The Saboteur

by Andrew Gross

  “Do we go for it again?” Henneker, whose stock had precipitously fallen, asked around the planning table.

  “Getting any kind of approval from the Home Office will be next to impossible now,” Lord Brooks replied. What had now become clear, if it ever was in doubt, was that the likelihood of any of their men actually making it out, even if the raid had proven successful, was more than remote, if not impossible.

  “Anyway, the window of weather to even contemplate such an undertaking is narrowing,” Henneker said. “And to drop a party of that size into the area, with enough firepower and supplies to get the job done…” To throw good lives after lost ones, he was saying. It would be the toughest decision they would ever have to recommend in their lives. Not only in terms of their consciences and careers, but in achieving the objective, which was to set back the German efforts to obtain the decisive weapon of the war.

  “I’m open to all suggestions.” Gubbins looked around the room.

  No one raised a hand.

  Finally Leif Tronstad spoke up. “To my mind, the stakes haven’t changed, have they?”

  “If anything, they’re only higher,” Brant Kelch, Whitehall’s scientific adviser, confirmed. “The Germans are said to be closing in on a critical mass, and from what I’m told, the combined American and British teams are still at least a year away.”

  “So then our only choice is to bomb the damn thing into oblivion,” Henneker finally said. What the others were likely thinking. “Our new Sterlings can make the trip there and back. The Americans have their B-17s. Once past the coast, I’m advised the German air defenses aren’t anything to worry about. A day of heavy bombardment, we’ll level the place.”

  “No. You won’t.” This time, Tronstad looked him squarely in the eye. “The gorge is far too narrow and the plant too protected by the overhang of the cliffs. The planes will have to fly in low, so who knows how many you’ll lose. In addition, the town of Rjukan is only a short way away. All that will happen is that your bombing will end up not achieving its ends and hundreds of innocent lives will be lost.”

  “You were willing to risk British lives when they were on the table,” Henneker said with an edge of a challenge.

  “I told you from the start your raid wouldn’t work. And we won’t slaughter innocent citizens.” The Norwegian scientist turned intelligence officer put down his pipe. “Especially when the prospects of success are so low. And when there is still another way.”

  “And what way is that?” Gubbins asked, seemingly taken by surprise.

  “One last raid.”

  “Another raid…?” The SOE chief took off his glasses. “I just informed you what the climate for that kind of action is right now. How would this one be any different?”

  “Because this time we’ll do it with men who have a fighting chance of carrying it out. My boys,” Tronstad declared.

  “Your boys?” Lord Brooks looked at him.

  “Norwegians?” Gubbins said. “You’re talking exclusively?”

  “And why not? We have four already in place. A team of say, five or six more, equally trained. Who are as brave as any Brit and just as willing to put their lives on the line. Who speak the language and know the region like the back of their hands. Who better?”

  “Members of the Linge Company have never been sent into battle,” Gubbins said. “This may well be our last chance at the target.”

  “They were in battle before they came here. And if Grouse has shown you anything, it’s that they’re as resilient and committed as any of yours.”

  “Ten men…?” Henneker sniffed skeptically. “Even if they do make it there, there are now thirty to forty German guards they’d have to get past before they even reached the objective. Forgetting the terrain.”

  “Aye, and ask anyone,” Tronstad said, “the odds won’t bother them. And the terrain is their friend. They know the region and how to survive there. And they’re as good fighters, and as prepared, as any in the corps. Am I wrong, Jack?” He turned to Wilson. “We should have done this the first time. Is that not so?”

  The head of the Norwegian section looked around the table. Gubbins had given him his job and he had known the man many years. But now it was time to do what had to be done, and do it right. “He’s right, sir.” He gave the SOE chief a nod. “They’re as capable as any men we have. And they’re eager to go and fight. So I agree, let’s send them in. I’ll stake my rank on it. They’ll show you results.”

  “A team of ten Norwegians to save the war for England and the rest of Europe?” Henneker laughed, searching the table for agreement.

  “You’re right.” Tronstad thought about it a second and then conceded. “It may take eleven.”

  There were a few restrained chuckles, but when they died out, no one seemed to challenge the idea. Bombing was always a risky proposition. Better a few Norwegians dead, after Freshman, some were likely thinking, than a wing of new Sterlings down and nothing to show for it.

  A few Norwegians wouldn’t even make the evening news.

  “All right then.” Gubbins nodded, receiving a confirming nod from Brooks. “Take your boys, as you call them, Colonel, and do the job. This may be our final chance at it. Keep your damn rank. Just get the blasted thing done.”

  18

  Nordstrum was exercising at Avainaire when the official car drove up to the lodge. Wilson and Leif Tronstad stepped out.

  “Colonel.” Nordstrum saluted, happy to see them back. Everyone knew they’d been attending an important meeting in London. Something in their faces said that something big had been decided.

  Wilson came up to him. “How’s the foot, Lieutenant? Good to go?”

  “Completely healed, sir.” Nordstrum bounced on his toes to demonstrate he was ready. “What’s the news?”

  “You all know about Freshman, I assume?”

  Even tucked away in the Highlands, word had reached them of the catastrophe that had taken place in Norway. The Linge Company had trained with those boys, so the loss of so many hit hard. No one knew precisely what had taken place—only that the job, whatever it was, important enough that they had risked forty British lives, hadn’t been accomplished. And there was also the fate of the Grouse team, their close friends, who hadn’t been heard from in a while, and who would now have to go deeper onto the vidda just as the weather was worsening. “We’re all sorry about your boys. But ours are stuck there. We’d all do whatever we can to help them.”

  “Then gather the group, Lieutenant,” the colonel said. “We have a job for them. And I’m asking that American lad in too, what’s his name?”

  “Gutterson, Colonel.”

  “Gutterson, yes. He’s good in a pinch as well.”

  Nordstrum looked at them expectantly.

  “The news, Kurt”—Tronstad put his hand on Nordstrum’s shoulder—“is we’re sending you in. A small team to meet up with Grouse, and finish the job that Freshman was sent to do.”

  The job, as everyone now knew, was the destruction of the heavy water facility at the Norsk Hydro plant in Vemork.

  “You’re talking about sending in Norwegians?” Nordstrum said, elation building inside. “Into Norway.”

  “Aye. Plus the Yank. You’ll need the best climber you can find. And he’s earned his spot.”

  “Don’t you worry, we’ll keep an eye out for him.” Nordstrum grinned. “I know the boys’ll be pleased, sir. How soon, if I may ask?”

  “Half an hour. In the great room. Before lunch.” Wilson glanced at his watch.

  “I meant how soon until we go in.” Nordstrum smiled.

  “Yes, of course,” the colonel said. “We’ll need one more round of training. Industrial sabotage, specific to the target itself. But soon, Lieutenant. Whenever the weather permits. Grouse can only hold out so long.”

  19

  In Rjukan, Dieter Lund gathered his men together as well.

  News of the failed glider mission had reached them the day after it occurred. Two planes dow
n in fiery crashes, dozens of British airmen dead, not thirty kilometers away. The Norsk Hydro plant in Vemork had been the target. Not a month ago, the local Gestapo had issued a new order on saboteurs that had come direct from the Fuhrer himself:

  From now on, all opponents brought to battle by German troops in so-called Commando operations in Europe or Africa, even when it is outwardly a matter of soldiers in uniform or demolition parties with or without weapons, are to be exterminated to the last man in battle or while in flight.… Even if these individuals on being discovered, make as if to surrender …

  Should it prove advisable to spare one or two for reasons of interrogation, they are to be shot immediately after interrogation.

  It was a futile mission, Lund knew. Even if they had somehow gotten to their objective, these men never stood a chance.

  Things were now in a high state of activity in the area. Fresh troops were being brought in and stationed at the plant. New rows of mines were being laid, plus additional rings of barbed-wire fencing added. Even in Rjukan, you could see the beams from the searchlights crisscrossing the ravine from the suspension bridge at night.

  Muggenthaler, the local Gestapo chief, had issued strict commands to find all illegal radio activity in the region. “These commandos had to have assistance on the ground,” he said to Lund. “Sniff them out. These are your people, Captain. I urge you to find them.”

  “Yes, Herr Obersfuhrer.” Lund saluted with a snap of his heels.

  In the mountains, German mobile W/T vehicles searched hut to hut for signs of radio transmissions. These signals were generally hard to detect, and had to be listened for with painstaking dedication, as only an active transmission could be traced, and in the mountains, with vast distances, it was difficult to get there in time. When caught, violators were generally shot on the spot. In town, Lund’s own men went street by street. Any suspicious electronic equipment was confiscated without explanation. Those even suspected of having ties to the resistance were brought in. Cause was of no concern. Twenty had been rounded up in the past twenty-four hours alone. What ultimately happened to them, Lund himself couldn’t even be sure. They were probably beaten senseless in the basement of Gestapo headquarters and, whether they admitted anything or not, sent off in the middle of the night to the concentration camp at Grini where all the Jews and suspected troublemakers were sent. Their wives and mothers would beat down the door at police headquarters. “What’s happened to my son? I know he was brought in. Where have you taken him?”

  “I cannot say, madame.” Lund would simply shrug or throw his hands up to suggest the matter was on a higher level than him. “It’s out of my hands,” he would say, though he suspected what their fates were. “He shouldn’t have been engaged in any illegal activity.”

  “Illegal activity? He was just a fisherman,” their loved ones would protest. “You serve these animals, Lund.” They pointed, accusation in their eyes. “Why? His blood is on your hands.”

  Why…? That he would never answer. Because it was his only way of coming out of this war with his hide, and, hopefully, a few kroner thrown in. And, he had to admit, maybe because he enjoyed seeing these same people humbled and in anguish. All the ones who once thought him no more than just an ox in the back of the classroom who would never amount to a thing. They didn’t snicker at him any longer. Now he had the power of life and death over them. And just whose blood, when he looked at his palms, did they think he actually had on him?

  Now, in the courtyard of the station, Lund blew his whistle and his troops came into formation. Twenty-two of them. Not exactly God’s gift to the Master Race, true, but those, like him, who had made the wise, if not popular choice to side with those they thought would be the winners in this war. Yes, some could be called crooks and thieves, facing prison sentences if they did not commit. Some were a little slow, perhaps, in the noggin. Others were just not brave enough to have joined the fight against the Nazis.

  And a few simple opportunists like himself who had made the same bet.

  But the Gestapo chief was right on one thing: These British commandos had to have had locals in the population to assist them. There was simply no way they could ever have hoped to make it to the target, over such unforgiving country, without such help. Someone here had to be providing them intelligence on the site.

  Which meant these people were still out there. In town. Or up on the vidda. Rooting them out would be no easy task. The vidda supplied an almost inexhaustible network of huts and cabins. Safe havens. It would take an army to cover the entire map.

  But one way or another, he would find them. In his kind of work, there were always other ways.

  “Take your men and split into two groups,” Lund instructed his lieutenant, a willing but rather sluggish farm boy named Voss. “The first will follow the W/T vehicle as it searches for radio signals. Bring in anyone they find.”

  “Yes, sir.” Voss clicked his heels and gave him a heil.

  “Group Two, Sergeant Karlson, canvas the streets in town. Pick up any new face you see on the streets and bring them in. We’ll sort out later who they are.”

  “Sir.” Karlson snapped a nod and stuck out his arm.

  “And Sergeant…” Karlson turned back. “On your rounds, take two of your men, and go down the road to Vigne. Number seventy-seven.”

  “Seventy-seven, sir…” The officer stared back at him, not quite comprehending.

  “I want you to keep a particular eye on the man who lives there. All comings and goings. Anyone in or out. He’s an old one. You shouldn’t have much trouble. But he’s canny. And watch he doesn’t surprise you with his shotgun.”

  “I’ll handle it myself, Captain. What is this troublemaker’s name?”

  “Nordstrum,” Lund informed him.

  “Nordstrum? Kurt Nordstrum’s father?” the sergeant said, widening an eye.

  “Just see that the old man is under our watch. Report all comings and goings to me directly.” If his son was here, someone may well be feeding the old man information. An eel could be caught, no matter how deep or cold the water.

  This would be one way to fish him out.

  20

  “This is what you’ll all be gunning for, men.” Colonel Wilson tapped the screen in the great room turned briefing room at Avainaire.

  The seven commandos, Ronneberg and the Yank, Gutterson, included, sat in front of the large screen on which an aerial photograph of the Norsk Hydro plant supplied by the RAF was projected.

  “Some of you may already know it. The Norsk Hydro hydroelectric plant at Vemork. You may also know that it once was principally used to make ammonium nitrate for fertilizer. But since the Nazis took it over, that’s no longer the business that concerns us. The equipment we’re looking to eliminate is located in the plant’s basement. As you can see”—he tapped his pointer to the screen—“getting to it, without detection, will be no easy feat.”

  A few of them murmured that indeed they knew the place and the colonel was right.

  “The facility is built on a rock ledge blasted out of an almost vertical mountainside,” Wilson continued. “So sheer is the drop from that height that a stone thrown from the edge will not land until it hits the valley floor six hundred feet below, where the icy flow of the Mann River winds its way through the gorge.

  “Above it”—Wilson elevated his pointer—“the mountainside rises nearly as steeply, to over three thousand feet, where lakes, dams, and mountain rivers feed water to the twelve huge penstocks you see here, which carry it down to the plant’s turbines. There are only three ways to reach this ledge on which the plant lies: the first, the suspension bridge you see here leading to the opposite side of the gorge and on to the town of Rjukan, two kilometers below. The second, a series of steps leading down from the penstocks, which, we’re told, are mined. The third, a single-track railway used for bringing in heavy equipment that was hewn out of the mountainside and leads all the way down the valley. I think it’s safe to say if Thor himself
had chosen to build a lair on earth that could not be taken by human assault, he could have done no better than what you are seeing.”

  “I know the place.” Nordstrum nodded.

  “Me too,” said Jens. “As I recall, there’s a dirt road on the other side of the gorge leading down from the top shelf of the vidda near a tram. It’s called the Ryes Road.”

  “There was a cable car leading above it,” Nordstrum added. “It was built so that the townspeople of Rjukan could have a chance to go up and see sunlight in the winter.”

  “The Nazis have closed it,” Tronstad said. “It’s also possible the road’s been mined.”

  “Since the penstocks and the plant are here on the south side of the gorge,” Colonel Wilson went on, “the Germans assume that any attack against it would naturally come from there, and they’ve defended the place accordingly. This area here”—he pointed to the bottom of the cliffs—“is heavily mined. They’ve also placed machine gun batteries at the valve house, here, and at the upper end of the penstocks, and all sorts of trip wires and booby traps along the steps down the mountainside. Everywhere else,” he said, “as is evident, is nothing but a sheer drop into the gorge below.”

  “In our view, this pretty much rules out any approach to the plant from the southern side.” Tronstad took over from Wilson with a drag off his pipe. “We believe you must proceed from here, the northern side, which means you’ll have to cross the gorge and the river at night, get yourselves back up to the level of the factory—six hundred feet, and not an easy climb, especially in darkness and with weapons and explosives strapped to your backs. Assuming that it can be done…” He caught himself and smiled. “I should say when it’s done—the facility is guarded by some twenty to thirty German troops, most situated in a guardhouse.” He indicated a small house next to one of the valve buildings. “As well as the two who are rotated hourly on the suspension bridge over the gorge.”