by Andrew Gross
The guys all ribbed him that he should stick to something familiar, like that game where you hit a ball with a bat, or tossed a ball in a basket, or whatever odd sports they played in the United States, not this type of work, which required an upbringing in the harshest conditions. Only a true Norwegian could handle what they would find on the vidda if they were sent in. But on every level of training the Yank proved to be a match for any of them. With his wiry blond hair and modest way, he immediately fit in. Not a Northman, mind you, they all were quick to point out.
But still capable …
“We’ll be dropping a team of you back in on the vidda,” Colonel Wilson explained to them, slowly pacing back and forth. “It’s never been done before. But if an untrained engineer like Einar Skinnarland can pull it off, it ought to be berries and cream for experienced men like yourselves.”
“You mean berries and krumkak,” Jens joked, saying it in the northern dialect, producing a ripple of laughter from the group. “Remember, you’re among Norwegians, Colonel.”
“Yes, all right, crumb cake.” The colonel smiled, pronouncing it in his deep Scottish accent. “The team will do recon for a larger operation set for a later time. For now, I won’t say what that actual target is, or where. We’re calling the operation Grouse. It’s a bird that lives on mostly scrub and vegetation in the Arctic, so it’s aptly named, if I say so. What we have in mind will be demanding, but I promise it will also have the highest importance of any mission you will be a part of in this war.”
He scanned the seated rows. Some smoked. Others just sat there with their legs crossed, holding back their excitement. The expression on every face said, without reservation, We’re up for it.
“So when would we go, Colonel?” Claus Helberg asked.
“A couple of weeks. As soon as we can be assured of darkness. From now on, you’ll be separated from the rest of the ranks. Your training will become highly specialized. Oh, and just one thing more. You’ll need a team leader. We’ll pick one shortly. So that’s it for now.” He clapped his palms. “Unless there’s something more?”
“I have a question,” Nordstrum called from the back. “You say we’ll be a team. A team of how many, if I might ask?”
“I assume you’re speaking about the mission?” the colonel clarified. “How many of you will be going in?”
“Yes. If you can say.”
“You’ll be four,” the colonel said, and, knowing that would raise some eyebrows, he seemed to make eye contact with everyone in the room.
Four. There were eight of them in the room. Each a top soldier. And each would do whatever it took to be a part of what was taking place.
“And this main squad…” Nordstrom pressed further. “The ones who will follow after … I assume they’ll be from our ranks as well?”
Wilson gave a glance toward the planner, Henneker, who was standing to the side. “You mean are they to be Norwegian?” He took a step and took in a breath. “I’m afraid that’s yet to be determined, Lieutenant. Anything more…?”
12
Soon after, they learned what the ultimate objective was:
Vemork.
The tiny hamlet high above Rjukan where the Norsk Hydro chemical facility was located. With Einar gone, Nordstrum and Jens were the only ones who even had an inkling of the kind of work that was going on there.
No one was informed, even in the broadest way, about the mission’s real purpose. Only that the four team members would be dropped on the vidda at night, they would camp out there in the strictest secrecy, confirm reconnaissance on the plant and its defenses, and then escort the larger party that would follow shortly after to carry out the raid. It was the end of September; nights were growing longer. In the long days of summer, nighttime visibility was always a threat—the slow-flying Halifaxes that would be used to drop in a team would be easy targets for German antiaircraft batteries. With autumn came the cover of darkness, but with it the unpredictability of the weather as well.
And the storms.
Their training grew even more rigorous. The eight were sent back to the Highlands, where at the highest elevations there was snow, simulating as best they could the conditions they would find at home. In that clime they practiced nighttime jumps, setting up a base camp in the most hostile conditions, skiing with eighty pounds of equipment strapped to their backs, quickly coding and decoding messages, and preparing a landing site for the main team. They also learned to use the brand-new homing machine called Eureka, which sent an electronic pulse to the crew in the Halifaxes when they came within range, identifying their location for the drop. They practiced over and over what to do in case of capture; were put through grueling mock interrogations, some lasting as long as two hours. They went over what to do in case they ran into any civilians in the mountains. It was decided that they must be eliminated—countrymen or not. The mission was simply far too important to be jeopardized; too much was at stake. A stranger’s loyalties could simply not be determined, Colonel Wilson drummed into the group, no matter how sympathetic they appeared. No one liked the idea of having to do this to their own countrymen.
“Anyone who is unable to carry this out,” the colonel said to them, “perhaps it’s best to call it a day now.”
He waited. No one stood up.
“Good, then,” Wilson said, pleased.
The mountainous terrain in Norway was not well suited to these kinds of air operations. Possible dropping grounds on the vidda were few and the weather could never be predicted. Sudden storms could flare quickly and alter the terrain of the landing site, even while the flight was in the air. The mountains in Norway were steep and closely situated. In the blink of an eye, valleys could throw up air pockets and shift atmospheric currents. As September turned into October the weather patterns grew particularly hostile. Driving storms and low cloud cover seemed to be daily reports. All they could do in England was wait. All the sitting around made the mood grow edgy. They already felt they were sitting out the war while the Nazis tightened their grip on their homeland. And now all they could do was delay and postpone and continue to train even more, each trying to make the case to be picked among the first four.
One day in the Highlands, they ran into a group of English paratroopers from the First Royal Engineers—hearty boys who skied serviceably and were skilled in physical fighting and marksmanship, but who seemed a bit out of their element in the snow.
“Englishmen on skis,” Jens ribbed them. “Next you’ll see Norwegians playing cricket.”
They helped the Brits to adjust their boots and set their bindings to make the skiing easier, and talked about how to look for the firmer-packed snow, which was less taxing on the body.
“Keep in mind, this Scottish snow is nothing like the real thing,” Nordstrum showed one of them, feathering the wet, heavy snow through his gloves. “And this weather, of course this is like summer to us.”
“See our friend Gutterson here,” Claus Helberg said, pushing forward the American. “He’s actually a Yank, but we’ve made him half Norwegian. We could do the same for all of you if you stick close by.”
“His top half maybe,” Jens chuckled, with a knowing wink toward the Yank. “What’s going on below, we’re sorry to say, there’s not much hope.”
Everyone laughed. Even the British mates, who all seemed like good young men.
Another week went by. Then two. The final team was narrowed down. Poulsson, Haugland, and Helberg for sure. Each for their different skills. Poulsson was given the role of team leader. But Nordstrum and he had skied and hunted together in their youth and Nordstrum knew the Rjukan area, including the huts and cabins on the vidda, like the back of his hand. And he was also in as good shape as any in the group. When it came to the final spot on the team, everyone seemed to agree it would be him.
But as the rumors grew that it was only days now until they’d be leaving, the team was on a training exercise in the Highlands where the snow was exceedingly thin, practicing shooting
while on skis. Discharging his rifle, Nordstrum skied over a rock, and when he landed on one ski the gun went off again and he felt a stabbing pain in his left foot. He hobbled to a stop, knowing exactly what had happened.
He winced. There was a hole in his boot, blood oozing from it.
“Shit.” Nordstrum looked at Poulsson ominously.
“Get the toboggan,” the team leader said. “We’ll help you down.”
“I don’t need a fucking toboggan,” Nordstrom shot back angrily, and made it down the slope to the lodge on one ski, favoring the other.
“What’s happened?” Colonel Wilson came over, having seen the commotion. In the lodge, Jens and the Yank, Gutterson, assisted Nordstrum into a chair.
“Kurt’s so eager to shoot someone, he took it out on himself,” Jens said.
“It’s nothing,” Nordstrum insisted. “The boot took the worst of it.”
“Well, let’s take a look, shall we?” The colonel peeled back the tongue.
They eased off Nordstrum’s boot. Blood was all over his sock. Gerrie, one of the FANY nurses, came in and they carefully cut around it. It was nothing serious, thank God. The bullet had merely grazed his big toe, causing a lot of blood.
“It’s barely a scratch.” Nordstrum stood up, already putting pressure on it. “I’ll be back on skis tomorrow.”
“That may be.” The colonel put a hand on his shoulder. “But you’re out, Lieutenant. At least for now.”
“Out?” Nordstrum protested in disappointment. “Give me a day or two, Colonel, and I’ll be—”
“There’s no appeal,” Wilson said. “There’ll be other missions. Sorry, I know how you feel, Lieutenant, but you’ll be sitting this one out.”
13
October 19, 1942
Three days later, as a crestfallen Nordstrum mended at Avainaire, Poulsson, Knut Haugland, Claus Helberg, and Arne Kjelstrup took off from the airfield near Wick in a specially designed Halifax and were dropped before midnight onto the ice and wild of the Hardanger plateau.
That evening, the BBC news opened its newscast with the greeting “This is the latest news from London,” the slightest variation from the standard “This is the news from London,” informing Einar Skinnarland, back in Rjukan now and the SOE’s chief agent in the region, of his countrymen’s imminent arrival.
It took over four hours for the bomber to reach the drop zone, avoiding the antiaircraft batteries set up along Norway’s western coast, a result of Hitler’s fear that the invasion all knew was coming might be directed at the Scandinavian coast, with its endless irregular coastline.
This time the weather held.
Upon their return, Wing Commander Hockey and Flight Lieutenant Sutton reported they could make out winding fjords cutting into long, narrow valleys, snow-covered mountain peaks, even the lights of homes below, all lit by the bright full moon. The Hardanger was a mass of rock, ice, frozen rivers and lakes, too harsh for anyone to permanently inhabit, but it was about to become the first step in what was to be the most important secret mission of the war.
In his report, RAF dispatcher Hill reported that “the men jumped well and without hesitation,” with no more than a “Good luck, lads” from him. As soon as they were gone, he tossed out two heavy containers after them, filled with their supplies.
What Airman Hill had no way of knowing was the difficult landing that awaited the four below. The area of the drop zone was nothing more than a barren ridge of rock, stones, and snow. Upon hitting the ground, Claus Helberg badly twisted his ankle. The rest quickly scrambled to gather up their chutes, knowing that the powerful winds and sudden gales that were common there could easily drag a man hundreds of yards, wounding him badly, separating him from his mates, and potentially hurling him over the edge of a ridge into who knew what.
Unable to locate their supplies, which were scattered all over the mountainside in the dark, the Grouse commandos spent that first night huddled in sleeping bags on the ridge, protecting themselves as best they could from the icy gales. For the first time Poulsson, the only one who’d been briefed, informed his mates of the true objective of their mission:
They were to be the advance party for a group of commandos to blow up the heavy water stockpiles at the Norsk Hydro factory in Vemork.
“Heavy water?” Knut Haugland said, huddling in his sleeping bag against the cold. “What the hell is that?”
None of the other three had ever heard the term before.
* * *
It took them two full days to collect their equipment, which had ended up scattered across hundreds of yards of rugged hillside.
Those first days, the weather held. The sky was blue and the temperature manageable, and they were excited to be back in their homeland. But once they were able to get their bearings, the team was surprised to learn they had landed not in the marshy regions east of Uglflott, a short ways from Vemork, but on a mountainside east of Songadalen, a good fifteen kilometers away.
Normally that was merely a half day’s hike on skis for experienced hill men such as themselves. But they had to transport over seven hundred pounds of heavy equipment, comprising their rations for a month, a Primus stove, radio equipment, the Eureka landing signal, and their weapons. And making things even worse, their stove had been severely damaged in the drop. In the mountains, a stove wasn’t just for cooking food; it was needed to dry out wet clothes, sodden from snow and sweat. What this meant was that they could no longer travel across the more direct route over the mountains, but had to traverse around them, cutting through the Songadalen Valley at a much lower elevation in order to find wood for fires, which would delay them another three days.
And as they set out, on the third day after they arrived, a snowstorm descended into the valley and the manageable weather that had characterized that autumn ended with a fury.
In the mountains, brutal storms can kill an inexperienced man in hours. Because it is a vast plateau, spotted with few high peaks, it is easy to forget that the Hardanger plateau is over three thousand feet above sea level, and its exposed, unencumbered terrain allows the winds to lash viciously across it on the path from the North Sea. To those familiar with the vidda, it is apparent why Scott and Amundsen chose this place to accustom their men to the brutal conditions they would face before their trek to the South Pole.
For the Grouse team, the temperature suddenly plunged well below zero; icy gales whipped up the snow, which blinded them. Lugging their cargo step by grueling step, the four Grouse members could barely see inches in front of them, heading into the blistering winds, fortified only by the inner belief that no one other than a hardened Norwegian hill man could withstand such a journey.
After a few hours, it was clear the storm wasn’t letting up and they would have to find shelter.
Poulsson said he knew of a hut in the Haugedalen valley, where he’d hunted as a youth. In the sparsely populated wild, such dwellings not only provided needed shelter from a storm, but were frequently stocked with firewood and edible supplies for hunters and hikers to make use of and then replenish later. Ankle and all, Helberg said he would go with him to find the place.
Two hours in, with visibility nearly zero and the wind shrieking like a chorus of angry ghosts, Helberg turned to Poulsson. “When was the last time you saw this cabin?” he asked, shielding his eyes from the lashing ice balls.
“I don’t know. When I was fifteen, maybe.”
“That’s thirteen years ago.”
“Yes. I see you can count as well.”
They trudged against the storm’s fury to find it, only to come to the conclusion it had either been destroyed or moved. Now they had to trek the same two hours back against the frozen gales in darkness.
While they were away, Knut Haugland tried over and over to establish radio contact with SOE back in England, without success. In the narrow valleys, with steep hills on each side and high winds rushing through, it was next to impossible to find a signal. They were basically stranded; all th
ey could do was hope that Poulsson and Helberg could make it back.
* * *
At Avainaire, Jack Wilson had no idea what fate had befallen their men. It was now three days, going on four, and still no radio contact. He feared that one or more of them had perished on the drop. Had their chutes been spotted, and now they were captured and presently sitting in an interrogation room of the local Gestapo? Had they already been taken out and executed as spies? The lack of news left the SOE planners in a state of near panic. The advance party was essential to getting the main team across the vidda to Vemork. Not to mention Nordstrum and Grouse’s fellow countrymen, who every day pressed their British handlers for news.
With each passing day without word, panic turned to despair.
“What should we say?” Wilson asked his chief mission planner, Henneker. Final training was under way for the main raid that was scheduled to follow. Each day, German heavy water production was increasing. In London, Whitehall pressed them for answers.
Nordstrum and the rest of the team pushed the officers for any news of their friends. “There must be something. What have you heard?”
“Nothing,” Corporal Finch, the radioman, told him. His answer contained a measure of worry. Everyone felt it. They could be dead. They had become close in the time here. One unit. With everyone’s nerves frayed, the mission to destroy Germany’s heavy water program simply waited.
* * *