The Odin Mission sjt-1

by James Holland

  They paused on a small crest that gave them a clear view down through the trees towards the beach-like spur that jutted out into the river. Tanner, with his German binoculars, scanned the ground in front of them. He could still see the three upturned dinghies on the shingle but, to his frustration, most of the village and the rapidly narrowing river as it entered the Tretten gorge were hidden beneath the crest and by ever more trees. He glanced at Anna, who bit her bottom lip and stared out into the darkening light with wide, alert eyes.

  'It seems quiet,' he whispered.

  'But we can't see the bridge or the church from here,' Anna replied.

  'Then no one can see us.' He gave her what he hoped was a reassuring smile.

  He signalled to them all to crouch and they moved forward again, down the last slope towards the road's edge. A faint brush of air occasionally caressed the trees but otherwise the valley was calm, so although Tanner knew they were moving as quietly as they could, every sound they made seemed jarringly amplified.

  Just a hundred yards ahead lay the road. The snow had gone from the ground, replaced by thin, insipid grass, dried and broken twigs and a carpet of russet pine needles. Having paused again, Tanner waved them forward, wincing with every snapping twig, until they reached the edge of the treeline beside the road. There, as birch trees and alder mixed with the pines, long grass returned. A soft bank overlooked the road and beyond, a hundred yards away, was the water's edge.

  Tanner lay down in the grass and signalled to the others to fall in beside him. Although it was dark now, the starry canopy above cast a faint glow over the landscape. He could see the mass of the mountains on the far side of the valley, and the inky river ahead, while the road glowed palely below. He tilted his watch to the stars. A quarter past eleven. He took a deep breath - they needed to get a move on.

  Chevannes slid beside him. 'It seems quiet, no?'

  Tanner nodded, but no sooner had he done so than he heard a rumble coming from the direction of the village. Chevannes heard it too and the two men stared at each other, frozen. In a moment, the noise increased - vehicles accelerating and changing gear. Heavy vehicles. Trucks.

  'I knew this was an imbecile idea,' hissed Chevannes.

  Tanner could think of no reply. The vehicles were getting closer, winding their way through the village. Then he saw the first, with its faint slits for headlights and dark bulky shape rumbling along the valley road. Everyone keep still, he thought. Then, carefully, he pulled up his rifle. They were, he told himself, most likely troops on their way north, but a trickle of sweat ran down the back of his neck and his heart was hammering. The lead truck was now only fifty yards away and, to his horror, he realized it was slowing. Next to him, Chevannes let out a faint groan.

  The first truck passed them and stopped just thirty yards beyond. The second in the convoy also ground to a halt - directly opposite and so close Tanner felt he could almost reach out and touch it.

  Orders barked, the sound of an engine ticking as it cooled, then troops were jumping out of the back on to the road. Hardly daring to watch, Tanner saw half a dozen men, rifles in their hands, look directly towards him, then cross the road.

  His hands tightened round the stock and barrel of his rifle. There were now just a dozen yards between him and the leading enemy rifleman.

  Chapter 12

  At his new headquarters in a farmhouse at Heidel, some fifty miles north of Tretten, Brigadier Morgan was bracing himself for General Ruge's visit. Most of 15th Brigade had now landed at Andalsnes and had been reaching the Gudbrandsdal valley throughout the day, but had brought little relief to the beleaguered brigadier. Their commander, Brigadier Smyth, was junior to Morgan, while Major General Paget, due to take over command of both brigades under the spurious title 'Sickle Force', was not due to reach the front until the following evening. So, Brigadier Morgan was still in charge of the valley's defence. Responsibility for stemming the flow of the German advance was his.

  Of course, it was a singular honour to command two brigades and a number of Norwegian units in the field and, as he wrote in a briefly scrawled letter to his wife, he was grateful to have been given the chance to command above his rank. But he felt so tired he could barely stand, let alone think clearly, while the never-ending relay of bad news had made him yearn for someone to lift the burden from his shoulders.

  He had been writing a note to Brigadier Smyth when he had felt his eyes close, his head lurch forward and his pen drop from his hand. One of his staff officers had hurried into the room and he had immediately woken, sitting bolt upright in his chair and blinking.

  'Sir?' said the young captain. 'Are you all right?'

  'Fine, thank you,' muttered Morgan. 'What is it, Grayson?'

  'It's the Norwegians, sir.'

  'Yes?'

  'They're struggling to hold the enemy and are asking for assistance.'

  Morgan leant back in his seat and sighed. 'Do they know another battalion is on its way to them?'

  'Er, that battalion's already there. They reached them an hour ago.'

  Morgan stood up and walked to the window. Outside it was now almost dark. It looked cold out there, cold and clear. He noticed a cobweb in the corner of the window, stretched across the flaking paintwork. A small insect was struggling frantically in the sticky silk as the spider, with all the time in the world, advanced towards it to deliver the death blow. How appropriate, he thought.

  'Look here, it's nearly dark,' he said. 'Order them to stand firm and then make it absolutely clear to 15th Brigade that they keep up with their deployment at Kvam through the night. If the Norwegians can hold out until the morning, there's every chance they can check the Germans until the middle of the day. Impress upon them the urgent need to remain at Vinstra as long as they can. Every hour they can stand their ground is another hour in which 15th Brigade can strengthen their position at Kvam.'

  'Yes, sir.' Captain Grayson wavered, as though he was about to say something else.

  'What is it? Come on - spit it out, man.'

  'The Norwegians say they've already lost two-thirds of their strength, sir.'

  Morgan laughed. 'And how much have we lost, eh, Grayson? About seven-eighths of ours, I'd say, wouldn't you? Tell them to stay where they are. Tell them if they don't, the whole front is likely to collapse.'

  Captain Grayson had barely gone, and Brigadier Morgan had hardly had a chance to fill his pipe before General Ruge was announced. The Norwegian Commander-in- Chief strode in, as immaculate as ever, although, Morgan saw, noticeably tired. The past few days had aged them all.

  'A present for you, Brigadier,' said Ruge, placing a bottle of whisky on the kitchen table that was now Morgan's desk.

  Morgan thanked him, found two tumblers and poured generous measures into each, making sure he kept the chipped glass for himself. Then he spread the map across the table. While Ruge bent over it, Morgan took a large mouthful of whisky, relishing the sharp sensation as it scoured his mouth and throat. Yes, he thought. That feels better. Beside the general, he pointed out where the Norwegians were attempting to hold the enemy, and where, six miles further back, the newly arrived 15th Brigade were preparing to make a stand.

  Ruge nodded thoughtfully. 'And what about 148th Brigade? Should they not help 15th at Kvam?'

  'General, there's nothing left. Around four hundred and fifty men and not a single officer of the rank of company commander or above. That's it. Most are at Otta where they're organizing themselves into a reserve, but they've taken even more casualties today, thanks to the Luftwaffe. Is there any news of our air support? Have you heard if it's coming? Because until we have some cover from the air, we're fighting blind and have little or no chance of holding the enemy.'

  'Actually, yes,' replied Ruge. 'I thought you had been told. A squadron of Gladiators landed north of Dombas earlier today. They're using a frozen lake as a landing strip.'

  Morgan could hardly believe what he was hearing. He stood up straight and walked away from the t
able, his hand kneading his brow. 'Gladiators,' he muttered, 'but they're biplanes. What good can they do against the Messerschmitts, Junkers and Heinkels? And one squadron! It's risible, General, an abominable disgrace. By God, this is a damned shambles! This whole damned campaign. And 15th Brigade arrived here with just three anti-aircraft guns - three! Needless to say, General, they were all destroyed during the course of today.' Morgan flung his arms into the air in despair. 'I'm sorry - my God, what must you think of us?'

  Ruge looked at him, his face grim. 'I do not blame you, Brigadier, or your men. But I do blame London. False promises, lack of appreciation or thought. Completely inadequate planning. It has cost many lives, both British and Norwegian. As it is we are now threatened on our flanks. The Germans are pushing up the 0sterdalen with ease. Soon they'll they have the east of the country and will be able to attack Trondheim from the south.'

  Morgan sat down again, poured himself another whisky and smoothed back his hair resignedly. 'Your troops at Vinstra will fall back earlier than I'd hoped,' he said wearily, 'but 15th Brigade are building up their positions at Kvam and, God willing, they'll put up a good fight. They're reasonably fresh and well armed - they've got a number of 25mm guns - and they appear to be in good heart. But the hard fact remains, General, that Jerry has the best part of an entire division and as many as nine thousand troops, while we have only around three thousand. And, of course, he's got tanks and armoured vehicles, bigger 4.14s and even 5.9 inch guns, and a frightening amount of air power. From the ground, we have a good position to defend, but from the air you have to face facts: our boys are funnelled into a valley that's never more than a mile wide, with one road and railway line as our only line of communication. The railway, thank goodness, still appears to be in reasonable order but the road is horribly cratered now and anyone travelling down is fearfully exposed to attack from the air. To make matters worse, we've no real way of preventing an outflanking manoeuvre because of the lack of mountain troops.'

  'I'm sending you more Norwegian ski troops,' said Ruge. 'We'll put them up in the mountains to watch over our positions.'

  Morgan sighed once more. 'Well, that's something.'

  'You are tired, Brigadier, I know. But at least it is not your country that is about to fall. At least your king and government are still in London. And in two days' time, General Paget will be here and you can hand over command to him.'

  Morgan was chastened. 'Yes, you're quite right, General. I'm sorry.'

  Ruge now walked towards the window, tumbler in hand. 'There is one other matter I wish to discuss,' he said, still facing the window. 'This morning I saw the King at Molde.'

  'And how was His Majesty?'

  'Stoical. Bearing up surprisingly well, all things considered.' Ruge paused, then said, 'But there is one matter that is of great concern to him: the whereabouts of four of His Majesty's Guard.' Under a certain Colonel Gulbrand, Ruge explained, these men had been entrusted by the King personally not only with some priceless Crown Jewels, a number of diamonds included, but also the safe passage of an important scientist, one Professor Hening Sandvold. It was while they were trying to get him safely from Oslo after the invasion that these men became separated from the royal party. The King had not heard a word until two days ago. A message had been intercepted by British Intelligence, indicating that Colonel Gulbrand was dead, but Sandvold and two of His Majesty's Guards were being escorted by a group of British and French troops.

  'British and French?' said Morgan, incredulously. 'Really? Where were they?'

  'Just south of Tretten. But there's more. Apparently they defeated an entire platoon of German mountain troops. I have some names too: a Sergeant Tanner and a Lieutenant Chevannes. I have already been informed by the French about him. He's from the 6th Battalion, Chasseurs Alpins.'

  'Ah, yes,' said Morgan. 'We had a company of them at Oyer.'

  'Chevannes was on a mountain patrol a day earlier when he and his men went missing.'

  'Then presumably Sergeant Tanner and his men were doing much the same.' Morgan stroked his chin thoughtfully. 'If you don't mind me asking, apart from the obvious reasons about the jewels, why is the King so particularly concerned about Professor Sandvold?

  'That I cannot say. But I can tell you that it is what this man knows. He would be very valuable to the Germans - and to Norway, eventually. But there are concerns about him. In the early thirties he was a member of the National Party - he was a friend of Quisling's.'

  'He was, you say?'

  'Yes. We're not sure why, but he let his membership drop in 1934, and although he has never been particularly political, he was asked by the government - and, I understand, the King - to leave Oslo the moment the Germans invaded. But he did not, which was why Gulbrand, with the King in Hamar, was sent back to get him and take him to safety. It is a serious matter, Brigadier.'

  'You doubt his loyalty?'

  'Let us say it would be potentially catastrophic were he to fall into German hands.'

  'I see.'

  'I want you to find out more about this Sergeant Tanner and to keep a lookout for these men. I hate to think what might have happened to them. Gulbrand was under strict orders to kill Sandvold rather than let him fall into enemy hands, so it may be that he is already dead. However, I think it is better to assume he is not. It is one of the reasons I have been able to get ski troops down here for you. The King is determined that they should be found. I am sorry, Morgan - another thing for you to think about, but there it is. I just hope to God they are not already in German hands.'

  The leading German soldier walked to barely five yards in front of Sergeant Tanner and Lieutenant Chevannes, then stopped. Tanner held his breath, his mouth as dry as chalk. Then to his amazement, the soldier hoisted his rifle on to his shoulder, fiddled with his fly buttons and began to urinate. Two of his comrades followed suit. By the trucks, soldiers were talking, lighting cigarettes, laughing even.

  The German directly in front of Tanner broke wind, grunted, then looked into the inky darkness ahead of him and turned away. Don't make a sound, thought Tanner, then felt an overwhelming urge to scratch his chin; a blade of grass was tickling him - or was it an insect? Keep still, he told himself. Ignore it. He heard a rustle, small but distinct - one of the men moving - and froze. He could hear his heart thumping, and his breathing, however slight, seemed to him to be now strangely amplified. But none of the Germans appeared to hear anything.

  Five minutes later orders were barked and the men were clambering back into the trucks. Engines started, a booming cacophony in the still night, and they were off, a dim column trundling down the road towards the front.

  'Mon dieu,' whispered Chevannes. 'A lucky escape, Sergeant. And now for the crossing, non?' The sound of the column died away, but there was a faint breeze now. Around them the trees rustled. Tanner was relieved: when the air was as still as it had been, sound carried alarmingly. The breeze, however gentle, would help them. Gingerly clambering down the bank to the edge of the road, he reminded each man in turn of the drill: Anna was to lead. Lieutenant Chevannes would wait on the far side of the road while he himself would stay where he was, giving each man the signal to cross.

  Everyone was there; everyone was ready. He ran back to Anna and Chevannes.

  'All right,' he said. 'Let's go.' His hands were shaking and he felt sick. The enormous risk of what they were about to attempt struck him like a slap in the face. Jesus, what had he been thinking? It's our only chance, he reminded himself. He took two deep breaths, patted Anna lightly on the shoulder, saw the fear in her eyes, then watched her disappear into the darkness. Chevannes followed, then his own men and the Norwegians, Larsen, Nielssen and Sandvold, each half crouching, half running across the narrow road and down to the edge of the river. Damn it, they were so loud, he thought. Metal studs on tarmac. He grimaced; he'd not thought of that. Come on, come on, let's get this over with - but with every crossing, Tanner winced.

  It was the turn of his own men now, and
he touched each man's shoulder as they set off. More noise, jarring, from the river; Tanner tensed. The boats were being righted and taken to the water. Footsteps on the pebbles; someone tripping. Tanner groaned inwardly. 'For God's sake keep quiet!' he whispered. He knew they were trying, but they were heavily laden with their packs and haversacks, and most were carrying not one but two rifles - their own and the captured German Mausers. And, of course, there were those metal-studded boots - brilliant on the mountain, but hopeless for crossing a pebble beach in silence.

  With Kershaw across, Tanner followed. Despite the noise from the riverbank, Tretten village itself seemed fast asleep, the teeming mass of men and war materiel that had crowded along the road only that morning now long since vanished, like a dream. He reached the river's edge. Anna and the Norwegians were in the first boat, two French troops rowing them away from the shore. Tanner wiped his mouth anxiously. Six in the boat - six with full kit - and more than the dinghy was designed for. As they moved out unsteadily, the small boat looked worryingly low in the water.

  Chevannes, his remaining two Chasseurs, Erwood, Moran and Bell, clambered into the second and pushed off as Tanner, Sykes and the last of the Rangers struggled into the third, the craft tilting and lurching from side to side, water lapping against the wooden hull.

  'For God's sake, try to keep it steady,' hissed Tanner. Holding the wobbling dinghy, he was about to clamber in when Sykes whispered, 'Where are the oars?'

  'Didn't you pick them up?'

  'I couldn't see any.'

  Tanner cursed, then glanced around. It was hard to see clearly but the light from the stars cast enough of a glow to show him there were no oars to be found. Tanner could feel himself begin to panic so he closed his eyes and breathed deeply. It worked. 'We'll have to use the Mausers. Everyone get to it. Use them like a canoe paddle.' He took his own from his shoulder and plunged it into the ice-cold water.