Authors: James Holland
'Who threw that?' snapped a voice behind them.
Tanner and Sykes swung round to see a platoon of strange troops
approaching through the trees. Leading them, and striding towards Tanner, was
the man who had spoken. 'Who threw that spade handle?' he said again.
Ah,
thought Tanner, catching the accent.
French.
'I did,' he said.
The man walked up to him in silence. He was shorter than the sergeant
by several inches, with a narrow, dark face and an aquiline nose. 'Isn't it
customary to salute an officer, Sergeant?' Tanner slowly brought his hand to
his brow. 'And stand to attention!' said the Frenchman, sharply. 'No wonder you
British are making such hard work of this war. No discipline, no training.'
Tanner fumed.
'Well?' continued the Frenchman. 'What have you to say for yourself?'
Tanner paused, then said slowly, 'I apologize, sir. I hadn't
appreciated there were French troops in the vicinity.'
'Well, now you know, Sergeant. There are - one company of the Sixieme
Bataillon Chasseurs Alpins, part of General Bethouart's Brigade Haute-Montagne.
We have been sent here because you British have no elite forces capable of
fighting in the mountains. So - you no longer need to worry about your flanks.
When
les Allemands
attack, you can take comfort from the fact that we shall be above you, watching
guard.' He pointed up towards the Balberkamp, then repeated the line in French
to his men with a knowing smile. They laughed.
'Where are the rest of the company, sir?' Tanner asked.
'You don't need to know such things, Sergeant.'
'Only I'm not sure one platoon will be able to do much to save us. The
mountain's a big place. Furthermore, you've only got rifles. Jerry's got
machine-guns and artillery and, even better, he's got aircraft. Lots of
aircraft. But I appreciate your help, sir. I really do.' It was now the turn of
British troops to laugh.
'Who is your superior officer, Sergeant?' the Frenchman asked curtly.
'Lieutenant Dingwall, sir. He's just over there.' Tanner pointed. 'Only
a hundred yards or so. Shall I take you, sir?'
The Frenchman
bristled. 'I don't like insolence, Sergeant. Not from my men or any others.
You've not heard the last of this.' He barked some orders. Then, with a last
glare at Tanner, he continued on his way with his men.
It was by now
nearly three o'clock on Monday, 22 April. The shelling had noticeably
intensified, as had the number of enemy aircraft flying overhead, but there was
still no sign of enemy troops to the front of them.
Tanner was soon ordered back to Platoon HQ to cover the absence of
Lieutenant Dingwall, who had been summoned to see the B Company commander,
Captain Cartwright. When Dingwall returned, he was flushed, his expression
grim. 'It looks like we might be outflanked,' he told Tanner. 'There have been
reports of German mountain troops climbing round the Balberkamp. The CO wants me
to send a fighting patrol to watch out for them and, if possible, hold them
off.'
'What about the Frogs? There was a platoon of mountain troops heading
that way.'
'Well, yes, but Captain Cartwright wants some of our own troops up
there.' He paused. 'I say, you haven't got a cigarette, have you, Sergeant?' He
patted his pockets. 'I seem to be out.'
Tanner sighed inwardly, and handed over his Woodbines. 'I've three
left, sir. Be my guest. Think I'll have one too.' The whine of a shell,
followed by another in quick succession, whooshed overhead, the echo resounding
through the valley. Dingwall flinched, but both men remained standing. The
shells exploded some distance behind them. Tanner handed the lieutenant his
matches and watched as Dingwall lit his cigarette, fingers shaking.
'About that fighting patrol, sir,' said Tanner, as he exhaled a curling
cloud of blue-grey smoke.
'Yes. I want you to take it, Sergeant.'
'Two sections?'
'Not that many. Fourteen. One section and three others, not including yourself.
I've been told to keep at least two whole sections here.'
Fourteen men
, thought Tanner.
Jesus
.
It wasn't a lot. He drew on his cigarette again,
then said, 'I'd like to take Sykes's section, sir, if I may. Shall I take the
other three from Platoon HQ?'
'Yes. I'll keep the mortar team here. You can have Hepworth, Garraby
and Kershaw.'
Tanner took another drag of his cigarette, then flicked it away.
'Right, sir. Better get going.'
'Just have a look around up there, all right? If you see anything, only
open fire if you really think you can hold them up. I need you all back here in
the platoon . . . Look, I think we both know we won't be staying here very
long. If for any reason we have to move out, it'll be along the valley, and I'm
only guessing, I'm afraid, but you might be able to make some ground across
here where the river loops westwards, then back towards Tretten. Here.' He gave
Tanner a hand-drawn map. 'It's the best I can do, I'm afraid. Another thing
we're short of - decent maps.'
'Thank you, sir.'
Dingwall held out his hand. 'Good luck, Sergeant.'
'And you, sir.'
The lieutenant hesitated again, then looked at the ribbon on Tanner's
chest. 'I - I've been meaning to ask. Your MM. What were you given it for?'
Tanner shrugged bashfully. 'Oh, you know how it is with gongs, sir,' he
said, then realized that, of course, the lieutenant had no idea. He kicked at
the ground. 'It was during the Loe Agra campaign a few years back. On the
North West
Frontier. Those jokers weren't as well armed as the Germans, but they were
vicious buggers all the same. Had rifles but bloody great swords and all sorts
as well. Those
wazirs
would slice your belly open without a second thought, give them half a chance.'
'It must have taught you a lot, Sergeant.'
Tanner nodded. 'I suppose so, sir.'
'I envy you that
experience. I'm sure it's the best training there is. Oh, and I heard about
what you did today,' he added. 'You want to watch it, Tanner. They'll be giving
you another bit of ribbon if you're not careful.'
Ten minutes
later, Tanner and his patrol were on their way, climbing through the snow and
trees round the north-west side of the Balberkamp. The slopes were steep and
the men soon gasped for breath. Lack of sleep and food hardly helped. Nor did
the weight of their equipment. Tanner had insisted that each man repack his
kit, as he had done himself the night before. He had ordered them to discard
any non-essentials and replace them with extra rounds of .303 and Bren
ammunition. Gas masks were put to one side, as were items of personal kit. As
Tanner pointed out, there were large differences between what had been drummed
in to them during peacetime and what was practical in war. Most wore their
greatcoats so that their large packs could be left behind, but Tanner carried his,
full of rounds and explosives, with his haversack on his hip. He had with him
around sixty pounds of kit.
The men had grumbled, and they grumbled again now as they forced their
way up the mountainside, but Tanner knew it was not his job to be popular. His
task was to lead by example and to inspire trust. Being a tough bastard was
what mattered, not making friends. The ribbon on his tunic helped, and he was
glad of it because it marked him out, giving him an automatic degree of
authority and respect. It had made his life easier since he had joined the
battalion. Now, though, he was about to be properly tested. Battle was about to
be joined. His mouth felt dry and cloying as it always did before a fight.
Earlier, at the station yard, he'd hardly had time to think, but now, in
expectation of the German attack, he felt on edge and irritable, his mood
worsened by his run-ins with Captain Webb and the Frenchman.
He wondered what they would find up on the slopes. In his own mind, it
seemed rather pointless for the Germans to try to outflank their position from
the mountains when they could attack head-on with artillery and armour and
achieve the same result; the Allies would not be standing firm for long, of
that he was sure. But there were always rumours in war - some turned out to be
true, many more proved false. He supposed it was the commander's job to decide
which was worth taking seriously. At any rate, someone had considered the
threat of an attack by enemy mountain troops to be real enough.
No matter, he and his fourteen men were now cut adrift from the rest of
the platoon and, indeed, the entire company and battalion. His gut instinct was
that they would not be rejoining them for some time. He had no radio link, only
a hand-drawn map, and no easy route back to the valley. His only means of
signalling Lieutenant Dingwall was a Very pistol and three flares, only to be
fired if they spotted significant numbers of German troops. But the lieutenant
had no way of contacting him: if the battalion was overrun, he could not let
Tanner know. And if they fell back, there was no guarantee that Tanner would be
able to get as far as Tretten before the Allies had passed through.
Two of the Bren group stopped, exhaustion written across their faces.
'Come on, you idle sods,' Tanner chided.
'Give them a break, Sarge,' said Lance Corporal Erwood, the Bren group
leader.
'Stop grumbling and get on with it,' said Tanner. 'Here, give me that.'
He took the Bren off Saxby, clasping it by the wooden grip on the barrel. The
machine-gun was certainly heavy, but he knew they needed to reach the open
plateau at the top of the mountain as soon as possible, and that if he allowed
them to stop now, they would only have to stop again.
Several Junkers thundered down the valley, and from where Tanner stood
it seemed as though he were looking down on them. All the men halted, as bombs
dropped from the planes directly over B Company's positions. First the whistle
of falling iron and explosives; then the spurts of flame and clouds of smoke, earth,
wood and stone mushrooming across the entire position. A moment later, the
report, cracking and echoing off the mountainside.
'All right, let's move,' said Tanner. The knot tightened in his
stomach. He almost wished he could meet some Germans now. It would take his
mind off things.
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.