Authors: James Holland
'Riggs again?'
asked Tanner.
'Bullet through
the shoulder. It's not hit his lung, but he needs help. The lads are patching
him up now.'
'What about
Saxby?'
'Shoulder as well.
Should pull through. Neither'll be going far, though.'
Tanner put another handful of snow to his mouth. 'We'll have to think
about what's best for the wounded. Better get Gibbo buried. And the Krauts. And
Sandvold? Is the professor safe?'
'Yes, Sarge. Not a scratch.'
'Anyone else?'
'One of the Froggies bought it, and another was wounded, but that's it.
Lieutenants Larsen and Nielssen are still good.'
'And bloody Chevannes?'
'Yes, Sarge,' said Sykes, with a wry smile. 'Nothing wrong with him.'
Tanner should have felt pleased. His plan had worked, Sandvold was
safe, and the enemy threat was, for the moment, over. Yet despair overwhelmed
him once more. It was half past eight in the evening and the sound of battle
from the valley was noticeably lessening, receding into the distance by the
minute, and with it their chance of freedom. They had been so close again -
just a mile or two from the safety of their own lines.
Christ
, thought Tanner. How were they ever going to get
out of this? Physically he was finished - they all were. Those last reserves of
energy had been summoned by sheer willpower and the promise of reaching the
Allies that evening. Now the finishing line had been cruelly moved, far out of
reach. And then there was Chevannes. By God, Tanner hated the man: his
arrogance, his stupidity, his woeful leadership the previous evening. It was
Chevannes' fault they had failed today. Tanner had half a mind to shoot the
bastard there and then.
'Sergeant! Sergeant Tanner!'
Chevannes
.
Tanner closed his eyes, quietly drummed his tightly
clenched fist into the side of the tree, then faced the French lieutenant
striding towards him.
'A good victory,' said the Frenchman, 'although yon should not have
blown the shelter without my permission.'
Tanner took a deep breath. 'It killed six men, sir, and gave us the
chance to hit them hard before they had a moment to recover their balance.'
'Always answering back to everything I say,' Chevannes snapped. He
paused a moment then said, 'We need to tie up these prisoners and bury the
dead. See to it quickly, while I question their officer.'
Tanner said nothing, but walked away and called his men over. 'Well
done, lads,' he said. 'You did well.' He looked into their faces, one by one.
The youthfulness had gone. They had fought their first fight, had killed, had
been touched by death and had survived. They had grown up, and he knew they
were better soldiers for the experience.
He ordered six to fetch the dead, instructing them to line the bodies
up by the stream, then strip them of usable clothing and kit. They were to
cover them with snow and stones from the brook, and place the tin helmets
strapped to their packs on top as a marker. 'Just take Gibbo's bunduck and
ammunition,' he added. 'Leave him dressed.'
Burying the dead; a grim task. Few men died with a neat bullet hole
through the heart; most did so with a profusion of blood, with chunks of their
bodies ripped from them or their guts spewing from their bellies. It took time
to get used to such sights, but there was no denying that most became inured to
them quickly. War hardened the mind.
Probably the soul too
, Tanner thought.
He was sorry about Gibson - the third of his men to die. Gibson had
been popular, a tough little Yorkshire- man.
Bloody hell,
he thought.
He took McAllister and Hepworth to the prisoners who were being guarded
by Chevannes' Chasseurs Alpins. The Germans were standing close together not
far from the blackened crater where the hut had once been. Cordite hung in the
air. The
seter
had gone but for a jumble
of charred and still burning logs. Thick smoke rose into the air, a beacon for
any passing aircraft. Tanner looked at his watch again. Just after half past
eight. They needed to get a move on. 'Iggery, lads,' he said. 'Let's get into the
woods.' He began pushing and shoving the prisoners and, with Hepworth,
McAllister and the two Frenchmen's help, walked them past the mangled
machine-gun crews being lined up on the ground by the stream and under the
cover of thicker trees.
A hundred yards from the
seter
, he ordered them to stop. He turned one to face
him, a youth with dark hair and a defiant glare. 'What's this?' Tanner asked,
pointing to the flower embroidered on his sleeve. The same flower was on their
field caps too.
‘
Ein
Edelweiss
,' the man replied. '
Wir
sind der Gebirgsjageren.'
'It is the symbol of all Gebirgsjager troops,' said another of the men,
in heavily accented English. He looked slightly older, with pale grey eyes and
pockmarked cheeks. 'We are mountain troops.'
'And your kit? Good, is it?' Tanner asked. He patted the younger man's
pockets, felt the shape of a cigarette packet and took it out. 'Cheers,' he
said, shook out a cigarette and lit it.
'Yes,' said the older man. 'We have the best kit of any fighting soldier
in Norway.'
'Good,' said Tanner, 'because ours is pretty useless.' He pushed his
way through the men, measuring his feet against theirs until he was standing
beside a man of similar height and size. 'Yours look about right. I'll have
those.' The man looked at him blankly, so Tanner mimed his demand. Reluctantly,
the prisoner did as he was ordered. 'And you tell them,' said Tanner, turning
back to the English-speaker, 'that I want all of you stripped. I want your
jackets, tunics, boots and caps. And your goggles.' He took the pair from above
the peak of the man nearest him and put them on.
'Isn't that against the Geneva Convention, Sarge?' asked McAllister.
'They could freeze to death.'
'Mac, do you want to survive this?' Tanner snapped.
'Yes, Sarge.'
'Then don't worry your head about things like that. And, no, I don't
think it is against the Geneva Convention. Let's get on with it. And I want
them to empty their packs too. Look for food, fags, ammunition, grenades -
anything.'
'You can't do this to us,' said the English speaker.
'I can and I will,' said Tanner. 'Now, give me your pack and get
undressed.' The man slowly slipped off his rucksack and passed it to Tanner,
who emptied it on to the ground. To his delight there was some food - a chunk
of dark, dry bread and some cured sausage. The man had a small flask of
schnapps too. Tanner ate hungrily, took a swig from the flask and felt the
sweet, burning liquid soothe his throat.
Ah, that feels good
.
He passed the flask and food to Hepworth, rolled up
the tunic, cap and green-grey jacket, then strapped them to his pack. Finally,
he exchanged his own boots and ankle gaiters for the German's dark brown ankle
boots and puttees. 'Beautiful,' he said aloud. 'Bloody beautiful.' He threw his
own to the prisoner whose boots he was now wearing. 'Here,' he said, 'have
these.'
He went to help Sykes and the others, and found them laying stones and
boulders on top of Gibson's grave. 'Take it in turns to get yourselves some kit
from the prisoners,' he told them. 'Kershaw, hop it.'
'Nice boots, Sarge,' said Sykes.
Tanner smiled ruefully. 'Make sure you get a pair too, Stan. They're
bloody marvellous, I'm telling you.'
'I have already.' He grinned, jerking a thumb towards a shoeless German
corpse. 'Just haven't put 'em on yet.'
Tanner took out two cigarettes and gave one to the corporal.
'What do we do now, Sarge?' Sykes asked, as he exhaled a large cloud of
smoke. He held his cigarette between finger and thumb, hovering in front of his
mouth.
'We're too bloody late to get to Tretten.'
'I can hear. Or, rather, I can't.'
'We should have gone last night when I said.'
'No point agonizing over it, Sarge. It's done now.'
'Sodding French bastard.' Tanner kicked at the snow.
'I should have
stood my ground.' He sighed. 'If I'm honest, Stan, we've got to find somewhere
to rest. A farm or something. I need to think clearly and I can't right now.'
'Can't we just
take our lads and scarper?' Sykes asked.
Tanner shook his
head. 'I promised Gulbrand. It's not that, though - it's what he said. If this
Sandvold really is as important as the colonel made out, we've got to get him
out of here. I can't abandon him to Chevannes. I wouldn't trust him to get
Sandvold to safety for all the money in the world.'
The minutes
passed. The burial was completed, as was the reassignment of German kit. The
prisoners, huddled together, stripped to their shirts and trousers, were
shivering.
Eventually
Chevannes reappeared with the German officer. 'Are you done, Sergeant?'
'Yes, sir.'
Tanner turned to the German.
'Captain
Zellner,' said Chevannes.
'Heil Hitler
,'
said Zellner.
'Don't you
bloody
Heil Hitler
me, you Nazi bastard,' said Tanner, then asked Chevannes, 'What have you got
out of him?'
'The captain
refuses to say anything.'
Tanner was about
to speak when Lieutenant Larsen appeared from across the stream.
'Wait,' he said,
hurrying towards them. As he saw the German, his eyes widened. 'You!'
Zellner seemed
surprised. 'Do I know you?'
'You were at the
farm,' said Larsen. 'At Okset. North of Elverum.'
Zellner's eyes
narrowed
'It was you,'
said Larsen, jabbing his finger into Zellner's chest. 'You were looking for us.
What did you do to the farmer?'
Zellner nodded -
yes, I remember now
- and
glanced at Chevannes. 'Nothing,' he said. 'Nothing at all.'
'Liar!' said
Larsen. He wiped his hand across his mouth, then punched Zellner hard in the
stomach. The German doubled over and collapsed on to the ground.
'Lieutenant! My
God, man, what do you think you are doing?' shouted Chevannes.
Larsen grabbed
Zellner by the scruff of the neck, pulled him to his feet. Clasping the
German's jaw in his hand, said, 'Tell me what you did!'
Zellner glared
at him, his pale eyes wild with defiance.
'Lieutenant,
that will do!' yelled Chevannes.
'He's lying!'
shouted Larsen, face red with fury. 'I know he is! I want to know what he did
to my cousin!'
Chevannes turned
to Zellner. '
Capitaine
,'
he
said, 'can you give me your word as an officer that you did not harm Lieutenant
Larsen's cousin?'
Zellner coughed,
and ran his hand round his collar. 'Of course. I give you my word.'
'For pity's
sake,' said Tanner. He put a hand on Larsen's shoulder. 'Leave it, sir.'
Larsen glared at
Zellner. 'You lie.'
'Lieutenant!
Enough!' said Chevannes. 'He has given you his word.'
Shaking his
head, Larsen walked away.
'Sir,' said
Tanner now, 'do you really think his say-so counts for anything? He's a bloody
Nazi.'
'He may be, but he is still an officer,' the Frenchman replied. 'You
may not understand what honour is, Sergeant Tanner, but I and my men most
certainly do.'
'I don't believe this.' Tanner spun round and went to his men.
The German caught sight of his troops a short distance away, huddled in
the trees, and spoke angrily to Chevannes, who turned sharply.
'Sergeant! Come back! What have you done to the prisoners?'
'Nothing. Just taken a few bits of clothing, weapons and so on.'
'They will die of cold if we leave them like that.'
'Then that's one less thing to worry about, isn't it, sir? Actually,
sir,' Tanner continued, ignoring the lieutenant's barely disguised fury, 'I was
wondering what you were thinking of doing with them.'
'Doing with them?'
'Yes, sir. We can't take them with us and we can't let them loose in
case they make it back and tell their superiors about us - and, in particular
our Norwegian friend. There is, of course, one way of getting them off our
hands—'
'What are you saying, Sergeant? That we shoot them? My God—'
'No, of course not, sir. I was thinking we could try to find another
hut and tie them up there. If they keep cosy they'll probably live. It's cold
but it's not that cold. Or we could tie them up and leave them here.'
'Or you could behave honourably, Sergeant, and give them back their
uniforms.'