The Odin Mission

'Just grab that fuel and do as I say, Hep. Come on, iggery.'

'Iggery, Sarge?'

'Yes, Private, iggery - it means get a bloody move on.'

They ran back to the yard. Tanner pulled out his seventeen-inch sword bayonet and stabbed the top of the flimsy tins, while Hepworth returned to the shed for the rest of the fuel. The sergeant then poured the petrol liberally over the remaining stores. When Hepworth returned, they finished their task. A dozen Heinkels thundered overhead, no longer concerned with the station but with the new front line. Small-arms fire from the Allied lines two miles ahead could faintly be heard, followed by a dull ripple of explosions. Suddenly there was a clatter and squeaking from the buildings to the south of the station yard.

'Tanks,' said Tanner. 'Quick! To the shed.' They sprinted back, Tanner putting on his jerkin, then heaving his respirator bag and pack onto his shoulders. They were heavier than he'd imagined, and he cursed to himself. Slinging his trusted Enfield on his back, he said, 'Right, let's go. Follow me, Hep.'

As they ran round the front of the warehouse, the sound of tank tracks grew louder. Then, from the side of a house, the front of a German tank swung into view. The two men ran on, until Tanner slid into a ditch by the far side of the yard.

'You'd better be quick, Sarge,' said Hep, his face taut with fear.

Tanner said nothing. Instead his shaking hands struggled to pull out a single .303 tracer round and push it into the breach of his rifle. German troops were now moving up round the sides of the tank, half crouching in long, field-grey coats and their distinctive coal-scuttle helmets. So, face to face with Germans at last, he thought.

One of the enemy troops shouted and, with his rifle, pointed to the stacks of boxes.

'Sarge!' hissed Hepworth.

'Wait, Hep, wait,' whispered Tanner. He watched as a dozen or more German troops ran across the yard towards the stores. He pressed the wooden stock of the rifle against his cheek, gripped the wood surrounding the barrel with his left hand, and felt his finger press against the metal trigger. Just over a hundred and fifty yards. Closing one eye, he aimed at a box of gelignite he had doused heavily with petrol and upended to make it stand out. Holding his breath, he squeezed the trigger.

The flash of the tracer round streaked across the yard and struck the wooden box. Immediately an explosion ripped the air, sheets of flame burst out and engulfed the largest stack of stores, followed in succession by a second, third and fourth explosion as the fireball engulfed the yard. The first half-dozen Germans were caught in the inferno, and Tanner saw three more catch fire amid screams of shock and pain.

'Run!' shouted Tanner. 'Run, Hep!' Then the two were scrambling to their feet, minds closed to what was going on behind them, concentrating on sprinting northwards for all they were worth, away from the yard and warehouse to safety.

Above the din of further explosions, the rattle and whizz of bullets detonating, Tanner was aware of a cannon shell whooshing past him only a few feet away and punching a hole through a wooden building up ahead. A few seconds later, machine-gun bullets fizzed over their heads. He and Hepworth dropped to the ground a few yards short of the bridge over the Mesna river. Tanner rolled over, unslung his rifle and pulled it into his shoulder. A little over three hundred yards, he reckoned. He could see the black-jacketed tank commander's head sticking out of the turret; he was now firing the machine-gun towards them. Tanner pulled back the bolt and fired. The man's head jerked backwards. When it righted itself, half his face had gone and the machine-gun was silent. He yelled at Hepworth to start running again. More soldiers were crouching by the tank. Tanner pulled back the bolt again and, without moving his face from the stock, hit a second man. Two. Pull back the bolt, fire. Three. Again. Four. This time he only clipped a soldier. Back came the bolt. Five. Six. Seven. Three rounds left. That'll do.

He turned and ran, ten yards, twenty, thirty - over the bridge and away from the inferno, away from the startled enemy. Ahead, the road turned, still running parallel to the railway but, he knew, out of sight of the yard. A bullet fizzed past his ear. He could see Hepworth had already made it. Another bullet zipped by, and another, and then he was safe, for a moment at any rate, out of sight of the enemy.

Hepworth was up ahead, slowing now, and Tanner paused, hands on his hips, leaning backwards, gasping for breath. Now that he had momentarily stopped, he felt his pack cutting into his shoulders. Bending double to relieve the weight, he grimaced, then began running again, albeit more slowly. Behind him, vast clouds of pitch-black smoke rolled into the sky.

Tanner drew level with Hepworth, who grinned. 'Some explosion, that one, Sarge. I reckon there's a few Jerries there who won't be bothering us no more.' He watched as Tanner pressed another clip of bullets into his magazine. 'Shoot a few of the buggers, did you, Sarge? Did you get that tank man?'

'Less of the chit-chat, Hep,' said Tanner. 'Let's concentrate on catching up with the others and getting out of here in one piece.'

They were nearing the edge of the town. A few frightened civilians were peering from their houses, but the streets were still empty. He had hoped to come across a car, a motorbike or even bicycles, but there had been nothing and no time in which to look more thoroughly. The houses thinned and then they were in the open, running along a cleared road, patchy snow at either side and yellowed grass showing through. Of the rest of the platoon there was no sign. How much of a head start had they had? he wondered. Fifteen minutes? No wonder he couldn't see them.

'How much further, Sarge?' gasped Hepworth.

'A mile. Not much more.' Tanner could see the mass of the Balberg strutting imperiously above them. German field guns continued booming behind them. They could see the dark shells as they hurtled across the sky and exploded among the Allied positions, the sound of the detonation always arriving a moment after the flash. 'Keep going, Hep,' urged Tanner. 'Soon be there.'

Then, behind them, they heard the sound of gears grinding and the chugging drone of vehicles. Turning, they saw a column of trucks emerging from Lillehammer some half a mile away. Tanner's heart sank. Coming round a bend in the open road he could see at least half a dozen, filled with troops, each pulling an anti-tank gun.

'What are we going to do now, Sarge?' said Hepworth. 'We'll never be able to stop them.' Hepworth was a small lad, barely nineteen, his face pale and his brows knotted in despair. Tanner eyed him, then glanced around. The land was open, but about fifty yards ahead, a short way back from the road, there was a farmhouse.

'Keep calm, Hep,' he said. 'First we're going to head to that house where we can get a bit of cover.'

'And then what, Sarge?'

'If you asked a few less questions, Hep, I might be able to think a bit more clearly,' Tanner snapped. He was trying to weigh up a couple of options in his mind. 'Bloody hell,' he mumbled, as he tried to catch his breath. 'What a mess.' No matter what he decided, the reality was that he and Hepworth were now caught between the new Allied lines and the vanguard of the German attack. He had a good mind to floor Captain Webb if and when he ever saw him again.

Chapter 3

Tanner noticed that a large barn extended out at right angles from the house. Good, he thought, grateful for whatever cover he could get. The twitch of a curtain showed the place was still occupied, but it appeared that the owners preferred not to show themselves. He crouched beside the stone ramp that led up to the barn's first floor and opened the haversack slung behind his left hip. He felt inside, pulled out an old piece of oily cloth and carefully unwrapped it.

'What's that, Sarge?' asked Hepworth, crouching beside him.

'It's a telescopic sight,' said Tanner. 'An Aldis.' It had once belonged to his father, and Tanner had carried it with him throughout his army career. Most gunsmiths could modify the Enfield rifle easily enough by milling and fitting two scope mounts and pads to the action body - alterations that were sufficiently discreet to enable a platoon sergeant to have his rifle adapted without his superiors noticing. Consequently, having joined the 5th Battalion in Leeds, he had wasted no time in taking his newly issued SMLE No. 1 Mk III rifle to a gunsmith in the