The Odin Mission

The Odin Mission

James Holland

Chapter 1

Thursday, 18 April 1940. The German invasion of Norway was nine days old, but in that time the small Norwegian village of Okset had seen little sign of the disaster that faced their peace-loving nation - a few aircraft overhead, that had been all. Indeed, Stig Andvard had listened to the unfolding news on his wireless with a feeling of mounting unreality. Swastikas now flew over the capital, Oslo, over Kristiansand, Stavanger, Bergen, Trondheim and Narvik, the coastal ports that provided the life-blood of the country The King and Government had fled - God only knew where to, but His Majesty's voice could still be heard crackling over the airwaves. A number of lads from the village had responded to the general mobilization and had hurried off to Elverum to join their army units, and had since disappeared into that other world where the war was taking place. Where were they now? Still fighting, or prisoners of the Germans? Norwegian resistance in the south was crumbling, that much was obvious, but to the north, British troops had landed at Namsos and the Royal Navy had sunk a number of German warships.

And yet could these cataclysmic events really be happening? It all seemed so far away. On his farm, Stig still had his pigs to feed, his cows to milk, and his sheep to watch. He had still drunk beer with Torkjel Haugen and Jon Kolden in the bar the past two Wednesdays, just as they always had. Life had continued during those nine days with the same unwavering regularity as it had for as long as Stig could remember.

In the valley, patches of grey grass were beginning to emerge through the snow, but the landscape was still monochrome, as it often was in April. Spring: a curious time of year, when the days were long and light, with barely more than three hours of darkness, but the ground remained stuck in winter, as though it had yet to catch up with the sun.

That morning, however, as Stig had dropped in the slops to the pigs, he heard a distant, dull thud from the south, followed by further muffled crumps. 'Elverum,' he muttered to himself, then stomped inside to find his wife. 'Guns,' he said to her. 'From Elverum.'

Agnes put her hands to her mouth. 'My God,' she said. 'Do you think they'll come here?'

Stig shrugged. 'It's only a little village,' he said. 'What do the Germans want with a place like this?'

'Oh, Stig, what are we going to do?'

'Try to keep calm.' He knew it was hardly a helpful comment, but in truth he had no idea what they should do. Their farm was the first house to the south of the village, more than half a kilometre from the next. He wondered whether he should walk into the village and see what everyone else was planning, then dismissed the idea. What would anyone else know? He glanced briefly at Agnes and could see that she was looking to him for guidance. Angry at his lack of decisiveness, he banged the kitchen table with his fist, then, avoiding her eye further, headed back out into the yard, where the sound of detonations and explosions from the south was becoming louder and more persistent.

What to do for the best? Stay, or pack up the truck and head north? He went over to the shed and opened the bonnet, checked the oil and fuel levels, and that the plugs and points were clean. At one moment, he glanced up towards the house and saw his wife staring at him from the kitchen window, her brows knitted together. Slamming the bonnet down harder than he might otherwise have done, he sighed, kicked at the watery mud on the ground and strode back across the yard to the farmhouse, into the kitchen, sat down at the table and drummed his fingers on the ageing pine.

'Stig, I'm frightened,' said Agnes, after a few moments' silence. 'I'm going to fetch Anton.'

Stig nodded. Their second son was still at school in the village. 'Yes, I think you should,' he told her. But then, as she was taking off her apron, he added, 'We'll stay put. Stick together. They won't want anything with us. Why would they want to do anything to us?' Agrtes looked at him and then left, a brief brush of her hand on his shoulder as she passed him. Stig cursed under his breath, annoyed with himself for betraying the uncertainty he knew his wife had recognized.

For two more hours, Stig tried to keep busy and to pretend that all would be well, but he had read reports of the fighting in Poland. The newspapers had printed pictures of burning villages, of towns shrouded in smoke. Polish resistance had been brushed aside and he hated to think what had happened to the people there. Agnes returned with Anton, and Nils, their elder son, came back from the wood where he had been sawing the pines they had felled the previous day. 'Stay with your mother,' Stig told him. 'I want all of you to stay near the house.'

At lunch, they sat around the kitchen table, saying and eating little. Stig toyed with his soup. His stomach felt heavy and nauseous and eventually he pushed the bowl away and went out again, into the barn where he hoped the banging of his hammer as he repaired some of the woodwork would deafen the sound of battle eight miles to the south.

It was Anton who fetched him early in the afternoon. 'Henrik's here, Papa,' he said, 'with some men.'

They were standing round the range in the kitchen when Stig entered - five of them - holding their hands to the warmth of the iron.

'Henrik,' said Stig.

'Forgive the intrusion,' his cousin said, clasping his hand firmly, 'but I'm afraid we need your help.'

'Of course.' Stig looked at the other four men. All, like Henrik Larsen, wore the grey-blue serge greatcoats of the Norwegian Army, with their double row of buttons and red piping round the collar and cuffs. Their large green canvas haversacks were piled in the corner, along with their rifles. One of the men stepped forward. There was a gold band around the kepi he clutched in his left hand.

'Forgive us,' he said. 'I am Colonel Peder Gulbrand of His Majesty the King's Guard. We urgently need to head north, but unfortunately our car broke down some kilometres to the south.' He was, Stig guessed, in his early forties; a strong face, lined round the edges of his eyes and mouth, and clean apart from a two-day growth of beard. The colonel looked exhausted, though - they all did. Stig glanced at them again. A lieutenant of perhaps thirty, and another younger officer, like Henrik. The fifth man was older, with round spectacles and a dark moustache flecked with grey. Stig noticed he was not wearing a tunic under his greatcoat, like the others, but a rollneck sweater and wool jacket. Nor was he wearing uniform trousers. Colonel Gulbrand followed Stig's gaze, and said hastily, 'I wish I could say more, but please believe me when I tell you our mission is a vital one and undertaken at the direct request of King Hakon.'

Stig nodded. 'You've come from Elverum?'

'This morning, yes.'

'We've heard the guns.'

'The town will be in German hands by evening.' Colonel Gulbrand looked at Stig, then at his watch.

'I've a truck out the back,' Stig told him. 'You take it. I checked it this morning. The tank is full and I've some spare cans of petrol you can have. It's old but has never let me down yet.'

'I can't thank you enough,' replied the colonel. He looked as though he was about to say something more, then stopped.

'Have you time for something to eat?' Stig asked him. 'You look tired, if you don't mind me saying so. We've got some mutton soup and bread—'

'Colonel?' said Larsen.