Gulbrand turned the truck across the bridge, then right onto the valley road. On the other side of the wide Glama river the village of Okset drifted into view between the trees on the river's edge. Larsen could see, as the others could, the German trucks by the church, and a dull ache churned once more in his belly. Surely, he thought, they would be spotted. He could almost feel German field glasses trained on them.
A sickening feeling washed over him as it dawned on him with sudden clarity that his cousin would be in trouble. He couldn't believe he had been so stupid. Why had it not occurred to him at the time? Of course the Germans would return to the farm, find the truck gone and put two and two together. Jesus, he thought. What have 1 done?
Sitting opposite him, Lieutenant Nielssen grinned. He had taken off his cloth field cap so that his fair hair was blown across his forehead. 'What are the odds on when our friends in the Luftwaffe will appear?'
'For Christ's sake,' muttered Stunde. He was the youngest of them, only recently promoted to lieutenant.
'Two to one says it'll be less than an hour.'
In fact, it was half that time. They had not driven more than a dozen miles when two Messerschmitt 110s were bearing down on them. No sooner had Larsen seen two dots rapidly transform into wasp-like planes than rows of bullets spat up lumps of soil behind them before catching up with the pick-up, smashing one of the headlights from the front wings and puncturing the bonnet. In seconds the aircraft were past, the two dark crosses on each wingtip vivid against their pale, oil-streaked undersides. They watched the two fighters roar onwards, then bank and turn.
'Christ, look at the bonnet!' yelled Stunde. Larsen stood up and peered over the cab at the huge tear from which steam was hissing.
Gulbrand pulled the truck into the side of the road. 'Out, out, quick!' he shouted.
Grabbing their rucksacks, they leapt out and ran into the dense pine forest that rose high above the valley. This time Larsen heard the clatter of machine-gun bullets before the roar of the aircrafts' twin engines. Pressing his head into the snow he felt an explosion followed by a surge of bright heat as the truck exploded in a ball of flame. Shards of glass and metal rained through the trees, and branches crackled as those closest to the inferno caught fire. Larsen glanced at the colonel and saw him almost smothering the civilian, Hening Sandvold.
'Anyone hurt?' called Gulbrand. Miraculously, no one was. 'Good. Let's get away from here.' He pulled out a map. 'We'll climb up into the mountains, then cut across and join a road here.' He pointed.
Larsen hauled himself up beside the colonel. Drops of melting snow from the pines were falling around them. 'You knew they'd come back for Stig.'
'It was inevitable,' he said. 'I'm sorry. He's a strong man, though. I'm sure he'll come through.'
Larsen smiled weakly, then continued scrambling up into the mountains.
But Stig Andvard was already dead. As Colonel Gulbrand had known all along - and Larsen and his cousin had realized too late - the Germans had seen the truck speeding along the far side of the valley with five men aboard. When they returned to the farm and found the pick-up gone, Hauptmann Wolf Zellner, in his fury at being duped by a mere farmer, had taken out his pistol and shot Stig in the head. As Larsen scrabbled up out of the snow, Agnes lay over her prostrate husband, wailing with grief while a pool of blood spread in an ever- widening circle across the packed ice next to the empty shed.
More than two hundred and fifty miles away, as the crow flies, a British Royal Navy light cruiser steamed across the North Sea towards the Norwegian coast. There was a moderate swell and grey clouds overhead, conditions enough to ensure that HMS Pericles pitched and rolled with gusto as she carved her way through the grey-green sea. For the majority of the infantrymen being given passage - and whose stomachs were used to a steadier footing - this movement was too much. Below decks, soldiers lay in their bunks, pallid and groaning. A few played cards or smoked, but despite the smell of tobacco and oil, the stench of vomit was overwhelming.
It was why one soldier was on the main deck. An experienced sailor compared with most of the novices on board, he'd had no seasickness and, now that the rain had stopped, had stepped out into the bracing North Sea air.
Leaning against the railings to the port side of the forward six-inch gun turret, he watched the bow pitching into the sea, arcs of white spray pluming into the air. The wind brought tiny droplets of seawater across the decks, and he found the thin spray refreshing against his face.
He stood a little over six foot tall, with broad shoulders and dark skin from years of being baked in a hot sun, and bolstered during the past week in Scotland by unusually warm, sunny weather. Dark brown hair and brows accentuated his pale blue eyes, from which spread the lines of crow's feet. His nose was narrow but slightly askew, broken several times over the years. Otherwise his face was clean-shaven and as yet largely unlined - although he was still only twenty-four, his demeanour and the overall impression he gave were those of someone several years older.
Sergeant Jack Tanner glanced casually at a passing seaman, then shuffled his shoulders. The thick serge still felt unfamiliar after years of wearing cotton drill, and the unlined collar made his neck itch, but he was not one of those mourning the demise of the old service dress, with its long tunic and leggings. The RSM had been broken-hearted, but that was because he had known no other uniform and because he liked his men to look immaculate on the parade ground - all polished boots and shiny brass buttons, service caps down over the eyes. Looking smart was all very well, but Tanner had come to learn that practicality was more important when trying to kill the enemy, which was why he approved of the new khaki battle dress, with its short blouse and high-backed trousers, so completely different from anything that had come before, and which had not yet reached either India or the Middle East. Indeed, the battalion had only been issued with the new pattern a few weeks before.
Three cream chevrons on either arm marked his rank, while above, in a gentle curve at the top of the sleeve, was a black tab with 'Yorks Rangers' written in green. It was a regimental marking idiosyncratic to all three battalions of the King's Own Yorkshire Rangers, and a distinction the sergeant still felt proud to wear after eight years. The Rangers had had a long history, having fought from Africa to Asia to the Americas in numerous battles and campaigns as far back as Blenheim, and Tanner was glad to be part of that. It gave him a sense of purpose and belonging.
Even so, when he thought of the regiment, it was the 2nd Battalion - the one with which he had served since joining up eight years before. He had assumed that once his leave was over, he would be returning to Palestine, where the 2nd Battalion was still based, but instead he had been told that the 5th Battalion needed experienced men and had been packed off to Leeds to join them instead.
At the time he had been distraught to leave behind so many good friends, not to mention the way of life he had come to know so well, but it was also a matter of pride, and Jack Tanner was a proud man. The 5th Battalion were not regulars but Territorials and, as everyone knew, were barely more than poorly trained part-timers.
In the six weeks he had been with them, he had not seen much to alter that view. Most of the men in his platoon were decent enough lads, but the majority were undernourished and from impoverished families living in the industrial cities of Leeds and Bradford. They lacked the stamina and fitness he was used to with the regulars. Few of them could fire thirty rounds a minute with anything approaching a decent aim. Parade-ground drill, route marches and a few exercises on the moors was the limit of their experience. Lieutenant Dingwall, his platoon commander, had been a solicitor from Ripon before the war, and although he was harmless enough he could barely read a map, let alone fell a man from five hundred yards. Tanner knew the subaltern inspired little confidence in his men, yet now they were heading off to war, and it was Tanner's job to keep them alive and help to make them into an effective fighting unit.
Tanner sighed and looked out at the ships of their s
mall force steaming with Pericles. No more than two hundred yards away the transport ship, Sirius, carried the battalion's artillery, motor transport and much of their ammunition and other equipment. He would have liked to know whose idea it had been to put so much of their equipment onto one ship. 'Bloody idiots,' he muttered, then pushed his tin helmet to the back of his head and leant forward to gaze down at the sea racing past.
In fact, he had begun to doubt whether anyone in the entire army, let alone 148th Brigade, had much idea about what they were doing. Since leaving Leeds and arriving at Rosyth, they had boarded three different ships, loading and unloading their equipment on each occasion. Confusion and chaos had ensued. Kit had been lost and mixed up with that of the Sherwood Foresters and Leicesters, who were also part of the brigade, while once, they had even set sail before turning and heading back to port. Nobody seemed to know why. All the men had been grumbling and it had been universally agreed that the top brass needed their heads examining. This was no way to fight a war.
After disembarking the second time, they had marched eleven miles to a makeshift camp outside Dumfermline where they had remained an entire week, carrying out a few route marches but little firing practice or battle training: most of their ammunition and equipment was still lying somewhere on Rosyth docks. Even when they had finally set sail early the previous morning, the battalion had been horribly mixed up: two companies and HQ Company on Pericles, and one each on the other two cruisers, along with the Foresters and Leicesters. Worst of all, no attempt seemed to have been made to split up their heavy equipment. Tanner gazed at Sirius and wondered again whose idea it had been to put all their transport and guns on one thin-skinned, poorly armed transport ship. 'Bloody hell,' he said again, shaking his head.
'You all right, Sarge?' Corporal Sykes was standing beside him, cupping his hands with his back turned as he tried to light a cigarette.
'Yes, thanks, Stan. Not so much of a croaker now?'
'Think I'll pull through. Better for being out here at any rate. Christ, the smell down there. Bloody terrible.'
'Why do you think I'm standing out here?' Tanner grinned. 'You've got to eat something before you set sail. Do that and you'll be fine.'
The ship pitched again, causing a larger plume of spray to splash over the prow. Both men instinctively turned their backs but then, out of the corner of his eye, Tanner spotted a trail of white rushing across the surface towards Sirius.
'Sweet Jesus!' he said, shaking Sykes's shoulder. 'That's a bloody torpedo. Look!'
At the same moment, the ship's klaxon rang out, there was shouting across the decks and the crew rushed to their battle stations. Across the two-hundred-yard stretch of water, the men on board Sirius had also seen the missile, their frantic shouts of alarm carrying over the grey sea. Both Tanner and Sykes watched in silence as the torpedo reached the vessel. A split-second pause, then a deafening explosion. A huge tower of water erupted into the sky, followed moments later by a second detonation. Suddenly the ship was engulfed in flames and thick, oily black smoke. The Pericles began to turn away rapidly, tilting hard to avoid the U-boat that must still be lurking below. The two destroyers escorting the convoy went back towards the stricken Sirius, depth charges popping from their sides only to explode moments later in great eruptions of water.
Tanner and Sykes ran to the stern as Pericles began to turn again. They lost their footing as the ship lilted, but grabbed the railings and watched as Sirius groaned in agony. She was now dead in the water. Men screamed, shouted and hurled themselves into the ice-cold sea. Then, with a haunting wail of tearing metal, Sirius split in two. The stern went under first, sliding beneath the waves, but the prow took longer, the bow pointing almost vertically into the sky before gently sinking out of view. It had taken a little under four minutes.
'Jesus, Sarge,' said Sykes, at length. One of the antiaircraft cruisers had come alongside where Sirius had been moments before and was picking up survivors. 'Would you bloody believe it? How are we expected to fight the bloody Jerries now?'
Tanner rubbed his brow. 'I don't know, Stan. I really don't know.'
Chapter 2
A Dornier roared overhead, the second within a few minutes, and so startlingly low that Tanner ducked involuntarily. It was huge and, Tanner thought, menacing with its wide wings, black crosses and swastikas. It was unnerving to think that German aircrew were just a hundred feet above him, and hurtling ever further behind Allied lines.
'Cocky bastards,' he said, turning to Private Hepworth.
'When are we going to get some aircraft, Sarge?' Hepworth asked. 'I don't think I've seen a single one of ours since we got here.'
'God knows,' replied Tanner. 'But these bloody jokers seem to be able to do what they bloody like. I mean, for Christ's sake, how low was that one? I'm surprised he hasn't taken a chimney with him.' He shook his head. 'They must be able to see our every damn move.' He opened the door of the truck and jumped into the cab, Hepworth following. 'Now,' he said, to himself as much as to Hepworth, 'let's try to get this thing started.' It was
French, a dark blue Renault, standing in a yard behind a butcher's shop in Lillehammer. He found the choke and the ignition switch, turned it clockwise, then located a starter button in the footwell. Pressing it down with his boot, he was relieved to hear the engine turn over and wheeze into life. As it did so, the dials on the dashboard flickered. A quarter of a tank of fuel. It was better than nothing.
Tanner ground the gear-stick into reverse, and was inching back when he became aware of a middle-aged man running towards him, waving his hands angrily.
'We'd better get out of here, Sarge,' said Hepworth. 'I don't think Granddad's too happy about us nicking his truck.'
Tanner thrust the gear-stick into first, and began to move out of the yard.
'Hey! That is my truck,' the man shouted in English. 'What do you think you are doing?'
'Sorry,' Tanner yelled back, 'but I'm requisitioning it. We need it to help defend your country.' He sped past the incredulous man, through the archway and out into the street. 'Poor bastard.'
'If we hadn't taken it the Jerries would have done, Sarge,' said Hepworth.
'We should have our own damned trucks, rather than having to cart around taking transport off Norwegians. It's bloody chaos here, Hep. Absolute bloody chaos.'
Not that it showed on the streets of Lillehammer that Monday morning, 22 April. Barely a soul stirred as Tanner drove through the deserted town to a warehouse next to the railway station. There, two platoons from B Company and a working party of Sherwood Foresters had been unloading stores since shortly after midnight. Most of these had now been taken out of the warehouse, but large piles were still strewn along the platform and in the yard, waiting to be taken away.
As Tanner came to a halt the quartermaster, Captain Webb, strode over to him. A squat man in his late thirties with a ruddy complexion and a large brown moustache, he called, 'Ah, there you are, Sergeant. At last! Where the bloody hell have you been?'
'We were as quick as we could be, sir. There're not many trucks about, though.'
'Any fuel?'
'Just over a quarter of a tank. We could start taking cars, perhaps.'
The quartermaster sighed.
'Better than nothing, sir,' Tanner added. 'And it's more transport.'
'Let's get this loaded first. The sooner we can get it going, the sooner it can come back for another trip.'
Another German aircraft thundered over. 'Bastards!' shouted Captain Webb, shaking his fist.
Tanner called over some men and they began loading the truck with boxes of ammunition, grenades and a number of two-inch mortars. When it was full, Webb despatched it, and Tanner took the opportunity to sit down for a moment on a wooden crate of number 36 grenades until another lorry returned. He blew on his hands and rubbed them together. It was cold but not freezing, not in Lillehammer. He was exhausted. Neither he nor any of the men had slept more than a
few hours since they'd lan
ded nearly four days before.
Orders, counter-orders and confusion had dogged them every step of the way. He supposed that someone somewhere knew what the hell was going on, but if they did, it certainly hadn't percolated down the ranks. Trondheim, they had been told on the voyage over: they were going to head north to Trondheim. Instead they had halted, been sent south, then further south. And every time they had moved, battalions had become more and more mixed up, equipment had had to be loaded and unloaded. No one seemed to have the faintest idea what they had or where it was.
He lit a cigarette, and rubbed his eyes. He was gripped by a sense of impending doom, that they had come to this cold, mountainous country, still white with snow, completely unprepared. Christ, what a disaster the sinking of Sirius had been. Trucks, armoured cars, ammunition, guns, mortars, rations - not to mention their kit bags - all now lay at the bottom of the North Sea. Three infantry battalions were fighting the enemy with nearly half their equipment gone. It wasn't a problem the enemy appeared to share.
Sykes was walking towards him. 'All right, Corporal?' he asked.
Sykes yawned and stretched. 'If I had a bit of grub and a kip I might be.'
'Here,' said Tanner, offering him a smoke, 'take a pew for a minute.'
'Cheers, Sarge,' said Sykes, sitting down beside him on a box of Bren magazines. 'Fiasco this, isn't it?'
'Too right.' It was now nearly thirty-six hours since they had reached Lillehammer station. Tanner winced as he thought of their arrival. As a sergeant, he had travelled on one of only two coaches, but the rest had been forced to endure the slow, winding journey in closed goods wagons. Exhausted men had stumbled off the train, and loaded with the kit of their full marching order they had begun banging into one another. For a while they had stood on the platform wearing dazed expressions, stamping their feet against the cold and blowing on their hands. What pained him most, though, was seeing Brigadier Morgan, commander of 148th Brigade, and the Norwegian commander, General Ruge, watching. With a stiff, high-collared blue-green tunic, pantaloons and black cavalry boots, Ruge had looked like a relic from the Great War, but while there had been no doubt of his military bearing, his disappointment at seeing such a tired, poorly equipped bunch of troops stagger with bewilderment from the train had been obvious. 'Christ,' Tanner muttered now. It had been humiliating.
The Odin Mission sjt-1 Page 2
