We ran outside and scanned the landscape. We didn’t need binoculars. To the east, less than a kilometre away, five German soldiers were skiing towards the hut at top speed. They seemed to be spanning out to encircle us.
We put on our skis. I never knew I could get them on so fast.
“Into the sun!” cried Lars. And he pushed off so hard on his ski poles that they made a twanging sound.
The soldiers hadn’t closed in completely – there were still gaps between them. And Lars dived into one of these gaps. I followed, skiing faster and harder than I ever thought I could. And at the same time I was groping for that little capsule in my trouser pocket. Lars might make it – he’s a far faster skier – but me against five grown men?
I charged forward into the low afternoon sun. The light was dazzling, so I kept my head down and pushed, following Lars’s track. For all I knew we could be heading straight for a cliff, but what did it matter? At least a couple of Germans would die with us.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the two soldiers nearest to us stop. They were going to fire. I skied on – better to be a moving target.
I heard the gunshots – two loud cracks, a third crack, and then, very quickly, a fourth. With four shots, I couldn’t believe they hadn’t hit me, but I seemed to be OK.
I screwed up my eyes to see Lars pounding ahead just as fast as before. He hadn’t been hit either. Lars was right to ski into the sun: no one could aim accurately with the light in their eyes.
But the Germans were not giving up. I reached the brow of a hill and looked back. The five men were climbing up the slope. And they were moving fast!
Down, down I went into a shallow, rocky valley and then up over a small ridge and out onto a lakeside plateau. I glanced back and saw that one of the soldiers had fallen behind and was doubled over his ski poles.
One down, four to go.
The next time I looked back there were only three Germans. A few minutes later we were down to two, but what a pair! They were very, very determined. And they were good skiers, faster on the uphill than us, though Lars and I seemed to gain a bit on the descents. Perhaps that was because we took more risks – we had nothing to lose.
Gradually, though, they were closing in on us. Soon they were right behind me. And everything was drawing to a close. I was coming to the end of my strength. Even if we were scared out of our wits, we couldn’t ski on for ever. Something had to give.
We came to the head of the next pass and then Lars suddenly put on a new spurt of speed. I followed, cutting out every twist and turn that I could. If we raced down this mountainside fast enough, the momentum should take us a good way up the other side of the valley.
So I roared down the hill and, thirty metres up the far slope of the valley, I came to a stop. I swivelled round quickly and started sidestepping fast up the mountainside, trying to stop the poles from sinking too deeply into the snow. As I went, I grappled my Colt .32 pistol out of the waistband of my trousers and put it in my pocket.
Lars was a good way ahead. Then a minute later he was out of sight over the brow of the mountain. I glanced across the valley. We were down to one German now. The other had taken a fall and was lying very still in the snow on the far slope. But the remaining soldier was just forty metres away.
“Hände hoch!” he shouted.
I stopped, grabbed my pistol and turned.
The German suddenly stood up very straight – he’d seen that I was armed. Even if my Colt .32 wasn’t much of a match for his Luger.
I held my arm out very straight. It was too far to shoot at all accurately, but I pointed the gun at his chest and shot.
I missed.
The German fired back twice, but too quickly. Both shots were wide.
I was just about to shoot again, when I realized something important. This was a battle of nerves – for we were pretty well out of range of each other. In a duel like this, it would be the man with no bullets left who lost.
The German would have – at most – six bullets in his Luger. So only four shots to go. He fired again. I flinched. This was a waiting game. If I was wounded, I knew exactly where the capsule was and what I had to do.
I heard the Luger crack again. Two shots to go. I tried to think reassuring thoughts. Maybe the German would have sweat in his eyes… Maybe his arm muscles would be too tense.
A bullet whirred past my elbow.
He wasn’t too tense.
One shot left. The German was honing his range and each successive shot had come a little nearer. With this final bullet he’d be able to strike home.
I didn’t know why I was standing still and making it easy for him. I should have been moving. I was a sitting duck!
Then I realized I wasn’t quite as still as I thought – I was shaking. And just while I was wondering whether to duck, the German shot for the final time. The bullet passed so close I felt the air graze my cheek. It made a pinging noise as it ricocheted off a rock right behind me.
His last bullet. Now he was mine! The German looked down at his gun barrel, turned and started skiing frantically back down the mountainside.
I set off after him, getting closer and closer. The shoot-out had been like standing before a firing squad and now I didn’t know if I had the concentration to aim properly. But that was no excuse – he was easily within range now.
I stopped, aimed my Colt and fired two shots.
Nothing happened.
Then, from somewhere, a third shot rang out and the man gave a scream and crumpled to the ground.
I looked at my gun, confused. I’d only pulled the trigger twice.
Then I heard the swish of skis behind me. A moment later, Lars came to a halt by my side.
“Got him in the leg,” he said numbly. And he stared at the soldier lying there in the snow clutching his thigh, and whimpering.
“It was just one little flick of my finger,” said Lars, his eyes glazed.
I was surprised – I thought Lars was made of sterner stuff. I did feel sorry for the German, but I didn’t feel guilty. He would have killed us if he could have.
Anyway, there was no time for pity. We were still in danger. I tugged at Lars’s jacket.
“Come on,” I said. “We’ve got to get moving, or his friends will catch up with us.”
As we were leaving, I looked back one last time – the man was still lying there, his body swaying back and forth with pain. There was no sign of the others.
By the time we reached the next valley the sun was a low yellow rim on the skyline. We stopped long enough to cut off some pemmican and then we set off again, chewing as we pushed on through the dusk. We had to hurry – soon the Germans would regroup and take up the chase again. Even in the dark they’d be able to follow our tracks.
When we reached Lake Vråjoen we didn’t stop at the hut on the shore side – and we didn’t look in for spare food. Instead we set off across the bare ice of the lake, towards a ridge of mountains on the far side. I knew that this ice wasn’t quite as thick as Lars would’ve liked and that if it broke we’d both go under. But I’d run out of fear and it was a relief to be travelling over a surface that would hide our trail.
We travelled on over the lake and up the mountainside. It was dark now, so we had to go more slowly. And as we travelled I went over and over that gun battle with the German. I was so tired I don’t really know how my legs kept going. We were half starved, for we hadn’t eaten properly in days. And this was our second night with no sleep.
At dawn we reached the pass over one of the higher mountain ridges and we stopped to rest. It was such a relief.
We sat side by side on a great slab of granite looking back across the plateau. The hills and valleys beneath us were like a series of white waves. I took out our binoculars. There were no dark spots moving about. At last! No Germans.
But there was still one nasty doubt that had been nagging away at me all night. I had a question I had to ask Lars.
“Lars,” I said. “Why
did it take you so long to come back? Did you think you might just go on alone?”
“What?” He looked genuinely puzzled.
“When that German shot at me. It took ages for you to come back.”
“I was just over the brow. I came back the second I heard the gunfire. It was all over so fast.”
“Fast?” It was my turn to look bewildered.
“Yes,” said Lars. “He shot at you as if he was firing a submachine gun. All I heard was bang-bang-bang-bang-bang-bang.”
“But ages passed between each of those shots. I stood there for ever!”
“That’s just your mind playing tricks on you,” replied Lars with a grim little smile. “Remember – everything changes up here on the plateau; not just light and weather, but time too.”
“You mean it’s not like the real world?” I couldn’t quite understand what he was saying.
“No,” he replied. “It’s more real!”
Then he must have heard something, for he picked up the binoculars and started to scan the skyline.
Lars didn’t have time to speak – he pulled me back with him behind the rock just in time. The next second, a small German army aircraft tore through the air. It swept down through the valley in a series of loops.
I poked my head round the side of the rock and looked down. It was strange – I’d never seen an aeroplane flying below me before.
“They’re still after us,” I said.
Lars nodded grimly.
The aircraft trailed off to the west. When the sound of the engine had died away, we put on our backpacks and set off.
Åse Jeffries
6TH JANUARY 1943
I’m writing this in a hotel room which smells of furniture polish and wet dog. Sadly I no longer have the sturdy, official-looking log to write in. I’m making do with a few scraps of paper that Jakob tore out for me before we parted. I hope that one day we’ll get the chance to stitch the whole thing back together again.
In the hours that Fred and I spent making our way across the plateau, I prepared our cover story. By the time we got to Rjukan our account was long and elaborate and pretty well word-perfect. Oh boy! Were we going to need it.
Fred’s shoulder was hurting the whole time we were skiing. I felt sorry for him, but we just had to keep going.
At the foot of the plateau, we abandoned our skis in the woods, and got to Rjukan just after six o’clock. It was dark and full of little narrow streets, all cobbles and puddles. There wasn’t a soul in sight – not even one of those muffled-up old ladies in galoshes that you always see in Norwegian villages. I thought that there might be a curfew. Or was this what wartime Norway was always like?
We wandered down the main road until we found the inn Lars had told us about. There was a board by the front door displaying the menu and room prices. Inside we could hear noise – loud German voices and laughter.
Shucks! I’d said a lot of brave things to the others about the need to outface the enemy and stride into the lion’s den. And Fred and I had agreed that we would go straight to the inn. But now I didn’t feel quite so sure.
“I don’t like this,” I said. “Why don’t we go on to the address in Miland?”
But Fred was reading the menu.
“They’ve got trout and potato croquettes,” he announced, as if that decided everything.
“Trout or no trout, I still don’t like it,” I said. “It’s full of Germans!”
“Well, so what if it is? We’ll get a good supper,” said Fred, sniffing the air like a bloodhound.
“But this could be the end of us!” I wailed.
“I don’t care,” said Fred. “My shoulder is killing me. Anyway, gluttony is my favourite deadly sin. If I don’t die happy, at least I’ll die full.”
There was no stopping him. He pushed the door and went in. I followed. I really shouldn’t have given in, but I did. There’s something particularly humiliating about being defeated by a potato croquette.
Inside I knew immediately that it wasn’t our sort of place. A nice big pair of swastika banners were hanging in the foyer. And by the little bell at the reception desk was a pile of Fritt Folk – that’s the quisling newspaper – for sale.
We handed over our exquisitely forged passports (I’m Anne Fetja and Fred is Knut Halveson), paid a rather severe-looking lady for our night’s lodgings and carried our rucksacks upstairs. We’d already made our first mistake – as good little collaborators we should have bought a Fritt Folk.
Our room was on the first floor with a bathroom to the side and a little balcony window over the front. We ran a bath – our first in months. BLISS! (Water afterwards very grimy.) But being a good citizen, I reused the soapy water to wash the clothes and underwear we’d worn every day for the last hundred years. (Bath water now indescribable…) I used the rope from our rucksack to make a washing line and I hung our wet clothes on pretty well every surface of the bedroom. We were really lowering the tone.
We changed into the civilian clothes which had been buried at the bottom of our rucksacks for weeks. I helped Fred into a checked shirt, traditional Norwegian jumper and trousers. He winced a lot when I moved his arm. All the same, when he was properly scrubbed-up, he looked OK-ish. But I had – wait for it – a tweed skirt. I hadn’t worn a skirt for ages and I’d forgotten how draughty they are – particularly when you have little chicken legs like mine. The future for me is definitely going to be trousers.
Anyway, Mr Norwegian Sweater and Miss Chicken Legs then went downstairs to supper. We had trout and croquettes and winter greens and a sauce made from wild mushrooms. Pudding was also picked from the mountains: whortleberries in syrup on a sponge base. It was really nice – food on white china plates! Vegetables that weren’t reindeer moss! Real coffee! (Also a sure sign that the hotel is collaborating with the Germans.)
Afterwards Fred complained that he still wasn’t full and wanted to have the whole meal again, but I said no. We’d already drawn attention to ourselves by turning up without any adults. And besides (maybe Fred had never noticed this), normal people only eat one supper.
We went back upstairs. The bedroom had seemed so luxurious and comfortable when we first arrived but somehow we’d managed to mess everything up. Our hanging garden of dripping long johns and not-so-clean socks was giving off a decidedly biological smell, so I opened the windows. Fred said the food had made him feel so much better he now had the strength to give his Colt .32 a long overdue clean.
I was just getting ready for bed and I’d already taken my shirt off when there was a sharp rap on the door.
“Wait a minute!” I called.
We were completely unprepared, but at least I had locked the door. I picked up my gun, stuck it in my waistband and then wrapped one of the big bath towels round me. Fred grabbed the bits of his gun off the bed and jammed them behind the wet washing.
I opened the door.
There were two men and an enormous pair of teeth standing there. The teeth belonged to the older man – I think he was the town sheriff. Behind him stood a German soldier in a long trench coat.
“Good evening!” said the sheriff. His smile was rather amazing – it managed to reach almost as far as his ears without going anywhere near his eyes.
“ID?” he asked.
Fred handed him his passport.
The sheriff quickly glanced at it and passed it back to the soldier.
“And your little girlfriend?” Those teeth again.
I handed him my passport. It was time to go on the offensive.
“I’m not his girlfriend. I’m his step-second-cousin once removed,” I said indignantly.
“Sorry?” he said.
I spoke fast. “Knut is my aunt’s older sister’s step-grandson. My uncle Klaus’s wife, Phoebe’s sister Signy, married a widower with grown-up children, and Birgar, that’s Knuttie’s father, was one of them. So we aren’t technically blood relatives – just members of the same extended family.”
“I see,”
replied the sheriff. He didn’t, but at least the smile was waning. “And what are you doing out here?”
“We’re on a walking holiday,” said Fred. “We’ve been following the road from Skinnarbu, through Krokan.”
That wasn’t enough. The sheriff was still smiling, but his eyes were now flitting round the room. If he was any good he’d notice that our rucksacks were clearly foreign make. Worse still, Fred had left the cleaning rod and an oily rag on the bed.
We had to distract him. “Sir,” I said heading towards the French windows, “on this holiday we’ve been learning about the stars. There are such wonderful skies up here in the mountains,” I enthused. “And Knut’s just a genius at them.”
I gave Fred a prod-in-the-ass look. He got the message and led the two men out on to the balcony, pointing out the Pole Star, and Cassiopeia. By the time he reached Ursa Major he’d really got into his stride.
“Now if you follow the Belt of Orion – see that bright star. That’s Aldebaran, a very interesting K5III star. It’s a bit long in the tooth – it’s used up most of its hydrogen and has mainly moved on to fusing helium. It’s about 65 million light years away. So, in fact, even though it looks small, it’s got a diameter 38 times greater than the sun – and shines 150 times more powerfully. It has a long-period radial velocity oscillation of about—”
“Fine, fine,” said the sheriff, backing into the room again. “Glad you’re enjoying yourselves.”
But now he was looking at the laundry. Had he seen the gun parts?
He moved towards the wet long johns. I groped for my pistol. I’d have to shoot him if he went any closer.
“Do you mind!” I said, in a shocked voice. “That’s my underwear over there!”
He blushed and looked flustered.
“I’m sorry, Miss Fetja.” He paused.
It was a nasty little moment.
“What are you looking for anyway?” I asked bossily.
Mission Telemark Page 15
