by Neal Bascomb
Once safely at High Heaven, Skinnarland relaxed, shaken by his close escape. For the first time since beginning to live a double life, seven months before, he was a wanted man. Worse was the arrest of Torstein, who had acted as his cover. Skinnarland knew that he needed to inform London of the heightened security around Lake Møs and Vemork. He also had a decision to make: whether to head to Sweden and on to Britain or remain in Norway, living on the run. The next day, Helberg and Kjelstrup arrived at the cabin, having learned of Skinnarland’s narrow escape from the Nazis. The two stayed the night and told Skinnarland of the new mission to sabotage Vemork. Skinnarland’s decision was made.
In the late afternoon of December 11, the six Gunnerside men arrived at the ivy-clad Brickendonbury Hall. It was a week before their scheduled drop, and there was an uneasy feeling among them; only weeks before, the British sappers who perished in Operation Freshman were trained at this same school, by the same instructors, for the same target. The fact that the school had been cleared of other students because of their mission’s secrecy only added to the sense of foreboding. Waiting to welcome them on the manor steps was George Rheam, newly promoted to lieutenant colonel.
Rheam invited them to drinks and dinner that evening; then his adjunct led the six men to their second-floor dormitory room. On each bed was a kit bag with the clothes and gear they would need for their training, including a factory-new Colt .45 with a red belt holster. To a man, the six took out their new guns and tested the action.
Rønneberg cocked his, but when he pulled the trigger the gun fired. As his ears rang and plaster dust fell about him, he realized that he had by mistake fired the loaded gun he had brought with him to Brickendonbury. One of the school’s guards rushed into the dormitory, quickly followed by Rheam’s adjunct. “What the hell’s going on?” he asked. Straight-faced, Rønneberg looked up, pointed at the hole in the wall, and said, “I’ve tried my new weapon and it works perfectly.” The adjunct shook his head and walked out. Crazy Norwegians.
It was a rare moment of carelessness for Rønneberg. In the ten days since being charged with Gunnerside, he had been punctilious in his preparations for the mission. He had gathered several sets of maps of southern Norway from the high command’s intelligence office in London. One, at 1:250,000 scale, had been nailed to the wall at the base in Scotland and used to chart out the team’s routes. The others, at 1:100,000 scale, were given to the team, so each man could memorize every valley and mountain.
Then there were their weapons. Given the close-quarter fighting they expected, short-range guns were going to be the most important. They tried out the simply designed British Sten submachine guns but found them too heavy and unreliable, often firing in bursts when set on single shot. They selected the Thompson (Tommy) submachine gun, made famous by American gangsters. Within two hundred yards, these could be fired as accurately as a rifle, and, since they took .45 caliber bullets instead of the Sten’s 9mm, they could use the same ammunition for their Colt pistols. Rønneberg had the team meticulously clean their Tommy guns, dry-sand them, and paint them white. For the mission, he also asked for hand grenades, a sniper rifle, killing knives, chloroform pads to knock out guards, and lots of spare magazines of ammunition.
While his team trained and practiced shooting, Rønneberg gathered the equipment they would need to endure the harsh Vidda winter. When something didn’t meet his exact specifications, he redesigned or altered it. He picked out the best wooden skis, had them sealed with fresh pine tar and then painted white. To improve the design of the steel-frame rucksacks, he added gaiter pockets, drawstring tops, extra-long shoulder straps, and white coverings. He found rabbit-fur-lined underpants, wool trousers, and white camouflage ski suits. He had the quartermasters change the leather linings on their peaked ski caps for khaki, which was warmer. A shoemaker in the East Midlands rushed an order of sturdy, waterproof leather boots.
For rations, Rønneberg went to Professor Leiv Kreyberg. Working with dieticians at Cambridge University, the Norwegian professor had pioneered a method of compressing dehydrated food into blocks to make combat rations. The meals were lightweight, and to prepare them one only had to add water. Using these kinds of rations meant they would only have to carry a cup and a spoon. Given how far they would have to travel in escaping from Vemork to Sweden, every ounce mattered. Rønneberg also had his Gunnerside team build two sleds to minimize what they would have to carry on their backs.
In his quest for mission-compatible sleeping bags, he went to a London bedding manufacturer near Trafalgar Square. The owner sent him to their workshop in the Docklands. There, he sketched out what he needed: essentially two bags woven into one, the outer a waterproof shell, the inner filled with down and large enough to sleep in while fully dressed, with room for their gear. He also wanted a hood over the top with a drawstring tie that would close almost completely, allowing only a small opening for breathing. The head of the workshop took a look at his design and, recognizing the second lieutenant’s urgency, said, “Well, you just come back tomorrow afternoon and see what I’ve done.” The next day, Rønneberg climbed into the first prototype. It was perfect, apart from some seams that were stitched into the down that would allow water to penetrate. He made the design change, then ordered six bags to be picked up as soon as possible.
By the time Rønneberg and his men arrived at Brickendonbury Hall, they knew all the possible routes to and from Vemork, and most of their gear was ready to be packed for the drop.
Now they could focus on the operation itself. Rheam had taught hundreds of SOE operatives everything there was to know about incapacitating the German war machine by targeting their communication lines, railways, and factories. “Seven people properly trained can cripple a city,” said one instructor.
Rheam wanted his students to be able to walk into a plant and, within minutes, identify which machinery to disable. A well-placed swing of a sledgehammer might do the trick, or some handfuls of sand in the machinery. Most often, though, explosives were required. Nobel 808, a rust-colored explosive that smelled like almonds, was Rheam’s first choice. Soft and malleable, 808, or “stagger juice” (as some at STS 17 referred to it), could be cut, shaped, stretched, thrown against the wall, and even shot at, and it would not explode. But set off a small explosive charge (essentially, a detonator) buried within it—even while underwater—and . . . boom.
The Gunnerside team, Rønneberg foremost, was well trained in sabotage techniques and in the use of explosives. Once Rheam had satisfied himself on this, via some test exercises, he began to instruct them on how to blow up the heavy water facility at Vemork. Using the same wooden model on which the Freshman sappers had been trained, Rheam showed where on the base of each high-concentration cell they should place the explosive charges.
The facility had two rows of nine heavy-concentration cells. The team needed to place a daisy-chained series of nine half-pound charges connected by detonator cord on each row. This cord would then be rigged with an initiator of two-minute fuses to allow them time to clear the room before the explosion. The aim was not only to destroy the machinery but also to puncture the cells and drain them of their precious contents. Working with children’s modeling clay, the team trained in pairs to rig the explosives as quickly and efficiently as possible. They repeated the maneuvers so many times, they could nearly do them in the dark.
Almost every day, Tronstad came down to the school to answer any questions, bringing drawings and blueprints of the plant as well as aerial photographs of the surrounding area. Whenever a question was asked to which he did not have the answer, whether it was about layout, doors, guards, or patrols, he would leave the room and return soon after with the answers they needed. In hiding at Brickendonbury was Jomar Brun, the source of the information. He remained unknown to the team.
When the latest intelligence from Swallow detailed more guards at Vemork as well as new searchlights and a machine-gun nest atop one building, the team revisited potential approaches to the
target. They could cross the suspension bridge, come down from the penstocks, or climb up from the gorge to the cliffside railway line that connected the plant with Rjukan. Plans for each were hashed out, but they decided to postpone the final decision until they could reconnoiter the site.
One realization they did have was that six men were not enough for the operation. They would need a covering party to give the demolition team the time—and security—to carry out the attack. Swallow could fill this role.
When they were not practicing for the sabotage, the men kept fit, exercising around the extensive grounds. One day, a burglar on loan from a local prison showed them how to break through locked gates. Another morning, they arrived at breakfast to find a monk-like figure sitting at one of the tables. He was Major Eric Sykes, a former Shanghai policeman who was now one of the British Army’s leading weapons instructors. He asked Rønneberg if his men wanted to show him what they could do. The six brought him out to the street-fighting range, where pop-up dummies appeared in open doors, behind windows, and across alleys. As they took aim through the sights on their pistols and Tommy guns, Sykes stopped them. “That’s doomed from the start,” he said. He urged them to shoot from the hip, as they had been taught at Stodham.
Rønneberg assured him they knew what best to do. Sykes waved them onto the range. Firing over two hundred times, Haukelid hit almost 100 percent of his targets, as did the others who followed him. Sykes was dumbfounded, and it was clear that there was nothing he could teach them.
Claus Helberg rummaged in a dark cupboard, desperate for food. He had been at Ditlev Diseth’s cabin beside Lake Langesjå a few days before and found some rakfisk, but he was hoping he might have overlooked some flour or oatmeal. There was nothing. Then he heard voices. His skis and boots were outside the door; there was no hiding his presence. He drew his pistol and waited. There was a knock. “Who’s there?” he asked sharply.
“Skogen.”
“Olav? Is that you?” Helberg asked.
“Yes, it’s me.”
Helberg yanked open the door, pistol still in hand. There were three men outside the cabin, each of them carrying a hunting rifle. With the sky darkening, it was hard to see who they were.
“It’s me, Claus,” Skogen said. “You can take it easy.”
Helberg stepped outside and started to lower his gun when another of the men approached. Skogen held him back. “Wait until the gun’s away, you’ll get yourself shot.” Then Helberg recognized his childhood friend. “Well, if it isn’t Rolf Sørlie!” The two embraced, then Skogen introduced the third man: Finn Paus, a member of Milorg. Because Diseth had been arrested during the Rjukan razzia, Skogen, Sørlie, and Paus had come to his cabin to hide contraband that was being kept there. They also had plans to hunt reindeer.
The four men got in out of the cold, and the new arrivals shared their bread and butter with Helberg. He asked after his family in Rjukan, and Sørlie told him they were safe. They informed him about the German raid and the string of arrests. Clearly, the Gestapo was not targeting people at random. Helberg said very little about why he was in the mountains. Already Skogen knew too much, and Swallow could not risk an expanded circle.
The next morning, they buried the weapons Diseth had been hiding in his cabin. Sørlie gave Helberg his Krag-Jørgensen bolt-action rifle and some ammunition. Given his team had only brought pistols and machine guns from Britain, they were desperate for such a hunting rifle. Helberg said his goodbyes, telling Sørlie, “You will hear from me soon.” Then he skied back to Grass Valley to rejoin his team.
Each of the four members of Swallow had a lucky escape during the razzia. Haugland had been out in the woods, searching for supplies, when a patrol missed him by only a few yards. Poulsson and Kjelstrup narrowly avoided some Germans when they were returning to Grass Valley from the mountains to the west. And Helberg, traveling to meet Einar Skinnarland by his house at the dam, had almost arrived at the same time as the Gestapo arrest party the day they had taken Øystein Jahren.
But when it came to food, their luck ran out. They had long since finished their treasured supplies of pemmican. The little bit extra they had recovered from the Songa Valley was already gone. Haugland had managed to find a shotgun and had killed several grouse, but they had picked those bones clean within a day. Helberg had gone up to Lake Langesjå in search of reindeer, but had spotted no herds. He had been searching cabins in the area for stores of rakfisk or meat when he’d encountered the Milorg team.
The four suffered constant hunger and had resorted to digging in the snow for the rust-colored moss the reindeer ate. “It’s full of vitamins and minerals,” Poulsson promised the others, who were more accustomed to using the moss as a bed when camping. Nonetheless, they boiled it in water with a handful of oatmeal. It made a bitter soup.
When Helberg arrived back at the Grass Valley cabin, Poulsson delivered the good news from London: They were to take an “active part” in the new operation against Vemork. There was much to be done before the standby period began, on December 18, in six days’ time. They had to secure some food, get the latest intelligence about security at Vemork, retrieve the Eureka device that had been left at Lake Sand, and recharge their wireless radio batteries. Then they needed to leave for a new hideout, twenty miles northwest of Vemork, far up in the Vidda, where Gunnerside was to be dropped.
Misfortune hounded them at every turn. German patrols delayed their fetching the Eureka device. Helberg was caught in a storm while returning with a freshly charged battery. Struggling to continue with the thirty-pound battery in his rucksack, he finally had to leave it behind in the woods for retrieval the next day. They failed to track down any reindeer, and some salted meat they found in a cabin by Lake Møs turned out to be rotten.
All of them became too sick to hold down the little food they had left. Helberg and Kjelstrup were in particularly bad shape, their malnutrition having caused edema. They grew so bloated they were unable to button their shirt collars and had to urinate six times a night. Still they went out every day to prepare for the new operation. Skinnarland provided them with what little food he could spare, as well as recharged batteries and intelligence on the new defenses at Vemork.
On December 17 Haugland received a signal from Home Station that Gunnerside was set to leave on the next clear night. It was time to head north, even though the charge on the Eureka battery was dwindling. Starving, sick, and with the clock against them, they soon moved deeper into the Vidda.
At Brickendonbury Hall, the Gunnerside team readied to leave for Gaynes Hall outside Cambridge to await their drop into Norway. They had come through the school, earning Rheam’s high, albeit understated, praise: “If the conditions are at all possible, they have every chance of carrying out operation successfully.” Tronstad visited one last time to go over the mission and to bid the men farewell. It was a solemn moment. Each of the saboteurs had been given a cyanide capsule; each knew that their chances of hitting the target and escaping with their lives were, at best, even. Tronstad reminded them of the executions of the Freshman sappers and warned them that they would likely be treated the same—or worse—if caught alive.
Then he concluded, “For the sake of those who have gone before and fallen, I urge you to do your best to make the operation a success. You do not know now exactly why it’s so important, but trust that your actions will live in history for a hundred years to come. Be an example for those that will later participate in the recapture of our country, and thus in the defeat of Germany. What you do, you do for the Allies and for Norway.” There followed an awkward pause. Some on the team felt Tronstad was looking at them like they would never come back.
“You won’t get rid of us so easily,” Rønneberg said.
13
Rules of the Hunter
* * *
THE FOUR BEARDED,haggard men struggled with every lift of their skis in the sticky, wet snow on Lake Store Saure. Over the surrounding peaks, a mist hung like cotton wool, and the
cloud-ridden sky hid the relief of the sun. Trudging forward, they cursed their hunger, their waterlogged skis, and the cut of the wind. Finally, they spotted Fetter, the hunting cabin Poulsson had built with his cousins before the war from precut wooden planks they had brought across the lake. Positioned high on the plateau, near a copse of birch trees, unmarked on the maps and miles from any other cabins, there was no better place to hide and await Gunnerside. There might also be a good chance of finding reindeer in the area.
Eager to rest and hopeful there might be some food in the cabin, Poulsson pulled ahead of the others. After taking off his skis, he took a hacksaw to the padlock on the door. Sweat dripping from his temples, he cut away at the steel, his hands stiff from the cold. When at last the padlock gave way, Poulsson pulled the bolt to open the door but found it stuck. He took a small ax from his rucksack and hammered at the lock. Not a couple of strokes later, the ax handle broke. He kicked at the door. It didn’t budge.
This was his cabin. He only wanted to rest. Frustration took hold, then rage. Poulsson pulled the Krag rifle from his back and fired two bullets into the lock, which broke free at last.
On entering, he found Fetter looking much the same as it had when he’d left it in the summer of 1940. He had written in the logbook, “En route home from Lake Langesjå. Have come for a bite of food and to leave the canoe.” The canoe was now riddled with bullet holes, but otherwise everything was in order. There were four beds, bought from an Oslo hospital, a square, rough-hewn table, some three-legged stools, and a stone-lined stove that heated the ten-by-twenty-foot cabin. Poulsson scoured the cupboards for food but found only a bottle of cod-liver oil and a scoop of leftover oatmeal.
