A bullet splintered a tree a mere ten centimetres from my head. I pressed myself deeper into the snow, feeling the cold seep through my worn uniform and into my bones.
My rifle, a Krag-Jørgensen M1894, had seen better days, but it was ready in my trembling hands.
“Solberg! Position!” Lieutenant Haugen’s voice carried through the thin mountain air, barely audible above the crackle of gunfire.
“Northwestern ridge, sir!” I called back, my breath visible in the April chill. “I count seven moving up the eastern approach.”
It had been like this for days. Skirmish after skirmish, our small platoon holding ground against the advancing Germans. We all knew what was happening: Norway was falling, piece by piece.
From my vantage point I could see the fjord below, its dark waters unnaturally calm amid the chaos of battle. It seemed almost offensive, that stillness.
Three weeks ago I had been a fisherman’s son who had barely ventured past Trondheim. Now I was Corporal Erik Solberg, hands raw from the rifle, eyes aching from scanning ridgelines that never stopped producing enemies.
Another volley erupted from the German positions. Beside me, Kristian returned fire and reloaded, cursing steadily under his breath. He was a big man, broad across the shoulders, with a habit of rubbing the back of his neck when he was thinking. He was not thinking now. He was just shooting.
“Do you think your British friends will actually come to our aid?” he muttered, with a bitter edge that had not been there a month ago. His optimism had been the first casualty in this war.
He reloaded again, then glanced sideways at me. “Did you hear about the Blücher?”
“The cruiser?”
I adjusted my position, wincing as my cold fingers found the ammo pouch nearly empty. We were all running low.
“Sent straight to the bottom of Oslofjord.” A rare smile broke across his dirt-streaked face. “Fortress Oscarsborg’s guns and torpedoes tore right through her.” He mimicked an explosion with his hands, then rubbed them together and seemed to notice for the first time how cold they were. “A thousand or so Germans taking an April swim.”
Sergeant Dahl crawled to our position with two other soldiers and a light machine gun. He was a compact, weathered man in his forties, the kind who moved efficiently and wasted nothing, not words, not ammunition, not effort. They set the gun up on its tripod without ceremony.
“Save the celebration,” he grunted, scanning the ridge where the Germans were regrouping. “The Blücher was one ship. The Nazis have many more.” A pause. “Alas, it was quite a sight. A coastal fortress doing its thing. Sometimes the old ways work.”
Before I could reply, the familiar sound of mortar fire cut through the air. We pressed ourselves flat. The ground shuddered as rounds exploded metres away, close enough that I felt the concussion in my chest. My ears rang. I tasted dirt.
“Focus, Kristian,” I said, more to myself than to him.
Through my rifle sight I spotted movement: a German soldier breaking cover, pushing forward at a low run. I inhaled slowly. Steadied. The familiar compression of the world down to a single point of aim. I pulled the trigger and felt the rifle kick against my shoulder. He dropped mid-stride.
I felt nothing watching him fall. That frightened me more than being shot at.
Kristian’s radio crackled to life: Reinforcements coming up from the south. Hold position. Over.
“British?” I asked, already knowing.
Kristian’s face hardened as he listened. “Norwegian. The British are otherwise engaged.”
A bitter laugh escaped me. “Of course they are.”
I turned my attention back to the ridge, trying to ignore the hollow feeling settling in my gut. Whispers had been circulating among the men for days. Of allies preparing to leave. An evacuation.
Of Norwegians being left behind.
Haugen’s voice crackled over the radio. “They’re flanking hard east. Kristian, Solberg, reposition to cover the approach. Dahl, suppressing fire on my command.”
We moved through the trees in a low crouch, pine branches dumping snow on us as we pushed past. The Blücher kept running through my mind. We did that. Norwegians did that. The weight of the rifle in my hands was a strange comfort. Behind us, Dahl’s machine gun opened up.
Maybe we were not as outmatched as it seemed. Not here, not in our own country, on ground we had known all our lives.
The thought had barely formed when German mortar shells whistled in and demolished the position we had just left.
I pressed my back against a pine and looked at Kristian. He met my eyes and said nothing. Neither did I.
I made a silent promise to myself: no matter what comes next, I will not abandon this fight.
Not while Norway still needs its sons.