Olson

(Source)

Oscar Olson heard voices outside of the small shed he was sheltering in on the outskirts of Litenhavn. They were speaking Norwegian, but one of the voices had an odd accent. So Olson burrowed deeper into the pile of old fishing nets and tarps that he was hiding under.

His broken left arm ached badly, though the German medic had splinted it and given him a sling, the arm hadn't been set or treated in any other way. From what little Norwegian the medic knew, Olson had understood that his arm wasn't bad, perhaps simply a greenstick fracture. But still and all, it ached badly.

The voices went away, Olson had the impression that the Germans were searching for him. When the attack had started, the Germans who had been outside the room he was locked in at the small fisheries office in town had left, in a hurry. After they left and during the commotion, Olson had managed to kick the door open. It had been secured with just a simple hasp.

He had managed to avoid being spotted as he made his way to the edge of the village. He had come across a number of sheds used for storage, not far from the forest to the south of the village. He had decided to hole up in one of them and wait for nightfall.

His old comrades were all dead, the death of his close friend Jakob Torvik particularly bothered him, the two men had grown up together. Despair made him want to quit and surrender to the Germans again, but common sense told him that he needed to get as far from the Germans as possible. Being attacked again might tend to make them even more bloodthirsty then they normally were.

Lars Fretheim was getting tired of speaking German, it felt harsh in his mouth, not like the tones of his native Norwegian, but speak it he must, only a couple of these Germans spoke enough Norwegian to make themselves intelligible. Krausse was one of them, Fretheim welcomed the opportunity to speak in his native tongue.

"My dear Oberleutnant Krausse, most of these sheds are used for winter storage. Lighter sails for the boats, some of the fishermen keep their old nets in these sheds, hoping that during the winter they'll have time to repair them. But since the ..." Fretheim stopped, he realized he might have overstepped.

"Since the invasion? Since we Germans arrived to protect you from a British invasion? Is that what you were trying to say Herr Fretheim? Don't worry, I admire honesty. We wouldn't have you shot for such a thing." Krausse noticed that Fretheim went rather pale at the mention of people getting shot. He regretted making the jibe, but in truth, he really didn't like this man, this "quisling" as people called the Norwegian collaborators.

"Um, yes, since your army landed to drive the English and French invaders out, yes, not everyone in Norway understands the political realities of our modern world."

Krausse reflected on that, true, he barely understood them himself. What he understood was that the Reich needed Swedish ore, and the English wanted to stop the flow of that. Ah, he thought, the English, always meddling on the Continent. If the French weren't so weak, they would probably stand against the English themselves!

The voices moved on, carefully Olson moved out from under the smelly pile of old canvas and netting. He could tell through the many gaps in the walls of that shed that night was approaching. Only then would he move out and attempt to reach the hunting lodge further inland. He knew people there.

As night wrapped its dark arms around the Norwegian coast, Olson headed out. He knew that the Germans didn't patrol inland, only along the coast. That was one of the things that his late commander, Quartermaster-Sergeant Wilkes had planned to exploit. Hit the Germans from inland, then steal a boat and head for England. But the ambush of the two Germans in their little car had happened instead. Wilkes had been surprised at the quickness and violence of the German response.

All Olson knew is that his friends were all dead now. Perhaps he should think of getting to England. His friends at the lodge might be able to help him.

Oskar Olson, "Ollie" to his friends, was not done fighting. Not by a long shot. The Germans would pay, or he hoped they would, things looked very bleak at the moment.