The Hornet's Sting_ The Amazing Untold Story of World War II Spy Thomas Sneum - Mark Ryan [122]
In the reassuring light of day, you could often see the cliffs of Hven, just a few kilometers away from the Danish mainland. In the best visibility you could even see the skyline of Landskrona. But in the darkness, there was precious little to guide them. Tommy and Arne were met merely by silence and black cold. Only the impact of the freezing air reminded them they were still alive; and neither man knew exactly what lay under his next footstep. Surrounded by the void, Helvard hesitated. Feeling the rope pull him back, Sneum pressed on, urging his partner to follow him more closely. Tommy wanted to a find a rhythm and rely on the simple action of walking for reassurance. He explained later: ‘You have to keep moving on ice because if you stand still you could go through.’ The first creaking of the ice did nothing to dispel the thought that the spirits of recently departed men lurked somewhere in the night. But once they were about a hundred meters away from the shore, they began to exchange banter, and create a distraction from their fear.
‘Breathe through your nose,’ whispered Tommy, having noticed that Arne was using his mouth.
‘Why? It’s harder.’
‘You’ll conserve your body heat better, and cough less. Try not to ask questions and just do as I say. You might live that way.’
They wore berets under their white hoods to slow the loss of heat through their heads; Sneum was aware that every tactic they could employ in order to preserve that precious heat for a little longer might eventually prove crucial. Very soon they had begun to achieve a rhythm, marching side by side. Two former glider pilots, firm friends, with distant dreams of flying again. As the last remnants of light from the shoreline faded to black, that unity became their comfort.
‘Looks nice, should be a pleasant trip,’ said Tommy cheerily to boost morale. In reality the words of his grandfather, Thomas Sonnichsen Hansen, were echoing in his head: ‘If you fall beneath ice, never give in to panic and never be fooled by appearances. The lighter-coloured ice looks inviting from below, because it appears to offer escape from the darkness. But it’s a nasty trick of nature, because that white ice is the thickest ice, and will lock you in below it. The dark ice is thinnest—that’s where you can break through. Strike at the dark, not the light.’ If they did fall through at night, however, it would probably be impossible to distinguish between the darker, weaker ice and the lighter, thicker surface which would trap them. Meanwhile, the fate of Thorbjoern and Kaj continued to hang in the air like the mist, haunting them every step of the way. Tommy hoped that the cold had taken Thorbjoern beyond fear when he had finally gone under. Sneum knew what it was like suddenly to find yourself thrashing around below the surface. ‘I went under once as a boy,’ he explained. ‘If you fall through, the ice closes. It is an awful feeling and you do panic a bit. You have to get your elbows and upper body back up on the ice straight away, before the hole closes completely.’
The darkness enveloped them, and smothered them so completely that Sneum had to fight his fears to maintain his composure. ‘I told myself to be pleased about the darkness, because it meant there were no enemies around us,’ he said. Stubbornly, he tried to focus on Sweden, and Britain beyond. But it wasn’t easy. Even though they were heading for the medium-sized town of Landskrona, there were no lights twinkling in the distance, and they had nothing but a compass to confirm the accuracy of their route.
He and Arne were engulfed in a ghostly haze, which conjured strange shapes in the night against a black, forbidding backdrop, and played cruel games with the imagination. Meanwhile, the bleak monotony of the frozen wasteland beneath their feet became almost