The Valkyrie Directive
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The Valkyrie Directive
Peter MacAlan
© Peter MacAlan 1987
Peter MacAlan has asserted his rights under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.
First published in 1987 by W.H. Allen London.
This edition published in 2018 by Endeavour Media Ltd.
The most important things are not always to be found in the records.
- J. W. von Goeihe ( 1749- 1832)
Valkyrie, n. (Scandinavian myth) any one of the minor goddesses who conduct the slain from the battlefield to Valhalla. (Old Norse Valkyrja — valr, the slain, and the root of kjosa — to choose.
Oxford English Dictionary
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
The basis of this story was first told me some years ago by a man I shall now call ‘Kaare’. He told it to while away the hours of a night-time Channel crossing as we huddled in the bar of the ferry St Germain, trying to fortify ourselves against the cold and the restless black sea outside. ‘Kaare’ was in a position to have an intimate knowledge of some of the details. Although he is now dead, my promise not to reveal his identity is sacrosanct. Without ‘Kaare’ this story would not be told. However, I would like to remind readers that this is essentially a work of fiction, an adventure story written for the purpose of entertainment.
In my researches for this book I would like to place on record my thanks to the officials of the Forsvarmuseet (The Norwegian Defence Museum); Norges Hjemmefrontmuseum (Norwegian Resistance Museum); the Kongsvinger Festning Museum; the Aamotgarden Museum of Kongsvinger; the Imperial War Museum, London; and the Public Records Office, London. I would also like to thank Anne G. Ulset, press and information officer of the Royal Norwegian Embassy, London.
Among the many newspapers, magazines and books consulted in the British Museum, as part of essential background material, I would like to single out the following: I Saw it Happen in Norway, Carl Joachim Hambro, Hodder & Stoughton, 1940; The Invasion of Norway, Herman K. Lehmkuhl, Hutchinson, 1940; Narvik and After, Lord Strabolgi RN, Hutchinson, 1940; Norway, Neutral and Invaded, Halvdan Koht, Hutchinson, 1941; Norway Revolts Against the Nazis, Jakob S. Worm-Müller, Lindsay Drummond, New York, 1941; Narvik, Captain Donald Macintyre RN, Evans Brothers, 1959; The Campaign in Norway, T.K. Derry, Allen & Unwin, 1952; A History of Norway, T.K. Derry, Clarendon Press, Oxford, 1973; and The Life of Neville Chamberlain, Sir Keith G. Freiling, Macmillan 1946 (reprinted 1973).
Finally, I would like to pay a special acknowledgment to Dr Piotr Klafkowski, now of Solberg, Norway, for his invaluable help and enthusiasm in assisting me with my research in Norway. Where I might have given up, he pressed on and delivered the goods! So, to Piotr, and to his wife Paki Klafkowski MD, I humbly dedicate this book as a small token of my thanks.
Peter MacAlan
LONDON, 1987
Table of Contents
PART ONE
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
PART TWO
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
PART THREE
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
EPILOGUE
PART ONE
Tuesday, 9 April 1940
CHAPTER ONE
There is, in the moments between sleeping and waking, a brief period in which one’s mind reaches out and incorporates the sounds of reality into the remnants of the dream state. In those last few seconds before he was fully awake, Lars Sweeny dreamt that he was lying at the bottom of a ship’s hold and that large, heavy crates were hurtling down towards his prone figure, landing with great splintering explosions. He had had this particular dream before. It was a fairly regular one and its origin did not require Freudian or Jungian symbolism to interpret its meaning. He had once narrowly escaped being crushed by a falling box while supervising the loading of a hold. The event, although pushed to the back of his conscious mind, often haunted his subconscious. It had become his sleeping fear. But this time a new dimension was added: the reverberating sounds of the contact of the boxes with the steel plates of the deck. Then Lars Sweeny was awake and sweating in his narrow bunk in the darkness of his cabin.
He lay for a moment blinking up at the small round portion of early morning sky wrhich filtered through the porthole by his head. He was confused, for the sounds of explosions were no longer part of his dream. They were a reality in the semi-gloom of the dawn. Across the hill of Byghaugen, towards the southern end of the port of Stavanger, came the dull boom of an explosion followed by two more in rapid succession. For another split second he remained huddled in his warm, sweaty blankets, wondering how he should interpret the noise. Then the staccato rattle of a machine-gun made him jerk forward, ripping aside the blankets. He could see through the porthole a line of tracer curving into the sky, yellow and red against the dull clouds. A line of fairy-lights strung out towards the black shapes that moved relentlessly above.
His cabin door burst open and an elderly man, white hair uncombed and wild, stood on the threshold. He had hauled on oil-stained dungarees which matched a dirty woollen fisherman’s jumper.
‘Get dressed, Lars!’ the old man cried in a voice that was filled with emotion.
Sweeny gazed at him in bewilderment. ‘What the hell is happening, Uncle Tenvig?’
‘They are bombing Sola airfield.’
‘They?’
‘The Germans. Who else?’
For the last two days, since they had arrived back in Stavanger from one of their regular trips up the coast to Narvik, they had heard nothing but rumours — rumours of a possible invasion of Norway by the forces of the Third Reich. Sweeny had not paid much attention to them. After all, Norway was a neutral country. It had no quarrel with anyone. It had survived the last war with its neutrality intact and it would survive this new war which had erupted in Europe during the previous autumn when Poland had been invaded. Only two days before, on April 7, the Foreign Minister, Professor Halvdan Koht, had stated: ‘We cannot think of any war that Norway might enter except one into which we were forced to defend our independence and freedom.’ Why would any of the belligerents want to invade Norway, a small, non-aligned nation with no standing army? Besides, the President of the Norwegian Parliament, whose authority ranked second only to the King, Haakon VII, was also President of the League of Nations and Norway’s neutrality was respected throughout the world. The Führer of the Third Reich would not dare to deal with Norway as he had with Czechoslovakia and Poland.
‘Get dressed, Lars,’ urged Tenvig, turning from the cabin.
Sweeny glanced at the chronometer on the cabin wall. It was a quarter after five o’clock. As he drew on his clothes he could hear the anti-aircraft guns out at Sola Airfield, beyond the headland, throwing everything they had at the circling aircraft above them.
Lars Sweeny was in his mid-thirties; a tall, broad-shouldered and well-muscled man with that curiously deceptive awkwardness of movement which many tall men seem to have. His face was square-shaped, with a deeply cleft chin and a slightly hooked nose. He had a shock of red hai
r which was permanently unruly and tousled. His eyes were light-coloured but as changeable as the sea. The firm compression of his lips indicated a stubborn attitude which would allow him to admit neither defeat nor mistake. There was something else, too; the face was a mask which did not permit his emotions to surface. It was as if he had been hurt badly at some time and was determined not to allow such hurt to repeat itself.
Sweeny was the son of an Irish father and a Norwegian mother and had been born in Boston, Massachusetts, where he had lived until he was sixteen. His parents had died within a year of each other and Sweeny, who had already fallen in love with the sea, haunting the Boston dockyards, had signed on with a Norwegian iron-ore ship, eventually making his way to Stavanger. Stavanger was one of Norway’s oldest towns and most important seaports and it was here that his mother’s brother Tenvig lived. Uncle Tenvig had welcomed young Sweeny into his family and given him a home when the boy was ashore. Uncle Tenvig and his wife had had their own child late in life. The birth of their daughter, Freya, had caused Tenvig’s wife complications and she had died soon after the child was born. Tenvig had been doing his best to bring up the girl, who was five years old when Sweeny arrived. If the truth were known, it seemed that Tenvig saw in Sweeny the son he would never have.
With his new home and family in Stavanger, Sweeny had served four seasons on the whaling ships and four more on merchant vessels plying between Norway and South America. Uncle Tenvig himself was skipper of a small coaster. One day uncle and nephew had decided to pool their resources and buy a vessel between them, becoming co-owners of an ageing fishing smack. It was seventy-five feet long and had a single-cylinder engine with a speed of eight knots. They called it Gunnlöd after the mythological giant Suttung’s daughter, who was seduced by the god of war, Odin, in order to obtain a magic mead which she guarded. Now the old smack, Gunnlöd traded in the fjords of western Norway, running supplies and small cargoes to the far north, to the remote Arctic townships such as Narvik, Tromso and Hammerfest. It was a good life and old Tenvig and Sweeny made an adequate living. They could usually handle the vessel themselves but since Freya, now an attractive twenty-four-year-old, had married a local seaman, Erik Hartvig, they numbered him as a third crewman.
‘For Christ’s sake, Lars!’ Sweeny heard Tenvig yelling from the deck. ‘Aren’t you dressed yet?’
Stirring guiltily, Sweeny clambered onto the deck, hauling his fisherman’s pea jacket on.
The Gunnlöd was moored along the old town’s Strandkaien Quay among numerous other boats. The air was filled with shouting and the sounds of confusion. He saw that there were a few fires on the outskirts of town where bombs aimed for the airfield had fallen by mistake. People in all manner of dress were tumbling into the tiny ancient streets around the old harbour. On the quayside several men from other ships and boats were standing in groups staring around them in bewilderment, apparently unable to comprehend what was happening. Against the lightening sky Sweeny suddenly saw innumerable black shapes floating. Parachutists, seeming unreal as they jerked like marionettes on the ends of wires. The drone of aircraft engines had become a constant background roar.
Uncle Tenvig was grinding his teeth as he stood beside Sweeny.
‘Parachute troops going for the airfield.’
Sweeny nodded slowly.
‘Sola is one of the best military airfields in the south,’ Tenvig went on unnecessarily. ‘I hope the boys and their aircraft have managed to get off and make a fight of it.’
Sweeny’s mouth twitched cynically. He knew that the entire Norwegian airforce could count little more than one hundred aircraft. The local newspaper, the Stavanger Aftenblad, had pointed out this fact only a few days before when stressing the importance of maintaining an armed neutrality. He could remember the figures. The army had 83 aircraft while the navy had 32, with the majority of the aeroplanes being out-dated scouts. Sola had one squadron of nine ancient MF II scout planes to defend it, plus one Heinkel used for coastal patrol. Not much to make a fight with.
Out in the harbour a ship’s siren began its banshee wail. The two men turned to peer out beyond the harbour entrance into the fjord to where the low dark outline of a warship could be seen. Sweeny knew it was the 510-ton Norwegian destroyer Sleipner, named after the eight-legged warhorse of the god Odin. The ship had anchored there the previous evening, and now she had steam up, for clouds of smoke were belching from her funnel stacks. She was beginning to move, her sirens still screaming angrily.
‘Where the hell is she going?’ grumbled old Tenvig as he peered forward. ‘She’d do better to stay here and protect the harbour with her guns.’
Even as he spoke, they heard the crack of an explosion and flame spat from the Sleipner's for’ard guns. They heard the whine of the shell across the fjord.
Sweeny hurried into the wheelhouse and grabbed the glasses there, focusing in the direction in which the destroyer had fired and catching the plume of spray made by her falling shot. A little way beyond the fall of the shell was a dark silhouette moving into the fjord. From its outline it appeared to be an armed merchantman. Sweeny saw an answering flash and heard a dull boom as a gun from the mysterious vessel replied. Adjusting the glasses, Sweeny caught sight of a red and black flag fluttering in the cold morning light from the jackstaff of the ship.
‘Germans!’ he hissed.
The Sleipner was ploughing through the calm waters of the fiord towards the German vessel, sirens still screaming their challenge.
‘Go get her, skipper!’ yelled old Tenvig, pounding the wood of the wheelhouse with his gnarled fist.
There was another belch of flame from the destroyer and the sound of an explosion as her for’ard gun opened up again. Neither Sweeny nor Tenvig were prepared for the result. There was a mighty explosion. The German vessel seemed enveloped in a column of flame and then there was nothing but smoke and debris on the waters of the fjord.
The Sleipner’s siren wailed exultantly.
Sweeny put down the glasses. There was a moment of silence. It seemed so strange and unreal, but somewhere it registered in his mind that he had witnessed the death of a ship and its crew. Alive one moment. Blasted into oblivion the next. It was hard to grasp the reality. This was war.
‘We’d better get the Gunnlöd to a safer anchorage, Uncle Tenvig,’ he said soberly. The terrible explosion had reminded him with sharp vividness that they were due to take a cargo of dynamite to the mines at Hammerfest that day, sailing on the midday tide. If the Germans began to bomb the shipping in the harbour …
‘We’ll have to get clearance from the Harbour Master,’ his uncle replied, biting his lip as he realized the meaning behind Sweeny’s suggestion.
They decided to go together because the Hafenkapitan’s office was only a hundred yards away along the quayside. When they reached it they found it already crowded with officers from numerous ships shouting questions at the Harbour Master, a little man looking woebegone and slightly ridiculous with his uniform jacket pulled over his pyjamas. He was trying to still the hubbub by waving his hands distractedly in the air.
‘It’s an all-out invasion of Norway,’ he was shouting above the noise. ‘The Germans are invading Norway. That is official. Reports are coming in from Oslo, Kristiansand, Bergen, Trondheim and Narvik of attempted landings. It seems that they are trying to seize the main ports and the airfields.’
A ginger-bearded skipper from an English freighter thrust forward. ‘Should we attempt to put to sea?’
The Hafenkapitan shrugged.
‘Gentlemen, it is up to you to do what you think best for the safety of your ships.’
‘What about that merchantman blown up in the fjord just now?’ demanded an Italian seaman. ‘How can we be sure your destroyers aren’t trigger happy? They may attack us.’
The Hafenkapitan shot the man an angry glance.
‘The ship sunk by our destroyer, the Sleipner, was a German vessel. I have received a message from the captain of the Sleipner. The v
essel was identified as the Roda. She was challenged several times before she was sunk. The Sleipner reports that she has had messages from Oslo that a large German fleet has entered Oslo Fjord. Several of our ships have been sunk but the gun batteries at Oscarborg are holding the Germans back. I am told that the German Ambassador has delivered an ultimatum to our King demanding surrender to the forces of the Third Reich. There is word of a general mobilization of our forces. That is all I know, gentlemen. I can’t tell you any more.’
‘What about the safety of Stavanger?’ asked a Swedish officer. ‘We can see parachute troops landing behind the town.’
‘German aircraft are bombing the military field at Sola,’ the Harbour Master replied. His voice was bitter. ‘German troops are apparently landing in an attempt to capture the field. Our troops, members of the Rogaland Regiment, are trying to hold them back with some machine-gun batteries. I am told that several of our aircraft have been destroyed on the ground. I have had a telephone call from General Steffens, who is commanding the 3rd Army Division at Stetesdal, asking for volunteers to report to the nearest military headquarters immediately.’
The Harbour Master hesitated, frowning. He had become aware of a sound, faint at first, which rapidly grew in volume and fury into the terrifying scream of an aero-engine. Those crowded into the tiny office flung themselves down, flinching before the awesome banshee wail which caused their hair to bristle. Then from nearby came the sound of half-a-dozen rapid explosions, followed by a strange quiet. The men climbed to their feet somewhat sheepishly, dusting themselves down, as they realized that the explosions had been some way off.
A sleepy-eyed mate from a Polish vessel was standing by the door, looking out.
‘JU 87s,’ he muttered. Then he turned round. ‘Stuka dive-bombers. I saw them used in Poland last September.’
The Hafenkapitan joined him at the door.