Across the valley, lights could be seen running along the railway tracks behind the plant as the alarm continued to sound. The Germans had finally figured out their route. Seconds later, the giant search beams from the roof of the plant began to fan over the valley near where they had just crossed the Mann. Gradually, the lights ascended the very slope they had just climbed. As the light neared, they ducked for cover, the beam passing right above them.
Below, there was now a steady rumble of traffic coming up the road, a continuous line of trucks and official vehicles heading up to Vemork, filled, no doubt, with troops, brass, and Gestapo. It had been the right plan to climb. There was no way they could have continued along the road as they had on their way in. Above them, the cable car rose to the vidda, another two thousand feet up. To get there would involve an exhausting climb. And then the Ryes Road, with its treacherous, zigzagging bends in and out of the cable car trestles would prove even more demanding.
Nordstrum, who knew the way as well as anyone, looked up to pick out the best path through the trees to start. Then, with the sort of offhand smile that conveyed they had come through their share of danger, but the toughest part still lay ahead, he took in a breath and set off, saying, “I’ll take the lead.” Jens followed next, then Poulsson and Gutterson, who had pulled his weight every step of the way.
The rest of them fell in line.
The climb they now faced would have taxed the will and conditioning of even the most experienced of mountain men, without even factoring in all they had already done that night. For the next three hours they forged their way up the steep incline, one ski at a time, often sideways to the ridge, ignoring the biting pain in their lungs and the grueling strain on their thighs. They pushed on, knowing their only escape was to reach the top, which towered over them at almost four times the altitude as the factory had at the start of their earlier climb.
All the while three hundred German troops were fanning around the valley in a frantic attempt to find them.
After an hour’s rigorous climb, they made it up to the starting point of the Ryes Road. The vidda was still another fifteen hundred feet towering above them. That’s when the real climb began. The path switched back and forth across the sharply angled slope, cutting between the darkened trestles of the shut-down cable car. At a point, the snow had melted enough that rocks protruded and they could no longer use their skis, so they had to lug their skis over one shoulder, their weapons on the other, packs on their backs, one grueling step at a time. When they could go no further, they stopped and bent over, but only for a minute, and chugged down water or took a bite of dried fruit or beef. Nordstrum, who led, bent over, recalled his father’s words, words that had stuck in his brain now more than ever before: “A true man is a man who goes on till he can go no farther, and then goes twice as far.” He waited until whoever was in the rear silently caught up to them. And then he continued on.
All the while, behind them, they heard the incessant rumble of trucks and military vehicles speeding up to Vemork. Every once in a while they had to come out from the cover of the bushes and trees, which put them in open terrain. Where were the dreaded searchlights that they feared would illuminate their escape? Scanning other parts of the valley because the Germans still must not have thought it possible they could have crossed the valley from the gorge.
Another worry was that the Germans would power up the cable car and send a detachment of troops to the top. This could have happened in a matter of minutes and would have put an end to their escape up the ridge. Yet as they reached each successive trestle and then went onward to the next, the summit now in sight, this fear never materialized.
At a brief rest stop, Joaquim Poulsson pointed up to a ridge. “My family lives about a mile over there. We could go knock on their door and ask for a cup of coffee.”
“Yes, that sounds good about now,” Nordstrum said, puffing air out his cheeks.
“A pity,” Poulsson said, and sighed. He knew it would only put his loved ones at risk. “But what a nice surprise that would be.” He looped his arm back through his pack. “Let’s keep going.”
At five in the morning, after three hours of exhausting climbing, as the sun rose majestically over the horizon—a sun none of them thought they’d ever see—they pulled themselves over the final ridge and fell, breathless, panting, onto the vidda. The wind up there was so strong it nearly blew them back over the ledge.
Across the valley, they could still hear the sounds of the Germans mobilizing their efforts to find them. They could be spotted from the air; in a few hours, the Germans would likely send up patrols. The mountains would be swarming with them. But they were finally on the vidda and knew the odds had now swung to their favor.
Everyone just lay there, sucking in precious air, too exhausted to even move. Then it seemed to hit them all at once.
They’d done it—done what everyone—their planners, Tronstad, even themselves—thought was nearly impossible. And amazingly, all ten had made it back.
For the first time, Ronneberg looked at his men and said in his way of understatement: “Well, that went pretty damn well now, didn’t it, boys?”
“Yes, it did go pretty well.” Jens laughed.
One by one, they all began to laugh as well. The laugh of a held-in joy that had kept quiet every step of the way after they’d done their jobs—because at each hurdle they’d cleared, the dangers they still faced were even more overwhelming—finally let loose, and echoing, like the applause of the gods (or the trolls, maybe), who, in infinite praise, looked down on them admiringly.
Yes, it had gone pretty damn well—they laughed until they fought back the pain.
“Who among us had ten?” Joaquim Poulsson looked around. He was speaking of how many each thought would, in the end, survive. The last day at the hut they had discussed it, without sharing their picks.
“I had only two.” Arne Kjelstrup shook his head. “Not much of an optimist, I confess.”
“It was two for me as well,” Olf Pedersen said. “And, trust me, never for a moment did I think I’d be among them.”
“I had three,” said Jens. “And I was one of them.”
“Four,” said Claus Helberg.
“Four for me, too,” said Stromsheim. “I felt sure the blast would take one or two.”
“Five.” Gutterson grinned. “But I was certain my lousy Norwegian would give us away.”
“This might be the time to admit your Norwegian’s not as bad as we’ve all made it out,” Storhaug said. “Still, even I figured there’d be no more than six at best.”
“I never had a number.” Ronneberg, their leader, shrugged. “But I’ve never been so happy as to see all of you here.”
“Kurt…?” Helberg said, realizing Nordstrum hadn’t answered.
Jens pushed up on his elbows. “Yes, come on, Kurt, why so quiet?”
“My number was always ten,” Nordstrum said with a shrug. “I knew the odds, but in my heart, I always thought we would all make it. At least this far.”
“Ten?” Jens shook his head in disbelief. “Come on.”
“It’s the truth. Though I admit that on that cliff, seeing Olf hanging there, I was revising my estimate.”