Hening Sandvold. The King wanted Gulbrand to go back to Oslo and fetch him. 'I'm afraid I still cannot tell why he is so important,' said Gulbrand. 'I made a solemn vow to the King and Prince Olav and I am not prepared to break it. Not even now. But I will tell you this: if Sandvold fell into the hands of the Nazis, it could have catastrophic consequences, not only for Norway but for Great Britain and all of the free world too.'
Tanner looked over towards Sandvold, now standing by the door, a lost and wistful expression on his face. Whoever he was, whatever he did, it was clear he was a fish out of water up here in the mountains with these soldiers.
He turned back to Gulbrand. 'How did you get him then, sir?'
'By keeping it simple,' the colonel replied. 'The King told me to take whatever men I needed but I decided to take just three others: Larsen, Nielssen and Lieutenant Stunde.' He trusted them, and each had different skills. Stunde spoke fluent German, Nielssen was strong, an excellent athlete and experienced mountaineer. Larsen was clever and good at thinking on his feet. All were first- class shots. They had left their uniforms in Elverum and headed to Oslo. The city was calm, and although the sight of swastikas was hard to stomach, they were surprised by how few German troops were there. They found Sandvold easily enough and although he was initially reluctant to leave, when they showed him the King's personal letter to him, he eventually conceded. 'We all have to do things we wish we didn't have to.'
Getting back to Elverum had been more difficult.
They had driven whenever they could, stealing cars and ditching them whenever they drew near a roadblock. They had walked many miles too. When they eventually reached Elverum, the King and the Government had long since gone, but the monarch had warned him this might be so. His instructions had been to catch him up if he could, otherwise to find the British and get Sandvold safely across the sea to England.
Having retrieved their uniforms, and with the Germans never far behind, they had headed north from Elverum, had nearly been caught hiding in a barn and soon after shot at by aircraft. They had been forced to abandon their transport again and cross the mountains. It had been a difficult four-day journey. On the second day, Lieutenant Stunde had broken his leg. They couldn't carry him so had been forced to leave him. 'It was,' said Gulbrand, weakly, 'the worst decision I have ever had to make. We found a seter, and hoped someone would find him, but we knew there was little chance of that. Poor Roald. It would have been kinder to put a bullet in his head. So, you see, I couldn't ask Nielssen or Larsen to make an exception for me. And, in any case, I couldn't allow the enemy to catch me. What if I told them something when I was delirious?'
Gulbrand's teeth were chattering now. Beads of sweat ran down his face. His skin looked sallow, his eyes hollow, even in the dim light. 'I have entrusted Larsen and Nielssen with the jewels and papers, but what I ask of you now is of far greater importance. You must get Sandvold to safety somehow. To the coast and Britain.'
'All right,' said Tanner, 'you have my word. I'll try. But why me? Why aren't you saying this to Larsen or Nielssen?'
Gulbrand coughed, which evidently caused him further agonies. Eventually he sank down again. 'They are officers, yes, second lieutenants, or fenriks, as we call them, but Nielssen should be a sergeant or less. The Norwegian Army did away with non-commissioned officers a few years ago. Now men train as NCOs for a couple of years, then spend a year as a sergeant before being promoted. Larsen is different, but he is not the leader you are. I've watched you, Sergeant. You are in command of these men, not Henrik Larsen. And I think you have more experience than the rest of us put together.' He smiled weakly. 'Yes, Sergeant tanner, and you are already a decorated soldier.'
Tanner was embarrassed. 'Thank you, sir.'
'Don't thank me,' said Gulbrand. 'It is a thankless task I have given you. But you will have the eternal thanks of my king and country if you succeed, and I suspect your own as well.' He closed his eyes, grimaced, then said, 'One last thing. Trust no one. And kill Sandvold rather than let him fall into enemy hands. Kill him and destroy any papers he may be carrying. If the others try to stop you, kill them too. Do you think you can do that?'
'Yes,' said Tanner. 'One thing, though, sir. Do the Germans know about him? Are you being followed?'
Gulbrand gasped. 'I don't think so. Why would those planes have tried to kill us? Sandvold's no use to them dead. But they mustn't get him, d'you hear?' He gripped Tanner's sleeve. 'They mustn't get him.'
Tanner left Gulbrand. What a mess, he thought. The whole bloody show. He thought of Captain Cartwright and Lieutenant Dingwall, prisoners now along with many others. He wondered if anything remained of the company; or even anything of the battalion. It was hard to accept. A damned stupid waste of lives. And now he had the extra burden of Hening Sandvold. He had no idea what was so special about him. A scientist, he supposed. What those boffins knew was beyond him; the world was changing so fast. He just hoped that in Sandvold's case it would be worth it.
It was after eleven and he stepped outside to find the snow falling heavily now. Christ, this was all he needed. He wanted to get going, move off this God-forsaken mountain, try to catch up with the Allies while they still had a chance. He prayed it was snowing in the valley too - at least then the front would be held up as they were.
'We can't move in this.' It was Sykes, taking his turn as sentry. 'Just in case you were thinking of it, Sarge.' Tanner said nothing, so Sykes added, 'They're only scrawny tykes. They're probably not as fit as you are, Sarge.'
Tanner breathed out heavily. 'Yes, all right, Stan. I've got the message.'
'Christ, it's dark out here,' Sykes said, banging his helmet against the side of the seter to knock off the snow. 'You were having a long chinwag with the colonel, Sarge.'
'We've got to take the Norwegians with us,' said Tanner. 'That civvy - he's special. A boffin or something. Anyway, we've got to get him to safety. Preferably back to Britain.'
'Where's the front?'
'Not at Oyer.'
Sykes tutted. There's a surprise. 'So where are our boys?'
In the hands of the Jerries, thought Tanner. 'Not so far. A few miles. It's so bloody frustrating. I just want to get going. Sodding Norwegians.'
'Well, we can't go anywhere in this,' said Sykes again.
'It's my only consolation.'
But it was at that moment that Sykes heard something moving between the trees not forty yards ahead. Then Tanner heard it too. Footsteps. In the faint glow of the snow they saw the dark shape of troops approaching.
Chapter 6
Brigadier Harold de Reimer Morgan, commander of the British 148th Brigade - or what was left of it - placed his index finger on the map at a point roughly three miles west of Oyer where the river narrowed. 'Here,' he said. 'I'd like to say there are two companies of Leicesters but, in truth, it's a mixture of Leicesters, Foresters, Rangers and Norwegians. Let's call it a composite force of Allied troops.' His eyes stung with fatigue and from the dim light in the room. 'They've been bombed and strafed and the enemy has got his 5.9s trained on them, but they seem to have stout hearts and are doing their best. It's quiet now but, come the morning, they won't be able to hold on long. The rest of our force is here,' he added, pointing to the narrow gorge south of Tretten, a couple of miles further back along the winding valley. He stood up and smoothed back his hair. 'But I have to tell you, General, that without support, I cannot guarantee that we'll be able to hold Tretten for long.'
General Ruge studied the map in silence. The building in Favang that he had made his latest headquarters was the station house, a simple brick structure with a handful of rooms. Until the day before, his office had belonged to the station master, but although there was dust on the shelves and the floorboards were worn, it had an old leather-topped desk and a clock on the wall that proved to be an accurate timepiece, and there was room enough for the Norwegian Army commander and several staff officers.
Ruge ran a hand round the stiff collar of his tunic, s
tretched his neck, then sank back into his chair. 'Where is the extra company of Leicesters from Andalsnes? Are they at Tretten?' he asked Brigadier Morgan.
'Yes, but without much kit, I'm afraid. Apparently there's a Bofors waiting to be moved down here from Andalsnes, but as yet no one has found a way to get it here.' He was eyeing the general keenly. 'So we still don't have a single anti-aircraft gun.'
Ruge said nothing. Instead he banged his fist hard on the desk top. Frustration, anger.
'The Tretten gorge is a good natural defensive position,' Morgan continued, 'but I'm worried about our flanks. The enemy's mountain troops went round us successfully at the Balberkamp and I'm concerned they'll do so again. But I don't have enough men. I need to make a position here, to the east of Tretten village, otherwise—'
'Very well, Morgan, I take your point,' snapped Ruge. 'Beichmann,' he said, to the staff officer seated next to the desk, in English so that Morgan could understand, 'find Colonel Jansen. Order him to place his Dragoons there, and tell him he is now to fall under the direct command of Brigadier Morgan.'
'Sir.' Colonel Beichmann saluted and left the room.
General Ruge sighed wearily. 'What else can we do?'
'It would help the men greatly if they could have something to eat, sir. Most haven't had anything for more than thirty-six hours. We were promised that Norwegian troops would be bringing up rations this afternoon, but so far nothing has arrived. All we have is a store of dry rations left at Tretten station by the newly arrived Leicesters. It's not enough.'
'All right, Morgan, I'll look into it. The problem, as you know, is transport.' He chuckled mirthlessly. 'Just one of our many problems,' he added, holding up his hands - what am I expected to do? 'Just one of many.'
Brigadier Morgan left the general and drove back towards Tretten in a requisitioned Peugeot, squashed into the back seat next to Major Dornley, his Brigade- Major, their knees knocking together and elbows almost touching. It was cold, and he pulled up the collar of his coat so that the coarse wool scraped against his cheeks and ears. He was fifty-two, which, he reflected, was no great age to be a brigade commander during peace time, but too old in a time of war. He felt the cold more than he had in his younger days, and right now he felt more exhausted - mentally and physically - than he had ever done as a young man in the trenches.
Outside, light snow was falling, dusting the road ahead. Out of his left window, dark, dense forest ran away from the verge; to his right, he could see the smooth, almost black mass of the Lagen river, as wide as a lake; while above, dark and menacing, were the mountains. Magnificent, yes - but right now a snare, trapping and constraining his meagre forces. A funnel for the Luftwaffe and German gunners.
Morgan bit one of his nails.
'Are you all right, sir?' asked his Brigade-Major.
'I suppose so, Dornley, thank you for asking.' He clicked his tongue several times, then said, 'It's just bloody difficult trying to command a brigade when you've got someone like General Ruge breathing down your neck.'
'I thought you were getting along all right, sir,' said Dornley.
'Oh, we are - but that's not what I meant. He's a decent fellow and, I grant you, doing his best in very difficult circumstances. But the fact is, Dornley, General Ruge has only just been promoted from colonel, and is now ten days into the job of being C-in-C of a tiny tinpot army with no battlefield-command experience whatsoever. A couple of weeks ago he was junior to me in rank, yet now we're subordinate to him. It's all rather absurd.'
'He's giving you a pretty free rein, though, isn't he, sir?'
'Now he's got us down here, you mean?' He bit his nail again, then stared out into the darkness, shaking his head. He sighed heavily and closed his eyes. 'I'm beginning to think I made the wrong call. We should be at Trondheim now. Instead, the brigade's being chewed up bit by bit in this damned deathtrap of a valley.'
'Sir, you had very little choice in the matter.'
'Really?' said Morgan.
'We had no word from London and, as the general pointed out, as commander of Norway's forces, every other Allied officer in the country had to come under his command. And his orders were to reinforce his troops here. I can't see what else you could have done.'
Morgan sighed again. 'It's good of you to say so, Dornley, but I rather think now that I might have made that decision too quickly.' He knocked his fist lightly against his chin. 'I do really. I should have waited longer for a response from London. I had no idea what state Ruge's forces were in and it's since become perfectly clear that he expected a damn sight more from us.' He shook his head. 'Christ, we must be a disappointment. I can see what he must have been thinking - that these chaps have been fighting all their lives, that they beat the Germans twenty years ago, that we'd be bristling with guns, aircraft, tanks and M/T. Instead, all we've been able to offer are three battalions of inexperienced territorial infantry, half of whom are already dead, wounded or taken prisoner.'
'But it's not your fault, sir, that we lost two supply ships.'
Morgan laughed with exasperation. 'It is my fault, Dornley, that I allowed myself to be persuaded by Ruge to move the brigade south. I should have waited for word from the War Office.' He knocked his fists together. 'For Christ's sake, we haven't got a single bloody anti-aircraft gun. Those Luftwaffe boys are laughing their heads off. Jerry artillery are firing their 5.9s over open sights in full view of us from as little as two thousand yards - and what can our chaps do about it? Not a damned thing, because we've got sod-all with which to reply.' He glanced at Dornley, but this time his Brigade-Major was quiet. Perhaps I've said too much, he thought.
In front, his driver was peering intently through the windscreen. Morgan was glad it was not himself driving through the night in these snowy conditions with only narrow slits for headlights. The windscreen wipers groaned as they swiped the snow from the glass.
He felt in his coat pocket and pulled out his pipe and tobacco pouch. Once filled, he lit it, inhaling the rich fumes and watching the dark orange glow reflected in the window. Much of their misfortune, he knew, could be blamed on the losses of Sirius and Cedarbank and problems of an over-extended line of communication. Even so, he had begun to accept, with an increasingly sickening feeling after three days of a fighting retreat, that in the Germans they were confronting a formidable enemy, both in tactics and strength. Overwhelming air support working hand in hand with the troops on the ground was a devastating combination - yet such tactics had barely been discussed back at Staff College. At least, he'd never heard anyone talk in such terms - and he'd been a bloody instructor, for God's sake. What had they all been thinking? In every respect the enemy seemed better prepared, better trained and better equipped. So, the mountains and conditions were unfamiliar to his men; but they were to the Germans too, yet they had trained mountain troops, ready to take advantage of such surroundings.
It was a bitter pill to swallow and his confidence in his country, and in the Army he had served loyally for so long, had been shaken. They had won the last war, and he had played his own small part in that, but it now occurred to him for the first time that perhaps Britain would not survive a second one. And although he tried to push such thoughts clear of his brain, they doggedly remained rooted there. Certainly, they could never hope to defeat Germany like this. Times had changed. War could no longer be fought without support from the air and without modern equipment. Norway was not a colonial outpost and neither was the enemy a rag-tag of troublesome tribesmen. Britain needed to catch up - and quickly. I hope it's not too late.
Tretten. He wondered whether Colonel Jansen and his promised Dragoons would materialize. Even if they did - presumably with their usual lack of arms and ammunition - he doubted that he could hold the position for more than a day. His only hope of extricating himself and his men from this mess was the arrival of 15th Brigade, which was expected to reach Andalsnes within forty-eight hours. And with 15th Brigade came Major General Paget, who was to take over command of both.
Thank God, he thought. Bernard Paget was an old friend and yet he was glad that he would soon be handing over the responsibility for this failure. His own task was no longer to defeat the Germans - he recognized that was an impossibility. Rather, it was to complete a successful fighting retreat, holding the Germans at bay for as long as possible with the loss of as few men as possible until he could hand over the reins to Paget.
He rubbed his stinging eyes. Even that would be a considerable challenge.
The figures stumbling through the thick snow towards Tanner and Sykes were so close there was no time to warn the others. Instead, heart pounding, Tanner whispered to Sykes to move to the side of the seter and to have a hand grenade ready. If it came to it, he hoped the explosion would not only kill or maim several of the foe, it would also produce a dazzlingly bright light that would temporarily blind them and produce confusion while he fired as many rounds as he could. That was the theory, anyway, but although he told himself that the element of surprise was a considerable advantage, he had no idea how many were advancing towards them - he simply could not see clearly enough. His body tensed. It's fear of the unknown, he told himself, as he slung his rifle from his shoulder and silently, carefully, pulled back the bolt. Calm down.
He could hear them more than he could see them, their footsteps in the snow, until several shapes, with rifles and packs, became clearer as they reached the hut.
The Odin Mission sjt-1 Page 9
