'Halt! Hande hoch! shouted Tanner. The men, startled, swivelled towards him.
'Vous tous, vite faites ce qu'il vous dit! one of the men shouted.
Relief surged through Tanner. They were French. He laughed to himself as he approached, rifle still pointed at them.
'You are British?' said one of the Frenchmen.
'Too bloody right,' said Sykes, emerging from the other side of the seter. At the same moment, Larsen opened the door, as startled as the French troops.
'A patrol of Frenchmen, sir,' Tanner told him.
'How many?' Larsen asked, pulling out a small electric torch.
'How many are you?' Tanner asked them.
'Sept - seven. Myself and six men,' came the reply. The French commander stared at Tanner. 'You! The Tommy who likes to throw shovels at his allies.'
Tanner's heart sank. Christ, this was all he needed, some arrogant Frog to put a spanner in the works. But he was in no mood to pander to the man's jumped-up self- importance. 'The Chasseurs Alpins,' he said slowly, with no attempt at a French accent. 'I appreciate that you're elite forces, but since you've surrendered to me, perhaps you'd like to tell me who the bloody hell you are and what your men are doing up here?'
'How dare you speak to a superior officer like that? And how dare you suggest that I have surrendered to you?'
'But you did, sir,' said Tanner. 'I said, "Halt, hands up," and you put your hands in the air. That's the recognized way of surrendering. It's in the Geneva Convention.'
'Perhaps you could tell me your name,' Larsen suggested to the Frenchman. 'I am Henrik Larsen of His Majesty the King's Guard.'
The Frenchman turned to Larsen, his face tense with anger. 'And I am Lieutenant Xavier Chevannes of the Deuxieme Compagnie de Fusiliers Voltigeurs, part of the Sixieme Bataillon de Chasseurs Alpins. We were on a reconnoitring patrol after the British ordered a withdrawal to Oyer. But it seems our allies have fallen back yet again so we were stranded. When the snowstorm came we went looking for shelter.'
As Chevannes and his six men followed Larsen into the seter, Tanner placed a hand on Sykes's shoulder. 'Hold on a minute, Stan.'
'Who the bleedin' 'ell does 'e think 'e is?'
'A pain in the ruddy arse,' muttered Tanner.
'But, Sarge, be careful, hey? I enjoy seeing you make him look a right idiot as much as anyone, but he could make life tricky if we're not careful.'
'He's a bloody show-pony,' said Tanner, irritably. 'Anyway, we'll soon be shot of him and his sodding patrol. Haven't you noticed?'
'What, Sarge?'
'It's barely snowing any more. Look up there. What can you see?' He pointed to the sky.
'Stars, Sarge.'
'Exactly. So, let's get back in the hut, kick everyone awake and get the hell out of here. Leave those Frogs to get some kip. I'm sure they need it.'
Tanner and Sykes burst noisily into the seter and immediately began to shake awake the rest of their men. 'Come on, wakey-wakey,' said Sykes. 'Mac, Hep, come on, up you get.' The men yawned and stretched.
'Just what do you think you're doing, Sergeant?' said Chevannes. 'Is this how you always treat your men?'
'We're off,' Tanner said tersely. 'Time to go.'
'You'll do no such thing, Sergeant.' In the dark half- light, Chevannes glared up at him, almost daring Tanner to challenge him.
'You're not in command of my men, sir. I am. And, furthermore, Colonel Gulbrand has ordered me to take Mr Sandvold here to the safety of the Allied lines. If I'm to do that, I need to get going while it's still dark and the Germans are getting their beauty sleep.'
Chevannes laughed. 'The colonel ordered you, did he? Tell me, Sergeant, why on earth would a Norwegian colonel order you - a mere sergeant - to such a task when two of his men, his fellow countrymen and officers senior in rank, are infinitely better placed to carry out that role?'
Tanner felt his anger rising. 'He ordered me not fifteen minutes ago. Ask him yourself.'
Chevannes' mouth curled into a barely suppressed smile. 'Yes, why don't we?' He moved towards the colonel and, crouching beside him, said, 'Colonel Gulbrand? Colonel, can you hear me?' The colonel's eyes were wide and staring, his face glistening with sweat. 'Colonel?'
Gulbrand gibbered, his words inaudible.
'Colonel!' said Chevannes again, then stood up slowly, and faced Tanner and the Norwegians. 'He's delirious with fever.'
Quickly Tanner knelt beside Gulbrand. 'Colonel! Colonel!' Gulbrand's eyes suddenly locked on his. With one hand he clutched Tanner's shoulder and began speaking in Norwegian, gabbling frantically, panic in his eyes. 'Colonel,' said Tanner again, 'it's me, Sergeant Tanner.'
'He thinks he is talking to the King,' said Larsen, quietly.
Tanner felt Gulbrand's grip loosen and with it his own grip on the situation. Anger and humiliation flushed through him as he realized he had lost his fight with Chevannes. 'Colonel!' said Tanner again, searching desperately for life in Gulbrand's face. 'Come on, damn you!'
'Sarge.' It was Sykes, standing beside him. 'Sarge, he's gone.'
'Your corporal's right, Sergeant Tanner,' said Chevannes.
Tanner clenched his fist. By God, he wanted to knock the man down. Momentarily closing his eyes, he took a deep breath, then stood up once more.
'So,' said Chevannes, 'I am in command.'
'We still need to get going - and now,' said Tanner, with undisguised exasperation.
'We need rest.'
Give me strength, thought Tanner. 'Sir, we need to get to the Allied lines as quickly as possible. Half an hour before dark last night, the Germans were attacking a position only four or five miles west of here. My guess is that they're still there, and I'd put money on the rest of our forces being at Tretten. That's no more than six or seven miles. We can do that in three hours. The men can rest then.'
'Sergeant, it is still dark out there, the snow is deep, and although my men have proper mountain boots, yours do not, and none of us has either skis or snowshoes. It is freezing cold and my men - yours too - are exhausted. If we stumble out there now, we are asking for trouble.'
What was this madness? 'But we'll be in considerably worse trouble if we don't get to Tretten before the Germans.'
Chevannes smiled and scratched his chin thoughtfully. 'You've obviously not been studying the German modus operandi, Sergeant.' He glanced at the Norwegians, then at his men, and chuckled. 'The German is an organized fellow, Sergeant, and has a plan that he likes to stick to. Let me enlighten you. Every morning at first light, reconnaissance planes are sent over. Later in the morning, their field guns start firing. At noon, the Luftwaffe arrives and bombs and strafes the position they are going to attack. The artillery firing increases and later in the afternoon, with our infantry nicely softened up, their infantry and armour move forward and attack. And he will do precisely the same tomorrow. So I tell you this - again. No, I order you, Sergeant.' The smirk had gone. 'We stay here now, rest, and leave in the morning. We will still be at Tretten before noon, well before your commander decides it is time to retreat once more.'
Tanner appealed to the Norwegians. 'You're surely not going to listen to this?' But as he said it, Nielssen avoided his eye and Larsen was unmoved. Some of his men were awake now, and he looked at them for support. No one spoke in his defence, but they wouldn't: it wasn't the place of privates and lance corporals to argue with officers. Their task was to obey orders, whether it be from their section leader, patrol leader or an officer.
'Sergeant,' said Larsen, his voice placatory, 'we have been on the run for more than a week and on these mountains for three days. We have lost Stunde and now our beloved colonel. Neither I nor Nielssen have had any sleep for two days. I believe Lieutenant Chevannes is right. We will, God willing, still make the Allied lines if we rest here a while longer.' He nodded at Sandvold, huddled in the corner of the hut, his arms hugging his knees. 'He is still asleep. Leave him be a while longer.'
Tanner was defeated. 'Very well,' he muttered. He
realized he was exhausted too. His limbs ached, his feet were sore, and he could no longer think clearly. 'We need to bury the colonel,' he said.
Chevannes spoke to two of his men, who went over to Gulbrand's body, lifted it and took it outside. Tanner slumped against the far wall next to Sykes, took out his gas cape, draped it over himself and closed his eyes.
'We'll all be better for the rest,' whispered Sykes.
'I don't give a damn,' muttered Tanner. 'We're soldiers and we're at war. Our task is to get back to our lines as quickly as possible and, according to Gulbrand, there's a hell of a lot at stake. If we fail because of that French bastard, I'll kill him.'
They were on their way by seven, with Gulbrand buried and their stomachs warmed with coffee. The sky above was blue and bright, the air cold and the snow deep. The landscape had changed. Golden early-morning light cast long, blue shadows. Snow twinkled brightly on the trees. Three of Chevannes' men were scouting ahead of the column, followed by the French lieutenant and the Norwegians, Tanner and his men trudging silently behind, like chastened schoolboys still in disgrace.
Snow crunched beneath their feet. Tanner clutched the canvas strap of his rifle and felt his pack weighing on his shoulders. The air was so still that his own breathing seemed to be amplified.
If he was honest, he felt better for the sleep, but his anger and frustration had not subsided. Neither was his mood improved when he realized the French and Norwegians were walking faster than his own men. He had promised himself he would keep Sandvold in sight at all times, but although he could still see him, the gap between his men and the Norwegians was increasing.
'Come on, lads,' he urged. 'Get a move on.'
'We're not so well dressed for a snowy stroll in the mountains as they are, Sarge,' said Sykes. 'Look at the clobber of those Froggies.'
It was true, and Tanner had eyed the Chasseurs Alpins' uniforms with envy. Each man had a thick sheepskin jacket, or canadienne, as they called it, with a wide collar that could be turned up to warm the neck and cheeks. Underneath, they wore a waterproof khaki canvas anorak and a thick wool sweater, while their trousers were heavy-duty serge plus-fours. Stout studded mountain boots, made of sealskin, kept their feet warm and equally waterproof gaiters covered their ankles and shins. A dark blue beret, with snow goggles completed the outfit. Again, Tanner cursed the brass who had planned this expedition to Norway. The Germans had mountain troops, the French had mountain troops, why the hell didn't the British? Or, at least, why hadn't the bigwigs given the men kit designed for the job? Already, his feet were painfully cold; the leather of his boots was not waterproof now that the polish had largely worn off, while the soles were slippery in the snow. Nonetheless, the length of his stride gave him an advantage over his men, most of whom, he knew, were runts from the working-class slums of Leeds and Bradford. No wonder they were struggling to keep up.
And when, Tanner wondered, were they going to head back into the trees? Chevannes' men had led them round the top of the narrow ravine he had overlooked the previous evening, then round another, but Tanner remembered seeing no other such streams on Larsen's map.
'This is bloody ridiculous,' he muttered to Sykes. 'Why the hell are we slogging through this? I'm going to have a word with Chevannes.' He pushed on ahead and eventually caught up with the lieutenant.
'Ah, Sergeant,' said Chevannes, as Tanner drew alongside, 'your men seem to be struggling this morning. I hate to think how many we would have lost in the dark last night.'
'Why aren't we pushing further down towards the treeline?'
'We're taking the most direct route, Sergeant, so we can get to Tretten in good time.'
Tanner fought a renewed urge to knock Chevannes down. 'The most direct route, Lieutenant, is not the quickest,' he said. 'If we go along beneath the lip of the valley, the snow won't be so deep, and the trees will give us greater cover. Up here we stand out like sore thumbs.'
'Are you questioning my decisions again? Good God, Sergeant, your superior officers will hear something of this! Now, get back to your men and tell them to hurry. I do not want to hear another word.'
Tanner turned, then heard the now-familiar sound of aero-engines and paused to scan the sky. A moment later he spotted the dark outline of a German aircraft, like an insect moving slowly in their direction from the south. Chevannes saw it too.
'Quick!' he shouted. 'Lie down!'
'Why, sir?' asked Tanner. 'I thought you said the Germans only send out recce planes in the morning.'
Chevannes glared at him. The Junkers flew over, a thousand feet or so above them, circled twice then flew west. Tanner, who had remained standing the entire time, watched Chevannes get to his feet and brush the snow off his jacket and beret. 'You were right, sir. A recce plane,' he said. 'I wonder how long it will take them to get that information back.'
'Go to your men, Sergeant!' Chevannes hissed.
Tanner glared back as he stood defiantly in the snow and waited for his men to catch up.
Soon after, the scouts changed direction, heading west towards the treeline. At last, thought Tanner. Perhaps now they'd make proper progress. And the sooner they got back to the Allied lines the better. Then they could be shot of the Norwegians and, more especially, of Chevannes and his bloody Chasseurs Alpins.
Chapter 7
Reichsamtsleiter Hans-Wilhelm Scheidt reached Lillehammer shortly before noon, having driven the hundred miles without incident. Conscious that he would soon be among fighting men, he had been mindful to change out of his civilian suit and into the tan Party tunic instead. With his Amtsleiter tabs on the collar, Party badge on the right breast pocket and military belt, he felt more suitably attired, albeit less comfortable. Black trousers, knee-length boots and a high peaked cap completed the makeover.
He had managed to secure a brief audience with the Reichskommissar before leaving Oslo. Terboven had not been best pleased to have his breakfast interrupted but had given Scheidt the written authority to demand whatever assistance he required.
It was with this letter tucked into the inside of his tunic pocket that he strode past two SS policemen in Sturmbannfuhrer Kurz's new headquarters, a comfortable townhouse that, until the day before, had been a lawyer's premises.
Kurz had brought with him a small staff of several junior officers and a number of clerks. For the most part, the room still looked like a lawyer's office, with bookshelves of legal case studies, and filing cabinets. A radio set and accompanying operator had been established in one room, but otherwise there was a temporary air about the place.
Kurz was on the telephone when Scheidt walked in. He was wearing the pale grey uniform of the Allgemeine SS, rather than the plain clothes often favoured by Sicherheitdienst and Gestapo officers, and his long black boots were crossed on the desk in front of him while he gesticulated airily with one hand, a cigarette between his fingers. Seeing Scheidt, he swung his boots off the desk, raised a hand - I'll only be a moment- and hurriedly ended his conversation.
'Ah, Reichsamtsleiter Scheidt,' he said, with a broad smile. 'Here in person!'
'Have you got him?' Scheidt asked.
'Alas, no.' He stretched forward, tapped a cigarette from a paper packet and offered it to Scheidt. 'Cigarette? We might even be able to stretch to coffee. Or perhaps you'd care for something stronger after your drive. I take it you did drive here?'
Ignoring Kurz's small-talk, Scheidt said, 'So? Tell me. Are your mountain troops closing in?'
'My dear Scheidt,' said Kurz, the bad-tempered words of their previous conversation apparently a matter of the past, 'please, sit down.' He motioned to a chair in front of the desk. Scheidt did as he was told. How he disliked men like Kurz. Still young, and with the kind of arrogant insouciance Scheidt knew he had once perfected in himself but which he despised in others. Typical arsehole SD man. 'There was a heavy snowstorm last night,' Kurz continued, 'not so much down here in the valley but up on the mountains. A complete white-out. Not even mountain troops can operate in
such conditions. But then again, Odin and his friends would not have got far either. Relax. We will get him.'
'And now?'
'We have reconnaissance aircraft looking for them.'
Someone knocked lightly on the door. 'Yes?' said Kurz.
'A Luftwaffe message just in, sir,' said a junior SD officer, passing Kurz a scribbled signal. Kurz took it, read it, smiled, then passed it to Scheidt. 'They've been spotted. And they've got some followers now - what looks like a British patrol. Most considerate of them. Much easier to find twenty men than three.' Kurz unrolled a map and spread it on the desk. 'Let me see,' he said. 'Yes, here they are. Heading for Tretten, by the look of it. The fools are crossing this high open ground here.' He chuckled. 'No cover, just deep snow.'
Impatiently Scheidt grabbed the map and turned it so that it was facing him. 'Where are the mountain troops now? They should be able to cut them off as they descend towards Tretten.'
'Exactly,' said Kurz, standing now and clapping his hands. 'You and I will go together to Engelbrecht's headquarters.' He picked up his cap and placed it on his head at a jaunty angle. Smirking, he opened the door and, with a flourish, ushered Scheidt out.
They took Kurz's car and drove through Lillehammer. A number of houses had been destroyed by bomb and battle damage; piles of stones, rubble and charred wood were evidence of the conflict that had taken place the previous day. They passed the station where the remains of a large warehouse still smoked and where debris littered the yard in front of it. At the far side, the blackened remains of a German tank still stood.
'My God, what happened here?' asked Scheidt.
'A British ammunition and supply dump,' Kurz told him. 'Unfortunately it was blown up by a couple of Tommies as our boys entered the yard.'
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