'Well, get practising, then.'
Pausing frequently to glance behind them, they hurried on, following the tracks of the rest of the column. Tanner conceded that Riggs now needed to staunch the flow of blood so they stopped to wrap a bandage round his head. Despite the hold-up, they had caught up with the others in half an hour. Ignoring the questions of his men, Tanner reported to Chevannes straight away. He told the Frenchman little, except to warn him that there were now about thirty men pursuing them.
'We must keep going,' said Chevannes.
'And watch our flanks,' added Tanner. 'They'll still be in better shape than us. They'll follow our tracks but they could probably outflank us and have us surrounded if we're not careful.'
'Thank you, Sergeant,' said Chevannes. 'I do realize that.'
It was just after six o'clock. Tanner guessed they must be level with Tretten, although he knew better than to ask Chevannes if he could have a look at the map. From the valley, guns and shells could be heard clearly. How much further was Chevannes going to take them before they cut down into the valley? They were so close; tantalizingly so. The sound of battle told him the Allies were still there. Another half-hour, and he reckoned they'd make it - thirty minutes, that was all. He also knew that their pursuers would be upon them sooner than that.
And then he heard the enemy mountain troops attacking from the flank. They all heard it - the increase in shelling, the intensity of small-arms fire, suddenly loud and echoing across the valley and up the mountain. Through the trees they could see Stukas wheeling and diving, their manic sirens screaming through the din of battle.
For a moment, no one said a word. No one needed to. After all, what was there to say? The Allied positions in Tretten were about to be overrun. How could it be otherwise with that weight of fire? All too soon they'd be back where they'd started, high on a mountain, without food or rest, out of reach of safety once more. Only now the enemy was stalking them.
Tanner tried desperately to think. Despair engulfed him. Despair, frustration and, above all, anger. Think! think! he told himself. Then ahead, through the trees, he saw something, and an idea entered his head.
It gave him a glimmer of hope.
Chapter 8
Reichsamtsleiter Hans-Wilhelm Scheidt had returned to Lillehammer in a better mood than when he had walked into Kurz's office earlier that day. He had, he felt certain, been right to leave Oslo. Kurz was clearly unreliable. Despite the SD officer's words of assurance, Scheidt recognized in him a man who enjoyed the trappings of power and authority but who was consumed by idleness and complacency.
A room in a hotel not two minutes' walk from Kurz's office was the ideal place in which to make his temporary new base. The hotel owner had given in without a word when Scheidt had announced he was requisitioning the best room. Too frightened to refuse, Scheidt guessed, from the ashen expression on the man's face.
His room was dark and not a little shabby - far removed from the splendour of the Continental Hotel in Oslo. Indeed, up here in the central interior of the country it felt like a different world. The villages were small and sparsely populated; Lillehammer was more like a large village than a town. There were few metalled roads, and despite the single railway line, the entire area seemed little more than a vast expanse of mountain, water and forest - perhaps a good place to hide, but not for long. All too soon, the harsh conditions would flush out any man on the run.
Where was Sandvold? Perhaps already in the hands of the mountain troops. Scheidt had been impressed by both von Poncets and Hauptmann Zellner. Both had the kind of energy and determination that gave him confidence. The Wehrmacht, he reflected, might be rigid and rather narrow-minded, but they were straightforward to deal with - certainly a damn sight more so than the Allgemeine-SS.
Scheidt lit a cigarette and looked out of the dormer window of his room. In the streets below, Lillehammer was quiet, almost slothful, but some miles to the north, he could hear the dull thud and reverberation of battle. 'We're winning,' von Poncets had told him. Now Reichsamtsleiter Scheidt had to win his personal battle.
Despite Reichsamtsleiter Scheldt's mounting confidence, Hauptmann Wolf Zellner had not yet caught Odin.
Less than an hour earlier, however, when the tracks of about twenty men had been spotted in the snow, he had been convinced they had found the group they were looking for. With the thrill of the chase surging through him, he had given the order to proceed with all speed. Success, he had felt sure, was just round the corner. Soon, they would spot their quarry. Then they would inch forward and surround them. Footsore and weary, the Tommies would gladly surrender and Odin would be theirs. He had even played in his mind the scene at von Poncets' HQ, as he handed over the Norwegian. 'Odin, sir, as requested.'
But then they had been ambushed - which, most definitely, had not been part of his imaginary script. Eleven men, he'd lost. Eleven! Four were dead, and another five probably would be soon if he didn't get them off the mountain. Two were only lightly wounded and, of the more seriously hit, two would need to be carried. And that caused him another headache. He couldn't let the wounded -
They had left one group from the platoon behind at the request of his Battalion CO, who had wanted them for the company's part in the outflanking operation at Tretten. At the time, he had agreed immediately, but he wished now he had those ten men. Under the canopy of pines, staring at the bright blood streaked across the snow, Zellner had quickly weighed his options. Common sense suggested he should return. He now had twenty-eight fully fit men, of which at least four would have to stay behind. That gave him only the slightest numerical advantage. To make matters worse, the enemy had proved they would not lie down quietly.
Zellner had pondered these factors for a few moments. He was twenty-four, an Austrian from Innsbruck, and had been with the 3rd Gebirgsjager Division since Austrian and German unification following the Anschluss two years before, and with the Austrian 5th Gebirgsjager Division before that. He had trained with unflinching dedication, proud not only to be part of such an obviously elite unit but of his own performance. He understood the importance of leading by example, and had been determined that he should be fitter than any of his men; that he should be a better mountaineer; and that his survival skills in sub-freezing conditions were second to none. In this he had succeeded and he had arrived in Norway confident that he and his men would be a match for any enemy troops they confronted.
So far, however, they had barely been tested. He had trained for years, waiting for the chance to fight and test himself in battle, yet as far as he could make out, the war in Norway had been won so far by the Luftwaffe and the gunners. As infantry, it seemed that their role was merely to mop up. It bothered him, too, that the only time he had been given a specific task - namely the capture of the Norwegian King's men a few days before - he had failed. Duped by a peasant farmer. The man had made a fool of him so Zellner had killed him.
Nagging doubts entered his head again. That had been clever shooting by the enemy. Two or more of them must have had sniper rifles and that in itself had surprised him. Indeed, the shooting had caught them completely off-guard, and had caused their first combat deaths since the beginning of the campaign. His men, every bit as confident as he had been before the shooting, were stunned, he could tell; good comrades were dead. Moreover, it had held them up, stopping them in their tracks.
With sudden clarity Zellner cast aside the doubts. Instinct told him that his enemy was not well armed, despite the sniper rifles. His men, however, still had three MG30 machine-guns. Furthermore, if the streams of British and Norwegian prisoners he had seen earlier that day were anything to go by, the enemy up ahead would be
