The Saboteur

by Andrew Gross

  Though they knew every inch of it and had seen the photos a hundred times, each man felt his heart stop for a second, staring at it, consumed with the sheer impossibility of what they were here to do.

  They arrived at the large U-bend in the road near the tiny hamlet of Vaer, where Tronstad had initially thought it most practical to ford the river. No one was around. From here, they would continue down the slope to the dirt power line road on the bend below, to circumvent the small town. The slope was sheer though filled with scrub, dead trees, and bushes to latch onto. The main road wound back from a wide U-curve directly below them.

  At a rock, Helberg stopped, seeming to recognize a clearing. “This is where we head down.”

  They removed their skis and, because of the steepness of the grade, let gravity take them, clutching onto brush and tree limbs with one hand, their skis with the other, the moon peeking through clouds and trees. It took fifteen minutes to get most of the way down, digging their heels into the snow to keep from sliding out of control. As they got close to the main road again, on a bend, Nordstrum, who was near the lead, suddenly became aware of a rumble ahead of them, which grew increasingly louder. Then ahead of them lights flashed, moving toward them at a fast pace.

  Headlights.

  “Hold up!” he yelled, latching onto a shrub to bring himself to a stop. He put up his hand to make sure the rest understood.

  They were all still covered by the brush, but the slope they clung to was steep enough that any of them could have slipped and fallen out into the road and into plain sight at any time.

  The rumble grew louder. Then headlights came around the bend.

  A bus.

  Not one bus, two.

  Heading up from Rjukan, and likely carrying the night shift up to the plant. All of them remained perfectly still, holding their breath as the two vehicles rumbled past them, praying their camouflage ski suits would blend into the snow and that the headlights that had just cast their light over them hadn’t exposed their presence.

  But the buses moved by, Helberg and Ronneberg hanging on to a tree limb so that they literally would not fall on their roofs as they passed by underneath them. Then it grew quiet again. The vehicles made their way around the wide U-bend and headed farther up the mountain.

  They’d been lucky. A minute later, and they all would have been scrambling to dive off the road out of their path.

  With Helberg taking the lead again, the ten hurried along the main road until they came upon the power line road he had found that afternoon. There, they would change out of their ski suits and hide their equipment and rucksacks until they came back to pick them up on their escape. From that point on, they’d be wearing the uniforms of the British Army, so as to avoid any reprisals against the local population if they were captured or killed.

  The heavy drone of the factory was even louder now in the lower part of the valley: the whoosh and whir of its giant turbines; the steady thunder of rushing water plunging through its massive penstocks.

  They stripped out of their suits, taking with them their tommys and Colt .45 pistols, and as much ammunition and grenades as they could carry. Nordstrum and Ronneberg transferred their explosives and charges into smaller sacks especially designed for the climb. Arne Kjelstrup came out with his armorer’s shears and some rope over his shoulders. He tucked the shears into his belt, Ronneberg warning him, “Those better not clatter against the rocks or we’re dead.”

  “Don’t worry, they won’t. You’ll be happy to have them.”

  Then they scattered their belongings in a nest of spruce leaves and balsam needles to collect later, when they made their way back. The time was ten o’clock. They still had to ford the river and make the six-hundred-foot climb to the factory ledge.

  “All right, let’s go.” Ronneberg waved them forward. In a whisper, “Claus, you’re still leading the way.”

  Not another word was said as they continued, sliding down channels in the rocks to the bottom of the gorge another hundred feet below.

  They were there.

  No one knew how many of them would make it back.

  36

  As Claus Helberg had assured them, the Mann River, which in spring cut through the gorge with a current fed by the mountain’s runoff, was no more than an icy trickle now, barely three inches of water on its surface. He had done his job well and had found a narrow route to cut across it, the ice crackling underneath their boots.

  From there they ran fifty yards and huddled up in the shadow of the steep rock face underneath the factory that rose from the valley floor.

  Above them, massive searchlights fanned the valley from the narrow suspension bridge. If any one beam centered on them, it was over. But none went deep enough in the valley to reach where they were. Or near the rock face they were about to ascend.

  They looked up. Six hundred feet, the bottom third harrowingly steep. While Helberg was right—that much of the way seemed to have spruce shrubs or at least little ledges to grasp onto in the dark, with their weapons slung over their shoulders and the equipment weighing them down, even an expert climber would find the climb a challenge. Any fall could mean instant death, or worse, maybe, to be left there, at the bottom, with badly shattered bones.

  “I’ll go first,” Helberg said. Only because he had plotted out a pathway up that afternoon.

  “Then me,” volunteered Gutterson, granted the most agile climber of the group. He noticed Olf Pedersen’s hesitation, staring up at what they had to get up. “Get behind me, Olf. It’ll be a cinch. Just follow my path.”

  “And I’ll be right behind,” Nordstrum said. “Between us you’re in solid hands. Just think of it as a waltz, Olf, not a jitterbug,” he said with a grin.

  “Thanks.” Pedersen blew out his cheeks. “I wish that made it easy.”

  “Well, whatever you do, if you fall,” Arne Kjelstrup elbowed him with a wink, “just don’t scream. You’ll give the rest of us away.”

  “Yes, of course,” Olf said with a brave smile.

  “Hand me your gun,” Nordstrum said to him. “I’ll carry them both.”

  “No, I can make it,” Olf insisted.

  “Just give it to me,” Nordstrum said, taking it out of his hands. “You might well need it up there.”

  “So…” Ronneberg looked around and nodded. “Ready? Let’s go.”

  Helberg started first, trying to re-create the route he had mapped out during the day. Gutterson went next. Then Olf, hesitantly, one step at a time. He hoisted himself up, following the exact path the Yank took ahead of him, tentatively grabbing rocks and shrubs, testing which were firm and secure, and which seemed loose and would give way. Helberg got to about thirty feet up, turned back, and waved for the rest to follow. “It’s easy to here.”

  “This one’s a little loose.” Gutterson shifted around and warned Olf, pointing out a ledge to avoid.

  “Thanks.”

  Grabbing on to branches and testing for stability, Gutterson caught up to Helberg and took the lead. An able climber, his technique was to reach with his hand and make sure his toe was stable, then rest a moment, putting pressure on his toehold, before continuing on. “How are we doing?” he yelled down to Olf.

  “Fine so far,” Pedersen called, eight feet below him, cautiously trying to wedge his boot into a small crevice.

  Nordstrum was four feet below him, and then the others followed in a line, Poulsson picking up the rear. The slope was steep, but manageable if you kept your eyes straight ahead and not down. Though sometimes someone would kick away a piece of loose rock and it would dislodge, narrowly missing the climber underneath. On one occasion Gutterson had to manage with a single handhold and held on for his life, stabilizing his two feet before reaching up for a higher hold.

  “Here.” He pointed out a foothold that was secure. Sometimes someone’s leg simply gave way from fatigue and he had to rest there, perilously clinging to a ledge, while he shook it out and recovered his strength.

  Ar
ound 150 feet up, Pedersen seemed to find himself trapped in a spot he did not trust and let out a long breath of concern. One of his legs swung out from the rock and suddenly he just hung there, dangling over the sheer face, supported by only one hand, one leg hanging free. Everyone held their breath.

  “Olf,” Nordstrum said calmly, spotting his friend’s dilemma.

  Pedersen’s face was as ashen as the moon and drenched in sweat. “I’m okay,” he said, but every time he tried to dig his foot into a new toehold his boot gave way and his predicament became even more dire.

  No one knew how much longer he could hold on.

  “Just stay where you are, Olf,” Nordstrum exhorted him. “I’m coming up to you. Hang on.”

  Testing the stability of the branches, grabbing on to a spruce in the narrow cracks, Nordstrum swung himself over to Pedersen’s right, and steadily climbed up, until he stood parallel to him, just a few feet away.

  “You see this rock?” Nordstrum reached out and tapped a support that was within Olf’s reach. Olf was rigid, like a skier on a steep slope beyond his abilities who was paralyzed as to what to do next. He nodded.

  “Just swing yourself around,” Nordstrum instructed. “Put your right foot on that ledge—yes, that one.… Then all you have to do is reach up and grab on to here.”

  His fingers straining, Pedersen sucked in a breath and nodded. “Okay.” It was not that he was afraid of heights—he had jumped out of a plane many times and he could ski the steepest slopes tirelessly. And he was also a man of enormous bravery. To have come all this way, braved the elements, to be within an arm’s reach of their goal, and then to falter, to let down his mates—it all seemed to give him renewed determination. “I’m coming.”

  Feeling along the rock with one hand, he desperately tried to locate some sparse growth to wrap his fingers around. He got his foot to the stable nook Nordstrum had pointed out.

  “That’s good, Olf. You’re almost there.”

  At first it slipped off, and everyone expected the worst. A wrong move and he would plummet to the bottom of the rocks.

  “Olf, come on,” Nordstrum said, meeting his eyes firmly.

  Pedersen took in a breath, locked on Nordstrum. “All right.”

  At last finding the courage to take a step with his full weight, he transferred himself over, beads of sweat pouring down his face. He hoisted himself up, fingers straining for the sparse clump of pine needles Nordstrum had pointed out, and pushed on his feet and grabbed on.

  The clump held.

  “Ha.” Pedersen gave out a kind of fatalistic laugh, blowing out his cheeks. “Got it now. Thanks, Kurt.”

  “You’re in luck, the slope levels out up here,” Gutterson called from a few feet above them. “It’s much easier.”

  “And just when you were getting the hang of it, huh, Olf?” Nordstrum gave Pedersen a smile.

  One by one they crawled up to where Gutterson was resting, Nordstrum remaining behind if anyone needed help. Remembering their training, they kept their sights straight ahead of them and upward to their only goal—the shelf of rock perched above them where the railway tracks led—not backward, to the gorge, where the icy river was now merely a thin ribbon of white cutting through the canyon’s walls. And as, step by step, they began to climb the rest of the way, the wind suddenly picked up. The thought passed through everyone’s mind just how lucky they had been. A few minutes earlier, on the sheerest face, a gust like that would have surely swept them off the ledge to certain deaths.

  It took an hour. Inch by hard-fought inch. The last hundred feet, Nordstrum’s fingers were bloody and his arms felt as heavy as rocks just to thrust one forward. He had to will himself to continue to push each boot up one more step, his gaze fastened up ahead, so tempting was it to stop, let out an exhausted breath, and look down.

  One by one they finally all crawled up to the top of the ledge, the ones before helping the next in line. Even Olf, who rolled over it with an exhausted sigh, gasping, laughing, seemingly amazed he was alive. For a few minutes, they sat there in the snow, spent, almost numb, letting their lungs recover and contemplating, for the first time, as they finally looked down at the tiny river below them, what they had accomplished.

  “Here,” Nordstrum said, handing Pedersen back his tommy. “You’ll be needing this.”

  “Thanks, Kurt.” He gave Nordstrum a grateful nod.

  For a while they all just sucked in air, ate a few bites of chocolate and dried fruit, recovering their strength. It was a few minutes after eleven. The steady churning of the massive turbines was louder now, as if it literally shook the rock shelf they were on.

  And the danger now was no longer the climb or the elements, but, for the first time since they came back to Norway, the Germans.

  37

  The night had turned cold and blustery. Around them, tracks in the snow were visible where German patrols had trekked recently. Though not even the most thorough defender could have imagined a threat coming from the incline over the gorge.

  “Let’s get closer.” Ronneberg rallied them together as soon as they’d regained their strength. “Covering team, you take the lead. If we encounter mines, whoever is left has to shoot their way into the plant and carry out the mission. Are we all agreed?”

  This time, it wasn’t so much a collective yes as it was just everyone standing up and strapping on their weapons and packs with a nod.

  “All right, let’s go then.”

  Joaquim Poulsson, who was in charge of the covering team, headed out along the tracks, followed closely behind by Helberg, Gutterson, Storhaug, Pedersen, and Arne Kjelstrup.

  Ronneberg waved Nordstrum forward. “Demolition team…”

  Slinging the explosives over his shoulder, Nordstrum and the rest fell in line.

  They scampered along the rail tracks toward the noise. The constant whooshing and shuddering of the plant’s dynamos again gave the sense that the entire ledge they were on was shaking, and drowned out any noise they made. They were only a few hundred yards from the target, with a detachment of enemy soldiers waiting for a mine or a tripwire to engage them, yet Nordstrum detected not a scintilla of hesitation or fear in any of the group.

  The only German guards visible were the two sentries patrolling the suspension bridge far below, searchlights fanning the valley.

  In fact, they were the first actual Germans any of them had seen on the mission. Nordstrum couldn’t help but think that not far away, the people of Rjukan, family to some here, were in their beds asleep, with no idea that only a mile or so away their sons and brothers were back, lugging enough firepower to blow up half the mountain, about to put their lives at risk for a threat no one here knew existed.

  It was enough to make him shake his head and laugh.

  “What?” Ronneberg asked from behind him.

  Nordstrum just smiled. “Nothing.”

  The night had become dark, with no moon. A strong southwest wind beat into their faces, but it also pushed back any noise they made. In a crouch, they followed the railway tracks up the hill. Poulsson, a few yards out in front, came upon a path alongside the tracks, which they assumed was for authorized personnel and therefore wouldn’t be mined. Ahead, the plant’s massive two buildings grew closer. At half an hour before midnight, they came upon a shack. A transformer station, maybe five hundred yards away from the back gate. Empty.

  Ronneberg put up his hand. “Let’s wait here for the change of sentries.”

  With Helberg and Stromsheim keeping watch, the rest took cover, taking off their packs, unwrapping a sliver of chocolate. They knew that a short distance away, fifteen to twenty German soldiers were playing cards or huddling by the stove to keep warm, ready to engage them at any false move or the sound of an alarm.

  Yet the mood remained surprisingly relaxed. Helberg directed Gutterson’s attention to a series of lights on the far side of the valley. “My cousin’s house is right over there. In Vaer.” He pointed. “You see the two lights?”
r />   “Underneath that ridge?” He used the Norwegian word, mone.

  “It’s pronounced menn, Eric. But, yes, where those two roads intersect. He moved from Oslo when I was in school here. He was a horse trainer.”

  “My mother’s family were horse trainers too!” Gutterson said, surprised. “Quarter horses. In Colorado.”

  “Quarter horses?”

  “They’re race horses. Bred to be very fast.”

  “You mean like in the Kentucky Derby?”

  “Derby horses run a mile and a quarter. These are bred for a quarter mile. Like a sprint in the Olympics.” He snapped his fingers. “Like lightning.”

  Joaquim Poulsson kneeled next to Nordstrum and pointed across the valley too. “You see the tram?” Underneath it was the Ryes Road, zigzagging its way up the mountain, their planned route of escape.

  “Of course.” Nordstrum had ridden it to the top many times.

  “When we were kids, my friend Kjell and I snuck past the watchman and slept in one of the cable cars at night.”

  “No kidding?”

  “It was a dare. From Agnes Hovland. You remember her?”

  “I knew Agnes. Or I knew her younger brother, Karl,” Nordstrum said. “We used to snowshoe together. She was a beauty. I probably would have done anything she dared me too.”

  “Kjell said she let him have a feel. But all I got was a dance at the Telemark Fair.”

  “A dance with Agnes Hovland wasn’t the worst of things.” Nordstrum shrugged. “Anyway, you got to spend the night in a cable car.”

  Poulsson spat. “Actually we got caught by the night watchman and I wasn’t allowed to go out at night for a solid month. Pretty stupid, huh…?”

  At precisely three minutes of midnight, two guards stepped out of the guardhouse and headed toward the sentries on the suspension bridge.

  Nordstrum drew Ronneberg’s attention to them. “Look!”

  They were way too far away to overhear, but he imagined the conversation going something like, “What the fuck took you so long? We’re freezing our asses off out here.”