'I saw them, but with all respect, they're not going to manage much, are they? They've got less equipment than us and most of them have only been in uniform a fortnight. Where's the heavy stuff? Have you heard anything, sir?'
Dingwall shook his head. 'Apparently there's another company of Leicesters on its way - they got left behind somehow at Rosyth, but Captain Cartwright heard from the IO that another supply ship's gone down.'
'For God's sake!' Tanner was exasperated.
'Rather you didn't spread that about, though, all right?' added the lieutenant, in a lower voice.
'My God, sir,' said Tanner, 'this is madness. What the hell are we going to achieve?'
'Keep your voice down, Sergeant,' said Dingwall, sharply. 'We're playing for time. Trying to keep the enemy at bay and help the Norwegians.'
'Then why not keep them at bay a hundred miles back towards Andalsnes? We've got a hundred-and-fifty-mile supply line here, with no guns to speak of, no bloody tanks, no trucks, and one piddling railway line that Jerry will knock out in no time if he hasn't already. And look at the men, sir. They're exhausted. When did we last have some proper grub? It's insanity.'
'We've got to do what we can, Sergeant,' said Dingwall. 'Captain Cartwright has been promised that hot food will be issued tonight. In the meantime, we must make do with what limited battle rations we've still got.'
Tanner knew there was no chance of any hot meal that day - how would it reach them? Captain Cartwright had been fobbed off, of course he had, but there was no point in saying any more to the lieutenant. He'd said his piece, got it off his chest, only it hadn't made him feel any better. Rather, a new wave of weariness spread over him.
'I'd like you to take over the end of the line and make sure our defences are up to scratch,' said Lieutenant Dingwall.
Tanner saluted, and wandered through the trees until he found Corporal Sykes and his section.
'Afternoon, Sarge,' said Sykes, cheerfully.
Tanner was pleased to see that Sykes had made the most of a large rock and a pine tree for positioning the Bren. Other, smaller, rocks had been brought over, and branches carefully placed so that the machine-gun was almost entirely hidden from forward view. 'Good work, Stan,' he said, as he eased off his pack and haversack.
Sykes grinned. 'Try digging, though, Sarge. It's flippin' 'ard rock they 'ave 'ere.' Sykes put down his entrenching tool and stood up. From his battle blouse he pulled out some chocolate, broke it in two and offered half to Tanner. 'Superior stuff this, Sarge.'
'Thanks. I'm starving. Just what I need. Where d'you get it?'
Sykes tapped his nose. 'Trade secrets . . . Well, actually, I got it from some Norwegian bloke in Lillehammer. Said he'd rather give it to us than have it stolen by Nazis.'
Tanner smiled. 'Makes for better tiffin than hard tack, that's for sure.' He liked Sykes. Of slight build and with short, mousy hair slicked to his skull with brilliantine, he was, as Tanner had discovered, far stronger than he looked. Sykes was sharp too - always ready with a quick reply - and he was the only man other than himself in the company who hadn't come from Yorkshire. Rather, he was a Londoner, from Deptford, as he had proudly admitted the first time they had met. Tanner had sensed an unspoken affinity between them, in part because he regarded himself and Sykes as outsiders. Every time Tanner opened his mouth, he revealed the soft remnants of a West Country burr that had not left him even after so many years away. Sykes's South London accent was even more marked among the thick Yorkshire tones of the other rankers.
He took out his spade and was about to start helping Sykes and the other men in the section when a Messerschmitt 110 pounded overhead, strafing their positions. There was no need to tell anyone what to do: they all hurled themselves flat on the ground as bullets kicked up gouts of earth and snow, shards of stone, and snicked through branches above. Tanner heard a bullet ricochet from the rock beside him and a tiny sliver of stone nicked the back of his hand.
It was over in a trice and, cursing, Tanner got to his feet once more. His hand was bleeding. 'This is a bloody Goddamn joke!' he said. Angrily, he picked up his spade and hacked at the ground behind Sykes's Bren post. As the corporal had warned, the spade cut through a few inches of soil, then hit rock. Repeatedly, he tried to find an area where the soil might be deeper, but every time it was the same. Rock.
'Who gave us these poxy spades anyway?' he barked at Sykes. 'Bloody useless, they are. What was wrong with the old pick-and-mattock tool we used to have? I wouldn't want one of these at the bloody seaside, let alone in the middle of sodding Norway.' He dug in the spade and the wooden handle snapped. With a curse, he flung what was left of it behind him.
'Who threw that?' snapped a voice behind them.
Tanner and Sykes swung round to see a platoon of strange troops approaching through the trees. Leading them, and striding towards Tanner, was the man who had spoken. 'Who threw that spade handle?' he said again.
Ah, thought Tanner, catching the accent. French. 'I did,' he said.
The man walked up to him in silence. He was shorter than the sergeant by several inches, with a narrow, dark face and an aquiline nose. 'Isn't it customary to salute an officer, Sergeant?' Tanner slowly brought his hand to his brow. 'And stand to attention!' said the Frenchman, sharply. 'No wonder you British are making such hard work of this war. No discipline, no training.'
Tanner fumed.
'Well?' continued the Frenchman. 'What have you to say for yourself?'
Tanner paused, then said slowly, 'I apologize, sir. I hadn't appreciated there were French troops in the vicinity.'
'Well, now you know, Sergeant. There are - one company of the Sixieme Bataillon Chasseurs Alpins, part of General Bethouart's Brigade Haute-Montagne. We have been sent here because you British have no elite forces capable of fighting in the mountains. So - you no longer need to worry about your flanks. When les Allemands attack, you can take comfort from the fact that we shall be above you, watching guard.' He pointed up towards the Balberkamp, then repeated the line in French to his men with a knowing smile. They laughed.
'Where are the rest of the company, sir?' Tanner asked.
'You don't need to know such things, Sergeant.'
'Only I'm not sure one platoon will be able to do much to save us. The mountain's a big place. Furthermore, you've only got rifles. Jerry's got machine-guns and artillery and, even better, he's got aircraft. Lots of aircraft. But I appreciate your help, sir. I really do.' It was now the turn of British troops to laugh.
'Who is your superior officer, Sergeant?' the Frenchman asked curtly.
'Lieutenant Dingwall, sir. He's just over there.' Tanner pointed. 'Only a hundred yards or so. Shall I take you, sir?'
The Frenchman bristled. 'I don't like insolence, Sergeant. Not from my men or any others. You've not heard the last of this.' He barked some orders. Then, with a last glare at Tanner, he continued on his way with his men.
It was by now nearly three o'clock on Monday, 22 April. The shelling had noticeably intensified, as had the number of enemy aircraft flying overhead, but there was still no sign of enemy troops to the front of them.
Tanner was soon ordered back to Platoon HQ to cover the absence of Lieutenant Dingwall, who had been summoned to see the B Company commander, Captain Cartwright. When Dingwall returned, he was flushed, his expression grim. 'It looks like we might be outflanked,' he told Tanner. 'There have been reports of German mountain troops climbing round the Balberkamp. The CO wants me to send a fighting patrol to watch out for them and, if possible, hold them off.'
'What about the Frogs? There was a platoon of mountain troops heading that way.'