The 12th Man

by Astrid Karlsen Scott

  Alfon and Amandus took fishing gear along and stopped often, pretending to fish. They were concerned that the Germans might have found Jan by now. They had not seen him for several days.

  They came ashore on the sandbank south of the Revdal hut and hid among the tall turf.

  “I’ll run over the grassland,” Alfon suggested since he knew Jan from before. He worked his way over to the hut. Jan was armed, and kept the gun close by his side. They had agreed that they would knock three times on the wall when they came. He knocked and heard creaks from within. He waved for Amandus to enter.

  Jan crawled from his cot, pulled himself across the floor and opened the door.

  He greeted Alfon warmly and shook hands with Amandus.

  “We’ve brought you some food.”

  “All I have left over is bread crust. It will taste good. Thanks.”

  They noticed how pale and worn Jan looked. He showed them his feet – all his toes and both heels were black.

  “If this is gangrene, I am finished. I am too young, I don’t wish to die.”

  The men looked at his feet in horror.

  “Is it possible to reach a doctor when you get home and bring him to me?”

  Jan was in despair. It hurt them to leave him, but time was of an essence. They “fished” their way back home across the fjord and contacted a doctor.

  The doctor did not have the courage to cross the fjord with them to Revdal.

  Wednesday, April 21, 1943: Jan shuddered with pain. Big drops of sweat trickled down his face. In an instant his body chilled, then it turned hot again, and back to cold. Fever ravaged. All he could do was watch his murky gray toes turn black and new cracks appear on the skin. But it was the stench, the putrid stench that rolled over him in waves and nauseated him, that scared him the most. His feet were rotting away! “If I could only lose consciousness and allow death to come unnoticed,” he thought.

  With all his might he pulled his knees close up to him, grabbed his ankles and pressed them against the back of his thighs. This helped to relieve the pain somewhat. At intervals he had to let go and rest, then he repeated his efforts for fleeting moments of respite from the excruciating pain.

  As he struggled emotionally with his situation, his inner will again came to the forefront. He had been close to death many times and somehow he had survived. Lying there in his lonely state, a thought formed in his mind. He pondered his circumstances and what, if anything, he could do to change them. His legs would soon be covered with black spots as the gangrene worked its way upward.

  “I have to stop it! I refuse to die here in this hut!” Jan began to fight back. He was still not willing to give up on life and he told himself he would not give in to inaction, pain or panic. He would will himself to function, even to take drastic steps.

  He looked around. His eyes fell on the sheath knife close by. He stared at it. Grabbing the wooden edge of his bunk with one hand, he pushed the boards beneath him until he came to a half-sitting position, with the other. The sheath knife was on the makeshift stand next to the bunk. He pulled it out of its sheath and laid it on the bunk with the handle toward him. He calmly folded the bed covering aside toward the wall. Jan bent forward and examined his feet, focusing on his large toe. It was all black, including the rough edges on the bottom where the gunshot wound had begun to grow together. He squeezed the toe in several spots but he felt nothing.

  Jan’s mind was made up.

  “What other chance do I have?” he asked himself. No better answer came to him so he reached for the alcohol bottle. Pouring some into his hands, he rubbed it between his fingers and over his hands and wrists. He put the bottle to his lips and took a couple of large gulps.

  Jan repeated the procedure twice. The second time he poured a little alcohol over the knife blade and rubbed it clean. He took a few more gulps for final courage and to hopefully soothe the pain.

  Two, three times he rubbed his large toe with alcohol. He took a firm hold of it with his left hand. Jan picked up the knife and resolutely held it. He placed the blade of the knife where he felt it to be the best angle. Sweat resurfaced on his forehead.

  Jan began to cut. He inched his way ahead as the blood began to trickle out, grateful the bleeding was much less than he had imagined. The knife butted up against the joint. Jan continued the sawing motion and then quickly cut the last piece of skin, severing the toe from his body. He was shivering and dripping wet.

  Jan placed the toe by a crack in the wall timber, and then fell backwards in his crude bed. His chest heaved with each breath and moan. The knife fell from his hand onto the floor. With his elbow he wiped his soaked brow. With trembling hands he covered his face and wept.

  Minutes later his clarity of mind returned. He again pulled himself up on his elbows. With alcohol he washed his hands, the knife, and then carefully dabbed his toe. The first joint of the next toe was black; with his left thumb and index finger he grabbed hold on each side of the nail. It was easy to place the knife blade now that the large toe had been removed.

  Though the edge of the knife was in place, Jan was unable to slit the skin and had to start sawing before the blood was released.

  His head shook - his whole body shuddered. Sweat poured from his twisted face – but Jan’s hand held steady. Half of the joint was cut when he had to stop. The pain was intense – alcohol was not the best pain reliever.

  “You must finish the job, Jan!”

  He began to saw again. Jan broke the last piece of the joint and pushed it to the side. The cut gaped. The knife moved easier. The tip of the toe fell into the folds of the covering together with the knife. Jan fell backwards.

  Outside the wind howled and beat Lyngenfjord into a fury. Huge white-capped waves angrily flogged the shore near the little hut. Snowdrifts engulfed Jan’s shelter, leaving just the upper walls and the roof visible. The whirling snow crashed into boulders and the bare trees leeward thrashed all about as the forceful wind gusts pounced on them.

  Jan was oblivious to the storm.

  On the opposite side of the fjord, a restless Marius and his friends had to return home. The raging sea was too dangerous. Their little boat was no match for the colossal waves and the wind; they would never reach Jan. Marius could dimly make out the black mountain wall close to the hut, only five miles away. It was so close, yet in this weather so very far.

  SEVERAL MORE black spots had to be removed. Jan cut, fell, and cut again several times. No one could have stopped him. His only chance for life was to mutilate his own body. The nightmare lasted several hours.

  Motionless, Jan lay on his back. His right arm hung over the edge of the cot. Close by him on the floor was a bloody knife.

  Thursday, April 22, 1943: Soon after 2 a.m., Marius and two men hurried from the boat up to the hut. Since Alfon’s and Amandus’ last visit with Jan, Marius had been frantic. He ran in front the last few steps, knocked three times on the door and rushed in.

  “Hello Jan! Have you been waiting for us?”

  The moonless April night blinded Jan when Marius opened the door and disrupted his aloneness. He groaned and shaded his half-shut eyes with a hand blotched with dried blood. Even the early morning light pained him. It took minutes before his eyes adjusted to the change after the days of darkness.

  A foul odor greeted Jan’s visitors. The stench rolled through the door, so fetid it nauseated them. They turned toward the door for a breath of fresh air.

  “Jan!” Marius moved toward the cot. No response. The farmer looked down on his haggard friend, moved the blanket aside and gasped. Then he saw the bloody knife on the floor. His eyes traveled to the crack on the wall. A black toe!

  Jan did not move. He was dirty and bloody, and his skin resembled a corpse. The sores from his incisions had not healed, and secretions mixed with blood seeped out. The offensive smell filled the tiny hut. Below Jan’s knees, his legs and ankles had turned brownish-red.

  With the arrival of his enthusiastic friends, a glimmer of hop
e returned to Jan’s wasted body and desolate spirit.

  “We’re here to take care of you Jan.”

  Jan moved and slowly opened his eyes. The men cleaned him up and fed him some of the food they had brought. In time the conversation turned to small talk. Jan quickened. Even seriously ill, he was able to find hope in the smallest things. The Furuflaten men were amazed at what their visits did for him. Their visit had restored a flicker of hope to him before they left him alone again.

  View from Hotel Savoy across Lyngenfjord toward Furuflaten

  HAPPENINGS IN LOFOTEN ISLANDS

  ON APRIL 24, 1940, Reichskommissar Terboven became Hitler’s highest civil authority in occupied Norway. A man explicitly trusted by the Fuehrer, and into whose hands were poured unlimited, concentrated power.

  Lofoten Islands, March 4, 1943: The British and Norwegian forces launched a successful raid in northern Norway, in the Lofoten Islands.

  Immediately following the raid in Svolvær, Reichskommissar Terboven flew from Oslo to Lofoten for briefing. Terboven’s punishment of the people of Svolvær was swift; several innocent hostages were taken and many homes were burned to the ground.

  Two young men from the village of Furuflaten, one of them Alvin Larsen, were in the Lofoten Islands at the time of the raid, having just purchased a fishing boat.

  Subsequent to Terboven’s terrorism of the people of Svolvær, he did something unusual for him. Terboven expressed a wish to see some of the Norwegian fishermen in action. The Germans used huge amounts of fish to feed their soldiers. In spite of his power, Terboven felt it essential and beneficial to have a good relationship with the fishermen. Alvin was among those chosen to be present for Terboven.

  A few men were gathered in a fisherman’s shelter repairing fishnets when Terboven appeared. He explained he was curious to learn a little of their everyday life.

  Terboven was feared. His power was absolute. He was of medium build and slender of stature with a rather handsome face; his dark piercing eyes looked through unframed glasses. While in the fisherman’s shelter he displayed a congenial demeanor, and he was almost likeable had his reputation not preceded him.

  As he was leaving he stopped abruptly in the doorway, turned toward the fishermen and placed one hand on his hip, the other above his head on the doorframe.

  “Do you have any special wishes? Or perhaps, I could serve you in some way?”

  A hush fell over the men, they all had wishes but only one dared voice them. Alvin had a blazing desire that could not be extinguished: “I would like for my fishing boat never to be requisitioned into German service,” he said, looking straight at Terboven.

  The Germans’ common practice was to take possession of whatever they desired and they had confiscated many fishing vessels. Terboven lingered momentarily without saying a word, saluted and left.

  There was a stir of excitement in Alvin’s home when, several days later, an envelope with the Reichskommissar’s logo came. Alvin, a little uneasy perhaps, pulled out a document bearing the German eagle, Terboven’s signature and stamp. It stated that Alvin and his companion’s fishing vessel were not ever to be requisitioned into the German service. Alvin let out a howl. With such a document he could take his fishing boat anywhere.

  Later when German patrol boats stopped him for inspection, from out of nowhere as they often did, Alvin gleefully produced his valuable document. As soon as Terboven’s signature and stamp were noted, the military boots clicked together and a rigid military greeting was afforded. Alvin and his crew sailed on triumphant.

  Reichskommissar Terboven in Lofoten.

  GEARING UP FOR REVDAL

  WHILE JAN languished in the log hut at Revdal, Marius constantly devised ideas on how to best transport him to Sweden. It was an overwhelming challenge. Jan was extremely ill, and Marius knew that the most comfortable way for Jan to be transported would be by car or truck, along the main road. Even before completing the thought, Marius knew they would not be able to pass the German border guards leaving Norway, nor cross the northwest corner of occupied Finland without being discovered. It was useless to think he would ever reach Sweden by that route.

  As the days elapsed, Marius realized that only one way was left open to them, the mountains. The task would be Herculean for the resistance workers to pull off, and for Jan, almost merciless. But it was Jan’s only chance for survival. And, without daring, how would they know that it could not be done? They had to try. There was no alternative.

  It became obvious to Marius that transporting Jan to Sweden was too risky and too big of a job for the men of Furuflaten alone. They needed to contact the other men working within the resistance movement in the neighboring localities.

  Telephones in these outlying areas were few; only party lines were available. Telephones were extremely dangerous to use for illegal work because people listened in. Any veiled stories could be embellished and passed on to other itchy ears.

  State roads were non-existent in Birtavärre, Olderdalen and Manndalen Valley. Many of the people central to the resistance movement lived in these places, and a tight-knit communication system was essential to their success. Sometimes because of the distances between localities, it took days before a message reached its intended recipient.

  Soon after Alvin returned from Lofoten, he was pulled into the midst of the master plan to rescue Jan. With Reichskommissar Terboven’s blessing, unknown to him of course, the document he had granted Alvin suited him superbly. The task of delivering messages among the fjords and inland waters of the Troms District became Alvin’s job.

  Alvin readily agreed to have his boat at Marius’ disposal and suggested they bring along Alfon Hansen. Being a commercial fisherman had its advantages. Once the season was over, or when they came home for a break, the time was theirs to do with as they pleased. Alvin felt good about using his boat in Norway’s service.

  Furuflaten, April 19, 1943: Alvin Larsen, Marius Grønvoll and Alfon Hansen readied to leave Furuflaten for their inland trip. Alvin called his girlfriend and apologized that he had to break their date, but promised to make it up to her. Alfon told one of his funny stories to his mother before leaving the house. He enjoyed seeing her laugh. Marius was the last to come aboard, having had to finish up some barn chores before leaving.

  It was good weather with a brisk wind, and the men were in good spirits as Alvin took to the tiller and set the boat out to sea.

  “Jaja.” The words came quickly. “When several Norwegians band together, the green devils don’t stand a chance,” Alfon laughed contagiously.

  “You’re right. We are going to snatch Jan from the Gestapo yet,” Marius agreed.

  They crossed the Lyngenfjord and sailed northwest around the tip of Odden. The wind was picking up a bit and it felt good; the air smelled of seaweed and fish, always invigorating to the men. Crossing Kåfjord they soon reached Olderdalen, where they met with resistance member Peder Bergmo and discussed the possibilities of securing help to transport Jan to Sweden.

  “No problem. Count me in.”

  Peder was the contact person for Manndalen, Birtavärre and Olderdalen.

  They sailed south to Birtavärre, innermost in the fjord where the Bjørn brothers lived. Stalwarts in the resistance movement, and always willing to offer all they could, the brothers offered advice and provided help whenever it was needed.

  Continuing on, they cruised northwest to Manndalen and met with teacher Nordnes, a tall handsome man with deep set clear blue eyes in his early forties. The positive answer came as expected. Many alternatives for transporting Jan were discussed with all of these men. Ultimately, however, they all reached the same conclusion. Satisfied with their work, Alvin’s crew returned home from their outing.

  Marius now had a well-defined plan. The men from Furuflaten would bring Jan, tied to a sled, up the Revdal Mountains in back of the little log hut. At a designated spot up on the mountain plateau, they would deliver him to the more rested and vigorous Manndalen men, who would
come up on skis from the opposite side of the mountains. The Manndalen men would be responsible for Jan’s safe passage to Sweden. The plan would be put into action as soon as it was practical and the weather was accommodating. They had to move swiftly. Marius set the day for April 24 and they were to meet at midnight. A message was sent via teacher Leigland at Lyngseidet on to Peder Bergmo in Olderdalen. Jan’s life hung in the balance. He was in desperate need of proper medical treatment.

  The Solhov School was located a short way up from the Lyngenfjord in the southern part of the village of Lyngseidet, some nine miles from Furuflaten. The school was famed in the Troms District because of its excellent curriculum and also because its majestic building was the largest wooden structure in northern Norway at the time. The Germans had confiscated the building and installed their headquarters unit for the entire Eastern Front. As the building was strictly guarded, no one approached it without a just cause. The school caretaker, however, lived in one of the wings of the building.

  As the preparations for Jan’s further transport continued under the strictest secrecy, caretaker Jensen was called on to help. An excellent carpenter, Jensen was assigned to make a strong wood sled sturdy and of adequate size to transport Jan on.

  In a basement corner of Solhov School was Jensen’s modest carpenter shop. A small carpenter’s bench squeezed up against the corner window and made it possible for him to partially see the school grounds outside. One of his shop walls adjoined one of the soldiers’ quarters. They came and went at all times of the day and sometimes they dropped in on Jensen for a chat while he worked. Despite these circumstances, on his little workbench he managed to build an excellent ski sled, 6 feet long, 4 inches high and 22 inches wide. It was suitable for a grown man to lie down on.

  A couple of days after Alvin and his friends’ boat trip to secure aid for Jan’s transport, Jensen had the sled ready. Alvin had been given the task of transporting the sled to Furuflaten. One of Alvin’s uncles, Johan Johansen, also owned a fishing boat and just that day he was with his son in Lyngseidet to repair the boat’s motor. Alvin knew this, jumped on his bicycle and pedaled quickly toward Lyngseidet.