'By midday,' he continued, 'the usual array of aircraft appeared, bombing and strafing their lines.' And flying so low, too. Morgan had clearly seen the pilot of one Messerschmitt. The man's arrogance - sticking up two fingers to the soldiers below - had been hard to stomach. The German artillery had been in on the game too, systematically pasting the village. Most of the buildings in the small settlement were now destroyed, their timbers devoured by raging flames. 'By afternoon, a pall of grey smoke hung heavy over the valley. Spent most of the afternoon fending off desperate pleas for reinforcements and scratching my head, wondering how the devil I could possibly hold the enemy at bay until 15th Brigade joins us.'
Colonel Jansen's Dragoons had arrived, as Ruge had promised, and had been sent forward to bolster the forward positions in the gorge south of the village. 'Had I had just a few guns,' he scrawled, 'it might have been very different.' It was, after all, the kind of defensive position any commanding officer would normally only dream of. But the planes, the shelling and the enemy's armour were too much. What could a few machine-guns and rifles hope to achieve? It was like throwing snow at a stone wall. Indeed, Morgan had wondered, perhaps they should have tried chucking snowballs.
All afternoon he had fretted about a flank attack by German mountain troops. So, too, it seemed, had Colonel Chisholm, commander of the Yorks Rangers, who had been deployed on the far left of their lines on the low slopes above the village. Chisholm had pleaded for more men.
'Damn it, Colonel,' Morgan had told him, on one of the few field telephones that were working, 'I can't muster more men from thin air. Everything we have is thrown into the line. If the Germans try to outflank us, you must simply do your best.'
'And see my battalion destroyed?' Chisholm had fumed.
'Do you think I like leading lambs to the slaughter?' Morgan had asked him.
'Then, with respect, sir, order the retreat.'
But Morgan had been unable to do that. Not at four in the afternoon, just as his forward troops were engaging the advancing enemy. His task was to hold the Germans as long as he could; 15th Brigade was due to start arriving at Andalsnes that evening so help was on its way but, as Ruge had reminded him at their meeting in the early hours of the morning, and as he had repeated on the telephone that day, checking German momentum and slowing their advance was crucial. They were playing for time - time that would allow 15th Brigade to arrive and deploy in strength. That meant every passing hour took on enormous importance. The problem was that soon he would have no brigade left with which to make any kind of stand, as Colonel Chisholm had painfully reminded him.
'Flank attack materialized shortly after 1800 hours,' he scribbled again. 'Ordered forward troops to fall back to the village.' In the mayhem of battle, with field-telephone lines cut and communication between units severely limited, these instructions had, inevitably, been too laic. Indeed, half his staff had been sent forward to deliver messages, but had not been seen or heard of since. What a mess, he thought. What a huge bloody mess.
He closed his diary and went out to the hallway where he found Major Dornley. 'Latest news?'
Dornley looked grave. 'Enemy mountain troops have overrun the village from the east.'
'And the men fighting there?'
'Presumably captured. All lines are dead.'
Morgan steadied himself against the doorway and put a hand to his brow. 'God almighty,' he muttered. 'It's 2000 hours, we've got almost no brigade left and most of my staff are missing.'
Suddenly, above them, there was a loud drone of aircraft. Dornley and Morgan looked up as the wailing siren of Stuka dive-bombers shrieked overhead.
Both men fell flat on the ground, their hands over their heads. The whistle of bombs, followed by an ear-splitting explosion. Morgan felt himself lifted off the ground and pushed down again. With every boom and whoosh of detonating bombs, the house shuddered, the floor quaked and plaster fell from the ceiling. Morgan screwed his eyes shut. The percussion of the bombs pressed on his lungs.
Then the Stukas were gone, but as Morgan staggered to his feet and dusted himself down, he could hear artillery and small-arms still echoing through the valley. The sound was drawing closer. My brigade, he thought. All those people.
They could do no more. 'Dornley,' he said, 'order what survivors we have to block the roads, get the remaining trucks and vehicles loaded up and tell everyone to fall back.'
Dornley nodded.
Morgan hurried back into his office to collect his own case, his papers and few belongings. He could not turn and stand a few miles further up the valley this time because his brigade, as a fighting force, had ceased to exist. Rather, they would head for the village of Kvam, where General Ruge hoped they would meet Major General Paget's freshly arrived 15th Brigade. And it would take the Germans a while to get there, Morgan hoped, because Kvam was some distance away. Forty miles, to be precise.
Chapter 9
Tanner put an arm to the nearest tree and rested his head against it. Now that the fight was over, the adrenalin surge that had kept him going evaporated as quickly as it had arrived. His legs ached, his hands were shaky, and his stomach was racked with hunger cramps. A pounding headache drummed in his skull, while his mouth was as dry as bone. Stiffly leaning down, he picked up some snow and put it into his mouth, the icy water striking the nerve ends in his teeth.
'Sarge,' said a voice.
Tanner looked round. Sykes was standing beside him. 'Three casualties, Sarge. Gibson's dead, Saxby and Riggs wounded.'
'Riggs again?' asked Tanner.
'Bullet through the shoulder. It's not hit his lung, but he needs help. The lads are patching him up now.'
'What about Saxby?'
'Shoulder as well. Should pull through. Neither'll be going far, though.'
Tanner put another handful of snow to his mouth. 'We'll have to think about what's best for the wounded. Better get Gibbo buried. And the Krauts. And Sandvold? Is the professor safe?'
'Yes, Sarge. Not a scratch.'
'Anyone else?'
'One of the Froggies bought it, and another was wounded, but that's it. Lieutenants Larsen and Nielssen are still good.'
'And bloody Chevannes?'
'Yes, Sarge,' said Sykes, with a wry smile. 'Nothing wrong with him.'
Tanner should have felt pleased. His plan had worked, Sandvold was safe, and the enemy threat was, for the moment, over. Yet despair overwhelmed him once more. It was half past eight in the evening and the sound of battle from the valley was noticeably lessening, receding into the distance by the minute, and with it their chance of freedom. They had been so close again - just a mile or two from the safety of their own lines. Christ, thought Tanner. How were they ever going to get out of this? Physically he was finished - they all were. Those last reserves of energy had been summoned by sheer willpower and the promise of reaching the Allies that evening. Now the finishing line had been cruelly moved, far out of reach. And then there was Chevannes. By God, Tanner hated the man: his arrogance, his stupidity, his woeful leadership the previous evening. It was Chevannes' fault they had failed today. Tanner had half a mind to shoot the bastard there and then.
'Sergeant! Sergeant Tanner!'
Chevannes. Tanner closed his eyes, quietly drummed his tightly clenched fist into the side of the tree, then faced the French lieutenant striding towards him.
'A good victory,' said the Frenchman, 'although yon should not have blown the shelter without my permission.'
Tanner took a deep breath. 'It killed six men, sir, and gave us the chance to hit them hard before they had a moment to recover their balance.'
'Always answering back to everything I say,' Chevannes snapped. He paused a moment then said, 'We need to tie up these prisoners and bury the dead. See to it quickly, while I question their officer.'
Tanner said nothing, but walked away and called his men over. 'Well done, lads,' he said. 'You did well.' He looked into their faces, one by one. The youthfulness had gone. They had fought thei
r first fight, had killed, had been touched by death and had survived. They had grown up, and he knew they were better soldiers for the experience.
He ordered six to fetch the dead, instructing them to line the bodies up by the stream, then strip them of usable clothing and kit. They were to cover them with snow and stones from the brook, and place the tin helmets strapped to their packs on top as a marker. 'Just take Gibbo's bunduck and ammunition,' he added. 'Leave him dressed.'
Burying the dead; a grim task. Few men died with a neat bullet hole through the heart; most did so with a profusion of blood, with chunks of their bodies ripped from them or their guts spewing from their bellies. It took time to get used to such sights, but there was no denying that most became inured to them quickly. War hardened the mind. Probably the soul too, Tanner thought.
He was sorry about Gibson - the third of his men to die. Gibson had been popular, a tough little Yorkshire- man. Bloody hell, he thought.
He took McAllister and Hepworth to the prisoners who were being guarded by Chevannes' Chasseurs Alpins. The Germans were standing close together not far from the blackened crater where the hut had once been. Cordite hung in the air. The seter had gone but for a jumble of charred and still burning logs. Thick smoke rose into the air, a beacon for any passing aircraft. Tanner looked at his watch again. Just after half past eight. They needed to get a move on. 'Iggery, lads,' he said. 'Let's get into the woods.' He began pushing and shoving the prisoners and, with Hepworth, McAllister and the two Frenchmen's help, walked them past the mangled machine-gun crews being lined up on the ground by the stream and under the cover of thicker trees.
A hundred yards from the seter, he ordered them to stop. He turned one to face him, a youth with dark hair and a defiant glare. 'What's this?' Tanner asked, pointing to the flower embroidered on his sleeve. The same flower was on their field caps too.
‘Ein Edelweiss,' the man replied. 'Wir sind der Gebirgsjageren.'
'It is the symbol of all Gebirgsjager troops,' said another of the men, in heavily accented English. He looked slightly older, with pale grey eyes and pockmarked cheeks. 'We are mountain troops.'
'And your kit? Good, is it?' Tanner asked. He patted the younger man's pockets, felt the shape of a cigarette packet and took it out. 'Cheers,' he said, shook out a cigarette and lit it.
'Yes,' said the older man. 'We have the best kit of any fighting soldier in Norway.'
'Good,' said Tanner, 'because ours is pretty useless.' He pushed his way through the men, measuring his feet against theirs until he was standing beside a man of similar height and size. 'Yours look about right. I'll have those.' The man looked at him blankly, so Tanner mimed his demand. Reluctantly, the prisoner did as he was ordered. 'And you tell them,' said Tanner, turning back to the English-speaker, 'that I want all of you stripped. I want your jackets, tunics, boots and caps. And your goggles.' He took the pair from above the peak of the man nearest him and put them on.
'Isn't that against the Geneva Convention, Sarge?' asked McAllister. 'They could freeze to death.'
'Mac, do you want to survive this?' Tanner snapped.
'Yes, Sarge.'
'Then don't worry your head about things like that. And, no, I don't think it is against the Geneva Convention. Let's get on with it. And I want them to empty their packs too. Look for food, fags, ammunition, grenades - anything.'
'You can't do this to us,' said the English speaker.
'I can and I will,' said Tanner. 'Now, give me your pack and get undressed.' The man slowly slipped off his rucksack and passed it to Tanner, who emptied it on to the ground. To his delight there was some food - a chunk of dark, dry bread and some cured sausage. The man had a small flask of schnapps too. Tanner ate hungrily, took a swig from the flask and felt the sweet, burning liquid soothe his throat. Ah, that feels good. He passed the flask and food to Hepworth, rolled up the tunic, cap and green-grey jacket, then strapped them to his pack. Finally, he exchanged his own boots and ankle gaiters for the German's dark brown ankle boots and puttees. 'Beautiful,' he said aloud. 'Bloody beautiful.' He threw his own to the prisoner whose boots he was now wearing. 'Here,' he said, 'have these.'
He went to help Sykes and the others, and found them laying stones and boulders on top of Gibson's grave. 'Take it in turns to get yourselves some kit from the prisoners,' he told them. 'Kershaw, hop it.'
'Nice boots, Sarge,' said Sykes.
Tanner smiled ruefully. 'Make sure you get a pair too, Stan. They're bloody marvellous, I'm telling you.'
'I have already.' He grinned, jerking a thumb towards a shoeless German corpse. 'Just haven't put 'em on yet.'
Tanner took out two cigarettes and gave one to the corporal.
'What do we do now, Sarge?' Sykes asked, as he exhaled a large cloud of smoke. He held his cigarette between finger and thumb, hovering in front of his mouth.
'We're too bloody late to get to Tretten.'
'I can hear. Or, rather, I can't.'
'We should have gone last night when I said.'
'No point agonizing over it, Sarge. It's done now.'
'Sodding French bastard.' Tanner kicked at the snow.
'I should have stood my ground.' He sighed. 'If I'm honest, Stan, we've got to find somewhere to rest. A farm or something. I need to think clearly and I can't right now.'
'Can't we just take our lads and scarper?' Sykes asked.
Tanner shook his head. 'I promised Gulbrand. It's not that, though - it's what he said. If this Sandvold really is as important as the colonel made out, we've got to get him out of here. I can't abandon him to Chevannes. I wouldn't trust him to get Sandvold to safety for all the money in the world.'
The minutes passed. The burial was completed, as was the reassignment of German kit. The prisoners, huddled together, stripped to their shirts and trousers, were shivering.
Eventually Chevannes reappeared with the German officer. 'Are you done, Sergeant?'
'Yes, sir.' Tanner turned to the German.
'Captain Zellner,' said Chevannes.
'Heil Hitler,' said Zellner.
'Don't you bloody Heil Hitler me, you Nazi bastard,' said Tanner, then asked Chevannes, 'What have you got out of him?'
'The captain refuses to say anything.'
Tanner was about to speak when Lieutenant Larsen appeared from across the stream.
'Wait,' he said, hurrying towards them. As he saw the German, his eyes widened. 'You!'
Zellner seemed surprised. 'Do I know you?'
'You were at the farm,' said Larsen. 'At Okset. North of Elverum.'
Zellner's eyes narrowed
'It was you,' said Larsen, jabbing his finger into Zellner's chest. 'You were looking for us. What did you do to the farmer?'
Zellner nodded - yes, I remember now - and glanced at Chevannes. 'Nothing,' he said. 'Nothing at all.'
'Liar!' said Larsen. He wiped his hand across his mouth, then punched Zellner hard in the stomach. The German doubled over and collapsed on to the ground.
'Lieutenant! My God, man, what do you think you are doing?' shouted Chevannes.
Larsen grabbed Zellner by the scruff of the neck, pulled him to his feet. Clasping the German's jaw in his hand, said, 'Tell me what you did!'
Zellner glared at him, his pale eyes wild with defiance.
'Lieutenant, that will do!' yelled Chevannes.
'He's lying!' shouted Larsen, face red with fury. 'I know he is! I want to know what he did to my cousin!'
Chevannes turned to Zellner. 'Capitaine,' he said, 'can you give me your word as an officer that you did not harm Lieutenant Larsen's cousin?'
Zellner coughed, and ran his hand round his collar. 'Of course. I give you my word.'
'For pity's sake,' said Tanner. He put a hand on Larsen's shoulder. 'Leave it, sir.'
Larsen glared at Zellner. 'You lie.'
'Lieutenant! Enough!' said Chevannes. 'He has given you his word.'
Shaking his head, Larsen walked away.
'Sir,' said Tan
ner now, 'do you really think his say-so counts for anything? He's a bloody Nazi.'
'He may be, but he is still an officer,' the Frenchman replied. 'You may not understand what honour is, Sergeant Tanner, but I and my men most certainly do.'
'I don't believe this.' Tanner spun round and went to his men.
The German caught sight of his troops a short distance away, huddled in the trees, and spoke angrily to Chevannes, who turned sharply.
'Sergeant! Come back! What have you done to the prisoners?'
'Nothing. Just taken a few bits of clothing, weapons and so on.'
'They will die of cold if we leave them like that.'
'Then that's one less thing to worry about, isn't it, sir? Actually, sir,' Tanner continued, ignoring the lieutenant's barely disguised fury, 'I was wondering what you were thinking of doing with them.'
'Doing with them?'
'Yes, sir. We can't take them with us and we can't let them loose in case they make it back and tell their superiors about us - and, in particular our Norwegian friend. There is, of course, one way of getting them off our hands—'
'What are you saying, Sergeant? That we shoot them? My God—'
'No, of course not, sir. I was thinking we could try to find another hut and tie them up there. If they keep cosy they'll probably live. It's cold but it's not that cold. Or we could tie them up and leave them here.'
'Or you could behave honourably, Sergeant, and give them back their uniforms.'
Tanner's patience snapped. 'Christ, I've had just about enough of this,' he said angrily. 'We're miles behind the lines now - thanks entirely to you, sir - and all you seem to care about is sodding honour. This isn't bloody knights-in-shining-armour, this is war. It's nasty and bad things happen. I don't give a toss about upsetting these Jerries. I care about making sure my men survive and that we get back to our lines. Regardless of what you may or may not believe, I made a solemn promise to get Mr Sandvold to safety and I'm going to bloody well do it. But we're in a whole load of trouble and we need every bit of help we can get our hands on. These Jerry boots are a damn sight better than our own, and their kit will not only keep us warm but could give us a useful disguise, should it come to it. After this little fight our ammunition levels are down and the extra fire-power might come in bloody useful. If you think that's wrong, then you're an even bigger fool than I thought. Sir.'
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