David leaned back against the slope and let his eyes wander up the trunk of the tree, thinking of his immediate options. That so easily could have been me. Need to slow my heart. Slow my mind. Need to act, not react.

Careful not to crack the dry twigs underfoot, he moved back up the hill, found his cache in the tree hollow, and changed back into his uniform. Still occasionally trembling from thoughts of the near miss, he sat on the log to regain focus and consider options.

Continue along the road? How do I explain the delay? Stepped into trees for a piss – a crap? No, I'd risk rousing their curiosity. Not wise to meet them again. Particularly after the two shots.

To distract his thoughts, he looked at the watch on his wrist. Ten past five. Approaching twilight. Unaccustomed to having one, he removed it to wind it and examine it more closely. The dial read: Hans Wilsdorf Geneva. On the back was engraved:

on Retirement to
Major Corcoran O'Byrne
from the officers of the 
Royal Dublin Fusiliers
30 August 1912

Seems Josef is a watch thief, a grave robber. But now, so am I. Perhaps the Major re-enlisted. Or perhaps he gave it to a son before sending him off to Belgium. When I get out of this, I'll send this back to its proper home.

He strapped the watch back onto his wrist, took the atlas from his rucksack and looked at his surroundings in the dim light. He was in the southwestern corner of Germany, in the Schwarzwald, a broad region of hills and low mountains rising, it seemed, to just under 1500 metres.

Feldberg's the highest I see, marked at 1492 metres, could be 1493. Difficult to read the small print in this light. Whatever, it looks like the highest point on the map.

He pulled out the postcard with the picture of Müllheim. The labelled peak, Belchen, is 1415 metres – almost as high as Feldberg, but I don't see it on the map. Maybe unnoteworthy because of its mundane appearance.

The mountains were framed by the right-angled bend of the Rhein, where it turns from flowing west to flowing north past Basel. Along the margin of the map, the latitude read 48º directly beside a large town named Freiburg. The main body of the range looked to him to be about a degree square. Remembering Conrad telling him that a degree of latitude is 60 nautical miles, or 111.1 kilometres, he found himself wondering what Conrad was doing now. Five years in Canada – likely long enough not to be considered an enemy.

Dismissing his thoughts, he examined the Schwarzwald mountains on the map. Lower than the Columbia Ranges and the Rockies. Less than half the height. More like the ones on southern Vancouver Island, and they're at almost the same latitude. The hachures on his map showed rather gentle hills cut with streams. Then, it became too dark to see the map comfortably.

We had a big moon – a bulging half – on Sunday when I left the trench. Captain told us it'd be full on Thursday ... Captain ... Fuck! Sniper shot to the head. Officers are so easy to target with all the pale lace on their sleeves. So stupid.

He closed his eyes, shook his head, and then started calculating the moon phases in his mind. This is Tuesday; it should be up now. Two days to full, it would have risen a bit over two hours before sunset. It should be well around toward the south by midnight.

Then in the fading light, he thought about the border. Appears they have tripwires and bells strung along it. Won't be able to see them in the dark. Likely trigger lights at night. He looked down the steep slope. Probably safe to stay here the night. They're complacent with their set-up down there.

With the postcard as a bookmark, he put the atlas back into his pack. In the groove between the slope and the log, he gathered duff into a bed and spread one side of his greatcoat over it. Curling onto it with his rucksack as a pillow, he pulled the other side of the coat over him as a cover.

The sun woke him. He remembered nothing since lying down – he had slept straight through. Face still very sore. Fuzzy mouth. Very thirsty.

He lay still and listened, then sat up and listened more intensely, pulling his earlobes and swallowing in an attempt to reduce the ringing. Then, with care not to disturb the fresh sutures, he sipped from his canteen. Damn! Almost empty. Should have refilled this. Rising to sit on the mossy log, he examined his surroundings. Rounded south-facing slope, likely dry and without streams.

After examining his dressings in the mirror, he wrapped gauze around his face and head and checked his reflection again. Satisfied, he looked at his watch as he wound it. Twenty to eight. Time to find breakfast.

He crossed the slope westward toward Weil am Rhein, sensing it would be better to stay off the road along the Swiss border. Wiser to come down out of the trees around the bend after the road veers away from the border, closer to town.

Just in from the edge of the trees, he stopped and sat to survey the scene and ponder his situation. Still on sick leave. My papers are in order. My story makes sense. The facial bandages still give me license to slur and mumble my German. Such a strange dialect here, not like Conrad's Austrian accent. I can always fall back on the stunned act. The shock from the exploding shells.

Catching motion to his left, he saw a horse drawing a wagon along the road, appearing and disappearing between trees around the bend. When it disappeared again, he stepped out and started walking along the road toward Weil am Rhein, turning to ask for a ride as the wagon approached.

He sat beside the driver all the way into town, pantomiming – rather convincingly, he thought – that his broken jaw had been wired shut. Through clenched teeth, he mumbled thanks as he got down from the wagon when it turned toward the market. He walked the few blocks to the train station, hoping to find water to drink.

There was none, so he crossed the street to a gasthaus. The frau who served him said the tap water was not healthy to drink, and she suggested either the Gerolsteiner or the beer. The bottled water was more expensive, so he had a half litre of beer while he waited for his breakfast. He had explained to her in a mumbling slur that he could eat nothing but very soft food. She suggested scrambled eggs, and he said six.

His thirst was still there, but the frau had no suggestions except more beer or the Gerolsteiner. Since he had much to do and needed to keep a clear mind, he bought a bottle of the water. Strange. Tastes like it stood too long in an iron bucket full of newly crushed rocks. Quenches my thirst, though.

With the remainder of the bottle in his pack, he walked back to the station and boarded the first train north. He kept his sick-leave chit and orders ready in case anyone asked for a ticket.

Nobody approached or questioned him when he got off the train in Freiburg, so he headed into the shopping district. In a hiking shop, he bought a collapsible Primus, some nesting pots, two half-litre tins of kerosene, a tin of matches, a flint and steel and a larger rucksack. He managed to get rid of the last of his notgeld.

With no settled plan for what to do next, he took a room with a bath for two nights in a gasthaus across from the station and let instinct guide him. Ideas and plans will evolve. I've done it this way for much of my life, and it's always worked well.

Finally, he had some privacy and a bit of comfort to care for himself. He bathed, then cleaned his wounds. He had nothing to shave with but wasn't concerned. The dressings on his cheek and jaw had been an excuse, but it made sense to continue growing it.

It would look silly shaved around the wounds. How old is this stubble now? Have to figure out what day this is – Should have looked at a newspaper. Friday the 23rd, I went back to the line, Sunday the 25th, I got hit, Monday the 26th, transported to hospital, Monday night on the bench in Frankfurt, then last night, Tuesday night on the hillside. It's now Wednesday the 28th. Whiskers are now five days old, going on six.

The stitches had put his lip back together well. It was still quite swollen and tender, and though red, it didn't appear infected. The hole in his cheek had also been mended well, and it was much better looking and less tender than his lip. He examined the lines of stitches. Looks like I'll have some large scars. A beard should hide them.

He checked to see how much he could open his mouth. Still very painful more than half an inch. Moving it at all is painful. Then tonguing through the gap from the two missing teeth, he felt the rasp of stitches in his gums. Jaw still feels broken, but the doctor said badly bruised. Awkward to eat for a week or so.

"Serious-looking bandaging should help the ruse," he mumbled to himself as he stood in front of the mirror, wrapping his face in gauze. Pleased with the appearance, he dressed in his new clothes, put on his hat, and slinging the small rucksack over his shoulder, he headed out again, taking his sick leave chit, rifle receipt and orders with him, in case he was questioned.

As he walked past the train station on his way into the shopping district, a soldier in a small group pointed at him, and the others turned to look. David tensed. Oh, God. Here we go. He focused on his mission and continued toward the shops, relieved when he wasn't accosted or followed.

In a hardware store, he bought a piece of oiled canvas two metres by three, a small bottle of boiled linseed oil, some sisal and hemp line, two large darning needles and a card with a selection of smaller ones. He added spools of strong linen thread, two of them very thick.

With terse two and three-word sentences, which he hoped his bandaging excused, his communication worked well. No need for grammar; mumble the words. They want the business.

In a bookshop, he bought a hiking guide published by the Schwarzwaldverein, the regional hiking club's 50th-anniversary issue. The clerk in the shop showed him a selection of topographical maps of the Black Forest, also published by the club. From them, he assembled a set that covered the entire southern part of the range.

Two shops along, he bought a litre of beer, another bottle of Gerolsteiner, a huge piece of soft butter cheese, and the softest loaf of bread he could find. His small rucksack was crammed full, so with the roll of canvas under his arm, he returned to his room in the gasthaus.