The Odin Mission

Chapter 8

Reichsamtsleiter Hans-Wilhelm Scheidt had returned to Lillehammer in a better mood than when he had walked into Kurz's office earlier that day. He had, he felt certain, been right to leave Oslo. Kurz was clearly unreliable. Despite the SD officer's words of assurance, Scheidt recognized in him a man who enjoyed the trappings of power and authority but who was consumed by idleness and complacency. Thank God I'm here, he told himself. Here in Lillehammer he could make sure people like Kurz got up off their lazy arses. He could chivvy Kurz and badger Army men like Engelbrecht. Keeping control was essential - he simply couldn't afford to allow others to let Odin slip from his grasp.

A room in a hotel not two minutes' walk from Kurz's office was the ideal place in which to make his temporary new base. The hotel owner had given in without a word when Scheidt had announced he was requisitioning the best room. Too frightened to refuse, Scheidt guessed, from the ashen expression on the man's face.

His room was dark and not a little shabby - far removed from the splendour of the Continental Hotel in Oslo. Indeed, up here in the central interior of the country it felt like a different world. The villages were small and sparsely populated; Lillehammer was more like a large village than a town. There were few metalled roads, and despite the single railway line, the entire area seemed little more than a vast expanse of mountain, water and forest - perhaps a good place to hide, but not for long. All too soon, the harsh conditions would flush out any man on the run.

Where was Sandvold? Perhaps already in the hands of the mountain troops. Scheidt had been impressed by both von Poncets and Hauptmann Zellner. Both had the kind of energy and determination that gave him confidence. The Wehrmacht, he reflected, might be rigid and rather narrow-minded, but they were straightforward to deal with - certainly a damn sight more so than the Allgemeine-SS.

Scheidt lit a cigarette and looked out of the dormer window of his room. In the streets below, Lillehammer was quiet, almost slothful, but some miles to the north, he could hear the dull thud and reverberation of battle. 'We're winning,' von Poncets had told him. Now Reichsamtsleiter Scheidt had to win his personal battle.

Despite Reichsamtsleiter Scheldt's mounting confidence, Hauptmann Wolf Zellner had not yet caught Odin.

Less than an hour earlier, however, when the tracks of about twenty men had been spotted in the snow, he had been convinced they had found the group they were looking for. With the thrill of the chase surging through him, he had given the order to proceed with all speed. Success, he had felt sure, was just round the corner. Soon, they would spot their quarry. Then they would inch forward and surround them. Footsore and weary, the Tommies would gladly surrender and Odin would be theirs. He had even played in his mind the scene at von Poncets' HQ, as he handed over the Norwegian. 'Odin, sir, as requested.'

But then they had been ambushed - which, most definitely, had not been part of his imaginary script. Eleven men, he'd lost. Eleven! Four were dead, and another five probably would be soon if he didn't get them off the mountain. Two were only lightly wounded and, of the more seriously hit, two would need to be carried. And that caused him another headache. He couldn't let the wounded - his men - bleed to death in the snow, but neither could he afford to leave any of the unharmed to tend them.

They had left one group from the platoon behind at the request of his Battalion CO, who had wanted them for the company's part in the outflanking operation at Tretten. At the time, he had agreed immediately, but he wished now he had those ten men. Under the canopy of pines, staring at the bright blood streaked across the snow, Zellner had quickly weighed his options. Common sense suggested he should return. He now had twenty-eight fully fit men, of which at least four would have to stay behind. That gave him only the slightest numerical advantage. To make matters worse, the enemy had proved they would not lie down quietly.

Zellner had pondered these factors for a few moments. He was twenty-four, an Austrian from Innsbruck, and had been with the 3rd Gebirgsjager Division since Austrian and German unification following the Anschluss two years before, and with the Austrian 5th Gebirgsjager Division before that. He had trained with unflinching dedication, proud not only to be part of such an obviously elite unit but of his own performance. He understood the importance of leading by example, and had been determined that he should be fitter than any of his men; that he should be a better mountaineer; and that his survival skills in sub-freezing conditions were second to none. In this he had succeeded and he had arrived in Norway confident that he and his men would be a match for any enemy troops they confronted.

So far, however, they had barely been tested. He had trained for years, waiting for the chance to fight and test himself in battle, yet as far as he could make out, the war in Norway had been won so far by the Luftwaffe and the gunners. As infantry, it seemed that their role was merely to mop up. It bothered him, too, that the only time he had been given a specific task - namely the capture of the Norwegian King's men a few days before - he had failed. Duped by a peasant farmer. The man had made a fool of him so Zellner had killed him.

Nagging doubts entered his head again. That had been clever shooting by the enemy. Two or more of them must have had sniper rifles and that in itself had surprised him. Indeed, the shooting had caught them completely off-guard, and had caused their first combat deaths since the beginning of the campaign. His men, every bit as confident as he had been before the shooting, were stunned, he could tell; good comrades were dead. Moreover, it had held them up, stopping them in their tracks.

With sudden clarity Zellner cast aside the doubts. Instinct told him that his enemy was not well armed, despite the sniper rifles. His men, however, still had three MG30 machine-guns. Furthermore, if the streams of British and Norwegian prisoners he had seen earlier that day were anything to go by, the enemy up ahead would be ill-equipped for mountain operations, short of sleep and food. His men, in contrast, were fit, healthy and, he was certain, a match for anyone. In any case, failure a second time would be too bitter a pill to swallow. They would go after those men and capture Odin. Then he would find the men with the sniper rifles and kill them.

Sergeant Tanner regarded the seter ahead. In appearance it was much like the one they had sheltered in the previous evening - a rough wooden hut perhaps fifteen feet long. It was slightly further up the mountain, in a clearing, and beyond it, a mountain stream ran from a narrow ravine above into a shallower one below. Across the brook, however, there were plenty of large stones, while yet more pines overlooked the shallow ravine above the seter.

'Do you see what I see, Stan?' Tanner said to Sykes.

'Another hut, Sarge,' said Sykes.

'Correct,' said Tanner. 'And a stream.' He rubbed

his chin. 'Nice place to set up a juicy ambush, I reckon.'

Sykes looked at him doubtfully. Like Chambers, he had been impressed by Tanner's cool-headed shooting earlier. Indeed, his respect for his sergeant had grown steadily, but he couldn't see how a run-down shack could be a good place for an ambush. In fact, he wasn't sure any kind of ambush was a good idea.

'Not sure about that, Sarge,' he said. 'Wouldn't it be better if we just hurried up a bit? Don't want to invite trouble, do we?'

'Of course not - but listen, Stan. Those buggers are going to catch us up soon enough, so we've got no choice but to stand and face them.' He spoke quickly, his eyes constantly darting to the trees behind them. 'I know they're Nazi bastards but they're not going to leave their wounded to die, are they? That means there'll probably be only twenty of them - maybe twenty-five at most. And if we're ready and waiting, we can beat them.' Sykes still seemed doubtful. 'Look, we all walk into the hut, then jump out the back and into the stream. No more footprints. By going up and down the stream we can get the men into position without Jerry seeing where we've gone. A few can clamber up on to that small cliff - it'll give a perfect line of fire. Others can go down the stream and hide behind trees and rocks.'

Sykes was smiling now.

'Jerry's going to see the tracks going into the hut and none coming out,' Tanner continued. 'And he'll see a bit of Riggs's blood. If he's not very clever he'll come forward - and we've got them in the bag. On the other hand, if he's got any sense he'll smell a rat. If it's Mr

Sandvold he's after, he's not going to risk spraying the hut with machine-gun fire, is he? Which means he's got to send some men forward to investigate.'

'And we shoot them.'

'I reckon so. Then he's got even fewer men, and he'll know we've got him covered. So he won't be able to move unless he goes backwards, or tries working round the sides. In any case, we'll still have him covered.' He looked back again. 'First we've got to persuade Chevannes, though. That stupid bugger won't listen to me. Maybe you should suggest it. He'll take it from you.'

To Tanner's surprise, Chevannes was receptive to the idea, as explained by Sykes. 'Yes, Corporal, I think there is something in what you say.' He turned to Tanner. 'You are lucky to have such a clever corporal, Sergeant. You could learn something from him, you know.'

The French lieutenant ordered the men to walk quickly to the seter, while Sykes and Tanner unwrapped the bandages from Riggs's head once more. The rifleman was indignant. 'If I faint from loss of blood, I'm blaming you, Sarge,' he said.

'Stop being such a baby, Riggs,' Tanner told him. 'You've got eight pints of the stuff. Losing a few spots won't make much difference.' With droplets of blood from Riggs's cut dripping and spreading in the snow, they followed the rest of the men into the hut. To his relief, there was a shuttered glassless window at the back, leading straight to the stream. Chevannes divided the men, posting his Chasseurs Alpins on top of the shallow cliff above the seter, and ordering Tanner to disperse his men south of the hut. 'Sandvold, Nielssen, Larsen and I will take up positions over there,' he said, pointing to a rise in the ground below the ravine and further back from the stream. 'And no one will fire until I do so. You take my lead, you understand? Now, let us get into position - vite. We don't have much time.'

Chevannes' men clambered out first, followed by their officer and the Norwegians. As his own men were about to follow, Tanner stopped them. 'Listen, lads,' he said, 'make sure you position yourselves with decent cover, all right? Remember what you've been taught. Make sure your ammo's near to hand. Have your rifles ready. Use the trees and the larger rocks along the edge of the stream. And don't fire until Lieutenant Chevannes gives the order, all right? Once he fires the first shot, you can fire at will. You see any Jerry-wallahs, shoot the buggers.' They were frightened, but exhilarated, too, he knew. 'And, finally, make sure you don't leave any footprints until you're well clear of this basha. Don't you worry about getting wet feet because when we've got these bastards beat, we can pinch their boots. Now, off you go, quickly - but carefully.'

He patted them on the back as they squeezed out of the window, one by one, then noticed Sykes pulling at the straps of his pack.

Sykes caught his eye and grinned. 'We could always give him an even bigger 'eadache, Sarge.'

'What did you have in mind?'

Sykes winked, licked his thumb, then opened his haversack. 'I lifted a few bits of HE, didn't I?'

'You crafty begger!' said Tanner.

'Well, no point leaving it all at that train depot for Jerry, was there?'

Tanner smiled. 'No, Corporal. What do you think I'm carrying in these?' He pointed to his respirator satchel and pack.

Sykes chuckled. 'Bloody 'ell, Sarge, and there was me thinkin' I was the only sneaky bastard round 'ere.' He looked around conspiratorially, then said, 'In any case, I was thinking we could string something up to the door. Might give 'em a nasty shock.'

'Have we got time?' Tanner peered through a narrow slit in the timber along the wall by the door. 'Can't see them yet.' He had another look through his scope. Nothing, but he was certain it wouldn't be long.

Ignoring the sergeant's concerns, Sykes was already taking a length of safety fuse from a round metal tin in his haversack. 'It's good stuff, this,' he said. 'Perfectly strong enough for what we need.' He cut a short strip with his clasp knife, then tied one end round the latch on the door frame and threaded it through the handle. He took out a hand grenade, loosened the pin and tied the other end of the fuse, so that the grenade hung gently against the door.

For a moment neither man spoke. The hut smelt musty - damp wood and dust: probably unused since the previous summer. Tanner watched Sykes with mounting unease. 'I hope that pin's not going to slip out, Stan.'

'It'll need more pressure than the grenade's weight to pull it out.' He felt in his pack again. 'Now for a little extra something. A nice packet of Mr Nobel's finest, I think.' He produced a cardboard packet of gelignite and tied it to the door handle with more safety fuse.

'Bloody hell - careful, Stan!'

Sykes grinned. 'You know what your problem is? You worry too much.'

'Sod you, Corporal. I just don't want to be blown to smithereens.' Tanner watched Sykes put away his knife. 'Ready now?'

Sykes winked.

'Good. Let's get out of here, quick.'

Jumping into the stream, they clambered along the rocks, keeping an eye on the trees in the direction they had come and praying they wouldn't be spotted. The weight of his packs affected his balance, and Tanner slipped on a smooth rock. He cursed to himself as ice- cold water splashed up his trousers. Regaining his footing, he staggered on. Ahead he caught sight of Hepworth dashing from one tree to another. Stop bloody moving about, Hep, he thought. He could feel his pulse throbbing again; he wanted to run but the splashing of water would be too noisy, yet if the enemy arrived now he and Sykes would be sitting ducks. Fifteen yards ahead he spotted a pine close to the water's edge, leaning out awkwardly over the stream. If we can just reach that, he thought. The trunk would hide his tracks on the far side. 'Stan!' he whispered, and pointed urgently to the tree. Sykes nodded.

Reaching the tree first, the corporal clambered up out of the stream bed, holding out a hand for Tanner. A short distance away there was a small knoll between the trees, shallow, but offering good cover. The two men ran over to it. For a moment, Tanner lay on his back, looking up into the trees, breathing in the chill, crisp mountain air. In the valley below he could still hear the battle, but there was silence around them, save for water gurgling through the rocks on its journey down the slope.

Tanner rolled over, pulling his rifle to his chin. They were about sixty yards from the hut with a clear view towards it. Glancing around him he could see some of the men, thankfully now well hidden from the enemy behind rocks, trees and rises in the ground. Only a few yards away Lance Corporal Erwood and the Bren crew had their machine-gun ready.

A minute ticked by. Tanner wondered where the Germans were; perhaps the ambush hadn't been such a good idea. Maybe he should have kept his mouth shut. He glanced at his watch; he reckoned they now had at least a fifteen-minute advantage over the enemy. Perhaps they should have pushed on. Another minute passed. 'Come on, damn you,' he muttered. 'Where the bloody hell are you?'

'There, Sarge!' whispered Sykes. 'Look! See that Jerry dropping on to his knee?'

Tanner could see him clearly - perhaps eighty yards away. The man was studying the tracks in the snow that led to the seter. Tanner gripped the barrel of his rifle and felt his finger glide against the cool dark metal of the trigger. About bloody time, he thought.

Hauptmann Zellner saw the leading group commander stop, kneel, then signal back. Crouching, Zellner hurried forward.

'Tracks, sir,' said the sergeant, 'leading to the hut. And there's blood on the ground. Looks like at least one is wounded.'

Zellner took out his pistol. Clutching the grip was somehow reassuring. 'Well, there are certainly plenty of footprints here.' He lifted his arm and waved in a circular motion, the signal for his men to deploy into an open skirmish line. Two machine-gun teams hurried through the trees sixty yards either side of him, while the third fell in beside him. Without a word, the soldier carrying the MG30 lay down in the snow, prised apart the bipod, drew the stock into his shoulder, and pulled back the cock until it clicked into place. His partner crouched beside him with the spare ammunition, then unfastened the clip that held the two drum magazines together. At the same time, the rest of the men had hastily taken up positions behind trees and on the ground and, with their rifles unslung, the seter was now covered. It had taken less than half a minute and Zellner felt proud of his men. They had confirmed what he already knew: that there could be few men better trained in the entire 3rd Gebirgsjager Division. General Dietl himself would have been impressed.

'Do you think they're in there?' the sergeant asked.

Zellner was not sure. It seemed likely. After all, if they were not, where were they? These were the only tracks. He lifted his binoculars to his eyes and swept the ground ahead. He could see nothing out of the ordinary. But what if the hut was a trap? He bit at his thumbnail. Three machine-guns now covered it and were mutually supporting, while eighteen rifles were trained towards it.

In addition, his men each carried at least three stick grenades. It was a considerable amount of fire-power. Moreover, he had to do something. His mission was to capture Odin. He must act decisively.

'I'm going to tell them to surrender,' Zellner told his sergeant, 'and if they don't come out, I'll send you forward. What can they do? We've got them covered.'

Tanner had seen the German officer lift his binoculars and pressed his own head into the snow. He prayed that curiosity would not get the better of any of his young, inexperienced men and that they would, like him, keep themselves hidden. Seconds ticked by. Silence - no cry of alarm, no crack of a rifle. The enemy officer could not have seen them. Tanner breathed a sigh of relief.

'Ergebt euch!' he suddenly heard shouted out. 'Waffen neider!'

'What's he goin' on about?' whispered Sykes.

'I think he wants us to show ourselves.'

'Surrender!' the German shouted in English. 'Come out with your hands up!'

'Told you,' whispered Tanner. Carefully he lifted his head. The German officer was ordering his men forward. Six soldiers, crouching, their rifles drawn to their shoulders and aimed at the hut, scampered across the open ground to the seter. Four stood at either side of the door, while the remaining two stood back a few yards, their rifles still aimed at the hut's entrance.

'The moment of truth, Sarge,' whispered Sykes.

One man had a silver bar on his upper left sleeve. Tanner guessed he was an NCO; at any rate, he now walked to the door, listened a moment, turned briefly to the officer, then kicked hard.

The door swung open and Tanner's heart sank. 'Bollocks,' he muttered.

But then came a deafening crack and the hut erupted into a ball of angry orange flame. Even eighty yards away Tanner could feel the blast as the air was sucked towards the fireball, and a pulse throbbed through the ground. A shot rang out next to him. Dan Erwood's Bren began to chatter. Tanner could see the Germans were startled once again - so much so that, for a moment, they seemed frozen to the spot. As grit and flecks of bone and flesh fell round them, Tanner began firing. He saw one man go down and another fall prostrate in the snow. Where's that Jerry officer? He scanned the trees but already his view was clouded by smoke rolling across the clearing. Spurts of flame and tracer bullets glowed curiously through the haze, pinning down the rifle fire from beyond the stream. More tracer arced from the other end of the German line snapping branches and twigs. He heard one man cry out, then another.

'We've got to take out those MGs,' Tanner said to Sykes. 'They've got us covered but they're firing blind. Dan!' he called. 'Keep firing bursts, all right? I need you to cover me and Sykes.'

Lance Corporal Erwood raised his hand in acknowledgement. 'Good,' said Tanner, then turned to Sykes and pointed into the trees away and behind them. 'On three we're going to head back twenty yards over there where the ground slopes away, then use that drop in the land to get underneath the line of fire and work round their flank. OK?'

Sykes nodded.

Tanner took a deep breath. 'One, two, three!'

Bullets followed them like a swarm of bees, hissing over their heads and kicking up the snow around them, but although Tanner's body had tensed for the moment when one or more ripped into him, it appeared luck was with them. Suddenly the twenty yards had been crossed, the ground was falling away, and the bullets zapping clear into the wood above him. He stopped, crouched and, to his relief, saw that Sykes was beside him.

'Bloody hell!' gasped the corporal. 'That was a bit hot, Sarge!'

'Pretty warm,' agreed Tanner. 'Where are the rest of them?' He spotted Hepworth, Kershaw and Bell. Hepworth was lying flat on the ground, clutching his helmet to his head; Bell was taking occasional pot-shots then bracing himself against the rear-side of a thick pine. Kershaw was behind a rock by the stream, ducking every time a bullet whizzed past him. Then he saw McAllister, across the stream from Bell. Good, he thought. That'll do.

He picked up a lump of snow and hurled it at Hepworth, who saw him, and began to scurry over. Another snowball caught the attention of the other three. Short bursts of machine-gun fire still spat intermittently above their heads, while cracks of rifle fire rang out. 'We're going to take out those MGs,' said Tanner, to the five men now squatting beside him. 'We cross the stream out of the line of fire, move on sixty yards, then come round the back of them.' The boys looked tense; Hepworth, especially, was wide-eyed and ashen-faced. 'Come on, Hep,' he said. 'You know the drill. We work in pairs. Two forward, two pairs covering. Got enough ammo?'

Hepworth nodded.

Tanner patted his shoulder. 'We'll be fine. Let's go.'

Their bodies crouched low, they made it across the stream and pushed forward until the sound of firing was coming from behind them to the left. He hoped the enemy troops would be too busy with the fire coming from in front of them to have thought of an attack from behind. As he moved up the slope to the almost level ground above, he was glad to see his guess had been correct. Signalling to the others to follow, he pulled McAllister by the shoulder, then signalled for Hepworth to pair off with Sykes, Kershaw with Bell. 'Watch out for our own fire,' he warned.

He pulled out three grenades from his haversack, clipped them to his belt and briefly scanned ahead as a stray bullet whipped up the ground a few yards to his left. They were behind the far left of the German skirmish line. One of the machine-guns was just forty yards ahead, although hidden by trees, while the second was sixty yards to the right of the first. He could hear bursts from a third further away. His intention was to get within twenty yards of the first two and lob grenades at them. The danger would come if the gunners saw them first and turned their weapons on them.

'Sod it,' he muttered. Then, to his men: 'Forget the drill. Stan, you and Hepworth run towards that first MG and hurl a couple of grenades,' he whispered. 'Mac, you and I'll get the other. Bell, follow Sykes and Hep and cover them. Kershaw, you cover me and Mac. On three.'

He gripped the first grenade in his hand, counted down visually with his fingers, took a deep breath, then sprinted through the snow, praying the bullets would miss them once more. Thirty yards to go. A German rifleman was standing firing from behind a tree. Twenty-five yards. Three more riflemen and the second MG team. Twenty yards. Pull the pin from the grenade. One, two, throw. Aim good. A rifleman saw the grenade, looked round in horror, but it was too late. As it detonated, spraying the machine-gunners with shards of searing iron, they cried out and rolled. A second detonation came a split second later, just as Tanner brought his rifle to his shoulder once more, pulled back the bolt and fired, silencing the startled rifleman. Two more bullets fizzed above his head. Tanner ducked but, keeping his rifle tight into his chin, shouted, 'Hande hoch! Hande hoch!'

He was only vaguely aware of McAllister standing a few yards from him, yelling the same instruction. To his amazement, several German troops dropped their rifles and slowly raised their arms. 'Where's the bloody officer?' shouted Tanner, then saw him, crouched by a tree, still clutching his pistol. "Hande bloody hoch, mate,' Tanner said to him, his rifle pointed at the enemy officer's heart.

Zellner dropped his pistol, his face flexing with anger. ' Waff en nieder!' he shouted. 'Befehlen ist unter alien Umstanden von der Englander zu lei stent'

'Cease firing!' yelled out Tanner. A bullet pinged through the trees to his right. 'Bloody stop shooting. They've surrendered!' he shouted, as he stepped forward and picked up Zellner's pistol.

As the guns fell silent on the mountain above Tretten, the battle continued to rage in the valley below. The day had been every bit as difficult and depressing as Brigadier Morgan had suspected. It was nearly eight o'clock in the evening when he walked out of his makeshift office and stepped outside to smoke his pipe. He realized he'd not had any air all day, yet outside the house the sharp stench of cordite and burnt wood was so heavy he could feel it in his throat. He looked towards the river, but a heavy fog hung over the valley. Through the smoke, however, the sun was trying to break through; he could see it high in the sky, a hazy orange orb. Ahead, shrouded in fog, the battle boomed on. The ground shuddered.

After only a few puffs, he took his pipe from his mouth and tapped it against the heel of his boot. The brief break for a smoke had not been as calming as he'd hoped. He walked back inside, where clerks and the remaining brigade staff were still frantically passing on information and trying desperately to find answers to unanswerable questions.

In his office he sat at his desk and opened his small leatherbound diary. One day, he thought, he would write this up, 'How Not to Fight a War: Lessons from the Norwegian Campaign', and submit it to the War Office. 'The remnants of the three companies of Leicesters, Foresters and Rangers,' he scribbled, 'were attacked in the morning along their makeshift positions west of Oyer and soon fell back. Leicesters' company commander killed, and most of the officers in that mixed force now reported missing.' Morgan's pencil hovered over the pale blue paper. They had been fine men all, he reflected. A bloody waste.

'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.