While They Sleep

In the wilderness, there are a number universally accepted ways to mark trails.  A common method used in forests is to shave a rectangle of bark off of a tree with an ax or machete.  The patch of exposed wood is called a blaze.  Thus the phrase, trailblazing.   A single blaze means “continue straight”.  Two or three blazes in a certain pattern indicates a turn in the path or the beginning or end of a trail.

 

I was not aware of a blaze pattern that meant you were crossing the border into another country.  But when I saw the “end of trail” pattern, where clearly, the trail did not end, I grasped the intent.  As I walked past the blazes in the shape of an upside down triangle, I entered the People’s Republic of China.

 

After rounding the next hill, I began looking for a campsite.  From now on, I was going to have to be extremely cautious.  I assumed the men had a base camp somewhere ahead of me.  It could be around the next bend in the trail, or another 20 kilometers.  Or, there could be a dirt road ahead that intersects the trail, where the men would get picked up by a vehicle.  If that had happened, I had zero chance of catching up to them.

 

The likelihood of failure did not concern me as I built the quinzhee and set up camp.  I ate the last of my food, and lay down to sleep.  Emotions flooded through me.  I was mad as hell, and if I couldn’t make those two men pay, I would find another way to inflict damage. 

 

In some other part of my mind, I could see the disappointment on Colonel Kashuba’s face.  Assuming I lived long enough to stand in front of him and try to explain this.  I had blatantly disobeyed orders.  And I had broken the personal promise I made to him. 

 

To put those thoughts out of my mind, I pulled the two fingers out of my vest pocket.  The fingers I had cut off of the men I killed.  I rolled them around in my palm.  They were cold, hard, and pale.  I set them on the ice near my head.  I fell asleep, and dreamt about a handful of fingers.

 

I spent the next morning considering the pros and cons of my situation.  My biggest downside?  I was a nineteen-year-old kid, alone in a foreign country, in the vicinity of people who would prefer me to be dead.  Balanced against that was my set of skills, and the likelihood that the men I pursued thought I would stop at the border.  I would not assume they had let their guard down.  But I was hoping they had.

 

And, I had resumed the mindset from when I crossed the Bering Strait a year earlier.  A man who doesn’t care if he lives or dies is extraordinarily dangerous.  The only thing I wanted at that point was to feed my rage.

 

I would take my time about continuing my killing spree.  My calendar was open for the foreseeable future.  Within the rage there was a calmness that allowed me to think things through.  While Eastwood would be shocked at what I was doing, he would still advise me to be careful.

 

My stomach was another story.  I woke up hungry.  I could tell my blood sugar would crash soon if I didn’t eat.  I was in a forest sparsely inhabited by humans.  It would only take one shot with the AK-47 to kill breakfast.  Granted, if it was a small animal like a rabbit, I would have to aim precisely.  Head shots only.  If you hit a small animal in the body with a 7.62 x 33mm shell, you may not find any parts big enough to eat.

 

At any rate, that was a moot point.  I couldn’t hunt with my rifle.  Any gunfire would advertise my presence to those I will stalk.

 

My uncle had taught me more than one way to capture a meal.  Guns are the easiest, but there are other, quieter options.  If I took the time, I could make a bow and a quiver full of arrows.  Eastwood and I did that on many of our long summer hikes.  I knew more than a dozen ways to make a trap that could snare small animals.  All I needed was a length of rope or wire, sticks, and rocks. And, he taught me how to turn over rocks, rifle through leaves, and dig in the ground, to find edible insects. 

 

I never cared for eating bugs.  But I needed calories.  I went up and down the slope at the campsite, turning over rocks, poking in tree cavities, going through the low spots where leaves had gathered.  When I began my trek, my pack carried cans of potted meat, the Soviet version of Spam.  I filled empty cans with grubs, eggs, and larvae.

 

Eastwood and I would carve a sharp point on the end of a thin stick, and roast impaled beetle grubs over a fire.  Like using my rifle, smoke from a fire would give away my location.  Fortunately, I still had a bottle of fuel for my butane stove.  Insects carry diseases, plus they taste better and are easier to digest when cooked.  

 

I filled my 500ml cookpot with snow and ignited the burner.  I watched as the snow turned into boiling water.  I added some salt and the insects.  After two minutes, I turned off the stove and poured off the water.  By then I couldn’t wait and burned my mouth with the steaming delicacies.  Like potted meat, insects only appeal to me when I am really hungry.

 

That was enough to stave off any blood sugar issues.  But not enough to suit my palate.  I gathered the rocks and sticks I would need to make a trap called a figure 4 deadfall.  The working part of this trap is a flat rock, preferably 15-18 inches across.  The rock is propped up at an angle by three sticks.  Notches cut into the sticks allow them to be fitted together in the shape of the number 4.  The bottom of the 4 is stuck in the ground.  The tilted rock rests against the top.  The small arm of the 4 that protrudes horizontally to the right is the trigger.  Bait is placed on the ground under the arm.  An animal will smell the bait, and will be crushed by the falling rock when it brushes against the trigger.

 

Instant supper.  If you have a knife, and know what you are doing, you can make a figure 4 deadfall trap in a few minutes.  I made half a dozen, and set them up on animal trails near the camp.  I had eaten all of the food I had carried with me, except for a few packs of crackers.  I’d saved them for bait. 

 

After the traps were set up and baited, I retreated to the quinzhee to rest and wait for my next meal.  And to think about prey that walks on two legs.  I will hunt those animals while they sleep.

 

I slept until mid-afternoon, then checked my traps.  Three were untouched.  In two, an animal had managed to get the bait without triggering the trap.  Sometimes the critters are smarter than you.  But one trap had served its purpose.  The rabbit was small but tasty.

 

After dark, it was time to get serious.  I would not travel directly on the trail.  It is possible the men had placed booby traps.  Rather, I would travel above the trail through the trees.  It would be slower, but safer.  Periodically, I would work my way down to the trail.  To make sure it hadn’t turned away from me.  And to check for the men’s footsteps.  Another trail could have branched off since the last point where I checked.

 

Progress was slow.  By the time the terrain flattened out and the trail opened to a clearing, it was dawn.  There was a pond in the clearing, and a row of four small buildings faced the pond.  A man paced back and forth on the path in front of the buildings, with an SKS on his shoulder.  That told me what I wanted to know.  I had done plenty myself.  I would recognize guard duty no matter what country I was in. 

 

I retreated up the hill and found a spot where I could watch the front of the buildings with my binoculars.

 

As the day progressed, men went in and out of the structures.  I counted nine of them.  It was impossible to be sure which of them shot at me.  It didn’t matter.  I would play it safe and kill them all.

 

I thought about the guard, pacing back and forth in front of the buildings.  I thought about the buildings.  All four were built the same.  Each had one door, facing the pond, and one small window, in the back.  I hiked far enough up the hill I could not be seen by the men. 

 

I gathered long, thin branches, and made four piles.  I also picked up the dried, hollow stalks from the weeds that grow everywhere.  I crushed the weed stalks with my fingers and rolled them between my palms.  That separated the plant fibers into strands.  It took some time, but eventually I had enough strands to weave some lengths of rope. 

 

I tied rope around the branches and made four bundles.  Each had thin branches on the outside, larger ones in the center.  I stuffed leaves and other thin, dry plant debris between the branches.   I carried the bundles as close to the clearing as I could without being seen.  Darkness was approaching, and my stomach was rumbling again.  I made my way back up the hill, and used the last of the daylight to gather and eat insects.

 

No two people sleep exactly the same way.  Eastwood and I had many conversations about human sleeping patterns.  In stages 3 and 4 of non-REM sleep, people can sleep through loud noises.  Regardless of depth of sleep, one who has been suddenly awakened is at a disadvantage to someone like me. 

 

We also discussed the psychology of guard duty.  All humans are subject to boredom.  Only the most disciplined soldiers can maintain their focus through an entire shift.  I had done it at Ushmun and was aware of the challenge.

 

By 2am, the lights inside the buildings had been out for hours.  The lone sentry had been doing his duty and was “walking his post in a military manner”.  I slowly worked my way ahead.  I moved only when one of the buildings shielded me from his vision. 

 

I paused when I reached the back of the building nearest the trail.  I could hear snoring.  I worked my way toward the sound.  It came from the hut at the end.  The snoring and the crunching sound of the guard’s boots on the snow would play to my advantage.

 

A lot of things could go wrong in the next few moments.  The only weapons I carried were a knife and my Colt pistol.  I’d left my rifle at the sniper position I had selected a few minute earlier.  It is hard to move stealthily with an AK-47.  If the man heard me and turned before I reached him, or was able to scream before my knife slit his throat… I would be no match for men with assault rifles.

 

To make matters trickier, I took off my boots.  The thick wool socks would allow for more quiet movement than the hard soles of the boots.  As I snuck up behind the man, I carefully tiptoed in the same spots he had just stepped. 

 

He did make some noise.  First, a gasping sound and a grunt when my left forearm went under his chin and pulled his head back.  A click when his lower teeth collided with his uppers.  Then, a whooshing sound when the knife slit open his throat and the air rushed out of his lungs.  Two more cuts made sure his jugular veins were severed.  I held him up while he convulsed.  I listened to the blood dripping on the snow.  I felt his heartbeat slowing down as the quivering ceased.  I laid him on the ground.  No lights came on in the buildings.  No doors opened.

 

My feet were numb from the cold and the socks were soaking wet.  I retraced my steps, picked up the boots, and made my way to the sniper position.  I pulled off the wet socks and dried my feet.  A few minutes earlier, I had lit a pair of hand warmers, stuffed each in a wool sock, and put the socks inside my spare boots.  I slipped on the dry gear and kept an eye on the buildings as the feeling slowly returned to my feet. 

 

Phase I of the plan was complete.  Mac The Knife had done his job.  Once I was certain no one in the huts had been awakened, it was time for Phase II.  Burning Down The House.

 

The four bundles of sticks were just behind me.  There were a few more things to do before I placed each one behind a hut and set it on fire.  I squeezed the tube of firestarter and spread it on the bundles.  It looks like toothpaste, but is highly flammable and will burn very hot for several minutes.  Eastwood considered it cheating to use it under ordinary circumstances.  Once, we had hiked all day in constant rain.  Every bit of wood around us was soaking wet.  With the firestarter, patience and knowhow, we had a blazing fire in 45 minutes.

 

Just to make things happen even faster, I got cotton balls and a tube of Vaseline from the first aid kit.  I pulled the cotton balls apart, making them long and thin.  I rubbed Vaseline into the cotton.  Homemade firestarter, just as effective as what you buy in the store.  I wrapped the cotton lengthwise on the sticks.

 

Last but not least, I carefully poured the rest of my stove fuel over leaves and debris in the piles, after I placed each one against the wall of a hut.

 

By the time I ignited the fires and made it back to the sniper position, the flames were up to the windows.  I was in a low spot, lined up with the front of the buildings.  When the men exited any of the doors they would be in my line of sight.  They would not be able to see me.  I wondered how long it would take for the heat and smoke to penetrate the walls of the huts.

 

Phase III of the plan was about to start.  Helter Skelter.

 

Shouts from one of the huts answered my question.  A man burst out the door of the second hut.  I shot him before he made it off of the stairs.  The same thing happened to the men who came out of huts one and four.  I saw a head pop out of hut three, then disappear back in.  Counting the sentry, it was four men down, five to go.

 

An SKS poked out of hut three, pointed in my direction.  No head, just an arm and a rifle.  The random shots in my direction, without aiming, had no chance of hitting me.  On the other hand, the wooden walls of the huts would barely slow my bullets.  There was a chance the bullets would deflect somewhat when it penetrated each wall.  So I fired the rest of the magazine in a pattern through the wall near the front of the first building.  The SKS clattered to the ground.

 

I heard glass breaking while I changed magazines.  I moved to the rear of the huts.  A man had busted out the glass of hut four and draped a blanket across the opening.  Desperation will make man jump into a raging fire.  Shooting him under the moonlight would have been no problem.  The glowing embers that stuck to his clothes as he rolled out of the fire made it that much easier to aim as I put two shots in his chest.

 

I returned to my spot.  Time was on my side.  I knew the huts were getting hot.  It would be difficult to breath.  The three remaining men could not stay inside much longer.  One came out running at top speed and made it several steps before I killed him.

 

The next dove out and rolled on the ground.  He was short and athletic.  His quick, jerky movements caused my first two shots miss.  The third did not.

 

The last man was watching, and took advantage of the time consumed by my missed shots.  He took off running and made it around the corner of the buildings before I could get him in my sights.  I saw enough of him to tell his hands were empty.  At most he would have a pistol or a knife in his belt.  Which meant he might be able to outrun me if I was lugging a 3-foot-long weapon.  I left my rifle, pulled my pistol out of the holster and ran after him.

 

I did not know the age or condition of the man I was chasing.  But I was 19, and I had spent almost a year, jogging or skiing the 6 miles from my house, down Winter Trail to Wales, and then back up.  No matter how tired I was, I always went as fast as I could over the last quarter mile.

 

The man ran well at first, but began slowing after a few minutes.  When the trail started ascending, he slowed more.  By then, I was only thirty feet behind him.  I stopped, aimed my pistol, and squeezed the trigger.

 

It is hard to hit a moving target with a handgun.  Even more difficult in moonlight.  But he was going up a slope. I saw the first bullet kick up the snow to his left.  I recalibrated my aim, and the second shot went through his buttocks.  He screamed, went down, then began crawling ahead as best he could. 

 

I walked toward him, keeping the pistol aimed at his back.  When he realized he could not get away, he stopped and rolled over to face me.  I could see the pain and fear in his eyes.  I do not speak Mongolian, but I could tell he was begging for mercy.  I gave him a quick death.  I cut off his right pinkie finger.  Then repeated the process with the other men.

 

Now the mission was over, by my standards.  I knew I would face Colonel Kashuba’s wrath when I returned to Ushmun.  Despite my success, there will be no excuse for disobeying orders.  It would be within his rights to throw me in prison, demote me, or put me in front of a firing squad. 

 

The hike back to the evacuation point was long.  The adrenaline rush I had been on was replaced with a deep depression.  Every now and then, I would stop, and pull the collection of eleven fingers out of my pocket.  I rolled them around in the palms of my hands.  Somehow, that gave me comfort.