Churchill's Ministry of Ungentlemanly Warfare

by Giles Milton

  * * *

  Colin Gubbins had foreseen the threat posed by the Norsk Hydro plant ever since General von Falkenhorst’s troops had swept into Norway in the spring of 1940. An intelligence report at the time had revealed that Third Reich scientists had requested an immediate increase in production, to 300 pounds a year. In 1942, the output had been increased again, massively, to 10,000 pounds.

  That autumn, Professor Lindemann warned Winston Churchill that the Germans had stockpiled one and a half tons of heavy water, most of which was stored at Norsk Hydro. ‘When they have five tons,’ he said, ‘they will be able to start production of a new form of explosive, a thousand times more potent than any in use today.’16

  The War Cabinet was so alarmed by the prospect of Hitler winning the atomic race that it ordered the destruction of Norsk Hydro to be given ‘the highest possible priority’.17 A two-stage military operation was immediately set in motion. First, a small group of Gubbins’s Norwegian guerrillas would be parachuted into the country in order to undertake vital reconnaissance. When this was completed, there would be a full-scale attack by Lord Mountbatten’s commandos.

  Gubbins’s Norwegian saboteurs were initially led by a highly competent Norwegian captain named Martin Linge, who soon knocked his men into shape. His fighting force was given the name Norwegian Independent Company Number One and was placed under the operational direction of John Skinner Wilson, head of Baker Street’s Norwegian Section. Gubbins’s romantic Highland spirit ran away with him when he described Captain Linge’s men. ‘The stories of their deeds read like the sagas of old,’ he said. ‘The ancient Viking spirit had remained alive throughout the centuries of peace.’18

  Captain Linge’s unit rapidly expanded to such an extent that it was given its own headquarters at Gaynes Hall, a classically fronted Georgian mansion in Cambridgeshire. The unit also had its own dedicated endurance centre at Drumintoul, a Victorian shooting lodge in the Scottish Highlands with close links to Arisaig.

  The Norwegians selected for the mission against the heavy water plant – Operation Grouse – were successfully dropped into Norway in October 1942. They hid out in the snow-clad wilds of the Hardanger plateau and began laying the groundwork for a commando attack, escaping detection as they lived off the land.

  When it came to landing the British commandos – Operation Freshman – the mission turned to disaster. Their two gliders crash-landed, killing fifteen of the men and seriously wounding many of the rest. The survivors were captured within days. The fortunate ones were executed immediately, while the rest were tortured and then killed. Three of the men were taken to a local hospital where a Nazi collaborator devised a particularly gruesome way to dispatch them, injecting air bubbles into their veins.

  Operation Freshman proved beyond all doubt that an attack on Norsk Hydro was beyond the scope of the commandos. Yet the need to destroy the heavy water plant was as urgent as ever. Bombing from the air was considered but ruled out. Even if the factory was hit, no bomb was powerful enough to destroy the underground plant room. Indeed the bombs were more likely to kill the Norwegian civilians who worked for Norsk Hydro.

  Ultimately, there was only one possible solution and that was to send in a crack team of Norwegian saboteurs, who could make contact with the Grouse team (who were still hiding out in the snow) and launch their attack on Norsk Hydro.

  Gubbins remained unconvinced as to the feasibility of such an attack. ‘You can’t do that, it’s too difficult,’19 was his first reaction when John Skinner Wilson outlined his plans, particularly when he learned that the men were to be landed by parachute. He knew from experience that Norway presented severe difficulties for air operations. ‘Possible dropping zones are thickly clustered, precipitous and angry, the broken countryside throws up air-pockets and atmospheric currents.’20

  Wilson agreed that it was ‘a task of some magnitude’.21 He also knew that parachuting the men into Norway was merely the first of countless difficulties to be overcome. A far greater hurdle was the fact that Norsk Hydro was constructed in the fashion of a medieval fortress, perched atop a 700-foot shaft of vertical rock. Three of its sides were sheer, plunging deep into one of the most spectacular gorges in Norway: ‘So deep,’ wrote Margaret Jackson, who was involved in the planning, ‘that the sun never reached the depths of it.’22 There was but one point of access: a narrow suspension bridge that was kept under twenty-four-hour armed guard. It was completely inaccessible to a group of saboteurs.

  The only other option was to scale the gorge, but even if this was successfully achieved, a forced entry into the plant was almost impossible. The machinery was housed in the bomb-proof basement built of reinforced concrete. The place was also heavily guarded by the Gestapo and the garrison had been greatly strengthened in the wake of the abortive commando operation.

  There was good reason to abandon the very idea of such a foolhardy mission, but Churchill and the War Cabinet were insistent that it be given the highest priority. Gubbins was left with little alternative but to start planning.

  The disastrous commando raid had taught him an important lesson: ‘it was essential to use only Norwegians. A British person parachuted into Norway, however well he spoke the language, would at once be recognized as a stranger and would arouse intense interest and speculation.’23 He also felt that British saboteurs were ill-equipped to survive the punishing physical hardships that the Norsk Hydro team would have to endure.

  The planning began within hours of Gubbins approving the mission. Joachim Rønneberg was working as an instructor at one of the Scottish physical endurance centres when he was summoned to a meeting with a military adviser named Major Hampton. ‘He said he had just got a telegram from London asking if I could take on a job in Norway and if I could pick five of the unit to go with me.’

  Twenty-three-year-old Rønneberg accepted immediately. Ever since fleeing from Norway two years earlier, he had been waiting for the moment to strike back at the Nazi occupiers of his country. Now, he had his chance.

  Rønneberg was a graduate of Sykes and Fairbairn’s training course at Arisaig and it had left a deep impression. Sykes’s techniques were so violent that Rønneberg admitted ‘it was a bit difficult to sleep’ after one of his lectures. He had also been taught how to stab a man to death with the Fairbairn-Sykes knife, ‘which was a terrible weapon’. He was told that if you thrust it deep into the chest, it wouldn’t stop until it had sliced through the heart and hit the back of the ribcage. He was appalled at the casual way that Sykes and Fairbairn spoke of murder. ‘Having been a very, very quiet innocent boy back in Norway, never been in any fight at all, I felt: “What are you doing? And what are they doing to you?”’24

  Yet his desire to rid Norway of the hated Nazis overrode all other sensibilities. He put more effort into his training than any other student and his physical stamina left a deep impression. One of Sykes’s infamous endurance exercises was a three-mile run from Arisaig to Meoble, a run that included a punishing 1,800-foot climb over the top of Sgean Mor while carrying a full pack. One trainee was struggling up the scree-strewn path when he turned his gaze upwards. He saw ‘the incredible sight of a tall young man galloping up the hill like a stag’.25 This was Joachim Rønneberg, who was so fit that he shaved fully nine minutes off the record time to cover the three miles. He graduated with such good grades that he was offered the job of instructor at the Aviemore training school, established specially for Norwegian guerrillas.

  Now, he was asked to select five men to accompany him on an as yet undisclosed mission to Norway. Rønneberg knew exactly which five he wanted and called them to a meeting. ‘I have been offered a job,’ he said. ‘I don’t know what it is yet. Do you want to follow?’26 Their loud cheers were the only answer he needed. He selected the cool-headed Birger Strømsheim as his second-in-command. The others were Knut Haukelid, Fredrik Kayser, Kasper Idland and Hans Storhaug. All six had already undergone punishing physical training. ‘We learned to use pistols, knives and poison,�
� said Knut Haukelid, ‘together with all the weapons nature had given us – our fists and feet.’ There was one constant refrain: ‘“Never give a man a chance” were words we were always hearing. If you’ve got him down, kick him to death.’

  Haukelid felt himself an expert after graduating from the course. ‘It’s incredible what a man can do with a handful of explosive placed at the right place at the right time. He can halt an army or devastate the machinery on which a whole community depends.’27

  Rønneberg and his team now headed to London where they learned that their goal was the destruction of Norsk Hydro. They were also informed of the disastrous first mission and the fate of the captured commandos. ‘They told us everything,’ said Rønneberg, ‘that those who had survived the crash were shot or experimented on, and that some were thrown into the North Sea. They told us that we would be given poison capsules so that we would not have to suffer the same ordeal.’

  There was one thing they were not told, and that was the importance of heavy water. ‘No one ever mentioned nuclear weapons,’ said Rønneberg. ‘I certainly hadn’t the faintest idea that Churchill was taking an interest in the raid.’28

  After the London briefing, the men were driven straight to George Rheam’s fiefdom at Brickendonbury Manor, arriving on the morning of Saturday, 12 December. They had precious little time for training: Gubbins hoped to parachute them into Norway before the end of the month.

  * * *

  Colin Gubbins had been able to furnish Rheam with an unusually complete dossier of information about Norsk Hydro and it had come from three impeccable sources. The first of these was Professor Leif Tronstad, a pioneering atomic scientist who had worked at Norsk Hydro during the 1930s and overseen the production of heavy water. A fervent patriot, he had baulked at the Nazi demand to increase the quantities being produced. Instead, he had tried to sabotage the existing stocks by adding drops of cod liver oil. The Germans soon began to suspect him and he had little option but to flee to England in the summer of 1941, delivering to Gubbins a detailed account of the factory’s layout.

  Gubbins soon found himself with even more up-to-date information. Professor Tronstad’s place had been filled by Jomar Brun, another Norwegian patriot who secretly took microphotographs of the plant, concealed them in toothpaste tubes and managed to get them smuggled to London. When Brun came under suspicion, he also fled to England and offered his services to Baker Street.

  The most extraordinary coup had come just eight months earlier, when Einar Skinnarland, a twenty-three-year-old engineer at Norsk Hydro, pitched up in London. His story had all the ingredients of a Boy’s Own adventure. He had told his German employees at the plant that he was in desperate need of a holiday. Granted two weeks’ leave, he and five comrades hijacked a 600-ton coastal steamer, Galtesund, and ordered its captain at gunpoint to sail for Aberdeen. Once ashore, Skinnarland made his way to London, warned Gubbins of the huge increase in production of heavy water and hand-delivered him the latest plans of the factory, along with all the operational activities.

  Gubbins might reasonably have rewarded Skinnarland by giving him a desk job in Baker Street. Instead, he persuaded him to be parachuted back into Norway. He was to return to Norsk Hydro after his soi-disant ‘holiday’, so that he could continue to supply Gubbins with the latest information about the factory, its sentries and its points of access. Skinnarland did exactly that, arriving for work after two weeks’ absence and cheerfully informing his colleagues that he had enjoyed a relaxing break.

  Rønneberg and his men were put through an intense training programme as soon as they arrived at Brickendonbury Manor. George Rheam had been given the most up-to-date dossier on Norsk Hydro. Now, he used his methodical brain to work out the best plan of attack. He had long believed that a small team of ‘thoroughly trained men will always produce better results that a large number of semi-trained’, especially on a mission of such complexity.29 He also knew that there was little option for the saboteurs but to scale the gorge, break into the site, force an entry into the heavy water room and blow up the machinery. All this would have to be done in darkness.

  The only sure way to train for such an attack was to build an exact replica of Norsk Hydro’s heavy water room, including its plant machinery and elongated metal cylinders. With the help of Jomar Brun and Professor Tronstad – and at great speed – Rheam had one of the outbuildings in the stable yard completely remodelled, so that Rønneberg and his men could familiarize themselves with the machinery and conduct practice attacks in the dark.

  The men were also given exact plans of the rest of the factory, down to the very last detail. Professor Tronstad even told them where to find the key to the lavatory, in order that they could lock up one of the plant’s Norwegian night guards. ‘None of us had been to the plant in our lives,’ said Rønneberg, but after the intense training at Brickendonbury Manor, ‘we knew the layout of it as well as anyone.’30

  Much of the training was done in darkness, for nocturnal sabotage was Rheam’s particular speciality. A favourite item on the Brickendonbury syllabus was the simulated night attack, ‘in which the students were dropped about a mile from their objective; they then had to make their way to the target which was guarded by sentries, gain access to it and place their charges on what they considered was the vital machinery’.31

  After a few days at Brickendonbury, the firearms instructor handed Rønneberg and his men some new weapons and told them to familiarize themselves with them while he went off to finish his other duties. Rønneberg watched the others ‘taking the loading grip and pressing the trigger and everything – “click, click, click” all round the place – and everyone seemed happy’. But when he pulled his trigger, he was in for a surprise. ‘It didn’t say click – it said “bang!” and there was a big hole in the wall.’ Brickendonbury’s adjutant burst into the room, demanding to know what was going on. Rønneberg smiled sheepishly and said to him: ‘We have new weapons and I have tried mine and it works!’32

  The time spent at Brickendonbury was physically gruelling, even for men at the peak of their physical fitness. Rheam was not prone to dispense praise, but he told Gubbins he had never met such a professional team. ‘This was an excellent party in every way and each member has a thorough knowledge of the target and the methods of dealing with the different sections.’ He had found that ‘their demolition work was exceedingly good and their weapon training outstanding.’ He believed that ‘if the conditions are at all possible, they have every chance of carrying out the operation successfully.’33

  Rønneberg made every effort to have the men kitted out with the best equipment, which was no easy matter in wartime. He was all too aware of the harshness of the Norwegian winter, when temperatures often dipped below minus thirty. He commissioned the bedding manufacturer, Hamptons of Knightsbridge, to make special Arctic sleeping bags, while the men’s skis were bought from a specialist Norwegian store in Dumfries. Rønneberg also got watertight boots and the very best snow goggles. He had previously suffered from snow blindness and knew it was both dangerous and painful. ‘It feels,’ he said, ‘like you have a kilo of sand in your eyes.’

  He and Rheam put much care into choosing what guns the team should take. Aware that they would possibly have to fight their way into the plant, and out again, they chose Colt revolvers and tommy guns, ‘partly because they used the same ammunition, but also because they were really good stopping weapons’.34

  George Rheam put much thought into the explosive charges too. After much consultation, he suggested four sets of specially manufactured nine-and-a-half-pound charges, linked with double Cordtex and attached to two-minute delay detonators. The explosives were sausage-shaped and housed in a flexible casing: they were remarkably similar to Cecil Clarke’s Aero-Switch and he may even have had a hand in designing them. They were to be strapped to the heavy water canisters on very short fuses. The men would have just two minutes to make their getaway.

  The last piece of kit was also th
e smallest: the death pill gave the men a jolt back into the real world. Knut Haukelid was morbidly fascinated by the pill, which ‘was cyanide enclosed in a rubber cover’. The cover enabled it to be kept in the mouth. ‘Once bitten through, it would ensure death within three seconds.’

  There was only one thing missing from the training. None of the men had yet been told why heavy water was so important to Nazi Germany. One day, Knut Haukelid was chatting with Professor Tronstad when the latter gave him some inkling of the importance of the mission. Heavy water, he was told, ‘can be used for some of the dirtiest work that can be imagined. If the Germans can solve the problem, they’ll win the war.’ Haukelid was still confused until the professor, either by accident or design, ‘turned over some papers in the briefcase’. Haukelid only saw them for a few seconds, but realized that his mission ‘had to do with splitting the atom’.35

  Professor Tronstad had something else to say to Haukelid, a message that he wanted transmitted to all the men. ‘You must know that the Germans will not take you prisoner,’ he said. ‘For the sake of those who have gone before you and are now dead, I urge you to make this operation a success. You have no idea how important this mission is, but what you are going to do will live in Norway’s history for hundreds of years to come.’36

  After completing their gruelling training at Brickendonbury Manor, the six men were sent back to their base station in Cambridgeshire. They now had to wait for the necessary conditions for them to be flown to Norway. Haukelid had the feeling ‘of being fenced in and protected at every point from the dangers and difficulties of this world, so that we might be used for one single purpose at home in Norway’.

  He soon discovered that being ‘fenced in’ had its advantages. The men were able to enjoy the company of the girls who worked at St Neots. Haukelid dubbed them Gubbins’s fannies – he meant FANYs – and assumed they had been hired to entertain him. The girls did little to persuade him otherwise. ‘They were always willing to come to Cambridge in the evening for a little party.’ One of them would drive the men to a Cambridge pub; the rest would drink champagne ‘at the expense of the War Office’. Rønneberg stayed as sober as possible and did his best to persuade everyone to return to their base before matters got out of hand. But Haukelid and the others were in no hurry to go to bed, ‘and the girls agreed with us that there was both time and necessity for another bottle’.37