The 12th Man

by Astrid Karlsen Scott

  Clean clothes were next on his list. The smelly, filthy clothes he was wearing had long since lost their usefulness. Delicious foods came to his mind - Sweden would have it all. There were many things for his mind to ruminate on. Time would pass quickly; possibly the night would slip by and he would be able to enjoy some sleep. The new day would dawn and quickly turn into night and his friends would return for him.

  He discerned that the snow cave darkened early, and thought it amazing how quick night was descending. Soon after came the screeching wind and then he realized it was another Arctic spring storm. The wind came from somewhere behind the boulder and whirled around his snow cave. The darkness thickened and he knew night had come. The wind kept barreling down. The hours hardly moved.

  There was no reprieve from the storm. Jan realized the men could not come for him in such weather. It would be impossible for them to fight their way through. Hour after hour snailed by - the storm persisted.

  Jan forced himself to think of other things: his family, friends, hikes in the mountains in his youth, his military training, and his hopes for the future.

  Jan listened to the wind. Like a raging giant, it took a deep breath, giving him a few seconds of silence; then, with roaring fury, the giant exhaled and the tempestuous wind shrieked with added force around the boulder. The snow whipped around his cave.

  Jan lay in his snow-covered bed, listening to the storm; it raged on for four days. He realized he was being buried alive as the wind forced the snowdrift around him up against the boulder. He could not distinguish day from night any longer and the storm became muted. At long last a disquieting stillness settled in. The only sound was his breathing.

  The icy cold forced him to keep turning within the sleeping bag so as not to freeze to death. Because of this shifting, painful blisters and raw sores developed on his body. His feet were aching, his toes infected. His body went from shivering to overheating with intermittent fever attacks and sweating, back to freezing. The cold was agonizing. Sleep was impossible. During these fitful days, superficial, shallow periods of sleep for ten to fifteen minutes at a time were his only relief. They recurred when he was too fatigued to fight any longer.

  Jan’s sufferings continued for three days. Foods and liquids were gone. The men had planned to return within twenty-four hours and Jan had been well supplied for that period. No one had imagined a spring storm of this magnitude. In his wretchedness he was sapped of physical strength and mental fortitude. Rapidly losing weight, an overriding helplessness engulfed him.

  As time went on, he heard church bells pealing. At first Jan noticed the barely audible sounds coming from afar, then the volume increased and he became aware that the resonant sound of chiming bells came from the highest mountain peaks. They bounced out across the wilderness and echoed back from a facing mountaintop. The beautiful sounds were muted or intensified depending on which mountain peak sent the melodic sounds back. Church bells had never sounded this celestial before. Jan strained to hear. He did not know he was hallucinating and that the end was near for him.

  RESCUED FROM THE SNOWCAVE

  TUESDAY, MAY 4, 1943: The Manndalen men anxiously watched the weather. Early on the morning of May 4 they were able to attempt another climb up to the tundra. There were some Germans in the neighborhood that morning, but nothing could hold the four back now that the weather had cleared.

  The route up the steep mountain was tricky and exhausting. With all the new snow, there was a risk of spring avalanches. The four men rubbed their skis with paraffin wax, which made the going easier, but which also gave the skis a tendency to slip backwards. Within three hours they stood in front of the “Gentleman stone.”

  Hastily they slipped out of their ski-bindings and began removing armsful of snow at a time, continually shouting out the password, “Hello Gentleman!” Soon Jan came into view. He was alive but wretched.

  “Jan, we have come to take you to Sweden!”

  “There are four of us, and this time we will get you there.”

  Jan gave a weak smile and the thumbs up sign.

  His rescuers were anxious for Jan’s welfare after his nine days in the snow cave. Moreover they knew that they were in plain view of Furuflaten and Lyngseidet, where many Germans with powerful binoculars were stationed.

  They removed Jan from the sleeping bag and emptied it, hurriedly cleaned him up and put him back in to ward off the cold. Hot soup, bread and coffee revived him once more. They made the soldier comfortable on the sled as best they could, and then fastened him down.

  ”Si fra, er du klar Jan?,” Are you ready Jan?, they asked.

  “This is the very moment I have lived for!”

  “Are you comfortable?”

  “I am anxious to see the Swedish border!” Jan smiled.

  The men fastened their skis, put on their knapsacks, and tied the ropes from the sled around their waist. The four worked out how they could best work in unison, braking downhill and pulling together more effectively uphill.

  “We are on our way to Sweden!”

  “Off to Sweden we go!”

  “Off we go to Sweden!” A much weaker but enthusiastic voice came from the sleeping bag.

  Ridges and extended valleys made the going across the whole plateau strenuous. In various places, the tundra rolled like waves on a storm-tossed sea, up a knoll, down a dip, then up again.

  They moved in a southeasterly direction. Far down on their right, Lyngenfjord reflected steel-gray clouds gathering, and on their left was the precipitous downgrade toward Manndalen Valley.

  The most difficult passages were the sharp downward slopes when the sled had a tendency to take off and the men in the back endeavored to slow it down. Drenched with sweat, they stopped for a short breather when they came to some fairly even land.

  “How about something hot to drink, Jan?”

  “Ja takk.”

  “Are you okay? You don’t say much.”

  “I am not the one struggling.” Jan attempted to flash his handsome, but now tired smile.

  His pallid, haggard face told its own story but the only feelings Jan expressed were of gratitude.

  On they pushed!

  After the men traveled for about four hours toward the border, the wind pounced.

  A thick snow squall bore down and engulfed them in a white torrent of flakes. The tips of their skis disappeared in the whiteout. It became difficult to hold their balance. Being familiar with the spring weather conditions in this area, the men from Manndalen knew the storm could stop as suddenly as it had begun. Olaf bent over, “Jan I am going to cover your whole face.” Jan nodded.

  Unable to see, the men lost all sense of direction. They were fully aware, however, that the three thousand-foot drop to Manndalen Valley was somewhere near and on the other side was Skibotn, filled with Germans. They could only hope they would not stray in that direction.

  “Jan, we need to leave you awhile to go and get oriented to our position.”

  Jan indicated agreement. The Manndalen men discovered they were lost. After about forty minutes they turned back.

  Olaf Olsen

  While on the way back to Jan, the storm stopped momentarily. Far below them lay Manndalen. They now knew where they were and hurried to get Jan. The wind and snow had erased most of their tracks, making it difficult to find the way back. About an hour after leaving they came to a slight rise. Jan had been snowed under! Some sixty feet from him they stopped cold.

  “In all the world… what is this?” Peder pointed to new tracks in the snow – two pairs of fresh ski tracks the wind had not erased yet. The men looked around but they were alone. It was evident the tracks had been made by two German soldiers on a search. None but Germans would be up in the mountains during such weather conditions. The men stood in speechless amazement and watched each other. They backed off from Jan to lay plans.

  “No doubt, these tracks were made by Germans. But they are only two, and we are four!”

  “If they shou
ld come back, let us surrender – Jan also. And when we are led away, let’s look for the right opportunity. I’ll shout ‘Hei!’ then we’ll overthrow them. We all have knives.” Nigo had it all figured out. The others agreed. Their knives were not particularly sharp, but good enough to complete the job, if necessary.

  “There is no need for us to tell Jan about this incident,” said Peder.

  All were of the same mind. They continued on to Jan.

  Someone removed the snow, then the covering from his face. “We are back, Jan!”

  “I‘ve never been so happy to see anyone!” Jan beamed.

  “You knew we’d be back, didn’t you?”

  “That’s not what I mean. Only moments ago I thought I heard German voices.”

  The men gaped.

  “I was petrified thinking you had become their prisoners.”

  “How could we get you to Sweden then?” Nigo quipped. They all laughed, but they did wonder why the Germans had not smelled Jan.

  The men were grateful the snow squalls had completely covered Jan. If the Germans had seen him, the sled must have just appeared as one of the many snow-covered rocks scattered across the tundra.

  Neither Jan nor the men knew at the time that the Germans had increased their patrols and fortified their forces within the inner Troms District and along the Swedish border. For some time the Germans had had indications that someone in the area was trying to escape. The document case retrieved from the waters in Toftefjord contained several papers which revealed certain escape routes toward Sweden. The Germans were convinced it would be in the area of Troms. For that reason, orders had been sent down from German High Command to fortify and intensify the patrols and to be vigilant at all times.

  In the mountains, Wednesday, May 5, 1943: The four Manndalen men picked up the ropes and continued further into the wide expanse. The rough terrain slowed them and progress was difficult. They’d pull uphill, then abruptly had to brake going down a steep incline.

  It was nearing 5 a.m. The men were on the plateau in upper Manndalen Valley. For twenty hours they had been on the move. It was time to rest and grab something to eat. Quickly they produced from their knapsacks nourishing bread, cured meat, beverages and of course, coffee and cigarettes. They unbuckled Jan and helped him sit up to eat and view the landscape. Suddenly hundreds of reindeer rushed past. These beautiful animals with their broad antlers gather in enormous throngs and at that very moment the clouds parted.

  “Majestic! Majestic!” Jan was thrilled.

  “Just wait, things will get even better for you, Jan!”

  “I have no complaints. You men are my inspiration.”

  “And you are ours!”

  The men had realized for some time that it would be impossible to reach Sweden in one big leap with still another fifteen or twenty miles to go. They discussed how best to work their way to the border. When they had finished eating and packed things away, Nigo suddenly popped up. “I am taking off for Sweden. I have some Sami friends over there, two brothers, and they will probably be able to help us with reindeer transport on the last leg of the journey.”

  “Nigo you’re delirious!” Olaf chuckled. “You are talking about another 85 miles round trip to your Sami friends. You want to ski that by yourself after these twenty hours?”

  “No problem. I’ll do it!”

  They briefly discussed Peder, Nils and Olaf bringing Jan down the Avzevaggi valley a bit where they would keep him until Nigo returned with the reindeer transport from Sweden.

  He took off without provisions of any sort. This was typical Nigo, with more endurance than any of them. He didn’t give his friends a chance to dissuade him. All they could do was watch his silhouette diminish on the horizon. Like a light-footed reindeer, Nigo disappeared among the mountain ridges.

  Nils Brustrøm

  When Nigo left, the three men fought their way back some three miles on the plateau uppermost in Avzevaggi, a side valley on the southwest side of Manndalen Valley. Here they began their descent.

  They labored to bring Jan downward a distance but the rugged terrain was almost impossible to traverse. The ropes tied to the sled were too short, and several times they had to gingerly lower the sled, letting it hang and sway in the open air. In other places, two of the Manndalen men took a few careful steps down the precipitous mountain while the third lowered the sled after them.

  This time Jan suffered excruciatingly, moaning and twisting.

  Despite the cold air, the sweat poured off the men.

  Foot by foot they descended the rock-ribbed height until they reached a point where a bold-faced wall protruded skyward. The vertical wall blocked the view to the west but it was wide open in all other directions, and it gave shelter from the wind.

  Peder, Nils and Olaf were drained. Helpless, they dropped into the snow.

  “We probably could go on another little piece, Jan. But we’re exhausted and maybe it’s best that we leave you here until the reindeer transport comes,” said Nils.

  “It’s just fine here. I am sure I’ll be all right for the short while until the reindeer transport comes.”

  The men built a snow wall around the sled to protect Jan should the wind pick up.

  They emptied two of their knapsacks of food, drinks, and cigarettes, putting the items into the other knapsack, which they placed close to Jan.

  Jan did not mind sleeping under the open sky. He thought it rather exhilarating after his experience in the snow cave. The men agreed this was the best place for him for the next few hours.

  They said their good-byes and left, totally spent, yet encouraged by Jan’s upbeat mood. The arduous decent down to the Brustrøms’ farm uppermost in Manndalen Valley took them six hours. They arrived in the early afternoon after thirty hours of hard labor in the mountains. Disappointed in the outcome – different than what they had planned – but Jan was a little closer to his goal.

  The men flopped as soon as they entered the Brustrøm home. They slept the rest of the day and into the night. Peder and Olaf got up and left in the middle of the night. They walked a few feet from the Brustrøm house and into the icy Manndalen River to avoid leaving any tracks.

  BENEATH THE SKY IN AVZEVAGGI

  AVZEVAGGI, MAY 6, 1943: Jan stirred and slowly opened his eyes to the bright morning sun. From his sled beneath the black vertical wall, he could see the mountain bluffs nearby and the snow-capped peaks on the horizon. The beauty and splendor of it all filled him with hope and wonder.

  He was not sure which mountain the sun was climbing over; he only appreciated its light and its warmth. His happiness was short lived. As the Arctic spring sun raised the temperature, it melted the snow on the ridges and outcrops on the mountain wall above him. The melting snow dripped incessantly down on him and the sleeping bag all through the day. Soon he was soaked, as if covered with a drenched blanket. And when the sun sank behind the mountain crests and the night rolled over him, the melted snow water froze. The sleeping bag became a tomb of ice from which he could not free himself.

  The next day the scenario recurred. He cursed the sun that had welcomed him on the first morning and filled him with hope. This was too much. This was more than should be asked of anyone.

  Weakness and cold replaced his courage and the warmth. What was left of his toes ached – their putrid smell told him they were rotting away – and he was too weak to do anything about it. The thought of food nauseated him, and he lost still more weight. His mind could not make any sense of it all. Jan was rapidly deteriorating.

  Thursday, May 7, 1943: Peder had been up for a couple of hours when he heard the sound of rushing skis in the snow outside his home. As it was mid-morning, Peder assumed it was drunken Germans on their way back to their quarters after an all night brawl. Peder was wrong. It was Nigo returning from his thirty hour, 85-mile trip to Sweden. He had met with his Sami friends, who gave him some food and coffee, but that was all he had eaten since he had left his friends.

  Fifty hours
of skiing with only a short break in Sweden – Nigo was unbeatable! But even after all his struggles, his Sami friends could not promise him help. The Germans had fortified their borders along the road to Finland and it was the only way into Sweden. The Samis found it too dangerous to transport Jan past the German guards under the circumstances.

  Peder Isaksen indicates the place where they left Jan.

  Avzevaggi as it appears from Manndalen Valley. The arrow indicates where Jan was left.

  THE SPIRIT OF THE SAMI

  IN THE village of Birtavärre, brothers Leif and Rolf Bjørn were the contact persons for the resistance. The brothers had several business interests including a large lumber business, which supplied several areas in the Troms District. In addition, they were shipping agents and had many local contacts. Organizing the escape routes into Sweden from Kåfjorddalen Valley, four miles from Birtavärre, fell to them.

  During the war, the Bjørn brothers and Hjalmar Steinnes, a thirty-year-old bachelor in Kåfjorddalen, had developed a close working relationship. Their mutual goal was to defeat Germany. At the time of the German invasion of Norway, Hjalmar was working at Spitsbergen in the Svalbard Islands, a Norwegian possession in the Arctic Ocean. The islands lie about midway between Nordkapp, the northern tip of Norway, and the North Pole.

  Hjalmar Steinnes

  Long before the invasion of Norway, Hjalmar had developed a hatred for Hitler and all Nazism stood for. Their atrocities caused him to detest Hitler’s very name and anything related to him. A born patriot, Hjalmar was anxious to return to the mainland to fight against the German tyranny. With many others he was mobilized at Svalbard. A tramp steamer brought him back to Narvik, south of Tromsø, and he soon involved himself with the resistance movement.

  Following the outbreak of the war in northern Norway, a steady stream of refugees crossed the border to Sweden. Hjalmar guided many of them. Kåfjorddalen was isolated but the distance to the Swedish border was only 45 miles. Conversely, precipitous mountains bordered Kåfjorddalen. Refugees had to climb these mountains before reaching the plateau and setting out for Sweden. Kåfjorddalen Valley became one of the main refugee routes across the Norwegian and Finnish wilderness into Sweden.