They helped the Brits to adjust their boots and set their bindings to make the skiing easier, and talked about how to look for the firmer-packed snow, which was less taxing on the body.
“Keep in mind, this Scottish snow is nothing like the real thing,” Nordstrum showed one of them, feathering the wet, heavy snow through his gloves. “And this weather, of course this is like summer to us.”
“See our friend Gutterson here,” Claus Helberg said, pushing forward the American. “He’s actually a Yank, but we’ve made him half Norwegian. We could do the same for all of you if you stick close by.”
“His top half maybe,” Jens chuckled, with a knowing wink toward the Yank. “What’s going on below, we’re sorry to say, there’s not much hope.”
Everyone laughed. Even the British mates, who all seemed like good young men.
Another week went by. Then two. The final team was narrowed down. Poulsson, Haugland, and Helberg for sure. Each for their different skills. Poulsson was given the role of team leader. But Nordstrum and he had skied and hunted together in their youth and Nordstrum knew the Rjukan area, including the huts and cabins on the vidda, like the back of his hand. And he was also in as good shape as any in the group. When it came to the final spot on the team, everyone seemed to agree it would be him.
But as the rumors grew that it was only days now until they’d be leaving, the team was on a training exercise in the Highlands where the snow was exceedingly thin, practicing shooting while on skis. Discharging his rifle, Nordstrum skied over a rock, and when he landed on one ski the gun went off again and he felt a stabbing pain in his left foot. He hobbled to a stop, knowing exactly what had happened.
He winced. There was a hole in his boot, blood oozing from it.
“Shit.” Nordstrum looked at Poulsson ominously.
“Get the toboggan,” the team leader said. “We’ll help you down.”
“I don’t need a fucking toboggan,” Nordstrom shot back angrily, and made it down the slope to the lodge on one ski, favoring the other.
“What’s happened?” Colonel Wilson came over, having seen the commotion. In the lodge, Jens and the Yank, Gutterson, assisted Nordstrum into a chair.
“Kurt’s so eager to shoot someone, he took it out on himself,” Jens said.
“It’s nothing,” Nordstrum insisted. “The boot took the worst of it.”
“Well, let’s take a look, shall we?” The colonel peeled back the tongue.
They eased off Nordstrum’s boot. Blood was all over his sock. Gerrie, one of the FANY nurses, came in and they carefully cut around it. It was nothing serious, thank God. The bullet had merely grazed his big toe, causing a lot of blood.
“It’s barely a scratch.” Nordstrum stood up, already putting pressure on it. “I’ll be back on skis tomorrow.”
“That may be.” The colonel put a hand on his shoulder. “But you’re out, Lieutenant. At least for now.”
“Out?” Nordstrum protested in disappointment. “Give me a day or two, Colonel, and I’ll be—”
“There’s no appeal,” Wilson said. “There’ll be other missions. Sorry, I know how you feel, Lieutenant, but you’ll be sitting this one out.”
13
October 19, 1942
Three days later, as a crestfallen Nordstrum mended at Avainaire, Poulsson, Knut Haugland, Claus Helberg, and Arne Kjelstrup took off from the airfield near Wick in a specially designed Halifax and were dropped before midnight onto the ice and wild of the Hardanger plateau.
That evening, the BBC news opened its newscast with the greeting “This is the latest news from London,” the slightest variation from the standard “This is the news from London,” informing Einar Skinnarland, back in Rjukan now and the SOE’s chief agent in the region, of his countrymen’s imminent arrival.
It took over four hours for the bomber to reach the drop zone, avoiding the antiaircraft batteries set up along Norway’s western coast, a result of Hitler’s fear that the invasion all knew was coming might be directed at the Scandinavian coast, with its endless irregular coastline.
This time the weather held.
Upon their return, Wing Commander Hockey and Flight Lieutenant Sutton reported they could make out winding fjords cutting into long, narrow valleys, snow-covered mountain peaks, even the lights of homes below, all lit by the bright full moon. The Hardanger was a mass of rock, ice, frozen rivers and lakes, too harsh for anyone to permanently inhabit, but it was about to become the first step in what was to be the most important secret mission of the war.
In his report, RAF dispatcher Hill reported that “the men jumped well and without hesitation,” with no more than a “Good luck, lads” from him. As soon as they were gone, he tossed out two heavy containers after them, filled with their supplies.
What Airman Hill had no way of knowing was the difficult landing that awaited the four below. The area of the drop zone was nothing more than a barren ridge of rock, stones, and snow. Upon hitting the ground, Claus Helberg badly twisted his ankle. The rest quickly scrambled to gather up their chutes, knowing that the powerful winds and sudden gales that were common there could easily drag a man hundreds of yards, wounding him badly, separating him from his mates, and potentially hurling him over the edge of a ridge into who knew what.
Unable to locate their supplies, which were scattered all over the mountainside in the dark, the Grouse commandos spent that first night huddled in sleeping bags on the ridge, protecting themselves as best they could from the icy gales. For the first time Poulsson, the only one who’d been briefed, informed his mates of the true objective of their mission:
They were to be the advance party for a group of commandos to blow up the heavy water stockpiles at the Norsk Hydro factory in Vemork.
“Heavy water?” Knut Haugland said, huddling in his sleeping bag against the cold. “What the hell is that?”
None of the other three had ever heard the term before.
*
It took them two full days to collect their equipment, which had ended up scattered across hundreds of yards of rugged hillside.