by Andrew Gross
Nordstrum glanced at the empty chair. The colonel waited.
This time, Nordstrum took a seat. “Tell me what it is you need.”
24
For a mission that required a clear, bright moon to ensure a successful landing in Norway, it was raining cats and dogs in Scotland the night their Halifax left the ground.
The seven men of Gunnerside squeezed into the fuselage in white camouflage suits, their chutes strapped on tightly. With them were twelve sealed containers of supplies.
As the bomber took off, the men didn’t show a lot of nerves or worry. They’d been over what they had to do so many times, it was in their blood now. They knew every aspect they could control. Plus, they were headed home.
From the tarmac, Wilson and his adjunct, Welsh, watched the plane lift off and disappear into the low ceiling of clouds. The two exchanged a hopeful glance.
“It’s a wet one,” the commander said.
“Damn well is.” Wilson nodded. “But hopefully not there.”
Leif Tronstad was in the midst of a letter to his wife and children back in Trondheim. Hearing the bomber take off and climb, he put down his pen. “For the king,” he whispered, momentarily shutting his eyes. “And for mankind.”
He picked up his pen again, but found it difficult to go on.
For the men of Gunnerside, the ride was long and bumpy over the North Sea. For over four hours, the seven crammed into a narrow space on makeshift seats. With every bit of turbulence or sudden dip in altitude, they exchanged expectant smiles. Luckily, the winds died down and it was calm as they crossed the Norwegian coast, and, even more encouraging, the German defenses were quiet.
“Boys, look!” Jens pointed with a hopeful smile through the one small round window in the fuselage—the moon. It was bright and full. Exactly what they’d hoped for. From a teeming night in northern England, they’d come home to a clear, moonlit sky.
The copilot turned back to them and called back, “We’re over Norway now, boys. Welcome home. Stations all.”
Ten minutes to the drop.
The jump dispatcher got out of his straps. “Time to get ready, gents.”
He bent down and pulled open the specially designed hatch. It opened to moonlit-frosted peaks of mountains and valleys of endless snow, the sight of which made each of them smile. One by one they got out of their seats and attached their jump cords.
“Leveling at eight hundred feet,” the pilot announced.
Ronneberg was up first and edged himself over the hatch. All that had to be done to jump was to go through the open chute. A sixteen-foot cord and the force of the wind taking hold of you did all the rest as soon as you cleared the plane. It took only two to three seconds for the chute to deploy—at eight hundred feet, a jumper didn’t want to be held in suspense too much longer.
“See you all on the ground.” Ronneberg took a last look at them and winked. Then, with a tug on his cord, he wiggled into the jump chute.
The green light went on.
The jump dispatcher tapped him on the shoulder. “Now!”
Shouting “To Norway!” Ronneberg lowered through the hole and disappeared into the darkness.
“Next up. Quick.” The dispatcher pulled the next in line. Stromsheim.
At sixty meters per second, even a moment’s hesitation could mean hundreds of yards of separation on the ground. Not to mention possible peril in the vidda’s unpredictable terrain.
With a whoop, Stromsheim followed Ronneberg. Then Storhaug. Olf Pedersen was up next. Both waved and proceeded quickly out of the plane. The line moved forward. Then it was the Yank. “Not sure how I ever got into this bloody outfit,” he said with a grin. Then he yanked his woolen mask over his face and disappeared.
Jens was next. Nordstrum knew jumping was his least favorite part of training. As he stood over the edge for a couple of seconds, his stomach always seemed to turn a bit.
“I think I forgot to turn out the light in the barracks,” he said, turning to Nordstrum.
“They’ll forgive you. See you on the ground.”
“Quick, out you go!” The dispatcher gave Jens a push, and with a yelp, he disappeared.
“You’re the last,” the dispatcher said to Nordstrum. “God’s speed to you, whatever it is you’re doing.”
“Thanks,” Nordstrum said. “Don’t forget the packs.”
“They’ll be along.” The dispatcher pushed him over the hatch.
He pulled up his mask and jumped.
Suddenly the air gusted cold and he was flung sideways, free of the plane. The chute cord extending jerked him upright. Above him, the chute deployed with a loud whoosh. He tugged on the straps. Below, he saw six other white chutes illuminated by the moon; all seemed to be descending in slow motion. Above him, one by one, their supply containers started to come out, until there were twelve, their chutes automatically deploying in the same way. It was quite a sight, Nordstrum couldn’t help but reflect. Nineteen white chutes lit up by the full moon and reflected against the sheen of the snow on the ground.
Norwegian snow!
Slowly they all drifted down and hit the ground. Nordstrum came in last and the wind blew him hard against the snow. One by one, the supply containers landed all around with loud thuds, wind gusts picking their chutes and dragging them on impact. Any one of them could have knocked a man unconscious if he’d been struck. For a moment, Nordstrum just sat in the soft, cold snow, letting his hands run through it. It felt good to be home. But it was important for them to extricate themselves from their chutes as quickly as possible. A strong gust could take a man off his feet and drag him, without him being able to do a damn thing about it, right off of a ridge. He stood and unhooked the chute’s lines.
The good news was that the weather had held.
He heard a yelp. It was Jens, who’d landed just before him. His friend was struggling on his feet with his chute, being lifted up and dragged like a marionette across the snow. If a strong gust took him the wrong direction, there was no telling where he’d end up. There could be large rocks or even crevices; he could end up a mess of broken bones. Or worse.
“Jens!” Nordstrum hurried across the snow and cut into his friend’s path. “Give me your hand.”
Jens was frantically trying to free himself from his straps, digging in his boots as the gales dragged him about. “I can’t.”
“Just give me your hand!” Nordstrum reached out for him again. “I’ll hold you.” But the ski suits were slick and he kept tumbling. If Nordstrum missed him, it could be disastrous.
“Jens, grab on!”
Finally Jens clasped onto Nordstrum’s forearm. He dug his boots into the ice and skidded to a stop. At last he was able to free himself from the chute, which was picked up by another gust of wind and carried off like a weightless piece of paper.
“Jesus…” Jens blew out his cheeks. “Thanks…” He looked to see where the parachute had ended up—over a ridge, a drop of about fifty feet down to snow-covered rocks and boulders. “Wasn’t exactly by the book, was it?” He looked at Nordstrum and shook his head.
“Not my book,” Nordstrum replied. He had only the smallest smile in his eyes, all that was visible above their woolen masks.
One by one, the team came together on the ridge where they’d landed.
“Any problems?” Ronneberg asked, as Jens and Nordstrum came up.
“None here,” said Nordstrum.
Jens kicked the snow from his boots. “Me neither.”
“Any idea where we are?” Ronneberg asked.
Nordstrum looked around. He didn’t know the place. It was the dead of night and heavy accumulations of snow could change the look of it from storm to storm. “Near Bjornesfjord, I’m hoping.” Ten kilometers from Lake Maure and Grouse. “But it doesn’t look familiar.”
“Bjornesfjord would be good. All right, everyone.” Ronneberg clapped his mitts together. “Let’s gather the gear together and find our mates.”
They each went ac
ross the ridge, locating as many of the twelve containers as they could. Most were scattered about in the snow. They lugged them all together, tiring work without skis, as some of them were a good distance away.
Ronneberg did a count. “Shit, there’s only eleven.”
To their dismay, they discovered one had been dragged even farther by the gusting gales and had tumbled into a deep crack in the ice where it was wedged some ten to twelve feet down.
“That’s going to be a problem,” Ronneberg sighed, peering over the edge. The containers weighed up to eighty pounds, a prodigious weight to haul back up without a place to plant your footing. “What’s in it?”
The markings on it couldn’t be seen. There was no telling what was inside.
They couldn’t take the chance to leave it.
“One of us has to go in.” Ronneberg kneeled over the edge, his face acknowledging the danger. Any man knowledgeable in the mountains knew these cracks could shift or cave in if one stepped on the wrong spot.
“I’ll go,” Nordstrum volunteered. He was likely the strongest of the group. “We’ll find some rope and I’ll climb down and hoist it back up.”
“No, it should be me.” Gutterson, the American, raised a hand. “I’m the stronger climber. I can winnow myself down and wedge it free. With any luck, we can pull it up by its cords.” The cords had held the weight in its descent, after all.
Nordstrum gave Ronneberg a shrug, nodding. “Worth a try.”
“All right, Yank, you’re up.” The lieutenant got back up. “Olf and Jens, start unpacking the packs and locate our skis. Hans…” He pointed Storhaug toward a nearby rise. “Maybe you can go up that ridge over there and see if you can get our bearings.”
“Aye,” everyone said, shifting into motion.
Nordstrum, Ronneberg, and the American kneeled and peered into the crack in the ice. Fortunately, the walls seemed stable, around five feet apart at the top, then narrowing. The crate was lodged on its side. There were small ledges of rock and ice to support Gutterson’s feet.
“See you down there.” He bent down and started to wedge himself inside, supporting his weight with a hand on each side, deftly lowering himself down a foot at a time, his boots searching out and testing the firmness of any ridges he found. He was an experienced climber, and within a minute had maneuvered his way to the crate.
“I’m down.” He looked back up.
“Well done,” Ronneberg called.
Then, supporting his weight on the ice and pressing his back against the frozen wall, with a grunt Gutterson yanked the crate out from where it had lodged. “I think it’s free!”
To do this took a good amount of strength. The Yank leaned his shoulder into the crate and with a grunt began to raise it onto his back, all the while making sure his toe support would hold. Nordstrum shimmied down a few feet and took hold of the parachute straps, which were still attached to the crate. Then he and Ronneberg hoisted it the rest of the way, praying the bindings held, as Gutterson remained directly below it. All they needed was for the damn thing to break free and go tumbling down on him.
As it neared the surface, Ronneberg kneeled and he and Nordstrum rolled the crate back over the edge onto the snow.
“Good work, boys!” Ronneberg extended a hand and helped Nordstrum climb back out.
“How is it down there, Yank?” Nordstrum called to Gutterson. “We can always leave you and come get you after the mission.”
“Thanks, but I think I’ll stick with you, if it’s all the same,” he said, then made his way back up with an equal display of agility. Nordstrum pulled him up the last of the way.
They sat there, spent, blowing air out of their cheeks, regaining their breath. “Explosives.” Ronneberg read what was stamped on the crate’s side. “That wouldn’t have worked at all if we left it there.”
“Now, all we have to do is lug it back,” Nordstrum said, getting up and taking hold of one of the straps. Ronneberg grabbed the other. It was a couple of hundred meters, which would have been a whole lot easier with skis on.
“So, they have snow like this back home in Colorado?” Nordstrum said to Gutterson as they hauled the crate over deep drifts. Everything around them was a blanket of white.
“No.” The American picked up one of the lines from the rear. “Deeper.”
“Deeper…?” Nordstrum and Ronneberg looked at each other with a hearty smile and laughed.
Nordstrum looked back at him with a crooked grin. “Just wait.”
25
They broke out their packs and skis and hurried to bury what they didn’t immediately need in the snow, marking the spots with stakes so they could locate them again, in a race against daylight lest German reconnaissance planes flying over spot them.
Then, taking their best guess as to where they were—near the Bjornesfjord, as Nordstrum had said—they decided to head west. Toward Lake Maure, ten kilometers away. Grouse’s last radio transmission had given the lake as the location of their cabin.
The snow was packed and icy and they made excellent time, skiing at five-meter intervals and whooping with excitement to be back on Norwegian snow, not in the Scottish Highlands. Above them, the sun came up in the sky and daylight brought a good sign: The sky was blue.
“So where’s all this dreaded weather of yours I’ve heard so much about?” the Yank called out cockily.
“Just count to ten,” Jens warned. “It’ll change.”
“One, two, three…,” the American said, skiing ahead of them.
“Don’t tempt the gods, Yank,” Storhaug cautioned. “You’ll regret it.”
They skied about two hours, hard work with the seventy-pound packs strapped on their backs. But soon they began to suspect that their bearings had been wrong. They were nowhere near the Bjornesfjord, Nordstrum came to sense. The lake should have been in sight by now. They stood around and chewed a jerky strip and tried to get a fix.
“If we’re not in Bjornesfjord, then where?” Ronneberg asked. “Skrykken?”
“Skrykken? Let’s hope not. That’s almost thirty kilometers off,” Nordstrum said with dejection. “And look…” He pointed east.
The mountains that were in sunlight only a moment ago were suddenly covered in clouds. With the swiftness of a squall at sea rising up out of nowhere, the skies darkened and the winds kicked up.
“Well, seems you’re about to get your wish, Yank,” Ronneberg muttered. “Button up.”
The wind seemed to sweep in the clouds, and in an instant, they could feel the temperature plunge. There was no doubt. A storm was coming in. They were miles from any shelter they knew of. These could last an hour or a couple of days. You never knew how long or how strong it would be.
“Which way?” Ronneberg deferred to Nordstrum. One thing they all knew, they couldn’t stay there. There, they’d be at the mercy of Nature.
He checked the winds. “Your guess is as good as mine. I say continue east.”
“Into the teeth of it?” Pedersen questioned. The winds had now started to howl, even knocking Gutterson’s hood off, and snow was starting to swirl.
“We’ll never outrun it,” Nordstrum said, tightening the toggles on his hood. “Button up, Yank,” he turned to Gutterson, “we’re about to see firsthand if you were born to be a hill man.”
Within minutes, whatever hope they had that this was just a passing squall was dashed. The winds sharpened into icy gales, howling like sirens; frozen snow, hurled around like sand in the desert, bit at their eyes. Large drifts piled up around their skis, making every step a task, the weight of the packs on their backs bringing them to a virtual halt.
Visibility became zero.
“Pull up your mask,” Nordstrum yelled to Gutterson above the howl of the wind. Inside their hoods they had only the narrowest exposed slit for sight, but they could see only an endless sea of white anyway. As the temperature dropped, the wind drove arrows of frozen snow into their eyes, clamping them shut. Virtually blinding them.
The only benefit of such a storm, though a small one, was that the blanket of blown snow would cover their tracks and eliminate any trace of them if the wrong people happened to pick up their presence.
They leaned into it, pushing against the gales, a step at a time.
In minutes, each became covered in white.
An hour of slow going passed. Nothing familiar appeared. Then two hours. They were only able to go about a kilometer. It was becoming nearly impossible to carry on. And Nordstrum knew they were now completely lost. Worse, without shelter, he knew they’d have to dig in somewhere on the side of a slope with Nature’s fury raging all around. This was a bad one, it was becoming clear, and in this kind of storm, even the most experienced of men could only hold out so long. But just finding such a sheltered spot was next to impossible with the snow-swept gales battering them and snow so thick you could barely see your hand in front of your face.
“Come on, all of you, we have to go on.” Ronneberg pushed them on. But his eyes connected with Nordstrum’s and betrayed an expression of concern, which Nordstrum rightly read as, We’re in for a tough fight here.
They trudged about another kilometer, almost to the point of giving up, when suddenly Pedersen, who had assumed the lead at that stage, pointed ahead with joy. “Look!” You could barely hear his shout above the shrieking gales.
It was a hut. A hunting cabin. Almost entirely encased in a blanket of fresh snow. The winds blew so fiercely and visibility was so limited, they didn’t come upon it as much as bump directly into it.
“Thank the trolls!” Jens thrust his poles in the air triumphantly.
“Fuck the trolls, thank whatever beautiful sonovabitch who happens to own this place,” Hans Storhaug said. He loosened the icy doorframe with an ax, pushed it open with his shoulder, and the seven of them tumbled inside.
At first they just collapsed on the floor, their packs still on. Elated, exhausted, breathing in heaves and gasps. There was no way they would have survived more than another couple of hours in a storm of such ferocity.
