by Andrew Gross
All the while three hundred German troops were fanning around the valley in a frantic attempt to find them.
After an hour’s rigorous climb, they made it up to the starting point of the Ryes Road. The vidda was still another fifteen hundred feet towering above them. That’s when the real climb began. The path switched back and forth across the sharply angled slope, cutting between the darkened trestles of the shut-down cable car. At a point, the snow had melted enough that rocks protruded and they could no longer use their skis, so they had to lug their skis over one shoulder, their weapons on the other, packs on their backs, one grueling step at a time. When they could go no further, they stopped and bent over, but only for a minute, and chugged down water or took a bite of dried fruit or beef. Nordstrum, who led, bent over, recalled his father’s words, words that had stuck in his brain now more than ever before: “A true man is a man who goes on till he can go no farther, and then goes twice as far.” He waited until whoever was in the rear silently caught up to them. And then he continued on.
All the while, behind them, they heard the incessant rumble of trucks and military vehicles speeding up to Vemork. Every once in a while they had to come out from the cover of the bushes and trees, which put them in open terrain. Where were the dreaded searchlights that they feared would illuminate their escape? Scanning other parts of the valley because the Germans still must not have thought it possible they could have crossed the valley from the gorge.
Another worry was that the Germans would power up the cable car and send a detachment of troops to the top. This could have happened in a matter of minutes and would have put an end to their escape up the ridge. Yet as they reached each successive trestle and then went onward to the next, the summit now in sight, this fear never materialized.
At a brief rest stop, Joaquim Poulsson pointed up to a ridge. “My family lives about a mile over there. We could go knock on their door and ask for a cup of coffee.”
“Yes, that sounds good about now,” Nordstrum said, puffing air out his cheeks.
“A pity,” Poulsson said, and sighed. He knew it would only put his loved ones at risk. “But what a nice surprise that would be.” He looped his arm back through his pack. “Let’s keep going.”
At five in the morning, after three hours of exhausting climbing, as the sun rose majestically over the horizon—a sun none of them thought they’d ever see—they pulled themselves over the final ridge and fell, breathless, panting, onto the vidda. The wind up there was so strong it nearly blew them back over the ledge.
Across the valley, they could still hear the sounds of the Germans mobilizing their efforts to find them. They could be spotted from the air; in a few hours, the Germans would likely send up patrols. The mountains would be swarming with them. But they were finally on the vidda and knew the odds had now swung to their favor.
Everyone just lay there, sucking in precious air, too exhausted to even move. Then it seemed to hit them all at once.
They’d done it—done what everyone—their planners, Tronstad, even themselves—thought was nearly impossible. And amazingly, all ten had made it back.
For the first time, Ronneberg looked at his men and said in his way of understatement: “Well, that went pretty damn well now, didn’t it, boys?”
“Yes, it did go pretty well.” Jens laughed.
One by one, they all began to laugh as well. The laugh of a held-in joy that had kept quiet every step of the way after they’d done their jobs—because at each hurdle they’d cleared, the dangers they still faced were even more overwhelming—finally let loose, and echoing, like the applause of the gods (or the trolls, maybe), who, in infinite praise, looked down on them admiringly.
Yes, it had gone pretty damn well—they laughed until they fought back the pain.
“Who among us had ten?” Joaquim Poulsson looked around. He was speaking of how many each thought would, in the end, survive. The last day at the hut they had discussed it, without sharing their picks.
“I had only two.” Arne Kjelstrup shook his head. “Not much of an optimist, I confess.”
“It was two for me as well,” Olf Pedersen said. “And, trust me, never for a moment did I think I’d be among them.”
“I had three,” said Jens. “And I was one of them.”
“Four,” said Claus Helberg.
“Four for me, too,” said Stromsheim. “I felt sure the blast would take one or two.”
“Five.” Gutterson grinned. “But I was certain my lousy Norwegian would give us away.”
“This might be the time to admit your Norwegian’s not as bad as we’ve all made it out,” Storhaug said. “Still, even I figured there’d be no more than six at best.”
“I never had a number.” Ronneberg, their leader, shrugged. “But I’ve never been so happy as to see all of you here.”
“Kurt…?” Helberg said, realizing Nordstrum hadn’t answered.
Jens pushed up on his elbows. “Yes, come on, Kurt, why so quiet?”
“My number was always ten,” Nordstrum said with a shrug. “I knew the odds, but in my heart, I always thought we would all make it. At least this far.”
“Ten?” Jens shook his head in disbelief. “Come on.”
“It’s the truth. Though I admit that on that cliff, seeing Olf hanging there, I was revising my estimate.”
“That makes two of us!” Olf Pedersen cackled.
“Well, that makes you the winner then, Kurt,” Ronneberg said. “Here.” He tossed Nordstrum his sack. “You get to carry the equipment.”
* * *
After a short rest, it was essential they move on. Their destination was the Langsja hut, ten kilometers away, where Knut Haugland was waiting to radio back the news.
Once there, they would split up into groups. Ronneberg and the rest of Gunnerside, Nordstrum included, were to head across the vidda to Sweden. Two hundred and fifty kilometers away. Poulsson and the Grouse team were to head to Oslo. Everyone had the clothes, identity papers, and the mannerisms of an everyday civilian.
Even up here, the Germans could easily be on top of them. Once they realized where they’d gone, they would surely throw everything they had at tracking them down. But for now they had to face another adversary, one they knew well—the weather. The wind was already howling. The sun had risen over the mountains, a gorgeous molten orange band, as if Nature herself was congratulating them, saying, Job well done! But behind it, they could see the clouds.
As soon as they started to walk again, a storm flared up, biting winds blistering in their faces, frozen ice balls splintering their eyes. It took six long hours traveling into the teeth of it to make their way back to the cabin. The only good news, of course, was that even if the Germans came up here, now they had no way to follow their tracks.
On the edge of exhaustion and collapse, they finally made it to the cabin. Knut Haugland was waiting for them with bated breath. Ecstatic to see his friends return, even more eager to hear how it had gone. He gaped and hugged each one in joy and disbelief when, to a man, all ten staggered in.
“Tell me,” he said to anyone with the strength to talk to him.
Ronneberg groaned in exhaustion and collapsed on the floor, panting, his body on the edge of giving out. “The job’s done,” was all he said, in between breaths of agony.
“You got them? All the compressors? The heavy water too?”
“All.” The leader nodded. “You can tell them all.”
“All?” he said again, repeating the word in amazement.
“All.”
It had been thirty-six hours since any of them had caught a wink of sleep. Fighting to stay awake and not submit to his body shutting down, Ronneberg went through the events, Haugland jotting them down as feverishly as a reporter taking down a story for the afternoon edition. Not a shot had been fired.
Then the ten of them simply shut their eyes. Their goal was to continue on to Skrykken, deeper into the vidda, but outside, the winds raged and the snow fell and the
storm socked them in.
But they knew they were safe, as the Germans would be at the storm’s mercy too, and would not venture up after them until it had cleared.
In a few minutes all of them gave themselves over to a well-earned rest. Amid the snores, Haugland settled down to his keys, and toward morning, when the storm broke for a short while, long enough to allow him to transmit, he tapped out a few words.
46
Back at STS 61, Jack Wilson burst into Tronstad’s quarters with a cable, catching him in his shorts, trimming his mustache. “Read this!”
Both had been up all night.
Putting down the scissors, and scanning the text, Tronstad slowly allowed himself a grin, a subtle one at first, more of a warming swell of pride and amazement, until the two espionage officers looked at each other and could no longer hold themselves back from hugging each other in triumph and joy.
Shortly after, the news reached Winston Churchill, at 10 Downing. He read the cable not once but twice, and then sat back and closed his eyes. Maybe for the first time he could see a path to victory in this long, bloody ordeal. Then the old artillery officer pounded his fist against his night table with such force the report he’d been reading before bed flew onto the floor. When an aide ran in and asked if everything was all right, the prime minister answered, “Quite all right. Thomas, do we have a sherry at hand?”
“Sherry? Of course, sir. But it’s six A.M.”
“You’re right, damn it. In that case make it a cognac. And something of quality, Thomas. One that we might toast Monty or FDR, if he was here.”
Four thousand miles away, at the White House in Washington, D.C., Franklin Delano Roosevelt, still at work long into the night, received the cable, leaned his head back, and whispered to whatever Providence had guided these men. “Thank God.” Maybe He had taken sides.
The cable they all read said simply:
Operation carried out with 100 percent success. High-concentration plant completely destroyed. Shots not exchanged since the Germans did not realize anything. The Germans do not appear to know whence they came or whither the party disappeared.
47
After the storm began to wane the next day, the eleven quickly split up the supplies and prepared to go their separate ways.
The plan was for Nordstrum to head with Ronneberg, Storhaug, Stromsheim, Pedersen, Jens, and Gutterson across the vidda to Sweden—two hundred and fifty kilometers away, which, with luck, they could make in ten days—while Grouse was to head to Oslo to be reassigned.
They knew the Germans would be throwing everything they had at them to stop them.
The storm that reared up had served them well, for it had covered their tracks up the Ryes Road, and as it continued into the second day, would conceal their escape routes as well. The group going to Sweden remained in their British uniforms, counting on the idea that if they were somehow caught, it would lessen the reprisals against the local population. The rest of their party buried theirs deep in the snow.
The mood in the group was soaring. To a man, there was the feeling they had done something few others could have even contemplated, much less dared. But now they had to get out. The winds were starting to die, the snow weakening, and the hut they had slept in, while safe, was still only ten kilometers from the factory. Once the storm stopped, the Germans would be on their tails.
The two groups prepared to bid farewell.
Jens caught sight of Nordstrum changing out of his uniform and into civilian clothes as well. He looked at him, perplexed. “Kurt, what’s going on?”
“I won’t be going with you,” Nordstrum said to his friend.
Their leader, Ronneberg, was also taken by surprise. “What are you saying, Kurt?”
“I’m staying behind. Tronstad and Wilson asked me before we left. There’s some work to be done here. I agreed.”
“What work?” Jens asked.
“The recruitment of agents and radio operators. They need to build a network here.”
“You realize by midday the place will be swarming with Germans.” Jens looked at him, dismayed. “Where will you go? Every Heine who can limp will be on the hunt for us.”
“I realize that. But I also know these mountains better than any of them. That’s why they chose me. Now, go on. All of you. Look, it’s snowing again. I told you, Jens, the trolls are with us.”
Jens put down his skis and removed his rucksack defiantly. “Then I’ll stay with you. We’ve been together a long time.”
“I told Colonel Wilson you’d likely say just that. It’s not a request, I’m afraid, Jens. It’s an order. Remember, I still outrank you. What I have to do will only bring more attention to it if it’s more than one man.”
Jens stared at him with bitter disappointment. “We’ve fought together for three years.”
“And we will again. But when I see you all next, hopefully we’ll be on the side doing the routing.”
Ronneberg stepped up to him and put out his hand. “When we see you again, I hope it’ll be over a beer and herring. We’ll have much to share.” He gave Nordstrum a hug. “You be safe, Kurt. We could never have done this thing without you.”
“And you. All of you,” Nordstrum said, as they all came up and, one by one, embraced him.
“You helped me through,” Gutterson said, taking off his cap. “I hate to leave you behind.”
“You earned your place.” Nordstrum gave him his hand. “As well as anyone here. Consider yourself a fucking Northman now. The rest of us do.”
The young American grinned with pride and strapped his pack on his back. “I hope to see you again.”
“We did something good,” Nordstrum said. “All of us.”
“Yes.” Olf Pedersen nodded. “We did. I owe you my life up on that ridge.”
Jens was the hardest to leave. His friend’s boyish good looks and innocent blue eyes had weathered into the features of a hardened soldier now.
“When this is over, we’ll meet at the Gunwale on Lake Tinnsjo,” Nordstrum said. “Where we met with Einar, before we took the boat to England.”
“It’s a date. Just no Germans this time, if you can work that out. Or Hirden, for that matter.”
“Yes, I make a solemn promise not to toss anyone overboard ever again.” Nordstrum laughed. “That is what got us into this mess. And a little matter about reappropriating a coastal steamer. Yes, we’ve been through a lot.” Nordstrum held out his hand.
Jens took it and looked at him with tears in his eyes. “I meant what I said last night. Before the raid. If anything happens to you, you do have those who would care. Like family. It would be a real loss for me.”
“And the same for me, Jens. You take care.” Nordstrum pulled his friend close. “Now let’s get on with it before we end up blubbering into our ski masks.”
The rest had buckled into their skis. In a sign of providence, the snow had started up again, as Nordstrum had observed. Their tracks would be covered. Putting out his palm, Jens laughed. “And don’t give me any business about the trolls. Though I admit, I’m maybe starting to come around just a bit.…” He skied over and joined the team.
“You all take care.” Nordstrum put up his hand as they headed off in single file along the shore of the frozen lake. East. In the direction of Sweden. “Yes, we did do something good,” he said to himself, when they were well out of earshot.
Maybe a hundred meters out, Jens stopped a last time and waved to him.
Within minutes, the men were merely specks against a vast sea of white, gliding and shushing around the perimeter of the frozen lake. Nordstrum knew there was no lonelier feeling than watching your comrades skiing off. Men you fought with side by side. Who did their jobs when called upon and held their nerve.
Men who had gone twice as far.
He pushed his arms through his own rucksack and clipped on his skis. Now it was just him and the mountains. The way he liked it. Yes, they had done something good. He looked back once and took off,
heading away from the lake.
West.
Deeper into the sea of white and the valleys of the vidda. The wind picked up. Slanting snow knifed at his face. Soon his beard was covered with it.
Jens was right, in hours the place would be swarming with Germans, looking for the team who had dealt them a blow right under their noses. He’d better put as much distance between himself and them as he could.
There was much more to do.
He looked again toward the hut. His friends had disappeared.
And the fresh snow had covered his tracks.
PART TWO
Tracks in the Snow
48
General Wilhelm Rediess, Obergruppenfuhrer of all the Gestapo and SS battalions in Norway, stared in anger at the mangled heavy water compressors in the basement of the Norsk Hydro factory.
He was one of the few people in Norway who knew the true importance of the precious liquid being secreted there. He had sped to Vemork from Oslo that Sunday morning as soon as he’d received word of the raid. News he could not believe, since only three months before, he and General Falkenhorst, the supreme military commander in Norway, had upgraded the security measures for the plant after the failed glider attack.
And now they lay in ruin—twisted shards of metal, pipes, and valves. Canisters that once contained the most valued military secret in the Reich toppled like bowling pins, the trail of their irreplaceable contents a slow drip down the drain.
Before him, those responsible stood stiffly, awaiting his reaction.
“You are absolutely certain,” Rediess grilled the night watchman, an aging fool named Gustav, clutching his cap, “that these four saboteurs were British?”
With the watchman was his foreman from the previous night, as well as the chief engineer of the plant, named Larsen. And the overall director of the Norsk Hydro facility himself, Nilsson, a heavyset, nervous businessman who saw this only in terms of profit and loss and not the strategic value to the Reich; also the military officer in charge at the plant that night, a Lieutenant Frisch, who stood sweating at attention but who in a matter of days would be freezing in the snow a thousand miles east of here. The local head of the Gestapo, Gruppenfuhrer Muggenthaler, stood by silently, as did Colonel Rausch, in charge of the local garrison in Rjukan, and the head of the local NS police in the region, a Captain Dieter Lund.
