by Kris Tualla
Teigen gave her a resigned look. “I had a feeling. Ever since we parted last. Somehow I knew he wasn’t going to survive this war. He was too… big. I knew he’d be in the thick of it.”
“I do have something else to tell you.” Selby’s voice and expression were hesitant. “But maybe it should wait.”
He felt punched in the belly. “Is it good news or bad?”
Her face softened. “It’s good. But I don’t know if I want you to always remember this letter every time you think of it.”
“Tell me something good, Sel. Please. Tell me something that makes all of this struggle and fighting and dying worth it.” He reached for her hand. “What’s the good news?”
Her smile was shaky at first. “Are you ready?”
He drew a deep breath and squeezed her hand. “Yes.”
“All right then.” Her pale blue eyes, full of love, met his. “I’m going to have a baby.”
Teigen fell sideways off his knees. “Swear it’s true, Sel. Don’t tease.”
Her smile grew radiant then. “It’s true. I saw the doctor today.”
Teigen was gobsmacked. “Wh—when?”
“He’ll be born in September. At Hansen Hall.” Now Selby squeezed his hand. “And we’ll name him Tor.”
Epilogue
Less than a month after Operation Cement Mixer—which destroyed train tracks in over a hundred locations around Norway—the Norwegian resistance ended its sabotage operations so as not to provoke the Germans into making a last stand in Norway.
On April 30, 1945 Adolf Hitler shot himself in his Führerbunker in Berlin. His wife Eva committed suicide with him by taking cyanide.
On May 7, 1945 the Germans unconditionally surrendered all of their forces to the Allies in a meeting at US General Eisenhower’s headquarters in France.
Terboven was despised by both the Norwegians and his own men. The Reichskommissar killed himself by detonating a hundred pounds of dynamite in a bunker after Germany’s surrender.
May 8, 1945 brought a new day in Norway. Church bells rang while people filled the streets to celebrate and sing. Milorg and the new Norwegian Police force appeared in uniform and began mass arrests of Nazi Party members.
At seven o’clock in the morning on May 9, 1945 and knowing they were defeated, Vidkun Quisling along with six other German ministers arrived at the Oslo Police Headquarters to be arrested. Two hours later, Norwegians listened to the first free Norwegian radio broadcast in five years.
On May 13, 1945 Norway’s Crown Prince Philip, along with some of the government-in-exile ministers, returned from England to reclaim his throne in Oslo. The Norwegian people greeted him with a parade of welcome.
King Haakon received the same welcome when he arrived in Oslo on June 7, 1945—5 years to the day after he left Norway for exile in Britain. This was also the 40th Anniversary of Norway’s Independence, won in 1905.
And on September 10, 1945 at Hansen Hall in Arendal, Selby presented Teigen with a healthy eight-pound baby girl, named Torhild after her heroic uncle.
Read Chapter One of:
Battles Abroad
The Norsemen’s War
Book 2:
Tor & Kyle
Kris Tualla
Chapter
One
November 18, 1943
Denver, Colorado
Captain Tor Hansen of the Norwegian Army had been delayed in getting to America and he was as tense and fidgety as a man standing on the edge of a cracking glacier. After eight months of red tape and passports and military negotiations he was finally about to land in Denver, Colorado and take up his commission as an adjunct to the United States Army.
Seems that the American soldiers needed to learn how to ski.
And after being denied the chance to compete in the cancelled nineteen forty Winter Olympic Games—thanks that bastard Adolf Hitler starting this war—Tor was itching to get back on the slopes and show off his skills.
But as he stared out the window of the airplane from the cramped, far-too-small-for-his-frame seat, the prospect of finding those slopes seemed unlikely. Since leaving Chicago on this third and final leg of his long and exhausting journey from London, Tor saw nothing below him except miles and miles of flat ground.
Sure, a hill rose up now and then. And the farmland was occasionally relieved by clusters of denuded trees or small gray-green lakes. But the further west they flew the farms gave way to vast expanses of yellow-grassed prairie land. Not a mountain in sight.
Where in hell are we supposed to ski?
His travel-weary body must have succumbed to a light sleep because he was jerked awake by the sudden and plane-jolting rise and drop of the aircraft. He grabbed the arms of his seat and looked around to see if anyone else seemed concerned as their path grew increasingly turbulent.
His head became dizzy from the constant motion. His belly, so disrupted by the last twenty-four hours’ time-of-day shifts, sporadic sleep, and unfamiliar food, threatened to empty whatever it still held onto Tor’s lap. He reached into the seat pocket in front of him and fumbled for the little waxed sack.
“It’s always like this, coming into Denver,” his seatmate assured him. “It’s because the airport is so close to the mountains.”
Mountains?
Tor turned back to the window. All he could see was the unending roll of the prairie.
He faced the man beside him again. “What mountains?”
“The Rocky Mountains.” The man smiled knowingly. “Wait until we turn around to land. You’ll see them then.”
In Tor’s experience, a landscape never just shifted from vast plains to tall mountains without many miles of gradually increasing foothills. He saw no sign of the sort of foothills that would lead to mountains high enough to require his expertise.
His view disappeared as the two-propeller wing lifted and the plane dipped to its left. Looking across to the windows on the other side, all he could see was brown, snow-dusted ground.
And then, the aircraft leveled out.
Tor’s jaw dropped. Rising suddenly from the plains as if all the land had been scraped from the east to form them, the majestic Rockies stretched north, south, and west as far as he could see.
Jagged peaks were crowned in glorious white—the kind that never melts completely away. They both dwarfed and protected the city that knelt at their feet. As the plane continued its bone-shaking bounces and violent swerves on its downward path, Tor smiled in spite of his discomfort.
This was what he expected to see. This was the sort of landscape he was familiar with.
I’m home.
He hurriedly opened the wax sack and completely emptied his stomach into it.
*****
Tor straightened his drab-green Norwegian Army captain’s uniform with its three-starred collars and King Harald’s crest on his arm, and checked once more for any stray flecks of vomit that might have missed the sack. It wouldn’t do to give his hosts a bad impression at first glance.
Satisfied that he looked presentable, he settled his cap on his head and stepped into the aisle to gratefully exit the airplane. A bitterly cold wind slapped his bare face as he carefully descended the steps to the frosted tarmac and followed the other passengers into the terminal. His scarf was in his duffle bag. He didn’t care; it was a short walk.
Thank God my feet are on the ground.
Once inside he swept a gaze over the crowd waiting for the deplaning passengers. He was supposed to be met by an American soldier from his destination, Camp Hale—a Lieutenant Kyle Solberg. Tor had no idea what the man looked like but figured that, as the only Norwegian soldier on the flight, he stood out enough for the man to find him.
When he saw no one who fit the bill, he turned to follow the baggage collection signs, assuming the lieutenant was waiting there for him.
“Unnskyld meg, sir,” The feminine voice at his shoulder addressed him in Norsk. “Er du Kaptein Hansen?”
Tor stopped and looked down at t
he blonde woman in what he thought was a lieutenant’s uniform based on the information he was given during his cross-cultural training.
“Yes, I am,” he answered in the same language. “And you are?”
She flashed a relieved smile and saluted him before continuing their conversation in Norsk. “I’m Lieutenant Kyle Solberg. I’ll be your translator while you’re stationed at Camp Hale.”
Translator?
And Kyle Solberg is a woman?
Under different circumstances, Tor might have admitted that he spoke English fairly well after training in England for a cumulative fourteen months over the last three years. But at the moment he was far from his best.
His head pounded and was still woozy from motion sickness. His empty stomach simultaneously begged for food while promising to reject anything that might appear. He was so tired from lack of sleep he was ready to topple over. And every muscle in his tall frame was cramped and aching.
So instead, all he said was, “I’m glad to meet you, Lieutenant.”
She extended one hand in the direction of the baggage claim. “Shall we collect your bags?”
*****
Once his heavily stuffed duffle bag was retrieved and crammed into the trunk of the lieutenant’s little black sedan, Tor folded himself into the passenger seat.
Lieutenant Solberg noticed. “There’s some room to put the seat back,” she offered. “How tall are you, exactly?”
“Six feet and six inches. Just like my brother.”
Now why did I mention him?
That was only going to lead to small talk. Tor pressed his lips together and pulled the door closed to shut off the windy blast that swept over the parking lot. Clouds scudded across the sky as if undecided whether to gather or move on.
Solberg started the engine. Cold air blew from the car’s vents; he found it refreshing.
“It should warm up soon.”
Relieved that she was going to ignore the comment about his brother, Tor said truthfully, “It’s fine. I like it cold.”
She reached down and turned a knob. “It’s a three hour drive to the camp. Are you hungry?”
“Not at the moment.”
“Okay. Then I guess we’re on our way.” She backed out of the parking space and turned the car toward the exit. “We should get there before supper is served at six, but if you want to stop along the road just let me know.”
“Thank you.” Tor shifted his weight, trying to straighten his legs without success.
“So is your brother in the Norwegian Army, too?”
Damn.
He looked at the lieutenant. Her profile was classically Norse: high brow, high cheekbones, straight nose. She was actually very attractive. In another setting…
Stop.
“No. But he’s a sergeant in Milorg. That’s short for Military Organization.”
“The Resistance?” she clarified.
“Yes.”
“Does he look like you, too?”
Tor blinked heavily. The motion of the car was already making him sleepy. “The truth is we’ve often been mistaken for twins. The most obvious difference in our appearance is that he has green eyes and mine are blue.”
Solberg briefly glanced at him. “I always wanted blue eyes.”
He couldn’t see the color of her eyes when she faced the road, but he thought he saw they were gray. Maybe greenish gray. He yawned.
She noticed that, too. “It’s okay if you want to grab a nap. The seat leans pretty far back.”
“If you don’t mind…” Tor felt for the lever. “I’ve been traveling since sometime yesterday.”
“Not at all, sir.”
He found the level and pulled it. The back of his seat fell backwards to a forty-five-degree angle. He resettled and closed his eyes.
What should he do about Lieutenant Kyle Solberg?
The idea that he would be provided a translator surprised him initially, but as he thought about it the accommodation made sense. He didn’t mean to puff himself up, but he held a significant military rank and he was an exceptional skier. For him to come to America and teach others to ski as well as he did was sort of a big deal.
And of course no one would assume he knew English; he hailed from a proud but small and internationally unimportant kingdom.
Hell, Hitler walked in and claimed the entire country in just a five hour siege.
There was resistance now, sure, but no battles. No actual war. Most of the world probably had no idea what was going on in Norway for that matter.
So—here he was with a translator. A woman. An attractive woman. He’d be a fool to put a stop to this before he got a chance to know her.
She spoke Norsk like a native. He’d have to ask her about that. In the meantime, a lot could be gained by not admitting he understood the conversations that took place around him.
Tor smiled inwardly.
This could be fun.
Thus resolved to continue the ruse and speak nothing but Norsk for as long as it suited him, he shifted his position in the car once again before allowing the steady hum of the engine and the gentle motion of the vehicle to lull him into a much-needed nap.
*****
Kyle listened to the captain’s soft snores as she drove into the shadows of the Rocky Mountains. Night came swiftly here, the sun hidden long before it fell level with the valleys. The fact that he slept, trusting her with his life, warmed her heart in a stupid, silly way.
He’s just exhausted, she told herself. Who wouldn’t be?
She looked over at him again, before the interior of the car grew too dark for her to see his face.
Damn, he’s handsome.
Kyle never swore out loud—it wasn’t acceptable for women in her mind, even in the military. But since joining the Women’s Army Corps as a translator and being stationed at Camp Hale she’d certainly heard an abundance of colorful language.
The fact that Captain Tor Hansen was an exceptionally good-looking individual wasn’t going to be helpful in her situation. She couldn’t allow herself to become infatuated with the Norseman because she was engaged to be married.
When the war ended Kyle would return home to Viking, the tiny town in northern Minnesota where she was born, and marry Erik Olsen. She’d live on his farm, and together they’d eke out a decent living. They’d grow a variety of grains during the fleeting summer months, and tend cows and pigs indoors when the arctic winds froze everything solid.
That was what was expected from her.
And then the call came on the radio, asking for a translator for a Norwegian officer. Kyle answered on a whim, not expecting anything to come from the interview. And then the notice arrived, instructing her to go to Minneapolis and accept her commission.
Basic training was easy for a farm girl.
And the weather in Colorado wasn’t any worse than Minnesota.
She slid into the role with intriguing ease.
Captain Hansen sat up, halting her musings. “Where are we?”
“We have about half an hour to go.” She looked at him in the dusk. He was frowning a little and seemed uneasy. “Do you need something?”
“I need to piss.”
Kyle blushed, glad that he couldn’t see it in the car’s dim interior. “I’ll pull over.”
She stopped the car well on the shoulder. Tor opened the passenger door and exited in a blast of frigid air sprinkled with tiny dancing snow pellets. She watched in the car’s mirrors as he moved to the back of the sedan, fidgeted with his clothes, and then stood still.
He didn’t move for at least half a minute.
When he did, he put himself back together before squatting and scooping up a double handful of snow which he scrubbed against his face and rubbed between his hands.
Then he dragged his fingers through his cropped military haircut before he turned around and came back inside the car to reclaim his seat.
His cheeks were damp and reddened and he looked more awake than he had in the a
irport. “Thank you.”
“Yes, sir.” Kyle shifted and pressed on the gas. “Did the nap help?”
“Yes.” He smiled at her. “At least my face won’t fall in my soup.”
“After you taste Cooky’s soup, you might regret that,” Kyle teased, surprised at her sudden temerity. “Let’s hope for the best.”
Captain Tor Hansen’s head fell back and he loosed a deep, delighted laugh.
Damn, he’s handsome.
NOTES for ENEMIES & TRAITORS:
Teigen, Selby, and the other characters in this story are fictional. The things they experienced, however, are not. At times I was forced to make up names for real people when I couldn’t find the actual names documented, as in the captain of the Voorbode.
Other details proved elusive as well. For example, the number of imprisoned teachers who were sent back from Kirkenes and when they sailed varied from source to source. I used the numbers and dates that made sense to the story and timeline.
Some of my best information, however, was gleaned from relatives of brave Norwegians who lived through the occupation:
Linda Jorgensen Guilbert: “My uncle in Bergen had a closet behind a closet from which he sent and received information on whereabouts of the Nazis. The house was bombed at least once and there's still a German bunker within easy sight of the house.”
Kori Breivik Emerson: “Harald Breivik, my Bestefar (grandfather), built desks that later blew up SS officers. He was one of the best master carpenters at the time. He built the desks with a small space in the back for the underground to put a bomb in. They would deliver the desk when they knew there would be fewer Norwegians in the building. The SS officer would sit down to the desk. What is the first thing you do when you get a new desk? Sit down and open the front. When it was closed BOOM!”
