'I've been meaning to ask,' he said at length, to Sykes, 'where did you learn how to handle explosives like that? You set that booby trap like an expert.'
'In the Army, of course.'
'In your basic infantry training? Pull the other one.'
'We did a bit of training with grenades. Even live ones.'
'But not handling gelignite.' He stared at Sykes, who smiled sheepishly. 'Come on, Stan. Spit it out.'
Sykes glanced around to check no one else was listening, then leant forward. 'I, um - before I joined the Army - well, I was ... I got in with a few bad 'uns and, well, I used to rob stuff.'
Tanner raised an eyebrow. Go on.
Sykes sighed, took out his tobacco and began rolling a cigarette. 'Yes, you know, houses, offices - I could crack most safes, but they didn't always have combination locks, you see. So that's when I learnt how to use explosives.'
'Christ, Stan,' said Tanner.
'I'm not proud of it. I was the oldest of six kids, my dad was bloody useless - liked the sauce too much - and we needed the money. I'm not excusing it or anything, but when you're doing offices and banks and so on, you persuade yourself they can afford it.'
'When did you join the Army?'
'We was doin' an office in Islington, and we got caught in the act, and before we knew what was going on there was police everywhere. One of the lads pulled out a gun. He didn't hit anyone but it made me think things had gone far enough. Anyway, he was caught but me and the other two got away. I decided there and then that my criminal days was over. I sent my mother all the money I'd saved up and told her I had to leave town for a while and not to try to get in touch. I got on a train to Leeds and joined the Army. That was October 1938. And here I am.'
'And what about the one with the gun?'
'He got banged up but he never said nothing, so I was all right. And I haven't stolen anything since then - except what I nicked from that dump in Lillehammer.' He looked at Tanner. 'I'm not proud of myself, but I did start it with good intentions. You won't say anything, though, will you, Sarge? Not even to the other lads?'
'Course not. You're a good corporal, Stan. I don't care what you did before the war - that's your affair and for your conscience to deal with. It's what happens now that matters.' He paused. 'Anyway, I'm in no position to judge. My past isn't exactly whiter than white.'
They were silent for a moment, Tanner cursing himself for revealing even that, but then Sykes said, 'How come you ended up in the Rangers, Sarge? Where did you say you were from again?'
'Wiltshire,' said Tanner. 'In the south-west.' He was quiet again, toying in his mind with how much to tell the corporal, if anything. Sykes might have been glad to get his past off his chest, but Tanner felt no such compunction. 'My mother died when I was a baby,' he said. He spoke slowly, softly. 'My father was a gamekeeper on an estate.'
'So that's where you learnt to shoot.'
Tanner smiled. 'I reckon I had a rifle in my hands from the age of about five.' There had not been much schooling: his education had been out of doors, accompanying his father, learning about the countryside. He wouldn't have had it any other way.
'So why did you join the Army?'
Tanner looked away. 'My father died. There were . . . complications.' He picked up the German rifle again, pretending to examine it once more. 'I left home and joined the Army as a boy soldier. Straight out to India with the 2nd Battalion.'
'And you saw action out there?'
'A bit.'
Sykes nodded thoughtfully. 'So we're both outsiders, aren't we? Southerners among all these northern bastards.'
Tanner smiled. 'Yes, Corporal, but I think we're licking them into shape.'
In the offices of the Sicherheitdienst in Lillehammer, Reichsamtsleiter Hans-Wilhelm Scheidt was waiting for news of progress with mounting frustration. Reconnaissance aircraft had reported nothing despite countless sorties up and down the valley. 'Damned Luftwaffe,' he railed at Sturmbannfuhrer Kurz. 'I know they're not really bothering.' He stood up, walked to Kurz's window, overlooking a sunlit street, then strode back to the large, leather-topped desk, snatched the photographs delivered by the Luftwaffe an hour before and peered at them intently.
'I couldn't see anything in those,' said Kurz, sitting back in his chair, his arms behind his head.
'They're taken from too damned high up.' Scheidt smacked the back of his fingers against them, then flung them on to the desk.
Absent-mindedly Kurz picked at a tooth. 'And I suppose the Luftwaffe do have to find the British positions.'
Scheidt glared at him. Kurz ignored him, instead picking up the Luftwaffe's aerial photographs once more. Despite Scheidt's comments, they were both clear and detailed, but even with a magnifying-glass no tracks could be seen in the snow. High on the mountain plateau there was nothing but an undulating whiteness. Then came the treeline, the forest gradually becoming denser as the sides of the valley plunged towards the river and lake below. What was most striking, however, was the rapidity with which the snow was already melting along the lower slopes and valley floor. 'Spring has come,' said
Kurz, almost to himself. 'In another week it'll probably be summer.' He looked up at Scheidt, who had sat down again on the other side of the desk. 'Maybe we'll still get a message through.'
'Two days,' muttered Scheidt. 'Two damned days!'
'It happens.' Kurz shrugged. 'Changes in weather patterns. Even small atmospheric fluctuations. It's probably nothing more sinister than that.'
'I'm feeling blind,' said Scheidt. 'Christ, where are they?' He paced the room again, then said, 'I'm going out. I need to think.'
He stepped outside into the cool evening air. Above him the Nazi flag over the door of the SD offices clapped and the rope knocked against the flagpole. A sudden gust swept down the street, throwing up dust. A speck of grit caught in his eye. Scheidt cursed, then looked up to see a sullen Norwegian creaking past in a cart, the mule's head bowed. Scheidt glared at him but the man simply stared back, unmoved and defiant.
Norway. By God, he loathed the place, with its endless mountains and curiously backward people. And what did Lillehammer have to offer? Nothing but a couple of cafes, a few hotels and a population of glowering, resentful inhabitants. He wished he could be back in Berlin, he needed to think. Where were the bars and vitality of Bitte and Friedrichstrasse - places where he could sit with a drink or two, watch the people go by and relax? He was a metropolitan man, born and brought up in the bustle and mass of Munich, and although he had been to university in the country town of Freiburg, in the Black Forest, it had had all the sophistication that could be expected from a centuries-old and highly distinguished university city Then had come Berlin. How he missed it - a city that had always seemed to him the centre of the civilized world. A city of fine buildings and deep culture that even so seemed always to be moving forward. The beauty of its past sat so comfortably with the daring innovations of the future. He wished he could be there now, just for one night - a drink at the Cafe Josty to hear the latest gossip followed by dinner at Horcher's. Ah, that would be good.
He walked into his hotel. The reception area was still and quiet, save for the ticking of the pendulum on the clock.
'Brandy,' said Scheidt to the man at the desk, then walked through into the lounge. A couple sat in the corner, speaking in hushed tones and glancing nervously at Scheidt. Ignoring them, he sank into an armchair of deep maroon plush - stale cigarette and cigar smoke had pervaded every fibre of it. Cheap paintings of mountain scenes hung on the walls, while above the fireplace there was an ageing mirror spotted dark where the silver had been damaged. Scheidt ran his hands through his hair, and sighed. His brandy arrived and he took it without a word to the waiter, drank it in one and called for another.
He knew there was a large area in which to search for Odin, but even so, there were practical constraints that limited the opportunities for manoeuvre considerably. He had cursed the Luftwaffe, yet he knew they had flown countless sort
ies up and down the valley. Von Poncets' men had been trawling it too, yet they had found nothing - not a single clue, even though they were fresh, had trucks at their disposal and could travel further than Odin and his cohorts could possibly have managed on foot. It made no sense.
Then inspiration struck. Suppose they had not been seen because they weren't there? Suppose they had stayed where they were, lying low somewhere, while von Poncets' troops headed north and wasted time hunting for a false trail? He sat up and sipped his second brandy. Yes, he thought, it made perfect sense. Zellner himself had said there were clever, experienced men among them. For God's sake, Odin himself had enough of a brain! He finished his brandy, hurried out of the hotel and back to the SD headquarters.
Rushing into Kurz's office, he said, 'They're going to cross the river!'
Kurz looked at him with utter bewilderment. 'You've lost me, Herr Reichsamtsleiter. Who is?'
'Odin,' said Scheidt, 'and the men with him. We haven't found them because they're still somewhere on the mountain above Tretten. Tonight, when it's dark, they'll try to cross to the other side of the valley. I'm sure of it.'
Kurz looked dubious. 'It seems unlikely. Surely they wouldn't dare.'
'They would because, on the face of it, where's the risk? Who will still be in Tretten tonight? A few reinforcements passing through from the south and that's about it. For God's sake, even von Poncets' company of mountain troops won't be there.'
Kurz still seemed doubtful.
'Listen to me,' said Scheidt. 'They know they can't travel through the mountains faster than us, and they know the Luftwaffe will be out looking for them. They're stuck on the same side of the valley as the road and the railway line. But what's on the other side? Nothing! If they can get over there, they have a better chance of getting us off their trail. Moreover, the far side of the valley is more densely covered with forest. I know I'm right. Tonight, they'll come down and attempt to cross to the other side.'
Kurz was nodding now. 'Yes,' he said, a smile creeping across his face. 'I think you might be right. It should be easy enough to stop them. The bridge is undamaged. All we have to do is make sure von Poncets' mountain troops are ready and waiting.' He glanced at his watch. 'Ten to nine. Somehow we need to get them back to Tretten - and quickly.' He stood up and slapped Scheidt on the back. 'Smart thinking, Herr Reichsamtsleiter.'
As Kurz disappeared to send a signal to von Poncets, Scheidt leant against the desk and examined the photographs once more. He felt sure he was right. Perhaps, at long last, they really were just hours from snaring their prey. And, if so, it would have been worth the wait.
At a little after half past ten that night, a small column of sixteen French, British and Norwegian troops, with two civilians, began to head down through the trees on the slopes towards the tiny village of Tretten. They were unusually attired. The Tommies, at Tanner's insistence, had put away their tin helmets and greatcoats and replaced them with German field caps and wind jackets. The French, believing their canadienne jackets and berets were sufficiently similar to the German mountain-troops uniform, had stuck with their own clothing, while the two Norwegian officers had kept their greatcoats, a similar green-grey to those worn by the enemy, but had replaced their kepis with captured field caps. The idea, Tanner had suggested, was not necessarily to pass themselves off as German troops but, rather, to throw seeds of doubt and even confusion should they be seen silhouetted - however faintly - as they crossed the river. Anything that might chink or make any noise had been removed. It had been impressed upon every man that stealth was of paramount importance to their chance of success.
The sun had set behind the mountains on the far side of the valley, although a faint pink and gold glow crowned the snowy plateau, as though beckoning the fugitives towards a better place. Above, the sky was darkening at last, but there was still enough light with which to navigate through the trees and to warn them of any danger.
Sergeant Tanner, with Anna Rostad beside him and his men behind, led the way, following the route he had worked out earlier that morning. It had been more than twenty-four hours since they had reached the Rostads' farmstead, an entire day in which to rest, recover and rebuild their strength. They had certainly been fortunate to find such willing and accommodating hosts. Even now they were setting off with full stomachs, bread and cold meat in their haversacks. Erik Rostad had told them that most Norwegians in the Gudbrandsdal would share their own antipathy towards the German invaders, and if this
was so, Tanner reflected, it would give them an important advantage; they would need such help in the days to come. The thought gave him heart.
They paused on a small crest that gave them a clear view down through the trees towards the beach-like spur that jutted out into the river. Tanner, with his German binoculars, scanned the ground in front of them. He could still see the three upturned dinghies on the shingle but, to his frustration, most of the village and the rapidly narrowing river as it entered the Tretten gorge were hidden beneath the crest and by ever more trees. He glanced at Anna, who bit her bottom lip and stared out into the darkening light with wide, alert eyes.
'It seems quiet,' he whispered.
'But we can't see the bridge or the church from here,' Anna replied.
'Then no one can see us.' He gave her what he hoped was a reassuring smile.
He signalled to them all to crouch and they moved forward again, down the last slope towards the road's edge. A faint brush of air occasionally caressed the trees but otherwise the valley was calm, so although Tanner knew they were moving as quietly as they could, every sound they made seemed jarringly amplified.
Just a hundred yards ahead lay the road. The snow had gone from the ground, replaced by thin, insipid grass, dried and broken twigs and a carpet of russet pine needles. Having paused again, Tanner waved them forward, wincing with every snapping twig, until they reached the edge of the treeline beside the road. There, as birch trees and alder mixed with the pines, long grassreturned. A soft bank overlooked the road and beyond, a hundred yards away, was the water's edge.
Tanner lay down in the grass and signalled to the others to fall in beside him. Although it was dark now, the starry canopy above cast a faint glow over the landscape. He could see the mass of the mountains on the far side of the valley, and the inky river ahead, while the road glowed palely below. He tilted his watch to the stars. A quarter past eleven. He took a deep breath - they needed to get a move on.
Chevannes slid beside him. 'It seems quiet, no?'
Tanner nodded, but no sooner had he done so than he heard a rumble coming from the direction of the village. Chevannes heard it too and the two men stared at each other, frozen. In a moment, the noise increased - vehicles accelerating and changing gear. Heavy vehicles. Trucks.
'I knew this was an imbecile idea,' hissed Chevannes.
Tanner could think of no reply. The vehicles were getting closer, winding their way through the village. Then he saw the first, with its faint slits for headlights and dark bulky shape rumbling along the valley road. Everyone keep still, he thought. Then, carefully, he pulled up his rifle. They were, he told himself, most likely troops on their way north, but a trickle of sweat ran down the back of his neck and his heart was hammering. The lead truck was now only fifty yards away and, to his horror, he realized it was slowing. Next to him, Chevannes let out a faint groan.
The first truck passed them and stopped just thirty yards beyond. The second in the convoy also ground to a halt - directly opposite and so close Tanner felt he could almost reach out and touch it.
Orders barked, the sound of an engine ticking as it cooled, then troops were jumping out of the back on to the road. Hardly daring to watch, Tanner saw half a dozen men, rifles in their hands, look directly towards him, then cross the road.
His hands tightened round the stock and barrel of his rifle. There were now just a dozen yards between him and the leading enemy rifleman.
Chapter 12
At his new head
quarters in a farmhouse at Heidel, some fifty miles north of Tretten, Brigadier Morgan was bracing himself for General Ruge's visit. Most of 15th Brigade had now landed at Andalsnes and had been reaching the Gudbrandsdal valley throughout the day, but had brought little relief to the beleaguered brigadier. Their commander, Brigadier Smyth, was junior to Morgan, while Major General Paget, due to take over command of both brigades under the spurious title 'Sickle Force', was not due to reach the front until the following evening. So, Brigadier Morgan was still in charge of the valley's defence. Responsibility for stemming the flow of the German advance was his.
Of course, it was a singular honour to command two brigades and a number of Norwegian units in the field and, as he wrote in a briefly scrawled letter to his wife, he was grateful to have been given the chance to command above his rank. But he felt so tired he could barely stand, let alone think clearly, while the never-ending relay of bad news had made him yearn for someone to lift the burden from his shoulders.
He had been writing a note to Brigadier Smyth when he had felt his eyes close, his head lurch forward and his pen drop from his hand. One of his staff officers had hurried into the room and he had immediately woken, sitting bolt upright in his chair and blinking.
'Sir?' said the young captain. 'Are you all right?'
'Fine, thank you,' muttered Morgan. 'What is it, Grayson?'
'It's the Norwegians, sir.'
'Yes?'
'They're struggling to hold the enemy and are asking for assistance.'
The Odin Mission Page 18
