stages of hypothermia and I should be doing something about it. But what, and where?
I pushed him on. 'Tom, remember mate, DREAM!' I doubted he understood a word I was saying. I felt sorry for him, but we couldn't rest now. If we stopped for even a few minutes we might not restart.
It was about fifteen minutes later that we stumbled onto the railroad line, and only by chance did I notice it. We'd reached a crossing and I had tripped over one of the tracks. Tom wasn't the only one losing his core heat and spiraling down through the spectrum of hypothermia.
I tried to summon some enthusiasm to celebrate, but I couldn't manage any. Instead I shook him. 'We're here, Tom. We're here.'
No reaction whatsoever. It was obvious that what I said would make little difference to him now anyway. Even if he showed any awareness, what was there to get excited about? We were still in the shit-wet, freezing cold, with no shelter, and I didn't know how or where we were going to get on the train, even if it turned up.
He collapsed on the crossing next to me. I bent down and got my hands under his armpits, heaving him up again and nearly collapsing myself in the process.
He couldn't control his mouth or teeth and began to make strange snorting noises.
'We have to keep going just a bit further,' I shouted into his ear.
'We have to find a station.'
I didn't know any more whether it was him or myself I was talking to.
I turned him left, toward Tallinn.
We Staggered West. over the snow-covered gravel at the side of the track. At least the trees on either side gave us some protection from the howling wind. It was thirty minutes? an hour? since we'd got onto the track. I didn't know; I'd given up clock-watching long ago.
Tom started to go crazy, screaming at the trees, crying, apologizing to them, only to fall down again and try to cuddle up in the snow. Each time, I had to pick him up and push on, and each time it got a little bit harder.
We came across a row of small sheds, visible only because of the flatness of the snow on top of their angled roofs. We still couldn't see further than about fifteen feet and I didn't notice them until we were right on top of them.
I fumbled excitedly for the flashlight, leaving Tom on his knees, shouting at the trees that were coming to get him.
It seemed to take for ever to press the switch. Soon my fingers wouldn't be able to perform even a simple task like that.
I shone the light around and saw that the sheds were made of wood and built in the form of a terrace, the door of each facing onto the track.
Most were clamped shut with old rusty padlocks, but one was unlocked.
After kicking the snow away, I pulled it open and turned round for Tom.
He was curled up in the snow on the track and pleading to be allowed to sleep. If he did there would be no waking up.
As I gathered him in my arms, he lashed out with his final reserves of strength. He was having a fit. It was pointless struggling with him; I simply didn't have the energy. I let him drop to the ground and, gripping his hood with both hands, pulled him along like a sleigh, stumbling backward and falling over with the effort.
I didn't talk to him any more; I didn't have the strength.
The door was so low that I had to bend down to get in, and the roof wasn't much higher, but the instant I was out of the wind I began to feel warmer. The shed was about eight-feet square, and the floor was cluttered with bits of wood and brick, old tools and a rusted shovel with a half-broken shaft, crap from over the years lying on a frozen mud floor.
Tom just lay where I dropped him. As I put the flashlight down to give me some light I could see him curled up in a ball, his hands exposed, wrists bent as if he had suddenly developed severe arthritis. His short, sharp breaths mixed with mine and looked like steam in the flashlight beam. Not long now and he would be history unless I got a grip on myself and sorted him out.
If only this was a hunter's cabin, not a rail worker's shed. It's the custom in extremely cold climates to leave kindling in huts so that someone in trouble can rewarm themselves quickly. It's also the custom to leave a box of matches with the ends sticking out so that frozen, numb fingers can grasp them.
I got my gloves off and started to fantasize about warm train cars and hot mugs of coffee. I dragged over a lump of wood that looked as if it used to be part of the paneling. I then played about with my Leatherman with shaking hands, trying to pull out the blade. Once my soaking gloves were back on I started to scrape at the edge of the wood. I wanted to get to the dry stuff underneath.
Tom filled the room with his screams and cries. It was as if he was speaking in tongues.
I yelled just as loudly, 'Shut the fuck up!' but wherever he was, it was a place where he couldn't hear me.
Once I'd cut away the damp stuff and exposed the dry wood I started to scrape thin shavings onto the shovel face. This was the under. My hands hurt as I tried to keep a firm grip.
Tom's body had started jerking around in the corner of the hut. We both needed to get this fire burning soon, but I couldn't rush what I was doing or I'd fuck up completely.
Next task was to cut kindling, a stage up from under, so that larger bits of wood could then be placed in the fire and stand a chance of catching. I picked up any sticks of wood I could find, and also pulled off some of the roof lining and tore it into strips. It would burn well because it was partly coated with tar. Then, with the rest of the small bits of wood, I started to make fire sticks, cutting very thinly into the side of the wood and pushing out the shavings until each piece looked as if it had grown feathers.
Tom was no longer thrashing around on the floor. Mumbling incoherently to himself, he was kicking out, as if fending off an imaginary attacker. It was pointless talking to him. I needed to concentrate on building the fire. Survival training might not be my strong suit, but I knew about fire. It had been my job to make up the one in the front room every morning before my stepdad got out of bed, otherwise it was slapping time. Usually it was slapping time anyway.
Once I'd prepared about five fire sticks I stacked them around the under like tepee poles. Then I got out my pistol, taking off the magazine and pulling the top slide to eject the round in the chamber.
Using the pliers of the Leatherman, I eventually pulled the heads off the three rounds and poured the dark grain propellant onto the under.
My hands were shaking as I poured, trying my best to get it over the wood and not the mud. I left the third round half full of propellant.
Tom's frenzied movements had dislodged his hood. Placing the round carefully on the ground so I wouldn't lose its contents, I got up and crawled over to him, my muscles protesting now that they'd had a rest. My cold, wet clothes clung miserably to me as I moved.
I got hold of his hood and tried to pull it back on. He lashed out with his arms, shrieking stuff I couldn't understand, his hands flailing around and knocking my hat off. I collapsed on top of him, trying to control him as I got his hood back up and my iced hat back on.
'It's all right, mate,' I soothed. 'Not long now. Remember to dream.
Just dream.' But I was wasting time here. It was heat he needed, not bullshit.
Crawling back to the shovel, I dug inside my glove for the compass silk, held it in my teeth and cut some off with my Leatherman scissors.
Then, using the screwdriver, I rammed the cut silk into the half-empty case as wadding on top of the propellant.
I loaded the round into the weapon, pointed it at the ground, and fired. The signature was a dull oomph.
There was no reaction from Tom as I knelt on the ground to pick up a glowing, smouldering bit of silk. Once it was in my fingers I waved it about gently to fan the glow, then put it into the under. The propellant flared, lighting up the whole hut. I must have looked like a witch making spells.
Once the under had caught, I started inserting more little bits through the fire sticks into the flame. It wasn't yet giving out much heat; that wouldn't happen until the under was hot enough to ignite the fire sticks. I got in close and blew gently.
The fire sticks started to crackle and hiss as they released their moisture and smoke. I could smell burning wood. I fussed around the flames on my hands and knees, carefully placing wood for the best effect as the hut filled
