“Jeg er klar,” Nordstrum corrected him. “But who’s counting?”
There was plenty for them to do that day to keep their nerves under wraps and their thoughts occupied.
They fit their ski equipment, distributed the weight evenly in their packs. Each was filled with food, extra socks and gloves, burners, explosives, Thompson machine guns, and hand grenades. And two suicide pills. Each pack weighed over seventy pounds. They were set to leave at 2100 hours, the word was, which would put them over the mainland in early morning. They were supposed to be landing at Bjornesfjord, a lake near Lake Maure, where they would rally up with the Grouse team, who was nearby, and who’d been alerted to their arrival. They’d finally get to see their countrymen.
After lunch, Ronneberg came in and said Wilson and Tronstad wanted to see them all.
In the briefing room where RAF bombers received their final instructions before their flights, Tronstad, dressed in a heavy wool sweater and with his ubiquitous pipe, put his foot up on a stool and said to them, “Boys, you know by now that the Germans will never take you as prisoners. For the sake of those who have gone before you and are now dead, I urge you to make this operation a success. You have no idea how important this mission is, only that what you will do will live in Norway’s history for years to come.”
He went up and individually shook each man’s hand. Each felt in return they were doing the highest service to their country. As they filed out, everything set to go, Tronstad went up to Nordstrum and took him by the arm. “Kurt, can you stay behind a minute?”
Having been pulled at the end once before, Nordstrum felt a jab of apprehension shoot through him. But he merely nodded back. “Of course.”
After the rest filed out, Tronstad and Wilson stayed behind in the briefing room. There was an empty chair at the desk. Tronstad motioned to Nordstrum to take a seat.
“If it’s all the same…,” Nordstrum said. He remained standing.
“Of course.” The colonel rubbed his hands and started in. “We just wanted to be sure, Lieutenant, as leader of the explosives team, you fully understood the mission’s main target is the stocks of fluid stored in the plant’s basement. These must be destroyed at all costs. Regardless of the remaining cells, and even if your position is surrounded and it involves a heavy loss of life.”
“We all understand that, sir.” Nordstrum looked back at him. It had been drummed into their heads a hundred times. “And that’s what we’ll do.”
“Good.” The major smiled a bit contritely, as if caught in a ruse. “Seems a bit late in the game on that, I suppose.…”
Clearly something else was on their minds.
“There is one more thing.…” Tronstad came over and sat across from Nordstrum, against the table. “We all know how much you’re itching to get back there, Kurt.”
“Yes, Major.” Nordstrum nodded. “We all are.”
“You’re likely as at home in the mountains around Rjukan as any on this mission. You know how to keep low and how to survive in a pinch, should things come up.”
“Things, sir…?”
“Yes, Lieutenant.” The colonel stood up as well. “We’d like to ask something of you—entirely your choice whether to accept it or not, of course. We can always go to someone else.”
“And what is it?” Nordstrum looked at them plainly.
“We have some matters that will need to get done there, if everything goes according to plan. After the operation. The only thing…” The ruddy-complexioned colonel cleared his throat and looked Nordstrum squarely in the eyes. “… is that to carry them out, it may well put you in a bit of danger.…”
Nordstrum glanced at the empty chair. The colonel waited.
This time, Nordstrum took a seat. “Tell me what it is you need.”
24
For a mission that required a clear, bright moon to ensure a successful landing in Norway, it was raining cats and dogs in Scotland the night their Halifax left the ground.
The seven men of Gunnerside squeezed into the fuselage in white camouflage suits, their chutes strapped on tightly. With them were twelve sealed containers of supplies.
As the bomber took off, the men didn’t show a lot of nerves or worry. They’d been over what they had to do so many times, it was in their blood now. They knew every aspect they could control. Plus, they were headed home.
From the tarmac, Wilson and his adjunct, Welsh, watched the plane lift off and disappear into the low ceiling of clouds. The two exchanged a hopeful glance.
“It’s a wet one,” the commander said.
“Damn well is.” Wilson nodded. “But hopefully not there.”
Leif Tronstad was in the midst of a letter to his wife and children back in Trondheim. Hearing the bomber take off and climb, he put down his pen. “For the king,” he whispered, momentarily shutting his eyes. “And for mankind.”
He picked up his pen again, but found it difficult to go on.
For the men of Gunnerside, the ride was long and bumpy over the North Sea. For over four hours, the seven crammed into a narrow space on makeshift seats. With every bit of turbulence or sudden dip in altitude, they exchanged expectant smiles. Luckily, the winds died down and it was calm as they crossed the Norwegian coast, and, even more encouraging, the German defenses were quiet.
“Boys, look!” Jens pointed with a hopeful smile through the one small round window in the fuselage—the moon. It was bright and full. Exactly what they’d hoped for. From a teeming night in northern England, they’d come home to a clear, moonlit sky.
The copilot turned back to them and called back, “We’re over Norway now, boys. Welcome home. Stations all.”
Ten minutes to the drop.
The jump dispatcher got out of his straps. “Time to get ready, gents.”
He bent down and pulled open the specially designed hatch. It opened to moonlit-frosted peaks of mountains and valleys of endless snow, the sight of which made each of them smile. One by one they got out of their seats and attached their jump cords.
“Leveling at eight hundred feet,” the pilot announced.
Ronneberg was up first and edged himself over the hatch. All that had to be done to jump was to go through the open chute. A sixteen-foot cord and the force of the wind taking hold of you did all the rest as soon as you cleared the plane. It took only two to three seconds for the chute to deploy—at eight hundred feet, a jumper didn’t want to be held in suspense too much longer.
“See you all on the ground.” Ronneberg took a last look at them and winked. Then, with a tug on his cord, he wiggled into the jump chute.
The green light went on.
The jump dispatcher tapped him on the shoulder. “Now!”
Shouting “To Norway!” Ronneberg lowered through the hole and disappeared into the darkness.
“Next up. Quick.” The dispatcher pulled the next in line. Stromsheim.