'Yes,' said Scheidt, 'and then you lose the source too.'
'You have thought of everything, Herr Scheidt.'
'I think so.'
Terboven stubbed out his cigarette half smoked and stood up. 'Very well. I shall give you a week. And I hope very much for your sake that you can deliver on all counts - the man, the information and the jewels. A week, Herr Scheidt, that is all. Clear?'
'Perfectly, Herr Reichskommissar.'
Scheidt felt the tight grip of the Reichskommissar's hand and the narrow eyes boring into his, then he was out of the room, walking down the corridor and being escorted into the lift. My God, he thought, a week. But I must be able to find him. How hard could it be? For God's sake, didn't he have them cornered already? He just prayed his hand was as good as he hoped.
After a steep climb through thick pines and birch, having passed numerous false summits, Sergeant Jack Tanner and his patrol had reached the mountain plateau some two thousand feet above the valley. Here, the air was noticeably colder, but so long as the sun shone through the gauze of thin cloud, Tanner knew they had nothing to fear from the temperature. More of a concern was the depth of the snow, which in places, where there was a hidden hollow or it had drifted, was waist deep or more. The difficulty was that these patches were hard to spot. Some of the men found themselves taking a step forward only to sink. It was exhausting and progress slowed. Then Sykes spotted what appeared to be a drover's track where the snow had been compacted quite recently so Tanner directed the men towards it. Although it was not on Lieutenant Dingwall's map, he guessed it ran over the Balberkamp to the south and along the lip of the valley sides to the north.
'All right, we'll head southwards for a bit,' he told them. It meant they could no longer spread out in the wide arrowhead formation he preferred, but he reasoned that it was best to able to move easily. Ordering Privates Bell and Chambers to walk ahead as scouts, he directed the rest to move in staggered threes at either side of the track, so that the entire group was spread out over almost a hundred yards.
The trees were thinner, and offered less cover, but Tanner was surprised by how much they could see. The plateau now rose only gently; the shallow summit of the Balberkamp was less than a mile ahead, while to the east, the land fell away again only to climb gradually once more. Tanner paused to scan the landscape around him. It was so still. Nothing stirred up there. He thought of home, his village in the south of Wiltshire. The birds were cacophonic at this time of year. And in India, even Palestine, they were always singing, with a multitude of other noises: insects, cattle, sheep, men shouting, the exotic wail of the imam calling the faithful to prayer. But here, high on the mountains of Norway, nothing. Just the occasional explosion down in the valley.
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
