by Andrew Gross
“Why don’t we just storm the bridge and cross from there?” Joachim Ronneberg proposed. “Silencing a couple of guards shouldn’t present much of a problem.”
“All true,” Wilson agreed. “But then there’s the possibility the guardhouse would be alerted, and then it’s an all-out fight.”
“So? Twenty or thirty shouldn’t be much of a problem either,” Jens laughed, producing a murmur of agreement.
“I’m sure you’re right on that, Sergeant.” Wilson nodded. “But I neglected to mention the two to three hundred who are stationed in the towns of Rjukan or Mosvatn, only a mile or so away, should the alarm be raised.”
“As you were saying then, Colonel.…” Jens cleared his throat to a few amused laughs.
“So let’s look a little closer at the target itself, shall we?” Wilson signaled to the aide operating the projector. The next photograph was a close-up of the main building, taken by Einar Skinnarland from across the gorge. The structure was seven stories, built of white brick and concrete. “As I said, our target is located in the basement. Thanks to Professor Tronstad, we’re familiar with the layout. There are only three ways for anyone to get inside. The first, the steel outer door leading to the basement, here,” Wilson pointed, “which may or may not be locked, as there are regular guard patrols that go inside every hour. Another, a door on the south side of the building, which leads to the first floor. Which means, once inside, you’d have to get yourselves around, and who knows what you’ll encounter. The third option”—Wilson tapped his pointer at a spot on the northern side of the building three times—“and not a happy one, is a tiny crawl duct that only a few people who work in the plant even know about. This leads directly to the basement, but unfortunately is only large enough for one person at a time—and time is of the essence here. If all else fails, there’s always blowing the outside basement door, of course, but doing that, the cat’s out of the bag, and will undoubtedly alert those stationed in the guardhouse.”
“In the basement,” Tronstad went up to the screen, “are eighteen high-concentration electrolytic processors. Which look like these…” A new photograph came on of a series of five-foot cylindrical tanks with a maze of tubes, hoses, and dials emanating from them.
“As long as we don’t have to explain what they are, I’m sure we’ll have no trouble destroying them,” Olf Pedersen called out.
“In that case, be my guest and just call them high-concentration cells.” Tronstad laughed. “In the next few weeks I daresay you’ll get to know these things as intimately as you would your own mother’s face. As well as how to neutralize them. In addition, the storage canisters of finished product are kept here as well. At all cost, these canisters must be destroyed, as much as the equipment. As critical as this mission is, let’s just say it pales in comparison to the damage that would be caused should these canisters ever be allowed to reach Germany.”
The saboteurs nodded soberly that they understood.
“So that’s it for now,” Wilson said. “Over the next weeks we will tailor your training to fit precisely what we are asking you to do. Any questions?”
No one spoke at first. Then Nordstrum raised his hand. “Just one. Just what is it that’s in these canisters, or these ‘high-concentration cells,’ that makes them so damn dangerous? That you’ve already lost so many lives for?”
Wilson looked to Tronstad. The scientist turned intelligence agent nodded and inhaled a breath. “Something you likely have never heard of. It’s called deuterium oxide.”
“You’re right on that one!” Jens looked around to a ripple of laughter.
“Heavy water, it’s also known as,” Tronstad said.
“Heavy water?” Pedersen let out a laugh. “You’re talking beer, I assume?”
Now the entire group joined in the laughter as well.
Even Tronstad, who bit on his pipe with an amused grin. “No, not like beer at all, I’m afraid.” His smile melted away. One could see in his hooded eyes this was of the highest seriousness.
“Okay, heavy water, Professor,” Olf Pedersen pressed. “If it’s not like beer and it’s so fucking dangerous, what exactly does it do?”
They waited for Tronstad to answer. He just gave a glance to Wilson and bit on his pipe. The silence seemed to carry a weight. He restrained from saying any more. Then the colonel rubbed his hands together. “I’m afraid that’s all we’re prepared to discuss right now. You’ll be shipped south in a week or so. Training begins for real then. If that’s all, we’ll just say good luck.”
21
They named the operation Gunnerside, after the small town in Wales where Major General Gubbins went in the fall to shoot grouse. There was Nordstrum and Jens; Joachim Ronneberg, who was named the leader; Olf Pedersen; Hans Storhaug; Birger Stromsheim, who knew more about explosives than any of them; and Eric Gutterson, the American from the Tenth Mountain Division.
They trained intensively for another month. Two weeks in Scotland at Special Training School 17, focusing on industrial sabotage, going over how to quickly assemble and ignite explosives until they had it down as routinely as turning on a light switch in their own home. Then they were moved south to STS 61, near Cambridge, a stopping-off station for agents being sent back into Europe. There, they went over the most recent layout of the plant and its grounds as determined by aerial photography taken from reconnaissance runs and from Jomar Brun, the ex-chief engineer of Norsk Hydro, who had recently defected.
They were told of the risks they would face, as both Tronstad and Wilson were finally clear about the full fate of the Freshman party, and that, if caught, they would in all likelihood face a similar outcome. They also practiced the demolitions on exact-size models of the processors at Vemork, which had been constructed, until they had the entire operation of setting the charges to destroy the equipment down pat. Soon they knew every inch of the inside of the factory—not only its layout and defenses, but every stairwell, every broom closet.
All that held them back now was the weather. The storms were relentless over Norway that winter, and equally hard to predict. And the longer they were forced to wait, not only did the Nazis continue their production, but the Grouse party had to hang on on the vidda, staying ahead of the Germans by going hut to hut in the frozen wilderness, scavenging whatever they could find to live on.
The drills grew even more intensive. Nighttime jumps in the mountains, traversing with eighty pounds of equipment strapped to their backs, climbing and rappelling down cliffs in the dark. Infiltrating the target; setting the explosives. Speed was essential. Everything had to be done at a quicker pace. Fifteen minutes in and out. Their route was mapped out to the smallest detail: They would land in the mountains, and after hooking up with Grouse at Lake Maure, they would proceed to the target, rappel down the cliff side near the hamlet of Vaer, cross the Mann, which was low now and blocked with ice, making it fordable, and then follow the railway lines up the slope to the Norsk Hydro factory, where they assumed there would be fifteen to twenty soldiers on guard. Once the mission was completed, if possible they were to leave by the same route, back up to the vidda, and ski their way to Sweden.
Nordstrum was named to head the four-man explosive team that would enter the building. The rest, under Poulsson, would act as cover outside and engage the enemy if it became necessary. What mattered most, it was beat into them over and over, was that the stocks of this mystery liquid stored in metal canisters, “juice,” as they called it, be destroyed.
* * *
Near the end of their training Nordstrum found Tronstad at his desk in the room at STS 17 that the planners used as a makeshift office. It was the thirteenth of January; there were only two days remaining before they were set to go. “This heavy water…” He came in and sat opposite the scientist’s desk. “It’s already cost a lot of lives. Just what is it, Professor?”
The scientist turned intelligence leader pushed back his chair. He rubbed his mustache, deliberating how to respond. This time
, his fellow Norwegian seemed to trust him. “Have you ever heard of splitting the atom, Kurt?”
“Somewhere. Is that what this is all about? The atom?”
“It’s a lot of science.” From a briefcase under his desk Tronstad removed a black folder marked STRICTLY SECRET. FOR THE PRIVATE ATTENTION OF THE ALLIED MILITARY COMMAND. He pushed it across to Nordstrum. “I promise you won’t understand a whole lot. Even as an engineer. It’s just a lot of complex equations. But let’s just say, if the Germans get there first, it will lead to some of the nastiest business that can ever be imagined. Not to mention it’ll win them the war.”
“And are we up to the same?” Nordstrum leafed through the report. Pages and pages of formulas, opinions. U-235. U-238. He looked up. “Trying to split the atom?”
Tronstad tapped out his pipe. Likely something he shouldn’t be answering, Nordstrum could see, but the scientist slowly nodded. “Of course.”
“And if we get there first…?”
“Then we’ll win the war.” Tronstad shrugged with a smile.
“I see.” Nordstrum got up. “Seems a lot of trouble everyone’s going to,” he sniffed, “for something so small.”
“Aye.” Tronstad put the black folder back in his case and locked the clasp. “That it does.”
Now it was only to wait for the weather to clear.
* * *
The skies along the North Sea remained perpetually leaden that winter. The January 15 date came and went. February came. All the while, the heavy water production in Vemork continued and the Grouse team, so essential to the execution of Gunnerside’s mission, stayed huddled in the barren, frozen wilderness without supplies.
One day they were all brought into a briefing room.
“We’re at the very last part of your training,” Colonel Wilson said. He leaned on the edge of the table. “By this time you all know what you have to do. But we’d better be honest here. The Germans have a strict policy when it comes to saboteurs, in or out of uniform. And it’s not pretty. So you’ll all be handed one of these.”
One of his lieutenants passed around two blue pills in a small, clear container. Everyone stared at them, knowing without directly hearing it precisely what they were. To Nordstrum the capsules looked as harmless as what you would take to cure a headache from too much alcohol. The sight of them only reinforced just how much was riding on what they were set to do.
“You have to assume, if you’re caught, you’ll be executed,” Tronstad said, going eye to eye as they passed the little vial around. “But not before they try and get you to give up what you know. Which I promise won’t be fun at all. I’m told these are painless. But don’t hold me to that. I haven’t had the pleasure.”
A few chuckled lightly, staring at the capsules.
“And quick. Like a light switch going off.” Wilson snapped his fingers.
“Quick as a German peeing in a Norwegian snowstorm,” Jens called out. A trickle of laughter filtered through the room.
“Yes,” Wilson said with a restrained smile, “that quick. Anyway, the last thing any of you would want to do, I know you’d all agree, is give up your own mates under interrogation.”
“You don’t have to worry about that,” Ronneberg spoke up. “Except maybe Jens there.” He turned around. “Can’t get him to shut his mouth even when he’s taking a shit.”
“Yes, it will be a relief to put a gag on him at last,” Nordstrum said. “I’ve had him with me for two years.”
“All right, all right, maybe I can go on a bit,” Jens said. “But giving up my friends … I’d rather die first.” He looked around the room, and everyone backed him up with an “Aye!”
“Anyway, pass them back, if you don’t mind,” the colonel said. “Don’t want anyone confusing them for aspirin before you go, if you’ve had a bit too much to drink.”
There were a few more good-natured laughs, then everyone settled down as the pills were handed back.
“We’ll be at it soon then,” the colonel said. “I’m told the weather is in for a change. There’s a lot riding on you boys, but I know you’re up to it. All we need now is a break in the clouds.”
22
February 15 Communiqué from Combined Operations, Weather Services, in Sussex. To SOE. Mission Planners. STS 61:
Latest weather forecasts for the eastern North Sea and southern Norway for the nights of February 16–17:
Expected break in cloud cover. Three-quarters moon. High visibility anticipated for this narrow window only. Low winds. The following days have a higher level of unpredictability. Front forming in the northern Atlantic.
“So, there you have it,” Wilson said to his adjunct, Commander Welsh. “We have our date. The sixteenth.”
“Tomorrow night, then.” Welsh nodded back. “I’ll tell Ronneberg to get them prepared.”
“No, let them blow off a little steam tonight. We’ll brief them tomorrow. But alert Colonel Maxwell, if you would.” The RAF commander at the base. “Tell him to get his crew prepared.”
“Yes, sir.” Welsh went to leave.
“And Commander…”
He looked back.
“Get word to Grouse on the ground to get that Eureka machine warmed up. They’ve got company on the way.”
23
On the morning they were to leave, Nordstrum awoke to a high pitch of activity on the base. He went to the window and looked outside. An RAF Halifax was on the tarmac, its propellers revving. Maintenance crews were getting it prepared. In one of the hangars, metal containers were being assembled and bolted shut.
“Something’s going on,” Nordstrum said.
Birger Stromsheim ran over and looked out with a gleam of anticipation. “Jesus, Kurt, I think we’re on.”
Before breakfast, Ronneberg went around to the bunks and assembled the team. “Boys, the colonel just informed me. We’re going tonight.”
“Tonight we’ll be sleeping in Norway,” Hans Storhaug said, hopping out of bed.
“Tonight! How’s that, Yank.” Nordstrum slapped Gutterson on the shoulder. “You’ll finally be able to use some of that Norwegian you’ve been practicing.”
“Jeg ur klar,” the American said, grinning. I’m ready.
“Jeg er klar,” Nordstrum corrected him. “But who’s counting?”
There was plenty for them to do that day to keep their nerves under wraps and their thoughts occupied.
They fit their ski equipment, distributed the weight evenly in their packs. Each was filled with food, extra socks and gloves, burners, explosives, Thompson machine guns, and hand grenades. And two suicide pills. Each pack weighed over seventy pounds. They were set to leave at 2100 hours, the word was, which would put them over the mainland in early morning. They were supposed to be landing at Bjornesfjord, a lake near Lake Maure, where they would rally up with the Grouse team, who was nearby, and who’d been alerted to their arrival. They’d finally get to see their countrymen.
After lunch, Ronneberg came in and said Wilson and Tronstad wanted to see them all.
In the briefing room where RAF bombers received their final instructions before their flights, Tronstad, dressed in a heavy wool sweater and with his ubiquitous pipe, put his foot up on a stool and said to them, “Boys, you know by now that the Germans will never take you as prisoners. For the sake of those who have gone before you and are now dead, I urge you to make this operation a success. You have no idea how important this mission is, only that what you will do will live in Norway’s history for years to come.”
He went up and individually shook each man’s hand. Each felt in return they were doing the highest service to their country. As they filed out, everything set to go, Tronstad went up to Nordstrum and took him by the arm. “Kurt, can you stay behind a minute?”
Having been pulled at the end once before, Nordstrum felt a jab of apprehension shoot through him. But he merely nodded back. “Of course.”
After the rest filed out, Tronstad and Wilson stayed behind in the
briefing room. There was an empty chair at the desk. Tronstad motioned to Nordstrum to take a seat.
“If it’s all the same…,” Nordstrum said. He remained standing.
“Of course.” The colonel rubbed his hands and started in. “We just wanted to be sure, Lieutenant, as leader of the explosives team, you fully understood the mission’s main target is the stocks of fluid stored in the plant’s basement. These must be destroyed at all costs. Regardless of the remaining cells, and even if your position is surrounded and it involves a heavy loss of life.”
“We all understand that, sir.” Nordstrum looked back at him. It had been drummed into their heads a hundred times. “And that’s what we’ll do.”
“Good.” The major smiled a bit contritely, as if caught in a ruse. “Seems a bit late in the game on that, I suppose.…”
Clearly something else was on their minds.
“There is one more thing.…” Tronstad came over and sat across from Nordstrum, against the table. “We all know how much you’re itching to get back there, Kurt.”
“Yes, Major.” Nordstrum nodded. “We all are.”
“You’re likely as at home in the mountains around Rjukan as any on this mission. You know how to keep low and how to survive in a pinch, should things come up.”
“Things, sir…?”
“Yes, Lieutenant.” The colonel stood up as well. “We’d like to ask something of you—entirely your choice whether to accept it or not, of course. We can always go to someone else.”
“And what is it?” Nordstrum looked at them plainly.
“We have some matters that will need to get done there, if everything goes according to plan. After the operation. The only thing…” The ruddy-complexioned colonel cleared his throat and looked Nordstrum squarely in the eyes. “… is that to carry them out, it may well put you in a bit of danger.…”
