The Winter Fortress

by Neal Bascomb

  The others clambered inside soon after, more exhausted from the journey than they should have been. If they continued to starve themselves, they would have no strength for the operation. While Haugland readied the wireless, the others cut up some firewood for the stove and got a pot of snow stirred into a boil. The sun set early, and the four lit a single candle and ate reindeer moss for dinner. Again. Gusts of wind howled around them as they awaited radio contact with London. Finally they learned that Gunnerside would not drop that night, December 19. Stomachs rumbling, they settled into their beds.

  “Just wait until there’s game in the area,” Poulsson vowed. “Then we’ll have plenty to eat.” The others were less sure.

  Days passed in the same pattern, and still Gunnerside did not come. Each morning, soon after sunrise, Poulsson left the cabin to hunt. He knew well, from the memoirs of Helge Ingstad, a Norwegian explorer who had survived the northwest wilds of Canada in the 1920s, that one could live on reindeer meat for a long time. Stopping occasionally to search the horizon for any signs of a herd, Poulsson kept this fact firmly in his mind. He knew that the winds blowing in from the north and west were against him. Herds traveled into the wind so they could smell any predators, and unless the wind changed direction, the reindeer would continue to drift far out of range of the cabin. Even so, Poulsson trudged from mountain to valley to mountain, often through heavy fog, hoping for a shift in the wind direction that would give him an advantage. But he continued to return to Fetter empty-handed. His team was becoming dangerously weak, their eyes listless, their skin yellow. Unless their luck turned, they would not be able to hold out much longer.

  At Gaynes Hall, Rønneberg and his team got word yet again that they would not be leaving that night. In the five days since they’d arrived at STS 61, bad weather had shuttered any chance of a North Sea flight, and the men waiting at Gaynes Hall had grown increasingly anxious.

  The Gunnerside team members continued to train, taking long runs through the softly rolling meadows of the estate. On occasion, they sneaked through the barbed-wire perimeter fence to hunt pheasant in the neighboring fields. At night, they played cards. One evening, they took a car into Cambridge, drank champagne and dined at a good restaurant. They knew they might not have another chance. “Let’s go home,” Rønneberg said, cutting off the evening too early for Haukelid. But he went along with the group, on the possibility that they’d finally be given the go-ahead to depart the following night.

  The men ruminated over when the weather would improve, how the approach to Vemork would go, whether they would be engaged in a firefight, if it was better to be shot or captured, and whether they should have another go at the letters to their wives and families in case they did not come back.

  One way or the other, Haukelid would not be returning to Britain. Tronstad and Wilson had given him the go-ahead to build a guerrilla organization in western Telemark. All he wanted now was one clear night for the drop. Then he would at last be reunited with his original team members.

  After a week of snowstorms and cloudy, fog-swept days, Poulsson stepped outside to a beautiful morning, December 23. It was still freezing, but the sun felt good on his face. Skis fastened, he was just lifting his Krag rifle over his shoulder when Kjelstrup came out of the cabin to get some firewood. Of the four, Kjelstrup was in the worst state, roiled by cramps and edema that left him too worn out to leave his bed for more than a few hours a day. “Crisp and clear,” Kjelstrup said, his eyes ringed with red.

  “If I only knew where the reindeer would be tomorrow,” Poulsson said. “I could build myself a snow cave and lie in wait for them.”

  Kjelstrup managed a smile. “Maybe today will be your day.”

  Poulsson headed away from Fetter. A frost that had blanketed the Vidda in the night made for fine skiing, and he settled into a steady tempo. The crust over the snow broke with each placement of his poles. As he crossed the Vidda in his white anorak, one mile after the next, the air sharp in his lungs, the rules of hunting his grandfather had drilled into him at a young age governed his mind. “Your rifle is a weapon, not a toy. When hunting, you carry the rifle over your right shoulder with your arm over the barrel. If you are having a rest in the woods [or] crossing over a fence, unload your weapon. When you are in position, you don’t touch the safety catch before you see your target. Never shoot unless you can clearly see what you are shooting at. Never get so excited or eager that you forget that you are holding a weapon in your hands. If you do, you will forget yourself.” Over the many years since his grandfather bought him his first gun, Poulsson had not neglected these lessons. He had tracked and killed reindeer many times on the Vidda. But now, when he most needed a kill, he could not even find a herd. His team had three jobs: to maintain radio contact, to collect intelligence on Vemork, and to stay alive. They could not do any of these without food.

  Then, five miles out from the cabin, his legs beginning to weaken, he came across a band of fresh reindeer tracks in the snow. He nearly leaped in excitement. On inspection of the tracks, he surmised that the herd was a good size, led by an old cow and followed by some young bulls and grizzled ones. Grouped behind would be other cows, yearlings, and calves. They would be moving slowly, maybe a couple of miles every hour, grazing on moss and resting as they liked.

  His men would eat this night, Poulsson thought. They would feast for Christmas. He set off for the nearest hilltop but saw nothing in his binoculars apart from the endless stretch of white. The reindeer were likely down in a valley or on top of a plateau. He followed the tracks for several miles, almost reaching the northern end of Grass Valley. Still nothing. If they had caught wind of a wolf or some other predator, they might already be far away. Bolting reindeer could travel twenty-five miles in less than an hour. “They are like ghosts,” he remembered reading in one of Ingstad’s books. “They come from nowhere, fill up all the land, then disappear.”

  After zigzagging to the top of the next valley, Poulsson stopped. He wiped his binoculars clear with a square of flannel he kept under his watch and examined the horizon again. A noon sun shone down, and the snowbound landscape played tricks on his eyes. A rock stretched as high as a tree. The roll of a hill flattened into smooth terrain. But far to the north, in a small valley, he spied some dark spots. At first he thought they were only stones, but they were assuredly moving together.

  The herd.

  Slowly, deliberately, Poulsson skied closer. At times he lost his vantage, but he knew the reindeer would remain in the valley. There was almost no wind. The few wisps of cloud overhead remained almost still. He made his way to the eastern side of the valley, to keep downwind of the herd and prevent them from picking up his scent. He ascended a ridge and, after unfastening his skis, eased himself up onto a boulder. The herd stood in the valley over a half mile away. They were roughly seventy in number. Several grazed on moss beside a small patch of lake. Others rested on the ice or stood like statues. Their winter pelts had faded to a long, shaggy whitish-gray, camouflaging them within the landscape. Farther to the north, up on a raised plateau, was a second herd, smaller in size.

  For a good shot with the Krag, Poulsson needed to be within two hundred yards of his target. He did not see how he could get within range without the herd spotting him across the flat approach or catching his scent. He would have to hope they came toward him or moved off to steeper, uneven ground where he would have more cover to stalk them. Perched on the boulder, he waited ten minutes, then thirty, then an hour. The cold settled deep into his bones, and he grimaced and contorted his face to ward off frostbite. If he felt any numbness, he removed his glove and pressed a finger against his flesh until it thawed. He curled his toes frequently and rubbed his beard free of ice.

  More time passed. The herd looked to be staying put for an eternity, munching on moss, milling about. Poulsson had to act. After almost two months of living off the sparest of meals since their arrival in Norway, his men needed food. With the dwindling light of the day, he must m
ake a kill soon or risk losing the herd in the dark—and being caught out on the Vidda. If a storm hit, like the many that had plagued them over the past month, without shelter and alone in the open, he would surely die.

  Resolved, he climbed down from the boulder, then crept into the valley, hiding behind narrow ridges and slight knolls as he came to them. As he made his approach, two bulls strayed from the herd. Poulsson stood motionless, still leeward and too far away for their eyes to distinguish his white anorak from the terrain. When they turned back to the herd, he eased his way down toward a small mound that would bring him within range. Nearly there, he slipped and almost tumbled down the hill before catching his fall.

  To the reindeer, which survived through caution, the slight movement on the hillside was enough. The two bulls stamped the ground, then took off toward their herd. Their flight spurred the others. With the pounding of hooves, the lot of them vanished over a hillock toward Grass Valley.

  Poulsson rested back in the snow, whatever strength he had left seeming to drain from his body. He swore into the empty sky. When his anger settled, his desperation almost brought him to tears. Chasing after the beasts was fruitless. They might have stampeded too far away to reach before dark. He turned his eye to the high plateau, half a mile away to the north. The smaller herd was still there, grazing.

  He clambered back up the slope to gather his gear and then skied fast. When the rise to the plateau grew steep, he climbed slowly on foot. There was no way to know the direction of the wind once he reached the top, but he prayed that he would be downwind of the herd. Heart twisting in his chest, he crept up the last few yards on his belly. Raising himself up on his arms, he spotted some thirty reindeer, their breath a cloud of mist hovering over them.

  The wind on the plateau shifted every few seconds, leaving the herd ill at ease. They were still slightly out of range, and they might catch his scent at any moment. His rifle in his right hand, Poulsson crawled forward inch by inch in the snow. In his mind he played out the kill. He would hit the first reindeer in the diaphragm. Past experience told him that if the shot hits its mark, the animal would collapse gently to the snow, as if suddenly taken by the need to sleep. The herd might mistake the crack of his rifle for the breaking apart of frozen mud. Then he would have another shot or two before they fled.

  He was within range. Carefully he rose to his knees, took aim, eased his finger onto the trigger, and fired. His target did not drop. The panicked herd fled toward the peak of the plateau. He took aim at another reindeer and fired, then at another. None fell. The herd kept moving, leaving a trail of swirling snow behind them. And then they were gone.

  Rising to his feet, Poulsson felt confused. It was impossible to think he had missed all three. He trailed the herd in the direction where they had fled. The snow was speckled with blood along three separate tracks. He had indeed struck his targets, but the military-issue, steel-jacket bullets in the Krag that Sørlie had provided had passed right through instead of expanding on impact like the soft lead bullets he typically used for hunting. He had no idea how far they had run. The blood trail would tell.

  He followed one track a hundred yards over the crest of the plateau and found a wounded cow, its hooves scrabbling at the snow in an attempt to rise. Poulsson fired another shot. The cow stilled. He chased after the next track of blood for a short distance but then turned back. He despised leaving wounded animals to a slow death. However, this was a matter of his and his men’s survival. He returned to the cow. It was a fair size. Relief, then joy, stirred within him. He marveled at his hard-fought good fortune. For the first time in two months, his team would eat their fill, and would be revived.

  Poulsson took his tin cup from his rucksack and filled it with the blood spilling from the reindeer’s wound. He drank deeply, the warmth spreading through his body. Then he drained more blood into a small pail before skinning and quartering the carcass with a knife and ax. Its head and tongue, rich in nutrients and flavor, went into his rucksack, followed by its stomach—with four chambers filled with half-digested moss. Then the heart, liver, kidneys, ribs, and legs. He cut off slices of fat while he worked and drank milky white marrow from the small bones near the hooves. He left the leanest cuts of meat in a heap in the snow to be retrieved the next day. First and foremost his men needed fat and nutrients.

  With almost fifty pounds of reindeer in his rucksack, Poulsson made his way back toward Fetter. He was exhausted from the day’s exertions, but euphoria over the kill made his burden seem light. At one point he came across the herd that had eluded him; catching his scent, they once again thundered away.

  Night fell before he reached the cabin. After wiping his hands clean in the snow, he left the rucksack by the door and entered. He said nothing to the others, who assumed that once again his efforts had been for naught. They gave him a pitiful look, sorry for him, sorry for themselves. Haugland reported that Gunnerside would not be coming that night. With the number of days in the moon phase dwindling, the chances the mission would launch that month were slim.

  A few moments passed. Something in Poulsson’s look gave the men pause. Then Kjelstrup spotted a smear of blood on his white anorak and erupted in a shout. They rushed out of the cabin, and Kjelstrup lifted up the heavy, blood-soaked rucksack. Cheers rang out.

  The next night, Christmas Eve, the four gathered at the table under the light of a kerosene lamp. For a centerpiece, they had decorated a twig of juniper with little paper stars. They listened to Christmas carols on the radio for a short while, the wireless headphones set on a tin plate so they could all hear. Then the radio went off—the power in the battery needed to be conserved. They dined on fried reindeer tongue and liver, blood soup with the half-digested moss from the stomach, boiled meat, and marrow. Helberg had found some salted trout in a nearby cabin, a further treat.

  Sated, they sat in silence. Poulsson puffed on his pipe, and they all listened to the wind swirling around the cabin. It shook the corrugated-iron roof and sent a dusting of snow underneath the door. One of them began to hum a tune. Soon they were all singing a song they had learned while in Scotland, “She’ll Be Coming ’Round the Mountain When She Comes.” Not daring to test their emotions on a Norwegian song, they still felt like kings of Norway.

  In his office on the third floor of Oslo’s Victoria Terrasse, the building emblazoned with swastika flags, Fehlis reviewed the December 14 petition from Bjarne Eriksen, Norsk Hydro’s director general. Eriksen wanted two of his men, Torstein Skinnarland and Øystein Jahren, released from custody immediately. Fehlis knew that Terboven wanted to keep Eriksen happy. He had recently hosted a holiday dinner in his home at Skaugum, previously the royal residence outside Oslo, where he promised the assembly of industrial chiefs, including Eriksen, that once victory was complete, Norway—and their companies—would find a bright economic future waiting for them. Until then, the German war machine needed their help. The aluminum and saltpeter provided by Norsk Hydro made keeping Eriksen an ally worthwhile, but there was another key Norsk Hydro resource—designated SH-200—that Fehlis had to worry about. The British saboteurs had clearly targeted this substance, and Skinnarland and Jahren were key to uncovering the resistance network in the area.

  Every week, 99.5 percent pure heavy water was tapped from the high-concentration plant into five-liter aluminum bottles. These were packed into wooden crates (four bottles per crate) and shipped by train from Vemork to Mæl, by ferry across Lake Tinnsjø, then by rail again to the Oslo office of Norsk Hydro. From there, the Wehrwirtschaftsstab Norwegen took control of the crates. They relabeled them for delivery to Hardenbergstraße 10, the Berlin headquarters of the Army Ordnance Research Department.

  Once the crates left Norway, they were no longer the responsibility of Fehlis. Up until that point, his job was to protect Vemork and its 150 kilograms’ (and rising) monthly SH-200 output from sabotage. He had allies in his efforts. The Wehrmacht was responsible for supplying men to defend industrial plants of significant impo
rtance to the war effort, and Vemork was high on this list. After the failed glider operation, General Falkenhorst had visited the plant and had sent out a stream of directives on how to prevent future attempts. Access points must be identified, minefields laid, searchlights and sound alarms set up, and guards trained and armed with submachine guns, hand grenades, and even brass knuckles.

  “Our security teams must be mobile and capable of fighting within the plant and its rooms,” Falkenhorst ordered. “They must be able to quickly pursue the enemy, overtake him in the course of his flight, and swiftly overpower him in hand-to-hand combat.” He also warned that “the gangsters will choose precisely the most arduous approach route to infiltrate a facility, because that is where they expect to encounter the least protection and flimsiest barriers . . . The enemy spends weeks, even months, meticulously planning sabotage operations and spares no effort to assure their success. Consequently we too must resort to every conceivable means in order to thwart their plans and render their execution impossible.”

  But it was not Fehlis’s style to depend on Falkenhorst. It was his own interrogators who had wrung the plans for the Vemork attack from the five British saboteurs brought to Grini. Although they had denied any Norwegian involvement, he was committed to crushing any resistance network that might be aware of or on hand to aid such an operation. Informers had already supplied the names of the Skinnarland brothers, Einar and Torstein. Jahren, who had been tortured by the Gestapo, led them to the Rjukan Milorg leader, Olav Skogen. If anybody knew anything, it was Skogen. That all four were Norsk Hydro employees was not lost on him. On the morning of December 27, Fehlis had his men arrest Skogen. Let that be an answer to Eriksen and his petition.