'Aye, Sarge. I won't.'
Tanner slapped him on the back. Then, collecting Chambers and Riggs, he briefly looked around. Although the valley sides were densely forested, especially along the east-facing slopes, up here, where it was more difficult for the loggers to fell and remove their timber, the pines and larch grew wildly, covering but not smothering the mountain. There were open patches too, and it was as the German troops crossed one that Tanner hoped to get a good look at their enemy.
He reckoned he wanted to be about four hundred yards away when he saw them - far enough for them to be out of effective range, but close enough for him to see them clearly through the scope.
'Sarge?' said Sykes. 'I don't like to hurry you or nothing but—'
'I know,' cut in Tanner, still peering at the snow and trees around him. He had spotted a small spur a short distance above and was trying to decide whether it would offer the view and cover they needed. For a brief moment he was paralysed by indecision, then said, 'Up there, quick, to that crest.'
They scrambled up and, as they crouched between two pines, Tanner was relieved to see they had a fine view down the undulating slopes of the valley sides.
'There they are,' hissed Sykes.
Tanner smiled as he watched the enemy troops reach the edge of the clearing, pause, spy the tracks in the snow, then continue forward. 'Start counting them, lads,' he said quietly, then screwed his scope onto the mounts on his rifle.
'You going to start firing, Sarge?' asked Chambers. He looked worried.
'Keep counting, Punter,' said Tanner, 'and if you've got a full magazine, take it from your rifle and hold on to it until I ask you to pass it to me.' He raised the rifle to his shoulder. Through the scope he could clearly see the first section of men. They were spread out in a loose single file and, Tanner was glad to see, their rifles were still slung over their backs. Behind the section leader was a machine-gunner, his weapon carried loosely on his shoulder. A further section of ten followed, and another beyond that. Tanner led his aim along the column. Where was the commander? Some of the men wore green-collared greatcoats, but most had on shorter, light olive jackets. All were wearing peaked field caps rather than helmets and had only small rucksacks on their backs. At that distance, even with the scope, it was hard to tell who was in charge.
'Thirty-nine, sir,' said Riggs.
'That's what I make it,' agreed Sykes.
'Fine,' said Tanner. 'You ready with that magazine, Punter?'
'Yes, Sarge,' said Chambers.
His father had taught Tanner a good trick for judging distance. The key was to be able to assess a hundred- yard stretch almost exactly. Do that, his father had assured him, and the next hundred yards and the hundred yards beyond that were easier to judge; it was a matter of understanding the naked eye's sense of perspective and increasingly reducing each ensuing hundred-yard stretch. He reckoned the leading troops were now at about four hundred yards. Then remembering that distance was easily overestimated when you were looking downwards, he aimed just a fraction low at the lead troop, exhaled gently and fired.
The man dropped immediately, and Tanner fired his next three shots while the startled troops looked around wildly and thought to flatten themselves on the ground. Even once they were prostrate on the snow, there were some easy targets as they lifted their heads to loosen their rifles, or crouched and ran for the cover of the trees. Tanner reckoned he had hit seven men with his first magazine. One man was crawling across the snow, vivid blood trailing behind him. Men were shouting. The first German rifle shot cracked through the mountainside, way off, but was followed by many more, bullets zipping through the trees above and below them.
'Give me that magazine,' said Tanner. His voice was steady, firm. He unclicked the first, drove the replacement into its place and fired again. Five shots and by then the machine-gunner of the second section was firing. The aim was wild, but the short, rapid bursts were well spread. Tanner fired twice more. Another burst from the machine-gun, and this time bullets fizzed close by. Riggs screamed.
'Sarge, we need to get out of here!' Sykes had grabbed Riggs, who was clutching the side of his head.
Tanner pulled back the bolt one last time and hit a man square in the chest. 'Come on, let's go. Is it serious?' he said to Sykes as they scrambled down from the spur.
'I've been hit in the head!' Riggs shouted, but he was still upright.
'Can you keep going?' Tanner said, grabbing Riggs's greatcoat and, with Sykes, propelling the lad forward.
'I think so,' he gasped.
Shots were still pinging through the trees, snapping branches and ricocheting off rocks, but most were fizzing harmlessly above their heads. A burr of intermittent machine-gun fire also cut through the mountain. 'Just keep going, lads. Run,' Tanner urged, as they rejoined their tracks to slide and stumble away from the enemy.
Only once the shots died out did they pause, bent double and gasping. Tanner put an arm round Riggs's shoulders. 'You're still alive, then?'
'I think I must be in shock, Sarge.'
'Let's have a look at you.' Blood covered the side of Riggs's face and neck. 'Under all this red stuff you look pretty intact,' said Tanner, as he clutched Riggs's head and peered intently at it. Then he spotted a gash at the side of his forehead and laughed. 'It's a bloody little nick! You've been grazed by a bullet or a splinter or something. But you'll live. You'll be fine.'
'It really hurts, though, Sarge.'
'Stop being such an old woman, Private,' said Sykes, pulling out a field-dressing pack.
'No, hang on a minute with that, Stan,' said Tanner. 'Bit of blood in the snow could be useful. Here, Harry, lean over a bit.' He pushed Riggs's head forward. 'Good thing about a cut on the head - lots of blood. That's it, drip there.'
'Bloody hell, Sarge, I'm draining away here!' Riggs was indignant.
'King and country, Riggs, think of that,' said Tanner. 'Right, now iggery. Let's get a move on back to the others and, Harry, if you could lean your head forward as we run, I'd be much obliged.' Sykes and Chambers grinned at him. Tanner slapped Riggs on the back. 'Well, done, Harry,' he said. 'You're a brave man - a very brave man.'
'How long do you reckon that'll hold them up, Sarge?' Sykes asked, as Tanner unslung his rifle, quickly unscrewed the scope and placed it back in his trouser pocket.
'Not long. But it'll make them more cautious, and that'll slow them. Those Jerries'll be a bit on edge now, too, and that's what we want. And, of course, there's a few less for us to worry about.'
'That was good shooting back there, Sarge,' said Chambers, as they hurried onwards, following the tracks in the snow.
'Thanks, Punter. A bit wild, I'm afraid but, dead or wounded, I reckon maybe ten won't be going any further today.'
'That was twenty shots in about half a minute.' Chambers was quite animated. 'I've never seen anyone fire so fast.'
'Really?' said Tanner. 'I don't know who's been teaching you to shoot, then. Any half-decent shot should be able to fire thirty well-aimed rounds a minute. If you've got someone at hand with spare magazines, it's not hard to fire forty a minute. Have you Territorial boys never been taught that?'
'No, Sarge,' admitted Chambers. 'We've done plenty of marksmanship but we've never timed ourselves.'
'Well, get practising, then.'
Pausing frequently to glance behind them, they hurried on, following the tracks of the rest of the column. Tanner conceded that Riggs now needed to staunch the flow of blood so they stopped to wrap a bandage round his head. Despite the hold-up, they had caught up with the others in half an hour. Ignoring the questions of his men, Tanner reported to Chevannes straight away. He told the Frenchman little, except to warn him that there were now about thirty men pursuing them.
'We must keep going,' said Chevannes.
'And watch our flanks,' added Tanner. 'They'll still be in better shape than us. They'll follow our tracks but they could probably outflank us and have us surrounded if we're not careful.'
It was just after six o'clock. Tanner guessed they must be level with Tretten, although he knew better than to ask Chevannes if he could have a look at the map. From the valley, guns and shells could be heard clearly. How much further was Chevannes going to take them before they cut down into the valley? They were so close; tantalizingly so. The sound of battle told him the Allies were still there. Another half-hour, and he reckoned they'd make it - thirty minutes, that was all. He also knew that their pursuers would be upon them sooner than that.
And then he heard the enemy mountain troops attacking from the flank. They all heard it - the increase in shelling, the intensity of small-arms fire, suddenly loud and echoing across the valley and up the mountain. Through the trees they could see Stukas wheeling and diving, their manic sirens screaming through the din of battle.
For a moment, no one said a word. No one needed to. After all, what was there to say? The Allied positions in Tretten were about to be overrun. How could it be otherwise with that weight of fire? All too soon they'd be back where they'd started, high on a mountain, without food or rest, out of reach of safety once more. Only now the enemy was stalking them.
Tanner tried desperately to think. Despair engulfed him. Despair, frustration and, above all, anger. Think! think! he told himself. Then ahead, through the trees, he saw something, and an idea entered his head.
It gave him a glimmer of hope.
Chapter 8
Reichsamtsleiter Hans-Wilhelm Scheidt had returned to Lillehammer in a better mood than when he had walked into Kurz's office earlier that day. He had, he felt certain, been right to leave Oslo. Kurz was clearly unreliable. Despite the SD officer's words of assurance, Scheidt recognized in him a man who enjoyed the trappings of power and authority but who was consumed by idleness and complacency. Thank God I'm here, he told himself. Here in Lillehammer he could make sure people like Kurz got up off their lazy arses. He could chivvy Kurz and badger Army men like Engelbrecht. Keeping control was essential - he simply couldn't afford to allow others to let Odin slip from his grasp.
A room in a hotel not two minutes' walk from Kurz's office was the ideal place in which to make his temporary new base. The hotel owner had given in without a word when Scheidt had announced he was requisitioning the best room. Too frightened to refuse, Scheidt guessed, from the ashen expression on the man's face.
His room was dark and not a little shabby - far removed from the splendour of the Continental Hotel in Oslo. Indeed, up here in the central interior of the country it felt like a different world. The villages were small and sparsely populated; Lillehammer was more like a large village than a town. There were few metalled roads, and despite the single railway line, the entire area seemed little more than a vast expanse of mountain, water and forest - perhaps a good place to hide, but not for long. All too soon, the harsh conditions would flush out any man on the run.
Where was Sandvold? Perhaps already in the hands of the mountain troops. Scheidt had been impressed by both von Poncets and Hauptmann Zellner. Both had the kind of energy and determination that gave him confidence. The Wehrmacht, he reflected, might be rigid and rather narrow-minded, but they were straightforward to deal with - certainly a damn sight more so than the Allgemeine-SS.
Scheidt lit a cigarette and looked out of the dormer window of his room. In the streets below, Lillehammer was quiet, almost slothful, but some miles to the north, he could hear the dull thud and reverberation of battle. 'We're winning,' von Poncets had told him. Now Reichsamtsleiter Scheidt had to win his personal battle.
Despite Reichsamtsleiter Scheldt's mounting confidence, Hauptmann Wolf Zellner had not yet caught Odin.
Less than an hour earlier, however, when the tracks of about twenty men had been spotted in the snow, he had been convinced they had found the group they were looking for. With the thrill of the chase surging through him, he had given the order to proceed with all speed. Success, he had felt sure, was just round the corner. Soon, they would spot their quarry. Then they would inch forward and surround them. Footsore and weary, the Tommies would gladly surrender and Odin would be theirs. He had even played in his mind the scene at von Poncets' HQ, as he handed over the Norwegian. 'Odin, sir, as requested.'
But then they had been ambushed - which, most definitely, had not been part of his imaginary script. Eleven men, he'd lost. Eleven! Four were dead, and another five probably would be soon if he didn't get them off the mountain. Two were only lightly wounded and, of the more seriously hit, two would need to be carried. And that caused him another headache. He couldn't let the wounded - his men - bleed to death in the snow, but neither could he afford to leave any of the unharmed to tend them.
They had left one group from the platoon behind at the request of his Battalion CO, who had wanted them for the company's part in the outflanking operation at Tretten. At the time, he had agreed immediately, but he wished now he had those ten men. Under the canopy of pines, staring at the bright blood streaked across the snow, Zellner had quickly weighed his options. Common sense suggested he should return. He now had twenty-eight fully fit men, of which at least four would have to stay behind. That gave him only the slightest numerical advantage. To make matters worse, the enemy had proved they would not lie down quietly.
Zellner had pondered these factors for a few moments. He was twenty-four, an Austrian from Innsbruck, and had been with the 3rd Gebirgsjager Division since Austrian and German unification following the Anschluss two years before, and with the Austrian 5th Gebirgsjager Division before that. He had trained with unflinching dedication, proud not only to be part of such an obviously elite unit but of his own performance. He understood the importance of leading by example, and had been determined that he should be fitter than any of his men; that he should be a better mountaineer; and that his survival skills in sub-freezing conditions were second to none. In this he had succeeded and he had arrived in Norway confident that he and his men would be a match for any enemy troops they confronted.
So far, however, they had barely been tested. He had trained for years, waiting for the chance to fight and test himself in battle, yet as far as he could make out, the war in Norway had been won so far by the Luftwaffe and the gunners. As infantry, it seemed that their role was merely to mop up. It bothered him, too, that the only time he had been given a specific task - namely the capture of the Norwegian King's men a few days before - he had failed. Duped by a peasant farmer. The man had made a fool of him so Zellner had killed him.
Nagging doubts entered his head again. That had been clever shooting by the enemy. Two or more of them must have had sniper rifles and that in itself had surprised him. Indeed, the shooting had caught them completely off-guard, and had caused their first combat deaths since the beginning of the campaign. His men, every bit as confident as he had been before the shooting, were stunned, he could tell; good comrades were dead. Moreover, it had held them up, stopping them in their tracks.
With sudden clarity Zellner cast aside the doubts. Instinct told him that his enemy was not well armed, despite the sniper rifles. His men, however, still had three MG30 machine-guns. Furthermore, if the streams of British and Norwegian prisoners he had seen earlier that day were anything to go by, the enemy up ahead would be ill-equipped for mountain operations, short of sleep and food. His men, in contrast, were fit, healthy and, he was certain, a match for anyone. In any case, failure a second time would be too bitter a pill to swallow. They would go after those men and capture Odin. Then he would find the men with the sniper rifles and kill them.
Sergeant Tanner regarded the seter ahead. In appearance it was much like the one they had sheltered in the previous evening - a rough wooden hut perhaps fifteen feet long. It was slightly further up the mountain, in a clearing, and beyond it, a mountain stream ran from a narrow ravine above into a shallower one below. Across the brook, however, there were plenty of large stones, while yet more pines overlooked the shallow rav
ine above the seter.
'Do you see what I see, Stan?' Tanner said to Sykes.
'Another hut, Sarge,' said Sykes.
'Correct,' said Tanner. 'And a stream.' He rubbed
his chin. 'Nice place to set up a juicy ambush, I reckon.'
Sykes looked at him doubtfully. Like Chambers, he had been impressed by Tanner's cool-headed shooting earlier. Indeed, his respect for his sergeant had grown steadily, but he couldn't see how a run-down shack could be a good place for an ambush. In fact, he wasn't sure any kind of ambush was a good idea.
'Not sure about that, Sarge,' he said. 'Wouldn't it be better if we just hurried up a bit? Don't want to invite trouble, do we?'
'Of course not - but listen, Stan. Those buggers are going to catch us up soon enough, so we've got no choice but to stand and face them.' He spoke quickly, his eyes constantly darting to the trees behind them. 'I know they're Nazi bastards but they're not going to leave their wounded to die, are they? That means there'll probably be only twenty of them - maybe twenty-five at most. And if we're ready and waiting, we can beat them.' Sykes still seemed doubtful. 'Look, we all walk into the hut, then jump out the back and into the stream. No more footprints. By going up and down the stream we can get the men into position without Jerry seeing where we've gone. A few can clamber up on to that small cliff - it'll give a perfect line of fire. Others can go down the stream and hide behind trees and rocks.'
Sykes was smiling now.
'Jerry's going to see the tracks going into the hut and none coming out,' Tanner continued. 'And he'll see a bit of Riggs's blood. If he's not very clever he'll come forward - and we've got them in the bag. On the other hand, if he's got any sense he'll smell a rat. If it's Mr
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