Contents
Mission Telemark
End Note
Biography
Acknowledgements
For Callum and Liam Courtney
MOST SECRET – BY HAND OF OFFICER ONLY
21st November 1942
From: Lord Archibald Wetherspoon
CHIEF OF COMBINED FORCES
To: THE PRIME MINISTER
Subject: OPERATION FRESHMAN
Operation Freshman has failed. The target was not destroyed. All servicemen involved are missing in action. We fear the worst.
We are at a crucial juncture in this war. The situation becomes ever more critical. We urgently need an alternative strategy.
Lord Archibald Wetherspoon
CHIEF OF COMBINED FORCES
MOST SECRET – BY HAND OF OFFICER ONLY
21st November 1942
From: THE PRIME MINISTER
To: Lord Archibald Wetherspoon
CHIEF OF COMBINED FORCES
Subject: OPERATION DRUMMERBOY
We need to use radically different tactics, and for that I have an unusual idea. I assume you know that the military intelligence unit has been training a group of young teenagers. These children have been specially selected through physical aptitude and military intelligence tests. They are fully trained troops with unique individual skills. They are all aged thirteen and above and all but one come from families which have sought refuge from the Nazi regime overseas.
I propose we surprise the enemy and send in a small band of these children. They are unlikely to arouse suspicion and we have nothing to lose now.
PRIME MINISTER
MOST SECRET – BY HAND OF OFFICER ONLY
21st November 1942
From: Lord Archibald Wetherspoon
CHIEF OF COMBINED FORCES
To: Colonel Richard Armstrong
SPECIAL OPERATIONS EXECUTIVE
Subject: OPERATION DRUMMERBOY
Here are the details of three children – two boys and a girl – selected for Operation Drummerboy. They are due to arrive with you in Scotland shortly. They have completed basic training and have shown great potential in different areas. All are Norwegian nationals and good skiers. They are our best recruits and together they should make an excellent team.
As minors are involved, permissions have been obtained from the highest level. All due consents have also been obtained from parents and guardians.
A third boy, trained by the Norwegian resistance, will join the others next week.
Everything now depends on you. Remember: we have very little time.
Lord Archibald Wetherspoon
CHIEF OF COMBINED FORCES
NAME: ÅSE MILDRED JEFFRIES
DoB: 03.07.28
NATIONALITY: American-Norwegian
LANGUAGES: Bilingual in Norwegian and English, fluent German and Spanish
HEIGHT: 1 m 27 cms
WEIGHT: 39 kgs
EYE COLOUR: Brown
HAIR: Black, straight
COMPLEXION: Sallow
DISTINGUISHING FEATURES: N/A
SPECIAL SKILLS: Languages; excellent fine motor skills – would be suitable for explosives training. Brilliant gymnast.
Jeffries is a bright girl, barely bigger than a sixpence. She is physically very agile and what she lacks in size she more than makes up for in spirit. Jeffries has trained seriously as a gymnast since the age of six and won a silver medal in the Junior category of the 1941 English Gymnastics Championships. She is neat-fingered and also shows some artistic ability. So far her life has been peripatetic. Her American father is in the oil-prospecting business (a geo-engineer with Shell) and her Norwegian mother travels with him. The family haven’t lived in Norway for nearly a decade. Åse is currently a boarder at Roxbury Hall, a special school for gifted gymnasts and dancers on the South Downs.
Some instructors have raised doubts about Åse’s temperament. She flies off the handle easily and doesn’t tolerate fools gladly. But nobody can beat her for staying power and guts. Being small could be a great advantage on some missions.
NAME: FREDERICK ST CLAIR HAUKERD
DoB: 26.05.28
NATIONALITY: Norwegian
LANGUAGES: Bilingual in Norwegian and English. Due to his immense academic capability, Frederick can read many written languages, notably Latin, Sanskrit, Hebrew, Arabic and some Aramaic.
HEIGHT: 1 m 63 cms
WEIGHT: 46 kgs
EYE COLOUR: Blue
HAIR: Bright red, wavy
COMPLEXION: Fair, extensive freckles
DISTINGUISHING FEATURES: 5 cm L-shaped scar on right temple. Wears glasses.
SPECIAL SKILLS: Photographic memory – would be good in communications and intelligence work
Haukerd has a graduate-level grasp of physics and biochemistry and can solve complex mathematical equations with ease. He is widely read, with surprising pockets of knowledge (alpine plants, Dresden clocks, medieval music, etc.). He possesses a photographic memory and can read and reproduce entire pages of a telephone directory. His main instructor says he’s so clever you could fry an egg on his forehead. The other children on the course call him “three-brain Freddie”.
Frederick was born in Norway but has lived with his family in England since 1935 when his parents emigrated. He comes from a large, eccentric family (he is the eldest of six children). His mother is a developmental biologist and his father is a Sanskrit scholar at the London School of Oriental and African Studies.
Haukerd can ski well, but is otherwise physically inept. He’s clumsy, accident-prone and sometimes absent-minded.
NAME: JAKOB P. STROMSHEIM
DoB: 10.12.27
NATIONALITY: Norwegian
LANGUAGES: Norwegian (native language), fluent unaccented English, some French
HEIGHT: 1 m 60 cms
WEIGHT: 50 kgs
EYE COLOUR: Blue
HAIR: Fair, straight
COMPLEXION: Fair
DISTINGUISHING FEATURES: N/A
SPECIAL SKILLS: Very good with people. A born leader and all-round athlete.
Stromsheim is steady, competent, organized and utterly dependable. He has natural authority and is resourceful and wise beyond his years. He has a well-ordered mind and a useful ability to bring out the very best in others. He was a great favourite among his trainers and they believe he has outstanding leadership potential.
This boy has grown up in a hurry. He lived in a coastal village in Norway until his family fled to Britain in April 1940. His father was involved with the Norwegian resistance and undertook missions for MI5 and the Special Operations Executive until he was reported missing in action. Stromsheim is an only child. His mother works in a munitions factory but suffers from fragile mental health. We suspect that young Jakob may be a worrier – but he is never flustered and always remains outwardly calm.
MOST SECRET – BY HAND OF OFFICER ONLY
23rd November 1942
From: Colonel Richard Armstrong SPECIAL OPERATIONS EXECUTIVE
To: Lord Archibald Wetherspoon CHIEF OF COMBINED FORCES
Subject: OPERATION DRUMMERBOY
We have never resorted to using minors before and I have serious reservations about this initiative. We must, however, learn from this experience. We need to know exactly what the children are doing, when and where. We must understand how they react under pressure, how they cope.
To this end, I am giving the children a log book, with instructions to fill it in with as much detail and documentary back-up material as possible. I want everything recorded: not just the weather and their progress, but their thoughts, mishaps, disagreements – everything.
This is a dangerous and important mission. In the not unlikely event that these individua
ls come to grief, I hope this log will provide reassurance to their families that their lives were not lost in vain. You do not have to remind me what is at stake.
Colonel Richard Armstrong
SPECIAL OPERATIONS EXECUTIVE
Jakob P. Stromsheim
24TH NOVEMBER 1942,
DRUMINCRAIG HOUSE, COYLUMBRIDGE, AVIEMORE
Colonel Armstrong has given me this log book so we can all write up what happens to us. I’ve read the memos and profiles in the front, and I’m flattered that I’m thought to have “leadership potential” (whatever that means). But I’m not quite so pleased to discover how dangerous the Colonel seems to think this mysterious mission is going to be.
The Colonel says we should try and make a record of events as soon as possible, when everything is still fresh in our minds. But he intends to keep us so busy I’m probably only going to have time to fill in the log in short bursts.
So here goes!
I’m writing this in the library by a huge log fire. There are leather-bound books all round the room. It’s warm and cosy – quite a contrast to our terrifying welcome to Drumincraig House and our first encounter with its strange occupants.
The journey from our old training camp in Monmouthshire turned out to be long and chilly. And it wasn’t quite over when Åse, Freddie and I arrived at a tiny deserted railway station in the middle of the Scottish Highlands. I’ve always fancied that I’m better at drawing than writing, so I’ve made a little sketch to show you what it was like.
We were standing around outside, hoping someone would come and collect us because it was freezing cold, when suddenly a Bentley came careering down the road towards us. Or rather at us. We jumped back from the pavement just in time.
Neeeeeeeeeeeeoooooow!
The Bentley screeched to a stop, sending mud flying everywhere.
A wiry man with a toothbrush moustache and slicked-back hair popped his head out of the window.
“Good day!” he cried. “I’m Sergeant Sneyd! In you get! At the double! Chop-chop-chop!”
Was he mad? Or drunk? Were his pants on fire?
I was only half in the car when he set off so fast it sounded like he was trying to skim the tarmac off the road. I tumbled into my seat and slammed the door. Åse’s eyes widened. After two months in the training camp, where there was no talking allowed at mealtimes, we’d all become good lip-readers. Another lunatic! she mouthed. And Freddie and I knew immediately what she meant. We’ve met some pretty strange characters during our time together, but it looked like Sergeant Sneyd could be the worst yet.
He drove like a bat out of hell. Whoosh! Up over a mountain pass. Whoosh, whoosh! Down a zigzag road. Up another mountain pass and down again. Then more hairpin bends at breakneck speed until suddenly we approached a huge metal gate with stone lions on either side. Sergeant Sneyd swerved the Bentley off the road and we crashed through the gate and along a long, tree-lined drive. When we got to a fork in the drive, the Sergeant brought the car skidding to a halt, fanning mud out everywhere.
“Out now. At the double! Chop-chop-chop! Take your bags round to the front and let yourselves in! Say hello to Bruno from me! Ha-ha!” He barked a laugh, and then, as soon as we’d got our last bag out of the car, he drove off again – making another great fan of mud.
So we were left to trudge up the driveway lugging our bags and gas masks. I thought we’d finished basic training and all those endless endurance exercises, but this felt like another test.
The driveway was long – a couple of kilometres at least – so I had plenty of time to wonder exactly why we were here. What was this mission we’d been selected for? And why on earth choose us?
As we walked on through the trees we began to catch glimpses of a very large house with clusters of towers and turrets. We passed an ornamental garden with an old broken-down stone fountain and shaggy box hedges. Rabbits were nibbling in the flower beds. The house, its windows dark, rose up in front of us. It was just a little scary.
“Betcha it’s haunted,” said Åse.
I turned to Freddie. He may have wolfed down all our sandwiches before the train even left Edinburgh, but he has his uses. He’s our encyclopaedia on legs. “Got any facts on the house, Freddie?”
Freddie chewed his lip. “Not much. Dates back to 1840. Architect was David Bryce. Scottish baronial style, part of the Victorian gothic revival in architecture. Gargoyle of the Duke of Wellington in the great dining room. Oak panelling. Plumbing added later. Foundation stone laid by—”
“So what you’re really saying,” said Åse, cutting him off, “is that the bathrooms will be miles from the bedrooms and freezing cold.”
Freddie nodded. “Yes, and the food will be horrible.”
At the front of the house a sweep of wide stone steps led up to an ornate metal porch.
“Come on,” I said. “Let’s get inside.”
In a rush of enthusiasm, I leapt up the steps three at a time, which was a mistake because…
Holy mackerel!
I gasped and took a step back, but it was too late to run away.
There by the door, its eyes glinting in the shadow, stood a huge brown bear.
The bear made no sound. It remained frozen, claws raised, staring fixedly at me. It had that terrible stillness of an animal about to pounce.
I held its gaze. Knowing I had only a moment to make my move, I felt in my pocket for my Swiss Army penknife. I knew that if I threw it and caught the bear just above the eye, it’d be knocked out cold.
I focused my mind on that spot and threw the knife as hard as I could.
Wham!
With a terrible, agonizing crack! the creature keeled over and smashed its head open against the balustrade.
Gingerly – almost on tiptoe – we stepped forward towards the great furry mound. There was a hole the size of a man’s fist in the bear’s skull, and the contents of its brain were trickling out across the stone slabs.
As usual, Åse was the first to break the silence.
“Poor thing,” she said in a hushed voice. “It couldn’t break its fall.”
Freddie looked at the furry mound thoughtfully. “And of course its arms were useless.”
I dipped my fingers in the fine powder collecting at the bear’s feet. “It’s hard to think quickly when your head is stuffed with sawdust.”
Then I don’t know what came over us … exhaustion, probably. It seemed ridiculous that we’d been taken in by a stuffed bear! We sat down together on the steps and started to laugh.
And this meant that we didn’t hear the door opening behind us.
“So you got here at last,” said a soft voice with a distinct Scottish accent. We quickly turned round. An enormously tall, bony, slightly stooped man was standing in the doorway. He had a huge, beaky nose and his trousers were hitched up high above his waist.
The man looked us up and down and sucked his teeth. He spoke slowly, looking at each of us in turn. “Stromsheim, Haukerd, Miss Jeffries. I suppose you’d better come in.” With the slightest flicker of a smile, he added, “Once you’ve put Bruno back on his feet again.”
The bear turned out to be pretty ancient and moth-eaten. A small plaque on the stand read:
After we had resurrected Bruno, the man led us into a large hallway with a stone floor and rows of guns and spears and mounted animal heads fixed to the walls. Cripes! What a place we’d ended up in! There were tigers, wolves, wild boar and lots of antelopes with strange, corkscrew-shaped antlers. I found I was shivering – the hallway was cold, and in a strange trick of the light every single one of these creatures seemed to be looking straight at me.
The man stood looming over us with his hands clasped behind his back.
“Allow me to introduce myself,” he said. “My name is Colonel Armstrong. I’m called Dickie by my friends, but I’ll be sir to all of you.” He lowered his head and looked down at us over the rim of his glasses. “Welcome to Drumincraig House. From now on you are my charges. I’m afraid y
ou won’t find many luxuries here. Don’t expect any fluffy towels, or perfumed soap. It’s not that kind of place. But you’ll soon get used to breaking the ice in your washbasin every morning. As for the food…” Here Colonel Armstrong paused and gave a crooked little smile. “Well, that will be what you make of it.
“There are just a few rules,” he continued. “Doors marked no entry mean no entry. Breakfast is at 7.30 sharp. The billiard table is out of bounds – replacing the felt costs a fortune – and anything in a case, or in a drawer, must be left alone.”
The Colonel looked at Freddie and me. “Stromsheim and Haukerd, you are in the big room on the first floor immediately facing the stairs. Miss Jeffries, you’ll find your bedroom on the top floor. Up the stone staircase, turn left at the stuffed lynx, pass the model of HMS Great Britain. If you come to the beetle collection you’ve gone too far.
“Anyone got any questions? No? Good! You’re here to prepare for your mission and we don’t have much time. You have five minutes to dress for dinner. No pearls or bow ties here. You’ll need hats, coats and gloves. Meet in the dining room at 15.32 precisely. Dismissed!”
Upstairs we saw our bedrooms for the first time. Freddie and I are in a large shabby room with peeling lino on the floor and little steps up to a round turret in one corner. There are three beds – we’ve been told there’ll be another boy joining us soon – and it’s absolutely freezing. Freddie’s ears and nose looked red as berries. He couldn’t have been any colder.
“Freddie, take that bed there. It’s next to the basin,” I said. “The hot pipe to the taps will run past it.”
“But look at the basin,” replied Freddie miserably. “There is no hot tap.”
He was right. There was no hot tap.
Mission Telemark Page 1