Tap-tappity-tap-tap-tap.
He tapped on for some time, explaining that we hadn’t been in contact earlier because of the storm. There were taps back from London. Then more tapping from Fred. Then a long pause. When London’s message eventually came in, I heard Fred curse under his breath. When he tapped his reply he was really walloping the telegraph key.
“What’s the problem?” I asked.
“Look,” said Fred. “This is what they sent me!” He handed me the scrap of paper where he’d been scrawling down the Morse. The note said: what did you see walking down the strand in the early hours of january 1 1941?
“I always thought the signals people were a bit strange,” I said.
“Everybody taps their Morse slightly differently and they recognize us by how we tap,” Fred explained. “My fingers are so stiff from the cold that they must have thought I was a fake. So they’re checking up.”
“And what did you tap back?”
“Three pink elephants.”
“What?”
“That’s the password we agreed at Drumincraig.”
“And what did the operator reply?”
Fred grinned. “Congratulations. A baby brother, Einar. Red hair. Looks just like you did.”
I’d say one Freddie is quite enough, thank you!
Jakob P. Stromsheim
29TH DECEMBER 1942
Åse gave me the log five days ago, but I haven’t really had the strength to write. I’ve felt so wretched. But now I’ll go back to the day after the storm ended.
On that first day Lars and I didn’t find any reindeer. We came back to a dreadful evening in the hut where we were all so miserable we barely talked at all. We went out again the next day – Christmas Day, which we had decided to ignore – and the next day, and the day after, and the day after that. And each day, from first light until nightfall, we made our way over this vast, lonely plateau. By nightfall we were nearly delirious with hunger and exhaustion. We had to find something.
But there were no reindeer.
Then this morning – our sixth day of hunting – the temperature dropped to minus twenty degrees. We were huddled round the stove having our porridge when gunfire rang out across the plateau.
Were we being attacked? Åse, Freddie and I stumbled out of our sleeping bags and ran to the door, but Lars called us back. Nobody was shooting anything – it was the sound of the ice cracking away from the land.
Lars and I left the hut just after dawn (much later than it sounds in a Norwegian winter) and skied north-west, with a bitter wind on our backs. At mid-morning we stopped on the brow of a hill and, for the hundredth millionth time, we picked up our binoculars and scanned the horizon.
Far away, on the ridge of a hill, I saw some small black specks. My heart gave a jolt.
Reindeer at last!
But Lars gripped me by the arm. “Stay very still,” he whispered. “No sudden movements. No noise. Reindeer can’t see well, but their ears are very sharp. And they can smell anything. Follow me.”
Slowly and carefully we skied downhill, using the ridges and hollows in the mountainside as cover. By the time we reached the bottom of the valley the reindeer had disappeared over the horizon. Lars crouched down to examine the tracks. There were scuff marks where the reindeer had been lying and the ground was churned up where they’d been grazing.
“They’re heading north into the wind,” said Lars. “They won’t change direction unless they’re startled and they’re not moving fast – maybe four or five kilometres an hour. We should catch up with them on the lakeside by midday.”
We set off again, not following the reindeer directly, but forking off down a parallel valley so as to keep a hillside between us and them.
We travelled on for about eight kilometres, gliding along the side of the hills, using the occasional dip in the ground to peer over and check on the herd. As we got closer to the lakeside, I caught the occasional glimpse of antlers, like tiny moving trees.
When we came level with the herd, we stopped, took off our skis, and stuck them upright in the ground. Carrying the rifles on our backs, we quietly crawled up to the summit and looked over.
Hurrah!
There, in the valley below, seventy or eighty reindeer were scattered across the land. Some were grazing, while others were lying on the ice (their coats must be very warm) chewing the cud.
Beautiful creatures. And delicious. All that food just lying there for the taking…
But there was a problem. They were out of range. And we couldn’t get any closer without breaking cover. Neither could we tuck round northwards and approach from the other side because we’d be upwind and the reindeer would pick up our scent and bolt.
We were stuck. All we could do was sit it out and hope that they came to us.
We hunkered down and waited.
I felt desperate. I was so cold and hungry and I knew we had to shoot a reindeer or we’d never have the strength to complete the mission. I willed the reindeer to climb the hill towards us. Come this way. Lots of lovely reindeer moss up here. Come on, come on…
The reindeer didn’t budge.
We waited and waited. Below us, more of the herd were starting to lie down on the ice. I looked at my watch. It was twelve thirty – which meant there was less than three hours of daylight left.
Then Lars nudged me. Down below us two young bucks had separated themselves from the herd and were making their way up the hill. They stopped at a patch of higher ground, dug out the snow with their hooves and started to graze.
Lars pointed to a small mound below. From there the young bulls would be within shooting range. Lars moved as stealthily as a fox and I copied him. Very carefully I got to my feet and started to edge down the mountainside, keeping my eyes trained on the reindeer.
Halfway down to the mound, we came to a patch of ice on the slope, and just at that moment one of the bucks raised its head and turned towards us. We stopped dead.
We were dressed in white and a reindeer’s eyesight is poor. If we kept still he might mistake us for part of the hillside.
The other buck looked up. Two huge pairs of eyes stared at us.
A long, still moment followed. I held my breath.
The ice was slippery and I tried not to wobble, but my right foot lost its hold and I came crashing down on the ice.
The bucks stamped the ground with their hind legs and bolted down the hillside with a flurry of snow. In a moment the whole herd was up and away over the brow of the hill.
That was it – our chance was gone.
“I’m sorry,” I said.
Lars’s face was expressionless. “They didn’t pick up a scent, so they may not have gone far,” he said. “We must get a move on. We haven’t long before the light goes.”
We set off again after the reindeer. And Lars’s guess – thank goodness! – was soon proved right. The herd had only moved to the next valley.
The terrain there was more uneven, with plenty of rocks and hollows in the ground that made for good cover. But the reindeer were now more restless. And so was the wind – it seemed to be continually changing direction. This was dangerous. It meant that the reindeer could pick up our scent at any moment.
We crept forward, guns at the ready. When we got to about 200 metres from the herd we could see the reindeers’ breath, which meant we were close enough to shoot.
Lars crouched behind a rock and I took up position in the shadow of a nearby hillock.
We would aim at the reindeers’ chests, not their heads. Lars had told me that a reindeer shot in the diaphragm doesn’t usually collapse suddenly, thus frightening the herd. Instead the animal will often stand still for a minute and then slowly crumple to the ground. With a bit of luck, the other reindeer would mistake the gunshot for the sound of cracking ice and continue to graze. This would give us chance to shoot another animal before the herd stampeded.
That, at least, was the theory. We aimed and shot at just the same time. Instantly, in
a flash of speed, the entire herd thundered off up the hillside.
Lars fired two shots after them, but a second later the herd was over the brow of the hill. There was nothing left but a large patch of scuffed snow.
I groaned.
Lars walked over to where the reindeer had been grazing.
Suddenly I felt cold and tired. “Let’s go,” I said. “We’ve lost them for good now.”
“Wait! Look!” Lars pointed to the ground.
There were drops of blood in the snow.
“Quick!” he said. And we half ran, half stumbled up the mountainside, following the red trail.
A little way beyond the summit we found a young female reindeer. She was lying on the ground, her feet scrabbling against the snow as she struggled to get back on her feet. Lars stopped and fired a shot. The reindeer slumped down dead, blood pouring from her head.
Lars took a small enamel cup from his backpack, held it up to the reindeer’s head and collected the blood pouring from the wound.
He took a gulp and then passed me the steaming cup.
Just for a second, I blanched. Then I closed my eyes, put the cup to my lips and drank. The blood had a slightly metallic taste, which reminded me of a particularly horrible nosebleed I once had, but I cast that thought from my mind and swallowed some more. And as the blood warmed me up, I did begin to feel a bit better.
We drank a second cupful, and then a third. Soon the strange dizziness I’d been feeling all afternoon had gone.
Next Lars took his knife from his pack and prised a small bone out of the foot of the reindeer. He snapped it in two and drank the clear liquid inside.
He passed me another bone. “Marrow. Try it. Do you good.”
This time I didn’t even pause. I took the bone, cracked it and sucked up the liquid inside.
After that, we butchered the rest of the carcass. You could see Lars had done this before – he worked so fast.
First he skinned the animal and laid the hide on the snow. Then, with several big blows, he chopped the head off and tossed it to me.
“Cut the tongue out, we’ll eat that tonight.”
I opened the jaw as wide as I could and sawed through the flesh. The poor reindeer stared up at me like a patient at the dentist.
Meanwhile Lars slit open the belly and delved inside. I thought he might throw away the innards, but instead he took out the heart, kidneys, stomach and a huge dark red organ that flopped and slithered as he laid it on the hide.
“The liver,” said Lars. “Want a bit now?”
I shook my head. I was hungry, but not that hungry.
We wrapped up the organs and the meat in the hide (I could see now why he started off by skinning the reindeer – it acted as our shopping bag) and tied the leg bones together in a bundle. Then we went back down the valley and put our skis on again.
It was only now that I noticed how our shadows had lengthened. With all the excitement, the butchery and the blood-drinking, I’d lost track of time. It was getting late and we were going to have to race home against the setting sun.
“It’ll take ages if we go back the way we came,” said Lars.
“Let’s try cutting across south-east,” I suggested. “That way we should come out by the lakeside.”
Lars nodded. He handed me a strip of reindeer fat to chew on and we set off across the slope.
Despite the added weight of the reindeer, we skied fast, but, coming down a sharp incline, I took a corner too fast, and lost my balance.
I tumbled down the slope and crashed to a halt with something very hard jammed against the small of my back.
I lay there dazed, not knowing whether my head or my back hurt the most. But nothing was broken. Lars came and helped me to my feet and, after I’d shaken myself down, we skied on.
Eight kilometres further on we stopped beside a small waterfall. It was getting darker and by now we should have reached the summit where we first saw the reindeer.
I turned to Lars. “Well?”
He took off his balaclava and shook his head. “I’m sorry. I just don’t recognize this place.”
It was time to check our bearings. I felt in my pocket for the compass. The pocket was empty. I looked again. No compass. I tried my left-hand pocket, though I knew perfectly well that I never put anything in there.
Lars watched me stolidly.
I tried my back pockets and then I started patting myself all over, feeling faintly sick. I must have lost the compass during that fall. How stupid. Now we were really lost.
“Don’t worry,” said Lars. Taking out his penknife, he pulled back his anorak, and cut off a little brown button that was sewn into a seam.
He handed the button to me. Suddenly I knew exactly what it was and I gave a little yelp of recognition.
“My father had one of these!” I cried.
The button was made of plastic. It was such a pleasing thing – it had a nice weight to it and it was warm and pleasant to hold. The shape fitted perfectly into the palm of my hand. It was also not what it first seemed. I turned the button over. On the back, inside a bubble of liquid, was the tiny dial and the settings of a hidden compass.
“My father called this his ‘secret device’,” I said to Lars. “He kept it in his flying jacket. He says he was given it by some chap at the War Office. He liked it better than any of his medals and—”
Something stopped me in my tracks.
I looked more closely at the button, tilting it slightly to one side and then the other.
This was impossible!
I looked again.
Scratched into the side of the button, in neat capitals, were the initials A.S.
My father, Ansfrid Stromsheim, has always been a meticulous man. He labels everything – socks, underwear, screwdrivers … everything. These were his initials. This was his button.
It came from some secret unit within the war department where the officials wear Homburg hats and wouldn’t tell Father their surnames or where they lived. In fact, Father told me he shouldn’t have shown the button to anyone at all. But he did. And this was quite definitely his button.
I stared at Lars. How on earth did the button land up with him?
“This was my father’s button. Look, his initials are here on the side. Where did you find it, Lars?”
Lars took a long sniff and looked at the ground. When he spoke, he did so carefully, picking his words as if each one was a wobbly stepping stone.
“I found it … in a wood … near Egersund,” said Lars.
“How did you find it?”
“I just found it,” said Lars.
“Lying on the ground?”
“Yes.”
“When did you find it?”
“Not so long ago,” he said, with a shrug.
“But when exactly?” I wanted a straight answer.
“I don’t know. Before I left Norway,” he replied.
“Well, that’s obvious, isn’t it! But when? A week before? A month? And where exactly? Did you find anything else?”
Lars said nothing. He just looked down.
What was wrong with him? I needed to ask more questions. What was Lars doing in this mysterious wood? Had he been alone? These questions and a thousand more crowded into my mind. But I’d hardly uttered a word when Lars stopped me, his voice loud and emphatic.
“I said I just found it!”
“You’re hiding something.” I wasn’t going to let him fob me off.
Lars looked up, his face as pale as the snow. “Don’t ask me any more, Jakob,” his voice wobbled. “It was a wood near Egersund. Believe me, you don’t want to know more.”
The panic in his voice shocked me. Lars was nearly always completely calm. This was only the second time I’d seen him rattled. I knew if I pushed him any further there’d be no saying how he would react (after all, he’d smashed Sergeant Sneyd’s dummy into bits). Now, up in the mountains with the night pressing in on us, I made one of the toughest decisions of my life. It
wasn’t the time or place to start questioning Lars. I would have to wait.
I took a long look at the little button compass and then turned my attention to reading the dial.
“South-south-east. We’re on course,” I said, pointing to a rise in the ground up ahead.
We set off again across the valley, making a straight furrow through the snow. The sky behind us was shot through with dark red and vivid pinks, but I barely noticed. I skied automatically, my mind circling round and round this business of the compass. I could think of nothing else. Had Father dropped it? What was he doing in a wood? His last mission was secret – he was never allowed to say where he was going or what he was doing. And why wouldn’t Lars tell me anything more?
Just after sunset we reached the mountain range above the hut and stopped to get out our torches. I didn’t know when I’d get another chance to talk to Lars on his own, so I tried once more.
“Lars, please—” I said, shining my torch towards his face.
But before I could stumble out another question, he said, “Jakob, you can keep that button.”
And, without waiting for an answer, he pushed off on his ski poles and was gone.
Åse Jeffries
30TH DECEMBER 1942
Food at last!
Last night Jakob and Lars came home with a reindeer. I was so hungry I barely noticed that Lars was even more tense and unhappy than usual. All I saw was the blood down the front of his anorak.
Either he’d had a nosebleed, or…
Yes! Yes! YES! They’d shot a large reindeer.
We had the tongue for supper. I thought tongue would be just a tasty little morsel, but it’s a huge wedge of muscle that reaches far back into the throat. We also ate the cheeks, the palate, and the fat from behind the eyeballs. Delicious!
I’d been dreaming of steaks and fillets and chops, but now that we have all this meat it’s the gristly, knobbly, slightly yeuchy bits that I really want to eat. Fred says this is because our bodies are crying out for fat, and the reindeers’ cartilage, the organs and the fat are the most nutritious parts. He says the Sami people in Lapland throw the lean reindeer meat to their dogs.
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