The Odin Mission

Ruge ran a hand round the stiff collar of his tunic, stretched his neck, then sank back into his chair. 'Where is the extra company of Leicesters from Andalsnes? Are they at Tretten?' he asked Brigadier Morgan.

'Yes, but without much kit, I'm afraid. Apparently there's a Bofors waiting to be moved down here from Andalsnes, but as yet no one has found a way to get it here.' He was eyeing the general keenly. 'So we still don't have a single anti-aircraft gun.'

Ruge said nothing. Instead he banged his fist hard on the desk top. Frustration, anger.

'The Tretten gorge is a good natural defensive position,' Morgan continued, 'but I'm worried about our flanks. The enemy's mountain troops went round us successfully at the Balberkamp and I'm concerned they'll do so again. But I don't have enough men. I need to make a position here, to the east of Tretten village, otherwise—'

'Very well, Morgan, I take your point,' snapped Ruge. 'Beichmann,' he said, to the staff officer seated next to the desk, in English so that Morgan could understand, 'find Colonel Jansen. Order him to place his Dragoons there, and tell him he is now to fall under the direct command of Brigadier Morgan.'

'Sir.' Colonel Beichmann saluted and left the room.

General Ruge sighed wearily. 'What else can we do?'

'It would help the men greatly if they could have something to eat, sir. Most haven't had anything for more than thirty-six hours. We were promised that Norwegian troops would be bringing up rations this afternoon, but so far nothing has arrived. All we have is a store of dry rations left at Tretten station by the newly arrived Leicesters. It's not enough.'

'All right, Morgan, I'll look into it. The problem, as you know, is transport.' He chuckled mirthlessly. 'Just one of our many problems,' he added, holding up his hands - what am I expected to do? 'Just one of many.'

Brigadier Morgan left the general and drove back towards Tretten in a requisitioned Peugeot, squashed into the back seat next to Major Dornley, his Brigade- Major, their knees knocking together and elbows almost touching. It was cold, and he pulled up the collar of his coat so that the coarse wool scraped against his cheeks and ears. He was fifty-two, which, he reflected, was no great age to be a brigade commander during peace time, but too old in a time of war. He felt the cold more than he had in his younger days, and right now he felt more exhausted - mentally and physically - than he had ever done as a young man in the trenches.

Outside, light snow was falling, dusting the road ahead. Out of his left window, dark, dense forest ran away from the verge; to his right, he could see the smooth, almost black mass of the Lagen river, as wide as a lake; while above, dark and menacing, were the mountains. Magnificent, yes - but right now a snare, trapping and constraining his meagre forces. A funnel for the Luftwaffe and German gunners.

Morgan bit one of his nails.

'Are you all right, sir?' asked his Brigade-Major.

'I suppose so, Dornley, thank you for asking.' He clicked his tongue several times, then said, 'It's just bloody difficult trying to command a brigade when you've got someone like General Ruge breathing down your neck.'

'I thought you were getting along all right, sir,' said Dornley.

'Oh, we are - but that's not what I meant. He's a decent fellow and, I grant you, doing his best in very difficult circumstances. But the fact is, Dornley, General Ruge has only just been promoted from colonel, and is now ten days into the job of being C-in-C of a tiny tinpot army with no battlefield-command experience whatsoever. A couple of weeks ago he was junior to me in rank, yet now we're subordinate to him. It's all rather absurd.'

'He's giving you a pretty free rein, though, isn't he, sir?'

'Now he's got us down here, you mean?' He bit his nail again, then stared out into the darkness, shaking his head. He sighed heavily and closed his eyes. 'I'm beginning to think I made the wrong call. We should be at Trondheim now. Instead, the brigade's being chewed up bit by bit in this damned deathtrap of a valley.'

'Sir, you had very little choice in the matter.'

'Really?' said Morgan.

'We had no word from London and, as the general pointed out, as commander of Norway's forces, every other Allied officer in the country had to come under his command. And his orders were to reinforce his troops here. I can't see what else you could have done.'

Morgan sighed again. 'It's good of you to say so, Dornley, but I rather think now that I might have made that decision too quickly.' He knocked his fist lightly against his chin. 'I do really. I should have waited longer for a response from London. I had no idea what state Ruge's forces were in and it's since become perfectly clear that he expected a damn sight more from us.' He shook his head. 'Christ, we must be a disappointment. I can see what he must have been thinking - that these chaps have been fighting all their lives, that they beat the Germans twenty years ago, that we'd be bristling with guns, aircraft, tanks and M/T. Instead, all we've been able to offer are three battalions of inexperienced territorial infantry, half of whom are already dead, wounded or taken prisoner.'

'But it's not your fault, sir, that we lost two supply ships.'

Morgan laughed with exasperation. 'It is my fault, Dornley, that I allowed myself to be persuaded by Ruge to move the brigade south. I should have waited for word from the War Office.' He knocked his fists together. 'For Christ's sake, we haven't got a single bloody anti-aircraft gun. Those Luftwaffe boys are laughing their heads off. Jerry artillery are firing their 5.9s over open sights in full view of us from as little as two thousand yards - and what can our chaps do about it? Not a damned thing, because we've got sod-all with which to reply.' He glanced at Dornley, but this time his Brigade-Major was quiet. Perhaps I've said too much, he thought.

In front, his driver was peering intently through the windscreen. Morgan was glad it was not himself driving through the night in these snowy conditions with only narrow slits for headlights. The windscreen wipers groaned as they swiped the snow from the glass.

He felt in his coat pocket and pulled out his pipe and tobacco pouch. Once filled, he lit it, inhaling the rich fumes and watching the dark orange glow reflected in the window. Much of their misfortune, he knew, could be blamed on the losses of Sirius and Cedarbank and problems of an over-extended line of communication. Even so, he had begun to accept, with an increasingly sickening feeling after three days of a fighting retreat, that in the Germans they were confronting a formidable enemy, both in tactics and strength. Overwhelming air support working hand in hand with the troops on the ground was a devastating combination - yet such tactics had barely been discussed back at Staff College. At least, he'd never heard anyone talk in such terms - and he'd been a bloody instructor, for God's sake. What had they all been thinking? In every respect the enemy seemed better prepared, better trained and better equipped. So, the mountains and conditions were unfamiliar to his men; but they were to the Germans too, yet they had trained mountain troops, ready to take advantage of such surroundings.

It was a bitter pill to swallow and his confidence in his country, and in the Army he had served loyally for so long, had been shaken. They had won the last war, and he had played his own small part in that, but it now occurred to him for the first time that perhaps Britain would not survive a second one. And although he tried to push such thoughts clear of his brain, they doggedly remained rooted there. Certainly, they could never hope to defeat Germany like this. Times had changed. War could no longer be fought without support from the air and without modern equipment. Norway was not a colonial outpost and neither was the enemy a rag-tag of troublesome tribesmen. Britain needed to catch up - and quickly. I hope it's not too late.

Tretten. He wondered whether Colonel Jansen and his promised Dragoons would materialize. Even if they did - presumably with their usual lack of arms and ammunition - he doubted that he could hold the position for more than a day. His only hope of extricating himself and his men from this mess was the arrival of 15th Brigade, which was expected to reach Andalsnes within forty-eight hours. And with 15th Brigade came Major General Paget, who was to take over command of both. Thank God, he thought. Bernard Paget was an old friend and yet he was glad that he would soon be handing over the responsibility for this failure. His own task was no longer to defeat the Germans - he recognized that was an impossibility. Rather, it was to complete a successful fighting retreat, holding the Germans at bay for as long as possible with the loss of as few men as possible until he could hand over the reins to Paget.

He rubbed his stinging eyes. Even that would be a considerable challenge.

The figures stumbling through the thick snow towards Tanner and Sykes were so close there was no time to warn the others. Instead, heart pounding, Tanner whispered to Sykes to move to the side of the seter and to have a hand grenade ready. If it came to it, he hoped the explosion would not only kill or maim several of the foe, it would also produce a dazzlingly bright light that would temporarily blind them and produce confusion while he fired as many rounds as he could. That was the theory, anyway, but although he told himself that the element of surprise was a considerable advantage, he had no idea how many were advancing towards them - he simply could not see clearly enough. His body tensed. It's fear of the unknown, he told himself, as he slung his rifle from his shoulder and silently, carefully, pulled back the bolt. Calm down.

He could hear them more than he could see them, their footsteps in the snow, until several shapes, with rifles and packs, became clearer as they reached the hut.

'Halt! Hande hoch! shouted Tanner. The men, startled, swivelled towards him.

'Vous tous, vite faites ce qu'il vous dit! one of the men shouted.

Relief surged through Tanner. They were French. He laughed to himself as he approached, rifle still pointed at them.

'You are British?' said one of the Frenchmen.

'Too bloody right,' said Sykes, emerging from the other side of the seter. At the same moment, Larsen opened the door, as startled as the French troops.

'A patrol of Frenchmen, sir,' Tanner told him.

'How many?' Larsen asked, pulling out a small electric torch.

'How many are you?' Tanner asked them.

'Sept - seven. Myself and six men,' came the reply. The French commander stared at Tanner. 'You! The Tommy who likes to throw shovels at his allies.'

Tanner's heart sank. Christ, this was all he needed, some arrogant Frog to put a spanner in the works. But he was in no mood to pander to the man's jumped-up self- importance. 'The Chasseurs Alpins,' he said slowly, with no attempt at a French accent. 'I appreciate that you're elite forces, but since you've surrendered to me, perhaps you'd like to tell me who the bloody hell you are and what your men are doing up here?'

'How dare you speak to a superior officer like that? And how dare you suggest that I have surrendered to you?'

'But you did, sir,' said Tanner. 'I said, "Halt, hands up," and you put your hands in the air. That's the recognized way of surrendering. It's in the Geneva Convention.'

'Perhaps you could tell me your name,' Larsen suggested to the Frenchman. 'I am Henrik Larsen of His Majesty the King's Guard.'

The Frenchman turned to Larsen, his face tense with anger. 'And I am Lieutenant Xavier Chevannes of the Deuxieme Compagnie de Fusiliers Voltigeurs, part of the Sixieme Bataillon de Chasseurs Alpins. We were on a reconnoitring patrol after the British ordered a withdrawal to Oyer. But it seems our allies have fallen back yet again so we were stranded. When the snowstorm came we went looking for shelter.'

As Chevannes and his six men followed Larsen into the seter, Tanner placed a hand on Sykes's shoulder. 'Hold on a minute, Stan.'

'Who the bleedin' 'ell does 'e think 'e is?'

'A pain in the ruddy arse,' muttered Tanner.

'But, Sarge, be careful, hey? I enjoy seeing you make him look a right idiot as much as anyone, but he could make life tricky if we're not careful.'

'He's a bloody show-pony,' said Tanner, irritably. 'Anyway, we'll soon be shot of him and his sodding patrol. Haven't you noticed?'

'What, Sarge?'

'It's barely snowing any more. Look up there. What can you see?' He pointed to the sky.

'Stars, Sarge.'

'Exactly. So, let's get back in the hut, kick everyone awake and get the hell out of here. Leave those Frogs to get some kip. I'm sure they need it.'

Tanner and Sykes burst noisily into the seter and immediately began to shake awake the rest of their men. 'Come on, wakey-wakey,' said Sykes. 'Mac, Hep, come on, up you get.' The men yawned and stretched.

'Just what do you think you're doing, Sergeant?' said Chevannes. 'Is this how you always treat your men?'

'We're off,' Tanner said tersely. 'Time to go.'

'You'll do no such thing, Sergeant.' In the dark half- light, Chevannes glared up at him, almost daring Tanner to challenge him.

'You're not in command of my men, sir. I am. And, furthermore, Colonel Gulbrand has ordered me to take Mr Sandvold here to the safety of the Allied lines. If I'm to do that, I need to get going while it's still dark and the Germans are getting their beauty sleep.'

Chevannes laughed. 'The colonel ordered you, did he? Tell me, Sergeant, why on earth would a Norwegian colonel order you - a mere sergeant - to such a task when two of his men, his fellow countrymen and officers senior in rank, are infinitely better placed to carry out that role?'

Tanner felt his anger rising. 'He ordered me not fifteen minutes ago. Ask him yourself.'

Chevannes' mouth curled into a barely suppressed smile. 'Yes, why don't we?' He moved towards the colonel and, crouching beside him, said, 'Colonel Gulbrand? Colonel, can you hear me?' The colonel's eyes were wide and staring, his face glistening with sweat. 'Colonel?'

Gulbrand gibbered, his words inaudible.

'Colonel!' said Chevannes again, then stood up slowly, and faced Tanner and the Norwegians. 'He's delirious with fever.'

Quickly Tanner knelt beside Gulbrand. 'Colonel! Colonel!' Gulbrand's eyes suddenly locked on his. With one hand he clutched Tanner's shoulder and began speaking in Norwegian, gabbling frantically, panic in his eyes. 'Colonel,' said Tanner again, 'it's me, Sergeant Tanner.'

'He thinks he is talking to the King,' said Larsen, quietly.

Tanner felt Gulbrand's grip loosen and with it his own grip on the situation. Anger and humiliation flushed through him as he realized he had lost his fight with Chevannes. 'Colonel!' said Tanner again, searching desperately for life in Gulbrand's face. 'Come on, damn you!'

'Sarge.' It was Sykes, standing beside him. 'Sarge, he's gone.'

'Your corporal's right, Sergeant Tanner,' said Chevannes.

Tanner clenched his fist. By God, he wanted to knock the man down. Momentarily closing his eyes, he took a deep breath, then stood up once more.

'So,' said Chevannes, 'I am in command.'

'We still need to get going - and now,' said Tanner, with undisguised exasperation.

'We need rest.'

Give me strength, thought Tanner. 'Sir, we need to get to the Allied lines as quickly as possible. Half an hour before dark last night, the Germans were attacking a position only four or five miles west of here. My guess is that they're still there, and I'd put money on the rest of our forces being at Tretten. That's no more than six or seven miles. We can do that in three hours. The men can rest then.'

'Sergeant, it is still dark out there, the snow is deep, and although my men have proper mountain boots, yours do not, and none of us has either skis or snowshoes. It is freezing cold and my men - yours too - are exhausted. If we stumble out there now, we are asking for trouble.'

What was this madness? 'But we'll be in considerably worse trouble if we don't get to Tretten before the Germans.'

Chevannes smiled and scratched his chin thoughtfully. 'You've obviously not been studying the German modus operandi, Sergeant.' He glanced at the Norwegians, then at his men, and chuckled. 'The German is an organized fellow, Sergeant, and has a plan that he likes to stick to. Let me enlighten you. Every morning at first light, reconnaissance planes are sent over. Later in the morning, their field guns start firing. At noon, the Luftwaffe arrives and bombs and strafes the position they are going to attack. The artillery firing increases and later in the afternoon, with our infantry nicely softened up, their infantry and armour move forward and attack. And he will do precisely the same tomorrow. So I tell you this - again. No, I order you, Sergeant.' The smirk had gone. 'We stay here now, rest, and leave in the morning. We will still be at Tretten before noon, well before your commander decides it is time to retreat once more.'

Tanner appealed to the Norwegians. 'You're surely not going to listen to this?' But as he said it, Nielssen avoided his eye and Larsen was unmoved. Some of his men were awake now, and he looked at them for support. No one spoke in his defence, but they wouldn't: it wasn't the place of privates and lance corporals to argue with officers. Their task was to obey orders, whether it be from their section leader, patrol leader or an officer.

'Sergeant,' said Larsen, his voice placatory, 'we have been on the run for more than a week and on these mountains for three days. We have lost Stunde and now our beloved colonel. Neither I nor Nielssen have had any sleep for two days. I believe Lieutenant Chevannes is right. We will, God willing, still make the Allied lines if we rest here a while longer.' He nodded at Sandvold, huddled in the corner of the hut, his arms hugging his knees. 'He is still asleep. Leave him be a while longer.'

Tanner was defeated. 'Very well,' he muttered. He realized he was exhausted too. His limbs ached, his feet were sore, and he could no longer think clearly. 'We need to bury the colonel,' he said.

Chevannes spoke to two of his men, who went over to Gulbrand's body, lifted it and took it outside. Tanner slumped against the far wall next to Sykes, took out his gas cape, draped it over himself and closed his eyes.

'We'll all be better for the rest,' whispered Sykes.

'I don't give a damn,' muttered Tanner. 'We're soldiers and we're at war. Our task is to get back to our lines as quickly as possible and, according to Gulbrand, there's a hell of a lot at stake. If we fail because of that French bastard, I'll kill him.'

They were on their way by seven, with Gulbrand buried and their stomachs warmed with coffee. The sky above was blue and bright, the air cold and the snow deep. The landscape had changed. Golden early-morning light cast long, blue shadows. Snow twinkled brightly on the trees. Three of Chevannes' men were scouting ahead of the column, followed by the French lieutenant and the Norwegians, Tanner and his men trudging silently behind, like chastened schoolboys still in disgrace.

Snow crunched beneath their feet. Tanner clutched the canvas strap of his rifle and felt his pack weighing on his shoulders. The air was so still that his own breathing seemed to be amplified.

If he was honest, he felt better for the sleep, but his anger and frustration had not subsided. Neither was his mood improved when he realized the French and Norwegians were walking faster than his own men. He had promised himself he would keep Sandvold in sight at all times, but although he could still see him, the gap between his men and the Norwegians was increasing.

'Come on, lads,' he urged. 'Get a move on.'

'We're not so well dressed for a snowy stroll in the mountains as they are, Sarge,' said Sykes. 'Look at the clobber of those Froggies.'

It was true, and Tanner had eyed the Chasseurs Alpins' uniforms with envy. Each man had a thick sheepskin jacket, or canadienne, as they called it, with a wide collar that could be turned up to warm the neck and cheeks. Underneath, they wore a waterproof khaki canvas anorak and a thick wool sweater, while their trousers were heavy-duty serge plus-fours. Stout studded mountain boots, made of sealskin, kept their feet warm and equally waterproof gaiters covered their ankles and shins. A dark blue beret, with snow goggles completed the outfit. Again, Tanner cursed the brass who had planned this expedition to Norway. The Germans had mountain troops, the French had mountain troops, why the hell didn't the British? Or, at least, why hadn't the bigwigs given the men kit designed for the job? Already, his feet were painfully cold; the leather of his boots was not waterproof now that the polish had largely worn off, while the soles were slippery in the snow. Nonetheless, the length of his stride gave him an advantage over his men, most of whom, he knew, were runts from the working-class slums of Leeds and Bradford. No wonder they were struggling to keep up.

And when, Tanner wondered, were they going to head back into the trees? Chevannes' men had led them round the top of the narrow ravine he had overlooked the previous evening, then round another, but Tanner remembered seeing no other such streams on Larsen's map.

'This is bloody ridiculous,' he muttered to Sykes. 'Why the hell are we slogging through this? I'm going to have a word with Chevannes.' He pushed on ahead and eventually caught up with the lieutenant.

'Ah, Sergeant,' said Chevannes, as Tanner drew alongside, 'your men seem to be struggling this morning. I hate to think how many we would have lost in the dark last night.'

'Why aren't we pushing further down towards the treeline?'

'We're taking the most direct route, Sergeant, so we can get to Tretten in good time.'

Tanner fought a renewed urge to knock Chevannes down. 'The most direct route, Lieutenant, is not the quickest,' he said. 'If we go along beneath the lip of the valley, the snow won't be so deep, and the trees will give us greater cover. Up here we stand out like sore thumbs.'

'Are you questioning my decisions again? Good God, Sergeant, your superior officers will hear something of this! Now, get back to your men and tell them to hurry. I do not want to hear another word.'

Tanner turned, then heard the now-familiar sound of aero-engines and paused to scan the sky. A moment later he spotted the dark outline of a German aircraft, like an insect moving slowly in their direction from the south. Chevannes saw it too.

'Quick!' he shouted. 'Lie down!'

'Why, sir?' asked Tanner. 'I thought you said the Germans only send out recce planes in the morning.'

Chevannes glared at him. The Junkers flew over, a thousand feet or so above them, circled twice then flew west. Tanner, who had remained standing the entire time, watched Chevannes get to his feet and brush the snow off his jacket and beret. 'You were right, sir. A recce plane,' he said. 'I wonder how long it will take them to get that information back.'

'Go to your men, Sergeant!' Chevannes hissed.

Tanner glared back as he stood defiantly in the snow and waited for his men to catch up.

Soon after, the scouts changed direction, heading west towards the treeline. At last, thought Tanner. Perhaps now they'd make proper progress. And the sooner they got back to the Allied lines the better. Then they could be shot of the Norwegians and, more especially, of Chevannes and his bloody Chasseurs Alpins.