Authors: James Holland
'What, Sarge?'
'Oh, nothing. I'm just wondering what the hell we're playing at here.'
Sykes shrugged.
'I mean, for God's sake, the entire battalion's mixed up and no one
knows what the hell is going on except that we're getting a pasting. Why on
earth we ever bothered trying to help the Norwegians, I really don't know. Did
you see them last night?'
'Not exactly inspiring, Sarge.'
'That's an understatement. I saw one machine-gun team, but otherwise I
didn't see a single man carrying anything bigger than a rifle.' And as the
Norwegians had trudged back, so the Rangers' C Company had been sent forward to
reinforce A Company to the south of Lillehammer. Tanner had watched them head
off towards the fray. Aircraft, like black insects, had swirled over the lake
to the south. Smoke had pitched into the sky. Explosions, some muffled, some
sharp, had resounded up the valley. By the time dusk finally began to fall, the
remains of A Company had been streaming back to Lillehammer too. Apparently,
the newly arrived C Company had tried to hold the line as A Company withdrew,
but since then news had been scarce. With no radios, each company had been
depending on civilian telephone lines; they had now been cut.
As darkness had fallen, the sounds of battle had died down. A sense of
defeat had hung heavy over the town. Sure enough, just after midnight,
Hepworth, the platoon runner, had reached the warehouse with news from
Battalion Headquarters. General Ruge had ordered a general withdrawal to a
position a mile north of Lillehammer. The stores that Tanner and the rest of
Four Platoon had spent an entire day unloading were to be moved to the new
position with all urgency.
That had been nine hours ago, and still piles of boxes lay stacked in
front of the warehouse and along the platform. Sykes flicked his cigarette
clear of them, then said, 'Better see where the rest of the boys are,' and
stood up and walked off.
Tanner rubbed his eyes again. Lillehammer lay perched on the lower
slopes overlooking Lake Mj0sa. It was a small town - Tanner guessed the
population was probably no more than a few thousand - and like every other town
and village he had seen so far, the houses were mostly made of wood and
brightly painted. It was one way of cheering up the drab two-tone landscape, he
supposed. It was another grey day, but above the high, steep outcrop known as
the Balberg, there was a patch of blue. Smoke still rose into the sky from the
south and Tanner peered up again at the town, prettily snug against the
mountain, and wondered how long it would stay that way once the Luftwaffe were
bombing the place. Stretching away above, the mountains were covered with
snow-clad pines. The whole country, it seemed, was the same: deep U-shaped
valleys, wide rivers and mountains. He had fought in mountains before, in the
North West Frontier between India and Afghanistan, but those had been quite
different: jagged, dry and dusty. Here, everything seemed so much closer: the
report of a gun could be heard reverberating across the valley, while the roar
of aero-engines seemed to suck in all the air around them, blocking out any
other noise.
Another German aircraft thundered over, then banked in a wide arc
across the northern end of the lake. Tanner tried to remember his aircraft
recognition chart - a Junkers, he was sure of it. A Junkers 88. Like all the
German aircraft he had seen so far, this had twin engines, but the Dorniers had
had twin tail fins and more rounded wings, like those of the larger Heinkel
111s. The wings on this one were more aquiline and it had a bulbous head that
made it seem oddly out of proportion.
Hepworth brought over a mug of tea. 'There you go, Sarge,' he said, and
stood holding it out while the Junkers banked round the far side of the lake.
'Feels like they're toying with us, don't it?'
'Recce planes, Hep,' said Tanner. 'They're making sure they have a damn
good look before they start up again.'
'Probably can't believe it's so easy.'
'Defeatist talk, Private? Don't let Mr Dingwall hear you speak in such
a way.' Tanner grinned at him, then took a sip of his tea. 'Great char, this,
Hep. Good on you.'
A civilian car pulled into the yard outside the warehouse and
Lieutenant Dingwall stepped out. A young thin-faced man in his mid-twenties, he
strode over to Tanner. His face was ashen.
'Hepworth, go and find Captain Webb,' he said, then turned to Tanner
and, in a conspiratorial tone, said, 'Grim news, I'm afraid. Looks like most of
D Company's had it. The Norwegians had promised transport to get them out, but
apparently it never showed up. We're hoping most are PoWs, but we've had no
contact from Company HQ since the early hours and Jerry's only just south of
the town. The colonel's beside himself. Looks like a company of Leicesters have
been overrun too.' Tanner nodded. 'Amazing to think I was talking to Captain
Kirby only last night,' Lieutenant Dingwall continued. 'And poor old Richie - I
mean, Lieutenant Richardson. I was at school with him, you know. We joined up
the same day. Hard to believe. Hope to Christ he's all right.'
'I'm sure he will be, sir.'
'Are you? Yes, you're probably right. Probably a prisoner. I'm sure
they treat their prisoners fairly. They're signed up to the Geneva Convention
and everything, aren't they? But, my God, you can hardly believe it, can you?
We watched them march off last night, and they've gone - a whole bloody
company, devoured . . .'
'Best not to think too much about it, sir,' said Tanner.
'No . . . no, you're quite right, Tanner.' He bit his lip and then his
eyes glanced from Tanner's breast pocket.
Tanner followed his gaze and realized the lieutenant was studying the
tiny ribbon, blue, white and red stripes, of his Military Medal above the left
breast pocket of his battle blouse. He quickly buttoned his leather jerkin.
Dingwall looked embarrassed. 'Sorry, Sergeant,' he said, and swallowed
hard. Then, smiling weakly, he added, 'Our turn to face the Germans soon.'
'You'll be fine, sir,' said Tanner. He wanted to give his platoon
commander some reassurance but it was a difficult line to tread; it wasn't his
place to undermine the man's authority. Yet he could see the fear in Mr
Dingwall's eyes and it was important the lieutenant did not show it to the men.
Nonetheless it was natural that he should feel apprehensive. If Tanner was
honest, the tell-tale nausea in his stomach and the constriction in his throat
were troubling him now. He tried to remind himself it was the anticipation of battle
that was the worst; once the fighting began, adrenalin took over. Even so, the
Germans were brushing them aside as though they were little more than toy
soldiers. The enemy had control of the skies and, he'd heard, had tanks,
armoured cars and large amounts of artillery; 148 Brigade had none of those
things, and neither, it seemed, did the Norwegians. So how the hell were they
supposed to stop them? He understood now what it must have been like to be a
Mohmand warrior, armed only with muskets and swords against British rifles,
artillery and Vickers machine- guns.
Christ
, he thought.
What the hell are we doing here?
Tanner looked to the south and noticed Lieutenant Dingwall follow his
gaze.
'When do you think the bastards will attack?' the subaltern asked.
'Shouldn't think it'll be long.'
'What about all these stores? We've not cleared half of them.'
'We'll have to leave them, sir. Might be worth mentioning to Captain
Webb that we should think about blowing it up, sir. Don't want Jerry to get his
mitts on it.'
'I'll do that right away, Sergeant, thank you.'
Tanner followed the subaltern as he strode toward Captain Webb.
However, just as Lieutenant Dingwall began speaking with the quartermaster, two
lorries arrived back for another load.
'Jerry's not here yet,' Captain Webb told him, 'and so, for the moment,
we'll do no such thing. Let's get your men busy, Lieutenant, and load up these
trucks pronto.'
Tanner groaned to himself.
The bloody fool
,
he thought.
Half an hour later, with the trucks despatched and the working party of
Foresters already gone, he broached the matter with Lieutenant Dingwall again.
'Sir, I really think we need to get this place wired and move out. The Jerries
could be here any moment.'
'Yes, all right, Sergeant,' Lieutenant Dingwall snapped. He paused,
then said, 'Well, surely you've got other things to do, Tanner,' and strode
off.
He had not gone ten paces, however, when there was a brief roar of
aero-engines followed by whistling and a series of colossal explosions. Seconds
later two more aircraft hurtled over, flying at no more than a few hundred
feet off the ground.
Tanner immediately fell flat on the ground but turned his face to see a
stick of bombs falling, thankfully wide of the yard but still terrifyingly
close. As the bombs exploded, with an ear-shattering din, he felt the air
around him sucked away before he was lifted clean off the ground by the blast
and smacked back down again. He gasped, the wind knocked out of him. The air
seemed full of debris and he closed his eyes as stones, grit, shards of wood
and glass rained down around him. Choking dust and smoke shrouded the yard and
warehouse. He pulled his handkerchief from his pocket, dampened it with water
from his bottle, then clamped it to his mouth and staggered to his feet.
Christ, the Germans would blow up the stores for them at this rate.
'Number Four Platoon,' he shouted, 'to me!' Men stumbled towards him,
including, he was pleased to see, Lieutenant Dingwall. 'Right, lads,' said
Tanner. 'Get your kit. Make sure you've got everything attached to your
webbing, that your rifles are loaded, then grab as much ammunition as you can
easily carry. It's time we got the hell out of here.' Wide-eyed and silent, the
men did as he asked. He turned to Lieutenant Dingwall. 'I hope that's all
right, sir. I'm assuming that since Jerry's started his assault we should hurry
back to the new lines.'
Lieutenant Dingwall nodded.
By the warehouse, Captain Webb was also barking orders for them to
retreat. 'Everyone fall back!' he shouted. German guns had opened fire too.
Shells were now thumping into the southern parts of the town. 'Leave
everything!' yelled the quartermaster. Tanner saw him hurrying to the civilian
car the lieutenant had been driving earlier with the regimental quartermaster
sergeant.
'Goddamn it,' said Tanner, as he grabbed his own rifle and kit. Two
shells hurtled overhead, whooshing through the air like a speeding train,
before exploding some several hundred yards to the north.
'All right, men!' shouted Lieutenant Dingwall. 'Let's move.'
Tanner hurried to his platoon commander. 'Sir, I'll follow you out.'
Lieutenant Dingwall swung his arm above his head, then down below his shoulder,
signalling to the men to run from the yard.
Tanner stood back. 'Move it!' he shouted. 'Come on, get going!'
Spotting Hepworth, he grabbed him, and said, 'Not you. I need you to help me
with something.'
More shells whistled overhead. Hepworth looked distraught. 'But, Sarge,
the Jerries'll be here.'
'We won't be long. Now, follow me,' he snapped. Tanner was fuming -
with Captain Webb for not thinking ahead and for cutting and running before the
others, but also with the lieutenant for not pressing the quartermaster hard
enough. As a result, they were leaving the stores in too much haste and risking
letting a mass of valuable war materiel fall into the enemy's hands - weapons
and ammunition that any advancing force would gladly use against them.
They ran to the side of the warehouse. There, out of sight of the yard
and platform and partially covered by overgrown bushes, they saw a small shed.
'What's this place, Sarge?' asked Hepworth. 'Can't say I'd noticed it
before.'
'That'll teach you to have a proper scout round in future, won't it?'
Hepworth was not alone, however, certainly, no one else had thought to
use it. But Tanner had, the previous day, and as dusk had fallen, he had
quietly, without being spotted in the darkening night, moved half a dozen four-
gallon tins of petrol there. He had also taken the opportunity to discard some
of his kit and replace it with a number of items carefully put aside during the
day's unloading. His gas-mask had been taken out and instead he had filled the
respirator bag with a tin of detonators and two five-pound packs of Nobel's gelignite.
From his large backpack, he had taken out several other items of kit. His
hairbrushes and canvas shoes had been pulled out with barely a thought, but
abandoning his greatcoat had been a harder decision. However, he had kept his
thick, serge-lined leather jerkin, which would keep him warm and also allowed
him to have his arms free; he had always hated them to feel restricted ever
since he had begun shooting as a boy. Anyway, he reckoned he could always find
another greatcoat if necessary. He filled the pack with a number of cartridges
of Polar dynamite, a round tin of safety fuse, half a dozen hand grenades, ten
rounds of Bren-gun tracer bullets, and as many clips of rifle rounds as would
fit.
'Leave your pack and rifle here for the moment,'