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 so he could monitor what the sun was doing across on the far side of the slab. By ten o'clock there were small patches of dark sandstone appearing across the slab where the sun hit it, and there were wisps of vapour rising 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 which had burst 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 1030 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," he said, "I wonder for how much longer." He remembered to wind his watch.

"What's that?" he asked with a start, raising his head quickly.

"Sounds like an engine — it's getting louder," Maria replied. "It sounds like a flying machine."

David nodded. "An aeroplane. 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, I guess a flying place."

"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 had come from well above them, back toward the ridge top. It grew louder, 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. Then 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."

David paused for a moment, then continued, "I've been fascinated with flying machines, with aeroplanes ever since I can remember. Other than the balloons, the dirigibles and other inflated devices, the world's first powered flight was in France in 1890, four years before I was born. That's where the French word avion originated." 

He smiled as he recalled, "My great uncle, my mother's uncle was there when it happened. He had been working with Clément Ader for several years in Castelnaudary. At Christmas, when I was five, I guess that's 1899, he had shown us a photograph he had taken of a machine, which to me looked more like a bat than anything, as it soared into the air powered by a small steam engine. He was so proud that he had helped Clément build the engine and boiler."  

He reached for his small pack and took the leather wallet from a side pocket, then he pulled out a small photograph in an acetate sleeve. "I wish I had this five years later when my school teacher, Sister whatever-her-name-was, — can't remember, she hadn't impressed me — doesn't matter. She told us after we returned from Christmas that a man had finally for the first time flown a powered machine off the ground. I told her my uncle had helped Clément Ader do that getting on fourteen years before in southern France, in 1890. She told me to stop lying. I insisted it was true — I didn't want to lie, so when I didn't give in to her, I was strapped until both my hands bled..."

"Strapped?" Maria asked, barely cutting off Rachel.

"Catholic school punishment. Our fingers were grasped and bent back, then our palms were whipped with a thick, wide leather strap. The nuns continued until our hands turned red, some until they hinted at bleeding, some continued it longer."

"Sounds sadistic. Unusually cruel."

"I was stubborn and a free thinker, and we were not allowed to be free thinkers and Catholic — except by a few like Sister Clemencia; she was so different."

Maria felt him swelling as they cuddled, talking. "I sense you still enjoy her," she said as she pressed herself closer.

"Memories — hair-trigger response to the thoughts of the physical experiences. There was nothing emotional, no kissing, no caressing, she didn't allow that. I had to keep my eyes closed when she was undressed, but I learned to peek through squinted eyes. Most of the time she preferred me to just lie back and let her do what she wanted. It's interesting looking back at all of that now... Strange. I've not examined this closely before... Such deep emotions with you, but with Clemencia, there were none, only physical."

He paused to take a sip of tea, then continued, "Old experiences linger, but these last few days with you I've had feelings, sensed emotions I didn't know existed. I'm overwhelmed. Sharing you here with your mother's permission and encouragement takes me into realms I've never imagined. I cannot think of anything more exquisitely pleasurable. It's so innocent and shameless, so guilt-free and so non-Catholic."

"I often wondered about the guilt which seemed to consume our Catholic friends," Rachel said. "What was that all about?"

"We were told from the age of comprehension that we were evil. That we were born damaged. Born with sin. We were all guilty and our sins had caused Christ's death."

"What a fucking aberration," Rachel said, "so asinine."

"Asinine — I cannot think of anything hinting at ass and Catholic without thinking of buggering priests. My mother forced me to be an altar boy. At fourteen I was molested by one of the..."

He shook his head. "But back to the flying machines, I remembered the teacher's rebuke so strongly. For the following many years I focused on demonstrating that the bicycle makers from Ohio made fraudulent claims about being the first. The Wright brothers were late into the game of flying. More than thirteen years late. Weisskoph in Boston had flown in August 1901, the French, Germans, Spanish, Swiss, Brazilians, and I don't know how many others had all flown long before that, some more than a dozen years before."

"What in God's earth gives the Americans their license to fuck with history?" Rachel asked.

"I started wondering that myself in early 1904 as their system of creatively rewriting history overrode reality." He shook his head.

"I had a wonderful time at the Alpine Club summer camp in 1913 at Lake O'Hara. There was a rotund Texan in the group. A boastful, big-talking Texan. He bragged of his climbing. Hah! What a fraud. He had trouble climbing out of his tent. He had insisted on having the pack horses lug his personal tent and other gear up to the camp. It was beneath him to sleep with the others in the large camp tents." David shook his head.

"He was by far the biggest boaster, exaggerator and liar I've ever heard. He regularly boasted that the US of A was the first, the biggest, the best with everything. When he told the story that the Wright brothers were the first ever to fly, I lit into him.

"I loved listening to Billy Foster, Al MacCarthy and some of the others whose names I can't recall just now. They all ripped into him also. I was eighteen then, almost nineteen, but my stories from my uncle were confirmed and celebrated. Conrad added more facts to set the Texan's twisted history straight. I finally felt vindicated.

"Then the buffoon Texan derided Canada as being nothing but wilderness and Redskins. Billy said, That's because we haven't slaughtered ours like you did. Your government put a big bounty on your native people, offered big rewards for killing them.

"I laughed when the Texan countered, But they were in the way of progress, hampering the development of our great nation. What a buffoon he was." David finished his reminiscences of the 1913 ACC camp and said, "Sorry ladies, just venting some emotion."

"You don't like America do you?" Maria asked.

"I love it. It's a wonderful place, beautiful geography from what I've seen. Unfortunately, the portion of North America which lies to the south of Canada is filled with USAians, filled with so many greedy people, many of whom seem to have their government by the balls."

"That's an interesting expression. I've not heard it," Rachel said. "What's it mean?"

"By the balls, by these things down here," he said hefting them. "They're very tender, very vulnerable, very precious. Grab them and threaten me, you've got me by the balls. I'll likely yield to your demands. Do you remember Achilles from the Greek legends?"

Maria looked at him and smiled. "The hero with the vulnerable heel. Did the grown-up version have his vulnerability a bit higher up? Now I must reread the story." She giggled.

"No, it was his heel, I'm just citing an example of vulnerability."

"So the Texan, how did he handle the verbal abuse?" Rachel asked.

"He was too stupid to even realise he was being criticised. He's the idiot who burnt the tent; his own tent. Burnt his hands trying to erase his mistake."

Rachel wrinkled her lip. "We've seen them strutting through here the last few years, heading a couple hundred metres up the trails into the Schwarzwald garbed in their ill-fitting new lederhosen, carrying bright, freshly carved and painted walking sticks, wearing loden hats bedecked in enamelled pins and pretending to be local."

"God bless America, few others will," David added. "They've stopped killing the Redskins openly; they're now doing it socially, and they still refuse to recognise anyone not white as people. Now the US of A is sitting beyond the sidelines of this war, making huge fortunes as their industries supply both us and our enemy, hoping the war continues. A year ago they were the most indebted nation on the planet, now they're rolling in blood-stained lucre."