The Odin Mission

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 table, 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.

From the upstairs dormer window of Tretten station, on the west bank of the Lagen river, Hauptmann Wolf Zellner had a fine view of the bridge below to his right. With the window open, the cold night air wafted across his face. He gazed out, marvelling at the billions of stars, pinpricks of light that gave the land below a faint ethereal shape. He looked at his watch: eleven twenty- three. Will they come? he wondered, not for the first time that evening, then lifted his binoculars to his eyes once more.

Despite instructions from Sturmbannfuhrer Kurz to prepare an ambush at Tretten bridge, Zellner had felt there were a number of places where Odin and the fugitives might cross the valley. There was a bridge at Favang, for example, just ten kilometres north of Tretten, while six kilometres further on, at Ringebu, the railway crossed back over the river and rejoined the main valley road. True, they had not found the men despite a day of intense search, but Zellner was less convinced than Kurz or Reichsamtsleiter Scheidt that they had remained holed up near Tretten. With this in mind, and hoping to restore both his standing and pride, he had decided, on receiving his orders from the SD Headquarters in Lillehammer, to deploy his men along the valley not only at Tretten but also at Favang and Ringebu. Admittedly, his company was now only three platoons strong, and he was painfully aware that the fugitives had got the better of his men when they had been operating with just one platoon, but he had no doubt that, however skilled the British sergeant might be, the fugitives could not achieve such a victory again. After all, they were now only seventeen strong, and Zellner knew much more about them than he had the day before. Most importantly, he and his men would be ambushing them, not the other way round. So it was that with forty fresh, well-armed men, Hauptmann Zellner had driven back to Tretten that evening confident that he had most possibilities covered and that his men were more than equal to the task.

He had agreed with Kurz that, should the fugitives still be near Tretten, the bridge was the most likely crossing place, simply because it was by far the easiest way for them to get to the other side. He had told his men to keep out of sight: the aim was to encourage the fugitives in their belief that the village was unoccupied.

Time had been tight. On reaching Tretten shortly after ten that evening, they had quickly found a hiding-place for the trucks in a disused barn, then positioned themselves at either side of the bridge, using bushes and trees as cover, also buildings, both intact and partially destroyed. Zellner had prayed the fugitives would cross here. Playing his moment of triumph over and over in his mind he had begun to believe that Fate would ensure this was so, when a convoy had passed through ripping apart the quiet. How Zellner had cursed, especially when he saw, a kilometre or so beyond the village, that the column had stopped. They had moved on soon enough but in the minutes that followed Zellner had doubted his earlier conviction.

Suddenly he thought he heard something from away to his left - further along the river. He turned to Lieutenant Huber, the platoon commander. 'Did you hear that?'

'What, Hauptmann?' asked Huber.

'Ssh!' said Zellner. 'Listen.' And there it was again, a scraping sound - faint, almost inaudible, but there. 'What is that?' He peered through his binoculars towards where the river widened into Lake Losna. He could see the water, smooth as glass, twinkling, the mountains looming behind and beyond, but nothing out of the ordinary.

'Shall I investigate?' Huber asked.

'And give ourselves away? No,' said Zellner. 'Keep listening.'

He continued to stare through his binoculars and, at last, something caught his eye. A faint ripple on the otherwise smooth water. A sensation of intense exhilaration coursed through Zellner and a moment later he saw a boat as it passed in line with the valley and was silhouetted against the sky. Zellner smiled. 'Yes!' he said. 'I think we have them. Quick, Huber. We haven't a moment to waste.'

All six men were paddling with their Mausers and Tanner's boat soon caught up with the one in front and then they passed it. Ahead, the far bank still seemed an interminably long way off. A hundred and fifty metres wide, Anna had said, and from his recce earlier that day he had agreed with her. Now, though, he realized it was more like two hundred yards, if not further.

'Come on, boys, keep at it,' he snapped.

His heart pounded with exertion and raw fear. His whole body was tense, waiting for the sound of shouts and machine-gun fire. He'd never liked being on open water. It made him feel he was no longer in control, that he was exposed and vulnerable.

Closer now. The lead boat was drawing near to the shore. Tanner allowed himself a sigh of relief. Perhaps they would make it, after all.

The sound of an engine shattered the illusion, then another, both from the direction of the village but on opposite sides of the river. The others heard it too, among expletives and panicked paddling. 'Quick, lads, quick!' said Tanner, plunging the Mauser into the water furiously.

Ahead, the first boat was drawing on to the gravel shore. There were splashes as the occupants stumbled out. The beam from the trucks cut across the water. The first lorry had stopped on the side from which they had come. Orders were being barked, and moments later shots rang out, bullets whining over their heads. A warning, thought Tanner. Don't try to turn back.

Shapes retreating from the first boat. Where was Sandvold? The lights of the second lorry curving round the river's edge were only a few hundred metres away now. Tanner heard the grinding of gears just as their own boat scraped against the stony shore. 'Get out, quick!' Tanner shouted. 'Cross the railway and head for the trees!' The third boat was closing on the shore too. One of the Frenchmen jumped but the water was deeper than he'd thought, and he flailed trying desperately to free his pack.

'Keep going!' Tanner shouted, kneeling to take aim as the vehicle turned towards them. He fired once, missed, then fired again and hit the windscreen of the lorry, which veered. He fired once more, and heard the ping of a bullet hitting metal. A screech of brakes, and the lorry came to a halt at the side of the road, a hundred yards ahead. A German voice yelled orders, and enemy troops hurried from the back of the truck. The Frenchman in the water was drowning, but Tanner ignored him and grabbed the prow of the dinghy. 'Jump!' he yelled, as Chevannes leapt out. Bullets ricocheted off the stones. Tanner was conscious of someone beside him. 'Go!' he shouted.

'Non!'came the reply. 'Mon ami. Vites, Henri, vites!'

'He's gone, mate,' said Tanner, but the Chasseur stepped into the water to rescue his friend.

'For God's sake,' said Tanner, grabbing him. 'Go! Now!' A machine-gun opened fire, raking the water, tracer arcing towards them. At this, the Chasseur gave up and both men were running for their lives, off the pebble shore, across a grassy verge and over the railway line. The machine-gun had stopped firing but Tanner could hear the footsteps of enemy troops running towards them. He spun round and fired twice, then ran on, up another grassy bank, stumbled, cursed, picked himself up, as more bullets whistled over his head and into the ground at either side of him, then headed for the trees.

Where was everyone? Shouts from below and more shots. He could barely see anything, and hit a thin branch, which whipped back and slashed him across the face. Stinging pain coursed through him, then seared the side of his leg, and he cried out.

'Sarge, is that you?' called a voice.

'Stan!' said Tanner. 'Where the hell is everyone?'

'Up ahead. Are you all right, Sarge?'

'I think so. Thank God for dense forests.'

'A-bloody-men to that.'

Bullets tore into the trees, ripped through branches and smacked into the ground, but the slope was steep and the forest close. Tanner could hear others panting and gasping for breath. Suddenly a machine-gun opened fire again, a long burst spurting bullets up the wooded slopes. Tanner crouched behind a tree as the bullets flew. He saw a flickering torch beam, but it was weak so he stepped out from behind the tree, aimed his rifle towards the light and fired. The reply was another long burst of machine-gun fire, but this time the aim was way off, the bullets cutting through the trees high above their heads.

'Reckon they're angry, Sarge,' said Sykes, from a few yards to Tanner's right.

'Very, I'd say,' Tanner replied. 'Come on, Stan, let's keep going. You sure the others are all ahead?'

'I'm sure.'

The firing lessened as they climbed higher and eventually, a couple of hundred feet above the lake, they reached a clearing in the trees.

'Hey,' said Tanner, in a loud whisper.

'Sergeant, is that you?'

Larsen. Tanner breathed a sigh of relief. 'Sir,' said Tanner, 'where are you?'

'Up ahead. Keep going, Sergeant.'

Tanner scrambled up the slope and, straining his eyes, peered into the darkness. Above, near the edge of the thickening forest, he could just make out the dark shape of several people crouched together. 'Stan,' he whispered, 'they're up here.' All six from the leading boat - Sandvold included - were still together. Thank God.

'We made it, sir,' said Sykes, breathlessly, to Chevannes.

'Yes,' replied the Frenchman. 'A miracle.'

By listening for panting, they were able, one by one, to gather the men together. Most collapsed on the ground, some laughing and whispering animatedly with the release of tension until Chevannes sharply told them to be quiet. 'We're not in the clear yet,' he told them. 'Not by any means.'

A head count showed that two men were missing: Chasseur Bardet and Private Mitch Moran. Both had been in the last boat. 'I'm sorry, sir,' said Tanner to Chevannes, 'but Bardet drowned. He jumped from the boat too early and his pack weighed him down. Chasseur Junot tried to rescue him but it was too late.'

Chevannes nodded. Junot himself was not in a good way. Soaked above the waist, he was shivering. He was also inconsolable at the loss of his friend.

'He needs to change his clothes,' said Tanner, 'or he'll be following his friend pretty soon.' But no one had any spare trousers, only jackets. Neither had they seen Moran. 'Tinker?' he said to Bell. 'You were in the boat with him.'

'We jumped out, Sarge. There were lots of bullets. He might have been hit.'

The valley below was now eerily quiet. Tanner hated to leave Moran behind, but they needed to get going - and quickly. He peered into the trees. Nothing. Damn you, Mitch, where are you? he thought. Then, turning to Chevannes, he said, 'Sir? We have to move off.'

'I know, Sergeant,' snapped Chevannes. 'Mademoiselle Rostad,' he said to Anna, 'where should we be heading?'

'Straight up the hill through the trees,' she said. 'At the top there is a track that leads to Svingvoll, a small farming hamlet at the head of a shallow valley. We should head for there, where—' She was cut off by a sharp hiss as a flare shot into the sky, followed swiftly by several more, which burst like crackling fireworks, showering the mountainside with light. A moment later they heard troops below them.

'Vite!' whispered Chevannes, the glow from the flares briefly lighting his face. He waved his arm and the men clambered onwards as rifle and machine-gun fire cracked and sputtered behind them. Tanner urged his men, then ducked as a bullet hurtled over him, missing his head by inches. Melting into the trees once more, he paused to fire, then took out a grenade and having pulled the pin, hurled it as hard as he could down the mountain, more in the hope of blinding their pursuers than from any realistic expectation of hitting anyone. A few seconds later, as it exploded, Tanner heard a German cry out. He smiled grimly to himself and clambered on up the slope, through patchy snow, until it seemed that at last the pursuers had given up the chase.

Cresting the hill, Tanner paused. He could only just make out the others, although he could hear them. They had all stopped, and most now stood with hands on hips or knees as they fought for breath. Across the valley, he could see the looming mountains, the formidable mass of rock and snow over which they had struggled the past few days. Now they had made it successfully to the other side. A miracle, Chevannes had called it, and for once Tanner was content to agree with the French lieutenant.

Beneath them, an engine started up. The Germans were back in their truck. Tanner heard the driver revving the engine until it screamed.

'You know what that is, don't you, Sarge?' said Sykes beside him.

'Yes, Stan,' Tanner grinned. 'Jerry's got his wheels stuck.'