Authors: James Holland
'In the Army, of course.'
'In your basic infantry training? Pull the other one.'
'We did a bit of training with grenades. Even live
ones.'
'But not handling gelignite.' He stared at Sykes, who
smiled sheepishly. 'Come on, Stan. Spit it out.'
Sykes glanced around to check no one else was listening,
then leant forward. 'I, um - before I joined the Army - well, I was ... I got
in with a few bad 'uns and, well, I used to rob stuff.'
Tanner raised an eyebrow.
Go on.
Sykes sighed, took out his tobacco and began rolling a
cigarette. 'Yes, you know, houses, offices - I could crack most safes, but they
didn't always have combination locks, you see. So that's when I learnt how to
use explosives.'
'Christ, Stan,' said Tanner.
'I'm not proud of it. I was the oldest of six kids, my
dad was bloody useless - liked the sauce too much - and we needed the money.
I'm not excusing it or anything, but when you're doing offices and banks and so
on, you persuade yourself they can afford it.'
'When did you join the Army?'
'We was doin' an office in Islington, and we got
caught in the act, and before we knew what was going on there was police
everywhere. One of the lads pulled out a gun. He didn't hit anyone but it made
me think things had gone far enough. Anyway, he was caught but me and the other
two got away. I decided there and then that my criminal days was over. I sent
my mother all the money I'd saved up and told her I had to leave town for a
while and not to try to get in touch. I got on a train to Leeds and joined the
Army. That was October 1938. And here I am.'
'And what about the one with the gun?'
'He got banged up but he never said nothing, so I was
all right. And I haven't stolen anything since then - except what I nicked from
that dump in Lillehammer.' He looked at Tanner. 'I'm not proud of myself, but I
did start it with good intentions. You won't say anything, though, will you,
Sarge? Not even to the other lads?'
'Course not. You're a good corporal, Stan. I don't
care what you did before the war - that's your affair and for your conscience
to deal with. It's what happens now that matters.' He paused. 'Anyway, I'm in
no position to judge. My past isn't exactly whiter than white.'
They were silent for a moment, Tanner cursing himself
for revealing even that, but then Sykes said, 'How come you ended up in the
Rangers, Sarge? Where did you say you were from again?'
'Wiltshire,' said Tanner. 'In the south-west.' He was
quiet again, toying in his mind with how much to tell the corporal, if
anything. Sykes might have been glad to get his past off his chest, but Tanner
felt no such compunction. 'My mother died when I was a baby,' he said. He
spoke slowly, softly. 'My father was a gamekeeper on an estate.'
'So that's where you learnt to shoot.'
Tanner smiled. 'I reckon I had a rifle in my hands
from the age of about five.' There had not been much schooling: his education
had been out of doors, accompanying his father, learning about the countryside.
He wouldn't have had it any other way.
'So why did you join the Army?'
Tanner looked away. 'My father died. There were . . .
complications.' He picked up the German rifle again, pretending to examine it
once more. 'I left home and joined the Army as a boy soldier. Straight out to
India with the 2nd Battalion.'
'And you saw action out there?'
'A bit.'
Sykes nodded thoughtfully. 'So we're both outsiders,
aren't we? Southerners among all these northern bastards.'
Tanner smiled. 'Yes, Corporal, but I think we're
licking them into shape.'
In the offices of the Sicherheitdienst in Lillehammer, Reichsamtsleiter
Hans-Wilhelm Scheidt was waiting for news of progress with mounting
frustration. Reconnaissance aircraft had reported nothing despite countless
sorties up and down the valley. 'Damned Luftwaffe,' he railed at Sturmbannfuhrer
Kurz. 'I know they're not really bothering.' He stood up, walked to Kurz's
window, overlooking a sunlit street, then strode back to the large,
leather-topped desk, snatched the photographs delivered by the Luftwaffe an
hour before and peered at them intently.
'I couldn't see anything in those,' said Kurz, sitting
back in his chair, his arms behind his head.
'They're taken from too damned high up.' Scheidt
smacked the back of his fingers against them, then flung them on to the desk.
Absent-mindedly Kurz picked at a tooth. 'And I suppose
the Luftwaffe do have to find the British positions.'
Scheidt glared at him. Kurz ignored him, instead picking
up the Luftwaffe's aerial photographs once more. Despite Scheidt's comments,
they were both clear and detailed, but even with a magnifying-glass no tracks
could be seen in the snow. High on the mountain plateau there was nothing but
an undulating whiteness. Then came the treeline, the forest gradually becoming
denser as the sides of the valley plunged towards the river and lake below.
What was most striking, however, was the rapidity with which the snow was
already melting along the lower slopes and valley floor. 'Spring has come,'
said
Kurz, almost to himself. 'In another week it'll probably be summer.' He
looked up at Scheidt, who had sat down again on the other side of the desk.
'Maybe we'll still get a message through.'
'Two days,' muttered Scheidt. 'Two damned days!'
'It happens.' Kurz shrugged. 'Changes in weather
patterns. Even small atmospheric fluctuations. It's probably nothing more
sinister than that.'
'I'm feeling blind,' said Scheidt. 'Christ, where are
they?' He paced the room again, then said, 'I'm going out. I need to think.'
He stepped outside into the cool evening air. Above
him the Nazi flag over the door of the SD offices clapped and the rope knocked
against the flagpole. A sudden gust swept down the street, throwing up dust. A
speck of grit caught in his eye. Scheidt cursed, then looked up to see a sullen
Norwegian creaking past in a cart, the mule's head bowed. Scheidt glared at him
but the man simply stared back, unmoved and defiant.
Norway. By God, he loathed the place, with its endless
mountains and curiously backward people. And what did Lillehammer have to
offer? Nothing but a couple of cafes, a few hotels and a population of
glowering, resentful inhabitants. He wished he could be back in Berlin, he
needed to think. Where were the bars and vitality of Bitte and Friedrichstrasse
- places where he could sit with a drink or two, watch the people go by and
relax? He was a metropolitan man, born and brought up in the bustle and mass of
Munich, and although he had been to university in the country town of Freiburg,
in the Black Forest, it had had all the sophistication that could be expected
from a centuries-old and highly distinguished university city Then had come
Berlin. How he missed it - a city that had always seemed to him the centre of
the civilized world. A city of fine buildings and deep culture that even so
seemed always to be moving forward. The beauty of its past sat so comfortably
with the daring innovations of the future. He wished he could be there now,
just for one night - a drink at the Cafe Josty to hear the latest gossip
followed by dinner at Horcher's. Ah, that would be good.
He walked into his hotel. The reception area was still
and quiet, save for the ticking of the pendulum on the clock.
'Brandy,' said Scheidt to the man at the desk, then
walked through into the lounge. A couple sat in the corner, speaking in hushed
tones and glancing nervously at Scheidt. Ignoring them, he sank into an
armchair of deep maroon plush - stale cigarette and cigar smoke had pervaded
every fibre of it. Cheap paintings of mountain scenes hung on the walls, while
above the fireplace there was an ageing mirror spotted dark where the silver
had been damaged. Scheidt ran his hands through his hair, and sighed. His
brandy arrived and he took it without a word to the waiter, drank it in one and
called for another.
He knew there was a large area in which to search for
Odin, but even so, there were practical constraints that limited the
opportunities for manoeuvre considerably. He had cursed the Luftwaffe, yet he
knew they had flown countless sorties up and down the valley. Von Poncets' men
had been trawling it too, yet they had found nothing - not a single clue, even
though they were fresh, had trucks at their disposal and could travel further
than Odin and his cohorts could possibly have managed on foot. It made no
sense.
Then inspiration struck. Suppose they had not been
seen because they weren't there? Suppose they had stayed where they were, lying
low somewhere, while von Poncets' troops headed north and wasted time hunting
for a false trail? He sat up and sipped his second brandy. Yes, he thought, it
made perfect sense. Zellner himself had said there were clever, experienced men
among them. For God's sake, Odin himself had enough of a brain! He finished his
brandy, hurried out of the hotel and back to the SD headquarters.
Rushing into Kurz's office, he said, 'They're going to
cross the river!'
Kurz looked at him with utter bewilderment. 'You've
lost me, Herr Reichsamtsleiter. Who is?'
'Odin,' said Scheidt, 'and the men with him. We
haven't found them because they're still somewhere on the mountain above
Tretten. Tonight, when it's dark, they'll try to cross to the other side of the
valley. I'm sure of it.'
Kurz looked dubious. 'It seems unlikely. Surely they
wouldn't dare.'
'They would because, on the face of it, where's the
risk? Who will still be in Tretten tonight? A few reinforcements passing
through from the south and that's about it. For God's sake, even von Poncets'
company of mountain troops won't be there.'
Kurz still seemed doubtful.
'Listen to me,' said Scheidt. 'They know they can't
travel through the mountains faster than us, and they know the Luftwaffe will
be out looking for them. They're stuck on the same side of the valley as the
road and the railway line. But what's on the other side? Nothing! If they can
get over there, they have a better chance of getting us off their trail.
Moreover, the far side of the valley is more densely covered with forest. I
know I'm right. Tonight, they'll come down and attempt to cross to the other side.'
Kurz was nodding now. 'Yes,' he said, a smile creeping
across his face. 'I think you might be right. It should be easy enough to stop
them. The bridge is undamaged. All we have to do is make sure von Poncets'
mountain troops are ready and waiting.' He glanced at his watch. 'Ten to nine.
Somehow we need to get them back to Tretten - and quickly.' He stood up and
slapped Scheidt on the back. 'Smart thinking, Herr Reichsamtsleiter.'
As Kurz disappeared to send a signal to von Poncets, Scheidt leant
against the desk and examined the photographs once more. He felt sure he was
right. Perhaps, at long last, they really were just hours from snaring their
prey. And, if so, it would have been worth the wait.
At a little after half past ten that night, a small column of sixteen
French, British and Norwegian troops, with two civilians, began to head down
through the trees on the slopes towards the tiny village of Tretten. They were
unusually attired. The Tommies, at Tanner's insistence, had put away their tin
helmets and greatcoats and replaced them with German field caps and wind
jackets. The French, believing their
canadienne
jackets and berets were sufficiently similar to the
German mountain-troops uniform, had stuck with their own clothing, while the
two Norwegian officers had kept their greatcoats, a similar green-grey to those
worn by the enemy, but had replaced their kepis with captured field caps. The
idea, Tanner had suggested, was not necessarily to pass themselves off as
German troops but, rather, to throw seeds of doubt and even confusion should
they be seen silhouetted - however faintly - as they crossed the river.
Anything that might chink or make any noise had been removed. It had been
impressed upon every man that stealth was of paramount importance to their
chance of success.
The sun had set behind the mountains on the far side
of the valley, although a faint pink and gold glow crowned the snowy plateau,
as though beckoning the fugitives towards a better place. Above, the sky was
darkening at last, but there was still enough light with which to navigate
through the trees and to warn them of any danger.
Sergeant Tanner, with Anna Rostad beside him and his
men behind, led the way, following the route he had worked out earlier that
morning. It had been more than twenty-four hours since they had reached the
Rostads' farmstead, an entire day in which to rest, recover and rebuild their
strength. They had certainly been fortunate to find such willing and
accommodating hosts. Even now they were setting off with full stomachs, bread
and cold meat in their haversacks. Erik Rostad had told them that most
Norwegians in the Gudbrandsdal would share their own antipathy towards the
German invaders, and if this