Authors: James Holland
It was the turn of his own men now, and he touched
each man's shoulder as they set off. More noise, jarring, from the river;
Tanner tensed. The boats were being righted and taken to the water. Footsteps
on the pebbles; someone tripping. Tanner groaned inwardly. 'For God's sake keep
quiet!' he whispered. He knew they were trying, but they were heavily laden
with their packs and haversacks, and most were carrying not one but two rifles
- their own and the captured German Mausers. And, of course, there were those
metal-studded boots - brilliant on the mountain, but hopeless for crossing a
pebble beach in silence.
With Kershaw across, Tanner followed. Despite the
noise from the riverbank, Tretten village itself seemed fast asleep, the
teeming mass of men and war materiel that had crowded along the road only that
morning now long since vanished, like a dream. He reached the river's edge.
Anna and the Norwegians were in the first boat, two French troops rowing them
away from the shore. Tanner wiped his mouth anxiously. Six in the boat - six
with full kit - and more than the dinghy was designed for. As they moved out
unsteadily, the small boat looked worryingly low in the water.
Chevannes, his remaining two Chasseurs, Erwood, Moran
and Bell, clambered into the second and pushed off as Tanner, Sykes and the
last of the Rangers struggled into the third, the craft tilting and lurching
from side to side, water lapping against the wooden hull.
'For God's sake, try to keep it steady,' hissed
Tanner. Holding the wobbling dinghy, he was about to clamber in when Sykes
whispered, 'Where are the oars?'
'Didn't you pick them up?'
'I couldn't see any.'
Tanner cursed, then glanced around. It was hard to see clearly but the
light from the stars cast enough of a glow to show him there were no oars to be
found. Tanner could feel himself begin to panic so he closed his eyes and
breathed deeply. It worked. 'We'll have to use the Mausers. Everyone get to it.
Use them like a canoe paddle.' He took his own from his shoulder and plunged it
into the ice-cold water.
From the upstairs dormer window of Tretten station, on the west bank of
the Lagen river, Hauptmann Wolf Zellner had a fine view of the bridge below to
his right. With the window open, the cold night air wafted across his face. He
gazed out, marvelling at the billions of stars, pinpricks of light that gave
the land below a faint ethereal shape. He looked at his watch: eleven twenty-
three.
Will
they come?
he wondered, not for the first time that evening, then lifted his binoculars to
his eyes once more.
Despite instructions from Sturmbannfuhrer Kurz to
prepare an ambush at Tretten bridge, Zellner had felt there were a number of
places where Odin and the fugitives might cross the valley. There was a bridge
at Favang, for example, just ten kilometres north of Tretten, while six
kilometres further on, at Ringebu, the railway crossed back over the river and
rejoined the main valley road. True, they had not found the men despite a day
of intense search, but Zellner was less convinced than Kurz or Reichsamtsleiter
Scheidt that they had remained holed up near Tretten. With this in mind, and
hoping to restore both his standing and pride, he had decided, on receiving his
orders from the SD Headquarters in Lillehammer, to deploy his men along the
valley not only at Tretten but also at Favang and Ringebu. Admittedly, his
company was now only three platoons strong, and he was painfully aware that the
fugitives had got the better of his men when they had been operating with just
one platoon, but he had no doubt that, however skilled the British sergeant
might be, the fugitives could not achieve such a victory again. After all, they
were now only seventeen strong, and Zellner knew much more about them than he
had the day before. Most importantly, he and his men would be ambushing them,
not the other way round. So it was that with forty fresh, well-armed men,
Hauptmann Zellner had driven back to Tretten that evening confident that he had
most possibilities covered and that his men were more than equal to the task.
He had agreed with Kurz that, should the fugitives
still be near Tretten, the bridge was the most likely crossing place, simply
because it was by far the easiest way for them to get to the other side. He had
told his men to keep out of sight: the aim was to encourage the fugitives in
their belief that the village was unoccupied.
Time had been tight. On reaching Tretten shortly after
ten that evening, they had quickly found a hiding-place for the trucks in a
disused barn, then positioned themselves at either side of the bridge, using
bushes and trees as cover, also buildings, both intact and partially destroyed.
Zellner had prayed the fugitives would cross here. Playing his moment of
triumph over and over in his mind he had begun to believe that Fate would
ensure this was so, when a convoy had passed through ripping apart the quiet.
How Zellner had cursed, especially when he saw, a kilometre or so beyond the
village, that the column had stopped. They had moved on soon enough but in the
minutes that followed Zellner had doubted his earlier conviction.
Suddenly he thought he heard something from away to
his left - further along the river. He turned to Lieutenant Huber, the platoon
commander. 'Did you hear that?'
'What, Hauptmann?' asked Huber.
'Ssh!' said Zellner. 'Listen.' And there it was again,
a scraping sound - faint, almost inaudible, but there. 'What
is
that?' He peered through his
binoculars towards where the river widened into Lake Losna. He could see the
water, smooth as glass, twinkling, the mountains looming behind and beyond, but
nothing out of the ordinary.
'Shall I investigate?' Huber asked.
'And give ourselves away? No,' said Zellner. 'Keep
listening.'
He continued to stare through his binoculars and, at last, something
caught his eye. A faint ripple on the otherwise smooth water. A sensation of
intense exhilaration coursed through Zellner and a moment later he saw a boat
as it passed in line with the valley and was silhouetted against the sky.
Zellner smiled. 'Yes!' he said. 'I think we have them. Quick, Huber. We haven't
a moment to waste.'
All six men were paddling with their Mausers and Tanner's boat soon caught
up with the one in front and then they passed it. Ahead, the far bank still
seemed an interminably long way off. A hundred and fifty metres wide, Anna had
said, and from his recce earlier that day he had agreed with her. Now, though,
he realized it was more like two hundred yards, if not further.
'Come on, boys, keep at it,' he snapped.
His heart pounded with exertion and raw fear. His
whole body was tense, waiting for the sound of shouts and machine-gun fire.
He'd never liked being on open water. It made him feel he was no longer in
control, that he was exposed and vulnerable.
Closer now. The lead boat was drawing near to the
shore. Tanner allowed himself a sigh of relief. Perhaps they would make it,
after all.
The sound of an engine shattered the illusion, then
another, both from the direction of the village but on opposite sides of the
river. The others heard it too, among expletives and panicked paddling. 'Quick,
lads, quick!' said Tanner, plunging the Mauser into the water furiously.
Ahead, the first boat was drawing on to the gravel
shore. There were splashes as the occupants stumbled out. The beam from the
trucks cut across the water. The first lorry had stopped on the side from which
they had come. Orders were being barked, and moments later shots rang out,
bullets whining over their heads. A warning, thought Tanner.
Don't try to turn back.
Shapes retreating from the first boat. Where was
Sandvold? The lights of the second lorry curving round the river's edge were
only a few hundred metres away now. Tanner heard the grinding of gears just as
their own boat scraped against the stony shore. 'Get out, quick!' Tanner
shouted. 'Cross the railway and head for the trees!' The third boat was closing
on the shore too. One of the Frenchmen jumped but the water was deeper than
he'd thought, and he flailed trying desperately to free his pack.
'Keep going!' Tanner shouted, kneeling to take aim as
the vehicle turned towards them. He fired once, missed, then fired again and
hit the windscreen of the lorry, which veered. He fired once more, and heard
the ping of a bullet hitting metal. A screech of brakes, and the lorry came to
a halt at the side of the road, a hundred yards ahead. A German voice yelled
orders, and enemy troops hurried from the back of the truck. The Frenchman in
the water was drowning, but Tanner ignored him and grabbed the prow of the
dinghy. 'Jump!' he yelled, as Chevannes leapt out. Bullets ricocheted off the
stones. Tanner was conscious of someone beside him. 'Go!' he shouted.
'Non!'
came
the reply.
'Mon
ami. Vites, Henri, vites!'
'He's gone, mate,' said Tanner, but the Chasseur
stepped into the water to rescue his friend.
'For God's sake,' said Tanner, grabbing him. 'Go!
Now!' A machine-gun opened fire, raking the water, tracer arcing towards them.
At this, the Chasseur gave up and both men were running for their lives, off
the pebble shore, across a grassy verge and over the railway line. The
machine-gun had stopped firing but Tanner could hear the footsteps of enemy
troops running towards them. He spun round and fired twice, then ran on, up
another grassy bank, stumbled, cursed, picked himself up, as more bullets
whistled over his head and into the ground at either side of him, then headed
for the trees.
Where was everyone? Shouts from below and more shots.
He could barely see anything, and hit a thin branch, which whipped back and
slashed him across the face. Stinging pain coursed through him, then seared the
side of his leg, and he cried out.
'Sarge, is that you?' called a voice.
'Stan!' said Tanner. 'Where the hell is everyone?'
'Up ahead. Are you all right, Sarge?'
'I think so. Thank God for dense forests.'
'A-bloody-men to that.'
Bullets tore into the trees, ripped through branches
and smacked into the ground, but the slope was steep and the forest close.
Tanner could hear others panting and gasping for breath. Suddenly a machine-gun
opened fire again, a long burst spurting bullets up the wooded slopes. Tanner
crouched behind a tree as the bullets flew. He saw a flickering torch beam, but
it was weak so he stepped out from behind the tree, aimed his rifle towards the
light and fired. The reply was another long burst of machine-gun fire, but this
time the aim was way off, the bullets cutting through the trees high above
their heads.
'Reckon they're angry, Sarge,' said Sykes, from a few
yards to Tanner's right.
'Very, I'd say,' Tanner replied. 'Come on, Stan, let's
keep going. You sure the others are all ahead?'
'I'm sure.'
The firing lessened as they climbed higher and
eventually, a couple of hundred feet above the lake, they reached a clearing in
the trees.
'Hey,' said Tanner, in a loud whisper.
'Sergeant, is that you?'
Larsen. Tanner breathed a sigh of relief. 'Sir,' said
Tanner, 'where are you?'
'Up ahead. Keep going, Sergeant.'
Tanner scrambled up the slope and, straining his eyes,
peered into the darkness. Above, near the edge of the thickening forest, he
could just make out the dark shape of several people crouched together. 'Stan,'
he whispered, 'they're up here.' All six from the leading boat - Sandvold
included - were still together.
Thank God.
'We made it, sir,' said Sykes, breathlessly, to
Chevannes.
'Yes,' replied the Frenchman. 'A miracle.'
By listening for panting, they were able, one by one,
to gather the men together. Most collapsed on the ground, some laughing and
whispering animatedly with the release of tension until Chevannes sharply told
them to be quiet. 'We're not in the clear yet,' he told them. 'Not by any
means.'
A head count showed that two men were missing:
Chasseur Bardet and Private Mitch Moran. Both had been in the last boat. 'I'm
sorry, sir,' said Tanner to Chevannes, 'but Bardet drowned. He jumped from the
boat too early and his pack weighed him down. Chasseur Junot tried to rescue
him but it was too late.'
Chevannes nodded. Junot himself was not in a good way.
Soaked above the waist, he was shivering. He was also inconsolable at the loss
of his friend.
'He needs to change his clothes,' said Tanner, 'or
he'll be following his friend pretty soon.' But no one had any spare trousers,
only jackets. Neither had they seen Moran. 'Tinker?' he said to Bell. 'You were
in the boat with him.'