“A team of ten Norwegians to save the war for England and the rest of Europe?” Henneker laughed, searching the table for agreement.
“You’re right.” Tronstad thought about it a second and then conceded. “It may take eleven.”
There were a few restrained chuckles, but when they died out, no one seemed to challenge the idea. Bombing was always a risky proposition. Better a few Norwegians dead, after Freshman, some were likely thinking, than a wing of new Sterlings down and nothing to show for it.
A few Norwegians wouldn’t even make the evening news.
“All right then.” Gubbins nodded, receiving a confirming nod from Brooks. “Take your boys, as you call them, Colonel, and do the job. This may be our final chance at it. Keep your damn rank. Just get the blasted thing done.”
18
Nordstrum was exercising at Avainaire when the official car drove up to the lodge. Wilson and Leif Tronstad stepped out.
“Colonel.” Nordstrum saluted, happy to see them back. Everyone knew they’d been attending an important meeting in London. Something in their faces said that something big had been decided.
Wilson came up to him. “How’s the foot, Lieutenant? Good to go?”
“Completely healed, sir.” Nordstrum bounced on his toes to demonstrate he was ready. “What’s the news?”
“You all know about Freshman, I assume?”
Even tucked away in the Highlands, word had reached them of the catastrophe that had taken place in Norway. The Linge Company had trained with those boys, so the loss of so many hit hard. No one knew precisely what had taken place—only that the job, whatever it was, important enough that they had risked forty British lives, hadn’t been accomplished. And there was also the fate of the Grouse team, their close friends, who hadn’t been heard from in a while, and who would now have to go deeper onto the vidda just as the weather was worsening. “We’re all sorry about your boys. But ours are stuck there. We’d all do whatever we can to help them.”
“Then gather the group, Lieutenant,” the colonel said. “We have a job for them. And I’m asking that American lad in too, what’s his name?”
“Gutterson, Colonel.”
“Gutterson, yes. He’s good in a pinch as well.”
Nordstrum looked at them expectantly.
“The news, Kurt”—Tronstad put his hand on Nordstrum’s shoulder—“is we’re sending you in. A small team to meet up with Grouse, and finish the job that Freshman was sent to do.”
The job, as everyone now knew, was the destruction of the heavy water facility at the Norsk Hydro plant in Vemork.
“You’re talking about sending in Norwegians?” Nordstrum said, elation building inside. “Into Norway.”
“Aye. Plus the Yank. You’ll need the best climber you can find. And he’s earned his spot.”
“Don’t you worry, we’ll keep an eye out for him.” Nordstrum grinned. “I know the boys’ll be pleased, sir. How soon, if I may ask?”
“Half an hour. In the great room. Before lunch.” Wilson glanced at his watch.
“I meant how soon until we go in.” Nordstrum smiled.
“Yes, of course,” the colonel said. “We’ll need one more round of training. Industrial sabotage, specific to the target itself. But soon, Lieutenant. Whenever the weather permits. Grouse can only hold out so long.”
19
In Rjukan, Dieter Lund gathered his men together as well.
News of the failed glider mission had reached them the day after it occurred. Two planes down in fiery crashes, dozens of British airmen dead, not thirty kilometers away. The Norsk Hydro plant in Vemork had been the target. Not a month ago, the local Gestapo had issued a new order on saboteurs that had come direct from the Fuhrer himself:
From now on, all opponents brought to battle by German troops in so-called Commando operations in Europe or Africa, even when it is outwardly a matter of soldiers in uniform or demolition parties with or without weapons, are to be exterminated to the last man in battle or while in flight.… Even if these individuals on being discovered, make as if to surrender …
Should it prove advisable to spare one or two for reasons of interrogation, they are to be shot immediately after interrogation.
It was a futile mission, Lund knew. Even if they had somehow gotten to their objective, these men never stood a chance.
Things were now in a high state of activity in the area. Fresh troops were being brought in and stationed at the plant. New rows of mines were being laid, plus additional rings of barbed-wire fencing added. Even in Rjukan, you could see the beams from the searchlights crisscrossing the ravine from the suspension bridge at night.
Muggenthaler, the local Gestapo chief, had issued strict commands to find all illegal radio activity in the region. “These commandos had to have assistance on the ground,” he said to Lund. “Sniff them out. These are your people, Captain. I urge you to find them.”
“Yes, Herr Obersfuhrer.” Lund saluted with a snap of his heels.
In the mountains, German mobile W/T vehicles searched hut to hut for signs of radio transmissions. These signals were generally hard to detect, and had to be listened for with painstaking dedication, as only an active transmission could be traced, and in the mountains, with vast distances, it was difficult to get there in time. When caught, violators were generally shot on the spot. In town, Lund’s own men went street by street. Any suspicious electronic equipment was confiscated without explanation. Those even suspected of having ties to the resistance were brought in. Cause was of no concern. Twenty had been rounded up in the past twenty-four hours alone. What ultimately happened to them, Lund himself couldn’t even be sure. They were probably beaten senseless in the basement of Gestapo headquarters and, whether they admitted anything or not, sent off in the middle of the night to the concentration camp at Grini where all the Jews and suspected troublemakers were sent. Their wives and mothers would beat down the door at police headquarters. “What’s happened to my son? I know he was brought in. Where have you taken him?”
“I cannot say, madame.” Lund would simply shrug or throw his hands up to suggest the matter was on a higher level than him. “It’s out of my hands,” he would say, though he suspected what their fates were. “He shouldn’t have been engaged in any illegal activity.”
“Illegal activity? He was just a fisherman,” their loved ones would protest. “You serve these animals, Lund.” They pointed, accusation in their eyes. “Why? His blood is on your hands.”