The Odin Mission

further back along the winding valley. He stood up and smoothed back his hair. 'But I have to tell you, General, that without support, I cannot guarantee that we'll be able to hold Tretten for long.'

General Ruge studied the map in silence. The building in Favang that he had made his latest headquarters was the station house, a simple brick structure with a handful of rooms. Until the day before, his office had belonged to the station master, but although there was dust on the shelves and the floorboards were worn, it had an old leather-topped desk and a clock on the wall that proved to be an accurate timepiece, and there was room enough for the Norwegian Army commander and several staff officers.

Ruge ran a hand round the stiff collar of his tunic, stretched his neck, then sank back into his chair. 'Where is the extra company of Leicesters from Andalsnes? Are they at Tretten?' he asked Brigadier Morgan.

'Yes, but without much kit, I'm afraid. Apparently there's a Bofors waiting to be moved down here from Andalsnes, but as yet no one has found a way to get it here.' He was eyeing the general keenly. 'So we still don't have a single anti-aircraft gun.'

Ruge said nothing. Instead he banged his fist hard on the desk top. Frustration, anger.

'The Tretten gorge is a good natural defensive position,' Morgan continued, 'but I'm worried about our flanks. The enemy's mountain troops went round us successfully at the Balberkamp and I'm concerned they'll do so again. But I don't have enough men. I need to make a position here, to the east of Tretten village, otherwise—'

'Very well, Morgan, I take your point,' snapped Ruge. 'Beichmann,' he said, to the staff officer seated next to the desk, in English so that Morgan could understand, 'find Colonel Jansen. Order him to place his Dragoons there, and tell him he is now to fall under the direct command of Brigadier Morgan.'

'Sir.' Colonel Beichmann saluted and left the room.

General Ruge sighed wearily. 'What else can we do?'

'It would help the men greatly if they could have something to eat, sir. Most haven't had anything for more than thirty-six hours. We were promised that Norwegian troops would be bringing up rations this afternoon, but so far nothing has arrived. All we have is a store of dry rations left at Tretten station by the newly arrived Leicesters. It's not enough.'

'All right, Morgan, I'll look into it. The problem, as you know, is transport.' He chuckled mirthlessly. 'Just one of our many problems,' he added, holding up his hands - what am I expected to do? 'Just one of many.'

Brigadier Morgan left the general and drove back towards Tretten in a requisitioned Peugeot, squashed into the back seat next to Major Dornley, his Brigade- Major, their knees knocking together and elbows almost touching. It was cold, and he pulled up the collar of his coat so that the coarse wool scraped against his cheeks and ears. He was fifty-two, which, he reflected, was no great age to be a brigade commander during peace time, but too old in a time of war. He felt the cold more than he had in his younger days, and right now he felt more exhausted - mentally and physically - than he had ever done as a young man in the trenches.

Outside, light snow was falling, dusting the road ahead. Out of his left window, dark, dense forest ran away from the verge; to his right, he could see the smooth, almost black mass of the Lagen river, as wide as a lake; while above, dark and menacing, were the mountains. Magnificent, yes - but right now a snare, trapping and constraining his meagre forces. A funnel for the Luftwaffe and German gunners.

Morgan bit one of his nails.

'Are you all right, sir?' asked his Brigade-Major.

'I suppose so, Dornley, thank you for asking.' He clicked his tongue several times, then said, 'It's just bloody difficult trying to command a brigade when you've got someone like General Ruge breathing down your neck.'

'I thought you were getting along all right, sir,' said Dornley.

'Oh, we are - but that's not what I meant. He's a decent fellow and, I grant you, doing his best in very difficult circumstances. But the fact is, Dornley, General Ruge has only just been promoted from colonel, and is now ten days into the job of being C-in-C of a tiny tinpot army with no battlefield-command experience whatsoever. A couple of weeks ago he was junior to me in rank, yet now we're subordinate to him. It's all rather absurd.'

'He's giving you a pretty free rein, though, isn't he, sir?'

'Now he's got us down here, you mean?' He bit his nail again, then stared out into the darkness, shaking his head. He sighed heavily and closed his eyes. 'I'm beginning to think I made the wrong call. We should be at Trondheim now. Instead, the brigade's being chewed up bit by bit in this damned deathtrap of a valley.'

'Sir, you had very little choice in the matter.'

'Really?' said Morgan.

'We had no word from London and, as the general pointed out, as commander of Norway's forces, every other Allied officer in the country had to come under his command. And his orders were to reinforce his troops here. I can't see what else you could have done.'

Morgan sighed again. 'It's good of you to say so, Dornley, but I rather think now that I might have made that decision too quickly.' He knocked his fist lightly against his chin. 'I do really. I should have waited longer for a response from London. I had no idea what state Ruge's forces were in and it's since become perfectly clear that he expected a damn sight more from us.' He shook his head. 'Christ, we must be a disappointment. I can see what he must have been thinking - that these chaps have been fighting all their lives, that they beat the Germans twenty years ago, that we'd be bristling with guns, aircraft, tanks and M/T. Instead, all we've been able to offer are three battalions of inexperienced territorial infantry, half of whom are already dead, wounded or taken prisoner.'

'But it's not your fault, sir, that we lost two supply ships.'

Morgan laughed with exasperation. 'It is my fault, Dornley, that I allowed myself to be persuaded by Ruge to move the brigade south. I should have waited for word from the War Office.' He knocked his fists together. 'For Christ's sake, we haven't got a single bloody anti-aircraft gun. Those Luftwaffe boys are laughing their heads off. Jerry artillery are firing their 5.9s over open sights in full view of us from as little as two thousand yards - and what can our chaps do about it? Not a damned thing, because we've got sod- all with which to reply.' He glanced at Dornley, but this time his Brigade-Major was quiet. Perhaps I've said too much, he thought.

In front, his driver was peering intently through the windscreen. Morgan was glad it was not himself driving through the night in these snowy conditions with only narrow slits for headlights. The windscreen wipers groaned as they swiped the snow from the glass.

He felt in his coat pocket and pulled out his pipe and tobacco pouch. Once filled, he lit it, inhaling the rich fumes and watching the dark orange glow reflected in the window. Much of their misfortune, he knew, could be blamed on the losses of Sirius and Cedarbank and problems of an over-extended line of communication. Even so, he had begun to accept, with an increasingly sickening feeling after three days of a fighting retreat, that in the Germans they were confronting a formidable enemy, both in tactics and strength. Overwhelming air support working hand in hand with the troops on the ground was a devastating combination - yet such tactics had barely been discussed back at Staff College. At least, he'd never heard anyone talk in such terms - and he'd been a bloody instructor, for God's sake. What had they all been thinking? In every respect the enemy seemed better prepared, better trained and better equipped. So, the mountains and conditions were unfamiliar to his men; but they were to the Germans too, yet they had trained mountain troops, ready to take advantage of such surroundings.

It was a bitter pill to swallow and his confidence in his country, and in the Army he had served loyally for so long, had been shaken. They had won the last war, and he had played his own small part in that, but it now occurred to him for the first time that perhaps Britain would not survive a second one. And although he tried to push such thoughts clear of his brain, they doggedly remained rooted there. Certainly, they could never hope to defeat