The Blue Ice

by Innes Hammond

We came to a waterfall, tumbling down to the lake we were leaving. I waited for him and let him pass to lead the way. As I followed, my eyes bent on the ground as we climbed through a jungle of giant boulders, I suddenly noticed a red spot on the snow. A few yards on was another, and another. I glanced up at Sunde. He was bent forward under the weight of his pack and — his left arm hung slack in front of him. Good God! I suddenly had an awful sense of shame at my feeling of impatience. At the top he paused. I came up to him and glanced at his left hand. Blood was dripping slowly on to the snow. It had congealed on his fingers, but down the back of his hand a crimson line glistened wet in the moonlight. 'You're hurt,' I said.

'It's nuffink,' he answered. 'The bastard got me in the shoulder.'

I thought of the weight of the pack he was carrying and squirmed inside. God, how that pack must hurt him! 'Let's have a look at it,' I said.

But he shook his head. I saw his lips were bleeding where he had bitten through them with the pain. 'We're not far from Steinbergdalen. I'll stop there. You'll have to go on alone.'

I shook my head. 'I can't leave you alone up here.'

'I'll be all right,' he said angrily. 'It ain't nuffink serious.' And he turned and went on, trudging steadily forward on his skis.

I followed, my head bent, seeing nothing but the crimson spots on the snow that became more and more frequent. And I had thought I was tougher than him, that diving had softened him up! I thought of all the times he had paused for me on the way up to Osterbo. And I hadn't been wounded. I'd just been tired.

The rocks gradually became less frequent. Then suddenly we topped a ridge and there in the valley ahead of us was the hut. It was a square building, constructed of logs. At the back were outhouses. The little colony of huts, looking like models in the moonlight, was set on a big outcrop of rock, that showed black through powdery, wind-driven snow.

Ski tracks ran straight up to the door of the hut. I told Sunde to wait and skirted round the back, coming down on the far side. There, clear in the white light of the moon on snow, were the ski tracks going on and on until lost in the infinity of cold whiteness — three separate and clearly defined tracks.

I whistled to Sunde. 'They've gone on,' I told him as we approached the door of the hut. I lifted the latch. The door opened. Inside it was warm. The ashes of a log fire smouldered in the grate. With the door shut the warmth of the place stole over us like a soporific. I realised once more how tired I was. It was two o'clock. I had done some twenty-six miles of stiff climbing on foot and on ski in twelve hours. I dropped my pack on the floor and kicked the embers into a blaze. I got Sunde's pack off and then went out into the kitchen and found more logs. With a blazing pine fire to warm us I hacked at the blood-hard clothing of the little diver's shoulder. At last I had cut it free. The bullet had torn through the muscle on the outside of the upper arm, just by the shoulder joint. I heated some snow to water on the fire, bathed the wound and then bandaged it with strips from a torn shirt.