The Valkyrie Directive

by Peter MacAlan

  Branting was focusing carefully. He watched the parachutists landing, observing the way they dealt with their’chutes and equipment.

  ‘I’ll tell you one thing. These boys are no novices in the mountains. They’re carrying skis and climbing equipment. I’d say they are a company of Gebirgsjäger!’

  ‘What are those?’ asked Inge.

  ‘Specially trained mountain troops,’ Branting grunted. ‘The Germans have been using a lot of Austrian troops in Norway, troops trained in the Alps who know how to handle themselves in high mountains.’

  The drone of the Junkers faded away while far below them, across the valley floor, they could just make out a line of black dots moving rapidly along the floor of the valley.

  ‘We’d better get moving,’ Sweeny said. ‘We want to keep as far ahead of them as possible.’

  He turned to catch Hersleb’s dark, smouldering eyes, looking down the slope of the mountain towards the valley with a speculative gaze. Sweeny moved across to him and jerked the safety catch of his Schmeisser machine-pistol.

  ‘Don’t even think about it, Hersleb,’ he said softly. ‘I’d shoot even before you reached for your skis.’

  The little anaesthetist’s pale face turned toward his, a mask of hate and fear. He said nothing.

  Woods joined Sweeny and prodded the doctor with his Webley.

  ‘Let’s get going,’ he said with a thin smile. ‘I’m looking forward to having dinner tomorrow night in the Ritz and I don’t want you to make me late for it.’

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  It was mid-afternoon now. Thin clouds were streaking the pale sky while behind them, to the west, they could see the tip of a red, angry-looking disc descending into a pink glow over the snow-capped hills. Dusk was coming early; the light was already beginning to fade and the atmosphere was cold and misty. Branting halted the exhausted party on the shoulder of a hill and leaned back wearily.

  ‘We’ll rest here for ten minutes,’ he called.

  Sweeny went forward to join him.

  ‘How far now?’

  Branting drew out the map and compass.

  ‘About four hours and we should come to the turisthytten. We can spend the night there unless there are Germans about. There is an alternative … a cave further up this valley, about two miles from the turisthytten.’ He jabbed at the map with his finger. ‘The cave is just here on this peak called Tindfjell. Tomorrow morning we can move up to the Svabensverk Glacier and then … Sweden!’ He smiled.

  Sweeny was looking at the terrain before them. Branting had indicated a path across a long, low sweeping valley.

  ‘Can we ski across?’

  Branting inclined his head. ‘If we get a good impetus on the downward slope we should be able to get quite a way up the far slope.’

  Sweeny glanced at Hersleb.

  ‘We’ll ski across three at a time. I’ll bring Hersleb last.’

  The exercise was an easy one. The impetus of the run brought them quite a way up the far slope, and here they took off their skis and started to climb again. They were nearing a spur when Branting, who was leading, suddenly dropped down, frantically waving the others to follow suit. Sweeny scrambled quickly to his side.

  ‘Germans, half-a-mile ahead,’ muttered Branting. ‘It can’t be the same troops we saw before. They must have dropped another company ahead of us, hoping to catch us in between.’

  Sweeny realized that the terrain around them was hopeless. His eyes met Branting’s. The question was obvious without him asking it.

  ‘There’s no way we can avoid them,’ Branting said simply. ‘If we move back we are liable to fall into the hands of their comrades.’

  ‘Can we shoot it out?’

  Branting suppressed a harsh laugh.

  ‘Two Schmeissers and three handguns against thirty fully-armed Gebirgsjäger?’

  ‘Well, it’s a damned sight better than surrendering to the bastards.’

  Branting bit his lip. He hesitated and then pushed the map and compass towards Sweeny.

  ‘Can you make your way to the cave at Tindfjell and then across the Svabensverk Glacier?’

  ‘I think so,’ replied Sweeny.

  ‘Good. Remember this: hole up in the cave tonight. You should be able to reach it within two or three hours. At first light move out and take the path directly behind the cave. It’s a tough ascent for the last quarter of a mile, but it will lead you onto a high plateau where you will find an easy path across the top of the glacier. Once across the glacier you are in Sweden. Just keep going and you’ll come to Rottnedal or Torsby.’

  Sweeny pushed the map into his pocket.

  Branting stood up and fastened on his skis. Suddenly he chucked the Schmeisser to Sweeny.

  ‘Woods will probably have more use for this than I will. Good luck. Maybe see you again someday.’

  Before Sweeny realized what the young Norwegian was doing, the man had dug his ski-sticks into the snow and shot forward down the slope in full view of the Gebirgsjäger.

  *

  The Storch came to a wobbly halt on the Travbane, the old race course, underneath the shadow of the castle hill. The Luftwaffe had converted the field for light aircraft and the Storch managed to put down without problems. An Opel staff car was waiting to take Hauptmann Eschig and Feldwebel Weiss up to battalion headquarters at the castle. The vehicle moved swiftly through the town, passing tramping squads of armed men and sullen townspeople on its way to the former Norwegian military base. A staff captain came forward, saluted and conducted Eschig through to the commander’s office, where Weiss was left outside at uneasy attention.

  A harassed Generalmajor glanced up from a desk and nodded. ‘A glass of schnapps, Herr Hauptmann?’

  Eschig responded with formality and declined.

  ‘Is there any word from your troops regarding the fugitives?’ The Generalmajor pulled a sheet of paper toward himself and glanced over it. ‘They were spotted some hours ago, and we have air-dropped two companies of Gebirgsjäger, one in front and one behind them. Oberleutnant Gerhardt is in command and is in contact by radio with headquarters. They’ll soon have your fugitives. They are the finest mountain troops in Europe.’

  ‘I don’t doubt it. I want to join them as soon as I can. Is it possible to supply me and my sergeant with parachutes and a plane and pilot to take me to the area?’

  The Generalmajor frowned.

  ‘You have, of course, received parachute training and are able to survive in the mountains?’

  ‘I have had training in the Tyrol. Don’t worry, Herr Generalmajor, I’ll keep up with your men.’

  The Generalmajor gazed thoughtfully at Eschig,

  ‘You must want these people very badly, Herr Hauptmann. I’ll do my best. In the meantime Sturmbannführer Knesebeck is very keen to interrogate the fugitives when they are caught. He has set up a Gestapo headquarters in the local police station in the town.’

  *

  Sweeny and the others watched Branting swerving down the mountain slope in astonishment. There was nothing they could say or do. They heard a distant shout and the crack of a rifle shot, but the young Norwegian continued zig-zagging rapidly down towards the valley.

  ‘The damned fool!’ cried Woods.

  Sweeny turned angrily and threw the Schmeisser at him. ‘That damned fool is sacrificing himself for you!’ he shot back. ‘For all of us. The least you can do is accept it.’

  ‘You callous bastard!’ Woods cried. ‘I’m going …’

  Sweeny took a step forward and slapped Woods hard across the face. He staggered back in shock. Before he could recover his senses, Stenersen had intervened, grasping Woods’s arm.

  ‘Sweeny is right, my boy,’ he said quietly. ‘Branting is drawing the Germans away from us so that we can stand a chance of getting away. He is a brave young man.’

  ‘A stupid young man,’ snapped Hersleb, speaking for the first time in a long while.

  Sweeny whirled in his temper and punched him, catching th
e little man squarely in the mouth.

  ‘I’m going to scatter your guts all over the snow!’ he cried, his teeth grinding in hate.

  Stenersen moved forward and restrained him.

  ‘No, you’re not, Sweeny. You are going to lead us into Sweden. We’ll see what has to be done with him there.’

  Sweeny hesitated, suddenly calmed by the soft authoritative tone of the professor. He sighed and gestured toward Hersleb.

  ‘Birkenes, Arendt, pick that little swine up and keep him out of my way.’

  He gave one backward glance down the mountain. A cluster of black specks were streaking down the slope after Branting, the Norwegian himself no more than a tiny dot far below. The Germans had taken the bait. It would be hours before they caught up again. Branting had bought them valuable time. The damned fool. The poor damned fool!

  *

  Far below, crouching over his skis, Arne Branting bent his body forward into the wind, ski-sticks tucked under his arms. It was beginning to snow, at first only a few flakes driven by the wind, but then it grew thicker and began to come in rapid gusts so that he was suddenly engulfed in a world of grey and white, hardly able to see a few yards in front of him. He could hear the hoarse shouts of the German soldiers behind him in spite of the hiss of his skis and the wind against his ears. He realized that the wind was veering from one direction to another, which did not augur well.

  He dipped and turned, praying that the driving snow would hide his tracks as well as his body. But even as the hope entered his head, the snow began to ease and finally stop. His one hope now lay in speed. The slope was steepening and he was beginning to travel faster, still zig-zagging though the soft fresh snow.

  A rifle shot cracked and something struck the snow in front of him. They were good troops, these German mountain troops. Like the Norwegian border troops, they could fire while balanced on their skis on a downward run. He zig-zagged again and bent further into the wind, making his body as small as possible to increase his speed.

  The snowfall which he had hoped would be a blessing now became a problem. Skiing over fresh snow was not the same as moving over a hardened snow surface. Adjusting one’s speed on fresh snow was difficult; it could only be maintained by the steepness of the run. If the slope was too steep then the only course was to engage in a series of diagonal runs to maintain a level speed.

  Branting reckoned that he was coming down the slope a little too fast, perhaps about thirty miles an hour. He had to keep his balance for it would be fatal if he ran out of track now. Then an idea came into his mind. Perhaps he could buy time by changing direction. Branting had skied often before the war. Damn it. That was only a couple of weeks ago, yet ‘before the war’ seemed a pre-historic time. Before him he could see where the shoulder of the mountain split. If he could build on more speed and make his pursuers believe he was heading directly for the valley floor, but instead he could reach the spot where the shoulder split, then turn and head off down the steeper slope, he might be able to outrun them. The only way to make the turn so that his pursuers missed it was to make a ‘Christiana’. The Christiana turn or Christi, as it was sometimes called, was the most difficult of all turns on skis. It involved a jump to bring the skis and skier clear from his tracks in order to make a right-angle turn in mid-air.

  Branting dug his ski sticks in, pushing hard in an effort to increase his pace, his eyes peering forward now to the spot where the shoulder of the mountain divided. The run to that point was long, clear and very steep. He put his head down, still building up speed. The wind was pressing ice-cold against his face.

  He waited until he judged the moment right and then leapt. His heart came into his throat. He knew even as he urged himself forward into space that he had misjudged. The points of his skis lifted forward into the air and he braced himself for the inevitable consequence of his misjudgement. The snow of the slope flung itself at him like a large white blanket and enveloped him.

  For several seconds he was drowned in blackness before coming to and struggling against the icy smothering wetness. His mouth and nostrils and eyes were blocked by snow. His legs were numbed and seemed to be twisting under him. He scrambled forward with his hands and sobbed for air. Then someone was brushing the snow from his face.

  A fair-haired young man with blue eyes and a sunburnt face was gazing at him solicitously.

  ‘Das ist Peek fur Sie, ’ he said genuinely, hesitated and added in Norwegian, ‘That is bad luck.’

  Two soldiers were lifting him upright.

  ‘Are you injured?’ the young officer was asking.

  Branting shook his head. ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘Good. Namen?’

  Branting told him.

  ‘So? Sind Sie Soldat gewesen?’

  ‘I am a soldier of the Royal Norwegian Army.’

  ‘Ach so? Welches ist Ihr Dienstgrad?’

  ‘Captain.’

  ‘You have had bad luck,’ the officer said again, smiling. ‘If you had brought off your Christi we might not have been able to stop you. Ah, but we will never know.’

  ‘Am I a prisoner-of-war?’

  ‘Of course. What else?’ The German offered him a cigarette. ‘We are in touch with Kongsvinger. Two of my men will take you to the valley. A Storch can land there comfortably and you will be flown back to headquarters.’

  Branting exhaled deeply and gazed up the mountain.

  The young German saw his glance and smiled thinly.

  ‘You were quite clever. I did not realize your plan until we were well in pursuit of you. By then it was too late. But you have only bought a temporary respite for your comrades. We will soon catch them up. I, too, have spent much time in these mountains, captain.’

  He turned and snapped some orders at his men and then turned back with a polite salute.

  ‘It was a good try. The fortunes of war, eh?’

  He turned and waved to the rest of his command and they began to move at a quick pace up the mountain, leaving Branting between two burly soldiers. One of them tapped him on the shoulder sympathetically.

  ‘Kommen.’

  Branting threw down the cigarette and nodded.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Hauptmann Eschig came awake to find someone shaking him by the shoulders. He had dozed off while sitting in the brigade adjutant’s office in the castle, waiting for an aircraft to fly him and Weiss to the mountains.

  ‘What is it?’ he demanded as his bleary eyes focused on the impassive face of Feldwebel Weiss.

  ‘I beg to report, Herr Hauptmann, that I have learnt that the Gebirgsjäger have captured one of the fugitives …’

  ‘Sweeny?’ Eschig started forward hopefully.

  ‘No, Herr Hauptmann. A Norwegian officer named Branting. Apparently the man laid a false trail to lead our troops away from the rest of the party. Oberleutnant Gerhardt had the prisoner flown out in the Storch which can now take us back into the mountains to rendezvous with the Oberleutnant’s men.’

  ‘Has the prisoner been brought back to Kongsvinger, then?’

  Weiss nodded.

  ‘Excellent. I would like to question him before we go.’

  ‘Sturmbannführer Knesebeck has used the Reichskommissar’s authority to take the prisoner to the local police station for interrogation.’

  ‘Verdammt!’ swore Eschig. ‘Let’s find this police station,’

  ‘Herr Hauptmann, may I remind you that it will be dark soon. If the Herr Hauptmann wishes to rendezvous …’

  ‘I know what I’m doing,’ replied Eschig. ‘I just hope that butcher hasn’t killed the poor Norwegian swine!’

  *

  Knesebeck leant forward and slapped Branting across the face. It was a hard slap and Branting wras nearly thrown from the chair. He was unable to protect himself because his hands were cuffed behind him.

  ‘Scheisskerl! Schiveinehund!’

  Branting stared woodenly at the Gestapo officer. His face felt as if it were on fire.

  ‘Y
ou will talk, terrorist. Who are your companions? Why did they take Stenersen? Do you belong to an organization?’

  Branting did not speak. His mind was working rapidly. He had to buy his comrades time. Knesebeck’s gnarled hand crashed against Branting’s nose.

  ‘You will talk to me,’ he said softly. ‘If you do so, you will have nothing to fear.’

  Branting shrugged, feeling the blood dripping into his mouth.

  ‘Rudi!’ snapped Knesebeck, rising.

  Branting felt a pair of strong hands lever him up out of the chair and propel him towards the door of the room. He stumbled from weakness and pain. The hands caught him and slammed him against the corridor wall after the door was opened and then he was pushed along the corridor. At the end of it a door opened into a small tiled bathroom. Knesebeck moved forward while his companion held Branting and opened the window so that the icy cold wind blew into the room. Then he bent over the bath and turned on the cold tap after inserting the plug. Now his companion was ripping off Branting’s shirt and trousers.

  ‘Are you going to talk? Yes or no?’ snapped Knesebeck.

  Branting shook his head, wondering what ordeal he was going to face, standing there naked and shivering in the icy cold. The second man was kneeling at his feet and tying his ankles together with a rope. Then Branting was pushed roughly into a sitting position on the side of the bath.

  ‘Tell us what we want to know, terrorist!’

  Branting stared up at Knesebeck.

  The man nodded to his companion, who reached forward and wrenched at the rope around his ankles in one easy movement. Branting went crashing back into the bath so that his head was completely immersed in the water. With his hands cuffed behind him and his feet held up above his body he was entirely helpless. He felt the wave of panic that was inevitable. He tried to twist and turn but the hands that held his feet out of the bath were powerful. He tried to kick. Then his mouth opened, the lungs craving air, and he began to swallow water. His mind began to go black as consciousness left him. He was drowning and he knew it.

  When he came to there was a terrible pain in his chest. He was lying on the cold tiles of the bathroom floor and Knesebeck’s face was gazing down at him in disgust. Branting felt sick and then vomited water onto the floor.