A middle-aged man with greying hair, an unshaven chin and a large moustache stood anxiously by the doorway, his eyes darting from one man to another. He wore an old corduroy jacket, wool trousers and boots, and chewed one of his fingers as the men came towards him. Muttering to Larsen in Norwegian, he walked towards the large barn.
'Follow him,' said Larsen, 'including the wounded. He wants you all in there.'
The farmer scampered deftly up the stone ramp and opened one of the twin doors at the top, then swung his arm in a sweeping motion - in you go - until the men followed.
'The wounded need help right away,' Tanner told Larsen.
Larsen nodded. 'His wife and daughter are coming. They're bringing some bread and water first, then some hot water and bandages.'
The wounded had been set against one side of the barn, packs propping up their heads. They lay on the greatcoats that had been used as stretchers just a short while before. It was dark in there and dusty, the smell of dried hay and straw mixing with the stench of animal dung below. Tanner joined Sykes and eased off his packs. A burden released. He felt in his haversack for Zellner's pistol. It was a Walther, a neat semiautomatic that fitted comfortably in his hand. Loading it with a new clip of eight rounds, he put it into its holster. The men were quiet, too exhausted to speak. Tanner noticed that a Frenchman was already asleep on the straw, curled up, his rifle by his side.
So, too, was Sandvold. Beside him, Nielssen was looking through his rucksack. He saw Tanner watching him, then brought it closer to him and pulled the cord tight. Tanner wondered what he was hiding. Crown jewels and papers, or something more? What was the real story behind these Norwegians? He thought about Sandvold. He was curious - damned curious. What was that man's big secret? Had he invented some new terror weapon? It was hard to know what to think, but certainly the boffins had been busy over the past few years. The advances in aircraft, tanks and other war materiel was astonishing. They'd noticed the pace of change less in India and Palestine but he had found returning home that January quite an eye-opener: the world had moved on while he had been away. There had certainly been no Spitfires or even Hurricanes in the Middle East, let alone in India, yet suddenly there they were in Britain, completely different from anything Tanner had ever seen before. And so sleek and fast, rolling about the sky at more than three hundred miles an hour, a speed that had seemed impossible not so long ago. They made the old Bulldogs and Harts that Tanner had been used to seem horribly slow and outmoded. Even the bombers were now monoplanes, made entirely from stressed metal. And the size of them! It was still a wonder to Tanner that those beasts were able to leave the ground at all.
So perhaps that was what it was, Tanner thought. Sandvold had invented something that could be used as an earth-shattering weapon, one that would change the course of the war. And if that was the case, the sooner Britain got to use it the better, because here in Norway the Army was getting a pasting.
He lay back against his pack. The inside of the barn was much like any other, with its ageing beams, grain on the wooden floor, dust and distinctive smell. He closed his eyes, sighed, and thought of home and his childhood. They'd used to climb along the joists, he and the other lads on the estate; and once they were given a hiding for doing so. He could remember the sting of Mr Gulliver's belt even now.
Jack Tanner was dreaming, sleep a luxurious release, and then, all too quickly, he was being shaken. Voices. For a moment he was completely disoriented; he had forgotten where he was. Opening his eyes, sleep seeping away, he saw Sykes and next to him a young woman - a pretty girl with an oval face, pale eyes, dark eyebrows and straw-coloured hair.
'Sorry,' said Tanner, 'I must have fallen asleep.' He sat up, then checked that his rifle and haversack were still there. Suddenly aware that the girl had followed his gaze, he smiled sheepishly and said, 'An old habit.'
'This is Miss Rostad, Sarge,' said Sykes. 'She and 'er mother 'ave brought us some food an' water.'
'It's not much, I'm afraid, Sergeant,' she said, in fluent English, 'but until the chickens are cooked ...' She passed him a bowl of soup and a piece of bread.
'Thank you,' said Tanner. The warm meaty stock soothed his throat. It tasted just about as good as anything he had ever eaten.
'It's about the wounded men,' she continued. 'My mother and I have done what we can, but I'm afraid that's very little. We have some first-aid equipment up here but not much. We've cleaned their wounds but they could easily become infected.'
'The bullet went clean through the Frenchie's thigh,' added Sykes, 'and through Sax's shoulder, but it's stuck somewhere inside poor old Riggsy.'
'How are they now?' asked Tanner.
'Asleep,' said Anna. 'We gave them some brandy. But they need a doctor.'
'In the valley,' said Tanner.
Anna nodded. 'We could take them down tomorrow, my father and I. We could put them in the cart.'
'I told her it's too risky,' said Sykes.
Tanner thought for a moment. 'Where would you take them? Tretten?'
'Yes. There's a doctor there.'
'The Germans would have surgeons too. You'd be questioned. What would you say?'
'That we found them. What else would the Germans expect us to do? If they stay here, they will probably die. If we take them into Tretten they at least have a chance.'
Tanner smiled. 'You're very brave - for what you've just said and for letting us stay here. And thank you - it's not right, involving civilians in such things. We soldiers, well, that's different. We're paid to go off and fight.'
Anna shrugged. 'I can't just watch the Germans swarm over our country and do nothing. Anyway, you have come to help us. It's the least we can do.' She looked at him wistfully. 'My brother, Jonny, is fighting somewhere. He was called up two weeks ago, so off he went to Lillehammer. We had a telegram from him in Narvik, but we have heard nothing since. He is my twin. I think he is still alive but I cannot say for sure.' She wiped the corner of her eye. 'Really, it is too terrible.' She stood up.
Tanner grabbed his rifle and pushed himself up to his feet. 'Where are Larsen and Chevannes?' he asked Sykes.
'I think they're in the farmhouse,' Sykes replied.
'They are,' said Anna. 'They're talking with Father. I will take you to them.'
Anna led him out of the barn, across the yard and into the house. The three men were in the kitchen. It was getting dark and the shutters had been closed. An open fire, raised on a brick hearth, burnt gently in the corner of the room; to the side stood a bread oven and a blackened range. Soft pinewood smoke suffused the place, mingling with the smell of damp dog hair and tobacco. At the foot of the range lay two grey-muzzled canines, their coats drying slowly in the warmth. A large table stood in the centre of the room; Larsen, Chevannes and Anna's father were sitting round it. A lamp in the centre of the table flickered gently, lighting the men's faces.
'What do you want, Sergeant?' said Chevannes.
'To talk to you about what we're going to do,' Tanner replied.
'You're not an officer. It's up to us to make such plans and for you to carry out our orders. When we have decided what those are, we will tell you, as we will the others. Was there anything else?'
Tanner's expression was one of unconcealed anger. 'You might be the officer in charge here, sir,' he retorted, 'but I still have ten men to look after. That gives me a right to know what you're proposing, damn it.'
Larsen looked at Chevannes. 'He has a point.'
Chevannes sighed. 'You may stay and listen, Sergeant, but our decisions will be final. Understood?'
Anna's mother came into the kitchen. She looked much like her daughter, but older. Her eyes darted from one man to another, then she placed some more wood on the fire and glanced at the two chickens cooking in the range. The smell of hot fat wafted across the room. As she stood up again, Tanner could see the fear in her eyes. But of course she's frightened, he thought.
Larsen spread his map on the table and Erik Rostad pointed to where they now were. He spoke quietly with Larsen, as his wife put two bottles of beer on the table and brought over four glasses.
'There are mountain tracks that run along the valley,' Larsen explained to Chevannes and Tanner. 'It is not unusual to have snow still on the ground at this time of year although it has usually stopped falling by now. The
