The Odin Mission sjt-1

by James Holland

  'He and Prince Olaf are reported to be on the coast now,' said Scheidt. 'At Molde.'

  'Thank you, I have read the reports,' said Terboven. He turned back to Quisling. 'Yes, well, thank you, Herr Quisling. We will speak again, but now, if you don't mind, I will bid you good night. As you can imagine, there is much to be done, not least a battle to be won.'

  He stood up, signalled Scheidt to remain, and led Quisling to the door. Scheidt watched him shake the Norwegian's hand. It had been a masterly performance: Terboven had shown himself to be well informed yet had listened to the Norwegian; he had been cool and authoritative, but gracious too. He was, Scheidt realized, a formidable opponent.

  And right now he was an opponent. It was how it worked in the Party as Scheidt had learnt early in his career. Climbing the ladder was about jockeying for position, backing the right horse, and outmanoeuvring potential rivals. So far it had worked: he had patrons high up in Berlin and had been given the backing to groom Quisling - backing that had come with the Fuhrer's personal support for the Norwegian. Two weeks before, on the eve of the German invasion, Scheidt had believed everything was in place, and that nothing could go wrong. Quisling would be the new prime minister in name, but as Scheidt had known all along, the Norwegian was far too indecisive and lacked the charisma to be anything more than a German puppet. Scheidt would pull his strings.

  But Ambassador Brauer had lost his nerve and messed everything up. How that fool could have expected the King to roll over, Scheidt still struggled to understand. The days that had followed the invasion had required resolve and cool nerve, but Brauer had panicked, sacking Quisling as prime minister and bringing in the ludicrously ineffective Administrative Council in the false hope that this would satisfy the King. It had achieved no such thing. And in doing so, he had committed the biggest mistake of all: he had angered the Fiihrer and been recalled to Berlin, his political career finished.

  Scheidt knew that he himself was hanging by a thread, but he had not crawled up the Party hierarchy without learning two other golden rules: to trust no one, and always to keep something up one's sleeve. Terboven was in Norway with far-ranging powers - powers that Scheidt could not hope to undermine. However, in this new regime there was still a part for him to perform - an important one, if he played his hand correctly.

  With Quisling gone, the new Reichskommissar wandered over to the window and looked out over the city. 'Not an impressive man,' said Terboven, 'and yet, as his political adviser, you pushed for him to remain as prime minister.'

  Scheidt remained seated. 'I never viewed him as anything more than a malleable stooge,' he said, after a moment's pause. 'What one has to remember is that Quisling, for all his obvious failings, has unwavering loyalty to Germany, as the Fiihrer clearly recognizes. He is, you know, a devout Christian and a highly regarded academic. He passionately believes, Herr Reichskommissar. This is what Brauer failed to appreciate. Quisling lacks resolve and charisma, but his assessment was right. The Administrative Council is a disaster. Devious and not to be trusted.'

  'They sound like perfect Party members.' A thin smile. Terboven came back to his chair opposite Scheidt. 'And what about the King? Is he right about him? Should we worry, or should we simply announce the abolition of the monarchy?'

  'In my opinion,' said Scheidt, carefully, 'he is right.'

  'And about the bullion and jewels?'

  'Resistance needs funding. So yes.' Scheidt shifted in his seat. Was this the time to reveal his hand? Timing was everything, yet Terboven's implacable face was so hard to judge.

  'There's something more, isn't there, Herr Scheidt?'

  He smiled again. 'It's all right. Feel free to speak frankly.'

  By God he's good, thought Scheidt. 'The bullion and Crown Jewels are not with the King,' he said at length.

  'Go on.'

  'There are more than fifty tons of gold. I'm afraid we've lost track of it - we were not quick enough off the mark when the Norwegian government fled Oslo. It's been hidden, I'm certain, but they have to move it in bulk because if they try to split it up it will never be brought back together. Too many people will have to become involved and they cannot risk that.' He shrugged. 'People will steal it - that's human nature. I have no doubt that at some point an attempt will be made to smuggle it out of the country - but we will catch them. We have complete mastery of the skies and the Norwegians cannot hope to move fifty tons of gold without being spotted.'

  'You sound very confident.'

  'Fifty tons would require a special train or a convoy of trucks to move it. Of course we will find it. It's just a matter of time. And patience.' Terboven had not taken his eyes from his. 'Some of the important Crown Jewels, however, are with a small group of the King's Royal Guard led by a certain Colonel Peder Gulbrand, and we have been tracking them more closely. We lost them a few days ago, but have now located them again.'

  'And why are these men not accompanying the King?'

  'They were. I saw them with Brauer on the tenth of April at Elverum. But they came back to Oslo.'

  'Surely not to get the jewels?'

  'No. To collect a man.'

  'Who?'

  'Someone more valuable than gold,' said Scheidt. He saw Terboven blink then watched as the Reichskommissar removed his spectacles and carefully cleaned them with a silk handkerchief. A chink at last, he thought.

  'Are you going to tell me who this man is?' said Terboven, slowly. It was couched as a question, but it might as well have been a direct order.

  'We're not yet certain of his name,' Scheidt lied, 'but what he knows is literally worth liquid gold.'

  Terboven offered Scheidt a cigarette from a silver case, then took one himself. The aide hurried over with a lighter and for a moment the Reichskommissar's face was partly hidden in pirouetting smoke. 'Leave us a moment, please,' he told the aide. When the two men were alone, Terboven said, 'Don't try to play games with me, Herr Scheidt.'

  Scheidt took a deep breath. He could feel a line of sweat running down his back. His heart thumped. Keep calm, he told himself. 'Herr Reichskommissar,' he said slowly, 'you and I both know how precarious intelligence can be. I ask you now to trust me to deliver this man, and to believe me when I say that when I do so, we will have the eternal thanks of the Fiihrer.'

  Terboven drew on his cigarette, then tipped back his head and exhaled. 'And what measures are you taking to capture him?'

  'It is in hand, Herr Reichskommissar.'

  'I could have you arrested and tortured, you know.'

  'Yes,' said Scheidt, 'and then you lose the source too.'

  'You have thought of everything, Herr Scheidt.'

  'I think so.'

  Terboven stubbed out his cigarette half smoked and stood up. 'Very well. I shall give you a week. And I hope very much for your sake that you can deliver on all counts - the man, the information and the jewels. A week, Herr Scheidt, that is all. Clear?'

  'Perfectly, Herr Reichskommissar.'

  Scheidt felt the tight grip of the Reichskommissar's hand and the narrow eyes boring into his, then he was out of the room, walking down the corridor and being escorted into the lift. My God, he thought, a week. But I must be able to find him. How hard could it be? For God's sake, didn't he have them cornered already? He just prayed his hand was as good as he hoped.

  After a steep climb through thick pines and birch, having passed numerous false summits, Sergeant Jack Tanner and his patrol had reached the mountain plateau some two thousand feet above the valley. Here, the air was noticeably colder, but so long as the sun shone through the gauze of thin cloud, Tanner knew they had nothing to fear from the temperature. More of a concern was the depth of the snow, which in places, where there was a hidden hollow or it had drifted, was waist deep or more. The difficulty was that these patches were hard to spot. Some of the men found themselves taking a step forward only to sink. It was exhausting and progress slowed. Then Sykes spotted what appeared to be a drover's track where the snow had been compacted qui
te recently so Tanner directed the men towards it. Although it was not on Lieutenant Dingwall's map, he guessed it ran over the Balberkamp to the south and along the lip of the valley sides to the north.

  'All right, we'll head southwards for a bit,' he told them. It meant they could no longer spread out in the wide arrowhead formation he preferred, but he reasoned that it was best to able to move easily. Ordering Privates Bell and Chambers to walk ahead as scouts, he directed the rest to move in staggered threes at either side of the track, so that the entire group was spread out over almost a hundred yards.

  The trees were thinner, and offered less cover, but Tanner was surprised by how much they could see. The plateau now rose only gently; the shallow summit of the Balberkamp was less than a mile ahead, while to the east, the land fell away again only to climb gradually once more. Tanner paused to scan the landscape around him. It was so still. Nothing stirred up there. He thought of home, his village in the south of Wiltshire. The birds were cacophonic at this time of year. And in India, even Palestine, they were always singing, with a multitude of other noises: insects, cattle, sheep, men shouting, the exotic wail of the imam calling the faithful to prayer. But here, high on the mountains of Norway, nothing. Just the occasional explosion down in the valley.

  He could see no sign of the enemy. Lieutenant Dingwall had been unable to tell him whether German mountain troops would be wearing special snow uniforms, or even if they would be using skis. He was certainly conscious, however, of how ill-suited their own uniforms were to the task in hand. The new battle dress might have been created by clever ministry boffins, but it had not been designed for snow-covered mountain warfare. Tanner sighed. Everything about this campaign had been badly planned by the top brass, it seemed. Surely someone had thought about the conditions they were likely to face in Norway. And if so, why hadn't they organized white overalls and jackets? It was obvious they should have been given such kit. He circled as he walked, his trusted Enfield ready in his hands, and checked the line of men strung out along the rough track, all in khaki and some, like himself, in tan jerkins. It would offer camouflage of sorts if they were hiding behind trees, but against bright white snow, they stood out horribly, easy targets for an enemy trained to operate in such an environment.

  Perhaps it wouldn't come to that. The mountain seemed so empty. They hadn't even seen the Chasseurs Alpins. He began to think the rumour of enemy mountain troops must have been just that; and although explosions and the sounds of battle continued from the valley, they were sporadic. He had no impression that their lines were about to be overrun. As he thought of this, his spirits rose. Perhaps they would rejoin the platoon, after all. There were even trees on the summit of the Balberkamp, albeit sparsely spread, and he now had it in mind to climb almost as far as the top of that outcrop of snowy rock. From there, using the trees as cover, they would have a far-reaching view. If any attack was coming, they would see it from there.

  They were only a hundred yards from the summit when Tanner caught the faint hum of an aircraft. So, too, did the others.

  'D'you hear that, Sarge?' said Sykes, from behind him.

  'It's heading into the valley.' But no sooner had he replied than from the Balberkamp a Messerschmitt appeared, immense and deadly, thundering directly ahead of them as if from nowhere, and flying so low it seemed almost close enough to touch. The noise of the engines tore apart the stillness of the mountain. Tanner yelled at his men to lie flat but it was too late. The twin-engined machine was spurting bullets and cannon shells from its nose, stabs of angry orange fire and lines of tracer hurtling towards them. Tanner felt shells and bullets ripping over his head and either side of him. Something pinged off his helmet, while another missile ripped across the top of his pack. His eyes closed, grimacing into the snow, he pressed his body to the ground, willing himself to flatten.

  Two seconds, maybe three, that was all. The ugly machine was past. One of the men called out. Tanner got to his feet. It was Kershaw, one of the two men sent ahead as scouts.

  'Christ, oh my God!' he shouted. He sat half upright in the snow staring down at something beside him.

  'All right, calm down, Kershaw!' called Tanner. 'Is anyone else hit?' Now there was gunfire a short way to the north. The Messerschmitt was strafing someone or something else.

  'Gordon's down, Sarge,' shouted Private McAllister.

  Tanner turned to Sykes. 'You go to Gordon, I'll deal with Kershaw. And, lads, keep watching out. Come on!'

  He hurried ahead, all the while keeping a watch on the Messerschmitt a mile or two to the north. Now he saw it turn and double back towards them. Tanner was about to yell another warning when the aircraft banked and swept out in a wide arc over the valley and disappeared south.

  As he approached Kershaw he saw, with a heavy heart, a mess of dark red stark against the snow. A cannon shell had struck Keith Garraby squarely in the midriff, tearing him in half, so that his still-trousered and booted legs lay in the track, while his upper body had been hurled several yards and now lay upright against the trunk of a tree, the eyes still gazing out in disbelief. Kershaw sat rooted to the spot, ashen-faced, his friend's blood streaked across his face and greatcoat.

  Tanner closed Garraby's eyes, then hastily collected the dead man's legs and guts, placing them beneath the rest of the body. The grim task complete, he offered Kershaw a hand. 'Come on,' he said. 'Up on your feet now. Let's get you away from here.' Kershaw did as he was told. Then, glancing back at his friend, he heaved and vomited.

  Private Bell was beside Tanner. 'Best hurry, Sarge,' he said. 'Gordo's in a bad way.' He averted his eyes from Garraby. 'Sweet Mother of God,' he muttered. 'The bastards.'

  Tanner ran back. Sykes was crouched over Private Draper, desperately pressing field dressings over two wounds in his chest and arm. 'All right, Gordo, you're going to be fine,' he was saying. 'Just hold on, son.'

  'Give me some more dressings,' said Tanner, squatting beside him and pulling out his own packs of bandages from his trouser pockets. He opened Draper's jerkin, then tugged his sword bayonet clear of its sheath and deftly slit open the battle blouse, shirt and vest. Draper was pale, his eyes darting from side to side. 'I'm cold,' he mumbled, blood now running from his mouth. He was shivering, but beads of sweat lined his brow and upper lip. Silent tears ran down the side of his face. 'Help me,' he sputtered. 'Help me. I don't want to die.'

  'You're going to be fine,' said Tanner, stuffing wadding into the bullet-hole in Draper's chest. 'Stan, press down here,' he said to Sykes. 'Quick - he can't feel a thing. He's in deep shock.' Several others were now gathered round him, peering at Draper's prostrate body. 'I thought I told you to keep watch,' growled Tanner. 'Stop bloody gawping and keep a lookout. Now!' He turned back to Draper. Blood still seeped through the mass of wadding and bandages. Draper's eyes were filled with fear and he was frothing at the mouth. 'Mother!' he gurgled. 'Mother!' He kicked. 'Easy, Gordo, easy. You're all right,' said Tanner. But, of course, he was not. Tanner and Sykes tried to steady him and then a sudden calm spread over Draper's face. The kicking stopped and his head dropped limply to one side.

  'Goddamn it!' cursed Tanner, slamming a fist into the ground. He glanced at his watch. It was now nearly six o'clock in the evening. Standing up and scanning the mountains, he could still see no sign of any troops, enemy or otherwise. 'Stan, you stay here with three of your lads and bury Gordon and Keith.' Sykes nodded.

  'The rest come with me.'

  It was often hard for a pilot to hit a human target on the ground. Travelling at high speeds there was little time to aim, and although the mixture of MG17 7.92mm bullets and Oerlikon 20mm cannon shells poured out through the nose cone of the twin-engined Messerschmitt 110, there was no time to respond should the targets suddenly fling themselves out of the line of fire. Nor was there much chance to see the fruits of such an attack. The rule of strafing was simple: keep your finger on the firing buttons, then fly straight on out of harm's way as quickly as possible; it only took a lucky bu
llet and the plane could be in serious trouble, especially at such a low height.

  Lieutenant Franz Meidel was pleased with his efforts, though. Flying low along Lake Mj0sa, he had climbed due north using the bend in the lake as his marker. He had arrived south-east of the Balberkamp, then pulled back on the throttle so that he was travelling at two hundred miles per hour, and swooped north without being seen or heard. He had not been expecting to see a patrol of British troops but at just under a hundred feet off the ground he had seen their distinctive wide-rimmed helmets clearly. A three-second burst of fire had certainly knocked them over, and he was sure he had seen one man badly hit before the reeling figure had flashed out of sight beneath the aircraft.

  Lieutenant Meidel had flown on, spotting five men. There was so little time in which to assess who they were, but they carried rifles and looked - so far as he could tell - like Norwegian troops. He had opened fire on them too. Although he had been unable to see whether or not he had been successful, his rear-gunner told him he was certain at least one man had been hit. Meidel flew on, and since there were neither enemy aircraft nor anti-aircraft fire to worry about, and because the adrenalin coursing through him was making him feel bold, he had decided to turn and swoop back low over the tree-tops to examine his handiwork. Of the men there had been no sign, but he had spied a distinct trail of blood in the snow. Good, he thought. 'I think we can go home, Reike,' he said.

  Although Sergeant Tanner had heard the second attack, it had not been his intention to investigate further. He guessed it had been made on the Frenchmen, in which case he hoped the German pilot had been successful. And, in any case, his orders were to look for German mountain troops preparing an outflanking manoeuvre, not get caught up in somebody else's trouble.