Contents
Cover
About the Book
Title Page
Dedication
Maps
Epigraph
Prologue: Abandoned
Chapter One: Creating a Stink
Chapter Two: The Woodshed
Chapter Three: A Painful Lesson in Basic Physics
Chapter Four: The Eagle Has Landed
Chapter Five: The Kristiansten Fortress
Chapter Six: Unspeakable Things
Chapter Seven: The Best Present Ever
Chapter Eight: Don’t Look Down!
Chapter Nine: Breaking Glass
Chapter Ten: Operation S-phone
Chapter Eleven: Dead Men Float
Chapter Twelve: Up in Flames
Chapter Thirteen: Captured!
Chapter Fourteen: The Cave
Chapter Fifteen: Ambush!
Chapter Sixteen: One for Mr Naerog
Chapter Seventeen: A Present for Oslo
Chapter Eighteen: Flying with the Enemy
Chapter Nineteen: Racing for My Life
Chapter Twenty: A Very Dangerous Penguin
Chapter Twenty-One: Saluting Oslo
Chapter Twenty-Two: My Craziest Plan – Ever!
Chapter Twenty-Three: Dogfight
Chapter Twenty-Four: Spitfire Alert!
Chapter Twenty-Five: A Very British Welcome
Postscript
Acknowledgements
About the Author
Also by Craig Simpson
Copyright
About the Book
JOIN FINN GUNNERSEN IN HIS FIRST SPECIAL OPERATION
Eighty miles per hour . . .
‘Now, Loki!’ I said, seizing the other column in front of me. We both pulled back. The plane lurched like a runaway train about to derail. Then, suddenly, the pounding ceased and everything seemed mighty smooth.
My god, I thought, we’re flying!
A teenage boy and his best friend, obsessed with fighter planes . . .
A country invaded by the enemy . . .
One daring mission that might just save the day . . .
Get ready for takeoff and a full throtle action-adventure!
HIGH-OCTANE EXCITEMENT, PERFECT FOR FANS OF ANDY MCNAB, ROBERT MUCHAMORE AND CHRIS RYAN
UNSUITABLE FOR YOUNGER READERS
For the many heroes and heroines of
the Resistance who risked everything
in the fight against tyranny
Looking back, I’m sure of only one thing. Our lives, however long or short, are decided by just a handful of days. Not ordinary days, but momentous days when our own small worlds change for ever. I call them ‘crossroads of fate’, and we have to choose which direction to turn. We’re blind, with no idea where we’re heading, but we must choose. That’s the rule of life, and that’s life’s adventure.
My name is Finn Gunnersen, and this is my story. If you have the courage, take a deep breath and follow me. And if you do, take heed of this warning, for one day it may apply to you too:
When escaping from your enemies, make sure you don’t run into the arms of even more dangerous ‘friends’.
Finn Gunnersen
December 1940
Prologue
Abandoned
Trondheim, Norway. October 1939.
Father fondly referred to her as his pet ‘hog’ because her nose was distinctly snout-like. She was a huge Junkers 52, a battered old three-engine seaplane with a slab-sided fuselage and wings covered in corrugated sheet metal. I looked on from the fjord’s stony foreshore while he carried out the usual pre-flight checks, his hands covered in streaks of oil and grease, his brow glistening with beads of sweat. Often I’d help him out. I’d test the struts while he undid the inspection covers. I’d look over the flaps for signs of damage while he pumped fuel into her tanks. But not today. Today was different. My sister, Anna, stood next to me, sobbing quietly. Mother hadn’t come. She hated goodbyes. Mr Larson, Father’s friend and business partner, hadn’t come either. He’d gone to visit a sick relative in Stavanger and hadn’t returned.
Finally Father was all done. Mopping his brow, he leaped from one of the floats onto the wooden jetty and hurried towards us. I handed him his leather flying helmet. He put it on and glanced to where the sun was rising in the east. ‘Right,’ he said. ‘Best be off. Bad weather is forecast. I’m keen to stay ahead of it.’
Anna threw herself at him, gripping him as if her life depended on it. ‘Don’t go,’ she wept. ‘Stay. We need you here.’
He hugged her tightly, swaying her gently in his arms. Over her shoulder, he smiled at me.
‘I want to go with you,’ I said. ‘You need someone to share the flying. I could help you navigate,’ I pleaded.
‘No, Finn. Your job is here. You’re head of the family now. Soon you’ll be fifteen, all grown up. I need you to take good care of Anna and your mother.’
‘It’s not fair,’ I complained bitterly. ‘It’s not our war. We’re neutral. It’s safe here.’
Father let go of Anna and reached out and gripped my shoulder. ‘No one is safe. I think Mr Hitler has his heart set on taking over all of Europe, Finn. Norway won’t be neutral for ever. God help us, but one day you’ll understand what I’m saying. Then you’ll know why I have to go. Why I have to fight.’
‘No I won’t. Your place is here. With us.’
He lifted his hand from my shoulder and ruffled his grubby fingers through my hair. ‘I’ll write as soon as I get to England. I’ll let you know I’m OK. In time, I’ll be able to tell you all about the Royal Air Force and what it’s like to be a fighter pilot. If I’m lucky, they’ll give me one of those new Spitfires. I’ll let you know if the rumours are true; whether it really is the best fighter aircraft ever built.’
A lump swelled up in my throat. I looked away and tried to focus on the tree-lined far shore of the fjord.
Father reached into the pocket of his flying jacket and took out a small envelope. He pressed it into Anna’s hand. ‘Give this to your mother,’ he said. He closed his fingers about hers. ‘Goodbye, Anna. And don’t worry, we’ll all soon be reunited again.’ He leaned forward and kissed her firmly on her cheek.
Anna burst into tears again. Father turned to me. ‘I need someone to untie the plane, Finn.’ He took a couple of steps back and gestured to me. ‘Please!’
Reluctantly I nodded.
We walked slowly down the jetty. ‘If you ever need any help, don’t hesitate to ask Mr Larson or, better still, Uncle Heimar,’ he said. ‘They’ve both promised to keep an eye on you all.’
Uncle Heimar lived on the other side of the fjord. He wasn’t a real uncle. He was Father’s best friend. They’d grown up together. Father called him a blood brother, like those North American Red Indians I’d seen in westerns at the pictures. They were bound together in a friendship that would never be betrayed.
We stopped close to where our seaplane was moored. Father turned and looked back to where Anna had been standing. She’d gone. Saying goodbye had been difficult enough. To actually see him leave had proved unbearable. He gazed towards the road, back towards town. I could see his disappointment. He’d hoped beyond hope that Mother had changed her mind, that she’d come to wave goodbye after all. But she hadn’t. He sighed despondently. ‘Thanks for helping me work out the best route, Finn. I really appreciate it. You can follow my flight on that copy of my charts we made together. Picture it all in your head. That way we’ll remain close.’
‘I will.’
About to turn and head off, he hesitated. He undid his flying jacket, took it off and held it out towards me. ‘Here, Finn, I want you to have this. Look after it, won’t you?’
I took it from him. ‘Of course I will. But don’t
you need it?’
‘I have an old coat in the plane. It’s a bit threadbare but it’ll be fine.’
I gripped his jacket tightly. The soft leather felt and smelled wonderful. ‘I’ll keep it safe until you come home. I’ll guard it with my life.’
Although it was too big for me, I put it on. Father nodded approvingly. Then he stood to attention and saluted me. With his familiar cheeky smile, he declared, ‘Here’s to giving Mr Hitler’s Luftwaffe a good hiding.’
I saluted him back.
‘Goodbye, Finn.’
‘G-g-goodbye, Father.’
The engine in the plane’s nose was the first to wake from its slumber. The propellers began to turn slowly amid a loud whine, and then the engine coughed and spluttered into life, brown-black smoke puffing from the exhaust vents. Next came the port wing’s engine, then the starboard. Soon the noise grew deafening, and the turbulent air buffeted me as if I was facing a raging gale. Father slid open the cockpit window, poked his head out and yelled for me to untie her. I did, letting the rope slip through my hands and into the water.
‘Goodbye, Finn!’ he shouted. ‘Take care. Be good. And if you can’t be good, be lucky.’ He smiled and waved. I waved back. Then he disappeared inside and slid the canopy shut.
The throttles opened up. The engines howled. I covered my ears. Spray whipped up by the blur of propellers showered me but I stood my ground. Our seaplane slowly edged forwards and out into the deeper waters of the fjord. She turned and gathered pace. I imagined myself beside Father, just like all the times I’d flown with him. The plane bounced, bobbed and rocked in the swell, and then grew steady as she lifted slightly.
‘Now!’ I shouted, the moment I knew Father would pull back the column. Sure enough, her nose lifted and she rose above the waves, trails of water slipping from the rear of her floats. She climbed quickly but steadily. Soon she looked as small as an insect. I gazed after her as she banked into a steep right-hand turn. Then she came back along the fjord, silhouetted against the awesome backdrop of mountains. She passed me almost overhead, heading west, towards our coast, and eventually Britain. Father dipped each wing in turn. I waved again. I don’t know if he saw me. I felt sick. My belly ached with a strange emptiness. It wasn’t cold but I began to shiver anyway. I pictured his smiling face leaning out of the cockpit. That’s how I’ll always remember him, I decided. It was important to me to have a clear image fixed in my head, as somehow I had this awful feeling I’d never see him again. I stood and watched him disappear over a distant ridge.
Walking into town, hands in pockets, I scuffed slowly along the pavement, frequently pausing to gaze into shop windows. I didn’t focus on anything in particular, or have any sense of the hustle and bustle of people about me. I felt I was in a different world, totally alone, numb from head to toe. I reached the bus stop, sat down on a bench and waited.
‘Finn! There you are.’
I looked up. My best friend, Loki Larson, was hurrying towards me. He reached me, gasping for breath. ‘Been looking all over for you,’ he panted. He remained standing, or rather stooping, his hands on his knees while he drew in deep lungfuls of air. ‘So he’s really gone then, has he?’
I nodded.
He whistled. ‘Blimey! So it wasn’t all just talk.’
‘No.’
‘I see he left you a parting gift,’ he added, pointing at my jacket.
‘Uh-huh.’
‘Sorry I didn’t make it in time.’
‘That’s OK. Any news when your father’s coming home?’
He shrugged. ‘Overheard him talking to Mother on the telephone. At least another week, I expect.’
I looked skywards. ‘Father will be crossing the coast by now.’
Loki dropped down heavily beside me, clasped his hands and cracked his knuckles. ‘Truth is,’ he said, ‘Father’s having second thoughts. I reckon deep down he’s not that keen on going to England.’
Mr Larson’s reluctance was news to me. I was shocked. ‘But they formed a pact. They agreed. They shook hands on it,’ I said. I looked at Loki and frowned. ‘We all know the deal – Father would go ahead, sort things out that end, and then your father would join him in a few months’ time. They’ll both fly for the RAF and help defeat the Luftwaffe. Then they’ll come home. End of story.’
‘Uh-huh. But Mother’s still angry. Says he has no right to abandon us. She says his place is here, in Norway. She says it’s not our war, not our business. She just thinks your father wants to be a hero. She reckons he’s a bad influence.’
‘Bad influence?’ My mouth dangled open in surprise.
‘Uh-huh. She says no good will come of it, and that there’s a fine line between a living hero and a dead one.’
‘Don’t say that – that’s awful.’
‘Her words, Finn, not mine.’
We sat for a while, each of us preoccupied with our own thoughts. Loki experimented with the lump of bubble gum inside his mouth, chewing noisily and occasionally blowing bubbles. ‘Where’s our bus?’ he muttered, peering at his watch. ‘It’s late.’
In truth, I didn’t want to go home. Mother and Anna would be inconsolable. And I remained troubled by what Loki had said. Would his father find endless excuses not to go to England? Would he break his promise?
‘You know, Loki, the papers are full of the war in Europe,’ I said grimly. That very morning the sinking of a merchant ship had made the front page. She had been attacked by the Nazis not far off our coast. Burning brightly, she’d broken in two and sunk, all hands lost.
Loki yawned, folded his arms and crossed his legs. ‘It all seems a long way away to me, Finn. Another world. It won’t affect us. Not here. Who the hell would want to invade us, anyway?’
‘That’s not what my father reckons.’
‘We’ll be OK, Finn. Norway’s neutral. And anyway, we’re not worth invading.’
I puffed out my cheeks. ‘But what if the Germans did invade us? What would we do?’
‘Fight them,’ he said, full of his usual bravado. ‘Crack their tin helmets together and boot them back to Berlin.’
‘No, really, what would we do?’
‘Forget it, Finn,’ he said. ‘It’ll never happen. That’s why they’re calling it the phoney war. It’ll all be over by Christmas. That’s what Mother says. You’ll see.’ He nudged me in the ribs. ‘And then your father will be back, and everything can return to normal. Like it used to be. Right?’
Over by Christmas. Isn’t that what they said last time? In 1914? And that war lasted four terrible years.
‘Right, Finn?’
I nodded but didn’t share my friend’s optimism. Father believed it was only a question of time before history repeated itself. So when he received a letter from an old schoolfriend who’d moved to England years ago and now worked for the British Government – a letter that spoke of the desperate need for aircraft and pilots to fight the Nazis – he took it as a thinly disguised invitation to head on over there to do his bit. ‘Nip it in the bud, Finn,’ he said to me. ‘They need all the planes and pilots they can lay their hands on. It’s the only way.’
I gazed towards the mountains across the fjord. Father had been right. Bad weather was rolling in from the east. Sharp peaks and ridges were shrouded in heavy, dark, threatening clouds, and the wind had picked up. Was it a bad omen? This was the world I’d grown up in, the world I’d always felt safe in – I didn’t want that to change. I fastened my jacket and lifted the collar, but still I shivered. I could smell Father’s cologne on the leather. I wished he’d not gone. I had a bad feeling inside. A really bad feeling.
Chapter One
Creating a Stink
One year later …
‘GO ON, FINN. You can do it. It’ll be easy. Teach the elk a lesson he’ll not forget in a hurry.’
Loki’s words rang in my ears, spurring me on. Without them I’d have had second thoughts. I might have bottled out.
Cycling through the hilly, rundown stre
ets of the Bakklandet suburb, I made for Trondheim’s city centre. Narrow roads took me past ramshackle timber buildings. The city filled an island, bordered on one side by the broad, deep fjord, and on the other sides by the river Nid. My first challenge – to get there I had to cross the old town bridge, the Gamle Bybro. That meant negotiating the checkpoint.
The Nazis invaded us six long, traumatic months ago. Without warning, they came from the air and sea. Our lightly equipped army was no match for them. We didn’t even have any sub-machine guns. Being a nation of hunters, though, many belonged to rifle clubs, including me. So even I had handled the standard-issue Krag-Jorgensen rifle. It was accurate, perfect for downing the occasional deer or elk, but not much use against overwhelming opposition. Needless to say, it didn’t take long for Fritz to seize control, even though the British tried to come to our rescue. In April they landed to the north and set up camp, then attacked the German forces in our city. We all feared for our lives but dared to believe that our nightmare would quickly be over. But they failed, and by midsummer had fled our shores. The Nazis had won.
Joining the queue snaking towards the barrier and soldiers, I noticed some locals were being stopped and questioned at length. The really unlucky were bellowed at and searched from head to toe. Pretty roughly too. A few, however, looked innocent enough to get past without proper inspection. When my turn came, the sour-faced sentry took one cursory, sneering glance at my tatty identity papers and waved me on. Swallowing my relief, I hurried off. I didn’t want to hang around. Didn’t want him changing his mind.
Wooden gates framed each end of the bridge. For as long as anyone could remember, one had been called the Gate of Fortune. As I’d safely made it across, I guess fortune had to be smiling sweetly on me, and I hoped it stayed that way. As if to remind me of the consequences of failure, in the distance the white walls of the Kristiansten Fortress gleamed in the morning sun. Set high on a hill, she stood guard over our city. The Germans had put her to good use. Get caught, and that’s where I’d be heading.
Once over the bridge, I pedalled beside the wharves hugging the river, passing the towering warehouses and boats being loaded and unloaded under the watchful eyes of more soldiers. I swerved into a side street and headed deeper into town.
Dogfight Page 1
