Authors: James Holland
He could see no sign of the enemy. Lieutenant Dingwall had been unable
to tell him whether German mountain troops would be wearing special snow
uniforms, or even if they would be using skis. He was certainly conscious,
however, of how ill-suited their own uniforms were to the task in hand. The new
battle dress might have been created by clever ministry boffins, but it had not
been designed for snow-covered mountain warfare. Tanner sighed. Everything
about this campaign had been badly planned by the top brass, it seemed. Surely
someone had thought about the conditions they were likely to face in Norway.
And if so, why hadn't they organized white overalls and jackets? It was obvious
they should have been given such kit. He circled as he walked, his trusted Enfield
ready in his hands, and checked the line of men strung out along the rough
track, all in khaki and some, like himself, in tan jerkins. It would offer
camouflage of sorts if they were hiding behind trees, but against bright white
snow, they stood out horribly, easy targets for an enemy trained to operate in
such an environment.
Perhaps it wouldn't come to that. The mountain seemed so empty. They
hadn't even seen the Chasseurs Alpins. He began to think the rumour of enemy
mountain troops must have been just that; and although explosions and the
sounds of battle continued from the valley, they were sporadic. He had no
impression that their lines were about to be overrun. As he thought of this,
his spirits rose. Perhaps they would rejoin the platoon, after all. There were
even trees on the summit of the Balberkamp, albeit sparsely spread, and he now
had it in mind to climb almost as far as the top of that outcrop of snowy
rock. From there, using the trees as cover, they would have a far-reaching
view. If any attack was coming, they would see it from there.
They were only a hundred yards from the summit when Tanner caught the
faint hum of an aircraft. So, too, did the others.
'D'you hear that, Sarge?' said Sykes, from behind him.
'It's heading into the valley.' But no sooner had he replied than from
the Balberkamp a Messerschmitt appeared, immense and deadly, thundering
directly ahead of them as if from nowhere, and flying so low it seemed almost
close enough to touch. The noise of the engines tore apart the stillness of the
mountain. Tanner yelled at his men to lie flat but it was too late. The
twin-engined machine was spurting bullets and cannon shells from its nose,
stabs of angry orange fire and lines of tracer hurtling towards them. Tanner
felt shells and bullets ripping over his head and either side of him. Something
pinged off his helmet, while another missile ripped across the top of his pack.
His eyes closed, grimacing into the snow, he pressed his body to the ground,
willing himself to flatten.
Two seconds, maybe three, that was all. The ugly machine was past. One
of the men called out. Tanner got to his feet. It was Kershaw, one of the two
men sent ahead as scouts.
'Christ, oh my God!' he shouted. He sat half upright in the snow
staring down at something beside him.
'All right, calm down, Kershaw!' called Tanner. 'Is anyone else hit?'
Now there was gunfire a short way to the north. The Messerschmitt was strafing
someone or something else.
'Gordon's down, Sarge,' shouted Private McAllister.
Tanner turned to Sykes. 'You go to Gordon, I'll deal with Kershaw. And,
lads, keep watching out. Come on!'
He hurried
ahead, all the while keeping a watch on the Messerschmitt a mile or two to the
north. Now he saw it turn and double back towards them. Tanner was about to
yell another warning when the aircraft banked and swept out in a wide arc over
the valley and disappeared south.
As he approached Kershaw he saw, with a heavy heart, a mess of dark red
stark against the snow. A cannon shell had struck Keith Garraby squarely in the
midriff, tearing him in half, so that his still-trousered and booted legs lay
in the track, while his upper body had been hurled several yards and now lay
upright against the trunk of a tree, the eyes still gazing out in disbelief.
Kershaw sat rooted to the spot, ashen-faced, his friend's blood streaked across
his face and greatcoat.
Tanner closed Garraby's eyes, then hastily collected the dead man's
legs and guts, placing them beneath the rest of the body. The grim task
complete, he offered Kershaw a hand. 'Come on,' he said. 'Up on your feet now.
Let's get you away from here.' Kershaw did as he was told. Then, glancing back
at his friend, he heaved and vomited.
Private Bell was beside Tanner. 'Best hurry, Sarge,' he said. 'Gordo's
in a bad way.' He averted his eyes from Garraby. 'Sweet Mother of God,' he
muttered. 'The bastards.'
Tanner ran back. Sykes was crouched over Private Draper, desperately
pressing field dressings over two wounds in his chest and arm. 'All right,
Gordo, you're going to be fine,' he was saying. 'Just hold on, son.'
'Give me some more dressings,' said Tanner, squatting beside him and
pulling out his own packs of bandages from his trouser pockets. He opened
Draper's jerkin, then tugged his sword bayonet clear of its sheath and deftly
slit open the battle blouse, shirt and vest. Draper was pale, his eyes darting
from side to side. 'I'm cold,' he mumbled, blood now running from his mouth. He
was shivering, but beads of sweat lined his brow and upper lip. Silent tears
ran down the side of his face. 'Help me,' he sputtered. 'Help me. I don't want
to die.'
'You're going to be fine,' said Tanner, stuffing wadding into the
bullet-hole in Draper's chest. 'Stan, press down here,' he said to Sykes. 'Quick
- he can't feel a thing. He's in deep shock.' Several others were now gathered
round him, peering at Draper's prostrate body. 'I thought I told you to keep
watch,' growled Tanner. 'Stop bloody gawping and keep a lookout. Now!' He
turned back to Draper. Blood still seeped through the mass of wadding and
bandages. Draper's eyes were filled with fear and he was frothing at the mouth.
'Mother!' he gurgled. 'Mother!' He kicked. 'Easy, Gordo, easy. You're all
right,' said Tanner. But, of course, he was not. Tanner and Sykes tried to
steady him and then a sudden calm spread over Draper's face. The kicking
stopped and his head dropped limply to one side.
'Goddamn it!' cursed Tanner, slamming a fist into the ground. He
glanced at his watch. It was now nearly six o'clock in the evening. Standing up
and scanning the mountains, he could still see no sign of any troops, enemy or
otherwise. 'Stan, you stay here with three of your lads and bury Gordon and
Keith.' Sykes nodded.
'The rest come
with me.'
It was often hard
for a pilot to hit a human target on the ground. Travelling at high speeds
there was little time to aim, and although the mixture of MG17 7.92mm bullets
and Oerlikon 20mm cannon shells poured out through the nose cone of the
twin-engined Messerschmitt 110, there was no time to respond should the targets
suddenly fling themselves out of the line of fire. Nor was there much chance to
see the fruits of such an attack. The rule of strafing was simple: keep your
finger on the firing buttons, then fly straight on out of harm's way as quickly
as possible; it only took a lucky bullet and the plane could be in serious
trouble, especially at such a low height.
Lieutenant Franz Meidel was pleased with his efforts, though. Flying
low along Lake Mj0sa, he had climbed due north using the bend in the lake as
his marker. He had arrived south-east of the Balberkamp, then pulled back on
the throttle so that he was travelling at two hundred miles per hour, and
swooped north without being seen or heard. He had not been expecting to see a
patrol of British troops but at just under a hundred feet off the ground he had
seen their distinctive wide-rimmed helmets clearly. A three-second burst of
fire had certainly knocked them over, and he was sure he had seen one man badly
hit before the reeling figure had flashed out of sight beneath the aircraft.
Lieutenant
Meidel had flown on, spotting five men. There was so little time in which to
assess who they were, but they carried rifles and looked - so far as he could tell
- like Norwegian troops. He had opened fire on them too. Although he had been
unable to see whether or not he had been successful, his rear-gunner told him
he was certain at least one man had been hit. Meidel flew on, and since there
were neither enemy aircraft nor anti-aircraft fire to worry about, and because
the adrenalin coursing through him was making him feel bold, he had decided to
turn and swoop back low over the tree-tops to examine his handiwork. Of the men
there had been no sign, but he had spied a distinct trail of blood in the snow.
Good,
he thought. 'I think we
can go home, Reike,' he said.
Although
Sergeant Tanner had heard the second attack, it had not been his intention to
investigate further. He guessed it had been made on the Frenchmen, in which
case he hoped the German pilot had been successful. And, in any case, his
orders were to look for German mountain troops preparing an outflanking
manoeuvre, not get caught up in somebody else's trouble.
So, with nothing to report from the summit of the Balberkamp, he had
told his still-shaken patrol they would head down to rejoin the rest of the
company. They had retraced their steps and had cleared the lip so that they
were looking down on the Rangers' positions, when Tanner realized something was
wrong. in the valley. Sykes had spotted it too.
'If the lads are still down there, Sarge,' Sykes said, behind his
shoulder, 'why isn't there any sight or sound of gunfire? And why are the Jerry
shells landing further to the north?'
'You're a mind-reader, Stan. Mind you, they were shelling behind our
lines earlier, too.'
'And our positions at the same time. But it's quiet now. I reckon
they've bloody scarpered.'
Tanner felt for his haversack on his hip, reached into it and pulled
out the Aldis sight. With one hand he held the leather lens cap as a shield to
avoid any light reflecting into the valley, while with the other he put it to
his eye.
Sykes eyed the scope admiringly, then peered at the rifle now on
Tanner's shoulder. 'You crafty sod, Sarge! You've had the fittings added.
Blimey, I never noticed that.'
'Nor has anyone else,' said Tanner, still observing the valley. 'I
can't see any sign of them. Jerry aircraft and Jerry shells have done for them,
I think.'
'It was a bloody hopeless position in the first place, if you ask me,'
said Sykes.
"Course it bloody was,' agreed Tanner. He replaced the cap and
carefully put the scope back into his haversack. He felt in his pocket for his
cigarettes, only to find he had already smoked the last one. 'Sod it,' he said,
tossing away the empty packet. Lieutenant Dingwall had mentioned Tretten, some
miles to the north, but in the snow, with almost no food and on the back of
four days and nights of very little sleep, this would be tough on the men. They
now looked at him expectantly.
'Sarge?' said Sykes.
A faint chatter of small arms could be heard further up the valley - it
was the indication Tanner needed. 'We head north,' he said. 'We'll rejoin that
track.' The men looked downhearted. 'Listen to me,' said Tanner. 'No one ever
said this war would be easy, but unless you want to end up in some Jerry
cooler, we've got to keep
going. If you've any rations left, eat something now.'
Lack of food was his prime concern, and as they set off once more it
played on his mind. When in action, with adrenalin pumping through the blood,
hunger melted away, but as he well knew, there were always long intervals
between. Hunger could torment a man, sap his energy, weaken his spirit. He had
hoped they might be able to shoot a rabbit or some birds, but on this mountain
he'd seen few of either. The lads were not grumbling yet; rather, they were
quiet, most still stunned by the loss of Garraby and Draper. Tanner had to
remind himself that those deaths had probably been the first his men had
witnessed. The platoon was close; some had joined at the same time, but all had
trained and headed off to war together. To lose good friends so violently was
hard to take.
He wondered whether he should have said more. He could have told them
that the first dead body was always the worst. That the brain becomes used to
such sights and the loss of friends. And that too soon it was possible to put
the death of even a close mate quickly to one side and carry on as though nothing
had happened. It was strange how hardened one became. The moment for such words
had passed, though. They would work it out soon enough.
From the valley below came the continued sounds of battle. More
aircraft, more shelling and, occasionally, distant bursts of small arms. He
pulled out Dingwall's map. Assuming the lieutenant had drawn it to scale, then
Tanner reckoned they were nearing a bend in the Lagen river just south of a
village the lieutenant had marked as Oyer. He had been leading the patrol due
north and certainly the fighting now sounded closer, which tallied with the
eastward bend in the valley. But although the patrol appeared to be making
progress, he knew they must still be behind the front line. A breather in the
fighting, that was what he needed. The chance to catch up, get ahead of the
German advance, and then they could rejoin the battalion.
His thoughts returned to his stomach. By God, he was hungry. Curse this
bloody country, and curse the idiots who'd planned the campaign. Thoughts of
food entered his head: a steaming game pie like his father used to make;
curries he had eaten in Bombay; the baked apples Mrs Gulliver used to bring
round sometimes on Sundays, covered with treacle and currants. He chided
himself.
Stop thinking about it, you bloody fool.