograph of the peak made by William Henry Jackson hanging in the bar. He took it from right here on Notch Mountain."

Nels stared at the immense cross furrowed in the rock face of the pointed mountain. At the Tabor Opera House Alberto had suggested there was a time to hold on and a time to let go of his grief. Nels took a deep breath and sighed. Was this sacred place to be the end of his pilgrimage with grief?

This has to be the moment.

"I remember the words to the Longfellow poem about the cross, called 'The Cross of Snow.' We memorized it in school. It always grabbed my heart."

Standing erect, he put one hand inside the zipper of his parka, like an orator, and spoke to the mountain across the valley.

"There is a mountain in the distant West

That, sun defying, in its deep ravines

Displays a cross of snow upon its side.

Such is the cross I wear upon my breast

These eighteen years, through all the changing scenes and seasons, changeless since the day she died.

"It's the only poem I ever memorized," Coosie said. "My friends and I used to hike up here and I would recite the poem every time."

Walking away from the others to be alone, he took Ineke's mitten from his parka and cradled it in his bare hands. Not knowing what he should do next, he looked up at the cross and spoke to Ineke.

"I think this is the right place to let go. I'm not saying goodbye to you. I know our time together is not all gone, but I have to let this earthly grief go, not so I will never think of you again, but so I can go on with my life without the pain. I never thought I would have to live without you. I think this is what you would want me to do, isn't it?"

Until now, the idea of an ending was too sad and the memories too painful. He had kept himself busy to avoid thinking of those moments.

The words of the old seafarer on the trawler leaving Norway echoed in his mind. This time, they sounded encouraging. _Your suffering will haunt you until you stop desiring it more than life._ Nels now understood what the old man foresaw. He clenched his fist around her mitten, fearing that somehow, in that moment, it might be taken from him.

Staring straight ahead, his eyes wide open, he spit into the face of the invisible agony and screamed, "Go away you son of a bitch."

He drew Ineke's mitten to his chest, blinking tears from his eyes.

"I would give up my life to hold you one more time. Now, I'll go on, with hope in my heart. You'll be by my side won't you?"

A wisp of warm air brushed his cheek like a kiss. A glint of sunlight flashed from the Cross of Snow, like a tear of joy.

It's over. I've let my torment go.

# REVENGE

Nels, Alberto, Coosie, Terry, Steve, Lyle, and Olney sat together in the bleachers inside the field house at Camp Hale.

"Why do you think we've been mustered?" Nels asked the group.

"Maybe another Hollywood movie starlet is coming to cheer us up and get herself pictured as a war supporter," Olney said to the group.

"I think it's time to re-show the Private Snafu training cartoon on booby traps," Terry said, "you know, the one that starts with the girl with nice boobies."

Colonel Townsend, the battalion commander, stood on the stage in front of a large silver movie screen. The screen did not show the face of Private Snafu but a map of Italy. The company commanders and first sergeants sat on stage behind him.

"Where is your home on the map," Nels asked Alberto.

"See Florence near the west coast? Just to the north."

Townsend tapped the microphone to make sure it was on. "Gentlemen, good afternoon." Townsend said. "It is my pleasure to inform you that we have orders to take this unit into combat in the mountains of Northern Italy."

"It's about time," someone shouted. Applause and cheers thundered through gymnasium.

"Italy?" Nels shouted to Alberto to be heard. "What happened to Norway?"

"Italy must be where the action is," Alberto said.

Townsend continued. "Eisenhower wants to cut off the munitions and food supplies coming out of the Po River Valley, over Brenner Pass, into Austria."

"Our mission, gentlemen, is to join units of Mark Clark's Fifth Army north of Florence." He pointed at the map with a ski pole with the basket and straps removed. "The German Gothic Line extends across Italy this way."

"The Germans won't let the Apennine Mountains go because they can control the Italian industrial centers in Milan. The Po River Valley is their major remaining breadbasket."

Nels gritted his teeth. They want control of everything.

"They are dug in deep across the country in concrete gun emplacements and bunkers," Townsend explained. "Repeated attacks over the last year have had little effect. Now, bad weather has bogged down our advance completely. Our job is to scale these peaks and chase them out of Italy."

Nels jumped up whistling and cheering, along with the rest of the 86th. He shook Alberto's hand excitedly then turned and shook hands with those around him.

He looked beyond Alberto at Terry. Terry stared straight ahead. His eyes were wide open and his lips parted. Now you believe me?

The colonel held up his hand trying to quiet the cheering. "What would Hannibal have to say, Sergeant Storms?" Townsend asked.

"It's time to kick some ass," Hannibal shouted. The room exploded with laugher and hoots.

"Climb to glory," Townsend shouted raising a clenched fist. More cheers and laughter.

Nels thrust his fist upward and yelled, "I can't believe it." He turned one way, then the other, grinning and laughing. The wait is over.

### ~

Pisa, Italy, Christmas 1944. . .Nels stood in front of their nine-man squad tent pitched in a large park near the Leaning Tower of Pisa known as King Victor Emmanuel's Hunting Grounds. Jeeps and trucks struggled through the mud urged on by the swearing of the drivers at the mud, the rain, and the people who'd sent them into the goo.

"Ah, more liquid sunshine," Olney moaned pulling his green poncho's hood over his head.

Nels pulled his hood up too and followed the others into the slime heading for the road into Pisa. They walked only a few steps when Coosie fell on his face into the smelly, brown, manure-like mud leaving one of his boots stuck in the mud.

"We aren't going anywhere in this mess," Nels said offering a hand to Coosie.

They slogged back to the mess tent and got in the chow line holding stainless steel food trays. Water and mud dripped from their ponchos creating small puddles around their boots.

"Soaking wet is the only way to enjoy breakfast," he said, standing next to Coosie.

The mess sergeant walked across the tent and shouted, "Get the fuck out of my chow line with those ponchos on. Would you go to breakfast at home dripping shit all over your mother's kitchen floor like that? And when you come back, bring a mop and bucket and clean this crap up."

When they'd finished cleaning, Nels filled his tray with steaming scrambled eggs and crisp bacon. Coosie sat beside him with two coffees at a long table. "No powdered coffee today," he said.

A large truck pulled up next to the tent. "Mail call," someone yelled from outside.

Nels watched the others tear open envelopes and boxes with one hand and scoop up eggs with the other. Mail call took precedence over breakfast, especially with all the packages arriving from home.

He knew no package would have his name on it. His family didn't know where he was. He was content to eat slowly as he watched brown paper from the large and small packages being ripped open.

Thunder grumbled sporadically in the distance. The light bulbs faded in and out. He enjoyed the sound of rain on the canvas and wondered what his family would be doing on Christmas.

The packages were full of surprises -- packets of Kool Aid, jars of hot sauce and horseradish, beef jerky, socks, books, and crossword puzzles sent from loved ones back home.

Lyle held up a black and white photo of his brothers and sisters.

Olney unpacked a box of playing cards, homemade brownies, a package of Oatmeal Cream Pies, and a sewing kit.

Nels was having as much fun as the other soldiers.

Steve dumped packs of Beeman's Gum and rolls of Necco Wafers on the table. He put a stick of Beeman's in his mouth, and passed the pack to Terry.

Lyle started arranging his food and gifts in a line in the middle of the table. Coosie added a jar of salsa, a partially crushed package of cookies, and a bag of dried fruit in the line next to Lyle's. He put a spoon in the salsa.

Several of the others caught on, adding their gifts to the line. Terry grabbed a pile of paper napkins. Steve added spoons to some of the cans. Alberto took the numerous cans of Spam and stacked them at an angle so they leaned in one direction.

"This is the Gleaming Tower of Hormel. We can't damage this tower in any way," he said, repeating Hannibal's instructions not to deface or damage the Leaning Tower of Pisa.

Soon, a smorgasbord of fruitcakes in tins, sardines in mustard with the lids rolled back, and the crushed remnants of homemade frosted cookies covered the table.

"It isn't like home," Steve said, raising his coffee mug, "but, hell, here's to us, and Merry Christmas, everyone."

"Merry Christmas," the group responded, raising their mugs.

As the others sampled the treats, Nels removed several scraps of paper from his pocket. He'd written different versions of a poem to Ineke after his appointment on Notch Mountain.

He wrote one final version and read it several more times.

My grief melts now

No longer frozen snow,

And drips into the Bowl of Tears

As I gladly let it go.

The joy I lived with you

Now fills the emptied void.

Against my heart your mitten softly rests,

The presence of your allure,

Reminding me of all we shared

Until I return to you, endure.

After writing another copy by hand, he walked around the table and sat next to Alberto.

"I kept the appointment you suggested. Remember? After the opera that night?"

"I do. Did it help?"

"I wrote this when we were up on Notch Mountain looking at the Cross of Snow. I wanted you to have a copy. Your friendship has meant a great deal to me, Alberto. No one else would understand this poem."

"We've come a long way together, haven't we?" Alberto said.

As Alberto read it, his warm smile withdrew and his eyes glistened. "May I keep this?"

"I made it for you. Ineke said to me one time, when we were growing up, 'All I ask is that you want me as a friend.' Alberto, I hope you will always be my friend, even after the war is over and I go back to Norway and you return to Italy."

"That was a special mountain wasn't it?"

Nels nodded. "I knew when I first saw the cross that it would be the place to let go."

"I wrote the poem for Ineke, but I wouldn't have gone there without your encouragement. 'A man of many companions may come to ruin, but there is a friend who sticks closer than a brother.'"

"When did you write that?"

"It wasn't me. Proverbs. From the Bible."

### ~

Alberto and Nels rode in an Army Jeep up the winding mountain road from Lucca to the Carrera marble quarry where Alberto worked before the war. Stopping on a familiar curve, he stared at the gleaming sunrise.

" _Bella ciao_ ," he shouted down the valley toward the Ligurian Sea, spreading his arms full-width as if he were about to hug a beautiful woman. He could hear the laughter of Niccolo, Aldo and Tavio as though they were with him.

"Hello, beautiful," Nels said.

"I'm home. This is where my life as a stonecutter began."

"Amazing. It looks like an abstract puzzle made of blocks, not a mountainside," Nels said looking into the quarry.

He looked up at the curved wall of white marble from which blocks of stone had been cut. "It looks more like a monument under construction, not a quarry."

"This is where I learned to climb and depend on the ropes."

American Army vehicles and large olive-drab tents were lined up at the base of the quarry.

"Looks to me like you chose your favorite spot to set up the training center," Nels said.

A group of instructors gathered in front of Alberto and Nels. Alberto pointed to the climbing course laid out on the vertical faces of the marble. Pitons marked with red cloth were scattered on the rock at various points. White cords traced several routes up the cliff.

"Remember to stress maintaining three points of contact at all times and test every piton before you put your weight on it," Alberto said. "There isn't much ice here but when we get in the higher mountains, I suspect ice will be everywhere. Get familiar with the course now, because you'll be back here tomorrow night to climb it in the dark."

"Yes-a that's true," said an Italian officer standing next to Alberto. "Very cold, and-a icy."

"Let me introduce Captain Federico Pitak, head of the area's Italian _Alpini_ mountain troops, the oldest mountain infantry in the world, now allied with us."

Speaking in Italian, Alberto welcomed the captain and thanked him for his help.

Pitak replied in broken English. "Thank you, Corporal Alberto. We appreciate you help remove the Germans from the Gothic Line. We fought with the Germans, but we did not for them care. Time to free Italy and end war."

A small group of Alpini troops applauded his comment.

"Captain Pitak will be assisting us with the training here and his troops will be assisting relocate with us to Vidiciatico, our base of operations. Now, if you'll follow the captain to the starting point, he will explain the course we've laid out."

Pitak's _Alpini_ soldiers were already on the course testing ropes, climbing, and rappelling.

The _Alpini_ wore a uniquely shaped green-gray felt hat they called the _C_ _appello Alpini._ The wide front rim was flattened to protect their faces from rain and snow. A black raven's feather extended vertically above the hat giving the unit the name "The Black Feathers."

Hannibal walked up to Alberto and Nels. "Good morning, gentlemen. Bisio, I didn't know you spoke Italian."

"Yes, I grew up here. I used to work in this quarry and General Haines has his command center at my father's vineyard, the Villa Bissi, just down the road," gesturing toward the valley below.

"Boy, do we need your help scouting attack routes up the cliffs where the Germans are dug in," Hannibal said. "We're getting nowhere so far."

"Nels, Captain Knowles wants your squad to be one of our scout teams. Alberto, you can help them talk to the villagers. Your rock climbing skills will be of great value as well. As Hannibal once said, 'we must either find a way or make one.'

"Hey, tell me how to pronounce this town where we will set up for the scouting operation. I've been calling it V-Alphabet. Vee-dee-see-a-tíco, right?"

"Vidi-chá-tico," Alberto said in Italian.

"Right. I'll just call it V-Alphabet."

"Sergeant, do you have a moment?" Alberto asked.

"Certainly."

"Captain Pitak is secretly coordinating the Italian partisans in the area and he tells me we can expect infiltrators around us at night."

Hannibal shook his head, "Good. Just what we need. More trouble."

"He suggests we add more patrols and perimeter security, especially at night. In addition to the Germans, the partisans are desperately scrounging food and ammo. Pitak told me they will steal us blind."

"Wouldn't it help just to give them some of our supplies," Hannibal said. "Shouldn't we be talking to them anyway?"

"If they want to talk, they'll find us. Pitak also told me the partisans are sleeping in barns and farmhouses around here during the day so we don't want to surprise them by wandering into those buildings."

"Thanks for the intel. When can you two move over to V-Alphabet and start exploring that area?" Hannibal asked.

"Tomorrow," Nels said.

### ~

Vidiciatico was as stiff and lifeless as the corpses of two cows Nels passed driving into the ancient mountain town. The skeleton of an exploded German tank partially blocked the squad's path. They stopped their jeeps by a stone wall topped by ribbons of fresh snow. Nels looked along the dirt street into town and then up at the limbs of trees cowering in the cold. The movement of an old man caught his eye. He was making his way toward them, next to the wall. He wore a crumpled gray fedora and his coat was torn and frayed. He leaned on a cane and limped.

As soon as he noticed the Americans, he stumbled, and turned back toward the village.

Nels wondered where he'd come from. Why is he afraid of us? Where is everyone else?

"What happened here?" Nels asked Alberto. "Where did everyone go? I thought it was just a quiet morning, but now I sense fear in the air."

"They've learned to hide and watch. We're just another invading army passing through. Armies have swept through here since before the Romans."

Nels looked at piles of broken stone along the street created by tank and mortar blasts. "No wonder they're hiding. Not much of a life is it?"

"Actually, living here is wonderful when there's no war going on," Alberto said. "The farmers raise grass-fed cows for the local cheese makers of the _Parmigiano-Reggiano_ provinces. In summer, when the grass is long, and the breezes are sweet, it is extraordinary."

"Are the Germans nearby?

"I'm sure they're watching us too," Alberto said.

Coosie got out of the jeep. "Nels, you mind if Lyle, Terry, and I scout some of these barns for a place to sleep."

"Be careful," Nels said. "Wear your helmets and take your weapons. The local partisans may be sleeping in the barns. Don't surprise them."

Gradually, villagers emerged from the rubble and gathered next to Nels and Alberto, pleading with their hands out. Alberto greeted them in Italian and listened to their sorrow. "They're desperate for food and water."

Nels motioned to Steve and Olney to go to the jeep. He held up one finger and pointed at cases of C-rations and then back at the villagers. They unloaded a case and started handing them out.

"We better find the forward command post and report in," Nels said.

### ~

The battalion's forward CP was hidden inside a small stone chapel in the center of town next to a two-story _pensione_. Weatherworn hand-painted frescos decorated the outside walls. Nels and Alberto removed their helmets and stood, just inside the doorway, admiring more frescos on the ceiling.

"Interesting," Alberto said, reading the inscriptions. "This art is dedicated to a patron saint who'd healed the plague-stricken here a long time ago."

Captain Knowles and Colonel Townsend stood next to a terrain model of the mountains and the town.

"Good. My scouts are here." Knowles said. Townsend walked toward them exchanging salutes. "Let's go outside where we can see these mountains."

The cloud cover had lifted and sunlight brightened the gloom of the cobblestone street. "Before we got here," Townsend said, pointing to a range of mountains above them, "three major assaults up Mount Belvedere failed to disturb the Krauts. General Haines believes the other divisions were focusing on the wrong mountain."

Townsend pointed to the smaller range to the left. "He wants Tenth Mountain to find a way to take that ridge, which we are calling Riva Ridge for planning purposes. General elevations around forty-five hundred feet. Nothing like the eleven thousand feet we are used to in Colorado.

"If we take Riva Ridge, it will eliminate their artillery and mortar fire which pounded the rear and flanks of the other units, causing them to fail. That's only a mile and a half from there to Mount Belvedere."

"Riva Ridge is no little hill," Nels said.

"And it's steep," Knowles said. "You must find a way to scale its cliffs so we can put a battalion on it.

"A battalion?" Nels said, surprised at the size of the unit. "Six hundred men?"

"We plan to drop one company and the maintenance and heavy weapons units, so you can plan on about three hundred."

"The terrain is so steep and narrow you can't move many men up the face at one time," Townsend said. "We'll be looking for at least four routes up there."

Nels looked at Alberto. His throat went dry. He wondered what his friend was thinking now that they saw the challenge before them.

"You have your work cut out for you," Townsend said. "There hasn't been much use for us throughout the war but there is now. If you two can find a way to get us on top of Riva Ridge, everyone will have a new attitude toward our college ski club boys."

Nels nudged Alberto. "Does that mean we have to take Terry with us?" Knowles snickered at the remark, knowing Terry was the poster boy for the ski club group.

"When we're ready," Townsend said, "the division commander will move his command center from Lucca, here to Vidiciatico. Good luck gentlemen. We have about a month to pull this off."

### ~

The next morning, Nels was the first one outside the barn where they'd slept. The soaring ridge was visible from top to bottom. White clouds rested on top of Riva Ridge like an ermine stole.

Olney and Coosie came out carrying the gas stoves. "You know where we're going yet?" Olney asked.

"Up there," Nels said.

"Damnation that's a rough piece of terrain," Olney said looking at the vertical ridge. "Are there trails to the top?"

"We don't know. We'll have to find them, or create them."

By the time the others dragged their packs and rifles out into the barnyard, Coosie had coffee ready.

"What's for breakfast?" Steve asked hoping for something special.

"Chunks of H.C.S.," Coosie said. "Hot, canned shit."

Steve opened a can of ham, eggs, and potatoes and dumped the contents into his canteen cup. He held up another can with FRANKFURTERS CANNED WHOLE PACKED IN WATER, printed in bold letters on the lid. He shrugged and dumped the franks in with the rest of the concoction and stirred it slowly.

A group of Italian partisans stepped from the side of the barn with their rifles pointed at the squad. They yelled in Italian and motioned for the Americans to put their hands in the air.

Alberto put his rifle on the ground and raised his hands. "Put your weapons on the ground or they'll kill us," he said in English.

The leader walked around the Americans glaring at each man.

Nels was unable to speak. Shame twisted in his stomach. How could we have let ourselves get captured?

One of the partisans glared at Alberto, then looked away and quickly looked back. "Alberto?" He leaned closer. Alberto eyes widened. "Tavio?"

"It is I, Tavio Pietro."

Alberto shouted with joy and embraced his friend.

" _Mio amico_ ," Tavio said to the partisans.

They lowered their weapons and shook hands with the Americans. Nels's knees buckled for a moment as he caught his breath.

"Tavio and I grew up together," Alberto said to the squad.

One of the partisans with a thick black beard smiled and shook Nels's hand. Nels offered him cigarettes and C-rations. The man grabbed them and quickly sat down to open the can.

Alberto sat down on a stone wall with his friend.

"Alberto, this must be a dream," Tavio said. "My friend goes to America and then suddenly appears back here in Italy? What are you doing here? You are an American soldier, yes?"

Alberto nodded. "I came here with the Tenth Mountain Division."

"We know. We've been watching you."

"And you?" Alberto said. "Last time I saw you, you were in the back of a truck leaving the quarry with Aldo Merruci captured by the Blackshirts. Did they put you in a labor camp?"

" _Si, si._ But, I escaped last year and joined the partisans," Tavio said.

"What happened to Aldo?"

"He is hiding somewhere north of here calling in locations for parachute drops to us and new German positions to the British they can bomb. The British drop food and weapons to us and bomb the Jerrys by day. Aldo is our lifeline. Very important. At night, we blow up what the bombs can't hit."

"I know," Alberto said. "I've been following you."

"How would you know what we were doing?"

"Beatricé," Alberto said.

"Beatricé? Beatricé? I was sure that was you. Everything we told the OSS they would say, 'We must clear this with Beatricé.'"

"I've been answering their questions about your work for more than six months."

"Wait 'til I tell Aldo. Did they tell you I got my hands on a set of German plans for the western half of the Gothic Line, which I gave to Father Romano? Remember him?"

"Yeah, my art teacher. You and I served him as altar boys."

" _Ad Deum qui laetificat juventutem meam,"_ Tavio recited one of the Latin responses they'd memorized for the Mass.

"To God, the joy of my youth," Alberto said. His eyes sparkled as he smiled. "I remember."

"Well, he smuggled the plans to the American headquarters by passing them off to another priest who was a courier, inside Saint Peter's at the Vatican. Very clever, no? The plans showed where the weak spots were in Field Marshal Kesselring's defenses. So you came to help us kill some Germans?" Tavio said without pausing as he slapped Alberto on the back.

Alberto motioned for Nels to join them on the wall. "We're trying to find attack routes up the ridge to get at the Germans on top," Alberto said nodding toward the ridge.

"So we can kill the Germans," Nels said.

"Do you have a lighter?" Tavio asked Nels.

Nels reached inside his shirt and took out a lighter. As he removed it, Ineke's mitten fell into his lap.

"That must not be an Army mitten," Tavio said.

"It belonged to my fiancée. The Germans killed her when they invaded Norway."

"May I?"

Nels handed the mitten to Tavio who turned it over in his hands.

" _Molto bello_ ," Tavio said. "Very beautiful. What was the name of your fiancée?"

"Ineke."

"She was beautiful, yes?"

"Yes, she was." Nels tucked her mitten inside his shirt.

"How can we help you _Il Scultore_?" Pietro said, lighting a Lucky Strike as he spoke.

"Once we start to scout the ridge," Alberto said, "we will have no one to watch our back. We have to operate as a small group so the Germans won't discover us. Can you help us?"

" _Certamente_ ," Tavio answered. "I will put two of my best men behind you to guard your trail at all times. You must be careful, my friend. There are many German squads hiding in these hills and many traitors among our own people. They will kill you if you give them the chance." He spit on the ground in disgust.

"We should have posted lookouts last night and this morning," Nels said, still embarrassed that the partisans had surprised them. "How about the villagers here? Can we trust them?"

"Don't worry. They're on our side," Tavio said. He turned to the other partisans and motioned them toward the hills. As quickly as they had appeared, they were gone.

### ~

By 7 a.m. the Americans were ready to start looking for trails up the ridge. They put extra water, food and clothing, blankets, carabineers, and pitons in their rucksacks, not knowing how long they would be on the ridge. Each man had a coil of rope over his shoulder, and his rifle.

An emaciated cow stumbled past Nels into the middle of the barnyard and collapsed in the mud. A middle-aged woman with brown and gray hair tied behind her head knelt next to the cow and patted it on the head. Her long dress and coat were worn out and torn in places.

Nels bent over and put his hand on her shoulder, then helped her to her feet. Her eyes had a distant, sorrowful stare.

Olney handed her a pack of Chesterfields, which she clutched to her ample bosom. He held out a match and she inhaled on the cigarette, exposing her toothless smile.

Terry tried to communicate with her, gesturing at the ridge. "Senora, path-o up-o la montanya? Capish? Trail? Hike-o?" She gave Terry a bewildered look and shrugged.

"What a sweetheart," Coosie said to Nels. "I wish we had real food so I could cook them a good meal."

Alberto spoke to the woman in Italian. They both motioned toward the ridge. He turned to Nels, "She says she used to climb up the ridge before the war and knows many of the trails, and yes, they are all steep and narrow."

Other villagers gathered with the soldiers and encircled the cow, each carrying a knife. The woman bent over and patted the cow's head again, then slit its throat.

Quickly they began hacking and carving at the warm carcass of the creature. They slit her underside, and intestines slid out on the ground in a pool of blood. The villagers jostled with each other trying to slice away portions of the meat. Flies buzzed and swarmed, eager to taste the blood. Crows, who were silent in nearby trees, began to caw, adding to the commotion.

Nels wrinkled his nose and turned away, signaling for the squad to follow.

He led them through dry leaves and patches of melting snow along a winding dirt road in the forest. Sunlight flickered through the empty branches.

"Are we on the right path?" Nels asked Alberto.

"The woman in the village told me she grew up here as a young girl herding the family cows in the meadows and hiking all along here below what they call the Dardagna Cascade. She told me that we should follow this road to the start of a trail just beyond the Sanctuary of the _Madonna de Acero_ \-- Our Lady of the Maple Tree.

Nels thought for a moment about the maple tree in front of Bill Mack's farmhouse. He could hear Chisel Cheney, _the maple tree is one of the special gifts from the Creator._ And now it would be a guidepost for them marking the entrance to these mountains.

"There's a trail from there that will lead us up to a series of waterfalls. When we get to the largest one, we should look for a trail that goes behind it. By the way, she told me the Germans never patrol the ridge up and down these trails, but let's be careful anyway."

The sanctuary was nestled in a row of maples marking the edge of the forest. Dried leaves covered the chapel's tile roof. Moss dotted its stone walls. The squad stopped and stared at the building and then moved into the trees.

Nels turned to Alberto, "This is magnificent. Sure we aren't on vacation with you as our tour guide?" Nels looked Alberto in the eye and winked. "The maple tree," he said. Alberto nodded and smiled as though he was thinking what Nels was thinking.

They entered a sloping hardwood forest beyond the church. The ground was littered with dead leaves from the autumn leaf drop and the dark, gray rock ledges were thick with green moss.

In a few minutes, they arrived at a stone bridge crossing the Dardagna River. A series of small waterfalls tumbled from the vertical ridges crashing into the deep ravine of the river.

Across the bridge, the trail perched on a narrow ledge, overlooking the ravine, and took them to one side of the falls and up rocky steps. Nels was in the lead followed by Alberto. The path narrowed to less than a foot wide.

After another half-hour of slow, cautious climbing across steep intermediate tiers, the trail approached a second waterfall.

Nels and Alberto each made notes on folded Big Chief newsprint pages Lyle had given them. How far was the ledge from the bridge? How long was the one-foot-wide section? Did water run over the trail? Which ledges would require pitons and climbing ropes? Could a long line of men negotiate this section? This flat spot would make a good place to rest.

After more than five hours of vigilant climbing, they heard the roar of water letting them know they were approaching another cascade.

This waterfall was much wider than the others and seemed to block the trail. The rocks along the waterfall's edges were crusted in ice. Many trees clung to the rocks concealing a flat ledge in front of the falls. Nels called a halt and everyone took off their packs. He could not see where the trail continued.

"Looks like the end of this attack route," Nels said, shouting to be heard above the roar of the water. "Are we at the same waterfall the old women told you about?"

"I don't know," Alberto yelled. "It looks like the end of the road."

"Let's see what's on the other side of the falls before we give up," Terry said. He walked into the waterfall, gasping for breath from the shock of the cold water and disappeared into the veil.

The team sat down and looked at the scenery.

"This would be a beautiful place in the summer," Nels said.

Minutes later, a stone bounced in their midst surprising them. They looked toward the waterfall where Terry signaled for them to go to the left around the waterfall.

"Come around this way. The trail is in here, behind the falls," he howled, gasping and smiling.

Olney was the last man around the edge of the falls. Everyone was soaked and shivering in the January chill. The trail emerged in sunlight and Nels told everyone to change to dry clothes. The relief from the shivering was invigorating.

Make sure to have a guide in front of the falls to tell the men to put on their ponchos, Nels noted.

The trail ascended up a series of steps, then followed narrow lateral traverses back and forth along the cliff, then more steps. Nels noted the traverses above the third falls would need plenty of anchor points.

An hour from leaving the falls, they could see the top of the ridge. The group crawled on their hands and knees up a steep talus slope leading to the top.

Nels realized he was almost on top of the ridge and slid back and hugging the incline. Several inches of snow covered the top like frosting on a cake.

He peered over the top, his eyes covered by binoculars. A German soldier walked out of a hut in a grove of trees. The trees blocked the German's view of the edge of the ridge. Nels recognized the Edelweiss flower sewn on the side of his wool cap and gritted is teeth.

The man's sentry dog started to run after him but was stopped by a chain around his neck. The German took his white skis, which leaned against the hut, and laid them in the snow.

Another German, wearing skis, joined the first one. Together they skied in the direction of the team.

"Oh shit," Nels whispered ducking below the rim. He put his finger to his lips and waved for everyone to get down.

The dog barked, straining at the leash. The Germans stopped about ten feet from the Americans. Behind them, the dog was growling and barking, straining to be unleashed. The Germans did not look over the edge, distracted by the dog.

One of the Germans yelled at the dog. They turned away from the cliff and skied along the edge of the ridge.

"Steve, what is he yelling," Nels said.

Steve started to laugh but held back. "He told the dog, 'Relax Gertrude. You are such a Nazi. No one can climb this cliff. Must be a squirrel.'"

The Americans backed away and followed their trail back the way they came.

Knowing now that this was a usable attack route, Nels put the team to work installing anchor points for the guide ropes his company would need for the climb. Each man wrapped his piton hammer in a wool sock to muffle the sound. No one spoke. They knew what to do.

Alberto checked every piton as they descended. He added carabineers to each one. They wove ropes between the carabineers, the start of the long rope hand line that would mark the route.

It was late afternoon as they passed the Sanctuary of the Maple Tree. Coosie stopped and genuflected before the cross on the building and crossed himself.

### ~

Nels walked slowly back toward Vidiciatico in the fading daylight. His legs ached from climbing back and forth and up and down, exploring every detail of their assigned section of Riva Ridge.

He wandered in single file with the squad, turning over in his head the details of the cliff, the waterfalls, the ledges, wondering if the path they marked was the best route. Would one hundred men find their way unharmed in the dark?

The parade of images faded as soon as he saw Tavio and the partisans waiting for them outside the barn.

The brown-haired daughter of the old woman, who'd helped them that morning, stood with them. "No," she whispered. "No." She was sobbing.

She took Alberto by the hand and led everyone to the edge of the village just beyond the barnyard. He put his arm around her sagging shoulders to steady her.

They walked along a cobblestone side street and found the bodies of three partisans lying by a wall in pools of blood. They'd been shot in the back of the head.

"Oh, no," the daughter said, rubbing one hand over another.

Across from them, her mother hung by her neck from a balcony. She wore a long dress, black leggings and no coat, looking undisturbed except for the knotted rope constricting her neck. A hand-drawn sign pinned on her dress accused her of helping the partisans. Nels crossed himself. "Oh dear God," he gasped.

"Who did this?" Alberto asked the daughter.

" _Tedeschi,"_ she replied. Many tears striped the dirt on her face. "No," she whispered again.

"The Germans," Alberto said.

Tavio stood over the bodies and made the sign of the cross. " _Dominus vobiscum_ , dear friends. God be with you," he said in Latin.

Other villagers came out of their houses and stood silently with the fighters. Two partisans climbed to the balcony and lowered the old woman's body into the waiting arms of her long-time neighbors.

One of the partisans raised his head and began singing "Bella Ciao." His passionate voice reminded Nels of the agony of the tenor at the Tabor Opera house in Leadville.

The others joined in the rhythmic marching song the Italians knew by heart. Their voices grew louder, more defiant, and they clapped in perfect accord.

They paused and lowered their voices, singing the last verse through their tears.

This is the flower of the partisan

O bella ciao, bella ciao, bella ciao, ciao, ciao

This is the flower of the partisan

Who died for freedom.

They ended in silence. The birds mourned without chirping. No wind whispered in the trees. Nels's nostrils flared and his body tensed. Those German sons of bitches. Why do they kill the defenseless? What do they fear from these peasants? Why are they so bloodthirsty?

#

_Battle map of Riva Ridge (left) and Mount Belvedere (right) drawn by Armand Casini in 1945._

# RIVA RIDGE AND BEYOND

Several days later, Nels stood with Alberto in the chapel looking at a terrain model of Riva Ridge. Standing around the table were Knowles, Hannibal and the other platoon leaders of Able Company. Nels inhaled the aroma of centuries of candle wax and clouds of prayers.

On the table, small sticks represented trees, blue tape modeled the river, and rocks served as the ridgeline, details gathered from maps, aerial photos and reports from the scout teams.

"Following multiple trails into this area," Knowles said, pointing at four lines of colored string up the ridge, "we've discovered it's full of deep rifts and eroded gullies. Each trail is hard to follow, sometimes disappearing completely. Not the kind of place for a night hike, especially carrying rifles and ammo, but that's what we're facing. For anyone else, this would be an impossible challenge. But that's why they called us over here -- to do the impossible."

Hannibal chimed in. "Start by doing what is necessary, then do what is possible, and suddenly you are doing the impossible."

"General Hannibal again?" Knowles asked.

"No, Saint Francis of Assisi."

Nels nodded, staring at the red string, which he knew was their trail -- the impossible route we made possible.

"Trail Red takes our company up to the _Pizzo di Campiano_ area of Riva Ridge. Corporal Torkle, your team will be the guides for this route since you already put in pitons and fixed ropes. Nice work, by the way, all of you in second squad."

Nels remembered a ski race in Norway when he'd found new strength and burst into the lead. He felt the same, as they scaled the cliff, no longer a fearful novice, but an experienced mountaineer. He inhaled deeply, smiling at Alberto.

"Most of you have found a way to cross this canyon of the Dardagna River," the company commander said, pointing at the river. "All the fast-flowing waterfalls empty into this larger stream that flows parallel to the base of the ridge."

"The German Fourth Mountain Battalion occupies the summit and you've discovered the area is lightly defended, indicating the Germans don't expect anyone to climb the ridge."

It still won't be easy, Nels thought to himself.

"You'll need to leave your hiding places in the farmhouses at nineteen forty-five hours, two days from now, eighteen February. Remember, be in position at the top of the ridge by dawn on the nineteenth. The challenge will be to remain silent during the two-thousand-foot climb. At the summit, stay hidden until dawn."

"The division has decided to bounce searchlights off the clouds all night to give you extra light. So, no skis, no sled dogs, no mules -- just boots on the ground, foot soldiers doing what they've always done -- face-to-face combat, overcoming tyranny with force and being very, very sneaky."

"Gentlemen," Knowles said, "until we meet again, in this life, or the next, may God be with us all."

### ~

18 February, 1945 . . . Nels, Terry, Coosie, Steve, Olney, and Alberto hid in a grove of bare trees veiled in a mist of fog. Nels felt the mist drifting past his face. It concealed the farmhouse they believed was in front of them. Their rucksacks were packed with ammunition, ponchos, dry clothes, and canned rations.

One at a time, they scurried from the trees toward the farmhouse, feeling their way through the gloom. No lights shone through the windows. No dogs barked from inside. They entered carefully listening for the farmers, or worse, the Germans.

Each man squeezed up the narrow stairs to the attic where they saw Lyle, sitting in the light of a single candle. He'd hidden there all day to make sure Germans did not enter. The roof beams were so low no one could stand up. Outside, short blasts of wind rattled the wooden structure. Rats scurried unseen in the corners under the straw.

LT carried a case of ammunition up the stairs and passed boxes to each man.

"Hey, Coosie. Found this for you." He tossed something in his direction. Coosie caught it, "Spam! You lousy..."

He jumped up and hit his head on a rafter. He threw the can of Spam at LT who ducked down the stairs. Everyone smothered his laughter.

Lyle finished drawing a cartoon of Olney dressed as a soldier, burdened with ammunition. He wore his Stetson hat, held in place with a green chinstrap, ready to shoot his rifle. His lucky buckle glittered at his waist.

Nels looked around the room at each man. "Hey, everybody, I would like to say a prayer right now. I know we all have different faiths, but maybe we could all pray together silently."

Everyone in the group changed their cramped position to kneeling. Nels took Olney's hand and closed his eyes. The others did the same.

Nothing was said. Winds banged on the farmhouse as if some evil force knew the soldiers were inside. Nels said out loud what he was feeling in his heart. "God, you have led us to this place and to this moment. We've come a long way together. Lord, don't leave us or forsake us now. Amen."

Lyle opened his eyes and turned to Olney. "Hey, Olney, can I touch your lucky buckle?"

"Sure, Stevie. Have a touch for good luck."

### ~

The squad left the farmhouse as scheduled making their way up the trail, dropping off, one at a time, to assigned points. Nels dropped off first. He would be the last man up. They would guide the rest of the company up the trail using hand signals or leading each group of men around hidden obstacles.

Alberto led the rest of the squad up the jagged trail making sure each one found his post. He left Terry at the waterfall, Steve at a hidden turn in the trail, and Olney at the base of a steep ledge where he would have to reassure the soldiers they could climb its short, but vertical face.

Within an hour, the rest of Able Company was climbing the trail. Near the edge of the large waterfall, Terry stood guiding men to the trail hidden behind the cascade descending from the rocks above. He wore a poncho with the hood over his head. His voice shivered from standing in the cold spray.

Yelling to be heard in the crashing water, he told each group as they approached, "Put your ponchos on. Follow the ropes behind the waterfall and keep your eyes on the ledge. It's narrow and icy."

The men inched across the narrow ledge holding the ropes with strong hands, shunning the discomfort of the icy water.

The last man handed Nels the red cloth they had arranged as a signal. "That's everyone," the man said as he passed Nels and began to climb.

Nels looked at his watch. It was just past midnight. They were ahead of schedule.

The friction of his glove along the rope was warm and reassuring. The rope guided not only his ascent, but also his destiny. The hovering heartache that'd followed him since leaving Norway was gone. He'd punish all of Germany for killing Ineke, for invading Norway, for making him constantly look over his shoulder, afraid his pursuers would find him.

He patted his chest where her mitten rested.

Fog lingered on top of the ridge like a sacred aura -- brilliant, life-giving, hiding them from the Germans. The opaque light revealed every detail of the cliff, the trickles of water and patches of ice. He thanked God for the conditions.

As Nels climbed, Coosie was the first of his five guides to come into view.

"Coffee ready?" Nels asked.

Coosie grinned and shook Nels's hand. Nels motioned for him to lead the way.

At the large waterfall where the trail disappeared, Terry shifted from side to side.

"Boy, am I glad to see you," he said. "I was getting worried you'd lost your way and I'd have to stand here all night in the cold."

"Coosie, go ahead. I'll help Terry change to dry clothes."

Terry removed his wet pants. Nels helped him peel his long johns and underpants away from the goose bumps on his wet skin.

Terry shivered and gasped. "You are very kind, my friend."

Nels helped him put his legs into dry underwear. He slid Terry's wool shirt up one arm. "Your hands are freezing. Where are your gloves?"

"I don't know," Terry stammered. "I couldn't find them when I got here. They must've fallen out of my pack.

"Here, take these. I found them on the trail coming up."

"Thanks." Terry's hands trembled like an old man's.

"I should be thanking you for taking this post," Nels said. The cold must've been brutal."

"It's been a lesson in perseverance. I've always preferred the fast and easy to the slow and difficult."

Nels understood Terry was referring to his style of skiing and his attitude toward life, but said nothing.

"I was wrong about you, Nels. I saw you as too gung-ho, too military. I was more interested in being a skier than a soldier."

"In this outfit" Nels said, "good skiers and rock climbers make good soldiers." He pulled the hood of Terry's parka over his head.

After a few minutes climbing above the waterfall, a pink blush replaced the blue on Terry's lips.

"You doin' okay?"

"Yeah, I'm beginning to warm up. Feels good to be moving again, and not stranded alone."

"That's what friends are for."

One by one, they found Steve, Olney, and Lyle.

At the top, Alberto stood in front of the company, looking down the line of descending ropes.

"Nels?" he spoke to the silhouettes shifting before him.

Nels climbed several more steps grabbing Alberto's outstretched hand, pulling himself up the last step. The two embraced. "We made it," Nels said.

"Of course we did. This is our time," Alberto said.

"It's been a long journey my friend. You ever think we'd end up here when we first met in Vermont?"

"No, but I'm glad we stayed together all this time," Alberto said.

Their eyes met for a long moment. They both smiled at their memories of that journey.

"Time to find the Germans," Nels said. He turned and squeezed in among the squad crouching near the top of the ridge.

It was 5 a.m. and the wind had settled. A faint blue mist drifted over them on its descent into the valley below. Nels wrinkled his nose. "You smell coffee?" he whispered to Steve.

Steve nodded yes.

"Go take a look around. See if you can find the Germans and figure out what they're doing."

### ~

Steve crawled through the mist over a light dusting of snow. Nothing moved in front of him. The outline of a weathered shack slowly appeared through the mist. He stood and hid behind the shack. The smell of coffee seemed close.

He peered around the shack and saw three small groups of Germans brewing coffee on their gas stoves. They faced away from the shack and the cliff.

In the distance, the remnants of several small campfires glowed in the distance. He concluded the groups in front of him were lookouts who'd probably been up all night.

As he knelt down to follow his route back, he heard he vicious snarl of an animal behind him. He lay in the snow and looked back toward the sound. It was the same dog he'd seen on the ridge the week before.

Damn that fucking dog. He spun around ready to defend himself, but a handler, sitting next to a machine gun, restrained the dog.

Another German skied from the other side of the shack toward the group unaware that Steve was near him. He whistled and called for the dog to come. The handler unclipped the leash and the dog raced toward Steve.

Steve fired at the soldier but missed and then spun toward the charging dog, barely able to aim as the dog leapt at him. He winced and fired. The dog yelped, dropped to the ground, and lay motionless. The German scrambled to turn away from the muzzle flash skiing uncontrollably down a small hill. He tripped and fell off the top of the ridge, shrieking as he dropped toward the rocks below.

Steve held his breath. His heart raced and his lungs burned. He forced himself to overcome the paralysis of his fear and crawled toward the shack.

### ~

Nels lay motionless, listening for the enemy to react and searching for movement. The unmistakable metallic _schlick-schlink_ of a rifle bolt ramming a cartridge into the chamber pierced the stillness and stopped his breathing. It was the same sound he'd heard before the Germans shot Ineke.

The enemy was closer than he'd thought. His heartbeat thundered in his ears. His breathing became rapid and shallow. In the dawn light he saw a machine gun crew swinging the gun toward his squad. He rose to one knee and lifted his rifle to his cheek, aiming at the tall German next to the gun. He fired hitting the man in the throat. The man staggered and fell. Blood spurted from his neck.

A fusillade erupted from the Germans, revealing their positions. Tracers marked the streams of death headed for the Americans and screams broke the stillness.

Another German rolled the dead man aside and took over the machine gun. His tracers sailed over their heads, and he rose slowly out of the frozen hole to lower the trajectory. The tracer path was now parallel to the ground, heading straight toward Nels and the squad.

For Nels, time came nearly to a standstill. Muzzle flashes and blue smoke drifted around the gunner who laughed insanely. His laugh was twisted by the shift in time into dreadful moans of aggression letting Nels know he intended to inflict death.

For an instant, Nels wanted to lead Alberto away, back to the safety of the snowy woods where they'd first met. Nels quivered at the thought of something bad happening to his friend. As the next burst of rounds flew at him, his nostrils flared. Hatred pulsed through his veins. He pushed Alberto out of the way.

"Not again, you motherfucker," he screamed with every ounce of breath left in his lungs. He fired as if these Germans were the ones who'd killed Ineke. He fired and fired again, pulling the trigger as if he could see them die, but he was out of ammunition.

"Reload," Alberto screamed.

### ~

The dead littered Nels's path like discarded dolls, their limbs bent at awkward angles and their necks twisted in agony. Once full of life, their bodies were now abandoned shells. I hope no one weeps tears at your graves? No one.

Nels loaded a new ammo clip into his carbine listening for it to click into place then tapping the bottom to make sure it was seated. Pulling back the bolt handle he loaded a round then flicked the safety lever, ready to move forward. He laid his rifle across the ammunition pouches around his waist.

When the assault first began, the joy of revenge he'd sought for so long filled his heart. But not anymore. Now he was numb. Every ounce of warmth had been sucked out of him as though he'd spent the night on frozen ground.

He knelt next to an American from another platoon who'd been shot in the cheek tearing the side of his mouth away from his teeth. He wrapped several bandages around the bloody wound careful not to enlarge it.

"How bad is it?" the man asked, slurring his words.

"You'll live." Nels held the man's hand for a moment trying to comfort him until a medic knelt beside him. He was astonished how the soothing words he spoke to the soldier warmed his own blood, healed his hatred, and freed him from his wish for revenge. As Nels moved aside, he thought how good it felt to be a nurse to someone in need instead of just a soldier.

Nels crawled to another American who lay gasping for every breath from a bullet hole in his chest. He knelt next to the man, covered the sucking hole and held his hand as he died. He felt as much like a priest as a nurse, an expert at first aid and a gentle soul listening to his words. He stayed on his knees, paralyzed by grief until Alberto lifted his arm and helped him stand.

### ~

For the next two days, he and Alberto rappelled down the face of Riva Ridge lowering American casualties in stretchers. It took more than four hours to walk backward to the bottom where medics untied the dead from the stretchers and inserted them into white mattress covers. Other soldiers carried wounded to waiting ambulances. Chaplains moved from one man to the next praying.

When the engineers completed an aerial tramway, the descent took less than two hours.

### ~

It was late afternoon when Hannibal walked up to Nels standing with the squad at the base of the cliff. The sounds of battle continued in the distance.

"The Eighty-Sixth has been placed in reserve," Hannibal said. "The other regiments are getting ready to attack the Krauts on Mount Belvedere. Get some rest and wait for your orders in V-alphabet."

Nels and the squad walked away from Riva Ridge down a narrow trail. Tiny yellow and green spring leaves glowed on a branch in front of him framing the outline of Vidiciatico in the distance. A white-backed woodpecker made a nervous clicking chirp. His pecking was so rapid it sounded like old boards creaking.

At the edge of town, they passed a group of women butchering a dead horse harnessed to the wreck of a wagon. The daughter of the old woman who the Germans had hanged, looked up at Nels as they passed and wiped hair from her forehead with the back of a hand covered in blood. Nels smiled and nodded as they passed her.

The squad returned to their barn, took off their equipment and gulped down cold canned rations and water.

Hannibal drove up with two fifty-gallon drums and two submersible diesel heaters so the squad could set up hot showers. Steve and Nels hauled the empty drums up to the loft of the barn. The rest of the squad brought water from a stream behind the farmhouse and filled the tanks.

Olney and Lyle stood in the loft watching over the heaters. They held hoses spraying water on Steve, Alberto, Nels, and Terry who stood naked on steaming straw.

Coosie entered the barn and held up a copy of a newspaper. "Here's the 'Stars and Stripes.' They didn't put our picture on the cover, but they did a big headline:

"Cliff assault surprises Germans on Riva Ridge."

"Now tell us what we don't know. Give us the bad news," Nels said.

Coosie turned to an inside page.

"Company A, First Battalion, 86th Mountain Infantry Regiment: of 192 that started the assault on Riva Ridge, 17 are dead, 52 are wounded."

Nels showered in silence. When he'd finished, he sat next to Lyle watching him sketch a cartoon on his Big Chief tablet. It was the image of a giant Tenth Mountain soldier kicking a puny German soldier in the ass sending him screaming off a cliff.

The caption read: REMEMBER THE TENTH MOUNTAIN WHEN YOU GET TO HELL, WOLFGANG.

Nels wondered how Lyle could see any humor in what they'd been through. He appreciated his witticism, his response to life-threatening situations, even when death seemed unavoidable.

### ~

Heading back to join the fight, Nels made his way up a trail along the foothills of Mount Belvedere, trudging around scrub oaks and across patches of snow. An ominous silence covered the slopes. He carried two blankets and four canteens of water. No sleeping bags were available. By mid-afternoon, he and the others moved along a ridge leading to an intermediate summit.

The artillery that had thundered around them during the attack on Riva Ridge was silent. The Germans had retreated so fast they'd left weapons, maps, documents, and many of their dead, lying on the ground in front of him.

Olney put up his hand and motioned for everyone to stop. Nels saw the enemy patrol creep toward them. He signaled for the squad to spread out in a line across their path and get down. He waved at Alberto and Lyle, moving them closer to the center of the line with their thirty caliber machine guns.

Nels waited for the twelve Germans to come closer. His ribs heaved straining to inflate his lungs. He wanted to shout at the enemy and chase them away to avoid more bloodshed.

When the enemy was about one hundred yards from the squad, Nels screamed, "Fire." The blaze of gunfire caught the Germans off guard killing six. The other six dropped their weapons and held up their hands.

Steve questioned one prisoner after taking his rifle.

"What did he tell you?" Nels asked.

"He was on Riva Ridge. He said they couldn't believe we climbed up the cliff and surprised them. _Alle Achtung_ , which means well done."

### ~

That evening, Nels was summoned to a leader's meeting at a small farmhouse below their position. Hannibal announced a new battle plan.

"From here on out you will be moving and fighting at night," he said. "The terrain, as you have seen, is rocky and slippery. The only things you will carry are blankets, Cs, water, and ammunition--all the ammunition you can find."

He unfolded a map and held it in the light of a flickering lantern.

"We are here on the slopes of Mount Belvedere about four miles northeast of V-alphabet. We expect the Krauts will launch one counterattack after another. You'll form up with the rest of Able Company for the assault. Nels's squad will take the lead. From Belvedere, we will follow the ridgelines north 'til we get to the Po River. The Germans will try to blow every bridge to slow us down so they can run home to momma."

The gloom of the moon's waning crescent seeped into Nels's pores, travelling to his despondent heart. He kicked stones with the side of his mud-splattered boot as he climbed back toward the squad. His shoulders slumped. The killing is far from over.

### ~

Nels spent the next day lying on his back in a shallow trench listening to the far off sounds of battle. The smell of wet rocks, dry grass, and mist drifted through the air. It was a relief not to smell German cigarettes, campfires, unburied feces and the acrid smell of burnt gunpowder.

He thought about funny names for a line of men's cologne he'd produce after the war. As he wrote them down, he read them out loud to Alberto passing the time until darkness would cover their movements.

"Eau de Gunpowder. Cachet of Cowshit. Essence of Powdered Coffee, and my favorite _Sieg Heil_."

"Where'd you get a sense of humor in all this?" Alberto asked.

"Maybe reality plays tricks on me and forces me to focus on something different. Too much anxiety from the danger of being killed."

"Who's gonna buy those?" Alberto asked.

"Soldiers I guess, to remind them of where they've been here in Italy."

"How about Rotten Meat?" Alberto said. "No, I've got it--Whiff of Spam.

"Oh, good one," Nels said.

It was getting dark enough he could risk moving. He rolled onto his stomach and looked down on a checkerboard of farm fields from the ridge where they sat. He could hear the far-off crack of gunfire in the hills to the north. The shots rang out in short bursts.

A blister on Nels's heel flared up again. He took off his boot and sat in the dusk treating it with Mercurochrome a medic had given him.

Olney sat on the other side of him chewing his fingernails. He pulled out his harmonica and warmed the reeds with his breath.

"You boys all know 'Lili Marlene,' right?"

"Sure do. Play it for us," Nels said.

They got about halfway through the first verse when Steve held up his hand. "Shh, listen."

Nels could hear the enemy singing from a hill across from them.

"I'll be go to hell," Steve said. "They're singing along with us in German."

Together, they sang all the verses twice, then silence drifted over the hills muting the comradery between them. Nels rolled up in his blankets exhausted.

### ~

In the twilight of dawn, Nels got everyone up and started to patrol in the direction where he'd heard last night's singing.

"Nels, what are you up to?" Alberto asked.

"Get those Germans from last night. They'll be coming after us if we don't get them first."

As if he could smell where they were, Nels sneaked up on four Germans still sleeping on the ground. They didn't have blankets, only their long wool coats with scarves wrapped around their heads. None had shaved in many days. One heavy-set man snored and grunted. Nels poked him the chest with his carbine and woke him alerting the next man who had slept with his Luger. He fired the pistol at Nels. Nels jumped back and shot him, and the other three, pulling his trigger as fast as he could.

"Search 'em and let's get moving before more of them come running," Nels said. He scavenged through one soldier's pockets and found cigarettes and a flask, but no maps. He saw an Edelweiss sewn on his field cap. He took the cap and stuffed it inside his field jacket, but it felt like a rodent groping for Ineke's Mitten. In an instant, he took it out and threw it on the ground. I don't need any souvenirs.

"Little too much fruit Schnapps last night I think," Coosie said waving his hand in front of his nose at the sour smell in the air.

### ~

Nels led the squad farther into the mountains, ridge after ridge, village after village, night after night, skirmish after skirmish. He had no idea how far they'd come or where they were.

Skirmishes were measured in minutes, not hours. Gunfire was constant, not allowing his nerves to relax. A Tenth Mountain searchlight battery in a valley behind him bounced artificial moonlight off the clouds helping them see in the dark. The roving lights added to the ghostly atmosphere through which Nels advanced.

The morning of April 14 dawned clear and warm. Nels scanned the heights before them with binoculars. The ridges looked like a jagged washboard. A German artillery round exploded on a hill to their left shaking the earth. Black smoke covered Lyle and Coosie. They began to choke and cough.

"That's our wake-up call," Olney hollered. Nels pulled down on Olney's sleeve and motioned for the squad to sit down. He sat on an outcropping of rocks next to Terry.

Nels pulled his carbine apart to clean it, one section at a time. The barrel and top pieces sat on his blanket as he oiled and wiped each piece.

Another shell whistled overhead.

"Take cover," Nels shouted as he grabbed his helmet and rolled onto his stomach. The round exploded just beyond them like a clap of thunder, pushing him up and dropping him like a rag doll. Shell fragments whined in all directions tearing chunks of rock and dirt from the earth.

He raised his head and looked at his carbine. He was relieved to see the parts were still on his blanket. He reassembled the weapon as fast as he could, then slid down below the rocks and stared at the gaunt, strained faces of his comrades.

Lyle and Olney were wide-eyed like terrified children. Coosie and Steve were curled up with their eyes squinted as if they could will themselves into another place and time if only they tried hard enough.

Terry had tumbled off the rocks and lay motionless. Nels crawled next to him to see if he was injured.

Blood soaked through the middle of Terry's jacket. Jerking the jacket open, Nels saw two dark shrapnel wounds gouged in Terry's white chest. He wedged a bandage into each trying to stop the bleeding. He felt Terry's wrist for a pulse, but the life he'd hoped to find was gone.

"Oh, Jesus," Alberto said, looking at Terry's pale, lifeless face.

" _Vaya con Dios_ ," Coosie said.

"The one with the big boobies," Nels heard Terry laugh in his mind. "Ya, you vill see dees mountains for de rest of de var," Terry said. "Dats vhat you vill see."

I will miss your defiant spirit, Nels thought as he stared at Terry.

"Remember the name Terry Clendenin when you get to hell, Wolfgang," Nels screamed.

He dragged Terry's body out into the open and wedged his rifle between rocks marking his location for recovery.

### ~

After hours of running, creeping, and shivering with fear, Nels squatted below a tilted road sign. " _Castel D'Aiano_ " was carved into the wood illuminated by the long rays of the afternoon sun.

As he waited for darkness at the edge of the medieval town, a line of Italian _Alpini_ soldiers trudged past them leading a team of mules. The bodies of dead American G.I.s were lashed to the mule's backs pitching and swaying with the mules. Nels stared at the men's gaping mouths and vacant eyes wondering if that was how he'd be carried from the battlefield. The thought depressed him and he looked away.

Nels opened his map and located the town at a road intersection. He lifted his binoculars looking for signs of the enemy.

"Where are we?" Steve asked.

"Twenty miles northeast of Vidiciatico."

"What do you see?" Alberto asked.

"Not much not even dogs or cows. The place looks deserted."

"You mean it looks like the Germans got here before us and chased the villagers off, or killed them," Alberto said.

Nels described what he saw. "Lots of bombed out houses surrounding a clock tower. The old stone walls are pockmarked from gunfire and explosions. And you're right, lots of bodies in the streets along the walls."

### ~

Nels crept along a street ducking into doorways where he lingered, letting his eyes roam with quick glances. The enemy felt close, but he could not see or hear them. His breath burst in and out in the evening air. The radio on Lyle's back hissed with the sound of Hannibal's voice giving them away. A German machine gun hidden in the rubble below the clock tower started its terrifying thunder echoing through the streets.

As the full force of the German assault began, Nels tried to count how many were firing. A steady barrage from the Americans knocked down one German after another as they tried to advance.

As quickly as they attacked, they disappeared back into the rubble.

In the pale light, Nels counted twenty-six Germans killed, and many more wounded. Three men from their company were dead.

Alberto jumped into the doorway next to him.

"You okay?"

Nels nodded yes. At the end of the street, a German stood up waving a white flag and shouting, " _Wir geben auf. Wir geben auf_."

"He's saying we surrender," Steve yelled from a doorway across the narrow street.

"Hold your fire," Nels commanded. "Get them out in the open. Tell them to put down their weapons and walk toward us."

Four stood up obeying Steve's command and raised their hands in the air.

"I don't see their weapons," Nels hollered. "Where are their weapons?"

Nels crouched down along the wall to his right moving toward the Germans.

"Don't trust 'em," he yelled. He held his breath listening for any clue as to where the others were. He tapped his finger on the trigger guard.

Steve shouted at the Germans. "Where are the others? Tell them to come out. _Mach schnell_."

POOMB. In the background the unmistakable sound of a mortar firing alerted them to the ruse. The Germans dropped and began firing. The gunfire was as thick as a winter blizzard. Shrapnel from exploding mortar rounds whizzed through the air, spilling tree sap and blood.

Nels ducked into another doorway just as a burst of machine gun rounds tore into the cobblestone street in front of him. The Germans swarmed out of the night silhouetted by the bright flashes from their muzzles.

"Get back," Nels yelled. "There's too many of them."

German voices screamed at them from the building across the street. Nels saw Alberto and Coosie lay down their weapons and hold up their hands. He aimed at a German next to Alberto, but another German stepped into his view with a pistol aimed at his head. Nels let his rifle fall from his hands.

The German growled an order at him then yanked him from the doorway and flung him into the street. Pointing at his cartridge belt, he yelled for him to take it off. Then he kicked his ribs and motioned for him to stand.

The Germans surrounded them shouting and firing their weapons in the air forcing them to bunch together.

Nels stood with his arms over his head. His neck muscles strained against his skin. His throat was dry, and he clenched his teeth in defiance.

A young German soldier, maybe fifteen years old, motioned for Nels to unzip his jacket. He searched his pockets and reached into his shirt where he found Ineke's mitten. He took one look at it and threw it on the ground. Nels tried to retrieve it, but the kid sideswiped him with his rifle. Nels glared at him as though he was unharmed by the pain. The Germans lined them up in a double row rushing them toward the edge of the village.

Nels stalled, folding his arms around his shoulders, stamping his feet and coughing as though he was sick. He couldn't leave her behind. He was struck in the back again with a rifle butt. This time he fell on his knees buying more time to search.

Nels saw another German pick it up and show it to another. He held out his hand pleading, but the German dismissed him with a wave of his hand and threw it back on the ground.

Nels crawled toward the mitten as fast as he could not caring if he was beaten or shot. His heartache left him dry inside. All that mattered was his lifeline to her lay in the dirt. Tears no longer dripped from his eyes.

Two Germans lifted him by his arms before he could reach her mitten. He screamed in agony draining his heart of all hope.

The Germans herded them out of the town and down the slopes toward a valley. Nels stumbled along for hours in a daze. Ineke had been taken from him a second time.

They stopped on a straight section of trail. A gaunt German removed his helmet and lit a cigarette. His hair was parted down the middle.

He offered Nels a candy bar. As Nels reached for it, the man slapped the package out of his hands. He barked more abuse at Nels like a growling dog and brandished his fist under his nose.

Rage burned like fire lacing Nels's veins and creeping up his spine. He planted his feet wide apart, ready to attack. Just as he was about to strike, Alberto nudged him from behind. The squad started moving again.

After more miles, Nels faced a large stone barn surrounded by a wire fence, topped with rolls of barbed wire. Machine guns overlooked the compound from each corner and lights glared in his eyes. The compound was crowded with American and Italian soldiers.

As the sun set, Nels zipped his jacket up to his throat trying to retain his body heat. He took a piece of rye bread and a tin cup of barley soup from two young Germans walking among them. The soup was the color of dirt and the barley looked like maggots. He tried to swallow the cold soup but gagged and spit it back in the cup. He chewed the stale bread for a long time lost in agony.

He lay down on the ground between Alberto and Olney for warmth but couldn't sleep. Guards walked among them all night.

In the morning Nels sat cross-legged on the ground watching guards hand out soup again. He looked into his cup at a handful of peas bobbing in the pale broth.

"What would you call this?" he asked Coosie.

"Piss of split pee, " Coosie said grabbing his crotch.

Nels smiled. Coosie's incessant humor reminded him of when they first met on the train.

He peered over the edge of the tin cup watching three large German trucks line up outside the barbed wire.

The Germans started yelling and pushing him toward the trucks. He threw his cup at the foot of a guard. The soup missed his dusty black boots.

Steve whispered to Nels, "The rumor is they're taking us to labor camps in Austria."

### ~

Nels swayed and bounced half asleep in the back of the Nazi truck, oblivious to the roaring engine, the grinding gears, and the constant jolting. He dreamed of an Edelweiss swirling along the green ribbons of the Aurora Borealis accompanied by the ghostly faces of the men he'd seen die. Ineke drifted past. He reached for her and whispered, _wait for me._

The crack of nearby gunfire didn't bother him until the truck screeched to a halt and men outside the canvas cover shouted in Italian.

Alberto shook Nels making sure he was awake.

"Partisans."

Someone threw open the rear flap of canvas revealing a setting sun in an orange sky and men dressed in civilian clothes. The partisans waved the Americans out of the truck.

He heard Alberto shout "Tavio" in an excited voice. Nels looked around the truck to see the leader of the partisans hugging Alberto. Nels sagged against the truck and rubbed his eyes. These guys are amazing. How did they find us?

"I no expect to find you on this convoy," Tavio said, shaking hands with Nels.

"How did you know it was us," Alberto asked.

"We attack these convoys every day. They move prisoners to border north of here. We got lucky."

Nels looked at Tavio and put his hand on his heart. He whispered, "Thank you." He was overjoyed at his sudden freedom.

Recognizing the soldier who'd taken Ineke's mitten, Nels angrily ripped open the boy's jacket and shirt, searching for the mitten, but it was not there.

He tore the clothes of three other dead Germans, but no luck.

Tavio stepped toward Nels and asked, "What are you looking for?"

"A red mitten."

"Oh, _si._ The one you carry in your shirt?"

"Yes, the one I showed you in Vidiciatico."

Tavio put his arm around Nels and spoke to the partisans. "Keep your eyes open for a red mitten. It may be on one of the Germans. _Si tratta di un tesoro_ , it is a treasure to him."

Nels sighed realizing her mitten was lost and his journey from here would be meaningless traveling through a land devoid of hope.

"Alberto, you are on the wrong side of the mountains," Tavio said, watching Nels rip open the uniforms of dead Germans.

"We need to drive you east to Gaggio where the Americans have supply and evacuation point. They send trucks every day south to Lucca."

### ~

A line of jeeps was parked outside a large hotel inside the massive walls surrounding the middle of Lucca. Nels and Alberto stood at one of the ancient stone gates discussing how they would spend the day. The company commander had told them to "stand easy" until he figured out what to do with them.

"Let's enjoy a glass of wine and I'll show you where I went to school," Alberto said.

The morning light in Lucca was faintly blue and slightly gold. The two friends strolled along a labyrinth of narrow streets defined by brightly colored stone buildings with orange tile roofs. As they entered a large _piazza,_ flocks of pigeons fluttered in front of them.

The stillness calmed Nels's soul. He let his mind unwind amidst the color. It was as if he'd been living in a world of black and white until he stepped into the _piazza_.

Nels wore clean fatigues with his pants tucked into canvas leggings. Alberto was dressed the same, wearing a garrison cap and field jacket. The top button of their shirts was buttoned. They didn't have dress uniforms or ties. They'd been on the move since mid-February.

"What a beautiful church," Nels said. The bright morning sunlight glittered on the white marble bell tower.

"This is the cathedral of _San Michele en Foro_ where Tavio and I went to school. Saint Michael's in the Forum," Alberto said.

The two of them sat at an empty table in front of the small café across from the entrance to the cathedral. A tattered umbrella was open over one of the tables. The melancholy sound of an accordion drifted through the _piazza_ on the morning breeze. It was a warm day so Alberto removed his field jacket.

Nels let the tranquility soak in like the warmth of a hot shower. He marveled that the walls of the three-story stone houses surrounding the _piazza_ had not been crushed or disfigured with bullet holes.

" _Buongiorno_ ," Alberto said waving to Saint Michael the Archangel. The immense angel stood on top of the church's entry façade looking down on the café below. Two smaller companion angels stood in the shadow of the archangel's immense tarnished bronze wings. They were blowing their horns as if to announce the start of a new day and the presence of God.

Alberto put his arm around Nels's shoulders and pointed at the angels.

"The one on the left I named 'Satchmo' for Louis Armstrong, and the one on the right is 'Dizzy" for Dizzy Gillespie, in memory of my life in Chicago."

"Dizzy, your guardian angel, right?" Nels said. Alberto nodded.

"Will you be coming back here now that the war is almost over?" Nels asked.

"Eventually, after I'm released from the Army."

"You will go back to work at the marble quarry, yes?"

"I think it may be time for me to help my father in the vineyard. But maybe I can work at the quarry until the grapes are ready to harvest."

"And wait for God to show you an idea for a new sculpture?" Nels said.

"I don't know what He has in mind for me. But this is my home, where I belong."

A young waiter, wearing wire-rim glasses, a long-sleeve white shirt and a green apron walked up to the table and set down two glasses of red wine.

" _Prego, Signore Alberto_ ," the waiter said.

"Do I know you?" Alberto asked.

"Yes, I am Lorenzo Modugno. I worked with you at Villa Bissi. I know you love Sangiovese."

"I'm sorry I didn't recognize you, Lorenzo," Alberto replied.

" _Nessun problema_ ," the waiter said bowing slightly. "It has been a long war. Welcome home. _Buon appetito_."

"Looks like you escaped the German bombings," Nels said to the waiter.

"Miraculously, but the Germans killed many of our soldiers and our residents. It was very bad. Many fled to the mountains and are still hiding."

As the waiter left, Alberto held up his glass and clinked Nels's glass.

" _Saluti_."

" _Skål_ ," Nels said.

"What will you do when you return to Norway?"

Nels paused and took a sip of wine.

"Bring wildflowers to Ineke's grave."

"Will you race again?

"I can't race forever. Maybe I can be a writer again."

Tavio wandered into the piazza with four other partisans.

"You made it back," he said.

"Join us for a glass of wine," Alberto said.

The others sat at the other table and ordered wine.

The moment was interrupted when a man was pushed from a side street into the _piazza_ shoved along by three Italian men.

The man stumbled and fell. He crawled on the cobblestones. His clothes were torn and he was bleeding from cuts on his face and knees. He wore a soiled T-shirt with holes in it. His hair was shaved on the sides, but the top was long and swept straight back.

"What's going on?" Nels asked Tavio. Tavio shrugged.

The civilians grabbed one of the cafe chairs and slammed it down on the cobblestones and tied the victim to the chair. Residents from the surrounding houses gathered around the accusers. One man yanked the man's head back by his hair.

"Aldo," Alberto said, recognizing Aldo Merruci his friend from working at the quarry. He rose from his chair and stepped toward Aldo.

The Italian cocked his pistol and held it to the back of Aldo's head. He kicked the chair knocking Aldo over.

Tavio walked up to the man and took the pistol.

"Let him go. He's a partisan. He's is one of us," Tavio said.

"You're wrong," the man said. "He's a German collaborator and a traitor to his people. He stole our hidden wine and sold it to the Nazis. He stole treasures from the church. Where is the money you evil bastard?" He kicked Aldo. The crowd cheered.

Tavio fired the pistol into the air and stopped the commotion.

A shiver ran up Nels's spine.

"Enough. Leave him alone. Untie him," Tavio yelled.

"Why are they doing this to you?" he said to Aldo.

"They saw me leaving the church with a suitcase full of wine."

Laying on his side on the stones Aldo continued.

"I was not stealing church treasures. We were taking them to the monastery at Farneta for safe keeping. Appearing to be a German collaborator was my cover."

"He's telling the truth," Tavio said. "For the past two years, he sent radio messages to us from a site in the mountains north of here. It was Aldo who organized parachute drops of weapons and clothing to locations given him by the OSS. You never saw the American Thompson submachine guns dropped in the fields outside Anchiano?

"No," the man said.

"The radios dropped to us at Lancisa?"

"No, No."

Tavio untied Aldo and released him waving for the residents to go away.

"Aldo, join us for some wine," Alberto said.

"I can't. Father Romano is trapped at the monastery at Farneta. We are on our way to free him. Two days ago German troops went to the monastery pretending they were bearing gifts for the monks. They broke in and arrested some of our partisans and a group of Jews being sheltered by the monks. Six monks and six lay brothers were tortured and killed by firing squad.

They are so bloodthirsty, Nels thought. What is their insane preoccupation with destruction, their joy in murder, bestowing an unending sorrow and grief on innocent people?

"Will you help us?" Aldo said.

" _Tra un momento_ ," Tavio said. "I will catch up."

Aldo turned and left, crossing himself as he passed the entrance to the cathedral.

Tavio sat down at the café table. Alberto waived to the waiter for another glass of wine. Tavio took a moment to calm down.

"Aldo is telling the truth, my friend," Alberto said.

"I know," Tavio said. He drank his glass of wine in one gulp and motioned to the waiter for another.

He turned to face Nels. "Give me your hand."

Tavio took Nels's hand and reached inside his jacket and pulled out Ineke's mitten.

"I found your treasure," he said.

Nels grabbed the edge of the table for support as his head began to twitch. He clutched the mitten to his heart spilling his glass of wine onto the table.

Nels looked up at Tavio with eyes full of tears.

"Where did you find it?"

"We attacked the next day's convoy after yours and found it on the seat of one of the trucks."

"Thank..." His voice choked with delight. He took Tavio's hand, "Thank you. Yesterday I had nothing. Today I have her next to me again."

"Now you can go on with hope in your heart," Alberto said.

"Tavio, listen to this," Alberto said. "Nels wrote this poem to Ineke.

"The joy I lived with you,

Now fills the emptied void.

Against my heart your mitten softly rests,

The presence of your allure,

Reminding me of all we shared

Until I return to you, endure."

"You remembered," Nels said.

"I will never forget."

THE END
DEDICATION

To author Michael Arches who introduced me to the craft of writing fiction and week after week prodded me until I got it right.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

Cover design and original painting by Master Pastelist Dennis Rhoades, Evergreen, Colorado.

Battle map of Riva Ridge, courtesy of the Colorado Ski & Snowboard Museum Hall of Fame, Vail, Colorado.

Bob Bishop for encouraging me to begin this project. Bishop compiled the photos for  Soldiers on Skis. A Pictorial Memoir of the 10th Mountain Division. Written by Flint Whitlock, 1992.

Captain Karnes, my Boy Scout leader for Troop 56 in Fort Greeley, Alaska (1958) who took us on several winter survival adventures. Fort Greely replaced Camp Hale as the new home of the Army's Cold Weather and Mountain School.

My brother and his wife, Mike and Marian McNamara, Newberg, Oregon, for a memorable trip to Italy,

Dave Wood, Point Au Roche, New York, my lifelong friend, who had a car in high school so we could go skiing.

Tim Fiedler for the original maps of Norway and Italy.

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COPYRIGHT

© 2017 by Charles McNamara

All rights reserved. Copyright under the United States, Berne Copyright Convention, Universal Copyright Convention, and Pan-American Copyright Convention. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form, or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without prior permission of the author.

This is a work of fiction. I have changed the names of individuals but not the places. I have tried to recreate events, dates and locations from my research as they existed during World War II. I may have changed some identifying characteristics and details such as physical properties, occupations and places of residence. Somehow it feels more historical to use the actual details.

### OTHER BOOKS BY THE AUTHOR

 Shining Light. Revealing Conversations with Dedicated People, 2014

 The Joint, a documentary on Colorado's prisons, 1974.

