The group on the platform reached agreement, and Davies moved forward to face his young audience. The low mutters among the air crews ceased abruptly. There was a red spot on each of Davies’s high cheekbones and a bright glint in his eyes. His sharp, high-pitched voice added to the tension.
“Well, chaps; here it is—the big show you’ve been waiting for. You’ve had a lousy time training for it— all this getting up before dawn and stoodging around in the dark over Scotland must have made you fed up to the back teeth. And your having to throw your bombs into a corrie in the side of a valley must have made it seem an ever bigger muck-up. Well; now I’m going to try to fit all the pieces together. Here we go...”
Davies stepped back alongside the covered model of the Svartfjord. “In a few minutes I’m going to let you all come up here to take a closer look at this thing. But for the moment you’ll have to be content with a long-range view while I explain what it’s all about.”
He pulled the cloth away. The young faces before him craned forward, both curious and apprehensive. Someone coughed loudly, relieving his tension. Davies picked up a pointer.
“This is the scale model of a certain fjord in Norway. It’s very deep and narrow, over 20 miles long, and ends as a cul-de-sac at its eastern end. It is this end, the far one, that we’re chiefly concerned with. A high waterfall drops down here and gives power to a hydro-electric plant at the bottom of the fjord. Built around this plant is another building the Germans have put up, a massive affair with walls nearly as thick as U-boat pens. This is our target. Keep it in mind while I explain the rest of the scenery.”
His pointer moved to a mountain on the side of the fjord, directly alongside the hydro-electric plant. “This mountain is called the TroIIfjell. It rises steeply to over 2,500 feet, retreats into a corrie a couple of hundred feet deep, then bulges out again into a massive, overhanging summit. On this summit is a glacier called the Trollisen. The whole thing resembles a man’s chest, neck, and head. Like this....”
Davies made a quick sketch on the blackboard. “Here you are! The chest is the side of the fjord, the neck the corrie, and the head the overhanging summit. Add the glacier on the top and that gives you a crop of white hair. That’s how the mountain and glacier got their names—Troll is a kind of Norwegian gremlin.” Davies paused, giving a puckish smile that made him look more than ever like a gremlin himself. “This job gives you a chance to get your own back on one of the little beggars.”
He moved forward to the front of the platform again. “Later on you’ll be given all your wireless, navigational, and bombing gen in detail, and after that Squadron-Leader Grenville will give you his personal orders. But
I’m going to explain the job to you first so you know all the whys and wherefores, and know what is expected of you. So listen carefully.
“Tomorrow morning you are going to take off before dawn just as you have been doing throughout your training. You’re even going to fly north on the same track for ten minutes. After that you start playing a different game. Instead of going to Scotland, you’re going to Norway, and instead of carrying dummies, you’ll each have a special bomb apiece in your bomb bays. These bombs arrived five minutes ago and will be loaded straight on to your kites.
“Right—you’re on your way and scheduled to reach the mouth of the fjord at 0645 hours, from now known as Z hour. Meanwhile, at Z hour minus thirty, a very brave band of Norwegian patriots will be clearing the way for you.” Davies went on to explain the task of the underground forces. “If all goes well they will have the guns out of action by the time you arrive. You fly straight in and make for the other end of the fjord. Once there the fun starts.
“I don’t think I need stress by this time that you don’t drop your bombs on the target. As I’ve told you, it has massive walls, and a very thick roof. You’re flying low, and it would be impossible to achieve sufficient penetration to do any damage even if your bombs were designed for that sort of job, which they are not. Instead, we have quite a different scheme....”
Davies went back to the blackboard and made another sketch. “As you’ve heard, this summit overhangs the fjord. Naturally, before the Germans built their project, they sent geologists up to check on it. Their reports were that it was safe enough and there were no risks of accidents. That was enough for the Germans —they needed this site badly because of the hydroelectric plant. So the project was built—a top priority job. Now I’m not allowed to tell you much, but I can say this: As you know, German scientists are working just as hard as our own to discover new weapons, and, like ourselves, hope to find something that will end the war quickly. Well, in this building, using some of the energy and by-products of the hydro-electric plant alongside, the Germans are on something big. Something so big, in fact, that it might have a far-reaching effect on the outcome of the war if it isn’t destroyed.”
Davies’ sharp eyes travelled slowly round the arc of breathless crews, letting the point sink home. His voice became brisk once more. “All right. Back to the old gremlin’s head again. The German geologists passed it as safe, but we heard an interesting story through Intelligence channels. A Norwegian geologist, who examined it before the hydro-electric plant was built, says there is a fissure at the back of it. Normally this fissure is completely covered by snow and ice, but every summer the ice retreats a little, and apparently the summer he made his examination was an exceptionally warm one. He was able to study the fissure in detail and found that the perennial dripping of water had hollowed it out inside to a considerable depth. However, after very careful study, it was decided there was no danger of the overhang falling through natural causes, and the Norwegians went on to build their hydro-electric plant.”
Davies eyed the puzzled faces before him with grim amusement. “I know! You’re all wondering what the devil all this geology has to do with your prang tomorrow. The answer to that is everything! Because you’re going to use this knowledge to chop off old Trollfjell’s head and drop it right on top of the target.”
There was a sudden buzz of amazement among the pilots and observers. Davies gave them a few moments to recover before holding up his hand.
“Here is a non-scientific explanation. You know the way you’ve been dropping—a better word is hurling —your bombs into a corrie in the side of a valley. Well, tomorrow morning you’re going to hurl these special bombs into the corrie under old Trollfjell’s head. These bombs have been specially designed to give maximum blast effect, or, to put it another way, to start severe shock waves.
“Now shock waves are greatly magnified in effect when they enter solids like earth or rock—they become tremendously destructive. Normally the blast from a surface bomb goes upwards into the air where it is wasted. But in this case the shock waves from your bombs will go upwards into this overhang, and shiver up to the fissure like a seismic disturbance.
“Our scientists haven’t been able to calculate exactly how many bombs it will take, but they are confident that a succession of explosions will fracture that fissure more and more until the front part of the overhang comes crashing down. To put it inaccurately but graphically, the shock punch from your bombs will throw old TrollfjelPs head backwards, his neck will snap like a carrot, and another redskin will bite the dust...
The excitement among the crews was intense now. Davies held up his hand again for silence. “You’ll guess now that everything has been most carefully worked out. The date, for example, is most important. At this time in May the snow and ice on the summit is ideal for an avalanche. It is beginning to thaw, but still has lost nothing of its mass and weight. If part of the overhang goes, the ice and snow goes with it, and that’ll be curtains for anything in the fjord below.”
He laid down his chalk and dusted his hands. “Just to tuck in all the loose ends, I’ll add that this scheme has the full approval of the Norwegian Government. The loss of the power plant will be a serious one to them, but the alternative is too grim to consider. Right—now you’d all better come up
and take a closer look at your gremlin.”
Pilots and observers clustered round the contour model, taking notes and drawing sketches. When all were satisfied Davies waved them back into their seats. “All right—now for the technical details. Don’t miss anything. We can’t afford a single boob.”
Detailed instructions were given by the Senior Signals officer, the Navigational Officer, and the Armament Officer, the crews again making careful notes. Barrett made a short address. Then they were all taken into the Operations Room, where photographs of the fjord were projected on to a screen. Maps were scrutinized and E.T.A.’s chalked up on a blackboard. Before the crews returned to the Briefing Room Adams presented each observer with his wallet, making him check that it contained the full complement of maps and charts.
It was well over an hour before Grenville himself came to the front of the platform. Immediately there was a subtle change in the atmosphere. Previously an onlooker might have gained the impression that the crews had given their attention more to the duties and office of the speakers than to the speakers themselves. Now the man facing them was their battle leader: the pilot who was always the first to fly into danger, the pilot more accomplished than themselves, the pilot on whose judgement their lives depended. Their attention now was bom of both a personal and a professional respect.
Grenville’s cultured, if forceful, voice was at odd variance with his battered appearance. If the usual touch of devil-may-care humour he used before an operation was less marked this evening, none of his listeners thought his tone unfitting to the occasion.
“We shall be using our full strength of fifteen Mosquitoes and will fly in battle formation, sections of three, line abreast. It shouldn’t be difficult to keep visual contact because the Met. forecast is good, and, in case you don’t know, the sky in those latitudes is always luminous at this time of the year.
“The essence of this raid is strategy and surprise. For that reason it is not considered expedient to have a fighter escort on the way out. Coming back is a different matter and, as you have already been told, we have a rendezvous with long-range Spitfires over the sea.
“All signals on the way out are to be visual only— there must be strict R/T silence. Keep close contact until I fire one green Very light. That means you fall back in line astern. I shall make that signal just before we enter the fjord and we shall enter it at forty-second intervals. The reason is that your bombs will have eleven seconds delays—if you make your attacks too soon after the other bloke you might find the mountain falling on top of you. So remember—forty-second intervals!
“Watch out near the mouth of the Svartfjord. There’s an enemy naval base on the island of Utvik, and I don’t want any fool going close to have a look what those funny-looking trees are. They aren’t trees—they’re 88 mms., so keep away!
“We’re not expecting too much flak, but if there are any posts still in enemy hands, the Green sections from each flight will engage them. Watch out for the target itself—it might pack a few guns on its roof and of course the patriots won’t be able to silence them.
“When you drop your bomb, remember all you have practised. Get as far inside the corrie and as much underneath the overhang as you can—we want to give it the maximum shock possible. Once you’ve dropped your bomb, beat it straight out of the east end of the fjord or you’ll clutter up air space, and that’s one of the things we shall be short of.
“When you come out of the fjord, keep a sharp look out for enemy fighters. We’re hoping to have finished before they arrive, but you never know. If they are there, form a defensive circle directly south of the fjord. If they aren’t, head straight for the kelk factory on the island south of Utvik. You shouldn’t be able to miss it—the Intelligence Boys say it has a smoking chimney and stands out white against the black rocks. We shall reform over it.
“The Code word I shall send back to base when old Trollfjell’s head falls will be “Sneeze”. When you hear that you can start getting ready for a party.
“Every navigator will keep an individual log so that he can bring his plane home alone if necessary, and everyone will synchronize his watch before take-off. The squadron call sign will be ‘Vesuvius’ and the station call-sign ‘Dudley.’ Any questions?”
There were three. Grenville answered them, then threw a glance at Davies. The slow shake of the Air Commodore’s head said everything. Nothing more could be done now but send them out and pray. All that had gone before, the courage of Bergman and his men in discovering the building, their sufferings, the frantic efforts to discover a way of destroying it, the scheming, planning, designing, the race against time: all had led to this. A single squadron; a handful of boys. More depended on their skill and courage than one dared consider.
Grenville turned back to his men, his voice curt. “There is just one more thing. Some brave men have already died in making this raid possible. For their sakes, and for more than their sakes, it has to succeed. We’ve been specially chosen to do it, and that means if it is humanly possible, we shall do it.” His uncompromising eyes travelled slowly round the arc of hushed men. “We pull it off whatever happens. Is that quite clear?”
Nods, a pause, then Grenville’s voice again on a more cheerful note. “Right, chaps; that’s all. Off you go to bed. You’ll be called at 0330 hours sharp. Good luck.”
28
It was cold in the Operations Room the following morning, and no amount of attention could coax any heat from the radiators. Nevertheless, none of the four waiting men could pull himself away to make enquiries about the heating plant. They were scattered all over the room. Adams was sitting huddled in a chair near to one of the dead radiators. Davies was at the foot of the huge operational map that almost covered one wall, the Brigadier was seated at the end of the long table, and Marsden, the Chief Signals Officer, with headphones at his ears and a message-pad before him, was hunched over a small table at the opposite side of the room.
Adams shivered and shrugged himself deeper into his greatcoat. It seemed to be growing colder, and the bluish-white light from the fluorescent tubes did nothing to improve matters. Adams tried to close his weary eyes but they opened immediately as if on springs. The stark, shimmering light, merciless to his fatigue, gave the room and its occupants a touch of unreality. The Brigadier looked like a pale, waxen statue as he stared unblinkingly at Marsden. He was wearing no greatcoat, but the intensity of his concentration appeared to make him unaware of physical discomfort. In complete contrast Davies, sitting under the huge map on which had been pencilled the track lines of the squadron, was fidgeting about like a schoolboy in church. He too was watching Marsden, whose earphones and transmitter key were connected to Signals. Marsden had been listening-in for over ninety minutes, but as yet no message had come through.
Another ten minutes passed by. In the silence the tapping of Davies’s fingers on the arm of his chair was like a monotonous jungle drum. Adams would have shouted at him to stop if one shouted such things at Air
Commodores. As it was he hunched down farther in his seat and tried again to close his eyes.
A sudden metallic crackle sounded in the earphones, amplified by the silent room. All four men jerked upright as if pulled by the same string. The crackle grew louder, then died away. Marsden stared round apologetically. “Static,” he muttered, lowering his head again.
Davies swore. Another minute, then he jumped to his feet. “It’s confounded cold,” he said, looking around for agreement. No one answered, leaving Adams with an immediate sense of guilt. The Signals Officer wasn’t expected to reply, the Brigadier was above coercion—< didn’t that leave him with the baby? But it was too late to answer now. Davies frowned peevishly, began pacing up and down in front of the map, and Adams suppressed a groan. This was going to be worse than the chair tapping.
At the end of his tenth oscillation, Davies halted and turned his sharp, resentful eyes on Adams. “I wonder how Barrett is getting on.”
The testiness in his
voice told Adams this was his last chance. “Yes; I wonder,” he muttered.
Davies did not appear to notice the inadequacy of his reply. “I shouldn’t have been fool enough to let him go,” he said resentfully. “But he’d worked himself a pretty cast-iron case.”
In spite of the reserve crews and the replacements that had been rushed to the squadron after the disaster at Bergen, 633 had found itself one trained pilot short. As Davies had previously said he wanted every serviceable plane in the air, this had been Barrett’s chance. He had offered to fly without a command; and when Davies had reminded him about his weakened chest, he had pointed out that the raid was to be carried out at low-level throughout, which should mean no undue strain on him. Davies had had his doubts, but in the circumstances had felt forced to agree. Now he was regretting his decision.
“The idiot will probably go and kill himself. He’ll probably ram his kite into the side of the mountain.”
Adams was inclined to agree, but knew better than to say so. He nodded uncomfortably, shuffling in his chair to avoid Davies’s stare.
Davies looked at his watch, then up at the wall map. “If everything’s going all right, they should be coming up to the coast in less than fifteen minutes. Hear that, Marsden?”
The Signals Officer turned his head briefly and nodded. The Brigadier showed signs of life. He looked down at his own watch, then took a handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed at his moustache with meticulous care. Adams tried to visualize the scene out there— the dawn sky and sea, the roar of lifting engines, the approaching enemy coast; but his imagination, usually so reliable, refused to help him this morning. The blue-white glare of the fluorescent lamps, the waiting figures, the tense, anxious safety of the room: he could not escape from any of it. He felt betrayed and his sense of inferiority deepened.
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