commander, Brigadier Smyth, was junior to Morgan, while Major General Paget, due to take over command of both brigades under the spurious title 'Sickle Force', was not due to reach the front until the following evening. So, Brigadier Morgan was still in charge of the valley's defence. Responsibility for stemming the flow of the German advance was his.
Of course, it was a singular honour to command two brigades and a number of Norwegian units in the field and, as he wrote in a briefly scrawled letter to his wife, he was grateful to have been given the chance to command above his rank. But he felt so tired he could barely stand, let alone think clearly, while the never-ending relay of bad news had made him yearn for someone to lift the burden from his shoulders.
He had been writing a note to Brigadier Smyth when he had felt his eyes close, his head lurch forward and his pen drop from his hand. One of his staff officers had hurried into the room and he had immediately woken, sitting bolt upright in his chair and blinking.
'Sir?' said the young captain. 'Are you all right?'
'Fine, thank you,' muttered Morgan. 'What is it, Grayson?'
'It's the Norwegians, sir.'
'Yes?'
'They're struggling to hold the enemy and are asking for assistance.'
Morgan leant back in his seat and sighed. 'Do they know another battalion is on its way to them?'
'Er, that battalion's already there. They reached them an hour ago.'
Morgan stood up and walked to the window. Outside it was now almost dark. It looked cold out there, cold and clear. He noticed a cobweb in the corner of the window, stretched across the flaking paintwork. A small insect was struggling frantically in the sticky silk as the spider, with all the time in the world, advanced towards it to deliver the death blow. How appropriate, he thought.
'Look here, it's nearly dark,' he said. 'Order them to stand firm and then make it absolutely clear to 15th Brigade that they keep up with their deployment at Kvam through the night. If the Norwegians can hold out until the morning, there's every chance they can check the Germans until the middle of the day. Impress upon them the urgent need to remain at Vinstra as long as they can. Every hour they can stand their ground is another hour in which 15th Brigade can strengthen their position at Kvam.'
'Yes, sir.' Captain Grayson wavered, as though he was about to say something else.
'What is it? Come on - spit it out, man.'
'The Norwegians say they've already lost two-thirds of their strength, sir.'
Morgan laughed. 'And how much have we lost, eh, Grayson? About seven-eighths of ours, I'd say, wouldn't you? Tell them to stay where they are. Tell them if they don't, the whole front is likely to collapse.'
Captain Grayson had barely gone, and Brigadier Morgan had hardly had a chance to fill his pipe before General Ruge was announced. The Norwegian Commander-in- Chief strode in, as immaculate as ever, although, Morgan saw, noticeably tired. The past few days had aged them all.
'A present for you, Brigadier,' said Ruge, placing a bottle of whisky on the kitchen table that was now Morgan's desk.
Morgan thanked him, found two tumblers and poured generous measures into each, making sure he kept the chipped glass for himself. Then he spread the map across the table. While Ruge bent over it, Morgan took a large mouthful of whisky, relishing the sharp sensation as it scoured his mouth and throat. Yes, he thought. That feels better. Beside the general, he pointed out where the Norwegians were attempting to hold the enemy, and where, six miles further back, the newly arrived 15th Brigade were preparing to make a stand.
Ruge nodded thoughtfully. 'And what about 148th Brigade? Should they not help 15th at Kvam?'
'General, there's nothing left. Around four hundred and fifty men and not a single officer of the rank of company commander or above. That's it. Most are at Otta where they're organizing themselves into a reserve, but they've taken even more casualties today, thanks to the Luftwaffe. Is there any news of our air support? Have you heard if it's coming? Because until we have some cover from the air, we're fighting blind and have little or no chance of holding the enemy.'
'Actually, yes,' replied Ruge. 'I thought you had been told. A squadron of Gladiators landed north of Dombas earlier today. They're using a frozen lake as a landing strip.'
Morgan could hardly believe what he was hearing. He stood up straight and walked away from the table, his hand kneading his brow. 'Gladiators,' he muttered, 'but they're biplanes. What good can they do against the Messerschmitts, Junkers and Heinkels? And one squadron! It's risible, General, an abominable disgrace. By God, this is a damned shambles! This whole damned campaign. And 15th Brigade arrived here with just three anti- aircraft guns - three! Needless to say, General, they were all destroyed during the course of today.' Morgan flung his arms into the air in despair. 'I'm sorry - my God, what must you think of us?'
Ruge looked at him, his face grim. 'I do not blame you, Brigadier, or your men. But I do blame London. False promises, lack of appreciation or thought. Completely inadequate planning. It has cost many lives, both British and Norwegian. As it is we are now threatened on our flanks. The Germans are pushing up the 0sterdalen with ease. Soon they'll they have the east of the country and will be able to attack Trondheim from the south.'
Morgan sat down again, poured himself another whisky and smoothed back his hair resignedly. 'Your troops at Vinstra will fall back earlier than I'd hoped,' he said wearily, 'but 15th Brigade are building up their positions at Kvam and, God willing, they'll put up a good fight. They're reasonably fresh and well armed - they've got a number of 25mm guns - and they appear to be in good heart. But the hard fact remains, General, that Jerry has the best part of an entire division and as many as nine thousand troops, while we have only around three thousand. And, of course, he's got tanks and armoured vehicles, bigger 4.14s and even 5.9 inch guns, and a frightening amount of air power. From the ground, we have a good position to defend, but from the air you have to face facts: our boys are funnelled into a valley that's never more than a mile wide, with one road and railway line as our only line of communication. The railway, thank goodness, still appears to be in reasonable order but the road is horribly cratered now and anyone travelling down is fearfully exposed to attack from the air. To make matters worse, we've no real way of preventing an outflanking manoeuvre because of the lack of mountain troops.'
'I'm sending you more Norwegian ski troops,' said Ruge. 'We'll put them up in the mountains to watch over our positions.'
Morgan sighed once more. 'Well, that's something.'
'You are tired, Brigadier, I know. But at least it is not your country that is about to fall. At least your king and government are still in London. And in two days' time, General Paget will be here and you can hand over command to him.'
Morgan was chastened. 'Yes, you're quite right, General. I'm sorry.'
Ruge now walked towards the window, tumbler in hand. 'There is one other matter I wish to discuss,' he said, still facing the window. 'This morning I saw the King at Molde.'
'And how was His Majesty?'
'Stoical. Bearing up surprisingly well, all things considered.' Ruge paused, then said, 'But there is one matter that is of great concern to him: the whereabouts of four of His Majesty's Guard.' Under a certain Colonel Gulbrand, Ruge explained, these men had been entrusted by the King personally not only with some priceless Crown Jewels, a number of diamonds included, but also the safe passage of an important scientist, one Professor Hening Sandvold. It was while they were trying to get him safely from Oslo after the invasion that these men became separated from the royal party. The King had not heard a word until two days ago. A message had been intercepted by British Intelligence, indicating that Colonel Gulbrand was dead, but Sandvold and two of His Majesty's Guards were being escorted by a group of British and French troops.
'British and French?' said Morgan, incredulously. 'Really? Where were they?'
'Just south of Tretten. But there's more. Apparently they defeated an entire platoon of German mountain
