by Neal Bascomb
Then they were off, back on their skis and heading east along the road to Våer. The mild temperature and the warm wind coming down the valley had turned the surface of the road into a treacherous blend of snow, ice, and slush, and they had to fight to control their skis’ edges. They also needed to keep their eyes peeled for headlights coming up in front or from behind. Rolf Sørlie had told Helberg about recent German troop movement in the area, and there was a chance that the Wehrmacht was still transporting soldiers along this road at night. In spite of the risk of discovery, using the road was considerably easier and faster than attempting the whole distance through the uneven hillside terrain.
They made it to the first sharp turn in the Z-shaped segment of the road without incident. To bypass Våer and avoid spying eyes, Helberg steered them back into the forest. For a spell, they followed the narrow path made for the line of telephone poles that advanced like sentries through the thick woods. Still, they often had to trudge through drifts, sometimes sinking nearly to their armpits in soft, wet snow.
The slope through the trees became an almost sheer drop. Backs flat against the snow, feet acting as brakes, they edged themselves downward. It was so steep that if they bent forward even slightly at the waist, gravity would send them pitching into a head-over-heels tumble certain to take down anyone in their path.
Helberg finally dropped onto the road east of Våer, followed by a few of the others. While they were waiting for the rest of the team, headlights suddenly cut through the darkness. They hurried to hide behind a roadside snowbank as two buses rumbled toward them. Those still sliding down the slope frantically tried to anchor themselves to keep from falling into the road. Two of them narrowly missed landing on the roof of the first bus. But the vehicles, carrying nightshift workers, passed, oblivious to their presence.
Once all the men were on the road, they put on their skis again and traveled east, away from Vemork and toward Rjukan, for about half a mile. When they came alongside an open field, Helberg signaled them to follow him, and they worked their way up seventy-five yards to the power-line track that ran parallel to the road. A short distance down the track, they stopped and unloaded anything they would not need within Vemork into a hastily dug snow depot, including their skis and ski poles. They also stripped off their white camouflage suits—army uniforms were better suited for hiding in the shadows. It was also essential that the sabotage be seen as a British-only military operation to prevent retaliation against the local Norwegian population.
At 10:00 p.m. they made their final checks. Rønneberg and Strømsheim each had a rucksack with a set of explosives, detonators, and fuses, either one capable of destroying the high-concentration plant. The covering party carried Tommy guns, pistols, spare magazines, and hand grenades. Kjelstrup had the added burden of a pair of heavy shears to cut through any locks that stood in their way. “All right, let’s go,” Rønneberg said.
Helberg guided them down from the power line, across the road, and into the gorge. They hung on to shrubs and branches as they descended to the Måna River. Time and time again they lost their footing, creating small slides of snow that advanced ahead of them. Then they were at the bottom of the valley. The wind continued to blow, and melting snow dripped down the rocks on either side of the gorge. There was a danger that the thaw had caused the waters of the river to rise, sweeping away any ice bridges they were planning to use to cross the river. They trekked along the riverbank, seeking a still-frozen section. The cliffs of the gorge soared upward on either side of them.
After a few minutes, they found an ice bridge that looked like it might hold their weight. Helberg went first, quickly stepping across. In single file, the others followed. The bridge did not break, but they knew that it might well be gone when they made it back—if they made it back.
Now Helberg searched for the slot in the gorge he had seen on his scouting mission earlier that day, for the place he suspected they could climb. He felt no relief when he found it: this mountainside, over six hundred feet to the railway line, was even steeper than the slope they had just de-scended, and even though a few brave trees clung to clefts of the rock, the ascent looked all but unassailable in the dark, without ropes and pitons. This was the approach they had chosen, and there was no turning back. Rønneberg gave the signal with his hand. Up.
Each man took his own silent path up the rock wall, guiding his hands and feet into holds, feeling his way along. Water trickled down the cliff, and they often slipped on patches of ice and encrusted snow. On some stretches, the ascent was more like a scramble, where they grabbed tree trunks and rock outcrops, just to gain a fast few feet. On other stretches, they dug their fingers and toes into crevices and inched their bodies sideways, pressing tightly to the gorge wall to avoid the wind that gusted around them, always reaching higher. Sweat soaked their clothes as they forced themselves up from ledge to ledge. Now and again they rested, flexing numb fingers, rubbing cramped muscles, waiting for pulses to calm, before venturing up again.
A quarter of the way up, Idland was trying to pull himself higher when the fingers of his left hand slipped off a rock handhold. His breath caught in his chest, and he searched frantically for some crevice or spur of rock to grab hold of but found nothing but slick, wet stone on which he was unable to gain purchase. He pressed himself close to the wall, made sure his feet were secure, then switched hands on the piece of rock. His rucksack and Tommy gun suddenly felt very heavy. With his right hand, he stretched out, running his fingers across the wall in every direction, hoping, needing to find something to grab. There was nothing.
To extend his reach, he moved his body in a slow but widening arc, like a pendulum, from side to side. At last the tips of the fingers of his right hand brushed up against what felt like a clump of roots. With the grip on his left hand weakening, he had to act quickly—and boldly—or he was lost. After a few short breaths, he started the pendulum swing again. Then, when he had the momentum, he forced himself to do the most unnatural thing in the world: he let go. In the same instant, he stretched out to snag the roots with his right hand. There was a moment when his hands were empty, when he was sure he was going to pitch backward into the gorge. Then his fingers tightened around the roots. They held—long enough for his left hand to grab another hold. He hugged the wall, a swell of wind coursing around him. Then he continued up.
A half hour into their climb, more than three hundred feet up and the railway line still out of sight, they were all starting to weary. Their fingers hurt. Their toes were numb. Their limbs ached. They had skied and trekked for miles through rough, snowbound terrain before even reaching the base of the gorge. Now they were climbing a steep mountain gorge in the pitch dark with heavy, awkwardly balanced rucksacks on their backs. Any missed hold or slipped foot could mean a fatal fall.
When training in the mountains of Scotland, they had been taught never to look down when they were climbing for fear of losing their nerve. But one or two of them did look down the way they had come. The gorge seemed like terrible jaws, ready to devour them. The sight froze them until the sounds of the efforts of their mates broke through their momentary terror. Shaking it off, they continued. No matter what individual battles they had to fight on the wall, they were not alone. If one of the men found an easy path, the others followed as best as they could. When one of them sank into a pocket of snow, needing a good shove from behind to get moving again, he didn’t need to wait long. Or if someone was searching fruitlessly for a secure hold, help came quickly, either in the form of advice about a possible foothold or a hand stretched out from above.
At last, a few minutes past 11:00 p.m., the first man scrambled up the final bit of scree to the railway line. The others followed—dazed, exhausted, relieved to be at the top. For a spell, nobody spoke. They rested on the tracks and looked to the fortress at the end of the line.
In their cabin retreat, thirty miles from Rjukan, Skinnarland and Haugland sat on their beds as a snow squall blew outside. Neither had wa
nted to remain behind just to report on the operation. They wanted to be in on the job; they wanted to help. But that was the curse of the radioman: he was the eyes and ears of the mission but rarely had a hand in its execution.
Well-trained radio operators were limited in number within the SOE and were considered too valuable to risk in sabotage operations. Their transmissions—and the fact that they were burdened with such heavy equipment—made them traceable targets for the Germans. In fact, radio operators suffered the most casualties among SOE agents. At that moment, though, Haugland and Skinnarland were safer than many of their countrymen, high up in the Vidda, in the middle of winter.
Skinnarland could not help but think of his brother Torstein and his best friend Olav Skogen, both being held at Grini. They had suffered so much, while he was still free. Both Skinnarland and Haugland knew their families might face reprisals if the Vemork sabotage succeeded—or even if it did not. The Germans would suspect any commandos would have had local help. There was nothing to do but wait and wonder and hope that all the intelligence they had gathered and all the preparations they had made before the Gunnerside team arrived were contributing to the operation’s success.
Careful with each step, Haukelid led the others down the railway line toward Vemork. The wind had blown the snow clear from the track closest to the gorge’s edge, and they kept to the frozen gravel so as not to leave footsteps. There was very little moonlight, and Haukelid was sure that they would not be seen coming along the track. He was even more sure that they would not be heard—he could hardly hear his own voice over the wind, the din of rushing water, and the plant’s massive turbine generators.
Across the valley, the lights of a vehicle snaked along the road that they had crossed an hour before. As Haukelid came around the bend, the team following silently behind him, he saw the suspension bridge down below to his right and the silhouettes of two soldiers guarding it. Straight ahead, five hundred yards away, was the railway gate, and beyond that stood the hulking shapes of the power station and hydrogen plant. Squeezed between these behemoths was the small German guard barracks.
At 11:40 p.m. Haukelid stopped beside a snow-covered transformer shed and waited for the others to catch up with him. This was the perfect vantage point from which to watch the bridge and wait for the midnight changing of the guard. Rønneberg wanted them to move on the target half an hour after that. This would allow enough time for the new sentries to ease into their duty and get lulled into the regular routine. Using the shed as a windbreak, the nine men settled down on the tracks. They ate chocolate and crackers produced from their pockets. A few of them ambled out of sight to relieve themselves.
Rønneberg then gathered them close together so he would be heard over the loud drone of the power station and asked if they understood their orders. Despite their nods, he went over the key points one more time: The demolition party would enter through the basement door and lay the charges. The covering party would hold their positions until the sabotage was complete. No matter what, the target must be destroyed. If they were captured, suicide orders were in effect. They must not be taken into interrogation.
A few minutes before midnight, a new set of guards headed down to the bridge. Soon after, the men they had relieved from duty plodded up to the barracks. Bundled in coats, caps drawn tightly over their heads, they looked bored, complacent. They carried their weapons in the listless manner of men who felt they had nothing to fear.
The saboteurs returned to their waiting. There were nerves, to be sure, but beside some gallows humor about what would happen if they were caught, they each kept their fears to themselves. Instead, they gazed out at the surrounding valley and made small talk about anything and everything apart from the operation ahead. Kjelstrup cleaned his teeth with a matchstick. Helberg joked about the ant-infested syrup he had found at Fjøsbudalen. Others talked about old pranks and romances gone sour. From the conversation, they might have been mates shooting the breeze after a night on the town.
The minutes ticked by, and eventually Rønneberg’s watch told him it was almost half past midnight. With barely a nod from him, the men rose to their feet. They checked their guns and explosives one last time. “In a few minutes we’ll be at our target,” Rønneberg said. He echoed the words Tronstad had told them all before they left for the mission: “Remember: What we do in the next hour will be a chapter of history for a hundred years to come . . . Together we will make it a worthy one.” Then Rønneberg gestured to Haukelid, who left first with the covering party.
Now within range of the land mines, Haukelid was even more deliberate with each step. A few yards down the track, he found some footprints in the snow, probably from one of the plant’s workers. These were his safe passage. Kjelstrup followed close behind him, then the seven others in single file. One hundred yards from the gate, they stopped behind a short row of storage sheds. At this proximity, the hum of the generators was now a roar.
At 12:30 a.m. sharp, Rønneberg signaled to Haukelid and Kjelstrup to cut the gate lock. “Good luck,” he whispered before they headed over the final yards in a crouch. With the shears, Kjelstrup snapped off the sturdy padlock like it was a dry twig, and Haukelid pulled the chain out and pushed open the twelve-foot-wide gate. The five-man covering party entered Vemork quickly, Poulsson the last man in. The demolition party—Rønneberg, Kayser, Strømsheim, and Idland—followed soon after.
Within moments, Haukelid and his team had scattered to take up their positions, ready to lock down the guards if the alarm sounded or if there was any approach on the demolition party. Tommy gun at the ready, Kjelstrup covered the steps down from the penstocks. Helberg stood at the railway gate, protecting their way out. Storhaug was posted on a slope with a clear bead on the road leading down to the suspension bridge.
Haukelid and Poulsson slid into position behind two large steel storage tanks, fifteen yards from the barracks. While Haukelid lined up a row of hand grenades, Poulsson trained the barrel of his Tommy gun on the barracks door. They also kept their eyes peeled for any roving patrols. “Good spot,” Poulsson said.
In the meantime, the demolition party cut a hole in the fence fifty yards down from the railway gate. Then, farther down again, they snapped the lock off another gate that led to some warehouses. These would both serve as alternative paths of escape. When they were done, Rønneberg stopped still for a long moment. He cast his eyes about for any sign of movement in the darkness; he also listened intently. The plant’s machinery drummed on. So far, they were undetected. With Kayser close by him, Rønneberg crossed the open yard to the eight-story hydrogen plant. Strømsheim followed, Idland covering him with a Tommy gun. The two men with the explosives were to be protected above all the others.
The four saboteurs went around the side of the plant. Little flecks of light glittered in the windows where the blackout paint was chipped. In places it did not completely cover the glass. Rønneberg peered through a sliver of a gap in a window at the northeastern corner of the building. A lone individual watched over the room.
The demolition team edged around the eastern wall of the plant at basement level until they reached a steel door near the corner. His gun at the ready, Rønneberg pulled at the handle. The door didn’t budge. “Locked,” he said. He sent Kayser up an adjacent concrete stairwell to see if the first-floor door was open. Returning down as fast as he went up, Kayser reported, “No.”
Rønneberg tensed. They needed a way into the plant, one that did not involve blasting the thick steel doors or breaking the windows, either of which would alert the Germans.
18
Sabotage
* * *
RØNNEBERG RECHECKED THE plant’s basement and first-floor doors himself. Kayser stayed with him, searching the shadows for any sign of an approaching patrol. Strømsheim and Idland looked for another way in. They knew they had only so much time before a guard crossed their path or ran into the covering party. Growing desperate, Rønneberg was struck by the thought of the ca
ble tunnel on the northern wall. Racing down the steps, he waved for Kayser to follow him.
At Brickendonbury Hall, they had discussed alternative entry points into the plant, and Tronstad had told them about a narrow tunnel filled with pipes and cables, which ran between the basement ceiling and first floor and out a small access hole in the exterior wall facing the gorge. Rønneberg thought that if the tunnel had not been blocked during the recent security upgrade, it might provide an access point.
He hurried around the building and searched through the snowbank along the outside wall for the ladder he had been told led up to the tunnel. After a couple of minutes, his hands came across a rung. “Here it is,” he said to Kayser. The two climbed the slippery steel, Rønneberg first. Fifteen feet up, he found the tunnel entrance, half-filled with snow. It was unbarred. He swept the snow out of the opening, then crawled inside. There was barely enough room for his body, and he had to drag the rucksack of explosives behind him. Kayser squirreled into the tunnel after him.
They made their way on their bellies over the cables and pipes for several yards. Rønneberg tried to turn his head to see if the others had come in after them, but the space was too cramped. Kayser confirmed that Strømsheim and Idland were not in the rear. The only direction in which they could go was forward. They would have to execute the sabotage alone.
Rønneberg kept crawling. After a few minutes, he saw some water pipes that bent through a hole to his left into the ceiling. Through the hole, he could just make out some of the plant’s high-concentration cells. They were close.
