The Saboteur

by Andrew Gross

  It took six days, but at last the words everyone waited for came over the wireless.

  “Sir…” The radioman rang Wilson, who was in bed. “Corporal Finch here. I know it’s late, but I think there’s something you should see.”

  Half dressed, Wilson rushed down to the radio room. The message from Grouse read: Happy landing in spite of rocks everywhere. Sorry to keep you waiting for message. Snowstorm forced us to go down valleys. Four feet snow impossible with heavy equipment to cross mountains.

  He and Tronstad cheered. Their first reaction was elation. The mission was still on! But just as quickly, caution overcame them. Six days had been a long period without contact. What if the Germans had captured them and intercepted their code? What if they were being tortured and had divulged their mission? Haugland might succumb to interrogation, and Helberg, Wilson thought. But Poulsson … never. The man was made from a different mold. They’d have to kill him first.

  The two had established a secret question and response for just such an eventuality. One that only they knew. Wilson wrote it out by hand and handed it to the radio operator. “Send this.”

  The wireless man looked at it curiously and raised his eyes.

  “Send it, Corporal.”

  The radioman tapped out the cryptic message: What did you see at the Strand on the morning of October 10th?

  They all waited. Everything depended on the reply. The mission. The heavy water production at Vemork. Likely the fates of their friends. Within seconds an answer came back. The radioman translated the code and handed the message to Wilson.

  “Read it,” the colonel instructed him.

  “‘Three pink elephants,’” the radioman said after a pause, and looked up with uncertainty.

  “It’s them!” Wilson shouted ebulliently, with a fist to the table. That was the answer they agreed on. Poulsson would never have betrayed it.

  The opening act was set. The advance team was on the vidda.

  Now it was on to the main show.

  14

  November 12 Baker Street, London

  At the SOE headquarters, Jack Wilson and Leif Tronstad sat across the table from Major General Gubbins and Lord Brooks and Kelch from Whitehall, as chief planner Commander Henneker laid out the mission’s plan.

  Combined Operations had decided that thirty-four crack British paratroopers, all volunteers from the Royal Engineers, First British Airborne division, who’d undergone intensive training in the Highlands, would be flown in by two gliders towed by Halifax bombers and land on the marshy edge of Lake Mosvatn, approximately ten miles from the plant. The operation would be called Freshman. The gliders would be guided in and the landing site lit by the Grouse advance team, which was already on the ground. They had taken the decision out of Wilson’s and Tronstad’s hands.

  “Gliders, you’re saying…?” Lord Brooks, Churchill’s representative, raised a questioning eye. “On a frozen, mountainous lake?” The towing of gliders was always a hazardous undertaking, made even more so by the four-hour distance they would need to be towed and the unpredictable weather they might find at their destination, which could easily impact visibility.

  “We’ve been over the various other options,” Henneker conveyed. “But to parachute in, with so many men, they’d be strung out all over the vidda. It would take them at least a day or two to regroup, not to mention the possible shifts in the weather. To bring them in by sea…” The planner shook his head. “It’s simply too far away in hostile territory to ensure the force would get there intact. The operation must be in and out. Speed and surprise are essential. We must get them as close to the actual target as we can.”

  Across the table, Wilson caught Tronstad’s gaze with a cast of doubt in his eyes.

  At first it was argued that the men go in by truck across the narrow suspension bridge at the front of the plant, dispatch the two sentries there, and then take care of the detachment in the guardhouse, estimated between twenty and thirty men. They’d been informed that after a visit by General Falkenhorst, commander of all Nazi armies in Norway, the plant’s defenses had been bolstered. This included searchlights suspended from the factory’s roof, a machine gun nest, and rows of mines and tripwires, predominantly around the large water conduits in the rear of the facility where it was thought any sabotage operation would have to originate. The west side of the plant, which faced the Rjukan gorge, was deemed to be unassailable.

  Ultimately, they decided to traverse the vidda on foot, with the Grouse team leading them, and rappel down the cliffs.

  “These men are up to this?” Lord Brooks inquired.

  “They’re the finest we have,” Henneker assured him. “They’ve been training in the Highlands of Scotland for just such an action. Thanks to Major Tronstad here, and Jomar Brun, they know the layout of the plant inside and out. Once we neutralize the guards, we estimate the entire operation to destroy the high-concentration cells will last no more than fifteen to twenty minutes.”

  “It’s not the inside of the plant I worry about,” Leif Tronstad finally cut in. “It’s the vidda. The Scottish Highlands are one thing. But none of them have ever faced the fierceness of a Norwegian mountain storm, which can spring up without warning.”

  “Professor Tronstad has raised the possibility that the raiding party to carry out this mission should be comprised entirely of his own countrymen,” Henneker, who, like Wilson, was an ex–Royal Highlander, and one who was certain the king’s ranks contained the most capable fighting men in the world, declared. “I have assured him these men are the finest caliber of troops there are.”

  “Still, just landing them on the vidda at night will be an accomplishment,” Tronstad interjected. “The rest—”

  “The rest will follow as planned,” Henneker cut him off sharply. “Surprise and preparation will win out. There is no room in our preparation to fail.”

  Indeed, the men had gone through the most intensive mountain training procedure there was, equal to that of the Norwegians. They had even been dropped in remote Highland mountain settings in groups of two, with only maps and compasses to guide them, carrying the amount of weight on their backs they would have to bear on the mission, and similar rations to what they would have to consume.

  “Plus, four of your men will already be there to assist.” Henneker gave Tronstad a deferential nod. “Should the need be there.”

  “And what about after the raid?” Brant Kelch, Whitehall’s scientific adviser, asked. “Assuming it’s successful.”

  “It’s been decided they will split into groups of two, each donning civilian garb,” Henneker said, passing around the briefing sheet, “and make their way to Sweden. Each man will be provided with an escape pack filled with clothes, currency, and personal effects.”

  “We’ve even clipped their facial hair,” Major General Gubbins chimed in. “So they will look like average Norwegians. And they each know a few words in the native dialect in the event they’re stopped. Hopefully they’ll blend in, like ordinary men.”

  “Sweden…?” Brooks stood up and consulted the map. “I’m no logistical man, but it seems a ways away.”

  “One hundred and fifty miles,” said Tronstad. “With three hundred thousand Germans in the way. And if the men do reach the factory, every one of them will be on their tails. And if somehow the Germans don’t manage to get them, you can be sure over that distance the weather on the vidda surely will.”

  “Some will no doubt be captured.” Henneker nodded, clearing his throat. “Or be unable to complete the trip. But we believe the rate of success will be positive. And what’s important is that we don’t lose sight of the objective. If successful, this will set the Germans’ heavy water experiments back three years.”

  “And if they’re captured, they’ll be shot as spies?” Brooks, who would have to manage the political implications, massaged his jaw. “These fine young boys, the finest caliber of fighting troops in the world, as you say.”

  “Each of them knows
the mission’s importance,” Gubbins, the SOE chief, responded. “As well as the risk. Each and every one has volunteered.”

  “Still…” Lord Brooks’s outward expression mirrored what was running through his mind. That this was indeed a one-way mission. That there was simply no plausible way for them to make it home. Nonetheless, the stiff-necked Henneker was right on one thing.… It damn well had to be done. Once achieved, any loss was acceptable.

  And, yes, a few might well make it.…

  “All right, then.” Brooks sat back down. He tapped his papers into a pile. “I’ll brief the High Command.” His eyes conveyed that in this war they had sent many men to their deaths. How many more would be lost if the Germans were allowed to develop their atomic research unimpeded? If they did nothing? And as the chief planner Henneker rightly said, these were stout men. The very best. Some would surely make it home. The rest … He packed up his briefcase, thinking, Well, that’s what medals are for.

  “So it’s decided then.…” Gubbins took a read of the faces at the table. “We’re a go.”

  Kelch, Whitehall’s scientific adviser, sighed. “The Germans have about one and one half tons of ‘juice’ already assembled. At five tons they’ll be able to start production of a new form of explosive a thousand times more deadly than any in use today. So yes, I agree, it must be done. Whatever the cost.”

  He consulted Tronstad, across the table, who nodded, though with great reluctance. “I agree as well. The objective outweighs the risks.” Trying something was better than nothing with the situation as it was. “As long as we all understand what they are.”

  He looked to Wilson, who nodded also. “Me, as well.”

  There was no objection. Lord Brooks ran his eyes around one more time and exhaled. “I’ll get word to Mountbatten, then.” He turned to Gubbins, fastening the clasp around his briefcase. “So when would they leave?”

  “Soon,” the SOE chief replied. “The next period of the moon. Moonlight is essential to the mission’s success. November eighteenth to the twenty-sixth.”

  “A week, then.” Brooks raised his eyes, taken by the suddenness of the date.

  “The Grouse team, who’ve been on the vidda for a month now, has already been alerted,” Wilson advised him.

  “To our boys then,” Brooks said.

  “Yes, to our boys!” The cheer was seconded around the table. “And to the king.”

  Leif Tronstad cast a sobering glance at Wilson, then out the barred window. The skies had changed. The sun was no longer shining. Somber skies were not what he was hoping for. Not today.

  But in truth, it reminded him of a typical Norwegian day.

  15

  Eight days later, at STS 41 in Wick, Wilson, Tronstad, and Henneker waited for word as the two Horsa gliders, each towed by a Halifax bomber, crossed the North Sea. No amount of smoked-down cigarettes or cups of coffee could mask their nerves.

  They both knew the fate of the war might well rest on the outcome of the mission.

  It was a four-hour flight, made in complete radio silence over the dark and frigid waters. Wilson knew that inside their gliders the men would be knee-to-knee, their stomachs tight with nerves. They may well be the best-trained fighters in the world, able to stand up to a test as well as anyone, but bouncing around in a cramped space at the mercy of a sixty-foot metal tow line, the craft shaking like a baby’s rattle from pockets of rough air, or now, as he checked the time, likely from German antiaircraft flak as they crossed the coastline, not knowing what outcome awaited them on landing, would test the mettle of even the toughest of men.

  “They’re likely passing over the coast about now,” Henneker said at 10 P.M. “Here’s to them.”

  “And to Grouse,” Tronstad added.

  “And to that damn Eureka machine,” Wilson chipped in as well, knowing how crucial it was that they land at the designated spot, not ten miles from the target.

  By now the Grouse team had made its way to the outskirts of the frozen Lake Mosvatn to await the team’s arrival. They had radioed in earlier that they had set landing lights on the lake and that the signal from the radio beam was solid.

  For about the hundredth time Wilson checked his watch. 10:30 P.M.

  It shouldn’t be long now.

  Another dreadful hour passed without news. Even upon landing, the strictest radio silence would be observed, so as to not alert the German W/T operators on the ground as to their location, even if they had been seen coming in. The lake was a solid two hours’ trek from the target.

  After another hour, Tronstad muttered, “They’re either engaging the enemy now, or…”

  “Or, what?” Wilson questioned.

  He tapped out his pipe. “Or every German in Norway knows they’re there.”

  By midnight they could only surmise that their boys were in action now.

  Wilson knew that in these things the waiting without knowing was by far the toughest part. If he was a younger man he would gladly have been aboard one of those gliders himself. Twice already, Gubbins with Combined Operations had checked in from London. “Nothing to report,” was all Wilson replied to his boss.

  “Is that bad?”

  “Not bad at all. We don’t want to alert the Gerries to them. Let’s just wait.”

  By 1 A.M., Wilson wasn’t so sure at all what was good and what wasn’t anymore. His insides were gnashing. Ashtrays of cigarette butts and pipe bowl droppings marked the time. The tension of what was at stake was clear in the faces of Tronstad and Henneker, both seasoned operators.

  “Won’t be long now.”

  Then the first word came in from one of the Halifax pilots on his way back to England. Henneker, who intercepted the transmission, read it aloud. “It’s from Taxi Two.” The tow plane for the second Freshman team. His face became wan. “They’re saying they were unable to locate the landing zone. They decided to turn back for home, but it seems the tow line froze.” He looked up. “And then disengaged.”

  “Disengaged?” Wilson looked at him in horror.

  “Apparently it crashed.” Henneker put the message down. “It reads, ‘Glider released into the sea.’”

  “The sea?” Wilson drew in a breath and turned to Tronstad. There was no hope of rescue there. “My God.”

  Seventeen men. Good ones. Still … That left only Freshman One. Such a loss of men would be inconsolable, a huge blow, but the mission could still be accomplished.

  “Do we tell London?” Henneker asked.

  Wilson said, “Not yet. Till we know that the mission is completed. There’s still hope.”

  At 3:30, with the men on the verge of losing their wits, Corporal Finch, the radioman, ran into the briefing room with a message. “It’s from Grouse, sir.”

  Wilson saw what it contained from the pallor on the radioman’s face. He stood and beckoned the corporal over. “It’s from Haugland.” Wilson took the message and read. “He says they heard noises in the air over a wide circle, but no contact. Nothing landed.” A pain knifed through his gut. “There was an explosion, however. On the far side of the lake. A fireball.” He swallowed and sat back down. “They saw evidence of nearby German activity in the area.”

  There was no word at all from Freshman themselves.

  At 4 A.M., Wilson called Gubbins at Combined Operation HQ. “It does not look good, sir,” Wilson said. “The men have failed to land.”

  There was a long pause on the other end. “I assume they’re on their way home, then…?”

  “No, sir.” Wilson cleared his throat. “It appears they’ve crashed.”

  “Crashed? Freshman One or Two?” the head of SOE inquired.

  “Both, sir, I’m afraid. I fear both teams are gone.”

  16

  The morning of November 22, German radio broadcast the following news item, which was picked up, without further commentary, in newspapers across the British Isles:

  On the night of November 19–20, two British bombers, each towing one glider, flew into souther
n Norway. One bomber and both gliders were forced to land. The sabotage troops they were carrying were put to battle and wiped out to the last man.

  17

  Two days later. SOE headquarters, London

  The mood was heavy in the SOE planning room on Baker Street that morning, thick as a fog in Wales.

  Thirty-four crack soldiers and six brave airmen were dead. Months of planning and preparation down the drain. The stock and credibility of SOE shattered.

  Wilson’s team had helped train the soldiers, and their loss weighed heavily on them all.

  On the strategic front, the toll was even higher. The Germans had now been alerted as to the ultimate target of the raid—the heavy water facility at Norsk Hydro. No doubt the plant’s defenses would be strengthened even further. All knew it would take months to even think of another raid. And every day the German heavy water production was allowed to continue was another day they got closer to a weapon that could win them the war.

  A further cost, Wilson and Tronstad knew, was that it was now likely the Germans would sweep the Rjukan area and pick up anyone on the ground even suspected of aiding the raid. Which put the Grouse team, still hiding on the vidda, in even greater danger. In order to remain hidden they’d have to head for the most remote and inhospitable regions. The rations they’d brought with them were intended to last for weeks, not months. The morning after the raid, Wilson’s first communication to them urged that it “is vitally necessary that you should preserve your safety at all costs.” The second was that at the same time, they required updated information on the status of new German defenses around the plant. Keep up your hearts, he urged them. We will do the job yet.

  But in fact, they had to start over completely. The Home Office had the grim task of explaining the loss of forty elite men to the country. For reasons of secrecy, any mentions of the raid were completely expunged from the official records, lest people on the home front, specifically the press, ask questions as to what it was these men had given their lives for. Everyone knew recommending a new plan of attack would be no easy task now. Who would dare even authorize such a mission? Not to mention that the chance for favorable weather over Norway was narrowing by the day. The feeling at SOE was that if the disastrous mission had proved one thing it was that just landing a sizable party on the vidda was next to impossible, much less getting that team across it. So what would a new plan of attack be? Who would carry it out?