Posted As Missing

20. Of Flying and Fools

David lay in the bed with Maria and Rachel for a long while after he had rewarmed, waiting for the sun to come around and into the gully. He occasionally sat to get the mirror angle right to monitor what the sun was doing across on the far side of the slab. By ten o'clock, small patches of dark sandstone appeared across the slab where the sun hit it, and wisps of vapour rose from increasingly large areas.

The entrance ledge was clear of snow, and he was pleased to see it also clear of Fritz. "Our automatic snow removal system should have the slab cleared by noon," he said as he lay between them again to rewarm. "I should put on a pot of tea; we should have breakfast while we wait."

He slipped his feet into his shoes, grabbed the billy and picked his way through the sodden slush to the stream, trying not to splash. The air was already warm in the nook, and he enjoyed the sun on his skin as he dipped the billy full of water. He set up the Primus a short distance outside their shelter, but far enough away that if it flared up or tipped over, they'd be safe.

Back inside, he told the girls about the tent bursting into flames from a knocked-over stove at the O'Hara camp in 1913. "It had happened so quickly. Fortunately, other than minor burns on the tent owner's hands, there had been no injuries. Little of the tent or its contents had survived. We cannot afford to injure ourselves or to lose or damage any of our belongings."

As they nibbled on Appenzeller, landjäger and knäckebrot and sipped their hot tea, they continued telling each other stories while they waited for the snow to melt.

At 10:30, they heard the resumption of target practice up on the ridge top, its sharpness well muffled by the trees and the cliff faces above them. "So Fritz is still up there," David said, "I wonder for how much longer."

As he wound his watch, Maria pointed upwards and said, "Sounds like a flying machine approaching."

David paused, cocked his head and cupped his ears. "An aeroplane? I hear nothing."

"I hear it," Rachel said. "It's getting louder. Approaching."

"Ah, I hear it now. They sometimes fly them over our trenches to photograph the enemy positions, movements and strengths. I've heard they're also used to telegraph the fall-of-shot details to the artillery for them to use in aiming their guns."

"There's a flugplatz in Freiburg." Maria shrugged her shoulders. "I don't know what they're called in English – a flying place, I suppose."

"They're called aerodromes," he said.

"The first time I was there was a few years after we had moved from Switzerland. Dada took to watch a big balloon ascend and drift off above the valley. It's over on the north side of the city, near my nursing school. We hear them flying every day now. Every day it's not raining. I think they're training fliers."

The sound came from well above them, back toward the ridge top. As it grew louder, it seemed to be directly up the slope from their nook. Then the sound changed pitch, still quite loud, but moving away from them now and slowly diminishing.

The rifle firing stopped. The sound of the engine suddenly stopped. No, not quite; there was just a faint putter. They listened to it for half a minute before it stopped.

"That's the sound they make when they come back down onto the grass. I sometimes walk over to the field and watch them on our lunch breaks. It sounds like that one came down up there on the meadows."

"Why would they want to come way up here?" Rachel asked.

"Could be bringing the General up to look at the exercise and to inspect the troops. Maybe they're flying Herzog's body back to the valley for burial. The officers get a lot better treatment – the others are usually buried where they fall."