“Bite!” she hissed.
And as Freddie bit Lars took the bad arm and moved it firmly up and forward, swivelling the bone back into the socket. There was a muffled cry from Freddie and his eyes blazed. But the moment was quickly over and he slumped back in my arms.
“It’ll come out again if he’s not careful,” warned Åse.
“We don’t have time to rest now, Freddie,’ I said. “We’ll have to strap you up.”
I took off my scarf and tied Åse’s scarf to it, then I bound the material round poor Freddie, pinning his injured arm to his chest. He tried not to groan too much. But he did say, rather mournfully, “It’s no good. How can I climb?”
“I’ll carry you,” said Lars. “Strap him to me, Jakob. Use the rope.”
Åse and I lifted the groaning Freddie on to Lars’s back and wound the rope round and round to fix him in place. Then Lars, laden down with Freddie, started to scale the rock face. I came up behind. I was amazed at Lars’s strength – Freddie looked so heavy and awkward to carry, far worse than any of Colonel Armstrong’s rucksacks full of stones.
Lars went slowly, stopping every minute or two before heaving himself and Freddie up a little further … and a little further … and a little further. I muttered encouragement from behind. Freddie kept his eyes squeezed shut the whole time.
At last we got to the road. Behind a cluster of trees, we untied the ropes around Lars and helped Freddie back onto his feet. Slowly and clumsily he staggered along beside us.
We crept up to the side of the road but, just as we were about to cross, a lorry came around the corner, splashing water everywhere. We ducked down and watched it pass. Sitting in the back was a platoon of German soldiers.
When the lorry disappeared we dashed over the road, Åse and I half lifting, half dragging Freddie along.
On the far side, we waded through a high bank of slushy snow and then, pushing briars and bushes aside, made our way up into the woods.
We came to a narrow trail leading through the trees and there the going got easier. But Freddie kept slowing down and stumbling, so I walked by his side, propping him up with one arm and trying to dream up nice things to whisper in his ear.
But he was a worry. I could see the pain was tiring him out. How on earth was he going to survive the journey into Sweden? Would he even make it as far as the hut?
After half an hour we reached the old power line road and came once again to the clearing where we had hidden our skis. We moved back the brushwood and hoisted our skis on to our shoulders. I took Freddie’s skis as well as my own and he was in so much pain that I don’t think he even noticed.
I cast a last glance back over the valley. Below us, I could see the headlights of more trucks, no doubt full of German soldiers, making their way along the road to Vemork. But on the far side of the gorge the power station was still in darkness. That was strange.
“The valley should be lit up. Why haven’t they turned the floodlights on?” I asked the others.
“Look!” exclaimed Lars. He pointed to some tiny lights moving on the far side of the gorge, just to the west of the power station.
“That’s a search party moving down the railway line,” said Åse. “They’re on our trail.”
I turned to Freddie. The sight of his whey-coloured face and half-closed eyes filled me with dread. I gave him what I hoped was an encouraging smile.
“OK. The hunt is on.”
Åse Jeffries
5TH JANUARY 1943
The Germans were really after us. So we moved fast – the kind of pace you go when there’s somebody mad and angry lolloping up behind you with a meat cleaver.
It wasn’t possible to go back to the hut the way we’d come – the snow was now too soft for us to climb straight up the mountainside. Instead we had to continue along the power line road and zigzag up the mountain, just under the cable car track, and come out on the plateau.
To make matters worse, the road wasn’t really a road, but more like a shallow river. Everything was damp and squishy – not only the snow, but our gloves, our trousers, our spirits and – most of all – Fred’s willpower.
The cruellest joke of all was the cable car just over our heads. It doesn’t work in the winter, but it would have taken nothing to get it going. Just a touch of lubricating oil, a spot of diesel, press one little red button and we’d have been at the top in a flash.
There was also the other small matter of imminent death. Apart from a few trees along the edge, the cable car road was completely exposed. If the Germans sent a few trucks into the mountains they’d pick us up sure as fudge cupcakes are fudge cupcakes. And why didn’t they? Were we just too obvious? I couldn’t understand why the troops were running around Vemork like blind white mice, pawing their way foot by foot along the railway track. Why didn’t they look on the other side of the gorge? And why didn’t some noodle brain think to turn on the cable car lights?
Well, thank God they didn’t, because it saved our skins!
We struggled up that steep uphill slope like a line of pilgrims, hauling our skis on our backs and never stopping, except to help Fred on. He kept flagging and Jakob ended up walking by his side, clucking like a mother hen, telling him always that there were just one or two more corners and then we’d be there.
Long after we thought it would never happen, we turned one more corner and we were at the top. We stood on that ridge, looking out at the snow and the rock and the sky of the plateau. Even though the search parties were probably gathering down in the valley, we had to stop for a moment. It’s kind of strange, but I felt I was back in our land. It might have been grim and dangerous and cold, cold, cold, but the Hardanger belonged to us.
And then, of course, the two things that had been about to go horribly wrong did go horribly wrong.
The first thing was Fred, but we didn’t notice him wander off because we were too busy looking up at the other thing which was going wrong, and that was the sky.
It was building up for a storm and the air was becoming strangely dense and solid – as if the atmosphere was a huge upended bowl hanging over us. As we watched, the sky started to change – subtly yellowing the way milk does as you churn it into butter.
Then Jakob said, “Where’s Freddie?”
We looked all round. He’d vanished!
We set out in three different directions – it made me recall that time after the landing when we were trying to find those coffin-shaped boxes in the snow. As Fred was in his camouflage suit, he too was white all over.
I found him only twenty metres away, curled up in the snow, snug as an Arctic fox.
“Fred! Get up!”
He made a snuffling sound.
“Fred!” I gave him a prod.
“Just go on,” he said in a slurry voice, not even bothering to open his eyes.
“Fred, you can’t stay here!”
“Just go on. You don’t need me.”
“Yes we do! You’re our brains! We wouldn’t have found that tunnel into the basement without you. Get up! You can’t just lie there! You’ve got to keep moving!”
He gave a faint smile. “I am moving,” he replied. “I may seem still. But I’m orbiting the sun at 104,000 kilometres an hour. And so are you.”
I grabbed Mr Infuriating-Know-It-All by his good arm and tried to shake him to his senses. But then I realized that his eyes were swimming and his breath smelt sweet and chemical. A piece of gauze fell out of his hand.
The chloroform.
“Just thought I’d help you out,” he said. And with that his head sank back into the snow.
“You idiot!” I blurted.
Jakob and Lars had just reached me and I showed them the piece of gauze.
“Chloroform,” I said. “That stuff can kill. It can stop your heart just like that!” I meant to click my fingers together, but my gloves were too soggy.
Jakob’s face was creased with worry. “I’m sure that was his intention,” he said quietly.
; That made me feel terrible. Jakob was right – Fred must have felt he was holding us back. I should have been more sympathetic.
There was no time for regrets. We already had a weird streaky-bacon sky, with great bands of red and yellow cloud. As the air darkened around us, we followed Jakob’s instructions and built a stretcher using ski poles and clothing and rope. Then we bundled Fred up in every bit of clothing we could find. Lars took one end and Jakob the other and we set off across the plateau.
Then the weather closed in. Bam! The temperature dropped and a stinging cold wind of snow and flying ice hit us hard. But at least it was blowing from behind us – pushing us forward. We took turns with the stretcher. After carrying the skis and the explosives, Fred didn’t seem so very heavy, but we had to ski carefully to synchronize our movements.
We had ages until we reached our old hut. We couldn’t stop at yesterday’s hut – that was too close to Vemork. Instead we were heading through this white wind to our old, rickety hut – the one with the holes in the planking and only two chairs and the reindeer skins on the floor.
We just went on and on, groping our way along, pushed by the wind, thinking: hut, fire, food, sleep. Hut, fire, food, sleep. Hut, fire, food, sleep.
It took us three hours to cross the plateau, but they weren’t like normal clock hours. The wind and our tiredness and our fear distorted everything and made the time warp and curl up at the edges like an old railway station sandwich.
In the end we did reach the hut. When we got in, Lars laid a fire in the stove, using some of those awful angling magazines as kindling.
We’ve put Fred nearest the stove and now we’re all in our sleeping bags. Nobody can face cooking, so we’ve got out a little pemmican and are chewing it raw – something I could never have done a few weeks ago. I’ve just whispered “food” in Fred’s ear, but he hasn’t woken up. I never thought I’d see the day that he passed up an opportunity to eat.
I’m going to settle down now for a few hours’ sleep. We can’t do anything until the storm dies down. Nor, I’m glad to say, can the Germans. So, for once, it’s quite comforting to hear that caterwauling outside. I know that even if the hut shakes like a handkerchief in a gale, the walls will hold. And, as nobody in their right minds will set out in this weather, the storm is protecting us and giving us time to rest. Maybe the elements really are on our side.
Åse Jeffries
6TH JANUARY 1943
I woke very early this morning. The little window was iced over and Lars and Fred (very pale but – thank God! – still alive) were still asleep. The storm was snoozing too – the hut wasn’t shaking any longer and all that was left was a high-pitched whistle of wind.
Jakob had clearly been up for ages. He was itching to be away.
He also had his In-Charge voice on.
“Åse, you and Lars will have to make that journey into Sweden on your own. I’ll stay and get help for Freddie. He can’t make that journey in the state he’s in now.”
Well, I wasn’t having any of that!
“Don’t be ridiculous,” I said. “I’ll stay with Fred.”
“It’s my duty. I’m meant to be responsible for everybody,” intoned Jakob.
“Stuff your duty,” I replied. “You and Lars are far stronger than me. You go to Sweden. I probably couldn’t keep up anyway. I never thought we’d get through yesterday. But now that we have, I rather fancy the idea of staying alive.”
Jakob gave a mirthless laugh, but I wasn’t being ironic.
“Think about it, Jakob.” (He’s not the only one who can be bossy…) “I’m much better suited to this than you. The Germans are going to be on the lookout. And consider what an improbable combination Fred and I make: knobbly-kneed Fred and a girl. The Germans may think it possible that the Brits sent in underage troops to crawl up cliffs, but a girl? And a midget of a girl like me?”
Lars was sitting up now. And, just for once, he spoke up. “She’s right, Jakob,” he said.
There was a tense pause while Jakob thought things through. Then he sighed.
“OK,” he said. “Åse goes with Freddie. And we’ll meet up again in Stockholm.”
“There’re some excellent cafés in Stockholm,” said a bleary voice from down by the fire.
Fred was awake!
“There’s one in Skaningen with a little red sign of a cat outside. They do truffled chicken soup and calf’s tongue with sweetbreads, and hot chocolate with warm raisin bread and solvag slice, fruit tarts…”
When Fred had rattled off the menu, we agreed that when, or if (and it’s a big “if”!), we get to Stockholm, we’ll meet up in his little red cat café. We’ll go there every afternoon at three o’clock and if the café is closed we’ll meet at the pancake house on the other side of the square.
As for the journey, Jakob thinks it’ll take him and Lars about ten days to get across the border. They’ve checked their addresses in Stockholm against Fred’s super-accurate database brain, but I have no idea how or when or even if Fred and I will get out. We certainly won’t be as quick as them. And Fred’s shoulder is going to take weeks to heal properly.
According to Lars, there’s an inn in Rjukan, though he doesn’t know if the owner is an informer. Its about a day’s travel from here and Fred and I think we should go straight there, check into a room, and – once we’re cleaned up – go and have a nice hot meal in the dining room.
I know this all sounds like madness, because the whole place will be crawling with edgy, angry Germans on the look out for saboteurs. But sometimes the best place to hide from the enemy is directly under his nose. It’s about keeping our nerve and remembering our manners. We’ll have to eat nicely and use our napkins. That’ll be hard – it’s weeks since either of us ate at a table with a proper plate and knife and fork.
Fred and I are going to go back the way we came, skiing across the plateau south-south-east and then taking the cable car road down to the village. Fred thinks he’ll be up to the trip. He still looks pale, but far better than yesterday. I’ve frisked him for chloroform pads, though. Just in case.
Jakob P. Stromsheim
6TH JANUARY 1943
This is my last entry before we set out on the overland journey for Sweden. I have no idea if I’m going to be able to keep going. We really haven’t got enough food and there’s so much that could go wrong. And so much too that I need to know. I still can’t get Lars to tell me how he ended up with that button compass of Father’s. I’ve tried and I’ve tried, but each time he clams up even more.
This morning, as we were getting ready to go, I sent one last message to London. The radio was a real fiddle to set up and I was nowhere near as quick as Freddie at tapping out Morse. So I kept my message short:
HIGH-CONCENTRATION INSTALLATION AT
VEMORK COMPLETELY DESTROYED STOP
ON THE WAY TO SWEDEN STOP
That sounded so simple – on the way to Sweden. But there’s no “way”, no straight road or route to Sweden. We had a map, but it only gave a vague outline of the land. We would have to rely on the compass and simply head out over the mountains and follow the rivers, until we came to the border.
Åse and Freddie were the first to leave the hut. It seemed so quiet without them, but I got on with hiding the transmitter under the floorboards and then Lars and I divided up the rest of the jobs.
Lars waxed the skis while I emptied the remains of the food shelf into the rucksacks. At the back of the shelf there was a horrible tin of golden syrup. It was stuck to the shelf and looked centuries old. All round the rim there was a foul black crust of dead ants.
I don’t know how Lars knew about the tin – I suppose we’ve all been keeping a very close eye on the stores – but without even looking up from what he was doing he just said, “Take it. Take the syrup.”
“It’s heavy and it’s full of ants! Even Freddie hasn’t touched it.”
“Pack it all the same. You never know.”
I paused. We were 400 kilomet
res from the border. If I’d come round to eating semi-digested moss and reindeers’ eyeballs, I could surely crunch my way through a few caramelized ants.
I packed the jar.
Now we had to get on our way.
Jakob P. Stromsheim
7TH JANUARY 1943
I’m in a small, windy cave somewhere on the Hardanger Plateau. This is written after two nights with no sleep.
I’m scribbling this with the log on my knees – there’s no flat surface. These are what the Colonel might call “suboptimal conditions”. Could I be missing his sour old sense of humour?
Two days ago we set off north-east from the hut. The snow was crisp and there was only an occasional flurry of wind to slow our progress. We crossed over a series of wide valleys and we could hear aircraft – the Germans were clearly sending in search parties. Sometimes we saw the planes circling far off like noisy birds. When they came near we took cover behind a rock or an overhang – we assumed that if we could see someone, they could see us too.
These stops didn’t hold us back much. Lars knew this part of the plateau from two years ago when – so he told me – he’d helped hide some small arms caches in a hut about sixty kilometres east of Vemork.
By early afternoon we reached a hut at Lake Skryken and I was feeling quite happy as I shook off my skis and made for the door.
But the latch was open.
I took off my goggles, and stepped inside. Immediately, all the blood in my body plummeted to my boots. Someone had been here before us … someone that was not a friend.
The mattresses had been pulled from the bunks and slashed open. The table and chairs were upturned, and someone had broken into the cupboard, pulled the drawers out and ripped open the bags of tea and sugar. There were books and charts strewn everywhere across the floor.
For a second we gawped at it all uselessly, but then I saw something very scary. By the stove there were lumps of snow that must have come off the tracks of someone’s boots. The lumps were still unmelted. The visitors had only just left!
Mission Telemark Page 14
