‘Yeah, my thoughts exactly. I wouldn’t mind if they’d been written on rice paper. It’s edible, apparently.’
I quickly gave them back, worried they’d blow out of my hands into the deep water.
‘Heimar will send them by Morse code to London,’ Loki said, tucking the envelope safely back into his pocket. ‘That reminds me, Finn, don’t let me forget to tell him that he’s going to have to be more careful about where and when he uses his transmitter. Father will skin me alive if I forget.’
‘Why?’
‘Fritz is stepping up his Funkspiel – you know, his radio detection. That’s what all those grey vans are for.’
I knew what he meant – I’d seen the vans too. Once I’d even banged a fist heavily on the side of one while walking past. I imagined the operator hidden inside jumping out of his boots. It was all so horridly simple. The operator sat quietly inside with his headphones on, listening for hours on end to his receiver, slowly rotating the antenna poking out of the van’s roof. Most of the time he detected only hiss. But as soon as he picked up a signal, he knew the precise direction it came from. All the Germans needed was a second van parked somewhere else to do the same, and instantly they had a fix on the location of the sender. They did it by triangulation, where two straight lines on a map coincided, meaning the ‘X’ marked the spot. Once detected, it was only a matter of minutes before troops descended to arrest the poor unsuspecting culprit. They called it their ‘radio game’, their Funkspiel, although it was no game; it was a matter of life and death. But I knew Uncle Heimar was careful. He moved about, never using the same location twice, and he kept his messages short. As soon as he was done, he’d pack up his transmitter and be off. And he always used locations that were hard to get to, hard to surround, easy to escape from.
‘What do you reckon these messages are about?’ I asked.
‘Probably about troop, ship and plane movements. Maybe something about how the recruitment into the Resistance is going. Possibly a request for some guns and ammo. Who knows?’
The Resistance movement wasn’t really properly organized. Not yet. A few determined men and women had managed to get hold of transmitters, and acted as organizers and recruiters. But they had to be very careful. We all understood that it was difficult to know who you could trust, so for now mostly small groups had been formed – within families, or by those with close ties. Uncle Heimar, though not a real uncle, was a life-long friend of both Loki’s father and mine. We trusted each other with our lives.
By the time we reached the opposite shore the mist had begun to lift. The wind had picked up and generated quite a swell. Though stiff and still hurting, I took my turn rowing. I knew the area like the back of my hand and headed for the small, craggy inlet fringed with razor-sharp rocks jutting above the waves and spewing white foam. Even if I’d been lost, disorientated or confused, the frantic yapping and howling of Heimar’s dogs would have guided me in. They always detected our scent well before we arrived.
In the sheltered waters of the inlet, Heimar’s boat rocked gently against the jetty. Although old, the Gjall was the envy of many local fishermen. A fifty-foot cutter with sleek lines and strongly built, she could withstand just about anything nature threw at her.
Heimar understood his dogs well and was waiting to greet us. Loki waved and cast him our rope, which Heimar tied to one of the jetty’s thick wooden supports. ‘You’re just in time for lunch,’ he said. ‘How do potato soup, grilled trout and baked apples sound?’
‘Heaven,’ I replied, my mouth already watering.
Heimar was a mountain of a man. He was a pretty fine fisherman, but what made him stand out from most other men was his hunting skills and his ability to trek over vast distances and survive in a wilderness where most would perish, especially in the harshness of our brutal winters. He led the way and spotted me rubbing my side. ‘What’s the matter with you, Finn?’
I drew my hand away quickly. ‘Nothing. Just a little accident, that’s all.’
A steep path wound up from the shore through a dense copse of birch and pine trees. You couldn’t see Heimar’s house until you were virtually on top of it. Situated in the centre of a small clearing, it was constructed mostly of wood under a steeply pitched roof. Thick grey-brown smoke curled and wafted up from the chimney. About twenty yards from the main house, two small wooden outhouses hugged the fringe of the clearing.
Close by, Heimar’s four dogs formed a line, each tied to a separate tree via chains just long enough to allow each some freedom to exercise, while keeping them apart. Given the chance, they’d set upon one another and try to tear each other to shreds. With our arrival they remained frenzied, straining on their leashes, all in full voice. Loudest, as always, was Algron, his howls echoing back from the surrounding mountains. My favourite, though, was Sleipnir. Heimar reckoned he was the fastest dog in the whole of Norway. I went to make a fuss of him, knowing I needed to approach cautiously. These huskies weren’t pets. They were sled dogs, working dogs. I’d always wanted a dog team of my own but Father was allergic to their fur dust. It made him cough and wheeze like an old man. Heimar bellowed at them to quieten down, roaring like a bear and throwing out his arms. Their yapping and howls turned to whimpers of submission. They knew who was in charge.
‘They’re restless,’ he said. ‘They can smell winter in the air.’
During our short summer, huskies grow lazy, irritable and overweight. They’re really at their best when hauling sleds through the ice-laden wilderness in deepest winter. They quickly grow lean and strong again. There’s nothing quite like the exhilaration of being towed by a good dog team. Heimar’s was one of the best. And as soon as snow carpets the valleys, the much-awaited skijoring season begins, a series of special races that test man and beast to the limits of their endurance. A mix between cross-country skiing and sledding, it involves single dogs chosen for their speed, willingness, courage and strength, towing their masters round treacherous courses. Being on skis and hanging onto the leashes for dear life, competitors have only their voices to control their dogs. It’s fast, furious and very dangerous, but great fun. Heimar and Sleipnir were unbeatable. I often turned out to cheer them on. But with the Nazis in charge and making all the rules, people feared they’d ban even that simple pleasure. They’d already prohibited all public gatherings.
Indoors, Heimar’s daughter, Freya, was busy ladling out the soup into bowls. She looked up. ‘Hi, Finn, didn’t know you were coming too,’ she said. ‘Better grab yourself a spoon and drag up another chair. How are your mother and sister doing?’
‘Fine,’ I replied.
I noticed Loki looked rather put out. She’d not offered him an especially warm greeting. Freya was the same age as Loki and me, and poor Loki was well and truly smitten. I’d often had to listen to him rabbit on about her. It was Freya this and Freya that, and isn’t Freya just wonderful. She was, but I wondered if the feeling was mutual. It was hard to tell. They always seemed awkward in each other’s company.
Loki handed over the messages to Heimar and then quietly stared into his soup. He looked rather glum. Heimar examined each page in turn and then cursed. ‘This will take hours,’ he complained. ‘And there’s so little time.’
‘What do the messages say?’ I asked. ‘They look like ordinary letters to me.’
‘The writing’s just a red herring, Finn,’ he replied.
I could tell he didn’t want to reveal anything. I suppose he thought the less we knew the better, the safer. But I was interested, and pressed him, saying that if we were old enough to be entrusted with carrying the messages, then we were old enough to know more. Eventually I persuaded him.
‘The interesting stuff is written between the lines in invisible ink. But put it under an ultraviolet lamp, and all is revealed.’
I stared at one of the pages. I couldn’t see anything written between the lines. Heimar got up from the table, walked across to a bookcase and pulled it away from the wall. The walls
were clad in pine, and by tapping in a particular place he revealed a hidden compartment. From it, he removed an odd-looking lamp and flex. He put the device on the table, climbed onto a spare chair and removed the bulb from a ceiling light. ‘Hand me the end of the flex, Finn.’ He connected the lamp to the light socket. ‘Now, a word of warning. Never look directly into an ultraviolet light. It’ll damage your eyes.’
The lamp consisted of a flat, rectangular box housing the bulb, with a wide slit on one side. Switching it on, Heimar held it over one of the letters, bathing it in the blue light. And there it was – a second message written between the lines of the first. It looked like magic. ‘That’s the easy bit though,’ he added, turning the lamp off. ‘They have to be coded for transmission. That takes ages.’
‘Why?’ asked Loki.
‘I have to be methodical. Make a mistake and London will receive gobbledegook. Just one small error and they won’t be able to decode any of it.’ He returned the lamp to its secret hiding place.
I wanted to know how the coding was done.
‘Best not to ask questions like that, Finn,’ said Freya.
I remembered what Loki had told me – that sort of knowledge could get you killed. ‘But what if something happened to you? What if you couldn’t contact London? Someone else would have to take over. I’d be willing to do it,’ I said.
‘He’s right,’ added Loki. ‘We’d both be willing to.’
Freya saw that we were hungry to learn more and knew we’d not let the matter drop. ‘I suppose you could tell them the basics,’ she said to Heimar. ‘I mean, as long as you don’t reveal the poem.’
‘The poem?’ I said, frowning.
‘Very well. We call them poem codes, Finn,’ Heimar began. ‘London gives each agent a poem that he or she has to memorize. Some are famous, like those of the English poet Wordsworth. Others are made up. When we send messages, we pick five words at random from the poem and write them out in a line. This represents the key to our code. Underneath, we write our message. Then it’s a case of working out the transposition of letters and applying it to the rest of the message.’ He sat back down and wiped a napkin across his mouth. ‘Of course, we begin each transmission with an identifier that reveals which words we’ve selected from our poem.’
Freya interrupted. ‘It’s a brilliant scheme. Virtually impossible to crack.’
It seemed mighty complicated to me. And it struck me that there was one massive weakness. ‘But if you get caught,’ I said hesitantly, ‘they might extract the poem from you under interrogation.’
‘Possibly,’ Heimar replied.
‘And then they’d be able to send and receive messages from London without the British realizing anything’s wrong!’ I added.
Heimar wriggled uncomfortably in his chair. ‘True,’ he said. ‘Better not get caught then!’
‘I’ve got a message for you too,’ I said. ‘From Anna.’ I delved into my pocket and took out the envelope.
Heimar read it and grimaced. ‘Looks like the rumours are true then,’ he said. He passed it to Freya. ‘Just read every seventh word,’ he instructed. He turned to me to explain. ‘It’s a riskier but faster way of encoding a message.’
Freya summarized Anna’s intelligence. ‘So, soon the fjord is going to be put out of bounds. Fishing will be banned except for boats heading out to sea. And they’ll have to get special permits, and be escorted out of port. The Germans are doubling patrols by air, sea and along the shore.’
‘Anna’s done well,’ said Heimar. He looked across at me in a strange way. I think he was silently telling me that he understood the risks she’d taken.
Freya cleared our bowls from the table and dished up the trout and potatoes. We had potatoes with most things. They were the only vegetable not in short supply. It was a feast. I’d not eaten so well for weeks. My belly wasn’t used to so much and complained bitterly by making strange noises. As we stuffed our faces, I caught sight of Freya staring at me. ‘What?’ I said.
‘I’ve just realized you’re not wearing your flying jacket, Finn.’
Expectant eyes fell upon me – an explanation was required. So it all came tumbling out again – about my flying jacket, the Hauptmann incident, and how Ned had almost prevented our trip that morning. Since Mr Grimmo was well known in the area as an active member of the Nasjonal Samling party – and therefore despised by many – I guessed Heimar could picture it all. He remained unimpressed though, and gave me a stern look. ‘I understand why you did it, Finn,’ he said between mouthfuls. ‘But there are more important matters you should expend your energy on. The one thing we must avoid is drawing attention to ourselves.’ He glared at me. ‘Have I made myself understood?’
I nodded. Heimar had this way about him. You listened when he spoke, and you took it all in. You did not argue. If he told you to do something, you did it. But I could also sense that he understood my plight. He knew just how important that jacket was to me.
‘Maybe you can find out who’s got your jacket now, Finn,’ said Freya encouragingly. ‘If they know it’s stolen, perhaps they’ll return it. Or you could buy it back.’
‘I’ve thought about that, Freya,’ I replied. ‘You might be right. Although there’s no way I can afford to buy it back.’
‘We’ll all chip in,’ said Loki. Freya and Heimar nodded.
‘Thanks!’ Their offer made me feel heaps better about the whole episode.
As Loki and I tucked into the baked apples, which had been sprinkled with dark sugar and wild cloud-berries, Heimar wandered over to the window and gazed out, lost in thought. Eventually he turned away and made an announcement. ‘It’s clearing up out there. Looks like we’re on for tonight, Freya. Better start getting things ready.’
‘For what?’ I asked.
‘Parachute drop. Next valley. Midnight. Received the signal yesterday. They’ve been waiting for the full moon. Let’s just hope they can locate the drop zone.’
Loki’s gaze met mine. Our thoughts were as one. In unison we said, ‘Can we go with you?’
‘Surely we can help,’ Loki added.
Heimar shook his head. ‘Sorry, boys, it’s out of the question. Far too dangerous.’
‘We’re willing to take the risk,’ I said. Loki nodded but Heimar remained unconvinced.
Freya came to our aid. ‘Two extra pairs of hands might come in useful, Heimar.’
Lighting his pipe, Heimar sucked hard and chewed it over amid a growing cloud of sweet smoke. ‘We might come across German patrols,’ he said, thinking aloud. ‘Do you know how serious that is? We might have to run for our lives. Then there’s always the chance we could all be captured, or shot.’
Nothing he said could dull our enthusiasm. We pleaded with him.
‘If they go with you,’ said Freya, ‘I could stay here and send the messages to London. I know how to use the poem code. I’ve helped you often enough with it and I’ve transmitted my fair share of messages as well.’
Heimar tapped the ash from his pipe and sighed heavily. ‘OK, you three win. That’s what we’ll do. But be careful when you transmit, Freya. Keep it short.’
‘That reminds me,’ said Loki. ‘Father told me to tell you that more detector vans have arrived in town. Says you need to be extra careful.’
‘We’re always careful, Loki.’ Heimar turned to Freya. ‘Transmit from the old ruined barn in the woods up by Owl Ridge. It’s well hidden. It ought to be safe enough.’
Freya nodded. ‘Rather you than me,’ said Loki, cringing.
‘No point in asking you along, then, is there?’ said Freya, grinning and winking at me across the table.
The barn lay some way up the mountainside, close to a sheer drop that Loki had found terrifying ever since he was six years old. We’d been climbing trees there, and Loki had scrambled up one far too near the edge. He made the mistake of looking down. Coming over all dizzy, he froze, unable to move. It took our fathers, some rope and a ladder to get him down. Not many things sca
red my best friend, but heights were his Achilles heel, and just the mention of Owl Ridge, or hooting by blowing through cupped hands, could bring him out in a cold sweat. Oddly, though, he had no problem when flying. But fears are often like that – irrational.
We spent the afternoon preparing for our journey, a long hike into the next valley. As dusk approached the sky finally cleared and I saw that high up on the mountain slopes the first snow had fallen. The warmth I’d felt yesterday in town was merely nature deceiving us all. Winter was almost upon us. Heimar grabbed a shovel and disappeared into the trees. Loki and I followed him, and watched through the gloom as he dug into the undergrowth to reveal a long wooden crate about the size of a coffin. Prising off the lid, he lifted out Krag-Jorgensen rifles wrapped in cloth.
‘Better check these over and make sure they’re clean and in good order,’ he said. ‘We’ll take thirty rounds each.’ He delved deeper into the box. ‘We’ll carry the flares in our rucksacks.’
Taking hold of my rifle brought home the seriousness of our venture. Carrying guns was illegal according to the new German laws – a bit rough for a country full of hunters. Getting caught would mean arrest. We’d probably be sent to the camps. Heimar saw me staring at my weapon. ‘You do remember how to use one of those, I hope?’
I nodded. In fact, I wasn’t a bad shot. I could hit a beer bottle more often than not at a hundred yards. Loki was about the same. Heimar had a cupboard full of trophies. People claimed he could shoot the ears off a rabbit at five hundred yards – maybe more with a telescopic sight.
I placed two stick-like flares in my rucksack. Heimar said they only burned for a few minutes so we’d have to be careful to set them off at just the right time, when we could hear, and preferably see, the incoming aircraft. Between us, we packed several lengths of rope, torches, powerful binoculars, some biscuits and canteens of water, wedging them around the flares. Then we checked and loaded our rifles.
We set off at six o’clock. It was already dark. Freya had completed the coding of the messages and Heimar took a few minutes to check that she’d done it the right way. He seemed impressed with her work and gave her a big hug. So did I, as we headed for the door. Loki tried too, but it was awkward, as if two people were trying to hug at a distance. My best friend, born oozing confidence, could look as gawky as a one-legged gannet at times. When he tried to kiss her cheek, she pulled away, and he almost fell over.
Dogfight Page 5
