Operation Norway

- 8 -

They heard it before they saw it, a roar like rocks clashing together somewhere out in the storm. Banks had enough time to unsling his rifle off his back, swing it ‘round, and point it towards the entrance before a looming shape filled the opening, plunging them into almost complete darkness. Instinct took over and Banks fired three quick shots into the thickest part of the shadows, the noise almost deafening as he hadn’t had time to put his plugs in. The thing in the entrance howled, a gravelly, rasping screech, and reached inside under the canopy. The next thing Banks knew, he was flying through the air, having been pulled out of the shelter, gripped by the left arm by something that felt like cold iron, and tossed aside. He was lucky to hit a snow bank; if there had been any rock at all when he landed hard, he’d have broken his neck and most of the small bones in his body. Even then he was badly winded, having to take a few seconds to catch a breath he thought would never come.

He managed to roll, amazed to find he still had his weapon in his right hand, and looked back to their shelter from a distance of almost ten yards. The snow obscured his view. The darkness made it more difficult still. Wavering dancing beams from three rifles was the only light but Banks saw enough to know that whatever the attacking thing was, it was huge. It loomed high above their makeshift canopy, tearing the foliage and branches apart, strewing them far and wide as it attempted to get at the men underneath.

Gunfire cut through the wind, muzzle flashes showing up bright in the gloom directly ahead. Banks ducked and rolled quickly as several rounds blew up puffs of snow just in front of him and kept rolling to his left until he was sure he was out of the line of fire.

That took long seconds and by the time he got himself up into a kneeling position to provide supporting fire, the attacker, still little more than a looming, dark, roughly human-shaped figure in the night, had torn most of their canopy apart. It reached inside, pulling one of the squad up and out, dangling the man by a left leg, shaking him around like a rag doll. Banks switched on his rifle light, hoping to illuminate a target he could aim for but the light had little effect against the swirling snow. He got to his feet and moved forward as fast as he was able through snow that reached up towards his knees, stopping only when he was sure of a clean shot that wouldn’t hit one of his men.

Even then he couldn’t risk a headshot, for the thing had the dangling man held up in front of it. Banks put three rounds into the attacker’s back in a line down the length of the spine. It didn’t even flinch. Banks saw more muzzle flashes, heard the crack of more gunfire, more concentrated now as if the defenders had got themselves organized.

And finally, the weight of fire had an effect. The captured man was tossed aside as unceremoniously as Banks had been seconds earlier and the attacker lumbered away, quickly lost in the swirling storm.

Banks quickly made his way over to where the discarded man lay sprawled in a snow bank. It was young Wilkins and he hadn’t landed as lucky as Banks had; the lad’s left leg lay at an impossible angle below the knee. Davies was over quickly, kneeling at the private’s side, and he quickly confirmed what Banks already knew.

“The leg’s broken, Cap,” Davies said. “The skin’s not pierced thankfully but it’s a bad one nonetheless. We need to get him off this hill and somewhere warm fast.”

Hynd and Davies set to getting a makeshift splint on the leg; Wilkins was awake, pale-faced and haggard with pain but he gave Banks a thumbs-up when asked how he was doing.

“Wiggo,” Banks said. “You’re with me. We need to make a litter for the lad; we can’t carry him all the way back to the shore from here.”

They used the remnants of their shelter, using long strips of bark to patch together two long straight branches and a thick bed of foliage. While working, they covered each other, the lights on their rifles trying vainly to pierce the snow, straining to hear anything beyond their own shouts in the wind.

“What the fuck was that?” Wiggins shouted. “They don’t have fucking huge bears here, do they?”

“That wasn’t a bear,” Banks replied but said no more, concentrating on the work at hand.

By the time they’d got the litter built, Davies had finished strapping up Wilkins’ leg as best as could be managed and every man was showing signs of being affected by the cold, the skin on their cheeks taking on a bluish tinge. Banks knew how they felt; he couldn’t feel his fingers and ice crackled at his lips and nostrils with every breath.

“No faffing around,” he said. “We need a stiff walk to warm us up. Kit up, we’re getting out of here. Sarge, you and Davies break the ground; Wiggo and I will take first shift on the pulling. If that fucker comes back, put it down hard and fast. Let’s get this lad to safety.”

It took them no more than a minute to retrieve the camp stove and the rest of their kit then they were ready to move. Despite the wind and snow, Sergeant Hynd had a cigarette stuck firmly between his teeth as Banks gave out the orders.

“You all remember the way. We go down the side of the tree line here for a few miles so we shouldn’t get lost on this stretch. Yon plateau is going to be another thing entirely but we’ll worry about that when we get there. Lead us out, Sarge.”

He was thankful that nobody had any questions; he wasn’t sure he had any answers.

The hastily built litter worked about as well as could be expected; the two long branches dug grooves into the snow as they pulled and poor Wilkins, facing the rear, was getting a face full of snow with every step. But at least Banks and Wiggins had the wind at their backs while pulling, because otherwise the task might have been beyond them.

Banks walked, head down, following the steps in the snow made by Davies some six feet ahead. The snow was almost up to their knees but luckily it was powdery and dry at this altitude. It still proved to be heavy going and his back and shoulders were already complaining both from the weight of his rucksack and the effort of pulling the litter along. At some points, the slope helped them out and made things easier; at other points, the slope made things worse as they had to work hard to stop the litter careering downhill of its own volition.

Despite his gloves and heavy-duty boots, Banks couldn’t feel either hands or feet. Ice crystals formed on the inside of his snow goggles, obscuring his sight further. He fell into a rhythm, concentrating on putting one foot in front of the other, one step at a time, down what felt like an endless trail lost in a whiteout of wind and snow. The tree line was merely a darker looming shadow up an incline to their left and he knew, although he couldn’t see it, that the small river ran down a slope somewhere to his right. He focussed on staying inside that track.

He lost all sense of time. He knew he needed to stay alert; whatever had attacked them was still out there somewhere in the storm. But pulling the litter needed all of his effort and soon he was so weary all he could do was keep his head down and trudge.

He only stopped when he walked into Davies who had come to a halt ahead of him.

They had reached the foot of the valley and were faced with a long, exposed walk across a featureless plateau. There was no sign of their trail ahead of them; the snow had rendered everything into a flat whiteness.