How bloody stupid it all was. A few days ago he hadn’t a care in the world. He was a doctor, saving lives. Now he was a spy, a spy caught and probably about to be shot by the side of some godforsaken roadway in Norway. He glanced towards the bus. The pale face of Inge Stenersen was staring through the window at him. He wished she would avert her gaze. She might give herself away.
He didn’t know what registered first, the single crack of a rifle or the scream of the German corporal, who was curiously spinning in the roadway, throwing his machine gun from him with both hands outstretched. It seemed to be happening in slow motion. The man spun and then collapsed to the ground with a gash of red across his face. There was another sharp crack and another of the soldiers took a step forward. Woods saw a look of total amazement on his face before he clutched at his stomach and pitched face forward.
The two other soldiers began to run towards the trees at the side of the road. One man let off a long burst of gunfire into the bushes but there were more loud explosions and both of them fell awkwardly by the roadside.
The young man in the Hird uniform gave a bleating cry, almost an animal noise, and dived to the side of the bus, crouching on the ground and covering his head with his hands as if in protection.
Woods stared around him stupidly. He had not even had time to lower his hands. From the dark pine forests a group of half-a-dozen men were emerging in a curious collection of uniforms. They looked like a group of bandits. A tall young man seemed to be their leader. He was clad in a military battledress jacket, trousers and stout army boots. He carried a knapsack on his back and a rifle in his hand. He had a broad smile on his fresh features as he came up to Woods.
‘Looks like we arrived just in time, eh? You are all right?’
Woods nodded, pulling down his hands. Two of the men were hauling the young Hird man to his feet. The former arrogance had gone from the youth. He was trembling and trying to suppress his sobs. Another member of the newly-arrived party was climbing into the bus. ‘Everyone all right in here?’ he called.
The youthful leader, who wore captain’s stars on his shoulder tabs, was examining Woods with interest.
‘Who are you?’
Woods saw no point in denying he was English.
‘Trying to get through to the Allied lines?’
Woods shook his head and countered: ‘Who are you?’
The young man smiled. ‘Let’s say we are a unit of irregulars operating behind German lines.’ He turned, suddenly aware of the young fascist held between two of his men. The young man’s eyes narrowed; the pleasant smile was wiped off his face to be replaced by a mask of hate. He moved to the Hird man, tore open the breast pocket of his uniform and took out an identity card, which he examined and thrust into his own pocket. Then he glanced at the two men holding the youth and nodded slowly. They dragged the Hird man towards the trees at the side of the road.
Woods frowned. ‘What do you plan to do with him?’ he asked.
The young man scowled.
‘What do you think? Spank his bottom and send him home?’
Woods saw that one of the men had taken a rope from his knapsack. The Hird youth was sobbing openly now, crying like a child. The two men ignored him. One of them threw a rope over a branch and fashioned a noose.
It was over in a moment, even before Woods had time to take in what was happening. The Hird man’s sobbing ended in a choking scream and then his body was twisting grotesquely at the end of the rope which the two men were securing to the trunk of the pine tree from which the man was hanging.
Woods shuddered. His face mirrored his distaste, and the young man turned to him in annoyance.
‘This is a war, Englishman, not a game of cricket. We cannot afford to treat these traitors to trials and codes of fair play. They are the enemy who have betrayed our country. They have plotted and planned the destruction of our people. They deserve no humanity.’
‘I am a doctor,’ Woods said slowly. ‘It is hard to witness death.’
‘Believe me, doctor, I, too, was brought up to believe that life is sacred. But now, what I want to know is whether you are a refugee or a deserter from the British forces in the north? What are you doing here?’
Woods drew his gaze from the terrible sight of the swinging body of the youth to the young guerilla leader.
‘I am on a special mission in Norway. I cannot tell you more.’
‘I cannot release you without some explanation.’
‘Then I’ll supply it.’
They swung round to find that Sweeny and Inge Stenersen had left the bus.
‘And who are you?’ snapped the young man.
Sweeny told him briefly, omitting to explain why they had been sent into Norway.
‘We heard that the Germans were looking for parachutists,’ the man said. ‘This entire road is roadblocked from here to Arendal. Had you managed to get through this roadblock you would have been picked up at another one.’
‘Then I suggest that you send the bus on its way and we all remove ourselves from the scene of this little ambush before the Germans arrive here in force,’ replied Sweeny.
The young leader hesitated, but there was something impressively commanding in Sweeny’s voice.
‘Very well,’ he said reluctantly. ‘The bus continues on. But you and your companions will come with us and satisfy our curiosity. I am not content with your explanation.’
He moved to the bus and climbed inside.
‘Listen to me, my friends,’ he called to the passengers. ‘The next stop is Haegeland. You have had no incidents on the way. None at all. You have had a pleasant and uneventful journey and have seen nothing. No Germans, no partisans, no one. Neither were there three passengers who left the bus at this point.
The driver spoke for them all. ‘It is understood.’
The young man climbed down and waved the bus onwards.
They stood watching it disappear down the road. Then the young leader gathered his men together.
‘We’ll be making a fast pace up the mountains,’ he informed his three new comrades. ‘We know a cave there on the far side, about two hours’ journey. I hope you will keep up.’
Without another word they set off, marching in single file through the dark conifer trees. As Woods passed the hanging body of the Hird youth he noticed that someone had pinned a placard to the boy’s breast. It simply said, ‘A Norwegian Traitor!’ No one had made any attempt to hide the bodies of the four dead German soldiers.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Hauptmann Karl Eschig of the Amtsgruppe Auslandsnachrichten und Abwehr, usually known simply as the Abwehr, the German foreign intelligence and counter-espionage service, sat back in his chair and gazed thoughtfully around his office. It was a high-ceilinged, oak-panelled room in what had been a Norwegian Government office building in Akersgate, overlooking the impressive building that had housed the Norwegian Storting or parliament. It was a pleasant enough office, tastefully furnished with antique pieces that blended with the oak panelling. Several gilt-framed, oil-painted images of Norwegian dignitaries stared down in disapproval at the German captain. Eschig smiled complacently back at the dour faces of men like Christian Michelsen, who had presided over the dissolution of the union of Norway and Sweden; Fridtjof Nansen, who had been Norway’s first delegate to the League of Nations; and Ivar Aasen, who had set out to revive Norway’s national language in the 19th Century.
Eschig was forty-five, a copper-haired man with blue, almost metallic eyes. His features were broad, his face not unpleasant though certainly not a handsome one. The face betrayed his shrewdness which was sometimes disguised by his slow, rolling Bavarian accent. It was a lean, hard face with tiny lines at the corner of the eyes. Eschig was a regular army officer who had initially entered the service of his Fatherland in 1914. He had left the army for a while in 1919 with the rank of leutnant and two decorations for gallantry, including the Iron Cross (Second Class), after having survived the perils of trench warfare. It was d
ue to the entrenched class structure of the German army that Eschig had not risen to a higher office. In the mid-1920s he had returned to the army, but had been unable to get promotion until Hitler came to power in 1933 and there was a need for trained men to help in the expansion of the armed forces. Not that Eschig was a Party member. He still wasn’t, even though it had been suggested that his rate of promotion would be a lot quicker if he joined.
Eschig was not interested at all in politics. But he had a policeman’s mind and this had helped bring about his transfer to the reorganized Abwehr in 1934 under Colonel Hans Oster, the chief assistant to the Abwehr’s boss, Admiral Wilhelm Canaris. When the Führer gave the formal directive for the Weseruebung, or Weser Exercise, the code name for the invasion of Denmark and Norway, Eschig had been attached to General von Falken-horst’s staff with orders to set up an immediate counterespionage system as soon as Oslo fell into German hands. Any attempts to organize resistance or underground movements were to be firmly crushed.
For Eschig it was a matter of military tactics, like playing chess, a game he was particularly good at. He had a mania for Grünlichkeit — thoroughness, or as some would have it, the art of taking pains. He had tenacity as well. He could doggedly pursue a problem, wearing away at it until he had finally solved it. He enjoyed his job in so far as it involved the working-out of a problem, but he had never been able to come to terms with the inevitable consequence of his success — a lonely wooden stake in front of a brick wall, a blindfolded figure and the crack of a firing squad’s rifles in the cold grey of dawn.
The door to his office opened and his assistant, Feldwebel Weiss, entered with a tray bearing a cup of coffee and a snack of black bread and sausage. Under his arm the sergeant carried a bulky folder.
‘Guten morgern Herr Hauptmann,’ Weiss said with a click of his heels.
Eschig nodded as he reached for his coffee.
‘What’s this, Weiss?’ he asked as the sergeant laid the bulky folder before him.
‘Local intelligence reports for the southern sector, Herr Hauptmann.’
Eschig sighed. It was part of his duties to go through the local intelligence reports of the occupied sectors of the country to monitor any activities which might indicate the formation of resistance groups.
Eschig spent several hours reading through the reports. One item in the batch did strike his attention. Earlier that morning four members of the Field Security Police and a member of the Norwegian Hird had been killed at a roadside near Evje. The incident was nothing much in itself. Indeed, such incidents were common in occupied territory and those who collaborated with the German troops often put their lives at risk. The local military police commander had stopped a bus which had been passing along the road about the same time as the killings occurred. By a stroke of luck there was a collaborator travelling on the bus at the time who was able to give the local commander a full account of what had happened.
A detailed description of two men and a girl, who had joined the terrorists who had done the killing, was available. One of the men was definitely an Englishman. The other was a well-built man with red hair. His description intrigued Eschig. There were not many Norwegians who answered that description.
The local commander, in accordance with General Von Falkenhorst’s general directive of April 12, designed to prevent terrorism, had seized a number of people from the bus and shot them as a reprisal.
Eschig sat back, his eyes hooded. An Englishman, a girl and another man who was tall, well-built and had red hair. He pursed his lips and reached for his telephone to put through a call to the local commander, who told him that there was no sign of the terrorists.
‘The swine have burrowed down into some hole up in the mountains. My men have combed the area without a trace of them,’ the officer assured him.
Eschig replaced the receiver and leant back, his hands before him, fingertips to fingertips, a frown on his forehead.
He did not know why he was so intrigued by the description of the red-haired man, nor why this incident should occupy his mind more than the hundreds of other incidents which he was supposed to check through. He only knew that he experienced a fingerspitzengefuehl, a mysterious intuitive feeling in his fingertips which is the German equivalent of a sixth sense. He took a plain folder, wrote in bold capitals on its cover ‘Red-Haired Man’, and occupied the next half-hour making some cross-reference notes from the local military police commander’s report.
*
The cave was high up in the mountains, but still below the upper limit of the conifers and dwarf birch which grew in profusion in this area. Since the incident on the roadway, the young leader of the partisans had maintained a silence. His men moved swiftly after him up a small mountain track on a route which left Woods both dizzy and breathless. It was two years since he had been in the mountains and he was clearly out of condition. Inge and Sweeny made no complaint, but Woods could see that they, too, were unused to the exertion. The group made no pause for refreshment, but several times they had an enforced rest while a German scout plane circled lazily above them as they hid beneath the trees.
It was not until mid-afternoon that they finally came to the cave, a well-hidden complex which could not be found by a casual observer. It was only then that a primus stove was produced and water boiled. Cans of soup were opened and emptied into a large saucepan to simmer. Sentries were posted, but the rest of the small group threw aside their backpacks and guns and lay down to rest.
‘And now,’ the young leader said, as the three newcomers stood watching the proceedings, ‘I must have some information.’
‘Information for information then,’ Sweeny replied. ‘Who are you?’
‘I am Captain Arne Branting, formerly of the Rogaland Regiment.’
‘I am Lars Sweeny, that is Inge Stenersen and this is Doctor Michael Woods,’ Sweeny replied in kind.
‘From?’
‘We parachuted here this morning from England.’
‘Can you prove this?’
‘Of course not. You don’t expect us to have papers that would incriminate us if we were searched by the Germans, do you? The only things we carry are three Webley service revolvers.’
Branting shrugged.
‘Those you could pick up anywhere. I must have something more to satisfy myself that you are who you say you are.’
‘We came down north of Bygland,’ Sweeny said alter a pause. ‘Our aircraft was pounced on by a German fighter just after we bailed out. It was a Blenheim. It was shot down on the mountains on the west bank of the fjord.’
Branting looked at him steadily.
‘I could check that out.'
‘I intended you to do so.’
‘Granted, for the moment, that you parachuted into Norway this morning … Why? What is your mission here?’
‘We can’t tell you that. I’ve told you before. All we can tell you is that we are on our way to Oslo.’
‘It's a great deal to take on trust.’
Woods suddenly swore. ‘Do you think we are German spies or something? Do you think the Germans were pretending to drag me off that bus?’
Branting gazed at Woods thoughtfully and then smiled.
‘No, I don’t think you can be German. No German agent would be sent into Norway with such an appalling English accent. You are English, of that there is no doubt.’
‘Thanks,’ Woods replied sarcastically.
Branting suddenly turned to the saucepan of simmering soup and ladled out two servings, giving one to Inge and the other to Woods. Then he dipped out two more and handed one to Sweeny.
‘Take a seat and get some food into you. You see, we are unused to war. Two weeks of war have not made us veterans but served merely to create many confusions.’
They sat down, realizing that they were very hungry. Branting put his soup down on the ground beside him and nodded reflectively.
‘The Germans have overrun the southern half of our country while our troops still hold ou
t, with Allied help, in the north. Those of us who remain in the occupied areas are trying to form some kind of resistance … not only to the Germans but to the followers of Quisling. Those who support the Nasjonal Samling are crawling out of the woodwork everywhere, like the parasites they are.’
He gazed at the other three thoughtfully.
‘You must appreciate that it is difficult to know whom to trust and whom not to trust.’
Woods nodded. ‘I can understand that, Branting. But all you have to do is confirm what we say about our aircraft. You’ll even find our parachutes in the woods on the east bank of the fjord.’
‘It won’t mean much. We know already, as I’ve told you, that the Germans are looking for parachutists. It does not mean that you are those parachutists.’
‘Look,’ Sweeny leant forward. ‘We are not interested in you or your group, Branting. All we want is to get to Oslo.’
Branting shrugged. ‘And how are you planning to go? To Kristiansand or Arendal and then the railway from there?’
‘That was the idea,’ Woods agreed.
‘The Germans have cut off Kristiansand for the moment. They have placed restrictions on all coastal movement because the German warships are now using it as a base and the Germans have taken over the batteries of Odderoy. We know the Germans have a flotilla of MTBs there, but they are letting no one near the ports, and railway traffic along the coast railway is restricted to German troops.’
‘Damn!’ Sweeny muttered. ‘Is there a safe alternative route to Oslo?’
‘Perhaps,’ smiled Branting. ‘But first I must see if your story checks out.’
‘And if you can’t check it out?’ asked Inge.
Arne Branting pursed his lips and shrugged in an eloquent fashion.
The Valkyrie Directive Page 9
