The Odin Mission

there's a bend in the road between us, the church and the rest of the houses.'

Colonel Gulbrand clasped Stig's hands again. 'Thank you,' he said. 'I shall make sure the King hears of what you have done for us.'

Stig smiled, his earlier terror receding. Extreme relief, mixed with a surge of adrenalin, gave him an almost exultant feeling. 'Head back a couple of hundred metres, then cross the bridge over the Glama,' he told Gulbrand. 'The road along the valley leads north-west and it's clear of snow.'

The men hurried out of the barn to the open shed where the truck stood. Throwing their packs into the back first, the younger guardsmen clambered in while Gulbrand and the curious bespectacled man jumped into the cab. The engine started immediately. Stig looked up at Larsen. 'Good luck,' he said. 'One day you can come back and tell me all about it.'

'Stig, thank you,' Larsen replied. 'Take good care of yourself. Look after your family.'

'I will.'

Larsen gripped the wooden stock of his rifle with one hand and clenched the side of the truck with the other as they cautiously rumbled across the yard, then turned out onto the road. As Stig had assured them, there was no sign of the Germans. Larsen glanced back to the farmhouse one last time and saw his cousin wave, then step back into the house.

Gulbrand turned the truck across the bridge, then right onto the valley road. On the other side of the wide Glama river the village of Okset drifted into view between the trees on the river's edge. Larsen could see, as the others could, the German trucks by the church, and a dull ache churned once more in his belly. Surely, he thought, they would be spotted. He could almost feel German field glasses trained on them.

A sickening feeling washed over him as it dawned on him with sudden clarity that his cousin would be in trouble. He couldn't believe he had been so stupid. Why had it not occurred to him at the time? Of course the Germans would return to the farm, find the truck gone and put two and two together. Jesus, he thought. What have 1 done?

Sitting opposite him, Lieutenant Nielssen grinned. He had taken off his cloth field cap so that his fair hair was blown across his forehead. 'What are the odds on when our friends in the Luftwaffe will appear?'

'For Christ's sake,' muttered Stunde. He was the youngest of them, only recently promoted to lieutenant.

'Two to one says it'll be less than an hour.'

In fact, it was half that time. They had not driven more than a dozen miles when two Messerschmitt 110s were bearing down on them. No sooner had Larsen seen two dots rapidly transform into wasp-like planes than rows of bullets spat up lumps of soil behind them before catching up with the pick-up, smashing one of the headlights from the front wings and puncturing the bonnet. In seconds the aircraft were past, the two dark crosses on each wingtip vivid against their pale, oil-streaked undersides. They watched the two fighters roar onwards, then bank and turn.

'Christ, look at the bonnet!' yelled Stunde. Larsen stood up and peered over the cab at the huge tear from which steam was hissing.

Gulbrand pulled the truck into the side of the road. 'Out, out, quick!' he shouted.

Grabbing their rucksacks, they leapt out and ran into the dense pine forest that rose high above the valley. This time Larsen heard the clatter of machine-gun bullets before the roar of the aircrafts' twin engines. Pressing his head into the snow he felt an explosion followed by a surge of bright heat as the truck exploded in a ball of flame. Shards of glass and metal rained through the trees, and branches crackled as those closest to the inferno caught fire. Larsen glanced at the colonel and saw him almost smothering the civilian, Hening Sandvold.

'Anyone hurt?' called Gulbrand. Miraculously, no one was. 'Good. Let's get away from here.' He pulled out a map. 'We'll climb up into the mountains, then cut across and join a road here.' He pointed.

Larsen hauled himself up beside the colonel. Drops of melting snow from the pines were falling around them. 'You knew they'd come back for Stig.'

'It was inevitable,' he said. 'I'm sorry. He's a strong man, though. I'm sure he'll come through.'

Larsen smiled weakly, then continued scrambling up into the mountains.

But Stig Andvard was already dead. As Colonel Gulbrand had known all along - and Larsen and his cousin had realized too late - the Germans had seen the truck speeding along the far side of the valley with five men aboard. When they returned to the farm and found the pick-up gone, Hauptmann Wolf Zellner, in his fury at being duped by a mere farmer, had taken out his pistol and shot Stig in the head. As Larsen scrabbled up out of the snow, Agnes lay over her prostrate husband, wailing with grief while a pool of blood spread in an ever- widening circle across the packed ice next to the empty shed.

More than two hundred and fifty miles away, as the crow flies, a British Royal Navy light cruiser steamed across the North Sea towards the Norwegian coast. There was a moderate swell and grey clouds overhead, conditions enough to ensure that HMS Pericles pitched and rolled with gusto as she carved her way through the grey-green sea. For the majority of the infantrymen being given passage - and whose stomachs were used to a steadier footing - this movement was too much. Below decks, soldiers lay in their bunks, pallid and groaning. A few played cards or smoked, but despite the smell of tobacco and oil, the stench of vomit was overwhelming.

It was why one soldier was on the main deck. An experienced sailor compared with most of the novices on board, he'd had no seasickness and, now that the rain had stopped, had stepped out into the bracing North Sea air.

Leaning against the railings to the port side of the forward six-inch gun turret, he watched the bow pitching into the sea, arcs of white spray pluming into the air. The wind brought tiny droplets of seawater across the decks, and he found the thin spray refreshing against his face.

He stood a little over six foot tall, with broad shoulders and dark skin from years of being baked in a hot sun, and bolstered during the past week in Scotland by unusually warm, sunny weather. Dark brown hair and brows accentuated his pale blue eyes, from which spread the lines of crow's feet. His nose was narrow but slightly askew, broken several times over the years. Otherwise his face was clean-shaven and as yet largely unlined - although he was still only twenty-four, his demeanour and the overall impression he gave were those of someone several years older.

Sergeant Jack Tanner glanced casually at a passing seaman, then shuffled his shoulders. The thick serge still felt unfamiliar after years of wearing cotton drill, and the unlined collar made his neck itch, but he was not one of those mourning the demise of the old service dress, with its long tunic and leggings. The RSM had been broken- hearted, but that was because he had known no other uniform and because he liked his men to look immaculate on the parade ground - all polished boots and shiny brass buttons, service caps down over the eyes. Looking smart was all very well, but Tanner had come to learn that practicality was more important when trying to kill the enemy, which was why he approved of the new khaki battle dress, with its short blouse and high-backed trousers, so completely different from anything that had come before, and which had not yet reached either India or the Middle East. Indeed, the battalion had only been issued with the new pattern a few weeks before.

Three cream chevrons on either arm marked his rank, while above, in a gentle curve at the top of the sleeve, was a black tab with 'Yorks Rangers' written in green. It was a regimental marking idiosyncratic to all three battalions of the King's Own Yorkshire Rangers, and a distinction the sergeant still felt proud to wear after eight years. The Rangers had had a long history, having fought from Africa to Asia to the Americas in numerous battles and campaigns as far back as Blenheim, and Tanner was glad to be part of that. It gave him a sense of purpose and belonging.

Even so, when he thought of the regiment, it was the 2nd Battalion - the one with which he had served since joining up eight years before. He had assumed that once his leave was over, he would be returning to Palestine, where the 2nd Battalion was still based, but instead he had been told that the 5th Battalion needed experienced men and had been packed off to Leeds to join them instead.

At the time he had been distraught to leave behind so many good friends, not to mention the way of life he had come to know so well, but it was also a matter of pride, and Jack Tanner was a proud man. The 5th Battalion were not regulars but Territorials and, as everyone knew, were barely more than poorly trained part-timers.

In the six weeks he had been with them, he had not seen much to alter that view. Most of the men in his