Dornley looked grave. 'Enemy mountain troops have overrun the village from the east.'
'And the men fighting there?'
'Presumably captured. All lines are dead.'
Morgan steadied himself against the doorway and put a hand to his brow. 'God almighty,' he muttered. 'It's 2000 hours, we've got almost no brigade left and most of my staff are missing.'
Suddenly, above them, there was a loud drone of aircraft. Dornley and Morgan looked up as the wailing siren of Stuka dive-bombers shrieked overhead.
Both men fell flat on the ground, their hands over their heads. The whistle of bombs, followed by an ear- splitting explosion. Morgan felt himself lifted off the ground and pushed down again. With every boom and whoosh of detonating bombs, the house shuddered, the floor quaked and plaster fell from the ceiling. Morgan screwed his eyes shut. The percussion of the bombs pressed on his lungs.
Then the Stukas were gone, but as Morgan staggered to his feet and dusted himself down, he could hear artillery and small-arms still echoing through the valley. The sound was drawing closer. My brigade, he thought. All those people.
They could do no more. 'Dornley,' he said, 'order what survivors we have to block the roads, get the remaining trucks and vehicles loaded up and tell everyone to fall back.'
Dornley nodded.
Morgan hurried back into his office to collect his own case, his papers and few belongings. He could not turn and stand a few miles further up the valley this time because his brigade, as a fighting force, had ceased to exist. Rather, they would head for the village of Kvam, where General Ruge hoped they would meet Major General Paget's freshly arrived 15th Brigade. And it would take the Germans a while to get there, Morgan hoped, because Kvam was some distance away. Forty miles, to be precise.
Chapter 9
Tanner put an arm to the nearest tree and rested his head against it. Now that the fight was over, the adrenalin surge that had kept him going evaporated as quickly as it had arrived. His legs ached, his hands were shaky, and his stomach was racked with hunger cramps. A pounding headache drummed in his skull, while his mouth was as dry as bone. Stiffly leaning down, he picked up some snow and put it into his mouth, the icy water striking the nerve ends in his teeth.
'Sarge,' said a voice.
Tanner looked round. Sykes was standing beside him. 'Three casualties, Sarge. Gibson's dead, Saxby and Riggs wounded.'
'Riggs again?' asked Tanner.
'Bullet through the shoulder. It's not hit his lung, but he needs help. The lads are patching him up now.'
'What about Saxby?'
'Shoulder as well. Should pull through. Neither'll be going far, though.'
Tanner put another handful of snow to his mouth. 'We'll have to think about what's best for the wounded. Better get Gibbo buried. And the Krauts. And Sandvold? Is the professor safe?'
'Yes, Sarge. Not a scratch.'
'Anyone else?'
'One of the Froggies bought it, and another was wounded, but that's it. Lieutenants Larsen and Nielssen are still good.'
'And bloody Chevannes?'
'Yes, Sarge,' said Sykes, with a wry smile. 'Nothing wrong with him.'
Tanner should have felt pleased. His plan had worked, Sandvold was safe, and the enemy threat was, for the moment, over. Yet despair overwhelmed him once more. It was half past eight in the evening and the sound of battle from the valley was noticeably lessening, receding into the distance by the minute, and with it their chance of freedom. They had been so close again - just a mile or two from the safety of their own lines. Christ, thought Tanner. How were they ever going to get out of this? Physically he was finished - they all were. Those last reserves of energy had been summoned by sheer willpower and the promise of reaching the Allies that evening. Now the finishing line had been cruelly moved, far out of reach. And then there was Chevannes. By God, Tanner hated the man: his arrogance, his stupidity, his woeful leadership the previous evening. It was Chevannes' fault they had failed today. Tanner had half a mind to shoot the bastard there and then.
'Sergeant! Sergeant Tanner!'
Chevannes. Tanner closed his eyes, quietly drummed his tightly clenched fist into the side of the tree, then faced the French lieutenant striding towards him.
'A good victory,' said the Frenchman, 'although yon should not have blown the shelter without my permission.'
Tanner took a deep breath. 'It killed six men, sir, and gave us the chance to hit them hard before they had a moment to recover their balance.'
'Always answering back to everything I say,' Chevannes snapped. He paused a moment then said, 'We need to tie up these prisoners and bury the dead. See to it quickly, while I question their officer.'
Tanner said nothing, but walked away and called his men over. 'Well done, lads,' he said. 'You did well.' He looked into their faces, one by one. The youthfulness had gone. They had fought their first fight, had killed, had been touched by death and had survived. They had grown up, and he knew they were better soldiers for the experience.
He ordered six to fetch the dead, instructing them to line the bodies up by the stream, then strip them of usable clothing and kit. They were to cover them with snow and stones from the brook, and place the tin helmets strapped to their packs on top as a marker. 'Just take Gibbo's bunduck and ammunition,' he added. 'Leave him dressed.'
Burying the dead; a grim task. Few men died with a neat bullet hole through the heart; most did so with a profusion of blood, with chunks of their bodies ripped from them or their guts spewing from their bellies. It took time to get used to such sights, but there was no denying that most became inured to them quickly. War hardened the mind. Probably the soul too, Tanner thought.
He was sorry about Gibson - the third of his men to die. Gibson had been popular, a tough little Yorkshire- man. Bloody hell, he thought.
He took McAllister and Hepworth to the prisoners who were being guarded by Chevannes' Chasseurs Alpins. The Germans were standing close together not far from the blackened crater where the hut had once been. Cordite hung in the air. The seter had gone but for a jumble of charred and still burning logs. Thick smoke rose into the air, a beacon for any passing aircraft. Tanner looked at his watch again. Just after half past eight. They needed to get a move on. 'Iggery, lads,' he said. 'Let's get into the woods.' He began pushing and shoving the prisoners and, with Hepworth, McAllister and the two Frenchmen's help, walked them past the mangled machine-gun crews being lined up on the ground by the stream and under the cover of thicker trees.
A hundred yards from the seter, he ordered them to stop. He turned one to face him, a youth with dark hair and a defiant glare. 'What's this?' Tanner asked, pointing to the flower embroidered on his sleeve. The same flower was on their field caps too.
‘Ein Edelweiss,' the man replied. 'Wir sind der Gebirgsjageren.'
'It is the symbol of all Gebirgsjager troops,' said another of the men, in heavily accented English. He looked slightly older, with pale grey eyes and pockmarked cheeks. 'We are mountain troops.'
