Rounding out the group was Eric Gutterson, the American, assigned to them from the U.S. Army’s Tenth Mountain Division. He was tall, blond, leanly built, from Vail, Colorado, with a boyish shyness and an easy smile. The smile was deceptive, however, as Gutterson could telemark down a ridge with the best of them and was also the most accomplished at climbing in the group. And he spoke the language a bit, as his father, a lift operator at a Vail resort, was of Norwegian descent. But it was generally the simplest phrases: Kaldt I dag? “Cold today, huh?” Or For meg lutefisk. “Pass the lutefisk.” And with an accent that made him sound more Finnish than Norwegian. Certainly no one would want to rely on his language skills to get out of a jam.
The guys all ribbed him that he should stick to something familiar, like that game where you hit a ball with a bat, or tossed a ball in a basket, or whatever odd sports they played in the United States, not this type of work, which required an upbringing in the harshest conditions. Only a true Norwegian could handle what they would find on the vidda if they were sent in. But on every level of training the Yank proved to be a match for any of them. With his wiry blond hair and modest way, he immediately fit in. Not a Northman, mind you, they all were quick to point out.
But still capable …
“We’ll be dropping a team of you back in on the vidda,” Colonel Wilson explained to them, slowly pacing back and forth. “It’s never been done before. But if an untrained engineer like Einar Skinnarland can pull it off, it ought to be berries and cream for experienced men like yourselves.”
“You mean berries and krumkak,” Jens joked, saying it in the northern dialect, producing a ripple of laughter from the group. “Remember, you’re among Norwegians, Colonel.”
“Yes, all right, crumb cake.” The colonel smiled, pronouncing it in his deep Scottish accent. “The team will do recon for a larger operation set for a later time. For now, I won’t say what that actual target is, or where. We’re calling the operation Grouse. It’s a bird that lives on mostly scrub and vegetation in the Arctic, so it’s aptly named, if I say so. What we have in mind will be demanding, but I promise it will also have the highest importance of any mission you will be a part of in this war.”
He scanned the seated rows. Some smoked. Others just sat there with their legs crossed, holding back their excitement. The expression on every face said, without reservation, We’re up for it.
“So when would we go, Colonel?” Claus Helberg asked.
“A couple of weeks. As soon as we can be assured of darkness. From now on, you’ll be separated from the rest of the ranks. Your training will become highly specialized. Oh, and just one thing more. You’ll need a team leader. We’ll pick one shortly. So that’s it for now.” He clapped his palms. “Unless there’s something more?”
“I have a question,” Nordstrum called from the back. “You say we’ll be a team. A team of how many, if I might ask?”
“I assume you’re speaking about the mission?” the colonel clarified. “How many of you will be going in?”
“Yes. If you can say.”
“You’ll be four,” the colonel said, and, knowing that would raise some eyebrows, he seemed to make eye contact with everyone in the room.
Four. There were eight of them in the room. Each a top soldier. And each would do whatever it took to be a part of what was taking place.
“And this main squad…” Nordstrom pressed further. “The ones who will follow after … I assume they’ll be from our ranks as well?”
Wilson gave a glance toward the planner, Henneker, who was standing to the side. “You mean are they to be Norwegian?” He took a step and took in a breath. “I’m afraid that’s yet to be determined, Lieutenant. Anything more…?”
12
Soon after, they learned what the ultimate objective was:
Vemork.
The tiny hamlet high above Rjukan where the Norsk Hydro chemical facility was located. With Einar gone, Nordstrum and Jens were the only ones who even had an inkling of the kind of work that was going on there.
No one was informed, even in the broadest way, about the mission’s real purpose. Only that the four team members would be dropped on the vidda at night, they would camp out there in the strictest secrecy, confirm reconnaissance on the plant and its defenses, and then escort the larger party that would follow shortly after to carry out the raid. It was the end of September; nights were growing longer. In the long days of summer, nighttime visibility was always a threat—the slow-flying Halifaxes that would be used to drop in a team would be easy targets for German antiaircraft batteries. With autumn came the cover of darkness, but with it the unpredictability of the weather as well.
And the storms.
Their training grew even more rigorous. The eight were sent back to the Highlands, where at the highest elevations there was snow, simulating as best they could the conditions they would find at home. In that clime they practiced nighttime jumps, setting up a base camp in the most hostile conditions, skiing with eighty pounds of equipment strapped to their backs, quickly coding and decoding messages, and preparing a landing site for the main team. They also learned to use the brand-new homing machine called Eureka, which sent an electronic pulse to the crew in the Halifaxes when they came within range, identifying their location for the drop. They practiced over and over what to do in case of capture; were put through grueling mock interrogations, some lasting as long as two hours. They went over what to do in case they ran into any civilians in the mountains. It was decided that they must be eliminated—countrymen or not. The mission was simply far too important to be jeopardized; too much was at stake. A stranger’s loyalties could simply not be determined, Colonel Wilson drummed into the group, no matter how sympathetic they appeared. No one liked the idea of having to do this to their own countrymen.
“Anyone who is unable to carry this out,” the colonel said to them, “perhaps it’s best to call it a day now.”
He waited. No one stood up.
“Good, then,” Wilson said, pleased.
The mountainous terrain in Norway was not well suited to these kinds of air operations. Possible dropping grounds on the vidda were few and the weather could never be predicted. Sudden storms could flare quickly and alter the terrain of the landing site, even while the flight was in the air. The mountains in Norway were steep and closely situated. In the blink of an eye, valleys could throw up air pockets and shift atmospheric currents. As September turned into October the weather patterns grew particularly hostile. Driving storms and low cloud cover seemed to be daily reports. All they could do in England was wait. All the sitting around made the mood grow edgy. They already felt they were sitting out the war while the Nazis tightened their grip on their homeland. And now all they could do was delay and postpone and continue to train even more, each trying to make the case to be picked among the first four.
One day in the Highlands, they ran into a group of English paratroopers from the First Royal Engineers—hearty boys who skied serviceably and were skilled in physical fighting and marksmanship, but who seemed a bit out of their element in the snow.
“Englishmen on skis,” Jens ribbed them. “Next you’ll see Norwegians playing cricket.”