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.
Chapter 4
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.
The contrast could not have been greater. Josef Terboven was immaculate. It was indeed warm in the room, but there was not even the hint of a sheen on his smooth forehead. The fair hair was combed back perfectly from a pointed widow's peak. The gold-framed round spectacles sat neatly on his nose, while his narrow eyes watched the Norwegian with piercing intent. His double-breasted black suit revealed no insignia of rank, but was beautifully tailored and fitted its wearer like a second skin. The shoes were polished to glass, the shirt cuffs starched white cotton. Terboven exuded confidence, command and control. It was a Party rule that Scheidt had learnt well: look superior, feel superior. It was why he himself had spent so much at one of Berlin's finest tailors; it was why he took such trouble over his personal grooming. For all Quisling's professed admiration of Germany and all things German, sartorial pride was one lesson he had failed to grasp.
Scheidt recrossed his legs, his Louis XIV chair creaking gently. A large lacquered walnut desk stood by the large window, an art-deco drinks cabinet in the corner beside it. Even Terboven's choice of the Bristol made an important statement: it was not necessarily the best hotel in Oslo in which to make his temporary base, but certainly the most stylish.
Terboven raised a hand. 'Stop, please, Herr Quisling. For a moment.' He closed his eyes briefly, as though in deep thought, then opened them again and said, 'Another drink?' He signalled to an aide as Quisling nodded.
Another mistake, thought Scheidt, watching the man pour the Norwegian another whisky as Terboven placed a hand over the top of his own tumbler. 'No, not for me,' he said. Scheidt also knew to refuse.
'All you say may be true, Herr Quisling,' said the Reichskommissar, 'but what about the King - who, it must be said, has shown nothing but contempt for your political ambitions?'
Scheidt smiled to himself at this flagrant criticism of the man sitting next to him.
Quisling shifted in his chair. 'The King fears his position, his authority,' he said. 'It is why he must be captured and brought back to Oslo. I'm sure with a little coercion he can be persuaded to co-operate. For the greater good of Norway.'
Terboven put his hands together as though in prayer and rubbed his chin. 'Hm. It probably won't surprise you, Herr Quisling, to know that I'm no admirer of the King - or any royalty, for that matter. Neither, it should be said, is the Fuhrer.'
'The King must be captured,' said Quisling. 'The Norwegians love him. We voted for him in 1905 when we split from Sweden and since that time he has proved a diligent and extraordinarily popular monarch. He must return to Oslo. Once in the Royal Palace and publicly supporting the National Party, Norway will be the friend and partner
