CHAPTER TWO
Commander Edward Wallace RN entered his office on the third floor of the Admiralty Building at precisely 8:30 am. His secretary, a plump and smiling WRNS officer, had been known to boast that she could set her watch by the appearance of her superior at the office door each morning. Wallace would enter looking as immaculate as if he had just stepped off a parade ground.
‘Good morning, sir,’ greeted the Wren as he entered.
‘Morning, Bracegirdle.’ Wallace inclined his head moodily. ‘Any signals?’ In the navy all messages were referred to as ‘signals’ even on a shore establishment.
‘I have put the file on your desk, sir,’ replied the secretary. ‘Nothing urgent, except …’ Her face grew serious. Wallace frowned at her hesitation. Usually Bracegirdle was entirely unflappable. He waited. ‘The First Lord rang down personally for you fifteen minutes ago, sir. He would like you in his office at ten hundred hours.’
Wallace involuntarily raised an eyebrow. It was his only outward sign that the telephone request from the First Lord of the Admiralty came in any way as a surprise.
‘Right,’ he said after a moment. ‘Carry on.’
He turned into the inner sanctum where he worked and closed the door behind him. Carefully, meticulously, he removed his overcoat and his cap and moved to his desk. He sat down, placing his hands palm downwards on the desk top on either side of a buff-coloured file marked ‘Eyes Only’ with his code number in the corner. The door opened and Bracegirdle entered with a mug of steaming tea. It was the usual morning ritual. He paid no attention to her as she deposited it on his desk and left silently.
Edward Wallace was in his fifties, his black hair silvering over the temples and in little streaks here and there. He had a heavy jowl and needed to shave twice a day in order not to appear unkempt. His eyes were black and almost fathomless. His face did not seem the type to break into a smile. It seemed too serious; too humourless. He was a dour man. Everything about his features seemed compressed, especially the lips.
Wallace had begun his service during the First World War as a young midshipman on Lord Beatty’s flagship, the Lion, seeing action at Dogger Bank. After the war he had displayed a flair for administration and during the early 1930s had served as a naval attache in Oslo. He had come to know Norway very well. Then he had joined Naval Intelligence and played a role in helping track the Altmark, the supply ship of the German pocket-battleship Graf Spee which had been finally located in Norwegian territorial waters, hiding in the protection of Jossingfjord. In spite of Norwegian neutrality, knowing there to be three hundred British prisoners on board, the Royal Navy had sent in HMS Cossack. Altmark had attempted to ram her but the crew of the Cossack had boarded the Nazi ship with fixed bayonets and succeeded in releasing the prisoners. Soon after this incident, Wallace had found himself head of the Norwegian Bureau of Naval Intelligence.
He sipped at his tea as he opened the buff folder and read through the latest messages and requests. There was nothing of outstanding importance. The messages were mainly updates on the situation in Norway, which looked far from good. Wallace closed the file and sat back, turning his mind to the summons from the First Lord. He presumed that there was some aspect of the Norwegian situation which needed explanation, but what? He stood up and went to a cupboard from which he took a file marked ‘Norway — General’ and returned to his desk, flicking through the reports to refresh his memory. It was not a situation which gave any comfort to the Allied cause.
It was true that Adolf Hitler’s plan to occupy Norway had not gone as he had expected, for the Norwegian Parliament, meeting at 7:00 on the morning of the invasion, had voted unanimously against capitulation and rejected the ultimatum of the Third Reich demanding that Norway place itself ‘under its protection’. The Norwegian King, Haakon VII, and the royal family, with the entire Norwegian Parliament and the Allied ambassadors, had managed to evacuate Oslo before the German troops entered the city. By 9:30 am twenty motor trucks laden with gold from the Bank of Norway and three more piled with secret Foreign Office papers had also escaped.
Norway had no large standing army to defend itself, only six small army divisions, composed mainly of volunteers, and a pathetically small navy and airforce. The Third Reich had put 25,000 troops ashore during the morning of the invasion, backed by a powerful naval and air cover. To create confusion there had been well-organized Nazi underground gangs acting as a fifth column as well as the Norwegian fascists of the Nasjonal Samling led by Major Vidkun Quisling. Quisling had been the enemy within who had dealt a savage blow to Norwegian morale. He was a graduate of the Norwegian Military Academy, a regular officer who had once been decorated by the British Government as well as his own. From 1931-33 he had been Norwegian Minister of Defence and was spoken of as an aspiring Prime Minister. Then he had broken with his party in May, 1933, to form his Nasjonal Samling, or National Union, in imitation of the other fascist parties which had sprung up throughout Europe in the wake of Hitler’s success in Germany.
The Norwegians should have kept a more careful eye on the activities of Quisling, sighed Wallace as he stretched towards the file to refresh his memory. In the last election they had managed to get only 1.83 per cent of the entire vote, and that had been a fall from the previous election result of 2.23 per cent when they had secured a single seat in the Parliament for Opland. Quisling himself had never been able to enter the Parliament on behalf of his party. Yes, it had been easy to dismiss the Norwegian fascists as an insignificant minority, but the Norwegians had not taken account of the fact that Quisling’s followers occupied key places within the army. Colonel Konrad Sundlo, for example, had surrendered Narvik to the Germans without firing a shot in its defence. Sundlo was an ardent disciple of Quisling.
On the morning of the invasion, even as the King and his Government were evacuating Oslo, Quisling and his storm-troopers, the Hird, had taken over the Hotel Continental and moved on to occupy the State Radio station and other key points in the city. Quisling made a broadcast naming himself head of government and demanding that the Norwegian people welcome the Nazis as liberators. The German ambassador, Dr Kurt Bauer, had gone north to see King Haakon to request that he recognize Quisling’s Government. Haakon refused to do any such thing. A few days later Quisling sent his own emissary, Captain Irgens, to urge the monarch to return to Oslo where Quisling promised to serve him loyally. The emissary was dismissed from the King’s presence with harsh words.
Instead of capitulation, a new commander-in-chief of the Norwegian armed forces, General Otto Ruge, was appointed and rallied the confused Norwegian forces. They began to fight back. The Norwegian Government called for Allied military aid. The German commander, General Nikolaus von Falkenhorst, realizing that no accommodation could be reached with King Haakon nor his Government, gave orders for the capture or destruction by bombing of the royal party and Government. They had to withdraw even further north to escape the Luftwaffe airstrikes, leaving Nybergsynd, the village where they had been staying, a burning ruin. The centre of Norwegian resistance was moved up along the rugged Gudbrands Valley, through the mountains to Andalsnes.
Wallace had been roused with the news of the invasion early in the morning of April 9 and found, by the time he reached the Admiralty, that the Chiefs-of-Staff were already in deliberation. The Allied forces had put together an expeditionary force of 57,000 men to help Finland repulse the invasion of the Soviet Union which had begun on November 30, 1939. A strike force of 15,000 troops had been prepared to move if permission for the force to reach Finland via Norway and Sweden could be obtained from those Governments. But before this could happen, the Finns had signed an armistice with the Soviet Union on March 12. This expeditionary force was still in existence and the strike force still on the transport ships. Winston Churchill, who was not only First Lord of the Admiralty, but on April 4 had been appointed chairman of the Military Coordination Committee, gave the order that they should be moved to Norway. The ships and men were
despatched the same day and, following counterattacks by the Royal Navy on the German invasion fleet, began to land an army of three battalions of British troops, four battalions of Poles and five battalions of French plus two battalions of the French Foreign Legion. The Allied reinforcements were landed in central and northern Norway.
One of the main problems was the Luftwaffe’s complete mastery of the air. Casualties were enormously high because of this. The Royal Air Force had no long-range fighters with which to challenge the Germans, who were now installed on the former Norwegian airfields. The Norwegian airforce had been totally obliterated. The Royal Navy had only one carrier, Furious, which had been sent into Norwegian waters without any fighters on board, only a collection of obsolete torpedo aircraft. The carriers Glorious and Ark Royal were hastening from the Mediterranean, but the immediate outlook was bleak. Wallace was well aware that the British army commander, Major-General Carton de Wiart, had grimly apprised London that unless the Luftwaffe air power in Norway could be destroyed there was little hope of his troops holding on. The evacuation of Norway seemed the only possibility.
Wallace knew that Churchill understood the need to smash the Luftwaffe and had personally approved of an attempt by the cruiser Suffolk to close in on Stavanger and attempt to shell Sola Airfield, which was now being used as the main Luftwaffe fighter base. But the Luftwaffe had crippled the cruiser, leaving her with seventy serious casualties. Only a few days ago had the Suffolk managed to limp back to Scapa Flow, the naval base in Orkney, with her quarter deck awash and 25,000 tons of sea water in her.
His intercom buzzed. Bracegirdle’s voice said: ‘Oh-Nine-Fifty, sir. May I remind you of your appointment?’
‘On my way, Bracegirdle,’ Wallace replied.
He stood up, replaced the general file, tidied his collar and tie, smoothed his tunic and took up his cap. Then he left his office and began to walk through the corridors of the Admiralty Building, ascending to the top floor where the First Lord of the Admiralty, Winston Churchill, had his office.
The First Lord was seated at his desk, his aggressive yet cherubic face thrust forward, looking astonishingly like the cartoon caricatures of himself which appeared in the daily newspapers. He held a large Havana cigar in one pudgy hand and barely glanced at Wallace as the commander came to a halt in front of the desk.
‘Let’s get straight down to business, commander,’ grunted Churchill, waving him to an armchair. ‘I know what the situation is like in Norway. I’ve read all the despatches from the three service chiefs. Just how do you interpret the situation?’
Wallace shifted uncomfortably. He knew that Churchill was a man who wanted to know the truth, however unpalatable.
‘I think our forces will have to withdraw, sir,’ he said quietly.
Churchill’s bright eyes came up suddenly, meeting Wallace’s dark ones. They narrowed.
‘You concur with the despatch from Major-General Carton de Wiart?’
‘I do, sir.’
The First Lord pushed himself back in his chair, a speculative gaze on his features as he examined Wallace.
‘Do we have the capacity to mount an intelligence operation behind the German lines?’
‘Behind their lines, sir?’
‘Yes, in Oslo.’
Wallace pursed his lips as he considered the problem.
‘It depends on exactly what you have in mind, sir,’ he countered. ‘To be truthful, the intelligence situation is a new one in this theatre of operations. Before the Germans invaded we had our agents there, of course. They fed us information from our embassy in Oslo. But because the Norwegians were a friendly power there was no need to build up a network as we have done in other countries. It is still a matter of days since the German invasion and we are trying to hammer something together. We certainly have plenty of material, Norwegians escaping from the Nazis, Norwegian servicemen who want to strike back and so forth. Most such people we hand over to the Norwegian authorities to recruit, but we are picking up some individuals who are willing to go back behind the German lines with the idea of starting an underground, a resistance movement. Can you give me anything specific, sir?’
Churchill hesitated and then chose his words carefully.
‘Do we have the capability of sending a small team to Oslo whose task would be to bring out certain personages, either through the Allies’ lines in the north or through neutral Sweden, and escort them to London?’
Wallace’s mind was racing. Certain personages?
‘I thought the Norwegian royal family and, in fact, every member of the Norwegian Parliament had managed to get to the north of the country, sir?’
The First Lord’s face crinkled in a scowl.
‘Don’t speculate, commander. Just answer the question,’ he snapped petulantly.
‘I believe we have that capability, sir,’ replied Wallace, flushing slightly. ‘Naturally, I would have reservations until I knew more details.’
Churchill continued to stare at him for a few moments, drumming his fingers on the top of the desk. Then the First Lord seemed to notice that his cigar had gone out. He laid it carefully in an ashtray, stretched back and folded his hands, fingers interlocking, over his waistcoat.
‘There is a group of seven people in Oslo who must be brought out of Norway to England at all costs,’ he said slowly. ‘At all costs.’
Wallace tried to disguise the surprise on his face. At all costs? The First Lord was not one to use such melodramatic wording in the privacy of his discussions with his staff.
‘May I ask who these people are, sir?’ Wallace asked.
The First Lord did not reply but instead reached forward and pressed a buzzer on his desk. A few moments of silence passed before a side door opened and a short, compactly built man in his late sixties entered the room. He was in civilian clothes, well-dressed, with a flower in the buttonhole of his expensive-looking suit. Churchill waved him to come forward but he made no attempt to introduce the man.
‘Thank you for waiting so patiently, my lord,’ he grunted. ‘This naval officer is in charge of our Norwegian Bureau at the Admiralty. I would be grateful if you would explain the facts to him.’
The elderly man nodded to Wallace, the hint of a humorous grin on his lips, and sat down in a chair opposite.
It took Wallace a few moments to place the man’s familiar features. Thomas Jeeves, first Baron Horder of Ashford, was well-known to newspaper photographers. He was a famous physician, consulting to some or other ministry. Wallace frowned; yes, he was also physician to His Majesty the King. He turned his attention to the man with curiosity.
‘There is in this country a prominent personality, a political personality I should say, who is most seriously ill. Without going into details let me say that this … personality … will die in about six months unless an operation can be performed soon.’
Wallace stared at the physician for a moment and then said: ‘My lord, I am aware that you are physician to the King. Is it …?’
Churchill interrupted with a grunt.
‘No! It is not His Majesty.’
‘May I know who this personality is?’ pressed Wallace.
‘No!’ snapped Churchill. ‘It is quite sufficient for you to know that the man’s health and continuance in public office is, at this particular juncture, of the utmost importance to the Allied war effort, not to mention the well-being of this nation. While no one is irreplaceable in the long term, his death could have a very disastrous affect on the morale of our people as well as on our allies. Heaven knows, there are enough appeasers within this nation, enough people in high places trying to press for a deal with that ridiculous little jumped-up house-painter who runs Germany. The repercussions of … of this man’s death might swing the balance of the war effort. Do I make myself clear?’ Wallace nodded, wondering for a moment whether Churchill could be speaking about himself.
‘Continue, my lord.’
Horder turned to Wallace. ‘The condition from which … our su
bject … suffers is a malignant tumorous growth …’
‘Cancer?’
‘Of a malignant intestinal order,’ agreed Horder. ‘You may be aware, since you have recognized me, commander, that I am not only Consulting Physician to St Bartholomew’s Hospital but Consulting Physician to the Cancer Hospital of Fulham. As chairman of the British Empire Cancer Campaign I am considered an expert diagnostician in this field.’
Wallace waited while Horder paused.
‘I know of only three surgeons in Europe with whom I would say my patient has more than a fifty-fifty chance of survival. Two of them are German surgeons, which naturally precludes them. The third is a Norwegian.’
So that was it! Wallace smiled wanly.
‘And you want to bring the Norwegian to London?’
‘Exactly so,’ grunted the First Lord.
‘May I know who he is?’
‘Professor Didrik Stenersen. He is one of Europe’s leading abdominal surgeons and a specialist in tumours.’
‘Would he be willing or unwilling to come to London if contacted?’
‘I am told that he would be willing.’
Wallace rubbed the bridge of his nose reflectively.
‘You spoke of a group of seven people …’ he said, glancing at Churchill.
The Valkyrie Directive Page 4
