David sat on the narrow bed with his back against the wall as he studied the sections of the map sheets to the south and east of Freiburg.

Probably the best idea is to keep to the unpopulated areas as I work my way across the Schwarzwald. Stay high as I aim toward what seems should be a less popular area to cross the border.

With the map's latitude scale, he measured the distance across the mountains from Freiburg to the large bulge of the Swiss border across to the north side of the Rhein at Schaffhausen. It looked close to half a degree, thirty nautical miles, or about fifty-six kilometres as the crow files.

But I'm not a crow. There'll be many twists and turns along the way, many ups and downs.

He noted that Feldberg, the highest point in the Black Forest, is a broad plateau in the centre of a web of high ridges. He ran his finger across the high land, and then along a trail leading up toward it from a little to the east of Freiburg.

Looks like an elevation gain of 1100 metres to the plateau and a distance of almost twenty-five kilometres.

The line from the summit of Feldberg to the closest bulge of Swiss Schaffhausen measured thirty-seven kilometres, and he saw that once the elevation was gained, the interconnected ridges remain above 1000 metres for most of the traverse. Must be places which would be difficult to effectively patrol. Must be good hiding spots to camp.

He figured there would be few out walking and hiking along his intended route this early in the season. Besides, the war will surely have taken all the fit and adventurous. To be safe, though, he prepared and outfitted himself to do the entire route off the trails and stay as far away from them as possible.

The guidebook was new last year, surely all of them are marked.

The contours and hachures on the map sheets showed the tops to be gentle. There were many streams cutting the slopes along the entire route.

Drinking water will not be a problem up there.

Satisfied with his route, he refolded the maps and set them aside, then rolled out the large piece of oiled canvas, two metres by three. He folded it in thirds across its long axis, then creased the ends of the folds. With the tip of his knife, he pierced eight holes around the periphery of the sheet, about an inch in from the edges, one on each corner and one at each of the four creases. 

He began sewing cringles like he had learned in the sailing club while he had studied at University School. Part of the club instruction was sail-making, maintenance and repairing. As he fumbled with the needle, forcing it through the heavy canvas, he thought, a palm and wax will make this easier. 

He looked at his watch. Twelve minutes past four, 1612 Army time, he thought as he put on his shoes, took his small rucksack and went out.

It took him nearly half an hour to find Walder Nähenden Geschäft from the conflicting directions he was given when he asked for Leder Nähzubehör. Inside he bought two more darning needles, a stitching palm, thick cotton thread and a small block of beeswax. On his way back he stopped at the metzgerei he had seen and bought a dozen pair of landjäger. He had sucked on a small piece from the stash he had bought in Köln and loved the flavour, and he knew with jaw getting better, he would soon be devouring it.

David stopped in the Gemischtwarenhandlung two doors along and had the grocer bag half a kilogram each of lentils, split peas, rice and barley. He mumbled to the questioning frau that it was for soup; he was due back in Belgium and was getting ready. She reached behind, picked up the remains of a large ham, placed it with the bags and said, "Hier, nehmt diese Schinken. Suppen brauchen ein gutes Stück Fleisch." She added a small bag of peppercorns and a box of salt.

He thanked her for the ham and the seasonings and pulled out some coins to pay for his dried goods. She wrapped up the groceries in a piece of brown paper and tied the bundle with a string. She refused to take his money, explaining her three sons are at the Front in Elsass.

Back in his room, he continued stitching the cringles, now much easier with the palm. At 1835 he finished the eighth and last one, then laying out his entire kit on the floor and on the bed, he did an inventory.

The folded oiled canvas would serve as a groundsheet, a windbreak and a roof when pitched and tied to the trees. The altered greatcoat and uniform would be his bedroll, which can be rolled into the waterproof canvas and lashed to his rucksack.

He had a stove and cooking pots, a candle lantern, matches and a flint and steel in case the matches got wet. The sore red spot on his heel had improved, and he assumed it was from the earlier rubbing in Josef's large boot, not from his new walking shoes, so he added the boots to the small accumulation of things to discard.

His topographic maps covered more than his intended route, but he decided to keep them all, just in case he had to change plans.

Much easier to carry too much than to go without something that might later prove critical.

Besides the spare topographic sheets, the pocket atlas also stayed. For food, he now had eighteen pairs of landjäger, small sausages in links of two, pressed to a half inch by an inch in cross-section before drying.

He had two kilograms of other dried goods; rice, peas, barley and lentils, and there was the large piece of ham, probably still four pounds of flesh on the bone.

With cryptic German abbreviations, he made a list of items to pick up in the market in the morning in Münsterplatz: cooking onions, turnips, carrots, other winter vegetables. Cabbage only if there's no other choice. He was nauseated by thoughts of the reek of stewing and pickling cabbage from his Saxony neighbours in Trail.

I'll add dried fruit if I can find some, plus a careful selection of apples and anything else fresh that hadn't spoiled over the winter. Eggs, I need eggs.

Again he reviewed his inventory in his mind.

I have three shirts, three pair of socks two pair of wool trousers. I need a woollen pullover and a warm jacket.

He counted his remaining money.

Forty-eight Marks and some loose Pfennig, easily more than enough. Eggs are only ten Pfennig a dozen, I should be able to find a pullover and jacket for less than twenty Marks.

He penned another cryptic line in his notebook.

Trying various placements, he packed the large rucksack, arranging it for convenient access and doing another inventory. Everything fit except for the roll of shelter and bed, which he strapped across the top of the pack. The small rucksack was empty, waiting for its fill of market purchases in the morning.

He removed the dressings from his wounds and examined them, then following a relaxing soak in the bathtub, he reapplied his face bandaging and dressed. After putting the boots and paper bundle of uniform scraps into the small rucksack, he locked the door behind himself and headed down the stairs. His watch showed sixteen past seven.

1916 Army time. That makes much more sense than AM and PM.

The dining room was rather quiet as he passed out into the street, but he saw the young blonde in the back. He swelled at the thought of her as he walked through the small shopping district around the station and out toward the edge of the city, toward a garbage dump he had seen in the afternoon while searching for the leather supply shop.

After tossing the boots and the bundle onto the heap, he continued along, then quickly looped back toward the gasthaus.

The beautiful blonde fräulein served him again; even warmer this evening. She recommended that instead of beer, he have some of the local wine from the Kaiserstühl, "Es ist ein köstlich frischen Wein..." She told him about the wine her father had grown and made before he was killed in September in the war.

"Ich würde es gerne versuchen. Ich sage euch aber, ich weiß nicht, Wein..." David explained he had never had wine, but he would love to try it. She brought him a glass, a strange looking thing with a small round bowl sitting atop a knobby stem, which reminded him of a miniature version of his mother's gâteau Saint-Honoré.

She poured a small taste for him, then watching his face as he savoured it, she described what he should be tasting. "Es hat eine schöne frische Geschmack..." Even with his mouth wounds, he recognised the taste of apples, spring flowers and spices.

He nodded and looked into her eyes. "Ja ich sehe es. Es verfügt über einen öliges Gefühl..." He agreed and added that it has an oily feel in his mouth, and the smell reminded him of falling rocks in the mountains. He told her he liked it a lot and would have some with dinner if she told him more about it and how it's made.

She returned with a half litre carafe, and after pouring a glass of the wine for him, she began by talking about the passion that had been put into producing it. She introduced herself as Maria and told him her father and two brothers had been killed in the war, so most of last year's crop rotted on the vines. She works here in the evenings after her studies to make enough money to keep them going. Her mother works with the wine, trying to keep the small business from collapsing and until they can find a way to get back to their family roots in Switzerland.

They chatted frequently during his dinner; the dining room was near empty. He ate slowly, not solely because his mouth was sore, it had improved appreciably. His dawdling was to enjoy watching her, to enjoy her graceful movement, her lively spirit and her captivating fragrance. He stayed at the table long after he had finished eating to continue the conversation. When Maria had completed her duties at eleven, she suggested they go upstairs to his room.

<><><>

The External Link below will take you to Amazon
where there is more information on the book.

<><><>