The Odin Mission

Chapter 3

Tanner noticed that a large barn extended out at right angles from the house. Good, he thought, grateful for whatever cover he could get. The twitch of a curtain showed the place was still occupied, but it appeared that the owners preferred not to show themselves. He crouched beside the stone ramp that led up to the barn's first floor and opened the haversack slung behind his left hip. He felt inside, pulled out an old piece of oily cloth and carefully unwrapped it.

'What's that, Sarge?' asked Hepworth, crouching beside him.

'It's a telescopic sight,' said Tanner. 'An Aldis.' It had once belonged to his father, and Tanner had carried it with him throughout his army career. Most gunsmiths could modify the Enfield rifle easily enough by milling and fitting two scope mounts and pads to the action body - alterations that were sufficiently discreet to enable a platoon sergeant to have his rifle adapted without his superiors noticing. Consequently, having joined the 5th Battalion in Leeds, he had wasted no time in taking his newly issued SMLE No. 1 Mk III rifle to a gunsmith in the Royal Armoury to have it adapted and his scope sighted. It was a good scope and his father had sworn by it; certainly Tanner had found that on the rare occasions he had used it, the Aldis had never lost its zero.

'There's someone in the house,' said Tanner. 'Go and find out whether they've got any transport.'

Hepworth hurried up to the front door.

Screwing the scope into place, Tanner stood behind the ramp leading up to the barn and, using it as a rest, peered through the sight. The column was now about seven hundred yards away, and his sight zeroed at four hundred. He had found that allowing a foot's drop for every fifty yards beyond the zero usually did the trick, but this was going to be a long shot even with the scope; as it was, he could only just see the driver of the lead vehicle. Tanner reminded himself that all he needed to do was delay the column, cause a bit of confusion. He lowered his aim to the bottom of the truck, then lifted it again by, he guessed, about six foot. The truck was moving slowly - under fifteen miles per hour, he reckoned - and almost directly towards him. Half exhaling as he pulled back the bolt, he held his breath and squeezed the trigger.

The truck lurched and ploughed off the road, so that the vehicle immediately behind quickly emerged around it. This time Tanner aimed at the indistinct figure of the driver, then made a generous adjustment for the bullet's falling trajectory, and fired again. The man was hit - Tanner could see him thrown backwards. 'Damn,' he mouthed, pulled back the bolt again and fired once more. This time he saw the driver punched back in his seat, then slump forward. The man next to him grabbed at the steering-wheel, but it was too late and the truck struck the first, which came to a halt spread across the width of the road. Men were pouring out of the vehicles now and taking cover. Tanner smiled to himself with satisfaction, then turned towards the front of the farm, where Hepworth was still banging on the door.

'What the hell are you playing at?' shouted Tanner.

'They're not answering,' said Hepworth.

'For God's sake, Hepworth,' snarled Tanner. 'Forget 'em. Don't waste bloody time on niceties. A quick dekko in the barns and sheds. We need to get out of here - fast.'

There were several ageing carts in a barn but two bicycles in one of the sheds adjoining the house. One had a flat tyre and was covered with dust and cobwebs, but the two infantrymen grabbed them. 'Right, let's go,' said Tanner. 'Come on, quick.'

German artillery shells were whistling overhead with greater regularity now, bombarding the Allied positions just half a mile ahead. Tanner wove back and forth across the road, hoping to make himself a more elusive target should the Germans attempt to fire at them. His flat rear wheel was sliding badly, but he managed to keep his balance. Hepworth, making faster progress, repeatedly looked back until Tanner urged him to press on. Suddenly he became aware of an eerie silence - no birds singing, no blast of shells exploding. In the next moment there came a faint whirr and Tanner yelled at Hepworth, then flung down his bicycle and leapt into the snow by the side of the road, just as a stream of bullets spat up a line along the road followed by four Messerschmitt 110s thundering over.

He stood up and saw them strafing the Allies ahead, then shouted to Hepworth. To his relief, the private got up, dusted off the snow, hitched his rifle onto his shoulder and waved.

Soon after, they reached the Allied forward positions, waved in through the hastily prepared roadblock by a corporal from the Sherwood Foresters.

'Where're our lot?' Tanner asked.

'Behind. Two hundred yards, on the right of the road under the Balberkamp.'

A subaltern approached Tanner. 'Anyone behind you, Sergeant?'

'Only a column of enemy infantry.'

'How many?'

'Hard to say, sir. I counted at least a dozen trucks. They were all towing guns - about the size of our two- pounders, I reckon. And they've got tanks.'

'Good God,' muttered the lieutenant. 'You'd better report to HQ right away.'

'Yes, sir. Where is it, sir?'

'It's the only brick building around, a few hundred yards behind by the road. And it's a Joint HQ for all three battalions. The bastards have been dropping incendiaries to smoke them out, so follow the line of charred houses.'

Another shell hurtled over and they fell flat on the ground again. It exploded seventy yards further on, the noise deafening as the report echoed off the imposing Balberkamp. Tanner thanked the officer and then, with Hepworth, hurried forward. Men were still trying frantically to dig holes in the thin soil, officers and NCOs were shouting orders, while others were hastily laying down wire and building makeshift sangars. The early-afternoon air was still, heavy with the smell of cordite and smoke.

They found Joint HQ easily. One house nearby was still burning, thick smoke rising into the sky, another was burnt to the ground, while a third had a collapsed roof. A number of pines were still crackling with flames, their blackened branches bare of needles.

Outside, several civilian cars were parked haphazardly in the mud and slush. Tanner recognized one as the vehicle in which Captain Webb had made good his escape. In the yard beside the house there were a number of foldaway tables on which stood a line of field telephones, lines of cable extending across the snow. Evidently at least one was suffering from a break in the line as an exasperated Leicesters officer was cursing his inability to get through to his men. Runners reached the house as others headed through the trees towards the company positions.

'You stay out here, Hep,' said Tanner, pushing his way through the throng of clerks and other headquarters staff. His boots squelched on the mud. It was not cold, but the sky was overcast and grey and the snow was melting. Drips ran off the edge of the roof and from the branches of the trees. Indeed, Tanner now felt hot after his exertions, and he wiped the sweat from his forehead before he stepped inside HQ.

There was pandemonium. The house smelt musty, of coffee, sweat and damp clothes. In a room off the hallway, a number of men, including Norwegians, were peering at a map. Another Leicesters officer brushed past him, then Tanner spotted Lieutenant Wrightson, the battalion intelligence officer, sitting on the corner of a table in a room at the end of the hallway. Tanner knocked lightly on the open door.

Wrightson looked up. 'Yes?'

'I've been told to report to Battalion CO, sir, regarding what I've seen of enemy troop movements.'

Wrightson disappeared to fetch Colonel Chisholm.

A few moments later the colonel appeared with Captain Webb. 'Tanner, what the bloody hell are you doing here?' asked Webb. 'Shouldn't you be with the rest of your platoon?'

'All right, Captain, that will do,' said Colonel Chisholm. He was a tall man in his mid-forties, with a trim moustache above his lip and dark eyes. A North Yorkshire landowner and Member of Parliament, he, too, was new to war. 'What have you got for me, Sergeant? ‘I think Private Hepworth and I were the last out of Lillehammer, sir. We saw a tank entering the station with a number of accompanying troops, then a long column of motorized infantry deploying out of the town. The lead trucks had guns attached to the back. Only small ones, though. Anti-tank guns, I should say.'

The colonel ran his hand through his hair as Tanner spoke, then chewed one of his fingernails. 'How many tanks do you think they've got?'

'Hard to say, sir. There was one entering the station yard and another not far behind, but I heard the tracks of others as we were heading out of the town.'

'Good God,' muttered Chisholm. 'And now they'll have taken our stores. Damn it, Webb, why the hell didn't you blow them first?'

'There wasn't time, sir,' said Webb, defiantly. 'We were loading until the last minute, trying to salvage as much as we could, and then Jerry was upon us.'

Tanner shifted his feet. 'Excuse me, sir, but Private Hepworth and I managed to destroy the stores.'

'What the devil are you talking about, Tanner?' said Webb.

'We poured petrol over them, sir, and blew them up.'

'Oh, really? And what were the enemy doing while this was happening, Sergeant?'

'Getting burnt and shot, sir.'

Colonel Chisholm smiled. 'Good man, Tanner. Well, that's something at least.' He squinted at his watch. 'All right, Sergeant, you'd better hurry back to your position. I think you'll have a chance to get a few more rounds off before long.' The colonel strode past him, presumably to inform his fellow battalion commanders, but as Tanner was about to leave, Webb grabbed his arm.

'I don't appreciate being humiliated like that,' he hissed.

Tanner clenched his fist. He had a strong desire to hit Webb, knock him to the floor, but instead he glowered at the man, yanked his arm free, then left the room. Outside, Hepworth was waiting for him. 'Come on,' growled Tanner. 'Let's go.'

They left the road to head through the trees and across the thinning snow. It was still in the woodland, and Tanner paused briefly to light cigarettes for himself and Hepworth. He passed one to the private and breathed in the smell of tobacco mixed with burning pinewood. A brief release of tension spread through him. Somewhere they heard the chatter of Bren light machine-guns, and a moment later another Junkers roared over, its twin engines louder than ever in their close surroundings. A split second later came the whistle of falling incendiaries, and once again Tanner and Hepworth flung themselves face down into the snow. A deafening ripple of explosions erupted a short distance behind them and the ground shuddered. Shards of shrapnel and splinters of wood pattered nearby, followed by the crackle of burning branches.

Lifting himself to his feet once more, Tanner saw his crumpled cigarette in the snow. 'Bugger it!' He glanced across at Hepworth.

'I reckon it's dangerous being near you, Sarge,' said the private, as he brushed snow from his battle dress.

'You're alive, aren't you?'

'Yes, but only just. Look, Sarge, my hands are shaking.' He held them out to show Tanner. 'I don't think I'm cut out for war.'

Tanner could not help smiling. 'Another beadie will sort you out,' he said, pulling out his packet of cigarettes again. A moment before he had thought to save his last precious few, but now his resolve was weakening. In truth, he needed a good smoke himself. 'Just don't go telling the rest of the lads or they'll think I've gone soft,' he said.

They found B Company soon after, strung out between the trees on the lower, more gentle slopes at the foot of the Balberkamp, next to a company of Norwegian troops. Men were attempting to dig in here too, hacking away at the shallow soil with their short spades, building sangars from stone, bits of wood, and anything else that could be salvaged. Shells continued to whistle over at intervals, but were landing further towards the road so the men were no longer bothering even to duck, let alone fall flat on the ground.

Number Four Platoon held the end of the line. Each of the three sections was trying to make their own defences - a sangar of sorts for the Bren team and whatever holes in the ground they could manage. Tanner was in despair. Nothing he had seen since reaching their lines had convinced him they had the remotest chance of holding off the enemy, and the efforts of his own platoon, only recently arrived at the position, were the worst of them all. What good were a few stones and a hole barely deep enough to lie flat in against tanks, guns and especially aircraft? What was it the brass knew that he didn't? Perhaps reinforcements were on their way. Perhaps the RAF. Perhaps another shipment of transport and guns had already docked and was driving towards them. He sighed, pushed his helmet to the back of his head and looked around for Lieutenant Dingwall.

The subaltern had seen him first, however, and strode over from his newly sited platoon headquarters between two close-together pine trees. 'There you are, Tanner. You took your bloody time. If I'd known you were going to be so long I'd never have let you take Hepworth - I've had to use Calder as my runner instead. Where the devil have you been?'

'I'm sorry, Mr Dingwall,' said Tanner. 'We got a bit held up and then I was ordered to report to Joint HQ.'

'Well, all right, but I need you here now. We've got a lot to do on these defences, so get digging.'

'What about reinforcements, sir?'

'Some Norwegian troops have joined us.'

'I saw them, but with all respect, they're not going to manage much, are they? They've got less equipment than us and most of them have only been in uniform a fortnight. Where's the heavy stuff? Have you heard anything, sir?'

Dingwall shook his head. 'Apparently there's another company of Leicesters on its way - they got left behind somehow at Rosyth, but Captain Cartwright heard from the IO that another supply ship's gone down.'

'For God's sake!' Tanner was exasperated.

'Rather you didn't spread that about, though, all right?' added the lieutenant, in a lower voice.

'My God, sir,' said Tanner, 'this is madness. What the hell are we going to achieve?'

'Keep your voice down, Sergeant,' said Dingwall, sharply. 'We're playing for time. Trying to keep the enemy at bay and help the Norwegians.'

'Then why not keep them at bay a hundred miles back towards Andalsnes? We've got a hundred-and-fifty-mile supply line here, with no guns to speak of, no bloody tanks, no trucks, and one piddling railway line that Jerry will knock out in no time if he hasn't already. And look at the men, sir. They're exhausted. When did we last have some proper grub? It's insanity.'

'We've got to do what we can, Sergeant,' said Dingwall. 'Captain Cartwright has been promised that hot food will be issued tonight. In the meantime, we must make do with what limited battle rations we've still got.'

Tanner knew there was no chance of any hot meal that day - how would it reach them? Captain Cartwright had been fobbed off, of course he had, but there was no point in saying any more to the lieutenant. He'd said his piece, got it off his chest, only it hadn't made him feel any better. Rather, a new wave of weariness spread over him.

'I'd like you to take over the end of the line and make sure our defences are up to scratch,' said Lieutenant Dingwall.

Tanner saluted, and wandered through the trees until he found Corporal Sykes and his section.

'Afternoon, Sarge,' said Sykes, cheerfully.

Tanner was pleased to see that Sykes had made the most of a large rock and a pine tree for positioning the Bren. Other, smaller, rocks had been brought over, and branches carefully placed so that the machine-gun was almost entirely hidden from forward view. 'Good work, Stan,' he said, as he eased off his pack and haversack.

Sykes grinned. 'Try digging, though, Sarge. It's flippin' 'ard rock they 'ave 'ere.' Sykes put down his entrenching tool and stood up. From his battle blouse he pulled out some chocolate, broke it in two and offered half to Tanner. 'Superior stuff this, Sarge.'

'Thanks. I'm starving. Just what I need. Where d'you get it?'

Sykes tapped his nose. 'Trade secrets . . . Well, actually, I got it from some Norwegian bloke in Lillehammer. Said he'd rather give it to us than have it stolen by Nazis.'

Tanner smiled. 'Makes for better tiffin than hard tack, that's for sure.' He liked Sykes. Of slight build and with short, mousy hair slicked to his skull with brilliantine, he was, as Tanner had discovered, far stronger than he looked. Sykes was sharp too - always ready with a quick reply - and he was the only man other than himself in the company who hadn't come from Yorkshire. Rather, he was a Londoner, from Deptford, as he had proudly admitted the first time they had met. Tanner had sensed an unspoken affinity between them, in part because he regarded himself and Sykes as outsiders. Every time Tanner opened his mouth, he revealed the soft remnants of a West Country burr that had not left him even after so many years away. Sykes's South London accent was even more marked among the thick Yorkshire tones of the other rankers.

He took out his spade and was about to start helping Sykes and the other men in the section when a Messerschmitt 110 pounded overhead, strafing their positions. There was no need to tell anyone what to do: they all hurled themselves flat on the ground as bullets kicked up gouts of earth and snow, shards of stone, and snicked through branches above. Tanner heard a bullet ricochet from the rock beside him and a tiny sliver of stone nicked the back of his hand.

It was over in a trice and, cursing, Tanner got to his feet once more. His hand was bleeding. 'This is a bloody Goddamn joke!' he said. Angrily, he picked up his spade and hacked at the ground behind Sykes's Bren post. As the corporal had warned, the spade cut through a few inches of soil, then hit rock. Repeatedly, he tried to find an area where the soil might be deeper, but every time it was the same. Rock.

'Who gave us these poxy spades anyway?' he barked at Sykes. 'Bloody useless, they are. What was wrong with the old pick-and-mattock tool we used to have? I wouldn't want one of these at the bloody seaside, let alone in the middle of sodding Norway.' He dug in the spade and the wooden handle snapped. With a curse, he flung what was left of it behind him.

'Who threw that?' snapped a voice behind them.

Tanner and Sykes swung round to see a platoon of strange troops approaching through the trees. Leading them, and striding towards Tanner, was the man who had spoken. 'Who threw that spade handle?' he said again.

Ah, thought Tanner, catching the accent. French. 'I did,' he said.

The man walked up to him in silence. He was shorter than the sergeant by several inches, with a narrow, dark face and an aquiline nose. 'Isn't it customary to salute an officer, Sergeant?' Tanner slowly brought his hand to his brow. 'And stand to attention!' said the Frenchman, sharply. 'No wonder you British are making such hard work of this war. No discipline, no training.'

Tanner fumed.

'Well?' continued the Frenchman. 'What have you to say for yourself?'

Tanner paused, then said slowly, 'I apologize, sir. I hadn't appreciated there were French troops in the vicinity.'

'Well, now you know, Sergeant. There are - one company of the Sixieme Bataillon Chasseurs Alpins, part of General Bethouart's Brigade Haute-Montagne. We have been sent here because you British have no elite forces capable of fighting in the mountains. So - you no longer need to worry about your flanks. When les Allemands attack, you can take comfort from the fact that we shall be above you, watching guard.' He pointed up towards the Balberkamp, then repeated the line in French to his men with a knowing smile. They laughed.

'Where are the rest of the company, sir?' Tanner asked.

'You don't need to know such things, Sergeant.'

'Only I'm not sure one platoon will be able to do much to save us. The mountain's a big place. Furthermore, you've only got rifles. Jerry's got machine-guns and artillery and, even better, he's got aircraft. Lots of aircraft. But I appreciate your help, sir. I really do.' It was now the turn of British troops to laugh.

'Who is your superior officer, Sergeant?' the Frenchman asked curtly.

'Lieutenant Dingwall, sir. He's just over there.' Tanner pointed. 'Only a hundred yards or so. Shall I take you, sir?'

The Frenchman bristled. 'I don't like insolence, Sergeant. Not from my men or any others. You've not heard the last of this.' He barked some orders. Then, with a last glare at Tanner, he continued on his way with his men.

It was by now nearly three o'clock on Monday, 22 April. The shelling had noticeably intensified, as had the number of enemy aircraft flying overhead, but there was still no sign of enemy troops to the front of them.

Tanner was soon ordered back to Platoon HQ to cover the absence of Lieutenant Dingwall, who had been summoned to see the B Company commander, Captain Cartwright. When Dingwall returned, he was flushed, his expression grim. 'It looks like we might be outflanked,' he told Tanner. 'There have been reports of German mountain troops climbing round the Balberkamp. The CO wants me to send a fighting patrol to watch out for them and, if possible, hold them off.'

'What about the Frogs? There was a platoon of mountain troops heading that way.'

'Well, yes, but Captain Cartwright wants some of our own troops up there.' He paused. 'I say, you haven't got a cigarette, have you, Sergeant?' He patted his pockets. 'I seem to be out.'

Tanner sighed inwardly, and handed over his Woodbines. 'I've three left, sir. Be my guest. Think I'll have one too.' The whine of a shell, followed by another in quick succession, whooshed overhead, the echo resounding through the valley. Dingwall flinched, but both men remained standing. The shells exploded some distance behind them. Tanner handed the lieutenant his matches and watched as Dingwall lit his cigarette, fingers shaking.

'About that fighting patrol, sir,' said Tanner, as he exhaled a curling cloud of blue-grey smoke.

'Yes. I want you to take it, Sergeant.'

'Two sections?'

'Not that many. Fourteen. One section and three others, not including yourself. I've been told to keep at least two whole sections here.'

Fourteen men, thought Tanner. Jesus. It wasn't a lot. He drew on his cigarette again, then said, 'I'd like to take Sykes's section, sir, if I may. Shall I take the other three from Platoon HQ?'

'Yes. I'll keep the mortar team here. You can have Hepworth, Garraby and Kershaw.'

Tanner took another drag of his cigarette, then flicked it away. 'Right, sir. Better get going.'

'Just have a look around up there, all right? If you see anything, only open fire if you really think you can hold them up. I need you all back here in the platoon . . . Look, I think we both know we won't be staying here very long. If for any reason we have to move out, it'll be along the valley, and I'm only guessing, I'm afraid, but you might be able to make some ground across here where the river loops westwards, then back towards Tretten. Here.' He gave Tanner a hand-drawn map. 'It's the best I can do, I'm afraid. Another thing we're short of - decent maps.'

'Thank you, sir.'

Dingwall held out his hand. 'Good luck, Sergeant.'

'And you, sir.'

The lieutenant hesitated again, then looked at the ribbon on Tanner's chest. 'I - I've been meaning to ask. Your MM. What were you given it for?'

Tanner shrugged bashfully. 'Oh, you know how it is with gongs, sir,' he said, then realized that, of course, the lieutenant had no idea. He kicked at the ground. 'It was during the Loe Agra campaign a few years back. On the North West Frontier. Those jokers weren't as well armed as the Germans, but they were vicious buggers all the same. Had rifles but bloody great swords and all sorts as well. Those wazirs would slice your belly open without a second thought, give them half a chance.'

'It must have taught you a lot, Sergeant.'

Tanner nodded. 'I suppose so, sir.'

'I envy you that experience. I'm sure it's the best training there is. Oh, and I heard about what you did today,' he added. 'You want to watch it, Tanner. They'll be giving you another bit of ribbon if you're not careful.'

Ten minutes later, Tanner and his patrol were on their way, climbing through the snow and trees round the north-west side of the Balberkamp. The slopes were steep and the men soon gasped for breath. Lack of sleep and food hardly helped. Nor did the weight of their equipment. Tanner had insisted that each man repack his kit, as he had done himself the night before. He had ordered them to discard any non-essentials and replace them with extra rounds of .303 and Bren ammunition. Gas masks were put to one side, as were items of personal kit. As Tanner pointed out, there were large differences between what had been drummed in to them during peacetime and what was practical in war. Most wore their greatcoats so that their large packs could be left behind, but Tanner carried his, full of rounds and explosives, with his haversack on his hip. He had with him around sixty pounds of kit.

The men had grumbled, and they grumbled again now as they forced their way up the mountainside, but Tanner knew it was not his job to be popular. His task was to lead by example and to inspire trust. Being a tough bastard was what mattered, not making friends. The ribbon on his tunic helped, and he was glad of it because it marked him out, giving him an automatic degree of authority and respect. It had made his life easier since he had joined the battalion. Now, though, he was about to be properly tested. Battle was about to be joined. His mouth felt dry and cloying as it always did before a fight. Earlier, at the station yard, he'd hardly had time to think, but now, in expectation of the German attack, he felt on edge and irritable, his mood worsened by his run-ins with Captain Webb and the Frenchman.

He wondered what they would find up on the slopes. In his own mind, it seemed rather pointless for the Germans to try to outflank their position from the mountains when they could attack head-on with artillery and armour and achieve the same result; the Allies would not be standing firm for long, of that he was sure. But there were always rumours in war - some turned out to be true, many more proved false. He supposed it was the commander's job to decide which was worth taking seriously. At any rate, someone had considered the threat of an attack by enemy mountain troops to be real enough.

No matter, he and his fourteen men were now cut adrift from the rest of the platoon and, indeed, the entire company and battalion. His gut instinct was that they would not be rejoining them for some time. He had no radio link, only a hand-drawn map, and no easy route back to the valley. His only means of signalling Lieutenant Dingwall was a Very pistol and three flares, only to be fired if they spotted significant numbers of German troops. But the lieutenant had no way of contacting him: if the battalion was overrun, he could not let Tanner know. And if they fell back, there was no guarantee that Tanner would be able to get as far as Tretten before the Allies had passed through.

Two of the Bren group stopped, exhaustion written across their faces.

'Come on, you idle sods,' Tanner chided.

'Give them a break, Sarge,' said Lance Corporal Erwood, the Bren group leader.

'Stop grumbling and get on with it,' said Tanner. 'Here, give me that.' He took the Bren off Saxby, clasping it by the wooden grip on the barrel. The machine-gun was certainly heavy, but he knew they needed to reach the open plateau at the top of the mountain as soon as possible, and that if he allowed them to stop now, they would only have to stop again.

Several Junkers thundered down the valley, and from where Tanner stood it seemed as though he were looking down on them. All the men halted, as bombs dropped from the planes directly over B Company's positions. First the whistle of falling iron and explosives; then the spurts of flame and clouds of smoke, earth, wood and stone mushrooming across the entire position. A moment later, the report, cracking and echoing off the mountainside.

'All right, let's move,' said Tanner. The knot tightened in his stomach. He almost wished he could meet some Germans now. It would take his mind off things.