Spray flew over the bows of the tank landing craft as it ploughed past Narvik toward Øyjord on the other side of the Rombaksfjord. The colossal detonations of Warspite’s huge guns had been reverberating around the fjord for almost an hour, and the Sergeant-Major, bracing himself against the hatch of the Cromwell assault tank, felt briefly sorry for the German troops on the receiving end. A sailor positioned in the bows signalled to him. One minute left.
He felt the butterflies fluttering in his stomach and wished he had time for another visit to the heads, but it was too late now. He took comfort from the massive bulk of his assault tank, with its 25-pounder gun thrusting forward. The tank’s engine was warm and revving as the craft grounded. The ramp crashed down and the driver threw the tank into gear, the vehicle lurching over the ramp and into the shallow water beyond. Water streamed from the front of the tank as the tracks scrabbled it to the shore. On both sides, the Sergeant-Major could see other craft landing, disgorging a mixture of Cromwells and Covenanter armoured personnel carriers, each with a section of Marines.
The Marines had left their Covenanter on the outskirts of Øyjord and moved carefully through the village, alert to any ambush. The Sergeant crouched beside a building, knowing that its wooden construction would give no protection but feeling comforted by the cover. His section clustered around him, bristling with Solens, Besals and Brens. With hand signals, he sent one group led by a corporal around one side of the building while he led the remainder around the other.
He spun round at a sudden blast from one side, in time to see an arcing tracer impact the front of the Covenanter. A violent explosion shook the APC, which sat burning, obviously wrecked. The chatter of automatic fire snapped at his attention and he hurled himself to the ground as the air around him crackled with supersonic bullets. It seemed, he thought crazily, as if Øyjord might be occupied after all. He gripped his Solen and looked round at his men, who were returning a hail of fire towards the concealed German positions. It was not, he thought, going to be an easy day.
The Wellington patrolled its regular beat over the North Sea, festooned with the aerials of the new air observation radar. The aircraft’s modest performance was slowed still further by the extra drag, but this was of no account to the RAF. What mattered was the plot being kept on board, tracking air movements over Norway and directing the relentless Reapers onto promising targets. The Nazis must, the pilot thought, be heartily sick of the way the virtually uncatchable fighters pounced without warning anywhere above Norway.
‘Aircraft heading west over the North Sea.’
The senior officer went to look at the CRT, then frowned.
‘Have we identified them?’
‘No, there’s no IFF response.’
He watched the blip on the screen as it grew closer. It was not large, but was beginning to show that there was more than one plane. He walked over to the R/T.
‘Hello, Argus calling aircraft heading west from Bergen at angels fifteen; please identify yourselves.’
Silence.
The officer felt his unease growing. ‘Where are the nearest Reapers?’
The operator sat still, suddenly pale. ‘Too far,’ he said quietly.
‘Pilot! Bandits approaching from the west. Break off the patrol and take evasive action.’
The lumbering aircraft lurched to one side and dropped toward the sea, winding up to a shuddering 250 mph.
‘Those bandits are doing at least four hundred.’ No-one could hear the operator’s whisper; they didn’t need to. The four Fw 187s streaked towards the fleeing plane, guided faultlessly by the radar receivers they carried, tuned to the frequency of the Wellington’s set. The officer suddenly guessed what was happening.
‘Turn off the radar!’ He yelled.
He was far too late.
‘So far so good.’ Mary was studying the latest situation reports and plotting the positions of the British units on the large map of Norway which dominated one wall of the Operations Room. ‘Narvik and Bardufoss airfield are secure and the Marines have linked up with the Norwegians in Hegra fort. Dietl and the Third Mountain Division have been forced over the border into Sweden.’
‘Where doubtless they will not be interned for long,’ commented Charles drily. ‘Still, if they do hang around there, it will give us a good excuse to go into Sweden after them and put the iron ore mines into protective custody.’
‘What about Trondheim?’ Don was bleary-eyed and dishevelled, having been forced to catch up with lost sleep during the day.
‘Trondheim is ours but we took heavy losses. The Marines managed to neutralise the coastal forts and paratroops seized the airfield. But those radio-controlled bombs caused havoc until the carriers mounted standing Beaufighter patrols to knock down the Dorniers at a distance. Then the Germans started providing fighter escorts and the air battle is still raging. The first Hurricanes are operating from Vaernes, though, which is shifting the balance in our favour. The First Armoured is pushing up the valley towards Dombås , but the Germans are putting up a tough rearguard action so progress is slow.’
Johnson was moodily studying a map of the North Sea on the adjacent wall. ‘Naval losses have been heavy on both sides. Our submarines and torpedo planes scored a number of successes and the Germans only have one pocket battleship, a couple of cruisers and some small destroyers left, but we’ve lost Furious, Vindictive and Sheffield to submarines, plus Renown, Malaya, Cornwall and several smaller ships to those damned radio-controlled bombs.’
‘It could have been worse. At least the main covering force has stayed intact.’ Mary should have been a diplomat, reflected Don, or maybe a counsellor, if such a role had been thought of. Johnson brightened.
‘Yes, after some terrific battles. The Beaufighters and the new carriers have really proved themselves; they’re claiming twenty-three Dorniers for the loss of only three fighters, and the anti-aircraft escorts have claimed another nine. On top of that, they sank three U-boats.’
‘We’ve probably got the measure of those bombs for the time being,’ commented Charles. ‘The control frequencies have been identified so we can jam them, at least until the Germans find out and change the frequencies.’
‘There have been some other nasty surprises, though. We didn’t know the Germans had such good Asdic; it has cost us at least three submarines. And their Panzerfausts are costing us dear in hitting our armoured vehicles.’
‘How are the Norwegians doing?’ Enquired Don. Taylor pulled a face.
‘They never really had a chance to mobilise and they’ve been pushed up the Gudbransdal past Lillehammer, but General Ruge is pulling the remnants together and we’ve flown them crate-loads of PIATs to give them some chance against the Panzers. Many of them are skilled skiers, though, so they’re doing a great job of reconnaissance and screening wherever we’ve been able to add them to our forces.’ Morgan looked up from the reports on operational readiness.
‘The Luftwaffe was badly handicapped by the job the Mosquitos did on the airfields, but they’re getting back into full swing now, with Messerschmitts operating from the Oslo fields. They’re now too well defended to risk repeating the operations. However, we started on Bergen and Stavanger yesterday.’ Johnson looked worried again.
‘These are trickier, they’re so much closer to the German airfields. We’re going in, though, with Warspite and Queen Elizabeth, and the covering fleet is moving south to give them support. We’ve doubled the escort screen, but even so we’re expecting a monumental air and sea battle before the Marines even land. What’s worse, the Germans have had time to take over the defensive forts. We’re planning to attack them with Beauforts carrying the new one-ton armour-piercing bombs, but there’s no guarantee they will knock them out.’
Don grimaced, remembering a long-ago visit to Bergen, the charm of the medieval wooden dockside buildings of the Bryggen. They were hardly likely to survive the coming battle. He tore his mind away from the memory and turned to Mary. ‘Anything happening
elsewhere?’
‘Bodø and Tromsø are in Norwegian hands, and oddly enough the Germans have heavily bombed Namsos and Åndalsnes despite the lack of any military activity there.’ Don winced, thinking of the little towns, their wooden buildings so vulnerable to attack, smashed because of their significance in another time, another war. He realised that Mary was watching him anxiously, and forced a smile. ‘Who was it who said that no plan of battle ever survives first contact with the enemy? At least, we’re doing a whole lot better than we were in my time.’
Nothing seemed to be moving in the valley below. The little village of Kvam nestled on the northern slopes of the Gudbransdal, above the River Laagen. The railway line from Dombås to Lillehammer also hugged the north bank, with a station just where the river divided around a large island about half a mile long. Beyond that, the river curved southward out of sight. The Lieutenant lowered his field glasses and spoke to the radioman behind him.
‘Tell them it’s all clear.’ He looked through the glasses again and murmured to himself. ‘Neither the Norwegians nor, thank God, the Germans have reached here yet from Lillehammer, and if the remnants we drove out of Dombås came this way they haven’t stopped. We should have time to set up a strong defensive position.’ He turned to his platoon. ‘Sergeant, stay here with the radioman and two others. The rest will return with me.’
The Norwegians were exhausted after days of heavy fighting and nights of retreating, always being pushed back by the heavily-armed enemy; every move under observation from the ubiquitous Fieseler Storch scout planes, always the possibility of a fighter or bomber attack. Still, they were intact as a fighting force under the grimly determined leadership of General Ruge, and their King and government were with them. The portable anti-tank weapons flown in by the British had surprised the Germans and made them more cautious, buying the Norwegians precious time in their retreat.
The small force moved up the valley towards Kvam just before dawn, hoping to reach shelter before the accursed scout planes started hovering over them. The Kaptein in command of the forward reconnaissance unit moved warily up the road toward the village, then halted as he saw movement by the road ahead. He reached for his glasses and saw the flag being waved; it was a Union Jack.
Late in the afternoon, the leading elements of the German force followed the same route. They too were tired, but buoyed by success and the steady flow of supplies reaching them. The British may have dislodged the small forces that took the coastal towns, but a full Division of the Wehrmacht was a different matter altogether.
Sudden bursts of automatic fire echoed across the valley as the flanking ski troops high up the valley sides reached the first Allied outposts. The troops on the road hastily ran for cover to either side, just as the first mortar rounds fell around them. They stayed low as the first of the Panzers drove past them, straight up the road to Kvam, followed by a line of armoured vehicles.
The blast of an explosion under the first tank reverberated around the valley as the mine detonated. The tank slewed sideways then stopped, one track torn off. The second tank tried to manoeuvre around it but there was a sharp ‘bang-bang’ of a high-velocity anti-tank gun and the impact of its shot against armour and the second tank stopped abruptly; a hole punched in the side. The Panzers were beginning to close up behind the blockage when, with a rising snarl of aero engines, four Hurricanes flew low up the valley behind the column; the tearing sound of multiple machine guns, each firing twenty rounds per second, sending exposed infantry flying in bloody disorder. Flame flashed from the wings of the planes as rockets sped forward and down, tearing the column apart with a series of ripping explosions. The hammering of Flak cannon spread through the column and a Hurricane lurched off course, crashing into the valley side.
The Division was just beginning to collect itself after the assault when the first of the barrage of sixty-two pounder artillery shells from the Centaur SPGs began to fall. Kvam would not be a pleasant memory for the Wehrmacht.
‘Not again,’ groaned Don, ‘what is it this time? Is the battle for Kvam over?’ Charles stopped shaking him and stood back, his expression grim as Don straightened up from being slumped over the table in the Ops Room.
‘Kvam has been held all right; the Germans have retreated beyond Tretten and are being driven back to Lillehammer. But I didn’t wake you to tell you that.’ Don sat upright, sleep vanishing rapidly from his thoughts, and waited. ‘Hitler obviously decided that he’d heard enough bad news from Norway. He attacked in the West half an hour ago.’
Hermann was feeling equally sleepless as he sat at the back of the Command Centre, listening to the flood of messages and orders as Fall Gelb, the assault in the West, neared the end of its third day. Stadler strolled over and sat beside him, lighting a fresh cigarette.
‘Don’t look so worried. Everything is going to plan.’
‘Almost too much so. Didn’t the British warn the French? And why aren’t they coming to their aid? They must have known what was going to happen.’
‘Now there are two interesting questions. We have captured some papers which show that the British did indeed warn the French of our thrust through the Ardennes, but the French ignored it. They didn’t think it was possible; their high command was too complacent and far too slow to react when the blow fell. As to why the British aren’t charging in to help the French, well, it could be pique. After all, the French refused to support them over Norway because the British wouldn’t support the French over Poland. Or on the other hand, it could be realism. They must know that they can’t stop us now, particularly not with some of their best Divisions tied down in Norway.’ Herrman shifted uneasily. ‘The Führer is still angry about that. He had high hopes for Weserübung.’
‘Don’t worry about that now, he has other things on his mind. He has given the General Staff four weeks to conquer France, which at the present rate of progress will be more than enough. After that, he will turn his attention to Britain. I wouldn’t be surprised if Britain falls before Norway does.’
The mood in the Ops Room was sombre as the sweeping arrows indicating the German advance were marked on the map of France. Don tried to suppress his imagination, to forget the turmoil and tragedy represented by those bold lines, the death and despair flooding the country as the waves of terrified refugees fled before the armies. He struggled to regain his academic objectivity, to remember that this was all part of the plan. He cleared his throat, trying to sound calm.
‘The Germans seem to have stuck to the Sichelschnitt plan, with their main thrust along the Ardennes axis followed by a northward curve to the Channel ports.’
‘Presumably with a different motive this time; they’re not trying to trap us, just to keep us out.’ Don noticed that even Charles was beginning to appear slightly unkempt. The tension of the past few days was distracting all of them from normal habits.
‘Any news from “Those Above Us”?’
Charles smiled wearily at the reference to the Oversight Committee. ‘They’re still fighting their biggest battle so far to prevent the politicians from sending help to France. Even though they know it can’t affect the course of the war, Chamberlain and Halifax are desperate to show that we’re trying. So far we’ve managed to persuade them that, now we’ve got the Germans on the run in Norway, it would be fatal to take the pressure off, so they’ve agreed that our help should be limited to air support. The RAF has been staging attacks on Luftwaffe airfields and trying to pick off German air raids. They’ve also tried to have a go at the advancing Wehrmacht but it’s incredibly difficult. The battlefield is moving so fast that it’s impossible to obtain reliable information about enemy movements. France’s military command structure seems to have collapsed.’
‘Even faster than it did in my time. The Germans are better prepared and equipped, of course, and the French didn’t even have the benefit of being on a war footing when the blitzkrieg started.’
Charles shrugged. ‘We warned them as strongly as we could, bu
t they seemed to be so appalled at the prospect of another war that they didn’t want to believe us. Still, look on the bright side. It will all be over for them a lot more quickly this time.’
‘Yes,’ said Mary quietly, ‘and then it will be our turn.’
That evening, Don, Charles and Mary walked back through the darkening streets to their apartment building. Newspaper salesmen were locatable by their brief, unintelligible cries, the just-readable placards telling of successes in Norway, disasters in France. The last light of evening shone on the aquatic shapes of the barrage balloons high above in the multicoloured sky. A few cars grumbled and whined past, their hooded headlamps no more than dim gleams. Don looked puzzled for a moment, then laughed. Mary looked surprised and relieved, and hugged his arm. ‘Share it with us!’
Don smiled. ‘This scene looked so familiar and yet unfamiliar at the same time. It took me a few seconds to work out why. I’ve seen countless old films of wartime London; but always in black and white!’
Charles laughed, then seized the moment. ‘I’ve been meaning to tell you something.’ Enquiring noises. ‘My lords and masters have decided that you need a change of scenery. They’re replacing me with a new watchdog.’ This time the noises were dismayed. ‘Don’t worry,’ he added hastily, ‘I know who they’ve got in mind and he’s a splendid chap. Very keen to meet you. His name’s Philby. Kim Philby…Don, whatever’s the matter?’
They sat tensely in Charles’s flat, trying to absorb the implications of Don’s revelations about the Soviet agent working within the British security services. ‘It’s hard to judge how much he knows,’ said Charles slowly. ‘Your existence is still officially top secret, with cover stories always used to explain our inside knowledge. He has only been told that he is to act as liaison with an important intelligence source. There can be no doubt, though, that anyone in his position would have pieced things together long ago.’
THE FORESIGHT WAR Page 11
