At the SOE headquarters, Jack Wilson and Leif Tronstad sat across the table from Major General Gubbins and Lord Brooks and Kelch from Whitehall, as chief planner Commander Henneker laid out the mission’s plan.
Combined Operations had decided that thirty-four crack British paratroopers, all volunteers from the Royal Engineers, First British Airborne division, who’d undergone intensive training in the Highlands, would be flown in by two gliders towed by Halifax bombers and land on the marshy edge of Lake Mosvatn, approximately ten miles from the plant. The operation would be called Freshman. The gliders would be guided in and the landing site lit by the Grouse advance team, which was already on the ground. They had taken the decision out of Wilson’s and Tronstad’s hands.
“Gliders, you’re saying…?” Lord Brooks, Churchill’s representative, raised a questioning eye. “On a frozen, mountainous lake?” The towing of gliders was always a hazardous undertaking, made even more so by the four-hour distance they would need to be towed and the unpredictable weather they might find at their destination, which could easily impact visibility.
“We’ve been over the various other options,” Henneker conveyed. “But to parachute in, with so many men, they’d be strung out all over the vidda. It would take them at least a day or two to regroup, not to mention the possible shifts in the weather. To bring them in by sea…” The planner shook his head. “It’s simply too far away in hostile territory to ensure the force would get there intact. The operation must be in and out. Speed and surprise are essential. We must get them as close to the actual target as we can.”
Across the table, Wilson caught Tronstad’s gaze with a cast of doubt in his eyes.
At first it was argued that the men go in by truck across the narrow suspension bridge at the front of the plant, dispatch the two sentries there, and then take care of the detachment in the guardhouse, estimated between twenty and thirty men. They’d been informed that after a visit by General Falkenhorst, commander of all Nazi armies in Norway, the plant’s defenses had been bolstered. This included searchlights suspended from the factory’s roof, a machine gun nest, and rows of mines and tripwires, predominantly around the large water conduits in the rear of the facility where it was thought any sabotage operation would have to originate. The west side of the plant, which faced the Rjukan gorge, was deemed to be unassailable.
Ultimately, they decided to traverse the vidda on foot, with the Grouse team leading them, and rappel down the cliffs.
“These men are up to this?” Lord Brooks inquired.
“They’re the finest we have,” Henneker assured him. “They’ve been training in the Highlands of Scotland for just such an action. Thanks to Major Tronstad here, and Jomar Brun, they know the layout of the plant inside and out. Once we neutralize the guards, we estimate the entire operation to destroy the high-concentration cells will last no more than fifteen to twenty minutes.”
“It’s not the inside of the plant I worry about,” Leif Tronstad finally cut in. “It’s the vidda. The Scottish Highlands are one thing. But none of them have ever faced the fierceness of a Norwegian mountain storm, which can spring up without warning.”
“Professor Tronstad has raised the possibility that the raiding party to carry out this mission should be comprised entirely of his own countrymen,” Henneker, who, like Wilson, was an ex–Royal Highlander, and one who was certain the king’s ranks contained the most capable fighting men in the world, declared. “I have assured him these men are the finest caliber of troops there are.”
“Still, just landing them on the vidda at night will be an accomplishment,” Tronstad interjected. “The rest—”
“The rest will follow as planned,” Henneker cut him off sharply. “Surprise and preparation will win out. There is no room in our preparation to fail.”
Indeed, the men had gone through the most intensive mountain training procedure there was, equal to that of the Norwegians. They had even been dropped in remote Highland mountain settings in groups of two, with only maps and compasses to guide them, carrying the amount of weight on their backs they would have to bear on the mission, and similar rations to what they would have to consume.
“Plus, four of your men will already be there to assist.” Henneker gave Tronstad a deferential nod. “Should the need be there.”
“And what about after the raid?” Brant Kelch, Whitehall’s scientific adviser, asked. “Assuming it’s successful.”
“It’s been decided they will split into groups of two, each donning civilian garb,” Henneker said, passing around the briefing sheet, “and make their way to Sweden. Each man will be provided with an escape pack filled with clothes, currency, and personal effects.”
“We’ve even clipped their facial hair,” Major General Gubbins chimed in. “So they will look like average Norwegians. And they each know a few words in the native dialect in the event they’re stopped. Hopefully they’ll blend in, like ordinary men.”
“Sweden…?” Brooks stood up and consulted the map. “I’m no logistical man, but it seems a ways away.”
“One hundred and fifty miles,” said Tronstad. “With three hundred thousand Germans in the way. And if the men do reach the factory, every one of them will be on their tails. And if somehow the Germans don’t manage to get them, you can be sure over that distance the weather on the vidda surely will.”
“Some will no doubt be captured.” Henneker nodded, clearing his throat. “Or be unable to complete the trip. But we believe the rate of success will be positive. And what’s important is that we don’t lose sight of the objective. If successful, this will set the Germans’ heavy water experiments back three years.”
“And if they’re captured, they’ll be shot as spies?” Brooks, who would have to manage the political implications, massaged his jaw. “These fine young boys, the finest caliber of fighting troops in the world, as you say.”
“Each of them knows the mission’s importance,” Gubbins, the SOE chief, responded. “As well as the risk. Each and every one has volunteered.”
“Still…” Lord Brooks’s outward expression mirrored what was running through his mind. That this was indeed a one-way mission. That there was simply no plausible way for them to make it home. Nonetheless, the stiff-necked Henneker was right on one thing.… It damn well had to be done. Once achieved, any loss was acceptable.
And, yes, a few might well make it.…
“All right, then.” Brooks sat back down. He tapped his papers into a pile. “I’ll brief the High Command.” His eyes conveyed that in this war they had sent many men to their deaths. How many more would be lost if the Germans were allowed to develop their atomic research unimpeded? If they did nothing? And as the chief planner Henneker rightly said, these were stout men. The very best. Some would surely make it home. The rest … He packed up his briefcase, thinking, Well, that’s what medals are for.