doubt that, however skilled the British sergeant might be, the fugitives could not achieve such a victory again. After all, they were now only seventeen strong, and Zellner knew much more about them than he had the day before. Most importantly, he and his men would be ambushing them, not the other way round. So it was that with forty fresh, well-armed men, Hauptmann Zellner had driven back to Tretten that evening confident that he had most possibilities covered and that his men were more than equal to the task.
He had agreed with Kurz that, should the fugitives still be near Tretten, the bridge was the most likely crossing place, simply because it was by far the easiest way for them to get to the other side. He had told his men to keep out of sight: the aim was to encourage the fugitives in their belief that the village was unoccupied.
Time had been tight. On reaching Tretten shortly after ten that evening, they had quickly found a hiding-place for the trucks in a disused barn, then positioned themselves at either side of the bridge, using bushes and trees as cover, also buildings, both intact and partially destroyed. Zellner had prayed the fugitives would cross here. Playing his moment of triumph over and over in his mind he had begun to believe that Fate would ensure this was so, when a convoy had passed through ripping apart the quiet. How Zellner had cursed, especially when he saw, a kilometre or so beyond the village, that the column had stopped. They had moved on soon enough but in the minutes that followed Zellner had doubted his earlier conviction.
Suddenly he thought he heard something from away to his left - further along the river. He turned to Lieutenant Huber, the platoon commander. 'Did you hear that?'
'What, Hauptmann?' asked Huber.
'Ssh!' said Zellner. 'Listen.' And there it was again, a scraping sound - faint, almost inaudible, but there. 'What is that?' He peered through his binoculars towards where the river widened into Lake Losna. He could see the water, smooth as glass, twinkling, the mountains looming behind and beyond, but nothing out of the ordinary.
'Shall I investigate?' Huber asked.
'And give ourselves away? No,' said Zellner. 'Keep listening.'
He continued to stare through his binoculars and, at last, something caught his eye. A faint ripple on the otherwise smooth water. A sensation of intense exhilaration coursed through Zellner and a moment later he saw a boat as it passed in line with the valley and was silhouetted against the sky. Zellner smiled. 'Yes!' he said. 'I think we have them. Quick, Huber. We haven't a moment to waste.'
All six men were paddling with their Mausers and Tanner's boat soon caught up with the one in front and then they passed it. Ahead, the far bank still seemed an interminably long way off. A hundred and fifty metres wide, Anna had said, and from his recce earlier that day he had agreed with her. Now, though, he realized it was more like two hundred yards, if not further.
'Come on, boys, keep at it,' he snapped.
His heart pounded with exertion and raw fear. His whole body was tense, waiting for the sound of shouts and machine-gun fire. He'd never liked being on open water. It made him feel he was no longer in control, that he was exposed and vulnerable.
Closer now. The lead boat was drawing near to the shore. Tanner allowed himself a sigh of relief. Perhaps they would make it, after all.
The sound of an engine shattered the illusion, then another, both from the direction of the village but on opposite sides of the river. The others heard it too, among expletives and panicked paddling. 'Quick, lads, quick!' said Tanner, plunging the Mauser into the water furiously.
Ahead, the first boat was drawing on to the gravel shore. There were splashes as the occupants stumbled out. The beam from the trucks cut across the water. The first lorry had stopped on the side from which they had come. Orders were being barked, and moments later shots rang out, bullets whining over their heads. A warning, thought Tanner. Don't try to turn back.
Shapes retreating from the first boat. Where was Sandvold? The lights of the second lorry curving round the river's edge were only a few hundred metres away now. Tanner heard the grinding of gears just as their own boat scraped against the stony shore. 'Get out, quick!' Tanner shouted. 'Cross the railway and head for the trees!' The third boat was closing on the shore too. One of the Frenchmen jumped but the water was deeper than he'd thought, and he flailed trying desperately to free his pack.
'Keep going!' Tanner shouted, kneeling to take aim as the vehicle turned towards them. He fired once, missed, then fired again and hit the windscreen of the lorry, which veered. He fired once more, and heard the ping of a bullet hitting metal. A screech of brakes, and the lorry came to a halt at the side of the road, a hundred yards ahead. A German voice yelled orders, and enemy troops hurried from the back of the truck. The Frenchman in the water was drowning, but Tanner ignored him and grabbed the prow of the dinghy. 'Jump!' he yelled, as Chevannes leapt out. Bullets ricocheted off the stones. Tanner was conscious of someone beside him. 'Go!' he shouted.
'Non!'came the reply. 'Mon ami. Vites, Henri, vites!'
'He's gone, mate,' said Tanner, but the Chasseur stepped into the water to rescue his friend.
'For God's sake,' said Tanner, grabbing him. 'Go! Now!' A machine-gun opened fire, raking the water, tracer arcing towards them. At this, the Chasseur gave up and both men were running for their lives, off the pebble shore, across a grassy verge and over the railway line. The machine-gun had stopped firing but Tanner could hear the footsteps of enemy troops running towards them. He spun round and fired twice, then ran on, up another grassy bank, stumbled, cursed, picked himself up, as more bullets whistled over his head and into the ground at either side of him, then headed for the trees.
Where was everyone? Shouts from below and more shots. He could barely see anything, and hit a thin branch, which whipped back and slashed him across the face. Stinging pain coursed through him, then seared the side of his leg, and he cried out.
'Sarge, is that you?' called a voice.
'Stan!' said Tanner. 'Where the hell is everyone?'
'Up ahead. Are you all right, Sarge?'
'I think so. Thank God for dense forests.'
'A-bloody-men to that.'
Bullets tore into the trees, ripped through branches and smacked into the ground, but the slope was steep and the forest close. Tanner could hear others panting and gasping for breath. Suddenly a machine-gun opened fire again, a long burst spurting bullets up the wooded slopes. Tanner crouched behind a tree as the bullets flew. He saw a flickering torch beam, but it was weak so he stepped out from behind the tree, aimed his rifle towards the light and fired. The reply was another long burst of machine-gun fire, but this time the aim was way off, the bullets cutting through the trees high above their heads.
'Reckon they're angry, Sarge,' said Sykes, from a few yards to Tanner's right.
'Very, I'd say,' Tanner replied. 'Come on, Stan, let's keep going. You sure the others are all ahead?'
'I'm sure.'
The firing lessened as they climbed higher and eventually, a couple of hundred feet above the lake, they reached a clearing in the trees.
'Hey,' said Tanner, in a loud whisper.
'Sergeant, is that you?'
Larsen. Tanner breathed a sigh of relief. 'Sir,' said Tanner, 'where are you?'
'Up ahead. Keep going, Sergeant.'
