Wakefield park – Tuesday 7th January, 13:43hrs
Itās not much above zero and weāre only 2-handed today. Craigās crossed-off, having already fallen, immediately after exiting his gaff.
At least itās bright, so we can clock the icy patches and we donāt deviate from our established route. Hopping and sidestepping at regular intervals, any casual observer would doubtless raise a smile at our less than nimble footwork.
We depart the park bench, having undertaken a shortened rest. Mark seems pleased that he can again see the trees, on the distant hill, breathing. Me and Craig (when heās there) arenāt convinced theyāre actually breathing, but hell, thereās no point falling out over stuff like this, is there?
Further on, we reach the parallel bars. Dotted around the park are several activity spots, designed as a series, where you might step, heave, climb, pull, or in this case, dip. A previous enthusiast, Mark has swerved these in recent days, presumably to avoid welding his hands to the icy, unforgiving steel.
As he commences the dips, I kick at the half-melted, puckered mounds of icy snow. And my mind wanders.
Mark finishes his dips and I ask him āDo you ever wonder what it must have been like to have been in the German Sixth army, fighting in temperatures ten times colder than this and stalled at the gates of Stalingrad in 1942? Knowing that youāre at least 1,000 miles from home, that your supply lines are frail and subject to attack from frenzied and increasingly confident Russians? Knowing that their numbers and power have been increased by the introduction of 40 divisions of hardy Siberian troops, who are supremely comfortable in Arctic-like conditions and have been introduced to the fray, following their recent transfer, now that an attack from Japan has been deemed unlikely?ā
Mark pauses for at least 0.37 seconds before replying āNoā
I realise, not for the first time, that not everyone shares my forensic interest in key moments of World War II. I kick at another icy mound. We head towards the golf course.
