“So it’s decided then.…” Gubbins took a read of the faces at the table. “We’re a go.”
Kelch, Whitehall’s scientific adviser, sighed. “The Germans have about one and one half tons of ‘juice’ already assembled. At five tons they’ll be able to start production of a new form of explosive a thousand times more deadly than any in use today. So yes, I agree, it must be done. Whatever the cost.”
He consulted Tronstad, across the table, who nodded, though with great reluctance. “I agree as well. The objective outweighs the risks.” Trying something was better than nothing with the situation as it was. “As long as we all understand what they are.”
He looked to Wilson, who nodded also. “Me, as well.”
There was no objection. Lord Brooks ran his eyes around one more time and exhaled. “I’ll get word to Mountbatten, then.” He turned to Gubbins, fastening the clasp around his briefcase. “So when would they leave?”
“Soon,” the SOE chief replied. “The next period of the moon. Moonlight is essential to the mission’s success. November eighteenth to the twenty-sixth.”
“A week, then.” Brooks raised his eyes, taken by the suddenness of the date.
“The Grouse team, who’ve been on the vidda for a month now, has already been alerted,” Wilson advised him.
“To our boys then,” Brooks said.
“Yes, to our boys!” The cheer was seconded around the table. “And to the king.”
Leif Tronstad cast a sobering glance at Wilson, then out the barred window. The skies had changed. The sun was no longer shining. Somber skies were not what he was hoping for. Not today.
But in truth, it reminded him of a typical Norwegian day.
15
Eight days later, at STS 41 in Wick, Wilson, Tronstad, and Henneker waited for word as the two Horsa gliders, each towed by a Halifax bomber, crossed the North Sea. No amount of smoked-down cigarettes or cups of coffee could mask their nerves.
They both knew the fate of the war might well rest on the outcome of the mission.
It was a four-hour flight, made in complete radio silence over the dark and frigid waters. Wilson knew that inside their gliders the men would be knee-to-knee, their stomachs tight with nerves. They may well be the best-trained fighters in the world, able to stand up to a test as well as anyone, but bouncing around in a cramped space at the mercy of a sixty-foot metal tow line, the craft shaking like a baby’s rattle from pockets of rough air, or now, as he checked the time, likely from German antiaircraft flak as they crossed the coastline, not knowing what outcome awaited them on landing, would test the mettle of even the toughest of men.
“They’re likely passing over the coast about now,” Henneker said at 10 P.M. “Here’s to them.”
“And to Grouse,” Tronstad added.
“And to that damn Eureka machine,” Wilson chipped in as well, knowing how crucial it was that they land at the designated spot, not ten miles from the target.
By now the Grouse team had made its way to the outskirts of the frozen Lake Mosvatn to await the team’s arrival. They had radioed in earlier that they had set landing lights on the lake and that the signal from the radio beam was solid.
For about the hundredth time Wilson checked his watch. 10:30 P.M.
It shouldn’t be long now.
Another dreadful hour passed without news. Even upon landing, the strictest radio silence would be observed, so as to not alert the German W/T operators on the ground as to their location, even if they had been seen coming in. The lake was a solid two hours’ trek from the target.
After another hour, Tronstad muttered, “They’re either engaging the enemy now, or…”
“Or, what?” Wilson questioned.
He tapped out his pipe. “Or every German in Norway knows they’re there.”
By midnight they could only surmise that their boys were in action now.
Wilson knew that in these things the waiting without knowing was by far the toughest part. If he was a younger man he would gladly have been aboard one of those gliders himself. Twice already, Gubbins with Combined Operations had checked in from London. “Nothing to report,” was all Wilson replied to his boss.
“Is that bad?”
“Not bad at all. We don’t want to alert the Gerries to them. Let’s just wait.”
By 1 A.M., Wilson wasn’t so sure at all what was good and what wasn’t anymore. His insides were gnashing. Ashtrays of cigarette butts and pipe bowl droppings marked the time. The tension of what was at stake was clear in the faces of Tronstad and Henneker, both seasoned operators.
“Won’t be long now.”
Then the first word came in from one of the Halifax pilots on his way back to England. Henneker, who intercepted the transmission, read it aloud. “It’s from Taxi Two.” The tow plane for the second Freshman team. His face became wan. “They’re saying they were unable to locate the landing zone. They decided to turn back for home, but it seems the tow line froze.” He looked up. “And then disengaged.”
“Disengaged?” Wilson looked at him in horror.
“Apparently it crashed.” Henneker put the message down. “It reads, ‘Glider released into the sea.’”
“The sea?” Wilson drew in a breath and turned to Tronstad. There was no hope of rescue there. “My God.”
Seventeen men. Good ones. Still … That left only Freshman One. Such a loss of men would be inconsolable, a huge blow, but the mission could still be accomplished.
“Do we tell London?” Henneker asked.
Wilson said, “Not yet. Till we know that the mission is completed. There’s still hope.”
At 3:30, with the men on the verge of losing their wits, Corporal Finch, the radioman, ran into the briefing room with a message. “It’s from Grouse, sir.”
Wilson saw what it contained from the pallor on the radioman’s face. He stood and beckoned the corporal over. “It’s from Haugland.” Wilson took the message and read. “He says they heard noises in the air over a wide circle, but no contact. Nothing landed.” A pain knifed through his gut. “There was an explosion, however. On the far side of the lake. A fireball.” He swallowed and sat back down. “They saw evidence of nearby German activity in the area.”
There was no word at all from Freshman themselves.
At 4 A.M., Wilson called Gubbins at Combined Operation HQ. “It does not look good, sir,” Wilson said. “The men have failed to land.”
There was a long pause on the other end. “I assume they’re on their way home, then…?”
“No, sir.” Wilson cleared his throat. “It appears they’ve crashed.”
“Crashed? Freshman One or Two?” the head of SOE inquired.
“Both, sir, I’m afraid. I fear both teams are gone.”
16
The morning of November 22, German radio broadcast the following news item, which was picked up, without further commentary, in newspapers across the British Isles: On the night of November 19–20, two British bombers, each towing one glider, flew into southern Norway. One bomber and both gliders were forced to land. The sabotage troops they were carrying were put to battle and wiped out to the last man.
17