The Valkyrie Directive

by Peter MacAlan

  Woods pursed his lips.

  ‘That’s all very well,’ he said, ‘but any Norwegian would know that I am not a native.’

  ‘But a German would not. You just have to be careful who you speak to.’

  Woods looked pained, but Inge Stenersen shot him a smile of encouragement. ‘Don’t worry. You’ll do fine. We’ll be there to help you out.’

  Wallace glanced at his wristwatch.

  ‘Right. The car will be here to take you to Northolt. I will see you all in Hatston before you set off. I’ll give you a final briefing then. Any comments?’

  Woods smiled bitterly.

  ‘Yes. This whole thing is absolutely bloody stupid.’

  Inge Stenersen turned a shocked gaze to him, while Sweeny’s lips twisted in a sneer.

  ‘Not thinking of pulling out, are you?’ Wallace said sharply.

  Woods thought about his comfortable flat, his job and his Lagonda Tourer. Then he thought of the grim fortifications of the Maginot Line and gave a deep sigh.

  ‘You asked for comments. All I’m saying is that it’s a bloody stupid idea.’ He turned to smile at the others. ‘However, Commander Wallace here knows that I am committed to the project.’

  Woods’s humour was lost on Wallace. The naval commander crossed the room to open the door. ‘In that case,’ he said, ‘I’ll see you all tomorrow night at Hatston.’

  CHAPTER FIVE

  The Valkyrie team were roused from their sleep at six o’clock the next morning. There had been little time for them to get to know one another during the drive to Northolt, the flight and the short, bumpy ride to Ringway, south of Manchester. They were taken to an anonymous-looking house outside the military complex, given a meal and a room each. Now a Wren with a brightly scrubbed face drove them through the complex to the far side of the establishment, each of them silently locked in their own thoughts.

  Woods was simply bemused, finding himself in some dream from which he believed he would soon awake and discover himself back in his apartment in Ashley Place. The whole thing was just too bizarre to be real. He kept blinking his eyes, half expecting the scenery to change into something more reassuring. But the dream persisted. He fought down a feeling of fear and panic. He wondered what his companions were thinking. Inge Stenersen had been bright and chatty last night. Enthusiastic. How he hated enthusiasm. She was far too pretty to be involved in this ridiculous cloak-and-dagger affair. She should be going to dances and dinners. He let his gaze fall on her fair hair which, while tumbling to her shoulders, did not quite hide her delicate ears with their adornment of tiny ear-rings of beaten silver. He wished he did not find her so attractive. He imagined himself taking her to some hospital dance or some intimate dinner at the Epicure in Gerrard Street, or even the Carlton or the Ritz. The war should have no place in her life nor in his.

  Woods glanced sideways at the red haired Norwegian-American, Lars Sweeny, who sat beside him. He had taken an instant dislike to Sweeny. There was something about his quiet pragmatism, his taciturn self-assurance which indicated that he was able to take everything in his stride, and this irritated Woods.

  In the front seat of the car Inge Stenersen kept glancing surreptitiously into the driving mirror to examine her companions.

  She was caught between excitement and reservations about her comrades. She had been excited and enthusiastic when Commander Wallace had explained the proposition to get Uncle Didrik out of Oslo. Her uncle had been the main influence in her life and she had always been close to him. He had brought her up when her own parents had died. There had been no question about her being reluctant to volunteer for this mission.

  She had little reaction to Lars Sweeny. He seemed a little too macho to her. Tall, capable and yet he seemed entirely without feeling, or was he simply able to put on a mask?

  Michael Woods, on the other hand, irritated her. The irritation stemmed from the fact that she felt an attraction to the man which she had not been able to understand. He was handsome, that was true. She placed his age at about thirty. She suspected that he knew he was good-looking, for there was an indolent air about him, a vaguely patronizing air when he spoke to her. He was tanned and his build spoke much of the outdoors. She knew from Uncle Didrik that Woods had been an enthusiastic climber and skier during his time in Norway. She also knew that her uncle thought Woods had an excellent career in front of him. Yet she was troubled by the sense of reluctance about the plan to rescue Uncle Didrik that she picked up from him.

  In the other corner of the vehicle, Lars Sweeny sprawled his tall body and examined his two companions through lowered lids. He wished that he was going to Oslo alone. He had other things on his mind than the task of playing nursemaid to the girl and the foppish Englishman at his side. Getting the old professor and his party out would not present much of a problem, but the elimination of Judge Paal Berg was going to be a tough one. And there was another task which Sweeny had in mind to do, one which neither Norwegian nor British intelligence knew about. His hand closed on the small buttonhole badge in his pocket. Whoever owned this badge had murdered Freya … his Freya. His lips tightened as he remembered her sprawled and bloodied body. A life for a life. He must have his vengeance.

  The Wren driver stopped the car in front of a tall hangar and they tumbled out to be met by a slimly built army major wearing the shoulder flash of the Parachute Regiment. In spite of the chilly crispness of the early hour, he was dressed as if on a drill parade. He surveyed them with a mournful melancholy.

  ‘I believe your names are Stenersen, Sweeny and Woods?’ He seemed to give the indication of sighing without actually doing so, and he gazed at them as if they were some strange species of animal with which he was not quite familiar. ‘I am told that you have never jumped before. I have been given exactly one day to show you the ropes.’ He sniffed in disapproval. ‘Very well. You will be shown the techniques of jumping in our gymnasium with a practice jump from a built-up model of a Whitley. Then you will make two descents. The first one from a delightful silent balloon known as “Bessie” and the other from an equally delightful but noisy aircraft known as a “Wimpey”.’

  H paused and his melancholy gaze examined each of them in turn until he finally shook his head in disapproval.

  ‘Usually our pupils stay here for two weeks, making two descents from the balloon and five from the aircraft. This is coupled with numerous lectures, physical training sessions and even little film shows of parachute techniques, of which we are particularly fond. I regret that you will be deprived of all that fun. Instead, you will learn the rudiments of jumping this morning, and I mean rudiments, and after lunch you will make your balloon descent. If you survive that, you will then go straight up and make a descent from the aircraft. Are there any questions?’

  For the next two hours the major’s new pupils tumbled dutifully on coconut matting to the roar of the physical training instructors. They swung on bars and dropped through holes. They learnt how to fall with both legs kept close together and to roll to the right or the left with both hands in their pockets. They were made to practise this several times. The same exercises were repeated with a parachute harness on, and culminated in a jump from the lofty gallery of the hangar with the control of the fall being maintained by a cable. It reminded Woods of a trapeze act.

  In the gymnasium was a mock-up of the fuselage of a Whitley with its hatch about eight feet above a pile of canvas mats. They each in turn had to climb the ladder into this construction, move along to the hatch and sit swinging their legs over. At a signal they jumped down to the mat to the accompaniment of a bulllike roar from the instructor: ‘Feet and knees together, for Christ’s sake! Tightly now! Elbows tucked into the sides, head forced down. Take the shock on both legs and roll! God damn it! I said, roll!’

  The major greeted them unenthusiastically after they emerged from the canteen where they had lunched sparingly. ‘Time for your first descent from the balloon. Any questions?’

  They were expected to j
ump from a small platform attached to a barrage balloon which was winched to a height of 1,000 feet. They survived the experience without spraining or breaking anything and immediately the mournful major gathered them together.

  ‘Now, I’m afraid, you are going for the big one. I would have liked to see you do several more jumps from the balloon but your time schedule prevents it. You’d be taken up in the Whitley and dropped over Tatton Park where I shall be waiting to pick up the pieces. Let me tell you briefly what happens when you jump from an aircraft. As with your descent from the balloon, you will use a static line. It is a length of cable attached to the parachute on your back which tugs out your ’chute automatically and does not leave its manipulation to your fumbling nervousness. Understand?’

  Woods smiled thinly. ‘No.’

  The major raised his eyes to heaven in silent prayer.

  ‘Very well, Mr Woods,’ he said sorrowfully, ‘When you are in the Whitley you will be wearing a ’chute? Correct? The ’chute is attached by a static line to the aircraft. Correct? When you jump out and fail sixteen feet from the aircraft, the static line begins to draw out the parachute which is packed so that it draws out in a smooth and easy motion. Your parachute is thirty feet in length and when it opens your falling weight will sever the wire, or static line, leaving you free and easy to float safely down to earth like the daring young man on his living trapeze. Correct?’

  The major had edged close to Woods so that his face was now just a few inches from him.

  ‘I suppose so,’ muttered Woods.

  The major’s melancholy face became even more morose.

  ‘You suppose? Well, son, if it does not perform as it should perform you may report the matter to me when you come down.’

  Woods joined the others in the dark and noisy interior of the Whitley. They look off and climbed quickly. No one said anything until the young despatcher came crawling back.

  ‘Two minutes to dropping zone!’ he yelled, and the bomb doors grated open. Woods felt the icy grip of lean as he linked up the static line under the watchful eye of the despatcher. The man checked each line and stood back to one side of the open hatch.

  ‘One ready!’ called Sweeny, sitting down on the edge of the hole, his legs dangling in space.

  The despatcher glanced up at the light above the door.

  It flickered and changed from red to green.

  ‘Go!’ cried the despatcher as he clapped his hand onto Sweeny’s shoulder.

  Inge was next and even as Sweeny disappeared she was ready in position.

  ‘Go!’ yelled the despatcher again.

  Heart thumping fearfully, Woods fumbled into position and closed his eyes.

  ‘Go!’ It was more the heavy hand of the despatcher than his own volition that propelled him from the aircraft. The wind howled in his face. He was slung around as it buffeted him. The next thing he knew was that his body was jerking violently and he opened his eyes as he heard the crack of the silk as the parachute spread above him. He hardly had time to adjust to the sensation of floating downwards when the ground came up to meet him rapidly and he scrabbled painfully through a bramble bush, remembering at the last moment to control his contact with the ground.

  He was still lying winded when he saw the melancholy major staring distastefully down at him.

  ‘That was bloody awful, my son. Still, you’ll probably have beginner’s luck when you try the real thing.’

  *

  Their aircraft landed at 6:30 pm at Hatston and they were immediately driven to a large, spacious house not far from the airfield. The place stood well back from the road, almost hidden by a wood. At the door they were greeted by the immaculate figure of Commander Wallace. He took them into a lounge where a fire burned brightly and they flung themselves into comfortable armchairs. Wallace took up a position in front of the fireplace and proceeded to fill a pipe.

  ‘Well, Ringwood tells me that you know the rudiments of making a parachute jump. The rest is up to you. You will take off just after midnight. Upstairs, in the rooms to which you will shortly be shown, you will find a change of clothes. You will put the clothes which you are now wearing into the cases in the rooms. Everything, that is. Pants, socks, nylons, the lot. You will then get dressed in the clothes provided. We don’t want any enterprising German finding a label from Hector Prowe of Regent Street or,’ he glanced at Inge Stenersen’s fashionable camel coat, ‘a Fenwick label in that.’

  Inge stared at the commander and wondered how he knew that she had just purchased the £5 coat from Fenwick’s.

  ‘You will also leave all coins, cigarettes, wallets, documentation and any other articles behind.’

  ‘Make-up?’ demanded Inge.

  Wallace turned his dark eyes on her and nodded gravely.

  ‘We have provided everything for you. I don’t think you will have cause to complain.’

  Half-an-hour later Inge agreed with him. She could find nothing lacking in the selection of cosmetics which had been provided in the Norwegian handbag.

  Wallace examined their change of clothing with professional approval.

  ‘In addition to your personal effects and documentation, we are providing you with a map of southern Norway, compasses and Norwegian kroner. Also, three service automatics and ammunition.’

  Woods frowned.

  ‘I’ve never fired a gun in my life,’ he protested.

  ‘I have,’ Inge said. ‘I used to belong to a Skytterlag, a shooting society.’

  Wallace glanced at Sweeny with a question in his eyes.

  ‘I can use a gun, commander,’ he said shortly.

  Wallace turned back to Woods. ‘I’m afraid that we don’t have time to give you instruction. I hope you won’t need to use a gun. The Webley is easy …’ He picked up the handgun from the table and thrust it towards Woods. ‘You remove the safety-catch here, aim it at whatever you want to hit and pull the trigger.’

  Woods took the gun, wondering whether there was an attempt at grim humour in the naval commander’s voice.

  ‘Thanks. I’ll try to remember,’ he said flippantly.

  ‘But before you put it in your pocket,’ Wallace added heavily, ‘I suggest you push back the safety catch.’

  Woods flushed and pushed at the lever.

  Inge glanced at him sympathetically. ‘When we have a moment, I’ll show you how to load and use it.’

  ‘Now,’ Wallace was glancing at his watch, ‘in a few moments you’ll have a meal, put on your flying suits and be leaving. The pilot is under instruction to drop you just north of the village of Bygland, along the banks of the Byglandsfjord. It’s about as far as we can get across southern Norway without detection. It’s a remote area but from there it should be easy to make your way down to Kristiansand. The journey from Kristiansand to Oslo should be straightforward. You all know what is required of you?’

  They nodded silently, and Wallace hesitated awkwardly before continuing.

  There is one other thing you ought to know. Increased enemy pressure has necessitated the withdrawal of Allied forces from the positions they previously held at Lillehammer. Our troops have had to withdraw towards the north.’

  Wallace did not mention the morale-shattering defeat of British troops at Lillehammer in their first armed conflict of the war with German troops. It was as demoralizing as it was serious. Norwegian resistance, heroic as it was, was crumbling and it was probably a matter of days rather than weeks before the Allies would be forced to agree with Major-General Carton de Wiart that Norway would have to be evacuated from the Allied military point of view.

  Sweeny was gazing at Wallace thoughtfully, trying to read behind his bland exterior to his troubled mind.

  ‘Is Andalsnes still an open port to the Allies?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes. But the situation is very fluid.’

  The commander turned and produced a bottle of brandy and four glasses.

  ‘Pre-war French cognac,’ he said solemnly. ‘It just remains for me to wish you l
uck and leave you with another piece of news which, this time, you may find amusing. It has just been announced from Berlin that today, Friday, April 26, eighteen days after the German invasion of Norway, Adolf Hitler has officially declared the Third Reich to be in a state of war against that country.’

  Woods smiled cynically. ‘The Germans do like to clear up the legal complexities of everything, don’t they?’

  CHAPTER SIX

  Woods, Sweeny and Inge Stenersen sat silently in the fuselage of the Blenheim as the engines revved and the hydraulic brakes whined while the final check of engines and mechanisms was being made. Then, through the tiny windows, they caught sight of a green light flashing from the airfield control tower. There came a sudden roar from the 6,000 horse-power engines and the aircraft surged forward as the brakes were released, gathering speed until it finally rose from the ground and began to climb rapidly into the blackness of the night sky. The RAF despatcher busied himself with incomprehensible tasks in the interior of the aircraft and left them to their own devices. No one spoke; they concentrated their gaze through the windows of the craft as it rose upwards.

  The moon was high in the sky, sending a stream of silver over the shadows of the North Sea below. Clouds, bathed in white moonlight, floated above and below them. It was a clear and tranquil night, the sort of night the old Vikings had called ‘Odin’s Moon’ when they put to sea to conduct their war-raids.