We Die Alone: A WWII Epic of Escape and Endurance by Stephen E. Ambrose, David Howarth Page B

his journey. He put on his skis with a feeling of exaltation and turned towards the frontier. The crisp hiss of skis
on the crusted snow and the rush of the frosty air was the keenest of
all possible delight. He knew of the danger of garrisons in the villages
on the road, and he knew that the largest of them was only five miles
ahead, but at that time and in that place it seemed absurd to cower in
fear of Germans. He determined to push on and get through the village before the sun had risen or the people were awake.
    The name of the village is Lyngseidet. It lies in the narrow gap
between Kjosen and Lyngenfjord. In peace, it is a place which cruising liners visit on their way to North Cape. From time to time in
summer they suddenly swamp it with their hordes of tourists; the
people of the village, it is said, hurriedly send lorries to Tromso for
stocks of furs and souvenirs, and the Lapps who spend the summer
there dress up in their best and pose for photographs. In war time it
was burdened with a garrison of more than normal size, because it is
the point at which the main road crosses Lyngenfjord by ferry.
    Jan expected to find a road block on each side of it, and probably
sentries posted in the middle, but on skis he felt sure he could climb
above the road to circumvent a block, and to pass the sentries he
relied on his speed and the remaining darkness.
    He came to the block, just as he had foreseen. It was a little way
short of the head of the fjord at Kjosen. There was a pole across the
road, and a hut beside it which presumably housed a guard. He
struck off the road up the steep hillside to the left. As he had thought,
on skis it was quite easy; but it took longer than he expected, because
there were barbed-wire fences which delayed him. One of his ski
bindings was loose as well, and he had to stop for some time to repair
it. When he got down to the road again a couple of hundred yards
beyond the block, it was fully daylight.

    He pushed on at top speed along the road. He knew it could not
be more than two or three miles to the village, and he ought to be
through it in ten or fifteen minutes. It was getting risky, but it was
worth it; to have stopped and hidden where he was would have
wasted the whole of a day, and the thought of the distance he might
cover before the evening was irresistible. There was a little twist in the
road where it rounded a mass of rock, and beyond it he could already
see the roofs of houses. He turned the corner at a good speed.
    Fifty yards ahead was a crowd of German soldiers. They straggled
across the road and filled it from side to side. There was not time to
stop or turn and no place to hide. He went on. More and more of
them came from a building on the left: twenty, thirty, forty. He hesitated for a fraction of a second but his own momentum carried him
on towards them, and no challenge came, no call to halt. They were
carrying mess tins and knives and forks. Their uniforms were unbuttoned. He shot in among them, and they stood back to right and left
to let him pass, and for a moment he looked full into their faces and
saw their sleepy eyes and smelled the frowsty, sweaty smell of early
morning. Then he was past, so acutely aware of the flag and the NORWAY on his sleeves that they seemed to hurt his shoulders. He fled up
the road, expecting second by second and yard by yard the shouts
and the hue and cry. At the turn of the road he glanced over his
shoulder, and they were still crossing the road and going into a house
on the other side, and not one of them looked his way. A second later,
he was out of sight.
    The road went uphill through a wood of birch, and he pounded
up it without time to wonder. After a mile he came to the top of the
rise. The valley opened out, and ahead he saw the village itself, and
the spire of the church, and the wide water of Lyngenfjord beyond it,
and the road which wound downhill and vanished among the
houses. He