To do this I had to first cut some twigs with the hunting knife attached to my belt just aft of my hip bone. I sat up and reached for the knife, I couldn't feel it. (Coming up - the first of many mistakes - I reasoned that, if I removed my glove, I could feel the knife handle.) I took off my right glove and managed to locate the handle. Again I couldn't feel it, so I discerned it's position by pressure. I got the knife in my grip; but while bringing my hand around, I lost the sensation of pressure. Was it still there? I looked down but the starry night now seemed somehow darker. The shade was descending again. I could not see the knife.

With my left hand I tried to feel the knife in my right hand. It was gone. I felt for it on the ground. I could not locate it - either by sight or touch. At this point I recognized my first mistake. I wondered if I had also dropped my right glove which I'd held in my left hand. I had.

I was beginning to hurt and my stomach was becoming upset. I needed help. I began to call to anyone who might be nearby, hoping the “anyone” would be a crew member but not really caring. I got no response.

I thought of three shots being a distress signal. In spite of numbed fingers I managed to unholster my “45,” bolt the first shell into the chamber and get off three evenly spaced rounds. The bulk of the weapon prevented my losing it, too. I waited a few minutes then attempted three more but only two shots fired before the bolt remained in the rearward position, indicating an empty gun. Apparently there had been but five rounds in the clip.

This wasn't too bright. Who, friend or foe, was going to go into the dark of night, to investigate shots fired from as desolate an area as the one in which I appeared to be?

I sat there hatless, gloveless on one hand, hurting, becoming more nauseated, and with the shade falling again. I tossed the gun aside and lay back. I've been told I was going into shock; and I'll have to admit, the whole situation was becoming more shocking all the time.

As I write I think of the considerations I entertained, however briefly:

To attack — fleetingly considered.
To defend — briefly considered.
To survive — considered at some length.
To hell with it — finally considered.

There was still no feeling in my leg, but my fingers were sending an undeniable message — they were cold — parts of them were numb and parts of them were hurting. I had now parted company with my second glove and began to rub my hand together to restore circulation. This continued for some unremembered period then gradually subsided as I became more nauseated and slipped deeper into dispair. Perhaps resignation would better describe the emotion.

I thought I was going to freeze. I recalled reading that, in such circumstances, one simply fell into a deep sleep and drifted away. I prayed: “Our Father, Who art in heaven .................” Selfishly I attached an addendum .... “but please, Lord, don't let it take too long.”

I rolled onto my side and, despite my conviction that I was going to die, the instinct of self preservation feebly asserted itself as I thrust my hands beneath my armpits to keep them warm.

I slept.

At some time during the night I awoke. My side was sore from lying on the frozen earth. I also noticed something nice. My nose had been numb before I slept but now I discovered that, while asleep, I had turned my head face down and my warm breath, reflecting off the ground, had thawed my nose. I had feeling in it again. Like many probosci, mine was not a sculptor's masterpiece, tending toward the mashed variety. However, should I happen to survive, to be without it would hardly be acceptable.

Instinct again? Was I my own worst enemy?

I was uncomfortable so I rolled onto my left side. It was then I discovered I was lying on a hill. Somehow this characteristic of terrain had gone unnoticed, but now I began to slide slowly downhill on the light snow cover. Within a short distance my feet caught in a bush which stopped my slide.

Once more I slept.

Because my leg was already numb and my brain was getting that way, I completely discounted my wound. In contradiction, other details remained clear. I recall waking briefly, near dawn, and hearing a flock of ducks pass overhead, their familiar, whistling wing-beat fading, ghostlike into the quiet coldness. I also heard the mournful call of a steam train in the distance.

After daybreak I awoke. I was alive! — I also felt refreshed.

In the early light I could see that I was lying in a copse of bushes. They were about chest high, which I learned as I staggered to my feet to look around. I learned something else. I wasn't as healthy as I thought. I immediately sagged to the ground at that shade came down in response to my depleted blood supply which, once more, headed south.

Why hadn't I bled to death? My wounded leg was protected by fleece-lined trousers; blood should have flowed freely! It didn't. Perhaps the temperature was so low that the blood congealed as it tried to exit the hole in my leg. I've often wondered; what would have happened if I'd been more alert and had applied a tourniquet to my upper leg? I'd surely have forgotten it as I slept. Then what?

So it appears that many things; the weather, shock from my wound, and the darkness, all worked to my disadvantage, yet they all provided some positive contributions.

Another thought — was the good Lord really tuned in on my frequency? If so, He simply ignored my prayer of resignation and dealt me a much better hand than the one I was willing to accept.

Gradually I noticed morning sounds invading the silence. Among these sounds were voices of people who seemed to be chatting and calling to each other in an Oriental language. Surveying the territory, in the brief time I'd been standing, I found that I was lying on the down-slope of what appeared to be the closed end of a horseshoe-shaped ridge. It was along this ridge that the people seemed to be progressing. Perhaps they'd seen my parachute. They would probably find me eventually. If they didn't I'd certainly “buy the farm.” I decided to help them to help me.

I called out and listened. The voices stopped. I called again and the voices started again, this time more excitedly. I don't know why, but I didn't expect them to be military, though it wouldn't have especially disturbed me if they had been. Suddenly I was looking up at the faces of strangers. Some expressions were quizical, some smiling, some bland, but none seemed unplesant. I guessed they were farmers.

As they looked me over — my hands, my leg, my face — one made a gesture. He touched his ear as he spoke to another of the group while he looked directly at me. I returned the gesture because the signal-of-the-month for identifying “friendlies” was a tug at the ear. There was no response. I later learned that my left ear had been partially frostbitten. In all probability this was the reason for his gesture.

Someone supplied me with gloves — theirs or mine — I don't remember. They then began to help me to an upright position. I resisted, trying to convey to them that I was incapable of standing, even with help. They persisted so I no longer resisted but let nature take it's course. Sure enough, as I started to rise I became like a leaking innertube. They quickly understood and lowered me to the ground.