'How will you carry the colonel?' asked Sykes.
'We find a couple of strong sticks and thread the arms of two greatcoats through them to make a stretcher.'
The colonel, however, woke as they tried to lift him on to the improvised stretcher and refused to be moved. 'No,' he said, through gritted teeth. 'I will not be handed over to the Germans. I cannot.'
'But you need to get to a hospital, sir,' said Larsen.
He glared at his lieutenant. 'No, Henrik.'
'Colonel,' Tanner added, 'the longer we leave you, the greater the chances are that you'll die before we can get you proper help.'
Gulbrand winced with pain again. 'No!' he hissed. 'Now, do as I say. Leave me.'
Tanner did as he was ordered. Whatever their reason for such secrecy was their affair; as long as they continued to help him and his men, it made no odds. He understood. He had secrets of his own; dark secrets he had never spoken about to a living soul since he had joined the Army as a sixteen-year-old boy soldier. In any case, he reasoned, their climb down the mountain would be easier without the colonel - and greater manoeuvrability meant the risk would be less. Wounded men, he reminded himself, were always a hindrance.
Tanner took Private McAllister, one of the riflemen in Sykes's section - he seemed less affected by the afternoon's events than the others. At any rate, he was still awake and appeared to have his wits about him. Nielssen accompanied Larsen, leaving the civilian with the colonel.
Progress was slow to begin with but, overlooking the steep ravine cut by the stream, they found the outline of a rough track that wound its way through the trees and off the slopes. The further they climbed down, the more the snow thinned until eventually the dark stone and grit of the track was revealed and the four men were able to walk freely. As the trees cleared, they crept forward to the bank at the side of the track. Spread beneath them was the snaking valley of the Lagen river, which resembled a winding lake. Nestling above the water's edge was the village of Oyer, the valley and the single railway line clearly visible. Beyond, isolated farms dotted the lower slopes on both sides of the river, and around them, marking clear breaks in the thick pine forests, were small fields - which would soon be full of rich grass for hay-making and grazing. Now, though, in the third week of April, the valley was like a photograph - black and white and shades of grey. Only the water of the Lagen, deeply, darkly, icily blue, offered colour.
Almost directly below there was a farmstead, and another beyond, a hundred yards further down. Tanner admired the now familiar design: the steep-pitched roof, the ornate wooden veranda, the barn with its stone ramp. A dog barked briefly, but otherwise it was as eerily still as it had been higher up on the mountain. Again, he could not hear the song of a single bird.
'It seems quiet enough,' said Larsen.
Tanner pulled out his scope. 'There's movement,' he said. Several Heinkels flew northwards along the valley, dropping their bombs a few miles north-west of the village. Clouds of smoke erupted on the lower slopes of the mountains and across the river. Intermittent artillery shells resounded around the same part of the valley. In the distance there were bursts of small arms.
'They're making some kind of stand up there,' said Tanner.
'What can you see?' asked Larsen.
'Not sure. Hard to tell, even with this. A few vehicles on the road in front of us, though. What look like several carts. I need to get closer.'
'Nielssen and I will try these farms,' said Larsen.
'All right,' said Tanner. 'McAllister and I will cover you. We'll be able to see if the coast is clear, then we'll head down a bit further.' Tanner looked at his watch. 'It's a quarter to ten. Meet back here in half an hour, no later. We need to get on our way. If the front really is only a few miles up the valley, we've a good chance of catching up tonight.'
Larsen nodded. 'Good luck, Sergeant.'
Tanner and McAllister watched the two Norwegians walk cautiously down the track towards the farm, their rifles slung over their shoulders and rucksacks still on their backs. Tanner heard McAllister's stomach grumble. 'My God, Mac,' he said. 'That's some racket your belly's making.'
'Sorry, Sarge,' said McAllister. He grinned at Tanner sheepishly. 'It's them Vikings heading off for food. It's got me going again.'
'Well, stop thinking about it. Concentrate on keeping a bead on them.'
Tanner had his own rifle out and aimed towards the farm. In silence now they watched the two men approach the house. Two dogs barked and ran towards them. Nielssen held out his hands and they approached, tails wagging at the friendly gesture. Larsen knocked on the door, which opened. A middle-aged man, with a grey moustache. Talking - an explanation. Then the two men were inside, the door closed behind them.
'Good,' said Tanner. 'Looks like we might get some grub. Come on, Mac, let's get going.'
They left the track and moved back into the trees. The forest was dense and dark. Melting snow dripped round them, but the ground, although steep in parts, was covered with no more than an inch or two and they were able to move easily, almost running in places. Skirting another farm, Tanner stopped by a clearing in the trees from which they could see the road, now no more than a few hundred yards ahead.
They were behind several pines to the side of the clearing, and Tanner knew they were well hidden, especially now that the light was fading. A column of men and horses pulling artillery pieces was working its way towards the village. Tanner peered through his scope. 'Damn it,' he hissed.
'Jerries?' whispered McAllister.
Tanner nodded, then turned towards the village. There were trucks, cars, other vehicles, and by the church, a huge tank, with a squat, thick-muzzled gun. Emerging from the village was a line of men, three or four wide. From their helmets and greatcoats, he knew they were British. 'Jesus,' he murmured.
'What is it, Sarge?'
'You don't want to know.' Several German infantrymen were walking beside them, rifles in hand. As they cleared the village and tramped slowly out on the valley road, they met the line of artillery. Tanner saw the Germans jeering, then strained his eyes to the front of the prisoners and realized with dismay that none other than Captain Cartwright and Lieutenant Dingwall were leading the column.
Poor sods. For the moment, though, he would keep it to himself. No point unduly worrying the others. 'Come on, Mac, we've seen enough. We need to get a move on.'
They found Nielssen and Larsen waiting for them by the track above the farm. Between them they had managed to get hold of some salted ham, a dozen eggs, some cheese and several loaves of bread. Larsen cut Tanner and McAllister some ham now and passed it to them. It was old, almost blue, and as salty as seawater, but to Tanner it tasted delicious. 'Here, have some bread too,' said Larsen, tearing off a chunk.
'Damn me, that's good.' Tanner grinned. His energy was returning.
'Did you ever have chocolate as a kid, Sarge?' McAllister asked him.
'Once or twice maybe. Why?'
'This tastes even better than that.'
Tanner laughed. 'I reckon you're still a bloody kid, Mac. How old are you?'
'Eighteen, Sarge. A fully grown man, I am.'
'And so, old enough to carry a rifle and go to fight a war,' added Larsen.