Perhaps it wouldn't come to that. The mountain seemed so empty. They hadn't even seen the Chasseurs Alpins. He began to think the rumour of enemy mountain troops must have been just that; and although explosions and the sounds of battle continued from the valley, they were sporadic. He had no impression that their lines were about to be overrun. As he thought of this, his spirits rose. Perhaps they would rejoin the platoon, after all. There were even trees on the summit of the Balberkamp, albeit sparsely spread, and he now had it in mind to climb almost as far as the top of that outcrop of snowy rock. From there, using the trees as cover, they would have a far-reaching view. If any attack was coming, they would see it from there.
They were only a hundred yards from the summit when Tanner caught the faint hum of an aircraft. So, too, did the others.
'D'you hear that, Sarge?' said Sykes, from behind him.
'It's heading into the valley.' But no sooner had he replied than from the Balberkamp a Messerschmitt appeared, immense and deadly, thundering directly ahead of them as if from nowhere, and flying so low it seemed almost close enough to touch. The noise of the engines tore apart the stillness of the mountain. Tanner yelled at his men to lie flat but it was too late. The twin-engined machine was spurting bullets and cannon shells from its nose, stabs of angry orange fire and lines of tracer hurtling towards them. Tanner felt shells and bullets ripping over his head and either side of him. Something pinged off his helmet, while another missile ripped across the top of his pack. His eyes closed, grimacing into the snow, he pressed his body to the ground, willing himself to flatten.
Two seconds, maybe three, that was all. The ugly machine was past. One of the men called out. Tanner got to his feet. It was Kershaw, one of the two men sent ahead as scouts.
'Christ, oh my God!' he shouted. He sat half upright in the snow staring down at something beside him.
'All right, calm down, Kershaw!' called Tanner. 'Is anyone else hit?' Now there was gunfire a short way to the north. The Messerschmitt was strafing someone or something else.
'Gordon's down, Sarge,' shouted Private McAllister.
Tanner turned to Sykes. 'You go to Gordon, I'll deal with Kershaw. And, lads, keep watching out. Come on!'
He hurried ahead, all the while keeping a watch on the Messerschmitt a mile or two to the north. Now he saw it turn and double back towards them. Tanner was about to yell another warning when the aircraft banked and swept out in a wide arc over the valley and disappeared south.
As he approached Kershaw he saw, with a heavy heart, a mess of dark red stark against the snow. A cannon shell had struck Keith Garraby squarely in the midriff, tearing him in half, so that his still-trousered and booted legs lay in the track, while his upper body had been hurled several yards and now lay upright against the trunk of a tree, the eyes still gazing out in disbelief. Kershaw sat rooted to the spot, ashen-faced, his friend's blood streaked across his face and greatcoat.
Tanner closed Garraby's eyes, then hastily collected the dead man's legs and guts, placing them beneath the rest of the body. The grim task complete, he offered Kershaw a hand. 'Come on,' he said. 'Up on your feet now. Let's get you away from here.' Kershaw did as he was told. Then, glancing back at his friend, he heaved and vomited.
Private Bell was beside Tanner. 'Best hurry, Sarge,' he said. 'Gordo's in a bad way.' He averted his eyes from Garraby. 'Sweet Mother of God,' he muttered. 'The bastards.'
Tanner ran back. Sykes was crouched over Private Draper, desperately pressing field dressings over two wounds in his chest and arm. 'All right, Gordo, you're going to be fine,' he was saying. 'Just hold on, son.'
'Give me some more dressings,' said Tanner, squatting beside him and pulling out his own packs of bandages from his trouser pockets. He opened Draper's jerkin, then tugged his sword bayonet clear of its sheath and deftly slit open the battle blouse, shirt and vest. Draper was pale, his eyes darting from side to side. 'I'm cold,' he mumbled, blood now running from his mouth. He was shivering, but beads of sweat lined his brow and upper lip. Silent tears ran down the side of his face. 'Help me,' he sputtered. 'Help me. I don't want to die.'
'You're going to be fine,' said Tanner, stuffing wadding into the bullet-hole in Draper's chest. 'Stan, press down here,' he said to Sykes. 'Quick - he can't feel a thing. He's in deep shock.' Several others were now gathered round him, peering at Draper's prostrate body. 'I thought I told you to keep watch,' growled Tanner. 'Stop bloody gawping and keep a lookout. Now!' He turned back to Draper. Blood still seeped through the mass of wadding and bandages. Draper's eyes were filled with fear and he was frothing at the mouth. 'Mother!' he gurgled. 'Mother!' He kicked. 'Easy, Gordo, easy. You're all right,' said Tanner. But, of course, he was not. Tanner and Sykes tried to steady him and then a sudden calm spread over Draper's face. The kicking stopped and his head dropped limply to one side.
'Goddamn it!' cursed Tanner, slamming a fist into the ground. He glanced at his watch. It was now nearly six o'clock in the evening. Standing up and scanning the mountains, he could still see no sign of any troops, enemy or otherwise. 'Stan, you stay here with three of your lads and bury Gordon and Keith.' Sykes nodded.
'The rest come with me.'
It was often hard for a pilot to hit a human target on the ground. Travelling at high speeds there was little time to aim, and although the mixture of MG17 7.92mm bullets and Oerlikon 20mm cannon shells poured out through the nose cone of the twin-engined Messerschmitt 110, there was no time to respond should the targets suddenly fling themselves out of the line of fire. Nor was there much chance to see the fruits of such an attack. The rule of strafing was simple: keep your finger on the firing buttons, then fly straight on out of harm's way as quickly as possible; it only took a lucky bullet and the plane could be in serious trouble, especially at such a low height.
Lieutenant Franz Meidel was pleased with his efforts, though. Flying low along Lake Mj0sa, he had climbed due north using the bend in the lake as his marker. He had arrived south-east of the Balberkamp, then pulled back on the throttle so that he was travelling at two hundred miles per hour, and swooped north without being seen or heard. He had not been expecting to see a patrol of British troops but at just under a hundred feet off the ground he had seen their distinctive wide-rimmed helmets clearly. A three-second burst of fire had certainly knocked them over, and he was sure he had seen one man badly hit before the reeling figure had flashed out of sight beneath the aircraft.
Lieutenant Meidel had flown on, spotting five men. There was so little time in which to assess who they were, but they carried rifles and looked - so far as he could tell - like Norwegian troops. He had opened fire on them too. Although he had been unable to see whether or not he had been successful, his rear-gunner told him he was certain at least one man had been hit. Meidel flew on, and since there were neither enemy aircraft nor anti-aircraft fire to worry about, and because the adrenalin coursing through him was making him feel bold, he had decided to turn and swoop back low over the tree-tops to examine his handiwork. Of the men there had been no sign, but he had spied a distinct trail of blood in the snow. Good, he thought. 'I think we can go home, Reike,' he said.