'Thanks. I'm starving. Just what I need. Where d'you get it?'
Sykes tapped his nose. 'Trade secrets . . . Well, actually, I got it from some Norwegian bloke in Lillehammer. Said he'd rather give it to us than have it stolen by Nazis.'
Tanner smiled. 'Makes for better tiffin than hard tack, that's for sure.' He liked Sykes. Of slight build and with short, mousy hair slicked to his skull with brilliantine, he was, as Tanner had discovered, far stronger than he looked. Sykes was sharp too - always ready with a quick reply - and he was the only man other than himself in the company who hadn't come from Yorkshire. Rather, he was a Londoner, from Deptford, as he had proudly admitted the first time they had met. Tanner had sensed an unspoken affinity between them, in part because he regarded himself and Sykes as outsiders. Every time Tanner opened his mouth, he revealed the soft remnants of a West Country burr that had not left him even after so many years away. Sykes's South London accent was even more marked among the thick Yorkshire tones of the other rankers.
He took out his spade and was about to start helping Sykes and the other men in the section when a Messerschmitt 110 pounded overhead, strafing their positions. There was no need to tell anyone what to do: they all hurled themselves flat on the ground as bullets kicked up gouts of earth and snow, shards of stone, and snicked through branches above. Tanner heard a bullet ricochet from the rock beside him and a tiny sliver of stone nicked the back of his hand.
It was over in a trice and, cursing, Tanner got to his feet once more. His hand was bleeding. 'This is a bloody Goddamn joke!' he said. Angrily, he picked up his spade and hacked at the ground behind Sykes's Bren post. As the corporal had warned, the spade cut through a few inches of soil, then hit rock. Repeatedly, he tried to find an area where the soil might be deeper, but every time it was the same. Rock.
'Who gave us these poxy spades anyway?' he barked at Sykes. 'Bloody useless, they are. What was wrong with the old pick-and-mattock tool we used to have? I wouldn't want one of these at the bloody seaside, let alone in the middle of sodding Norway.' He dug in the spade and the wooden handle snapped. With a curse, he flung what was left of it behind him.
'Who threw that?' snapped a voice behind them.
Tanner and Sykes swung round to see a platoon of strange troops approaching through the trees. Leading them, and striding towards Tanner, was the man who had spoken. 'Who threw that spade handle?' he said again.
Ah, thought Tanner, catching the accent. French. 'I did,' he said.
The man walked up to him in silence. He was shorter than the sergeant by several inches, with a narrow, dark face and an aquiline nose. 'Isn't it customary to salute an officer, Sergeant?' Tanner slowly brought his hand to his brow. 'And stand to attention!' said the Frenchman, sharply. 'No wonder you British are making such hard work of this war. No discipline, no training.'
Tanner fumed.
'Well?' continued the Frenchman. 'What have you to say for yourself?'
Tanner paused, then said slowly, 'I apologize, sir. I hadn't appreciated there were French troops in the vicinity.'
'Well, now you know, Sergeant. There are - one company of the Sixieme Bataillon Chasseurs Alpins, part of General Bethouart's Brigade Haute-Montagne. We have been sent here because you British have no elite forces capable of fighting in the mountains. So - you no longer need to worry about your flanks. When les Allemands attack, you can take comfort from the fact that we shall be above you, watching guard.' He pointed up towards the Balberkamp, then repeated the line in French to his men with a knowing smile. They laughed.
'Where are the rest of the company, sir?' Tanner asked.
'You don't need to know such things, Sergeant.'
'Only I'm not sure one platoon will be able to do much to save us. The mountain's a big place. Furthermore, you've only got rifles. Jerry's got machine-guns and artillery and, even better, he's got aircraft. Lots of aircraft. But I appreciate your help, sir. I really do.' It was now the turn of British troops to laugh.
'Who is your superior officer, Sergeant?' the Frenchman asked curtly.
'Lieutenant Dingwall, sir. He's just over there.' Tanner pointed. 'Only a hundred yards or so. Shall I take you, sir?'
The Frenchman bristled. 'I don't like insolence, Sergeant. Not from my men or any others. You've not heard the last of this.' He barked some orders. Then, with a last glare at Tanner, he continued on his way with his men.
It was by now nearly three o'clock on Monday, 22 April. The shelling had noticeably intensified, as had the number of enemy aircraft flying overhead, but there was still no sign of enemy troops to the front of them.
Tanner was soon ordered back to Platoon HQ to cover the absence of Lieutenant Dingwall, who had been summoned to see the B Company commander, Captain Cartwright. When Dingwall returned, he was flushed, his expression grim. 'It looks like we might be outflanked,' he told Tanner. 'There have been reports of German mountain troops climbing round the Balberkamp. The CO wants me to send a fighting patrol to watch out for them and, if possible, hold them off.'
'What about the Frogs? There was a platoon of mountain troops heading that way.'
'Well, yes, but Captain Cartwright wants some of our own troops up there.' He paused. 'I say, you haven't got a cigarette, have you, Sergeant?' He patted his pockets. 'I seem to be out.'
Tanner sighed inwardly, and handed over his Woodbines. 'I've three left, sir. Be my guest. Think I'll have one too.' The whine of a shell, followed by another in quick succession, whooshed overhead, the echo resounding through the valley. Dingwall flinched, but both men remained standing. The shells exploded some distance behind them. Tanner handed the lieutenant his matches and watched as Dingwall lit his cigarette, fingers shaking.
'About that fighting patrol, sir,' said Tanner, as he exhaled a curling cloud of blue-grey smoke.
'Yes. I want you to take it, Sergeant.'
'Two sections?'
'Not that many. Fourteen. One section and three others, not including yourself. I've been told to keep at least two whole sections here.'
Fourteen men, thought Tanner. Jesus. It wasn't a lot. He drew on his cigarette again, then said, 'I'd like to take Sykes's section, sir, if I may. Shall I take the other three from Platoon HQ?'
'Yes. I'll keep the mortar team here. You can have Hepworth, Garraby and Kershaw.'
Tanner took another drag of his cigarette, then flicked it away. 'Right, sir. Better get going.'
'Just have a look around up there, all right? If you see anything, only open fire if you really think you can hold them up. I need you all back here in the platoon . . . Look, I think we both know we won't be staying here very long. If for any reason we have to move out, it'll be along the valley, and I'm only guessing, I'm afraid, but you might be able to make some ground across here where the river loops westwards, then back towards Tretten. Here.' He gave Tanner a hand-drawn map. 'It's the best I can do, I'm afraid. Another thing we're short of - decent maps.'
'Thank you, sir.'
Dingwall held out his hand. 'Good luck, Sergeant.'
'And you, sir.'
The lieutenant hesitated again, then looked at the ribbon on Tanner's chest. 'I - I've been meaning to ask. Your MM. What were you given it for?'
Tanner shrugged bashfully. 'Oh, you know how it is with gongs, sir,' he said, then realized that, of course, the lieutenant had no idea. He kicked at the ground. 'It was during the Loe Agra campaign a few years back. On the North West Frontier. Those jokers weren't as well armed as the Germans, but they were vicious buggers all the same. Had rifles but bloody great swords and all sorts as well. Those wazirs would slice your belly open without a second thought, give them half a chance.'
'It must have taught you a lot, Sergeant.'
Tanner nodded. 'I suppose so, sir.'
'I envy you that experience. I'm sure it's the best training there is. Oh, and I heard about what you did today,' he added. 'You want to watch it, Tanner. They'll be giving you another bit of ribbon if you're not careful.'
>
Ten minutes later, Tanner and his patrol were on their way, climbing through the snow and trees round the north-west side of the Balberkamp. The slopes were steep and the men soon gasped for breath. Lack of sleep and food hardly helped. Nor did the weight of their equipment. Tanner had insisted that each man repack his kit, as he had done himself the night before. He had ordered them to discard any non-essentials and replace them with extra rounds of .303 and Bren ammunition. Gas masks were put to one side, as were items of personal kit. As Tanner pointed out, there were large differences between what had been drummed in to them during peacetime and what was practical in war. Most wore their greatcoats so that their large packs could be left behind, but Tanner carried his, full of rounds and explosives, with his haversack on his hip. He had with him around sixty pounds of kit.
The men had grumbled, and they grumbled again now as they forced their way up the mountainside, but Tanner knew it was not his job to be popular. His task was to lead by example and to inspire trust. Being a tough bastard was what mattered, not making friends. The ribbon on his tunic helped, and he was glad of it because it marked him out, giving him an automatic degree of authority and respect. It had made his life easier since he had joined the battalion. Now, though, he was about to be properly tested. Battle was about to be joined. His mouth felt dry and cloying as it always did before a fight. Earlier, at the station yard, he'd hardly had time to think, but now, in expectation of the German attack, he felt on edge and irritable, his mood worsened by his run-ins with Captain Webb and the Frenchman.
He wondered what they would find up on the slopes. In his own mind, it seemed rather pointless for the Germans to try to outflank their position from the mountains when they could attack head-on with artillery and armour and achieve the same result; the Allies would not be standing firm for long, of that he was sure. But there were always rumours in war - some turned out to be true, many more proved false. He supposed it was the commander's job to decide which was worth taking seriously. At any rate, someone had considered the threat of an attack by enemy mountain troops to be real enough.
No matter, he and his fourteen men were now cut adrift from the rest of the platoon and, indeed, the entire company and battalion. His gut instinct was that they would not be rejoining them for some time. He had no radio link, only a hand-drawn map, and no easy route back to the valley. His only means of signalling Lieutenant Dingwall was a Very pistol and three flares, only to be fired if they spotted significant numbers of German troops. But the lieutenant had no way of contacting him: if the battalion was overrun, he could not let Tanner know. And if they fell back, there was no guarantee that Tanner would be able to get as far as Tretten before the Allies had passed through.
Two of the Bren group stopped, exhaustion written across their faces.
'Come on, you idle sods,' Tanner chided.
'Give them a break, Sarge,' said Lance Corporal Erwood, the Bren group leader.
'Stop grumbling and get on with it,' said Tanner. 'Here, give me that.' He took the Bren off Saxby, clasping it by the wooden grip on the barrel. The machine-gun was certainly heavy, but he knew they needed to reach the open plateau at the top of the mountain as soon as possible, and that if he allowed them to stop now, they would only have to stop again.
Several Junkers thundered down the valley, and from where Tanner stood it seemed as though he were looking down on them. All the men halted, as bombs dropped from the planes directly over B Company's positions. First the whistle of falling iron and explosives; then the spurts of flame and clouds of smoke, earth, wood and stone mushrooming across the entire position. A moment later, the report, cracking and echoing off the mountainside.
'All right, let's move,' said Tanner. The knot tightened in his stomach. He almost wished he could meet some Germans now. It would take his mind off things.
Chapter 4
In a large room on the top floor of the Bristol Hotel in Oslo, three men sat round a small, low table. Although it was afternoon and the sky outside for the most part clear, the room was quite dark where they sat. In the far corner away from the windows a lamp cast a circle of amber light towards the ceiling, but it remained a room of shadows.
It was also a room of refined good taste, part of the largest suite in the hotel, requisitioned by the newly arrived Reichskommissar. The carpet was finely woven, the shallow wainscoting painted a flawless cream. The furniture was elegant, a mixture of French and Scandinavian, while the paintings on the wall spoke of an idyllic rural Europe several hundred years before. Admittedly the Reichskommissar had only arrived that morning, but nothing about the room suggested it was inhabited by the most powerful German in Norway: there were no flags, no busts or pictures of Hitler, no army of staff scurrying in and out.
Reichsamtsleiter Hans-Wilhelm Scheidt glanced at the new Reichskommissar, then turned to the person sitting next to him. As he did so, he felt mounting contempt. The man was a mess. Tiny globules of sweat had broken out on his forehead, and aware of this - subconsciously or otherwise - the Norwegian was periodically running his hand over it, smoothing the sweep of his sandy hair at the same time. A sweat-laced strand of hair slid loose repeatedly, until another swipe of his hand smoothed it back again. His face, Scheidt reflected, was pudgy, the nose rounded, but the lips were narrow and his eyes darted from side to side as he spoke, rather than steadfastly eyeing the Reichskommissar. The suit he wore was ill-fitting and, Scheidt noticed, there was a stain on the sleeve near the left cuff. Nor was the tie tight against the collar: Scheidt could see the button peeping out from behind the knot.
And the drivel coming from his mouth! Scheidt had heard it over and over again during the past week: how he, Vidkun Quisling, had long been a true friend of Germany; that he was the head of the only Norwegian political party that could govern Norway effectively; that the new Administrative Council appointed by Ambassador Brauer consisted of vacillating incompetents who could not be trusted; and that while it was true that his National Party enjoyed only minority support throughout Norway, that was sure to change. Norway was a peace-loving nation; the fighting had to stop. He could help deliver peace and ensure Norway remained a fervent friend and ally of Germany. The Fuhrer himself had singled him out. As founder and long-standing leader of the National Party, he could govern Norway now and in the years to come.
That was the gist, at any rate, not that Quisling was a man to say something in one sentence when given the opportunity for a long-winded rant. To make matters worse, as the man spoke, spittle collected at the side of his mouth. What was the Reichskommissar making of him? Scheidt wondered, and glanced again at the compact, slimly built man sitting opposite.
The contrast could not have been greater. Josef Terboven was immaculate. It was indeed warm in the room, but there was not even the hint of a sheen on his smooth forehead. The fair hair was combed back perfectly from a pointed widow's peak. The gold-framed round spectacles sat neatly on his nose, while his narrow eyes watched the Norwegian with piercing intent. His double-breasted black suit revealed no insignia of rank, but was beautifully tailored and fitted its wearer like a second skin. The shoes were polished to glass, the shirt cuffs starched white cotton. Terboven exuded confidence, command and control. It was a Party rule that Scheidt had learnt well: look superior, feel superior. It was why he himself had spent so much at one of Berlin's finest tailors; it was why he took such trouble over his personal grooming. For all Quisling's professed admiration of Germany and all things German, sartorial pride was one lesson he had failed to grasp.
Scheidt recrossed his legs, his Louis XIV chair creaking gently. A large lacquered walnut desk stood by the large window, an art-deco drinks cabinet in the corner beside it. Even Terboven's choice of the Bristol made an important statement: it was not necessarily the best hotel in Oslo in which to make his temporary base, but certainly the most stylish.
Terboven raised a hand. 'Stop, please, Herr Quisling. For a moment.' He closed his eyes briefly, as though in deep thought, t
hen opened them again and said, 'Another drink?' He signalled to an aide as Quisling nodded.
Another mistake, thought Scheidt, watching the man pour the Norwegian another whisky as Terboven placed a hand over the top of his own tumbler. 'No, not for me,' he said. Scheidt also knew to refuse.
'All you say may be true, Herr Quisling,' said the Reichskommissar, 'but what about the King - who, it must be said, has shown nothing but contempt for your political ambitions?'
Scheidt smiled to himself at this flagrant criticism of the man sitting next to him.
Quisling shifted in his chair. 'The King fears his position, his authority,' he said. 'It is why he must be captured and brought back to Oslo. I'm sure with a little coercion he can be persuaded to co-operate. For the greater good of Norway.'
Terboven put his hands together as though in prayer and rubbed his chin. 'Hm. It probably won't surprise you, Herr Quisling, to know that I'm no admirer of the King - or any royalty, for that matter. Neither, it should be said, is the Fuhrer.'
'The King must be captured,' said Quisling. 'The Norwegians love him. We voted for him in 1905 when we split from Sweden and since that time he has proved a diligent and extraordinarily popular monarch. He must return to Oslo. Once in the Royal Palace and publicly supporting the National Party, Norway will be the friend and partner Germany wants - indeed needs, Herr Reichskommissar. But so long as King Hakon remains at large, his colours tied to the British mast, there will always be Norwegian resistance to Germany. You must - must- find him. Not only that, Herr Reichskommissar, it is imperative you also find the nation's bullion and the Crown Jewels. The King and the former government took them when they fled the capital. So long as the King has money and funds, he will be able to feed resistance. Without them, his task will be that much more difficult.' He took a gulp of whisky, then leant forward and said, 'My dear Terboven, I really cannot stress enough the importance of capturing the King - before it is too late.'
The Odin Mission sjt-1 Page 5