They’d been lucky. A minute later, and they all would have been scrambling to dive off the road out of their path.
With Helberg taking the lead again, the ten hurried along the main road until they came upon the power line road he had found that afternoon. There, they would change out of their ski suits and hide their equipment and rucksacks until they came back to pick them up on their escape. From that point on, they’d be wearing the uniforms of the British Army, so as to avoid any reprisals against the local population if they were captured or killed.
The heavy drone of the factory was even louder now in the lower part of the valley: the whoosh and whir of its giant turbines; the steady thunder of rushing water plunging through its massive penstocks.
They stripped out of their suits, taking with them their tommys and Colt .45 pistols, and as much ammunition and grenades as they could carry. Nordstrum and Ronneberg transferred their explosives and charges into smaller sacks especially designed for the climb. Arne Kjelstrup came out with his armorer’s shears and some rope over his shoulders. He tucked the shears into his belt, Ronneberg warning him, “Those better not clatter against the rocks or we’re dead.”
“Don’t worry, they won’t. You’ll be happy to have them.”
Then they scattered their belongings in a nest of spruce leaves and balsam needles to collect later, when they made their way back. The time was ten o’clock. They still had to ford the river and make the six-hundred-foot climb to the factory ledge.
“All right, let’s go.” Ronneberg waved them forward. In a whisper, “Claus, you’re still leading the way.”
Not another word was said as they continued, sliding down channels in the rocks to the bottom of the gorge another hundred feet below.
They were there.
No one knew how many of them would make it back.
36
As Claus Helberg had assured them, the Mann River, which in spring cut through the gorge with a current fed by the mountain’s runoff, was no more than an icy trickle now, barely three inches of water on its surface. He had done his job well and had found a narrow route to cut across it, the ice crackling underneath their boots.
From there they ran fifty yards and huddled up in the shadow of the steep rock face underneath the factory that rose from the valley floor.
Above them, massive searchlights fanned the valley from the narrow suspension bridge. If any one beam centered on them, it was over. But none went deep enough in the valley to reach where they were. Or near the rock face they were about to ascend.
They looked up. Six hundred feet, the bottom third harrowingly steep. While Helberg was right—that much of the way seemed to have spruce shrubs or at least little ledges to grasp onto in the dark, with their weapons slung over their shoulders and the equipment weighing them down, even an expert climber would find the climb a challenge. Any fall could mean instant death, or worse, maybe, to be left there, at the bottom, with badly shattered bones.
“I’ll go first,” Helberg said. Only because he had plotted out a pathway up that afternoon.
“Then me,” volunteered Gutterson, granted the most agile climber of the group. He noticed Olf Pedersen’s hesitation, staring up at what they had to get up. “Get behind me, Olf. It’ll be a cinch. Just follow my path.”
“And I’ll be right behind,” Nordstrum said. “Between us you’re in solid hands. Just think of it as a waltz, Olf, not a jitterbug,” he said with a grin.
“Thanks.” Pedersen blew out his cheeks. “I wish that made it easy.”
“Well, whatever you do, if you fall,” Arne Kjelstrup elbowed him with a wink, “just don’t scream. You’ll give the rest of us away.”
“Yes, of course,” Olf said with a brave smile.
“Hand me your gun,” Nordstrum said to him. “I’ll carry them both.”
“No, I can make it,” Olf insisted.
“Just give it to me,” Nordstrum said, taking it out of his hands. “You might well need it up there.”
“So…” Ronneberg looked around and nodded. “Ready? Let’s go.”
Helberg started first, trying to re-create the route he had mapped out during the day. Gutterson went next. Then Olf, hesitantly, one step at a time. He hoisted himself up, following the exact path the Yank took ahead of him, tentatively grabbing rocks and shrubs, testing which were firm and secure, and which seemed loose and would give way. Helberg got to about thirty feet up, turned back, and waved for the rest to follow. “It’s easy to here.”
“This one’s a little loose.” Gutterson shifted around and warned Olf, pointing out a ledge to avoid.
“Thanks.”
Grabbing on to branches and testing for stability, Gutterson caught up to Helberg and took the lead. An able climber, his technique was to reach with his hand and make sure his toe was stable, then rest a moment, putting pressure on his toehold, before continuing on. “How are we doing?” he yelled down to Olf.
“Fine so far,” Pedersen called, eight feet below him, cautiously trying to wedge his boot into a small crevice.
Nordstrum was four feet below him, and then the others followed in a line, Poulsson picking up the rear. The slope was steep, but manageable if you kept your eyes straight ahead and not down. Though sometimes someone would kick away a piece of loose rock and it would dislodge, narrowly missing the climber underneath. On one occasion Gutterson had to manage with a single handhold and held on for his life, stabilizing his two feet before reaching up for a higher hold.
“Here.” He pointed out a foothold that was secure. Sometimes someone’s leg simply gave way from fatigue and he had to rest there, perilously clinging to a ledge, while he shook it out and recovered his strength.
Around 150 feet up, Pedersen seemed to find himself trapped in a spot he did not trust and let out a long breath of concern. One of his legs swung out from the rock and suddenly he just hung there, dangling over the sheer face, supported by only one hand, one leg hanging free. Everyone held their breath.
“Olf,” Nordstrum said calmly, spotting his friend’s dilemma.
Pedersen’s face was as ashen as the moon and drenched in sweat. “I’m okay,” he said, but every time he tried to dig his foot into a new toehold his boot gave way and his predicament became even more dire.
No one knew how much longer he could hold on.
“Just stay where you are, Olf,” Nordstrum exhorted him. “I’m coming up to you. Hang on.”
Testing the stability of the branches, grabbing on to a spruce in the narrow cracks, Nordstrum swung himself over to Pedersen’s right, and steadily climbed up, until he stood parallel to him, just a few feet away.
“You see this rock?” Nordstrum reached out and tapped a support that was within Olf’s reach. Olf was rigid, like a skier on a steep slope beyond his abilities who was paralyzed as to what to do next. He nodded.