The Odin Mission sjt-1

by James Holland

  'What is it, Sarge?' mouthed Erwood.

  'They've opened the wrong door.' The soldiers were shouting now and pointing wildly. 'They've found the grenade,' muttered Tanner, and pulled back the bolt on his rifle. He knew that the moment he fired the battle would start. Would he survive? Would any of them? God only knows. He swallowed hard, took a deep breath and squeezed the trigger.

  The first bullet missed, but the men by the truck had had no chance to look up before the second slammed into the bonnet, puncturing the thin metal, tearing into the packet of gelignite and igniting it. Less than a split second later, the explosion in the engine bay provided the spark needed to detonate the two packs of Nobel's that Sykes had tied to the petrol tank. A vast ball of livid orange flame erupted round the Morris, incinerating the men who, a moment before, had been examining the cab, and engulfing the second German truck. Stunned soldiers screamed and fell backwards, some on fire. Now the third truck was aflame, the engine exploding, propelling shards of metal and glass.

  'Bloody hell, Sarge!' whistled Erwood.

  'Start firing, Dan,' said Tanner. 'We might have destroyed two trucks but that's only half the job.' He fired off several rounds himself as the Bren began to chatter next to him, empty cartridge cases clattering on to the bare rock. Men were falling in disarray at either side of the burning vehicles, too stunned to think clearly or organize themselves, but Tanner knew this advantage would soon pass. Adrenalin had taken over from fear. His mind was alert and clear, and what concerned him now was that the men from the first and last trucks, either side of the carnage, would try to infiltrate round the side of their position. Smoke billowed upwards - thick, black smoke. It covered the road and lead truck too. Bollocks. He'd not thought of that, but it gave the enemy from the lead truck perfect cover to make an advance up the slope on the far side of the stream. We should make what use of it we can too, thought Tanner.

  'We need to fall back, Dan,' he said, with sudden clarity, 'and quick.' A moment later he heard a whistle and twenty yards to his right there was an explosion.

  'What was that?' shouted Erwood.

  'Mortars! They're firing bloody mortars from behind the smokescreen!' Two more followed in quick succession. Bullets were now zipping through the trees as the enemy troops from the first truck found their composure and their aim. 'Quick, Dan, get off a few rounds towards that first truck! Fire through the smoke!' shouted Tanner. Vague figures flitted in the haze as enemy troops scurried from the direction of the truck and onto the bank beside the road. Blindly, he fired several rounds in succession. A man cried out and a spectral figure fell, but Tanner knew it was now critical that he and his men move back. His mouth was parched with acrid smoke. Tracer now arced luminously through the smoke - a machine-gun: its rapid fire raked the ground around them in short deadly bursts. Even with half the force destroyed or out of action, enemy fire-power was already proving too heavy.

  'Come on, Dan, we've got to move.' He pulled out a grenade. 'On three get up and go. One, two, three! Now!'

  Erwood stood up, then fell back with a cry. 'Bastard!' he yelled. 'He's got my arm!'

  'Think you can still move?'

  Grimacing, Erwood nodded.

  'Right,' said Tanner. 'Hand over the Bren. I'll cover you.' He rammed another thirty-round magazine into the breech and pulled back the cock. 'Go, Dan!' he shouted, as he opened fire, the butt of the Bren pummelling his shoulder. Tanner glanced back as Erwood slid behind a tree a short way above, then hollered, 'Fall back! Everyone, fall back!' Sykes was still firing at the first truck. More mortar shells fell among them, but the enemy machine-gun was now silent. Had Sykes or one of the others hit the men manning it or had they moved? Tanner couldn't tell. He had to get Sykes's attention above the din of battle. 'Stan!' he yelled. 'Stan!' Out of the corner of his eye, he could see more enemy troops working their way round the lead truck, ghostly figures in the smoke, and opened fire with another burst from the Bren. Christ, but we've got to get out of here. The first truck was drawing all their fire, yet he knew the men from the last must be working their way behind them. 'Stan!' he yelled again, and this time the corporal looked across. Frantically, Tanner waved his arm - fall back!-and Sykes nodded. First, though, the corporal pulled a stick of Polar dynamite from his haversack. Tanner fired another burst of the Bren, saw Sykes light the dynamite, count, then hurl it across the stream towards the enemy troops now working their way up the slope opposite. More mortar rounds rippled across the slopes, the blast tearing branches and kicking up spurts of snow, rock and mud.

  Then Sykes's dynamite exploded, and for a moment, the enemy fire from the lead truck stopped.

  Tanner snatched his rifle, slung it over his shoulder, grabbed the Bren, stuffed two more magazines into his pouches and scrambled out of his position - to be met by bullets fizzing past his head from the opposite direction. Damn it! Frantically Tanner searched the ground above him. He needed cover. Trees ahead and above him and to his left, a fallen trunk. He gasped, lungs straining. More bullets. Something whipped through his trousers. Yards to go. Feet losing their grip. Where were the others? Shouting from behind. Another mortar shell, this time below him, followed by yet another, between him and his attackers from the flank. It was just the cover he needed and as the blast erupted twenty yards away from him, he plunged over the fallen tree, face down, then rolled and lay sideways. He brought the Bren to bear, slammed in another magazine as debris pattered on his tin helmet, cocked it and opened fire.

  Men loomed into view ahead. Bollocks, he thought. I've got sodding Jerries either side. He glanced behind and saw Sykes up ahead, urging him to follow, mouthing something he couldn't hear above the ear-shattering noise of mortars, shouts and small-arms fire. Another shell hit a tree not far from Sykes and exploded. Tanner ducked again, then shot a glance back to his corporal. No one was there.

  'No!' yelled Tanner. 'You bastards!' Bullets pinged above him and slapped into the fallen tree-trunk. Blindly he fired another burst of the Bren, then pulled out a grenade and hurled it at his attackers. A whistle as yet another mortar round hurtled towards him, closer this time. Tanner ducked, heard the explosion, then felt the blast knock him back against the tree-trunk.

  He was unsure how long he had been unconscious, but when he came to he was aware that the deafening din of battle had gone and then that he was surrounded by half a dozen enemy troops. As his mind cleared and his eyes focused, he realized he was looking up at none other than Hauptmann Zellner.

  Tanner rubbed his head. He had a pounding headache, his ears still rang shrilly and his mouth was drier than sand, yet despite his predicament, he had the presence of mind to glance at his watch. Well, that's something, he thought. Nearly fifty minutes had passed since Chevannes had led Sandvold into the trees. Fifty minutes was a good head start.

  Two men grabbed his arms and pulled him to his feet, so that he was now face to face with Zellner. The German smiled, then rammed his fist into Tanner's belly. The sergeant gasped and doubled over, only to be pulled up again.

  'Where is he?' Zellner hissed.

  'Who?' said Tanner.

  Zellner punched him again, every bit as hard. 'Where is he?' he repeated, as Tanner gasped and retched a second time.

  'I couldn't possibly say,' murmured Tanner. 'We're just the holding force - holding you up, that is. And we have. In fact we are. I am, right now. So, let's chat some more.'

  'Enough!' said Zellner, and then struck him a third time, this time on the jaw but the blow was misjudged. Tanner jerked his head back and the blow barely hurt. 'That should wipe the smile off your face. In any case, we do not need to know. We will just follow the tracks,' said Zellner, 'and we will catch him.'

  'You won't,' said Tanner. 'Because he'll be shot before you get a chance.'

  Zellner pulled out the pistol from Tanner's holster. 'Mine, I think,' he said. He held it, checked the magazine was full, then cocked it and pointed it at the centre of Tanner's forehead. 'I said I would kill you, Tanner, and so I wi
ll.'

  Tanner smiled. 'You're a fool, Zellner,' he said. 'A stupid Nazi bastard fool.'

  Zellner glared back. 'Tanner,' he said slowly, 'you have said your last.'

  From the safety of his position among the trees on the slopes above, Sykes crouched, watching his sergeant and wondering what on earth he could do. Having seen Tanner knocked backwards, he had immediately thought to turn his back, follow the others and slip into the trees, but something had made him stop. As he had turned he had seen enemy troops hurry to Tanner and pull him to his feet. Knowing he was alive, Sykes felt compelled to stay and help. But how?

  Wincing as the German officer landed repeated punches on his sergeant, he decided that a diversion was his best option. He still had a few packets of Nobel's 808 as well as several sticks of dynamite, and he had Tanner's pack too. Crouching, he glanced to his left in the direction the fourth truck of troops had come from. It was hard to see, so he scampered a short distance forward, climbed a bit higher, then he saw what he was looking for: a jutting outcrop of rock, like a giant boulder. If he could get enough explosives behind it and force it to tumble down the mountainside, he might help Tanner escape or, at worst, give the enemy a further headache.

  He took a deep breath, then glanced back at Tanner and the enemy troops around him. He froze. The sergeant was now obscured from view by another of the German troops but the officer had his arm extended with a pistol pointing at Tanner's head. 'No!' mouthed Sykes, under his breath. He turned his head, not daring to look.

  Then came the sound of a single pistol shot.

  Chapter 16

  Tanner had eyed the men gathered round Hauptmann Zellner. There were six, with more milling about in the trees beyond and, he knew, others on the far side of the shallow ravine behind him. But it was the seven men in front of him that he needed to worry about first. Three had their rifles slung on their shoulders, two clutched them loosely with one arm, while a sixth had a machine- gun slung by his side from a strap that ran over his shoulder. Tanner was not familiar with the different types of German machine-gun, but it looked to him to be a similar if somewhat more sophisticated weapon than those he had seen after the firefight at the seter. It had a similar air-cooled perforated barrel jacket, with ribbed and rounded side magazines. The cock, he noticed, was on the right of the breech. The crux of the matter, he realized, was whether or not the magazine was empty. Surely no machine-gunner would wander around with an unloaded weapon while the battle still had a chance of continuing. In any case, it was his only hope of getting out of his current predicament alive.

  Tanner was glad he had kept Zellner talking long enough to take all of this in, but accepted that the moment had arrived to act. Holding Zellner's stare, he brought up his left hand quickly and knocked away the German's arm. Zellner fired harmlessly into the air as Tanner rammed his stronger right fist straight into the man's mouth and nose. As the unconscious Zellner fell backwards, blood spraying in a mist round his head, Tanner lunged for the machine-gun and slid it down the stunned soldier's arm. Pulling back the breech, he fired.

  The recoil of the machine-gun nearly knocked him backwards - it was heavier than the Bren - but a rapid burst of bullets emerged from the barrel at a rate of fifteen rounds per second, neatly scything through the six men so that only Zellner, who had slumped backwards, escaped being nearly sliced in two. Seconds - that was all he had. Firing another quick burst at the startled men behind, he grabbed a rack of two-drum magazines, then spotted his rifle lying on the ground a few yards above him. He snatched it and raced for the trees. Act decisively, act quickly, his first sergeant had told him some years before. It was an adage Tanner had not forgotten.

  It took the shocked German troops a few seconds more to recover their composure, take their weapons from their shoulders and fire after him. Bullets pinged and zipped either side of him, smacking into trees and kicking up snow, but although one passed clean through a loose part of his trousers, the trees were closing protectively round him.

  On he ran, heart pumping furiously, driven by instinct alone, until an explosion shook the ground and made him stop, lungs almost bursting. Below and away to his left, he could hear the blast of rock. Screams followed and as he stared wild-eyed, uncomprehending, through the pines he heard someone call: 'Sarge! Sarge!'

  Startled, he swung round and saw Corporal Sykes scrambling towards him.

  'Stan, you're alive!' Tanner grinned and held out a hand, which was shaken gratefully. 'I thought you'd been killed back there.'

  'And me you!'

  They hurried on without any more talk, preserving what energy they had for their climb. At last the gradient began to ease and as they reached the plateau and the edge of the treeline, they emerged into a wide expanse of snow.

  'Look!' said Sykes. 'The others! All of them! We made it!'

  Away to their right, a peak emerged magisterially from the snow. 'Olasfjellet,' said Tanner. 'That's the first of two that Anna mentioned. Christ, we need to watch our backs up here. It's bloody exposed, Stan.'

  'And bloody hard going.'

  'You're not wrong.'

  One of the others turned and waved. Moments later Tanner and Sykes had caught up with them.

  'Come on, lads, get a bloody move on,' said Tanner, as he reached them. 'Dan, what's the damage?'

  'It just nicked me, Sarge. Took a bit of my forearm out, but didn't break anything.'

  'Good,' said Tanner. 'Any sign of the others?'

  'Only tracks. Easy enough to follow,' said McAllister. 'Do you think Jerry's coming after us, Sarge?'

  'I don't know. We need to catch up with the rest, then get the hell out of this snow.'

  'I'm about done in,' said Hepworth.

  'Me too,' said Bell. 'Tell me it's not much further, Sarge.'

  'Stop bloody bellyaching,' said Tanner. 'We're all sodding tired, but we've got two, maybe three miles of this, and then we should be among the trees again, so it's not far. Come on, boys, keep fighting. We've done the hard part - seen off those Jerries. We can't let ourselves down now.'

  He said this for his own benefit as much as his men's, for exhaustion had swamped him too. Fighting was tiring, especially when it was followed by a steep running climb weighed down by a leaden load. The instinctive desire to survive seemed to make part of his brain shut down so that an adrenalin-fuelled primal capacity to keep going took over. Once the immediate danger was past, though, his mind returned to normal and told him he was physically and mentally all but spent.

  The snow was crisp and hard, so walking on it was not as difficult as it had been, but even so, each footstep seemed ever harder. On his shoulders, he still carried his rifle and the German machine-gun, as well as the drum magazines, his pack, gas-mask case and haversack. The weight now seemed agonizingly oppressive. Keep going. Keep bloody going.

  And what of the enemy? There was still no sign. He thought of Zellner and reckoned he'd judged the punch about right. A broken nose, probably a broken jaw, and it would take him a while to wake up. Whether they followed now or regrouped depended, he guessed, on whether other officers and NCOs were present and still fit. By God, he was tired. He now realized he was hungry and thirsty too. He leant over to pick up some snow and stumbled, falling to his knees. McAllister was now beside him, grabbing his arm, but Tanner shook him off. 'I tripped,' he snarled.

  'Only trying to help, Sarge.'

  Tanner got to his feet again, using his rifle as a staff, and put the snow in his mouth. Numbingly cold, it offered some relief from the cloying dryness. He fumbled in his pack and found a piece of bread the Sulheims had given him. Slowly chewing it, he tramped onwards, his men following. At least, he thought, it was nearly May. These mountains would be deadly during the depths of winter, but with a high, warm sun, they presented less danger and although it was cold, it was not debilitatingly so. In any case, he now felt well dressed for the task in hand. His stout German boots were warm, his clothes dry. The leather jerkin, with his belt and packs binding it to h
is body, offered perfect insulation, while the snow goggles protected his eyes from the worst of the glare; the rim of his helmet worked well as a sun visor. No one would succumb to exposure.

  Exhaustion was their main enemy now, but already Tanner could see the second peak Anna had mentioned and then he heard - they all heard - the distant boom of guns. His spirits rose. The battle at Kvam - the Allies were still there! New reserves of energy found their way into his legs. 'Lads!' he said, grinning. 'Hear those guns? We're nearly there. We've nearly bloody well gone and made it!'

  McAllister cheered. 'Hoo-bloody-ray, Sarge!' he exclaimed. 'Come on, boys, let's get a move on. What's that you say, Sarge? Iggery!'

  Tanner glanced back: still no sign of the enemy, but they had to remain watchful. The horizon behind them was shortening now that they had crested the highest point of the mountain ridge and had begun to climb down the reverse slope of the plateau. Ahead, he could see the treeline, still masking the view beyond, but marking the crest of the valley sides.

  Ahead, a figure emerged from the darkness of the trees. Bloody hell, thought Tanner, those pines offered good cover - the man could not be seen until he was well clear and standing in the snow. Tanner put his binoculars to his eyes. 'Lieutenant Nielssen,' he said, and waved.

  'You made it!' said Nielssen, grinning as they reached him. Over the past few days his beard had grown, and without his kepi, his flaxen hair was tousled and unkempt.