The Odin Mission

Chapter 4

In a large room on the top floor of the Bristol Hotel in Oslo, three men sat round a small, low table. Although it was afternoon and the sky outside for the most part clear, the room was quite dark where they sat. In the far corner away from the windows a lamp cast a circle of amber light towards the ceiling, but it remained a room of shadows.

It was also a room of refined good taste, part of the largest suite in the hotel, requisitioned by the newly arrived Reichskommissar. The carpet was finely woven, the shallow wainscoting painted a flawless cream. The furniture was elegant, a mixture of French and Scandinavian, while the paintings on the wall spoke of an idyllic rural Europe several hundred years before. Admittedly the Reichskommissar had only arrived that morning, but nothing about the room suggested it was inhabited by the most powerful German in Norway: there were no flags, no busts or pictures of Hitler, no army of staff scurrying in and out.

Reichsamtsleiter Hans-Wilhelm Scheidt glanced at the new Reichskommissar, then turned to the person sitting next to him. As he did so, he felt mounting contempt. The man was a mess. Tiny globules of sweat had broken out on his forehead, and aware of this - subconsciously or otherwise - the Norwegian was periodically running his hand over it, smoothing the sweep of his sandy hair at the same time. A sweat-laced strand of hair slid loose repeatedly, until another swipe of his hand smoothed it back again. His face, Scheidt reflected, was pudgy, the nose rounded, but the lips were narrow and his eyes darted from side to side as he spoke, rather than steadfastly eyeing the Reichskommissar. The suit he wore was ill-fitting and, Scheidt noticed, there was a stain on the sleeve near the left cuff. Nor was the tie tight against the collar: Scheidt could see the button peeping out from behind the knot.

And the drivel coming from his mouth! Scheidt had heard it over and over again during the past week: how he, Vidkun Quisling, had long been a true friend of Germany; that he was the head of the only Norwegian political party that could govern Norway effectively; that the new Administrative Council appointed by Ambassador Brauer consisted of vacillating incompetents who could not be trusted; and that while it was true that his National Party enjoyed only minority support throughout Norway, that was sure to change. Norway was a peace-loving nation; the fighting had to stop. He could help deliver peace and ensure Norway remained a fervent friend and ally of Germany. The Fuhrer himself had singled him out. As founder and long-standing leader of the National Party, he could govern Norway now and in the years to come.

That was the gist, at any rate, not that Quisling was a man to say something in one sentence when given the opportunity for a long-winded rant. To make matters worse, as the man spoke, spittle collected at the side of his mouth. What was the Reichskommissar making of him? Scheidt wondered, and glanced again at the compact, slimly built man sitting opposite.

The contrast could not have been greater. Josef Terboven was immaculate. It was indeed warm in the room, but there was not even the hint of a sheen on his smooth forehead. The fair hair was combed back perfectly from a pointed widow's peak. The gold-framed round spectacles sat neatly on his nose, while his narrow eyes watched the Norwegian with piercing intent. His double-breasted black suit revealed no insignia of rank, but was beautifully tailored and fitted its wearer like a second skin. The shoes were polished to glass, the shirt cuffs starched white cotton. Terboven exuded confidence, command and control. It was a Party rule that Scheidt had learnt well: look superior, feel superior. It was why he himself had spent so much at one of Berlin's finest tailors; it was why he took such trouble over his personal grooming. For all Quisling's professed admiration of Germany and all things German, sartorial pride was one lesson he had failed to grasp.

Scheidt recrossed his legs, his Louis XIV chair creaking gently. A large lacquered walnut desk stood by the large window, an art-deco drinks cabinet in the corner beside it. Even Terboven's choice of the Bristol made an important statement: it was not necessarily the best hotel in Oslo in which to make his temporary base, but certainly the most stylish.

Terboven raised a hand. 'Stop, please, Herr Quisling. For a moment.' He closed his eyes briefly, as though in deep thought, then opened them again and said, 'Another drink?' He signalled to an aide as Quisling nodded.

Another mistake, thought Scheidt, watching the man pour the Norwegian another whisky as Terboven placed a hand over the top of his own tumbler. 'No, not for me,' he said. Scheidt also knew to refuse.

'All you say may be true, Herr Quisling,' said the Reichskommissar, 'but what about the King - who, it must be said, has shown nothing but contempt for your political ambitions?'

Scheidt smiled to himself at this flagrant criticism of the man sitting next to him.

Quisling shifted in his chair. 'The King fears his position, his authority,' he said. 'It is why he must be captured and brought back to Oslo. I'm sure with a little coercion he can be persuaded to co-operate. For the greater good of Norway.'

Terboven put his hands together as though in prayer and rubbed his chin. 'Hm. It probably won't surprise you, Herr Quisling, to know that I'm no admirer of the King - or any royalty, for that matter. Neither, it should be said, is the Fuhrer.'

'The King must be captured,' said Quisling. 'The Norwegians love him. We voted for him in 1905 when we split from Sweden and since that time he has proved a diligent and extraordinarily popular monarch. He must return to Oslo. Once in the Royal Palace and publicly supporting the National Party, Norway will be the friend and partner Germany wants - indeed needs, Herr Reichskommissar. But so long as King Hakon remains at large, his colours tied to the British mast, there will always be Norwegian resistance to Germany. You must - must- find him. Not only that, Herr Reichskommissar, it is imperative you also find the nation's bullion and the Crown Jewels. The King and the former government took them when they fled the capital. So long as the King has money and funds, he will be able to feed resistance. Without them, his task will be that much more difficult.' He took a gulp of whisky, then leant forward and said, 'My dear Terboven, I really cannot stress enough the importance of capturing the King - before it is too late.'

'He and Prince Olaf are reported to be on the coast now,' said Scheidt. 'At Molde.'

'Thank you, I have read the reports,' said Terboven. He turned back to Quisling. 'Yes, well, thank you, Herr Quisling. We will speak again, but now, if you don't mind, I will bid you good night. As you can imagine, there is much to be done, not least a battle to be won.'

He stood up, signalled Scheidt to remain, and led Quisling to the door. Scheidt watched him shake the Norwegian's hand. It had been a masterly performance: Terboven had shown himself to be well informed yet had listened to the Norwegian; he had been cool and authoritative, but gracious too. He was, Scheidt realized, a formidable opponent.

And right now he was an opponent. It was how it worked in the Party as Scheidt had learnt early in his career. Climbing the ladder was about jockeying for position, backing the right horse, and outmanoeuvring potential rivals. So far it had worked: he had patrons high up in Berlin and had been given the backing to groom Quisling - backing that had come with the Fuhrer's personal support for the Norwegian. Two weeks before, on the eve of the German invasion, Scheidt had believed everything was in place, and that nothing could go wrong. Quisling would be the new prime minister in name, but as Scheidt had known all along, the Norwegian was far too indecisive and lacked the charisma to be anything more than a German puppet. Scheidt would pull his strings.

But Ambassador Brauer had lost his nerve and messed everything up. How that fool could have expected the King to roll over, Scheidt still struggled to understand. The days that had followed the invasion had required resolve and cool nerve, but Brauer had panicked, sacking Quisling as prime minister and bringing in the ludicrously ineffective Administrative Council in the false hope that this would satisfy the King. It had achieved no such thing. And in doing so, he had committed the biggest mistake of all: he had angered the Fiihrer and been recalled to Berlin, his political career finished.

Scheidt knew that he himself was hanging by a thread, but he had not crawled up the Party hierarchy without learning two other golden rules: to trust no one, and always to keep something up one's sleeve. Terboven was in Norway with far-ranging powers - powers that Scheidt could not hope to undermine. However, in this new regime there was still a part for him to perform - an important one, if he played his hand correctly.

With Quisling gone, the new Reichskommissar wandered over to the window and looked out over the city. 'Not an impressive man,' said Terboven, 'and yet, as his political adviser, you pushed for him to remain as prime minister.'

Scheidt remained seated. 'I never viewed him as anything more than a malleable stooge,' he said, after a moment's pause. 'What one has to remember is that Quisling, for all his obvious failings, has unwavering loyalty to Germany, as the Fiihrer clearly recognizes. He is, you know, a devout Christian and a highly regarded academic. He passionately believes, Herr Reichskommissar. This is what Brauer failed to appreciate. Quisling lacks resolve and charisma, but his assessment was right. The Administrative Council is a disaster. Devious and not to be trusted.'

'They sound like perfect Party members.' A thin smile. Terboven came back to his chair opposite Scheidt. 'And what about the King? Is he right about him? Should we worry, or should we simply announce the abolition of the monarchy?'

'In my opinion,' said Scheidt, carefully, 'he is right.'

'And about the bullion and jewels?'

'Resistance needs funding. So yes.' Scheidt shifted in his seat. Was this the time to reveal his hand? Timing was everything, yet Terboven's implacable face was so hard to judge.

'There's something more, isn't there, Herr Scheidt?'

He smiled again. 'It's all right. Feel free to speak frankly.'

By God he's good, thought Scheidt. 'The bullion and Crown Jewels are not with the King,' he said at length.

'Go on.'

'There are more than fifty tons of gold. I'm afraid we've lost track of it - we were not quick enough off the mark when the Norwegian government fled Oslo. It's been hidden, I'm certain, but they have to move it in bulk because if they try to split it up it will never be brought back together. Too many people will have to become involved and they cannot risk that.' He shrugged. 'People will steal it - that's human nature. I have no doubt that at some point an attempt will be made to smuggle it out of the country - but we will catch them. We have complete mastery of the skies and the Norwegians cannot hope to move fifty tons of gold without being spotted.'

'You sound very confident.'

'Fifty tons would require a special train or a convoy of trucks to move it. Of course we will find it. It's just a matter of time. And patience.' Terboven had not taken his eyes from his. 'Some of the important Crown Jewels, however, are with a small group of the King's Royal Guard led by a certain Colonel Peder Gulbrand, and we have been tracking them more closely. We lost them a few days ago, but have now located them again.'

'And why are these men not accompanying the King?'

'They were. I saw them with Brauer on the tenth of April at Elverum. But they came back to Oslo.'

'Surely not to get the jewels?'

'No. To collect a man.'

'Who?'

'Someone more valuable than gold,' said Scheidt. He saw Terboven blink then watched as the Reichskommissar removed his spectacles and carefully cleaned them with a silk handkerchief. A chink at last, he thought.

'Are you going to tell me who this man is?' said Terboven, slowly. It was couched as a question, but it might as well have been a direct order.

'We're not yet certain of his name,' Scheidt lied, 'but what he knows is literally worth liquid gold.'

Terboven offered Scheidt a cigarette from a silver case, then took one himself. The aide hurried over with a lighter and for a moment the Reichskommissar's face was partly hidden in pirouetting smoke. 'Leave us a moment, please,' he told the aide. When the two men were alone, Terboven said, 'Don't try to play games with me, Herr Scheidt.'

Scheidt took a deep breath. He could feel a line of sweat running down his back. His heart thumped. Keep calm, he told himself. 'Herr Reichskommissar,' he said slowly, 'you and I both know how precarious intelligence can be. I ask you now to trust me to deliver this man, and to believe me when I say that when I do so, we will have the eternal thanks of the Fiihrer.'

Terboven drew on his cigarette, then tipped back his head and exhaled. 'And what measures are you taking to capture him?'

'It is in hand, Herr Reichskommissar.'

'I could have you arrested and tortured, you know.'

'Yes,' said Scheidt, 'and then you lose the source too.'

'You have thought of everything, Herr Scheidt.'

'I think so.'

Terboven stubbed out his cigarette half smoked and stood up. 'Very well. I shall give you a week. And I hope very much for your sake that you can deliver on all counts - the man, the information and the jewels. A week, Herr Scheidt, that is all. Clear?'

'Perfectly, Herr Reichskommissar.'

Scheidt felt the tight grip of the Reichskommissar's hand and the narrow eyes boring into his, then he was out of the room, walking down the corridor and being escorted into the lift. My God, he thought, a week. But I must be able to find him. How hard could it be? For God's sake, didn't he have them cornered already? He just prayed his hand was as good as he hoped.

After a steep climb through thick pines and birch, having passed numerous false summits, Sergeant Jack Tanner and his patrol had reached the mountain plateau some two thousand feet above the valley. Here, the air was noticeably colder, but so long as the sun shone through the gauze of thin cloud, Tanner knew they had nothing to fear from the temperature. More of a concern was the depth of the snow, which in places, where there was a hidden hollow or it had drifted, was waist deep or more. The difficulty was that these patches were hard to spot. Some of the men found themselves taking a step forward only to sink. It was exhausting and progress slowed. Then Sykes spotted what appeared to be a drover's track where the snow had been compacted quite recently so Tanner directed the men towards it. Although it was not on Lieutenant Dingwall's map, he guessed it ran over the Balberkamp to the south and along the lip of the valley sides to the north.

'All right, we'll head southwards for a bit,' he told them. It meant they could no longer spread out in the wide arrowhead formation he preferred, but he reasoned that it was best to able to move easily. Ordering Privates Bell and Chambers to walk ahead as scouts, he directed the rest to move in staggered threes at either side of the track, so that the entire group was spread out over almost a hundred yards.

The trees were thinner, and offered less cover, but Tanner was surprised by how much they could see. The plateau now rose only gently; the shallow summit of the Balberkamp was less than a mile ahead, while to the east, the land fell away again only to climb gradually once more. Tanner paused to scan the landscape around him. It was so still. Nothing stirred up there. He thought of home, his village in the south of Wiltshire. The birds were cacophonic at this time of year. And in India, even Palestine, they were always singing, with a multitude of other noises: insects, cattle, sheep, men shouting, the exotic wail of the imam calling the faithful to prayer. But here, high on the mountains of Norway, nothing. Just the occasional explosion down in the valley.

He could see no sign of the enemy. Lieutenant Dingwall had been unable to tell him whether German mountain troops would be wearing special snow uniforms, or even if they would be using skis. He was certainly conscious, however, of how ill-suited their own uniforms were to the task in hand. The new battle dress might have been created by clever ministry boffins, but it had not been designed for snow-covered mountain warfare. Tanner sighed. Everything about this campaign had been badly planned by the top brass, it seemed. Surely someone had thought about the conditions they were likely to face in Norway. And if so, why hadn't they organized white overalls and jackets? It was obvious they should have been given such kit. He circled as he walked, his trusted Enfield ready in his hands, and checked the line of men strung out along the rough track, all in khaki and some, like himself, in tan jerkins. It would offer camouflage of sorts if they were hiding behind trees, but against bright white snow, they stood out horribly, easy targets for an enemy trained to operate in such an environment.

Perhaps it wouldn't come to that. The mountain seemed so empty. They hadn't even seen the Chasseurs Alpins. He began to think the rumour of enemy mountain troops must have been just that; and although explosions and the sounds of battle continued from the valley, they were sporadic. He had no impression that their lines were about to be overrun. As he thought of this, his spirits rose. Perhaps they would rejoin the platoon, after all. There were even trees on the summit of the Balberkamp, albeit sparsely spread, and he now had it in mind to climb almost as far as the top of that outcrop of snowy rock. From there, using the trees as cover, they would have a far-reaching view. If any attack was coming, they would see it from there.

They were only a hundred yards from the summit when Tanner caught the faint hum of an aircraft. So, too, did the others.

'D'you hear that, Sarge?' said Sykes, from behind him.

'It's heading into the valley.' But no sooner had he replied than from the Balberkamp a Messerschmitt appeared, immense and deadly, thundering directly ahead of them as if from nowhere, and flying so low it seemed almost close enough to touch. The noise of the engines tore apart the stillness of the mountain. Tanner yelled at his men to lie flat but it was too late. The twin-engined machine was spurting bullets and cannon shells from its nose, stabs of angry orange fire and lines of tracer hurtling towards them. Tanner felt shells and bullets ripping over his head and either side of him. Something pinged off his helmet, while another missile ripped across the top of his pack. His eyes closed, grimacing into the snow, he pressed his body to the ground, willing himself to flatten.

Two seconds, maybe three, that was all. The ugly machine was past. One of the men called out. Tanner got to his feet. It was Kershaw, one of the two men sent ahead as scouts.

'Christ, oh my God!' he shouted. He sat half upright in the snow staring down at something beside him.

'All right, calm down, Kershaw!' called Tanner. 'Is anyone else hit?' Now there was gunfire a short way to the north. The Messerschmitt was strafing someone or something else.

'Gordon's down, Sarge,' shouted Private McAllister.

Tanner turned to Sykes. 'You go to Gordon, I'll deal with Kershaw. And, lads, keep watching out. Come on!'

He hurried ahead, all the while keeping a watch on the Messerschmitt a mile or two to the north. Now he saw it turn and double back towards them. Tanner was about to yell another warning when the aircraft banked and swept out in a wide arc over the valley and disappeared south.

As he approached Kershaw he saw, with a heavy heart, a mess of dark red stark against the snow. A cannon shell had struck Keith Garraby squarely in the midriff, tearing him in half, so that his still-trousered and booted legs lay in the track, while his upper body had been hurled several yards and now lay upright against the trunk of a tree, the eyes still gazing out in disbelief. Kershaw sat rooted to the spot, ashen-faced, his friend's blood streaked across his face and greatcoat.

Tanner closed Garraby's eyes, then hastily collected the dead man's legs and guts, placing them beneath the rest of the body. The grim task complete, he offered Kershaw a hand. 'Come on,' he said. 'Up on your feet now. Let's get you away from here.' Kershaw did as he was told. Then, glancing back at his friend, he heaved and vomited.

Private Bell was beside Tanner. 'Best hurry, Sarge,' he said. 'Gordo's in a bad way.' He averted his eyes from Garraby. 'Sweet Mother of God,' he muttered. 'The bastards.'

Tanner ran back. Sykes was crouched over Private Draper, desperately pressing field dressings over two wounds in his chest and arm. 'All right, Gordo, you're going to be fine,' he was saying. 'Just hold on, son.'

'Give me some more dressings,' said Tanner, squatting beside him and pulling out his own packs of bandages from his trouser pockets. He opened Draper's jerkin, then tugged his sword bayonet clear of its sheath and deftly slit open the battle blouse, shirt and vest. Draper was pale, his eyes darting from side to side. 'I'm cold,' he mumbled, blood now running from his mouth. He was shivering, but beads of sweat lined his brow and upper lip. Silent tears ran down the side of his face. 'Help me,' he sputtered. 'Help me. I don't want to die.'

'You're going to be fine,' said Tanner, stuffing wadding into the bullet-hole in Draper's chest. 'Stan, press down here,' he said to Sykes. 'Quick - he can't feel a thing. He's in deep shock.' Several others were now gathered round him, peering at Draper's prostrate body. 'I thought I told you to keep watch,' growled Tanner. 'Stop bloody gawping and keep a lookout. Now!' He turned back to Draper. Blood still seeped through the mass of wadding and bandages. Draper's eyes were filled with fear and he was frothing at the mouth. 'Mother!' he gurgled. 'Mother!' He kicked. 'Easy, Gordo, easy. You're all right,' said Tanner. But, of course, he was not. Tanner and Sykes tried to steady him and then a sudden calm spread over Draper's face. The kicking stopped and his head dropped limply to one side.

'Goddamn it!' cursed Tanner, slamming a fist into the ground. He glanced at his watch. It was now nearly six o'clock in the evening. Standing up and scanning the mountains, he could still see no sign of any troops, enemy or otherwise. 'Stan, you stay here with three of your lads and bury Gordon and Keith.' Sykes nodded.

'The rest come with me.'

It was often hard for a pilot to hit a human target on the ground. Travelling at high speeds there was little time to aim, and although the mixture of MG17 7.92mm bullets and Oerlikon 20mm cannon shells poured out through the nose cone of the twin-engined Messerschmitt 110, there was no time to respond should the targets suddenly fling themselves out of the line of fire. Nor was there much chance to see the fruits of such an attack. The rule of strafing was simple: keep your finger on the firing buttons, then fly straight on out of harm's way as quickly as possible; it only took a lucky bullet and the plane could be in serious trouble, especially at such a low height.

Lieutenant Franz Meidel was pleased with his efforts, though. Flying low along Lake Mj0sa, he had climbed due north using the bend in the lake as his marker. He had arrived south-east of the Balberkamp, then pulled back on the throttle so that he was travelling at two hundred miles per hour, and swooped north without being seen or heard. He had not been expecting to see a patrol of British troops but at just under a hundred feet off the ground he had seen their distinctive wide-rimmed helmets clearly. A three-second burst of fire had certainly knocked them over, and he was sure he had seen one man badly hit before the reeling figure had flashed out of sight beneath the aircraft.

Lieutenant Meidel had flown on, spotting five men. There was so little time in which to assess who they were, but they carried rifles and looked - so far as he could tell - like Norwegian troops. He had opened fire on them too. Although he had been unable to see whether or not he had been successful, his rear-gunner told him he was certain at least one man had been hit. Meidel flew on, and since there were neither enemy aircraft nor anti-aircraft fire to worry about, and because the adrenalin coursing through him was making him feel bold, he had decided to turn and swoop back low over the tree-tops to examine his handiwork. Of the men there had been no sign, but he had spied a distinct trail of blood in the snow. Good, he thought. 'I think we can go home, Reike,' he said.

Although Sergeant Tanner had heard the second attack, it had not been his intention to investigate further. He guessed it had been made on the Frenchmen, in which case he hoped the German pilot had been successful. And, in any case, his orders were to look for German mountain troops preparing an outflanking manoeuvre, not get caught up in somebody else's trouble.

So, with nothing to report from the summit of the Balberkamp, he had told his still-shaken patrol they would head down to rejoin the rest of the company. They had retraced their steps and had cleared the lip so that they were looking down on the Rangers' positions, when Tanner realized something was wrong. in the valley. Sykes had spotted it too.

'If the lads are still down there, Sarge,' Sykes said, behind his shoulder, 'why isn't there any sight or sound of gunfire? And why are the Jerry shells landing further to the north?'

'You're a mind-reader, Stan. Mind you, they were shelling behind our lines earlier, too.'

'And our positions at the same time. But it's quiet now. I reckon they've bloody scarpered.'

Tanner felt for his haversack on his hip, reached into it and pulled out the Aldis sight. With one hand he held the leather lens cap as a shield to avoid any light reflecting into the valley, while with the other he put it to his eye.

Sykes eyed the scope admiringly, then peered at the rifle now on Tanner's shoulder. 'You crafty sod, Sarge! You've had the fittings added. Blimey, I never noticed that.'

'Nor has anyone else,' said Tanner, still observing the valley. 'I can't see any sign of them. Jerry aircraft and Jerry shells have done for them, I think.'

'It was a bloody hopeless position in the first place, if you ask me,' said Sykes.

"Course it bloody was,' agreed Tanner. He replaced the cap and carefully put the scope back into his haversack. He felt in his pocket for his cigarettes, only to find he had already smoked the last one. 'Sod it,' he said, tossing away the empty packet. Lieutenant Dingwall had mentioned Tretten, some miles to the north, but in the snow, with almost no food and on the back of four days and nights of very little sleep, this would be tough on the men. They now looked at him expectantly.

'Sarge?' said Sykes.

A faint chatter of small arms could be heard further up the valley - it was the indication Tanner needed. 'We head north,' he said. 'We'll rejoin that track.' The men looked downhearted. 'Listen to me,' said Tanner. 'No one ever said this war would be easy, but unless you want to end up in some Jerry cooler, we've got to keep

going. If you've any rations left, eat something now.'

Lack of food was his prime concern, and as they set off once more it played on his mind. When in action, with adrenalin pumping through the blood, hunger melted away, but as he well knew, there were always long intervals between. Hunger could torment a man, sap his energy, weaken his spirit. He had hoped they might be able to shoot a rabbit or some birds, but on this mountain he'd seen few of either. The lads were not grumbling yet; rather, they were quiet, most still stunned by the loss of Garraby and Draper. Tanner had to remind himself that those deaths had probably been the first his men had witnessed. The platoon was close; some had joined at the same time, but all had trained and headed off to war together. To lose good friends so violently was hard to take.

He wondered whether he should have said more. He could have told them that the first dead body was always the worst. That the brain becomes used to such sights and the loss of friends. And that too soon it was possible to put the death of even a close mate quickly to one side and carry on as though nothing had happened. It was strange how hardened one became. The moment for such words had passed, though. They would work it out soon enough.

From the valley below came the continued sounds of battle. More aircraft, more shelling and, occasionally, distant bursts of small arms. He pulled out Dingwall's map. Assuming the lieutenant had drawn it to scale, then Tanner reckoned they were nearing a bend in the Lagen river just south of a village the lieutenant had marked as Oyer. He had been leading the patrol due north and certainly the fighting now sounded closer, which tallied with the eastward bend in the valley. But although the patrol appeared to be making progress, he knew they must still be behind the front line. A breather in the fighting, that was what he needed. The chance to catch up, get ahead of the German advance, and then they could rejoin the battalion.

His thoughts returned to his stomach. By God, he was hungry. Curse this bloody country, and curse the idiots who'd planned the campaign. Thoughts of food entered his head: a steaming game pie like his father used to make; curries he had eaten in Bombay; the baked apples Mrs Gulliver used to bring round sometimes on Sundays, covered with treacle and currants. He chided himself. Stop thinking about it, you bloody fool.

A raised hand from Sykes provided him with the distraction he needed. Tanner had sent the corporal and McAllister up ahead and the two were now squatting fifty yards in front. Warning the rest of the patrol to halt, Tanner moved in a crouch towards the two men. 'What is it?' he whispered, as he reached them.

'I'm not sure,' said Sykes. 'I thought I saw someone up ahead. Behind that rock.' He pointed to an outcrop, some fifteen foot high, emerging darkly from the snow next to a young pine some hundred yards ahead. Silently, Tanner signalled to the rest of the patrol to move forward, then holding his arm out flat and with his open hand facing the ground, waved downwards to make sure they, too, crouched as they came. The three men of the Bren group were the first to reach them. 'Dan, get ready with the

Bren,' he said, under his breath to Lance-Corporal Erwood. 'Mac,' he said softly to McAllister, 'you and I will move forward. Make a run for a tree, then cover me as I go to the next. Then I'll cover you. All right? Dan, you cover us with the Bren. The rest of you stay here, don't make a sound, and watch our backs.'

McAllister, clutching his rifle, took a deep breath, then set off, making for a tree no more than ten yards away. Tanner followed. Whoever was behind the rock - if anyone - made no attempt to move. They pushed forward again until, as Tanner was leading, he spotted a line of blood and several footprints in the snow. He beckoned McAllister to him and pointed to the trail. 'There's someone there, all right,' he whispered to McAllister.

'What do we do now, Sarge?'

'You wait here.'

Treading carefully, Tanner approached. Yards from the rock, he paused. From the other side he could hear voices, faint and indecipherable. Slinging his Enfield over his shoulder, he began to climb the rock. He had noticed that the top was reasonably level, and having deftly scaled the southern side, he crouched across the broad roof of the outcrop and unslung his rifle. Pulling back the bolt as quietly and carefully as he could, he peered over the edge.

There were three men, two of them soldiers in blue- grey Norwegian uniforms. On the right was a young officer, while on the left was a much older man who, although clad in a Norwegian army greatcoat, wore civilian clothes. In the middle, clutching his side, was another Norwegian army officer. A trail of blood followed him round the side of the rock to where he now sat propped against the dark stone.

'You look like you're in trouble,' said Tanner. The three men flinched and looked up, startled. 'Who are you?'

'I am Colonel Peder Gulbrand of His Majesty the King's Guard,' gasped the man in the middle.