The Odin Mission

Goddamn joke!' he said. Angrily, he picked up his spade and hacked at the ground behind Sykes's Bren post. As the corporal had warned, the spade cut through a few inches of soil, then hit rock. Repeatedly, he tried to find an area where the soil might be deeper, but every time it was the same. Rock.

'Who gave us these poxy spades anyway?' he barked at Sykes. 'Bloody useless, they are. What was wrong with the old pick-and-mattock tool we used to have? I wouldn't want one of these at the bloody seaside, let alone in the middle of sodding Norway.' He dug in the spade and the wooden handle snapped. With a curse, he flung what was left of it behind him.

'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