The instructions were, when they reached Senja, to draw as near the mouth of Malangenfjord as possible. From there, Lieutenant Eskeland and Reichelt were to take the cutter’s small boat and row up Malangenfjord 18 miles to Tromsø. The plan was thwarted when a German patrol boat shooed Brattholm away from the entrance to the fjord (the Germans did not wish to be disturbed during their pursuit of a Norwegian suspected of illegally listening to a radio). Eskeland and Captain Kvernhellen decided to go further north rather than risk contact. Happy to leave unscathed, the men were puzzled at the presence of the patrol boat. They had not been forewarned to expect any German patrols in this particular area, although information from northern Norway to England was scarcer than that from southern Norway.
As they journeyed north, Captain Kvernhellen and Eskeland pored over the maps. Archipelagos break up the sea-lanes in the Troms District and underwater boulders made it a treacherous journey.
They cruised north, now more than 300 miles above the Arctic Circle, on the outer side of Kvaløya Island; this area is called Sagaland, with many traces of the Viking period.
Some 32 miles north of Tromsø, Brattholm made her way between Sør Fugløy (Bird Island) and Sandøy Island. The blue-black cliffs of Fugløy heave themselves more than 1500 feet straight up from the water’s surface, providing a home for more than 50 species of birds.
The vessel passed through Grøtøy Sound. With Grøtøy Island to the north, Brattholm swung around the tip of Rebbenes Island, past the headland of Toftefjordnes, and sailed on into a landlocked fjord on the north side of Rebbenes – the peaceful Toftefjord.
Around 4 p.m., Brattholm anchored safely off a small rockbound island, a calm undisturbed place. The islands protected Brattholm from open view. Here in the innermost area, the fjord was less than 2000 feet wide. When Captain Kvernhellen stopped the engine, a hush fell over the men. Arctic peace filled them with serenity. High mountain ridges, their ascent scattered with the dwarfed Arctic birches and other deciduous bushes and large boulders, shielded them to the south, east, and west. To the north where the fjord emptied out into the open sea, numerous small islands gave good coverage.
They had found the perfect hiding place.
1) Where Brattholm was anchored. 2) Toftefjordnes. 3) Grøtøya Island. 4) Arctic Ocean.
I WON’T TELL A SOUL
MARCH 30, 1943: The map had not shown any buildings, so the men were surprised to discover a modest yellow cottage with a small barn partially hidden on the east side of the fjord. Soon after they secured the fishing vessel, Eskeland and Kvernhellen lowered Brattholm’s motor dinghy and rowed to the shore to investigate.
They pulled the dinghy up among the rocks then trudged through the deep snow to the solitary cottage.
From the window, Haldis Idrupsen saw the two men approach her house. Her children saw them too and became curious. Haldis tensed. She was home alone with four of her five children, ranging in age from seven to seventeen. Her husband Hans was away at the Lofoten fishing grounds, with their oldest son Idrup. Lofoten, a 40-mile stretch of islands, lies 125 miles south of Toftefjord and is the richest cod-fishing field in the world. The two were not expected home for several weeks.
Haldis opened the door and greeted the strangers. The men told their fabricated story.
“Hallo. I’m Eskeland, this is my partner Kvernhellen.”
Haldis nodded. “What are you doing in these parts?” She was still a little nervous.
“We are fishermen and have had a bit of bad luck - motor trouble.”
“We need to get to Tromsø to buy some spare parts,” Kvernhellen broke in.
Haldis caught a glimpse of a uniform collar protruding out from underneath one of the men’s coveralls and wondered if the men were genuine. They seemed to be in earnest though and she dismissed it.
Haldis Idrupsen
The men wore Navy uniforms underneath their coveralls. The uniforms were issued to them before leaving the Shetland Islands for Norway. It was the hope of the English authorities that it would serve as a protection to them in case of capture.
“My husband is away fishing. I am afraid there is no one here who can help you.”
Peder, her seventeen-year-old son, watched closely and listened intently to their story. He had been surprised when the fishing cutter with the Norwegian split flag flying high came in from the sea. But maybe it was not surprising considering that down the fjord a bit there was a fish-processing plant. He and the other children were used to seeing countless fishing vessels come and go. There seemed to be something unique, almost mystical, about this large fishing vessel anchored in sight of their home.
Idrupsen home in Toftefjord
“You wouldn’t know of anyone who could give us a lift to Tromsø, would you?” Eskeland queried Haldis.
“I know of two half-brothers on Grøtøy Island,” Peter interrupted. “Since you are new to this district, I’ll be happy to guide you over there.”
“Thanks, but we’re exhausted and worn out from the long hours of fishing the last few days. Think we’ll turn in first.”
They began to leave. Eskeland turned abruptly. “You don’t have a telephone do you?”
“No. I wish we did, but such luxuries are not available in Toftefjord,” laughed Haldis.
“It’s so peaceful around here. Are you the only family in this area?”
“Oh no. Families are scattered around the islands. The nearest one is only about a mile away.”
Eskeland raised his cap and nodded.
“So long then.”
“Thanks for your help,” Kvernhellen smiled and also started to leave, but he turned back to Haldis. “Oh, have you seen many Germans around here?”
“No, we haven’t seen a German soldier in Toftefjord since the war began three years ago,” Haldis answered.
“May they stay away the rest of the war. Thanks again.” Eskeland concluded the conversation. He and Kvernhellen started for the boat.
“Ha det bra,” take care of yourselves, called Haldis.
The men were happy with the information they had learned, especially that the nearest neighbor lived about a mile or so away, and that the family did not have a telephone.
On leaving the Shetland Islands, the plan had been to contact a person in southern Troms, known to be quite reliable, and in whom the expedition leaders in England had great faith. Even so, when in their attempt to dock on the island of Senja they were forced out to sea by the German patrol boat, they had chosen Toftefjord because of its remote location, and the convenience of being fairly close to several other trustworthy contacts.
The next person they hoped to reach after their frustrated attempt at Senja was a merchant in Mikkelvik, a few miles from where they had anchored. Subsequent to their visit with the merchant, they intended to visit underground leaders Kaare Moursund and Tore Knudsen in Tromsø.
After the visit with the Idrupsens, Eskeland felt compelled to get the provisions hidden ashore and to be on their way. Under the cover of darkness, Eskeland, Kvernhellen and Blindheim took leave of the other men and set out into the fjord in their small boat. Second Lieutenant Baalsrud was left in charge of Brattholm and her men.
The boat chugged along on its three-mile-long journey out of Toftefjord into Vargsundet Sound and around the top of the island until it reached the sparsely populated area of Mikkelvik on Ringvassøy Island. The men looked up the merchant; his name was Peder Nilsen, but due to the late hour he had retired. Nilsen was a fur merchant and the young man who worked for him and who opened the door explained that there was another merchant in Bromnes, and that it was possibly him they were looking for. He had a Mikkelvik mailing address but his shop was in Bromnes. Returning to their boat, they continued on a northwesterly course toward Bromnes on Rebbenes Island.
On the southeast end of Rebbenes, one of the many smaller islands encircling the larger Ringvassøy Island, lay the tiny hamlet of Bromnes with a few closely built houses, and one general store, resembling a fisk
ebu, a fishermen’s shelter. A couple of fishing dories lay moored at the dock, and the three Brattholm men engaged the men aboard in conversation.
“Getting ready to go out?”
“Ja, we’re just about ready.”
“We hear there is plenty of herring this season.”
“That depends on how soon one gets to the fishing grounds. And if the weather holds.”
Eskeland recounted his fabricated story. “We have had problems with our motor on this fishing trip. Somehow we’ve got to get to Tromsø for a spare part.”
“That’s quite a ways.”
“What are the chances that you could give one of our men a lift to Tromsø to get help? We’ll pay you well.”
“No, I’m afraid not. We want to get to the fishing grounds while the herring is still plentiful,” said one.
“I have a good friend,” said Pål Olsen. “He runs the general store here in Bromnes. He could possibly be of help with transport, seeing that he owns his own boat.”
Pål Olsen and Karl Johnsen, skipper of one of the boats, offered to take them to the friend’s home, just a short walking distance away, close to the water. The house, like most homes in this area, was an unpretentious wood house – in this case a joint home/store combination. The general store supplied the islanders, as much as possible under the difficult wartime conditions, with many of their needs.
It was close to midnight when the proprietor was awakened from his sleep. He seemed befuddled by all the men waiting at his door at this unusual hour. PÅl introduced the three Brattholm men who repeated the story they’d told the fishermen earlier. “Could you help us get to Tromsø to pick up a spare part for the failing motor?” The proprietor shook his head; he was in the middle of taking inventory of all the livestock on Rebbenes, and this task would keep him too busy to make the 60-mile round trip to Tromsø by boat.
Eskeland knew the area well from his service as a postal official in the Troms District before the war. He had reliable information about the trustworthiness of the merchant of Bromnes, Anaton Pedersen, a man highly respected by all the islanders. Besides, there was only one merchant in the hamlet of Bromnes. But Anaton had passed away months earlier, and the news of his death was unknown to the saboteurs. The Brattholm men suggested they talk privately with the proprietor in the adjoining room.
“We’re the men from England. We have a hull full of explosives, radio equipment and provisions. We were told you were willing and able to get men to help store such things.”
The proprietor’s eyes just widened. He looked at all three men, one at a time, and then nervously backed away, running trembling fingers through his disheveled hair. “What do you mean?” He asked, his voice cracking.
“We’ll pay you well. 5000 kroner. And we’ll throw in some white flour and tobacco.”
“It’s just a small thank you for your help.” Kvernhellen smiled cheerily.
“We know flour and tobacco are in short supply and it’s our way to help make life a little more pleasant for those of you who risk so much by aiding us,” added Eskeland.
As the men talked, the proprietor’s demeanor darkened and he became extremely anxious. Rubbing his hands together, he paced back and forth in the tight quarters, weighing the odds in his mind. Should he be caught in the act, or reported by one of the Nazi sympathizers who seemed to have eyes and ears everywhere, it would mean sure death for him and possibly his wife. The Gestapo’s lack of mercy on those who aided the “enemy” was well known to all Norwegians.
Haakon Sørensen
“No, no. No!” He shook his head. “I can’t help you! I have too many responsibilities.”
As the conversation continued, the Brattholm men learned that the man with whom they were conversing was not the man they had come to see, Anaton Pedersen. In his stead was his assistant, Haakon Sørensen, a 38-year-old married man without any children. He took over as proprietor since Anaton’s children were too young to take on the responsibility of running the store.
By the time Eskeland realized his mistake, that Haakon was not the man they had come to see, and that the man they had expected to see was dead, it was already too late.
“Check out Jernberg Kristiansen, and his half brother, Sedolf Andreassen on Grøtøy Island.” Haakon appeared worried. “I’m sure Kristiansen will be happy to help you with transport to Tromsø.” He made an attempt to sound encouraging.
“We’ve not had this conversation, you understand?” Eskeland stared at Haakon. “Don’t breathe a word or it might mean trouble.”
“Oh, I won’t tell a soul. What good could come of that?” Haakon sighed with relief when the men prepared to go.
The unfortunate incident added further doubt and gloom to the men’s spirits; the pressure to get the explosives safely ashore was mounting.
A TRAGIC DECISION
BROMNES, MARCH 30, 1943: Haakon Sørensen crawled back in bed a little after 1 a.m. His mind in turmoil, he was unable to sleep. He rehashed every word he had exchanged with the three mysterious men. “Who were they really? Were they Norwegian saboteurs as they claimed, or German provocateurs?” He tossed and turned.
Within the hour he tensed at another knock on the door. It was his friends returning. PÅl and Karl had become a little suspicious and came to inquire what had happened. Haakon’s wife also got up and joined them.
Extremely disturbed, Haakon forgot all about his promise and poured out all that Eskeland had told him.
He begged for advice on how to handle the situation. “What am I to do? Do you believe the story they told me about coming from England?” His friends just listened.
“If they really came from England, it would be a terrible misdeed to report them,” PÅl said.
“What about all the ammunition they brought? Are they telling the truth? How am I to know?” Haakon was at a loss for what to do.
“I smell a rat here. Maybe you should call the sheriff,” his friend suggested.
“What if they are who they say they are, Norwegians fighting the Germans?” The merchant did not even hear his friend’s suggestion, and rattled on in his agitated state. “If they are Norwegians, a telephone call to the sheriff would be disastrous!”
“Ja, but what if they are German provocateurs? Don’t be an idiot, Haakon. Make the call!” prodded PÅl.
Haakon glanced at his wife. “If I don’t call and they were Germans sent to test us, we will both be imprisoned or shot.” His friend urged him again to make the call and then he and Karl left. Haakon felt defeated. No matter which choice he made, he would be condemned.
Sleep escaped the merchant for the duration of the night. “Don’t be an idiot Haakon!” reverberated through his mind. The visit from the Brattholm men bewildered him and he lay awake weighing his options. By the time the morning sunrays brightened the mountain ridges, he had made his decision.
The Bromnes store is in the building to the left. Haakon Sørensen made the call to Sheriff Hoel from Anaton Pederson’s house on top of the hill.
The Sørensens did not have a telephone. Haakon threw on his pants, yesterday’s shirt and added his heavy jacket. As he hurried up to the Pedersens’ large white house on top of the hill, the wind was bitter cold.
When the Pedersens’ door opened, Haakon was shivering – but not from the cold. The Pedersens were accustomed to Haakon using their phone. He was glad when the kitchen door closed and he was left alone in the hallway with the wooden wall phone. He hesitated. Still arguing with himself, he finally grabbed the earpiece. His hand jerked violently and the phone leaped from his hand. He had not realized how frightened he was. As the mouthpiece bounced off the wall, Haakon scrambled to grab it. He held it tightly in his left hand and with his right he cranked up the phone. Upon hearing the exchange operator’s cheerful greeting, Haakon requested the sheriff; she told him it would just be a moment. It was a dreadfully long moment for Haakon.
The first ring! He rapidly drummed his fingers on the telephone writing rack, waiting f
or Sheriff Hoel on Karlsøy Island to pick up the telephone.
“Hello.”
“Uh - uh, Sheriff Hoel?”
“Jaja, good morning!”
“This is merchant Sørensen at Bromnes.”
“Ja, Sørensen, I recognize your voice.” A painful silence followed.
“What can I do for you, Haakon?”
“I was away inventorying the cattle further in on the island yesterday.”
“Yes, yes?”
“Well, something happened last night that I feel I should tell you about.”
“Yes?”
The merchant spilled out every detail, all that he had learned from the three mysterious Brattholm men the night before. He told the sheriff of the fishing vessel docked at Toftefjord, and how the men aboard were in need of assistance to take a man to Tromsø for a badly needed spare part. He also volunteered that before they visited him they had already been to Mikkelvik.
“I will check into it. Thanks for the call.” The telephone clicked.
In 1941 Sheriff Hoel joined the National Samling, (NS), National Unification Party, a political party founded in Norway in 1933 to support the Nazi movement. He joined as a result of a directive that had gone out from the ministry. All government workers had been warned that unless they joined NS, their jobs would be terminated. The cost of joining was 76 kroner, approximately $10 by today’s exchange. In 1943 Sheriff Hoel had held the position as sheriff of Karlsøy municipality for 17 years. He was 56 years old.
The 12th Man Page 4
