Sloan Wilson - Ice Brothers

Paul’s eyes felt heavy, and he concentrated mostly on staying awake. He asked for coffee and once more had to remind himself that Cookie could no longer bring it. Why did the thought of Cookie riddled with oak splinters bother him more than the groans of so many dying men?

As Paul changed course to enter Angmagssalik Fjord he tried to concentrate on the details of moving the wounded up to the Danish houses. If he radioed for a doctor could a PBY bring one in? Probably there was too much small ice in the fjord for a seaplane, but couldn’t they parachute someone in? Except why should a doctor risk his life for the Germans? Paul had no answer for that, but God knew they needed a doctor, if only for Cookie. Nathan should get on the radio.

“Captain,” the quartermaster said, “is anyone getting the names of all the prisoners for the log?”

“Forget it.”

“We’re supposed to log everyone who comes aboard.”

“Forget it, I said. We’ll get the names later. Tell Boats to make some kind of stretchers for carrying the men ashore.”

Paul felt a sense of urgency as he approached the wharf at Angmagssalik. He wanted to moor and get the wounded ashore as fast as possible, but his mind wasn’t working right, and he got the ship broadside to the current, backing off just in time to avoid slamming into the wharf. Slowly he circled and came alongside properly. As soon as the ship touched the wharf, a small fur-clad figure jumped aboard and ran to the bridge. It was Brit.

Somehow Paul was very surprised to see her.

“What happened?” she said, out of breath. “I saw the smoke.”

“We wiped out the base,” he said wearily.

“Did you get the ship?”

“Yes.”

She hugged him. “I knew you would.”

He could think of nothing to say.

“Are any of your men hurt? Is Nathan all right?”

“He’s all right. Look, I got about fifty wounded prisoners. Burns and exposure. We got to get them up to the houses. Cookie’s hurt bad.”

Already wounded men wrapped in blankets were gathering on the well deck. Brit stared at them and suddenly the look of pleasure on her face died. “Fifty!” she said. “Good God. I’ll get the Eskimos down here with sleds and try to get ready for them.”

She ran up toward the settlement. Paul went to the wardroom to look for Nathan. He found him helping a boy about eighteen years old to get his burned hands into the sleeves of a dry parka.

“You got to get on the radio,” Paul said. “Have we told anything to GreenPat yet?”

“I haven’t had time.”

“He must be going crazy. Tell him what happened. Maybe he can parachute a doctor and medical supplies in here.”

“All right,” Nathan said, and staggered up the companionway. Soot from the burned clothes he had been handling had streaked his gaunt face so that he looked like a walking corpse himself.

Paul went to the pilothouse. He watched Boats and four seamen make stretchers out of strips of tarpaulin and rifles lashed muzzle to muzzle. “Boats, come up here …”

Boats walked quickly to the bridge. Still alert and brisk, he seemed curiously untouched by the confusion around him. “What can I do for you, sir?”

“How many of the prisoners are well enough to make trouble when they get a little rest?”

“I haven’t checked them all, sir. They all look pretty beat, those I’ve seen.”

“There must be some who aren’t wounded at all. Find out how many. I want them put out on the island with the other prisoners.”

“It’s already pretty crowded out there, sir.”

“There are more prisoners here than there are of us. I don’t want them even to think about taking over.”

“I’ll see to it, sir.”

“Can I talk to you, captain?” Carl Peterson asked. He was standing on the well deck, wrapped in a blanket.

“All right. Come up here.”

Hoisting his blanket above his knees to avoid tripping, Peterson hurried to the bridge. Apparently he had already recovered from much of his shock.

“Captain, can I go ashore?” he asked. “I know some of the people here. I can help.”

“You’re a prisoner. You were working with the Germans.”

“Captain, I had no choice. They just grabbed me in Copenhagen because I’m an ice pilot and marched me aboard their ship.”

“I suppose there will be hearings of some sort to figure all that out. Until then, you’re a prisoner.”

“But meanwhile, can’t I help? We’ve got to find a way to feed all these people in there. I at least can set up a field kitchen.”

There was a pause. “All right, go and help,” Paul said wearily.

Peterson jumped ashore, his blanket fluttering, and hurried into the darkness toward the houses. Paul heard the sound of dogs, and a team with a sled surrounded by a crowd of Eskimos arrived on the end of the wharf. Brit was shouting orders at them. The Eskimos began to help the Arluk crew put the wounded on stretchers and carry them ashore. Paul saw her pause over one German who was moaning and tuck his blanket around him more tightly. She too had changed instantaneously from victor to rescuer, also probably without being aware of it.

Damn it, they ought to get Cookie ashore first, Paul thought, and hurried to the forecastle. Cookie was lying in his bunk, his eyes open but so opaque that Paul thought he was dead. Still drowsy with morphine, Cookie managed a weak smile.

“We’re going to get you ashore,” Paul said.

“No!” Cookie sounded terrified.

“You’ll be more comfortable up there.”

“Let me stay here. Mr. Green will take care of me.”

“I’ll let him make the decision,” Paul said. “Is there anything I can do for you?”

“Who’s going to cook?”

“We’ll find someone.”

“The men have to eat …”

“We can live on K-rations. You go to sleep.”

Nathan was busy in the radio shack. Paul returned to the bridge and sat watching while the crew and the Eskimos moved the wounded ashore. Boats lowered the whaleboat and set off for the island with eight unwounded prisoners.

Nathan suddenly appeared on the bridge. “I got GreenPat,” he said. “The bastard wanted to know every last detail. He finally said he’d try to parachute in a medic and some supplies.”

“Good.”

“He wants us to stand by until things are under control and then take all the wounded who can make it back to Narsarssuak.”

That was too much for Paul to think about at the moment. “Cookie doesn’t want to be taken ashore,” he said.

“I can take care of him here. I’m saving the last of the morphine for him. He needs a doctor quick.”

“We got to figure out a place for them to parachute a man in and have Eskimos there to get him. Where’s the best flat land?”

“Brit will know. I better get her to arrange it and tell GreenPat.”

“Jesus, you must be dead on your feet.”

Nathan wearily shrugged. “I don’t know, skipper. If winning is like this …”

“I guess it’s better than getting beat.”

Nathan went ashore. When the last of the prisoners had been carried to the houses the Arluk crew returned to the forecastle and sprawled in their bunks. Krater lit off the galley range and began emptying cans of soup into a large pot. Paul came and sat at the big V-shaped table with the others while it warmed. Stevens was gathering up soiled blankets and throwing them in a pile on the well deck. The whole forecastle still smelled of sickness, wounds and scorched flesh. Everyone was too tired to talk as Krater handed out coffee mugs full of lumpy tomato soup and the last of the fresh bread that Cookie had made.

“Cookie, you better get well damn soon,” the quartermaster said, but the old chef did not answer. With a surprisingly delicate, long-fingered hand covering his eyes, he slept in his bunk.