“You don’t need to remind me,” Chang said dryly. “How many Germans did we shoot on the spot?”
“Seventeen,” Dwynn said. “We should have made it eighteen.” Another explosion billowed up from the town. “We have to teach them that such behaviour will be punished.”
“I imagine that they’ll try Hitler rather than just shooting him,” Chang agreed. It was generally felt that the policy of shooting the senior terrorist officers on the spot had done more to reduce terror than show trials. “They should send us into Berlin, we could do it.”
“They have countless guards and a great deal of knowledge,” Dwynn said sadly. He’d proposed the mission himself. The laser designator bleeped; all of its targets had been hit. He chuckled. “They must be able to see us up here,” he said, when Chang asked why he’d laughed. “And think how pissed they must be, being unable to hit us at all.”
Hauptsturmfuehrer Richter found it hard to believe that the little American was in fact their greatest general, even though his captors had explained this at some length. Surely someone so short was a product of a breeding program, even if Patton wore the silver stars of a general.
“The British wanted to shoot you,” Patton snapped, smoking a cigar in the corner of his mouth. His jaw worked incessantly. “I’m not sure that they were wrong.”
Richter kept his mouth shut. It seemed the safest thing to do. “Still, I need you to carry a message into Oslo for me,” the American continued. “If your own people shoot you… small loss.”
“What sort of message?” Richter asked, finally finding his voice. “If you want me to tell them to surrender…”
“That’s exactly what I want you to tell them,” Patton snapped. He passed over an envelope and a white flag. “They’re trapped in Oslo and we can kill them all, for nothing.”
“I’ll carry the message,” Richter said finally. Patton nodded. “When do I leave?”
“Now,” Patton said, nodding to a pair of burly American marines. Before Richter could ask any more questions, they grabbed his arms and blindfolded him, before carrying him between them through the camp. He tried hard to count the twists and turns, but it was impossible with his eyes covered.
“That way,” one of the Americans muttered, pointing a hand. Richter pulled off the blindfold and stared down at a road leading down to Oslo. “Follow the black pitted road.”
“Thank you very much,” Richter muttered in German, as sardonically as he dared. If the American noticed, he gave no sign, just pointed down towards Oslo. Waving his white flag, Richter headed down towards the town, stumbling in the pitted road. Suddenly aware of the possibility of mines, he tried to walk lighter, and then saw a German patrol.
“Hands high,” the leader bellowed in German. “Who are you?”
Richter saluted. “Hauptsturmfuehrer Richter, late of the division near Trondheim,” he said. “I have a message for General Hoth from the American commander.”
“Oh, really,” the leader sneered. He examined the letter from Patton, but didn’t open it. “Very well; Dieter, you take Hauptsturmfuehrer Richter back through the lines, schnell!”
Dieter proved to be a small man with an air of competence, leading Richter through a series of minefields that were completely invisible from the front. They weren’t marked; Richter realised that if he hadn’t met the patrol he would have blundered into them. Once they had passed through several checkpoints, they reached the main command tent, erected well back from the lines.
“Identify yourselves,” the sentry bellowed. Richter noted that he was standing well under the covers. “Who are you?”
Richter sighed and explained again. The sentry passed him through wordlessly. General Hoth looked up as he entered, taking the document wordlessly. He opened it with a small knife and read it quickly. “Nuts,” he said finally, and dropped it on the ground. Richter picked it up as Hoth strode out of the tent and read it quickly.
To the German Commander, General Hoth. General, your position is hopeless. You have no way to escape Oslo. You have no way of receiving supplies. You have no way of defeating my forces when we finally come for you. You have no defence against the bombardment we can deploy against your positions.
I beg you to surrender now to avoid further futile bloodshed. If you surrender, fire a green flare above the town before 1400hrs. If not, then you will be crushed by the sheer power of my force.
Yrs – General Patton, Commander, Allied Forces (Norway).
“We’re going to fight,” Richter realised. He smiled as he headed out of the tent. Back under the SS’s control, how could they lose?
“The Germans just opened up on the American guns,” the radio said. “Designate their guns for the remaining JDAM bombs.”
“Understood,” Dwynn said. The designator was already at work, tracking the shells that were being launched from the German lines. “Targets acquired.”
“Launching weapons now,” the controller said. “Stand by to report on impact and…”
The explosion caught them all off-guard, blowing them down the hill, rolling until they crashed into a ditch. The SAS team picked themselves up; Dwynn stared back to see a burning fire, only fifty meters from their former location.
“My radios broken,” he said grimly. “Anyone’s working?”
Chang passed him his radio soundlessly. “Control, this is team one. The Germans targeted us on the hill; the designator is destroyed. I repeat; the designator is destroyed.”
“Understood, team one,” the controller said. “Evacuate to the drop zone. Further orders may be forthcoming, until then, head to the drop zone and wait for pick-up.”
“We’re out of the battle,” Dwynn muttered, as the team gathered themselves, before heading back around the hills. It was only a mile to the drop zone, but it felt like running away from the battle, even though he knew better.
The tank fired once, sending a shell crashing into the German lines. It advanced slowly, allowing the infantry to keep up, so they sheltered behind the tanks as the Germans fired burst after burst of machine gun fire at them. More shattering explosions blasted through the German lines, then a streak of light lanced out and struck one of the tanks. It exploded with a blast of fire, scorching the hapless infantry behind it.
“Kill those bastards,” Sergeant Pike bellowed, firing a blast from his automatic rifle at the Germans. The tank Private Max Shepherd was hiding behind began to move backwards; he threw himself out of the way, firing at the Germans.
“Keep firing,” someone shouted. He saw the German weapon; a long tube firing rockets at the tanks. One of them was hit by an American bullet and destroyed; the explosion knocked the Germans to their knees.
“Move it,” Pike bellowed, firing down at the few remaining Germans. Perhaps some of them tried to surrender, but they were mown down anyway. After losing the tanks, Shepherd found it hard to care.
“I guess that tanks aren’t as safe as they thought,” Buckman muttered, as the platoon regrouped. “Now what do we do?”
“Everyone watch,” Captain Caddell snapped, as the Marines regrouped. “The British are about to use a new weapon on the minefields…”
A strange vehicle moved forward, a small car with a loudspeaker mounted on it, pointed at the ground. Before Shepherd could work out what it was doing, it began to make the ground vibrate, moving forward slowly.
“What the hell is it doing?” Buckman asked, and then the explosions began, shattering the German minefield as the mines detonated. “Wow!”
“Forward,” Pike bellowed. He never spoke softly. “Onwards to Oslo; last one there buys the drinks!”