The Odin Mission

Chapter 1

Thursday, 18 April 1940. The German invasion of Norway was nine days old, but in that time the small Norwegian village of Okset had seen little sign of the disaster that faced their peace-loving nation - a few aircraft overhead, that had been all. Indeed, Stig Andvard had listened to the unfolding news on his wireless with a feeling of mounting unreality. Swastikas now flew over the capital, Oslo, over Kristiansand, Stavanger, Bergen, Trondheim and Narvik, the coastal ports that provided the life-blood of the country The King and Government had fled - God only knew where to, but His Majesty's voice could still be heard crackling over the airwaves. A number of lads from the village had responded to the general mobilization and had hurried off to Elverum to join their army units, and had since disappeared into that other world where the war was taking place. Where were they now? Still fighting, or prisoners of the Germans? Norwegian resistance in the south was crumbling, that much was obvious, but to the north, British troops had landed at Namsos and the Royal Navy had sunk a number of German warships.

And yet could these cataclysmic events really be happening? It all seemed so far away. On his farm, Stig still had his pigs to feed, his cows to milk, and his sheep to watch. He had still drunk beer with Torkjel Haugen and Jon Kolden in the bar the past two Wednesdays, just as they always had. Life had continued during those nine days with the same unwavering regularity as it had for as long as Stig could remember.

In the valley, patches of grey grass were beginning to emerge through the snow, but the landscape was still monochrome, as it often was in April. Spring: a curious time of year, when the days were long and light, with barely more than three hours of darkness, but the ground remained stuck in winter, as though it had yet to catch up with the sun.

That morning, however, as Stig had dropped in the slops to the pigs, he heard a distant, dull thud from the south, followed by further muffled crumps. 'Elverum,' he muttered to himself, then stomped inside to find his wife. 'Guns,' he said to her. 'From Elverum.'

Agnes put her hands to her mouth. 'My God,' she said. 'Do you think they'll come here?'

Stig shrugged. 'It's only a little village,' he said. 'What do the Germans want with a place like this?'

'Oh, Stig, what are we going to do?'

'Try to keep calm.' He knew it was hardly a helpful comment, but in truth he had no idea what they should do. Their farm was the first house to the south of the village, more than half a kilometre from the next. He wondered whether he should walk into the village and see what everyone else was planning, then dismissed the idea. What would anyone else know? He glanced briefly at Agnes and could see that she was looking to him for guidance. Angry at his lack of decisiveness, he banged the kitchen table with his fist, then, avoiding her eye further, headed back out into the yard, where the sound of detonations and explosions from the south was becoming louder and more persistent.

What to do for the best? Stay, or pack up the truck and head north? He went over to the shed and opened the bonnet, checked the oil and fuel levels, and that the plugs and points were clean. At one moment, he glanced up towards the house and saw his wife staring at him from the kitchen window, her brows knitted together. Slamming the bonnet down harder than he might otherwise have done, he sighed, kicked at the watery mud on the ground and strode back across the yard to the farmhouse, into the kitchen, sat down at the table and drummed his fingers on the ageing pine.

'Stig, I'm frightened,' said Agnes, after a few moments' silence. 'I'm going to fetch Anton.'

Stig nodded. Their second son was still at school in the village. 'Yes, I think you should,' he told her. But then, as she was taking off her apron, he added, 'We'll stay put. Stick together. They won't want anything with us. Why would they want to do anything to us?' Agrtes looked at him and then left, a brief brush of her hand on his shoulder as she passed him. Stig cursed under his breath, annoyed with himself for betraying the uncertainty he knew his wife had recognized.

For two more hours, Stig tried to keep busy and to pretend that all would be well, but he had read reports of the fighting in Poland. The newspapers had printed pictures of burning villages, of towns shrouded in smoke. Polish resistance had been brushed aside and he hated to think what had happened to the people there. Agnes returned with Anton, and Nils, their elder son, came back from the wood where he had been sawing the pines they had felled the previous day. 'Stay with your mother,' Stig told him. 'I want all of you to stay near the house.'

At lunch, they sat around the kitchen table, saying and eating little. Stig toyed with his soup. His stomach felt heavy and nauseous and eventually he pushed the bowl away and went out again, into the barn where he hoped the banging of his hammer as he repaired some of the woodwork would deafen the sound of battle eight miles to the south.

It was Anton who fetched him early in the afternoon. 'Henrik's here, Papa,' he said, 'with some men.'

They were standing round the range in the kitchen when Stig entered - five of them - holding their hands to the warmth of the iron.

'Henrik,' said Stig.

'Forgive the intrusion,' his cousin said, clasping his hand firmly, 'but I'm afraid we need your help.'

'Of course.' Stig looked at the other four men. All, like Henrik Larsen, wore the grey-blue serge greatcoats of the Norwegian Army, with their double row of buttons and red piping round the collar and cuffs. Their large green canvas haversacks were piled in the corner, along with their rifles. One of the men stepped forward. There was a gold band around the kepi he clutched in his left hand.

'Forgive us,' he said. 'I am Colonel Peder Gulbrand of His Majesty the King's Guard. We urgently need to head north, but unfortunately our car broke down some kilometres to the south.' He was, Stig guessed, in his early forties; a strong face, lined round the edges of his eyes and mouth, and clean apart from a two-day growth of beard. The colonel looked exhausted, though - they all did. Stig glanced at them again. A lieutenant of perhaps thirty, and another younger officer, like Henrik. The fifth man was older, with round spectacles and a dark moustache flecked with grey. Stig noticed he was not wearing a tunic under his greatcoat, like the others, but a rollneck sweater and wool jacket. Nor was he wearing uniform trousers. Colonel Gulbrand followed Stig's gaze, and said hastily, 'I wish I could say more, but please believe me when I tell you our mission is a vital one and undertaken at the direct request of King Hakon.'

Stig nodded. 'You've come from Elverum?'

'This morning, yes.'

'We've heard the guns.'

'The town will be in German hands by evening.' Colonel Gulbrand looked at Stig, then at his watch.

'I've a truck out the back,' Stig told him. 'You take it. I checked it this morning. The tank is full and I've some spare cans of petrol you can have. It's old but has never let me down yet.'

'I can't thank you enough,' replied the colonel. He looked as though he was about to say something more, then stopped.

'Have you time for something to eat?' Stig asked him. 'You look tired, if you don't mind me saying so. We've got some mutton soup and bread—'

'Colonel?' said Larsen.

'All right,' said Gulbrand. 'God knows we could all do with something inside us.'

Agnes had already put the soup and a coffee pot on the range. 'Nils, go and get the fuel from the shed and put it into the truck.'

Nils hurried out and Stig ushered the men to sit down. As they did so, Colonel Gulbrand said, 'I think you were intending to use the truck yourself.'

'I had thought about it, but no,' said Stig. 'I decided we must stay.'

Colonel Gulbrand smiled. 'Even so, I appreciate what you're doing. It's a big sacrifice.'

'Not as big as the one you're making,' said Stig. 'We must all do what we can.' He turned to his cousin. 'Where're Else and little Helena? Are they safe?'

Larsen nodded. 'In Oslo still. I hope so. You can imagine, it's been difficult. . .'

The soup had barely been set on the table when Nils rushed breathlessly into the kitchen, his eyes wide. 'The Germans are coming!' he exclaimed, pointing wildly towards the road.

The men scraped back their chairs and stood up. 'How far?' Gulbrand asked him.

'Half a kilometre,' Nils replied, 'maybe a little more. Two trucks full of men and a car out front.'

'Quick,' said Gulbrand, 'to the truck.' The men grabbed their packs and rifles, but at the door Stig said, 'I don't think you'll make it. They're too close. Let me hide you. Perhaps they'll go on through the village. Then you can head back to the bridge.'

Gulbrand peered through the window, glanced at his men and nodded at Stig. 'All right. Quick.'

Stig led them through the house and out of the back, away from the road, across a patch of packed snow to the ground floor of the barn, where the cows still sheltered. The animals shuffled and snorted nervously at the sudden intrusion, but the men made their way through the heavy, warm bodies and up a dusty ladder to the floor above. The upper deck of the barn was filled at one end with a stack of hay. 'Get under that,' Stig told them. 'I'll smooth it over afterwards.' The men did as they were bidden just as the sound of the trucks reached the barn from the road. As Stig covered the men and looked anxiously around him for any sign of their presence, he heard muffled shouts in German and felt his heart quicken. He hurried down the ladder, pushed through the cows and stepped out into the yard once more. Not more than forty metres away, by the road, several German troops were clambering out of a grey-painted Opel truck and running over to an officer who stood a little way from his staff car. The remainder - some thirty troops in all, Stig guessed - waited in the two lorries, the tips of their rifles pointed menacingly skyward. Stig felt his heart lurch, then froze as he heard the officer call out to him.

'You!' shouted the German. 'Come here!'

Stig walked towards him, praying Agnes and the boys had cleared away the bowls and mugs and any sign of the five men. The officer stared at him, watching his every step until Stig stopped a few yards away.

'Who lives here?' the German asked, in fluent Norwegian.

'Myself and my family. My wife and two boys.' Stig looked at the implacable face. The man had a pistol by his side and behind him six men were armed with rifles. The officer's pistol was pointed directly at Stig's stomach. 'We're looking for soldiers,' said the officer. 'Have you seen any Norwegian troops?'

Stig shook his head. He felt a bead of sweat run down his back.

'We've had reports that troops were seen heading this way. You can show me around. If you're telling the truth you have nothing to fear. The house first, I think.'

Stig led the way, his heart thumping, to the back. He felt his hand close round the metal latch, briefly closed his eyes, then opened the door. The officer brushed past him, glanced around, then ordered his men to start their search.

'Where are your family?' he asked.

'Probably in the kitchen. It's where I left them.'

'What do you mean?'

'After lunch,' Stig said quickly.

The officer studied him, eyes boring into him. 'You seem nervous,' the German said to him.

'We're not used to having troops here. You're the first Germans I've seen. All these weapons...' He let the sentence trail.

The officer eyed him again. 'Continue the guided tour.'

Stig led him to the kitchen where Agnes and the two boys stood anxiously at the far side of the table. Glancing around quickly to see that they had removed all evidence of their guests, Stig walked over and stood beside his family, waiting. The officer peered into a tall cupboard, then found the door to the cellar. He shouted to his men, who were evidently checking upstairs, the sound of heavy feet and the moving of furniture clunking loudly through the timber boards. Two appeared soon after, ducking their helmeted heads as they entered the low- beamed kitchen, then disappeared into the cellar. They found nothing.

'Outside now,' the officer said, and Stig looked anxiously at his wife and sons, then followed.

'I've a couple of sheds and a main barn,' said Stig. 'Nothing more.'

'You have a truck,' said the German. 'A Ford truck. We might need that.'

Stig's heart sank, but the officer was now looking at the barn. A stone and earth ramp led from the yard to the height of the first floor, and a wooden bridge linked the ramp to two large doors at the front. Underneath the bridge stood an old cart.

'Can you open those doors?' the officer asked him.

'Only from the inside at the moment,' Stig explained. 'There's a wooden bolt across them.' Instead he led them to the door at the side on the ground floor.

Above, Henrik Larsen had his face pressed to the floorboards. There was the tiniest crack and through it he could see Stig leading the German troops into the barn.

He, too, could feel his heart pounding, so hard that he feared its movement would disturb some of the dry dust and give away their position. A cow bellowed, then another, as the soldiers roughly pushed them aside.

'And what have you got up there?' the German officer was asking Stig.

'A few stores. The remnants of last year's hay,' Stig replied.

Larsen watched as the officer pushed his way through the cows and stared up at the floorboards above, so that it seemed to him that the German was staring straight at him from under his peaked field cap with its curious flower embroidered on the side. Dark eyes, square face and thin lips. Larsen tensed as he watched the officer carefully unfasten his holster cover and remove his pistol. And by God he felt hot under the hay, still in his shirt, thick tunic and greatcoat. He could feel the sweat running down either side of his face and he worried suddenly that a bead of it, rather than the dust, would drip through the rafters. Fighting off a desperate urge to wipe his brow, he remained still, hardly daring to blink or even breathe. Stig, he could see, was terrified: his eyes were darting from one man to another, and he swallowed repeatedly. Come on, Stig, he thought, don't go and get yourself killed. As a boy, Larsen had always looked up to his older cousin. And now this.

The other soldiers were also looking upwards, their rifles at the ready, as the officer began slowly, purposefully, climbing the rungs on the ladder. Larsen watched him, until all he could see were the German's boots and then, moments later, he heard the man clamber out onto the floorboards beside them. His footsteps trod carefully towards the two doors at the end. There was a clatter as he moved something out of his way, and then he was walking back again towards the pile of hay Larsen froze once more, then heard movement in the hay to his left. Closing his eyes, he heard the German cock his pistol. An earth-shattering crack jolted him as a shot rang out. But instead of feeling any searing pain or hearing the cry of a comrade, he was aware of the German officer laughing. 'You have one less rat in your barn,' the German called out to Stig.

After that the Germans left, but it was not until the trucks and the car had moved on towards the main part of the village and Stig had crept back up the ladder that any of them dared speak.

'They're searching the rest of the village,' Stig told them, in a loud whisper, and one by one they stood up, dusted themselves down and pulled the wisps of hay from their collars and hair. 'They won't be able to see you - there's a bend in the road between us, the church and the rest of the houses.'

Colonel Gulbrand clasped Stig's hands again. 'Thank you,' he said. 'I shall make sure the King hears of what you have done for us.'

Stig smiled, his earlier terror receding. Extreme relief, mixed with a surge of adrenalin, gave him an almost exultant feeling. 'Head back a couple of hundred metres, then cross the bridge over the Glama,' he told Gulbrand. 'The road along the valley leads north-west and it's clear of snow.'

The men hurried out of the barn to the open shed where the truck stood. Throwing their packs into the back first, the younger guardsmen clambered in while Gulbrand and the curious bespectacled man jumped into the cab. The engine started immediately. Stig looked up at Larsen. 'Good luck,' he said. 'One day you can come back and tell me all about it.'

'Stig, thank you,' Larsen replied. 'Take good care of yourself. Look after your family.'

'I will.'

Larsen gripped the wooden stock of his rifle with one hand and clenched the side of the truck with the other as they cautiously rumbled across the yard, then turned out onto the road. As Stig had assured them, there was no sign of the Germans. Larsen glanced back to the farmhouse one last time and saw his cousin wave, then step back into the house.

Gulbrand turned the truck across the bridge, then right onto the valley road. On the other side of the wide Glama river the village of Okset drifted into view between the trees on the river's edge. Larsen could see, as the others could, the German trucks by the church, and a dull ache churned once more in his belly. Surely, he thought, they would be spotted. He could almost feel German field glasses trained on them.

A sickening feeling washed over him as it dawned on him with sudden clarity that his cousin would be in trouble. He couldn't believe he had been so stupid. Why had it not occurred to him at the time? Of course the Germans would return to the farm, find the truck gone and put two and two together. Jesus, he thought. What have 1 done?

Sitting opposite him, Lieutenant Nielssen grinned. He had taken off his cloth field cap so that his fair hair was blown across his forehead. 'What are the odds on when our friends in the Luftwaffe will appear?'

'For Christ's sake,' muttered Stunde. He was the youngest of them, only recently promoted to lieutenant.

'Two to one says it'll be less than an hour.'

In fact, it was half that time. They had not driven more than a dozen miles when two Messerschmitt 110s were bearing down on them. No sooner had Larsen seen two dots rapidly transform into wasp-like planes than rows of bullets spat up lumps of soil behind them before catching up with the pick-up, smashing one of the headlights from the front wings and puncturing the bonnet. In seconds the aircraft were past, the two dark crosses on each wingtip vivid against their pale, oil-streaked undersides. They watched the two fighters roar onwards, then bank and turn.

'Christ, look at the bonnet!' yelled Stunde. Larsen stood up and peered over the cab at the huge tear from which steam was hissing.

Gulbrand pulled the truck into the side of the road. 'Out, out, quick!' he shouted.

Grabbing their rucksacks, they leapt out and ran into the dense pine forest that rose high above the valley. This time Larsen heard the clatter of machine-gun bullets before the roar of the aircrafts' twin engines. Pressing his head into the snow he felt an explosion followed by a surge of bright heat as the truck exploded in a ball of flame. Shards of glass and metal rained through the trees, and branches crackled as those closest to the inferno caught fire. Larsen glanced at the colonel and saw him almost smothering the civilian, Hening Sandvold.

'Anyone hurt?' called Gulbrand. Miraculously, no one was. 'Good. Let's get away from here.' He pulled out a map. 'We'll climb up into the mountains, then cut across and join a road here.' He pointed.

Larsen hauled himself up beside the colonel. Drops of melting snow from the pines were falling around them. 'You knew they'd come back for Stig.'

'It was inevitable,' he said. 'I'm sorry. He's a strong man, though. I'm sure he'll come through.'

Larsen smiled weakly, then continued scrambling up into the mountains.

But Stig Andvard was already dead. As Colonel Gulbrand had known all along - and Larsen and his cousin had realized too late - the Germans had seen the truck speeding along the far side of the valley with five men aboard. When they returned to the farm and found the pick-up gone, Hauptmann Wolf Zellner, in his fury at being duped by a mere farmer, had taken out his pistol and shot Stig in the head. As Larsen scrabbled up out of the snow, Agnes lay over her prostrate husband, wailing with grief while a pool of blood spread in an ever- widening circle across the packed ice next to the empty shed.

More than two hundred and fifty miles away, as the crow flies, a British Royal Navy light cruiser steamed across the North Sea towards the Norwegian coast. There was a moderate swell and grey clouds overhead, conditions enough to ensure that HMS Pericles pitched and rolled with gusto as she carved her way through the grey-green sea. For the majority of the infantrymen being given passage - and whose stomachs were used to a steadier footing - this movement was too much. Below decks, soldiers lay in their bunks, pallid and groaning. A few played cards or smoked, but despite the smell of tobacco and oil, the stench of vomit was overwhelming.

It was why one soldier was on the main deck. An experienced sailor compared with most of the novices on board, he'd had no seasickness and, now that the rain had stopped, had stepped out into the bracing North Sea air.

Leaning against the railings to the port side of the forward six-inch gun turret, he watched the bow pitching into the sea, arcs of white spray pluming into the air. The wind brought tiny droplets of seawater across the decks, and he found the thin spray refreshing against his face.

He stood a little over six foot tall, with broad shoulders and dark skin from years of being baked in a hot sun, and bolstered during the past week in Scotland by unusually warm, sunny weather. Dark brown hair and brows accentuated his pale blue eyes, from which spread the lines of crow's feet. His nose was narrow but slightly askew, broken several times over the years. Otherwise his face was clean-shaven and as yet largely unlined - although he was still only twenty-four, his demeanour and the overall impression he gave were those of someone several years older.

Sergeant Jack Tanner glanced casually at a passing seaman, then shuffled his shoulders. The thick serge still felt unfamiliar after years of wearing cotton drill, and the unlined collar made his neck itch, but he was not one of those mourning the demise of the old service dress, with its long tunic and leggings. The RSM had been broken-hearted, but that was because he had known no other uniform and because he liked his men to look immaculate on the parade ground - all polished boots and shiny brass buttons, service caps down over the eyes. Looking smart was all very well, but Tanner had come to learn that practicality was more important when trying to kill the enemy, which was why he approved of the new khaki battle dress, with its short blouse and high-backed trousers, so completely different from anything that had come before, and which had not yet reached either India or the Middle East. Indeed, the battalion had only been issued with the new pattern a few weeks before.

Three cream chevrons on either arm marked his rank, while above, in a gentle curve at the top of the sleeve, was a black tab with 'Yorks Rangers' written in green. It was a regimental marking idiosyncratic to all three battalions of the King's Own Yorkshire Rangers, and a distinction the sergeant still felt proud to wear after eight years. The Rangers had had a long history, having fought from Africa to Asia to the Americas in numerous battles and campaigns as far back as Blenheim, and Tanner was glad to be part of that. It gave him a sense of purpose and belonging.

Even so, when he thought of the regiment, it was the 2nd Battalion - the one with which he had served since joining up eight years before. He had assumed that once his leave was over, he would be returning to Palestine, where the 2nd Battalion was still based, but instead he had been told that the 5th Battalion needed experienced men and had been packed off to Leeds to join them instead.

At the time he had been distraught to leave behind so many good friends, not to mention the way of life he had come to know so well, but it was also a matter of pride, and Jack Tanner was a proud man. The 5th Battalion were not regulars but Territorials and, as everyone knew, were barely more than poorly trained part-timers.

In the six weeks he had been with them, he had not seen much to alter that view. Most of the men in his platoon were decent enough lads, but the majority were undernourished and from impoverished families living in the industrial cities of Leeds and Bradford. They lacked the stamina and fitness he was used to with the regulars. Few of them could fire thirty rounds a minute with anything approaching a decent aim. Parade-ground drill, route marches and a few exercises on the moors was the limit of their experience. Lieutenant Dingwall, his platoon commander, had been a solicitor from Ripon before the war, and although he was harmless enough he could barely read a map, let alone fell a man from five hundred yards. Tanner knew the subaltern inspired little confidence in his men, yet now they were heading off to war, and it was Tanner's job to keep them alive and help to make them into an effective fighting unit.

Tanner sighed and looked out at the ships of their small force steaming with Pericles. No more than two hundred yards away the transport ship, Sirius, carried the battalion's artillery, motor transport and much of their ammunition and other equipment. He would have liked to know whose idea it had been to put so much of their equipment onto one ship. 'Bloody idiots,' he muttered, then pushed his tin helmet to the back of his head and leant forward to gaze down at the sea racing past.

In fact, he had begun to doubt whether anyone in the entire army, let alone 148th Brigade, had much idea about what they were doing. Since leaving Leeds and arriving at Rosyth, they had boarded three different ships, loading and unloading their equipment on each occasion. Confusion and chaos had ensued. Kit had been lost and mixed up with that of the Sherwood Foresters and Leicesters, who were also part of the brigade, while once, they had even set sail before turning and heading back to port. Nobody seemed to know why. All the men had been grumbling and it had been universally agreed that the top brass needed their heads examining. This was no way to fight a war.

After disembarking the second time, they had marched eleven miles to a makeshift camp outside Dumfermline where they had remained an entire week, carrying out a few route marches but little firing practice or battle training: most of their ammunition and equipment was still lying somewhere on Rosyth docks. Even when they had finally set sail early the previous morning, the battalion had been horribly mixed up: two companies and HQ Company on Pericles, and one each on the other two cruisers, along with the Foresters and Leicesters. Worst of all, no attempt seemed to have been made to split up their heavy equipment. Tanner gazed at Sirius and wondered again whose idea it had been to put all their transport and guns on one thin-skinned, poorly armed transport ship. 'Bloody hell,' he said again, shaking his head.

'You all right, Sarge?' Corporal Sykes was standing beside him, cupping his hands with his back turned as he tried to light a cigarette.

'Yes, thanks, Stan. Not so much of a croaker now?'

'Think I'll pull through. Better for being out here at any rate. Christ, the smell down there. Bloody terrible.'

'Why do you think I'm standing out here?' Tanner grinned. 'You've got to eat something before you set sail. Do that and you'll be fine.'

The ship pitched again, causing a larger plume of spray to splash over the prow. Both men instinctively turned their backs but then, out of the corner of his eye, Tanner spotted a trail of white rushing across the surface towards Sirius.

'Sweet Jesus!' he said, shaking Sykes's shoulder. 'That's a bloody torpedo. Look!'

At the same moment, the ship's klaxon rang out, there was shouting across the decks and the crew rushed to their battle stations. Across the two-hundred-yard stretch of water, the men on board Sirius had also seen the missile, their frantic shouts of alarm carrying over the grey sea. Both Tanner and Sykes watched in silence as the torpedo reached the vessel. A split-second pause, then a deafening explosion. A huge tower of water erupted into the sky, followed moments later by a second detonation. Suddenly the ship was engulfed in flames and thick, oily black smoke. The Pericles began to turn away rapidly, tilting hard to avoid the U-boat that must still be lurking below. The two destroyers escorting the convoy went back towards the stricken Sirius, depth charges popping from their sides only to explode moments later in great eruptions of water.

Tanner and Sykes ran to the stern as Pericles began to turn again. They lost their footing as the ship lilted, but grabbed the railings and watched as Sirius groaned in agony. She was now dead in the water. Men screamed, shouted and hurled themselves into the ice-cold sea. Then, with a haunting wail of tearing metal, Sirius split in two. The stern went under first, sliding beneath the waves, but the prow took longer, the bow pointing almost vertically into the sky before gently sinking out of view. It had taken a little under four minutes.

'Jesus, Sarge,' said Sykes, at length. One of the antiaircraft cruisers had come alongside where Sirius had been moments before and was picking up survivors. 'Would you bloody believe it? How are we expected to fight the bloody Jerries now?'

Tanner rubbed his brow. 'I don't know, Stan. I really don't know.'