Nesdal: set in a bowl 4,000 ft. above sea level, with a ridge 5,500 ft. high surrounding it, with peaks rising to 8,000 ft. in places, it offered perfect ski-ing in great variety.
The permanent population numbered about 1,500, for there was timber to be felled in the area and a sawmill to be operated. The two big hotels, four minor ones and several boarding houses gave further employment.
There was always somewhere in that bowl where the ski-ing conditions were good, whatever the weather. The mountains around Nesdal sheltered it from the worst winds, the winter sunshine warmed it. There were several ski lifts for those who enjoyed fast downhill running, and miles of cross-country trails for others.
This hidden paradise depended for supplies from the outer world on the single-track railway line that covered the last thirty miles from a bigger town 3,500 ft. lower down the mountain range. To a large extent Nesdal was self-sufficient. There were farms and the rivers and streams afforded excellent fishing. It was possible for a good skier —which meant every able-bodied inhabitant of Nesdal and its immediate district — to ski all the way to a village 3,000 ft. below and 12 miles away as the crow flies. But this meant crossing several intervening valleys and climbing the ridges between and almost doubled the distance. It also demanded 18 hours’ exertion by a fit young man and a night spent in one of the two wooden huts along the way. In summer, when the descent had to be made more slowly without skis, the journey took longer.
Where the railway track wound along the flank of the mountain which formed the eastern wall of the Nesdal bowl, it was protected by a snow shed; a strong wooden roof supported on stout wooden piles, a quarter of a mile long. This was at the most vulnerable part, subject to both heavy snowfalls and avalanches.
The line then entered a tunnel a mile long, to emerge on the inner face of the mountain, overlooking Nesdal. Thence it descended in a series of U-bends, with eight more snow sheds built at intervals where the line was worst exposed; sometimes to overhangs, rocky ledges which could become overloaded with snow which ultimately slid off.
There was a final straight run of railway that was also covered by a long snow shed to guard it from the one feature which marred the near-perfection of this bowl. To the north-east there was a break in the rim of the bowl: a deep, wide, V-shaped split in the mountain, a giant ravine. Its bottom lay 600 ft. above the floor of the bowl. From that direction, roaring and rampaging through the ravine with the destructive force of a million devils, a million bulldozers, a million artillery pieces, came the blizzards that afflicted Nesdal in six-year cycles and, annually, once or twice with lesser force.
When the Germans came they built a short airstrip on the only suitable place: among the rolling ridges that formed the floor of the Nesdal bowl, there was just one flat rectangle. The landing ground was put there for the benefit of vacationing officers of high rank, who could be fetched and carried by Fieseler Storch, the light aircraft which could take off with a run of only 65 metres and land on only 20 metres. Those distances applied to the heavy air at sea level, but even up at 4,000 ft. a strip 90 metres long and 15 metres wide was safe.
With the enemy in occupation, the tiny hospital at Nesdal had been enlarged and was a place where the most favoured among the sick and wounded Germans came to convalesce.
Among those who were allowed to enjoy the delights of Nesdal were both Nazi heroes and very senior officers, and Norwegian traitors: members of the Nasjonal Samling, the National Unity Party, equivalent of the Nazis, the Germans’ collaborators.
A permit to visit Nesdal was one of the most envied of privileges and Germans came from far afield. Highly decorated officers and men of all three Services came from every front. Generals, Admirals, colonels and naval captains came from every headquarters, barracks, dockyard and air station. Distinguished civilians came: inventors, senior engineers, factory management, Government officials. Anyone who had done the Reich great service was eligible.
A favourite ruse for obtaining a break at Nesdal was to set up a conference there. The excuse was valid. Nesdal was remote, isolated and as safe a place as one could wish for. It was easy to ferry in troops for extra security, by rail. It had remained unmolested throughout the war. Communications were adequate too, by both telephone and wireless.
The manager of the best hotel in Nesdal was a famous mountaineer and ski-er, Haakon Haukelid: a man of 42, tall, long-striding, wide-shouldered; under a thatch of straw coloured hair, fierce, wide-set eyes surveyed the world over a commanding nose that had been broken several times in falls on the snow and down the mountains. He had served as a captain in the Norwegian Army Reserve, fought in the gallant final defence against the German invasion with General Ruge’s force which had held the enemy in the narrow, snow-choked valleys of the Osterdal and Gudbrandsdal. He had been wounded when a burst of Schmeisser fire took him in the side and right thigh.
After many months in hospital, during which a foot or two of intestine was removed and some patchwork done to his stomach, Haukelid was released with scars on his body, a slight limp and a deeply engraved hatred for the enemy. But he had behaved himself, he had learned patience in the mountains and was inherently tactful. He had made German friends in international mountaineering circles, been on expeditions with men of many nationalities, learned English, German and French. He was allowed to return to his home in Nesdal where his parents owned the leading hotel. Now he was the manager with his father as his employer and semi-retired.
For the first year after he came out of hospital the Germans had kept a wary eye on Haakon Haukelid. By the end of the second year they had no reservations about him: tough though he was, he had been grievously wounded and could no longer be expected to rove the mountains as he once did. He would never win any more acclaim by mountaineering and exploratory exploits, no longer could he undertake any strenuous activity. His livelihood would depend on the hotel. So he would settle down quietly and forget the war.
All of which gave Haukelid the perfect cloak of innocence, provided by the enemy themselves, that he needed to carry on his work as a leader in Milorg, the secret resistance organisation that spread its tentacles all over Norway and worked relentlessly against the hated conquerors.
Invisible bonds linked Haakon Haukelid and Bill Bracken. Through Milorg and the clandestine boat service maintained between Norway and the Shetland Isles, Haukelid, Bracken, Moakes, Leatham and many others at Headquarters Bomber Command and at the HQ of the Group which controlled Belton, were joined in one delicate, far-reaching and complicated system of intrigue and action.
Just as the Germans employed British citizens who had insinuated themselves into positions of influence where they had access to State secrets, so the British, through their Norwegian friends, had access to the inner councils of the common enemy.
Haukelid, by suggesting the operation, had set in motion the events which, each impinging on the next, like a row of dominoes tumbling one after another after the first one is gently nudged over by a touch of the finger, would bring to Nesdal the important men whom the British most wanted to remove.
Once they were assembled there, these men of exceptional talent and power could be made impotent to take any part in Germany’s war effort.
Generals of the Army and the Air Force, Admirals, Ministers, scientists and engineers were subtly and secretly being summoned to attend a conference that would plan the future course of the war: strategy, production, allocation of resources. The recommendations of this congress would be presented to the Fuhrer himself and his immediate henchmen. Not, regrettably, in Nesdal, where they also could have been dealt with, but at his retreat, the Wolf’s Lair, or at Berchtesgaden, or perhaps in Berlin. But that did not matter, for without the brains and experience and abilities of the men who were to gather at Nesdal, the Nazis would be as seriously deprived as any 1,000-bomber raid on the Reich could deprive them by destroying factories, power stations, marshalling yards, ports, submarine pens and aircraft dispersed around aerodromes.
The material could be manufactured to make good the losses, the installations rebuilt. It would take time; but not as long as it would take to find and train men of high calibre to replace those who had been taken out. Some of these would be literally irreplaceable.
And it could be done, not with 1,000 bombers but with twelve.
The lives of the Norwegians in Nesdal had to be spared. There would be no widespread bombing.
The objective of Operation Thunderflash was wider than the air crews participating in it would be allowed to know, or than most of the planners would be told.
Once the enemy were contained in the Nesdal basin and cut off from contact with any help, they could be dealt with: singly, if necessary.
Members of Milorg, well equipped by the British by means of air drops and the Shetland boats, supplied with radios, arms, ammunition and explosives, infested Nesdal itself and the surrounding district. They would move in fast to deal with every man Jack — every jackbooted Fritz — who had to be killed; soldier, sailor, airman or civilian.
The assault that had been planned to shorten the war, in its many ramifications, touched Haakon Haukelid as, in the enemy’s midst, he manoeuvred behind a facade of civility to the Germans, and Bill Bracken as he lay enraptured in Margaret Leatham’s fervent embrace, equally.
Neither of them was aware of more than his own part in it. Both, in due course, would be acutely conscious of the importance of perfect timing.
Twelve - Bill Bracken
In a crew, each man’s life was in the others’ hands. Over Turin that night I learned a further meaning of comradeship, mutual dependence and selflessness.
From that time on I saw a halo around Donk Moakes. Neither I nor any member of my crew, of course, dared to address him by his nickname, but that was how we always spoke of him or thought of him.
His action brought home to me that nothing could take the place of experience: to make that rapid swoop through the night sky with such accuracy and to despatch the Me 110 so unerringly was something no other pilot on the whole station could have done. It also made me feel very humble because I knew that it would probably not have occurred to me that there was a way to help a comrade who was under fire 5,000 ft. below and a mile away.
U for Uncle had sustained damage once again, from the Messerschmitt’s cannons and machine guns, and the long flight back with fuselage holed was a misery. Air rushing in brought the temperature down drastically and we shivered all the way. A runny nose with an oxygen mask on is no fun at all, nor are numbed fingers and feet. I longed for a second pilot to take over the controls from time to time. The only member of the crew who could move about was Bruce, between the nose and the navigation and wireless positions.
We kept him busy with journeys to the gun turrets as well, as long as the coffee lasted, but that drop of comfort had its limitations for it gave one the urge to go down to the Elsan and empty one’s bladder.
I couldn’t ease the situation by flying lower: partly because of the mountains and partly for fear of flak and fighters while crossing France.
Despite being holed, and in a hurry, we dutifully carried out our usual return-journey exercise among the Alpine peaks.
When we landed, and I had thanked Sqdn. Ldr. Moakes for his timely rescue, which he described as “not worth mentioning, old boy”, I said, “I hope we get on with this special op., whatever it is, very soon, sir.”
“We all do, Bill,” he said.
From then on we began a series of exercises among the hills and mountains of Wales and Scotland; and pimples these seemed to us, now. We trained by both day and night and some of our practice took us almost scraping vertical hillsides with our wingtips when we made dummy attacks on imaginary targets close under the shelter of overhanging ledges.
Our trips over the Alps became less frequent.
Leatham dropped out of them altogether, which did not escape comment, but this was excused by his repeated absences; which he went to some pains to let everyone know were to attend conferences at Group, Command or Air Ministry.
The more often Leatham stayed away overnight the better I was pleased.
Margaret and I had never dared to spend a whole night together in the gate lodge, but on two occasions she had proposed a complicated plan to me for smuggling me into her bedroom. It entailed a pretended overnight visit to Lincoln, or Nottingham or Doncaster and a clandestine return that would enable me to hide in the lodge until the last of the evening’s squadron visitors to The Grange had left. Getting out in the morning without being discovered by one of the staff was to be even more difficult.
“I would do anything to be able to hold you in my arms all night, darling,” I told her, “but there isn’t any way of fooling Nick. He knows I don’t take out any of the WAAF: so why would I want to sleep off camp when we’ve got better food in the mess than in any hotel, and comfortable beds?”
“Doesn’t Nick ever spend a night away from camp with a girl?”
“He hasn’t yet. He used to smuggle a couple of Waafs into our room while I was out: not at the same time, I mean; different ones at different times. Now he’s got a WAAF officer and she smuggles him into her quarters.”
“Surely he must suspect where you are when you’re not in bed at your usual time? He knows you come here: he must guess it’s me you’re with.”
“No, he doesn’t. He thinks I’ve got a civilian girl in the village and that’s why I go into Belton so often. As you know, he never comes to The Grange in the morning or afternoon. Nick likes company, so he only comes when there’s a bunch here from the squadron.”
“Then,” Margaret announced firmly, “we’re going to London. As soon as possible.”
“Fine with me, but my crew’s leave has been stopped indefinitely.”
She gave me a look of such distress and fear that my heart missed a beat as I was overcome by tenderness; and, provoked by her obvious fright, a moment of fear myself.
“Oh, darling!” She clung tightly to me and snuggled her head against me, our cheeks touching. “What are they going to do to you?” She pulled away to look me in the eyes. “They aren’t sending you overseas, are they?”
“No, it’s nothing like that. It’s just...I don’t know...I really don’t...and if I did, I wouldn’t be able to say. But it’s nothing to do with going overseas.”
She heaved a great sigh and held me close again, saying nothing.
After a while she whispered, “Promise me, as soon as they let you have leave again, we’ll go away together.”
“You know it’s what I’ve been longing for. But do you have to stay in your London house?”
“You bet I won’t. I’ll invent some excuse and we’ll really leave the world to get on without us.” She looked at me again, misty-eyed. “For forty-eight- hours: that’s all we’ll have; it’s as long as I can be sure I won’t be caught out.”
As always about her, no thought of squalid deceit or sordid chicanery and dishonesty cast a shadow over my rapturous anticipation of our escapade.
For a fleeting instant I wished I could confide in man-of-the-world Nick Compton. I still hadn’t shaken off my sense of inferiority in the patronising regard of my old schoolfellow who had been such a schoolboy god; despite the fact that I had proved, in his presence, time and again, that I was master of my trade and in full command of my crew by right of character-strength and the respect I knew I had won.
November arrived and with it a briefing I was to remember in detail for the rest of my life.
Operation Thunderflash began for me with a summons to the Briefing Room one morning, when a serious-faced Gp. Capt Jevons mounted the dais, led by an Air Commodore whom I recognised having seen around the station before.
It was the Station Commander who addressed us, while the Air Commodore’s eyes roved over the assembly, seeming to probe into every man’s thoughts and character.
The twelve crews who had been on special training were the only ones assembled, with the CO of the other sq
uadron.
“There has, I know, been a great deal of curiosity about your activities during the past few weeks. I know also that you have been highly discreet and impervious to all attempts to get you to talk about them. You have done very well. Now I am going to lay another burden of discretion on you. With immediate effect you are confined to camp until further notice. Tomorrow you will be briefed in detail on the task for which you have been practising.
“I must emphasise again the importance of total security. I realise that some of you may have made arrangements to go off camp this evening. If so, you are not to cancel those arrangements personally: you will give any relevant names, addresses and telephone numbers to your squadron Intelligence officers, who will notify the people concerned.
“The telephone boxes in the camp have been locked and orders given that no private calls are to go out through the PBX. No incoming calls are permitted either: they will all be taken by the Intelligence Section and messages passed on.
“Finally, you are not to mention to anyone that you are confined to camp. The fact may leak out when you are all seen hanging around, but if you are challenged with it you must deny it.
“Try to behave as though nothing out of the ordinary is happening.”
After a few more crisp warnings and admonitions, we were dismissed.
Eddie Hill said, “Be’ave like nothing ornery was going on! Blimey: when the lads see some of the biggest boozers and crumpet-chasers on the station hanging around instead of going to town, they’ll know something’s up.”
“Yeah,” Keith told him crudely, “but yours won’t be, chum.”
“You’ve got a point,” I conceded, “but the object of keeping us on camp is to make sure we go to bed early and get a good rest.”
Nick gave me an evil wink. “Someone’s going to be disappointed, Bill. Don’t you wish you were organised on camp, like some of us?”
“Early to bed means alone,” I told him. “I’m going to stick to you like a leech, so you needn’t think you’re going to slope off to the WAAF officers’ quarters.”
Operation Thunderflash Page 13
