Roger Crossland - Red Ice

We made good progress during the next day, too. All indications were that we were very close to the camp. We seemed beyond exhaustion now, but had to keep moving. The ahkio drained away our strength, but we could not afford to abandon it or its contents. With the closing proximity of the camp, I reminded the point men and rear security people to stay alert.

During one water stop, Puckins deftly pulled a rubber ball from Alvarez’s ear, causing Gurung to laugh uproariously. Puckins had been working on the trick since we’d left the kayaks. Gurung had seen it many times before. Still it was a tough stunt to do with shooting mittens on. Chamonix was clapping his hands together to maintain the circulation when Puckins snatched a sponge cube from the Frenchman’s hawklike nose.

“Enough,” Chamonix barked with mock severity as he motioned everyone up off their packs.

“March or die,” he growled in parody of the well-known legion order. He skied off whistling “ Je Ne Regrette Rien ” in wavering notes, which mimicked Piaf’s mournful rendition. A significantly haunting tune to hear from one of the Premier Regiment Etranger Parachutiste, it generally foreshadowed bloodletting with a vengeance.

By now fatigue and stress had made everyone giddy. It was our fifth day of sub-zero weather.

The railroad line cut through the tree-covered contours like a child’s finger through cake icing. The absence of drifts over the individual rails meant a train had been by recently. I dead-reckoned we were somewhere southwest of the camp. We paralleled the tracks, staying behind the tree line until twilight, then pitched camp. I didn’t want to stumble onto the camp in the dark.

At about noon of the sixth day, we found the camp in a broad open valley ringed by spruce-covered ridges. Caution required that we study the camp’s routine for at least a full day. The size of the garrison necessitated a night attack. Since it was already noon, that meant we should reconnoiter the camp for the rest of the day and attack during the evening of the following day. We burrowed well back into the tree line and in pairs took turns watching the camp through binoculars.

The camp had been erected in the shape of a large isosceles triangle, with its base parallel to the railroad line. On the opposite side of the line lay large pyramids of logs. Between the camp and the logs, the line split into two spurs. A string of half-loaded flatcars, together with a wood-burning locomotive, rested on the outer spur. The sides of the triangle stretched roughly 250 yards on each side and 150 yards at the base. The triangle had been truncated with internal fences into three bandlike sections. An empty parade ground, scarred by half-track treadmarks formed the base section. Four prison barracks, a mess hall, and some other buildings composed the waist section. We had no trouble identifying each of the commandant’s, officers’, and guards’ quarters in the apex section. A magazine; the radio shack; its electrical generator; and a tall, well-maintained antenna were also located in the apex section.

Near dusk, four gangs of prisoners marched out of the taiga toward the camp. “March” was the charitable term; they stumbled in unison before four half-track trucks. As we watched, a woman near the rear of one formation faltered and collapsed. The half-track behind her didn’t swerve an inch. It continued on, leaving a red stamp at even intervals, from the spot where it had crushed her under its treads.

As the gangs approached the railroad gate, they began to stumble for lead position. Intuitively I knew that the first gang through the gate ate first, and the last gang through ate last… what was left. Like scarecrows trying to fly, they seemed to gain speed by flapping the black rags that covered them. Many dropped out of formation, lacking the energy to continue the race. One man from one gang was the first to reach the gate, barely cutting off a second gang. Two gray-coated VOKhk guards beat back the second gang, swinging their rifles like clubs. At the inner gate, one at a time, the prisoners were searched by two more VOKhk guards. Then they were allowed to enter the section that contained the prison barracks and mess hall. My breath kept fogging up the binoculars. After dark, I switched to the Starlight sniper scope. The scope didn’t work at first so I had to rush back to our bivouac to warm up the batteries while Alvarez covered for me with the binoculars. Using the scope, I studied the three sentry towers at the corners of the camp and recorded significant movement within the camp. Each relieving pair did the same. I noted there were lights on the perimeter but the towers stayed dark.

Reveille for the camp came about two hours before dawn. Men lined up at the mess hall and at another building, which must have been the sick bay. Apparently if a zek claimed to be sick, he lost his chance to eat. Then the men lined up at the inner gate and were frisked as they entered the parade ground. Any extra clothing was confiscated and the zek had to strip it off right there in the fifteen-below open air. When concealed food was discovered, it was ground beneath a guard’s boot.

“Look at that.” Wickersham, who shared my watch, pointed to the gate. Something shiny glittered in the snow near a prisoner held by two guards. A sergeant with three yellow stripes across his sky blue shoulder boards was lashing the zek across the face with a quirt.

“Must have tried to smuggle a knife out with him,” Wickersham offered as he watched the scene intently.

The VOKhk sergeant was built like a beer barrel. He had to look up at the prisoner—until after the savage, methodical working-over, the prisoner sagged to the ground. Another guard, a major, walked over to the squat sergeant. At first I thought he was going to put a stop to it, but he just put his hands on his hips and watched. When the prisoner passed out, the major had two other prisoners carry the unconscious zek to a building within the triangular apex section of the camp. It was probably the punishment block or “cooler.”

Wickersham watched the beer-barrel sergeant strut away. “Fellow sure likes his work. I think he’s got it in for that work gang now.”

Then, as if to prove his words, six of the guards hustled back to the guardroom and came out with crowbars. They walked to one barracks and pried out the window frames. The effect on the gang was visible. They slumped dejectedly. No windows on a barracks in sub-zero weather was a virtual death sentence.

Wickersham shook his head. He pointed to the punishment block. “That may be the cooler”—he swung his quivering mitten toward the windowless barracks—“but it’ll be no cooler than that one.”

It was a play on words, but no joke.

I sketched the camp with a ski pole in the snow. “That’s the camp generator. That, we think, is the camp magazine. That building is the guardroom and guards’ quarters. Does everyone understand what he has to do?”

Each man nodded as I caught his eye. Matsuma had a distant look. I guessed he was meditating his way through some samurai purification ritual on his feet.

“Matsuma, let’s keep a clear head through this. Your responsibilities to the living of this group take precedence over revenge for the dead.”

“I will do duty to all.” He bowed his head slightly.

I studied the camp through the Starlight scope, carefully avoiding the perimeter lights, whose brightness could burn out the scope’s delicate sensors. The whole valley seemed agonizingly still. Occasionally the moon poked through the clouds, but its effect was fleeting. Once or twice a door slammed in the officers’ quarters or the guardroom. The valley was so quiet that each door slam seemed only yards away.