ALLAN BLANNER had gone from Glasgow in 1933 to establish an engineering firm in Copenhagen where, in September 1939, he had volunteered for the British forces. Told to sit tight because he might be more useful in Denmark, he had had to flee to Sweden in the summer of 1943 to avoid internment. After working for a time in the British legation in Stockholm he was flown to England in the bomb bay of a Mosquito, commissioned a lieutenant in the R.N.V.R. and sent to S.O.E.’s Danish Section.
In early 1944, for the first time since the occupation, the Germans permitted Danish fishing boats to go out into the North Sea. The herring were running on the Dogger Bank, and fish were as scarce in Germany as in Denmark. S.O.E. decided that they might be able to exploit this development. Not enough arms and explosives could be parachuted into Denmark or sent on boats from Sweden, and S.O.E. had long sought a shipping link with the occupied country. A scheme to have fast boats land contraband on the Jutland coast had only been abandoned when it was shown that the Danes who unloaded these boats were likely to be compromised.
Lieutenant Blanner’s first assignment with S.O.E. was to try to arrange shipping contacts between a fishing boat that would be sent from England and a boat from the fishing fleet of the south Jutland port of Esbjerg. The British Resistance contact was radioed to try to locate co-operative fishermen, and Blanner looked over interned Danish vessels in England and selected a 35-foot, single-masted vessel that could stay at sea long enough and was not likely to break down. Next he designed special cargo crates shaped like Danish fish boxes, and these were carefully stencilled with appropriate markings, and as a precaution, were seasoned with fish offal to make them smell genuine.
The Scot would go along on the small boat himself, although there would also be two captains, a Royal Navy navigation officer, a lieutenant named Davy from Lowestoft, and Tom Christensen, a Danish fishing captain. The rest of the crew, all Royal Navy, would comprise a wireless operator, a cook, and a gunner who would have a Lewis gun, the only weapon they would carry beside their pistols. The ship might as well have been lightly armed, for she would be a floating bomb.
Until that time, all explosives sent into Denmark had been packaged according to military safety precautions; detonators and high explosives were never placed in the same containers. Now Blanner appealed to his superiors to let him take the explosives packed in kits that would not have to be broken down by the saboteurs later on in Denmark. The Danes wanted all the material needed for sabotage jobs to be packed together, Blanner explained. He designed nine-inch-deep tin canisters which were about eighteen inches in diameter and would hold sixty pounds of material, and being of barely negative buoyancy, would float with their tops at surface level if they had to be pitched overboard in an emergency. When these containers were taken out of their smelly fish boxes, they would appear to have come from air-dropped con tainers, so that if they were inter cepted, they would be less likely to alert the Germans that such things were arriving in fishing boats. The canisters would also hold broken-down Sten guns, pistols, ammunition, and booby trap devices.
The base chosen for this operation was the Northumberland port of Blyth, already being used as a secret refuelling station for the North Sea submarine patrol. Blanner went there in May 1944, and, when he received word that a fishing boat was on its way west from Denmark, he pulled down the British ensign on his little boat, and with twenty tons of arms and explosives set out for the Dogger Bank.
The sea was as calm as a lake, and except that they had only. three berths and had to take turns sleeping, Blanner’s men were reasonably comfortable. Their speed was slow; if they did as much as seven knots, their engine would have nearly shaken the little boat apart. After a few days’ stubble had grown on their chins, the men began to look as well as feel like ordinary North Sea fishermen, and the war seemed far away.
Captain Christensen did most of the piloting because the muddy skies obscured the stars, and the Dane seemed almost to be able to smell his way toward the Outer Silver Pit, the south-east corner of the Dogger Bank, where they were to meet the Esbjerg boats. When they finally lay at sea anchor the water was so calm and the sun was so bright that Blanner took a short swim. He and his men began to grow anxious, however, when the boat from Denmark did not arrive. They started their engine, and began sweeping back and forth on the Outer Silver Pit, expecting to contact the other boat at any time. Their wireless operator received no signal from Britain saying anything had blocked the operation, so they continued their search, sometimes stopping to cast their nets in case a Luftwaffe patrol aircraft should see them.
But after five days without Seeing a single other boat, Blanner despondently knew he must give the order to return to Blyth. When he reached the S.O.E. headquarters in London to report his failure, he was told, ‘Of course you missed the Esbjerg boat. She’s here—in Hull.’
‘What?’
‘The skipper claims a German aircraft strafed him at night, and he says he was afraid to turn back to Esbjerg.’
Now Blauner would have to wait until another Danish boat could be located to off-load the Resistance material.
When they were ready to move again, Blanner felt more confident because the good weather was still holding, and Captain Christensen said the herring would be sure to be running. Certainly the Esbjerg boat would be able to come out to meet them with no difficulty.
The second night out, the sea remained treacle calm, and a soft haze settled over the water. Lieutenant Davy was unable to use his sextant, but Christensen again sniffed their way through the heavy fog toward the Outer Silver Pit. Finally the Dane announced, ‘We’re here,’ and cut the engine. They would drift at sea anchor until the haze lifted enough for them to spot the boat they were to meet.
At six o’clock in the morning the mist wafted away, and Blanner and his men saw another Danish fishing boat not far from them. Blanner strode toward the bow and balanced himself on the gunwale, ready to jump across to the other boat when they pulled athwart it. But there was no sign from the Danish ship.
And then the Englishmen realized that the crew of the Danish boat were asleep. Christensen spoke up. ‘That’s not the boat we’re looking for.’
The mist was almost gone, and Blanner looked around. In the half-light he now saw what seemed to be the entire Esbjerg fishing fleet, all anchored near by. Whether they wanted to or not, the Englishmen would now have to fish, drifting back and forth, hoping somehow to make connection with the right boat. Because only Blanner and Christensen spoke Danish, they wisely decided to keep away from the other vessels; even though most of these Danes could have been trusted, nothing must be done that would give away the mission.
After three days without being able to find the ship they were looking for, they radioed to have the Royal Air Force fly a spotter aircraft over the Esbjerg fleet, but the aeroplane could not pick out the correct boat, much less direct Blanner and his men toward her, and finally a wireless message recalled them to Blyth.
This time, as Blanner later learned, the operation had been spoiled by a punctured bicycle tyre. The captain of the boat they were to meet was unable to sail on time because his bicycle broke down, and he had, in fact, only managed to reach the Outer Silver Pit the day after Blanner returned to port.
Meetings between Esbjerg boats and the boats from England were simply unfeasible if timing was to be so inexact, and the men at S.O.E. studied a map of Denmark, groping for a new idea. If, they decided, a Danish ship were to set out from the Thyborøn Canal at the mouth of Limfjord in north-west Jutland at precisely the same time as Blanner left Blyth, the two boats should arrive forty-eight hours later on the Outer Silver Pit. If both boats received the same sailing instructions, there could be no slip-up.
Word was sent to Denmark to set up this scheme, and a boat was told to be at the mouth of the fjord when the B.B.C. Danish New Service’s announcer read the signal, ‘Greetings to Christian.’ The Danish boat would radio a snap signal, a preselected number that would mean that she was ready. Then when the B.B.C. sent greetings to Marianne, the two boats should set out to meet at the rendezvous point in forty-eight hours. If, however, the greetings were sent to Annette, the Danish boat was to go as quickly as she could toward Hull, because this signal would mean that the Germans had detected the scheme. A fourth signal was arranged that could cancel the operation.
In the cabin of their little boat, Blanner and his men huddled around their wireless receiver at Blyth until they heard, ‘Greetings to Christian’, then more faintly and on a short wave band, the snap signal. The greetings to Marianne were answered by another snap signal. ‘Third time lucky—maybe,’ Blanner said, and again his little boat threaded through the mine field off Blyth and chugged toward the Outer Silver Pit.
Forty-eight hours later the two boats met according to plan, and the twenty tons of cargo were moved on to the Danish ship along with personal gifts to the fishermen. ‘These clothes are all unmarked and perfectly safe,’ Blanner explained, ‘but, for God’s sake, don’t smoke these fags on shore! They’re real tobacco––the kind you haven’t had in Denmark for years.’ The scent of Virginia tobacco is conspicuous in a country where only tobacco substitutes are available.
Blanner’s warning, however, was forgotten by the deck boy on the Danish fishing boat and a little while later he made the mistake of lighting up on a bus. His captain barely had time to get his crew out of Denmark before the Germans came looking for the boat. She arrived in England three weeks after the meeting with Blanner, and the next trips had to be delayed until other reception boats could be found on the Danish side. And now there would be more risks, for the Germans probably suspected that there were meetings in the North Sea.
Eventually shipments began going through, although strange events sometimes halted the operations. Once the boat that was supposed to meet the Blyth vessel was cruising off Denmark along with many other fishing boats when she heard the signal, ‘Greetings to Christian.’ She began to steer northward toward the Thyborøn opening into Limfjord. But she was followed by all the other boats in the fleet because their captains were quite certain that the men on this one boat must have detected fish running somewhere northward. Desperate, the boat had to turn back and await the following night’s sailing order from the B.B.C. The greeting to Christian was read every night for five nights, but the boat always found herself followed by the rest of the fleet. Finally, very impatient, the B.B.C. announcer called, ‘Christian, where are you?’ And still the boat was in no position to return the snap signal.
Inevitably Blanner and his men had some narrow escapes themselves. After being spotted by a low-flying Luftwaffe patrol aircraft on one mission, the Scot asked the Admiralty for more guns for his boat. ‘We could have bagged that Jerry,’ he insisted.
Cautiously the Admiralty advised him that his job was to deliver cargo, not to fight a private war from the decks of a boat which a single bullet could send sky high.
Another time, Blanner’s men were returning to Blyth after a successful cargo transfer. The weather was so bad that they had to lay offshore for several days before entering harbour. Just outside the minefield’s inlet they saw a Danish fishing boat hauling in her nets. If he were now to take his craft through the minefield, Blanner knew, he would disclose to the Danes on the other boat that there was something very unusual about his vessel. He knew, too, that some Danish fishing boats were forced to carry German observers aboard, and this could have been such a boat. Yet Blanner could not risk taking his vessel into any other port. ‘Head toward that boat, Davy,’ the Scot ordered. ‘We’re going to make her a prize of war.’
Lieutenant Davy grinned. ‘Boarding party, eh?’
‘Party of one,’ replied Blanner. ‘I can speak Danish, remember. I’ll take her by myself.’
Feeling like Captain Hornblower, Blanner drew his pistol as he leapt across to the deck of the other boat. But he landed on a pile of fish on the deck, stumbled and pitched forward. On his feet again and brushing fish scales off his face and clothes, he explained to the surprised Danes that they would not be going home until the war was over, that their boat was to be taken into Blyth and interned. After he told them why, they came willingly, and he assured them that word of their fate would be radioed to Denmark.
Although the boats were too crowded to carry passengers, on one voyage three men were taken to Denmark for what was almost one of the most spectacular unconventional operations of the war.
The officers of the Danish Section of S.O.E. saw demonstrations of every new and unconventional weapon, and when they saw frogman gear, they decided Denmark might well be the place for an underwater operation. An intelligence report from Copenhagen soon suggested the most likely of targets.
The Langelinie is a quay on the west side of the mouth of the city’s main harbour, and Danes stroll there on Sundays, pass the famous statue of the little mermaid, and look at the foreign ships that are often tied along the quay. In peacetime nearly every navy in the world has tied at that pier, for the water is deep enough for battleships. During the later days of the occupation four German warships lay along the Langelinie, an intimidation to Copenhageners. Why not blow these ships up?
Had Resistance saboteurs decided to attack the ships, they probably would have planned the raid on paper, used makeshift gear, and struck in whatever way seemed possible. But because the planners in England wanted this raid to be perfect, everything about the action would have to be foolproof, and it would have to be fully rehearsed.
Danes in British uniform at S.O.E. were asked to volunteer for the action. They could not, of course, be told exactly what they were going to do or where they would do it, and they were told that failure meant great discomfort, a likelihood of capture, and perhaps, death. From the many volunteers three men were chosen, an artist named Holm Hedegaard, a young man named Rider, and another named Christensen.
When the Royal Navy decided that the three were proficient with frogman gear, S.O.E. decided to build a full-scale layout of the Langelinie harbour in London. Since the water along the Langelinie is a little wider than the Thames as it flows through London, and since the operation could not be re hearsed in a place that could not be guarded, a training site was difficult to find. Eventually Staines Reservoir was chosen. Along one side of the reservoir the positions of the four German ships were carefully indicated. Buoys were then placed out in the water at the same positions as the buoys that mark the Langelinie channel. The operational plan called for the men to go into a house on the east side of the channel where they would don their gear and then swim under the water to the buoys. There they would come up for air and for a rest, then swim toward the four German ships, place limpet mines on each, return to the buoys for another pause, and swim back to the house on the far side of the water.
Guiding themselves only by compasses, the three young men became so adept at the operation that they could complete it in ninety minutes at Staines, and they practised it three times each day until they could run through it without a slip. When the men were ready, they were sent to Blyth with Lieutenant Blanner, who was to get them into Denmark. They were supposed to be in Copenhagen in October of 1944 for the attack.
Blanner’s small fishing boat sailed out of Blyth with the three Danish frogmen aboard. Forty-eight hours later they met a Jutland boat, transhipped twenty tons of explosives, and explained to the fishermen that they had some passengers and some unusual extra cargo. ‘It’s not going to be easy,’ one of the fishermen said. ‘The Germans keep a pretty close eye on us when we come in.’
Blanner suggested to the fishermen how the frogmen could be smuggled ashore, and then he headed back to Blyth.
Before the small fishing boat pulled into the Danish harbour all three frogmen climbed into their black rubber diving suits and put on their helmets and face pieces. They were then helped to lower themselves into the fish hold. The compartment was full of fish, already iced, but the three Danes nestled down into the Wet cargo until only their chins were above the fish. There they would have to remain for many hours. If the Germans chanced to inspect the boat, they assured the fishermen, they would duck their heads below the surface of the iced fish.
The boat went into her harbour and was not inspected, and the three frogmen, by then nearly as cold as the fish around them, had to be lifted out of their hiding place to be sneaked ashore.
When the three arrived in Copenhagen, having carried their gear with them from Jutland, they reported to the British contact in the capital. ‘Are the German ships still along the Langelime?’
‘Well—yes, they are. But there’s been a slight change of plan.’ At the last minute S.O.E. had been advised that, if the four ships were destroyed in a sabotage action, the Germans were likely to take reprisal actions against the city. But if they wanted to, the frogmen were told, they would be helped to take their equipment back to Jutland where they might find German ships to attack in one of the harbours there. None of the three was trained to plan such actions, but they agreed that they would try something.
In Aarhus, Holm Hedegaard, the artist, selected a vessel in the harbour that he thought he might be able to destroy. The other two frogmen helped Hedegaard put on his suit in a house near the water, slipped him into the harbour, and he swam toward what he hoped would be his prey. And despite the scantiness of planning, he reached the ship. Just as he was getting the limpet mine ready to attach he heard a German guard on deck call out, ‘Halt!’
Hedegaard did not know exactly what to do. This was one of the things for which he had not planned. But escaping with the mine was certainly impossible, and so he let it slip out of his hands and sink. He heard splashes in the water around him, then realized that the guard on the ship was leaning over and firing a rifle. Hedegaard raised his head high as he tread water. He had to see which way to go. A moment later a bullet tore away his face mask. Miraculously uninjured, he dived beneath the surface and swam for his life.
Hedegaard and his two companions were absorbed into the Resistance, and no more Danish frogmen or other passengers were sent out from England on the Blyth boat, but she continued to make runs whenever she could. Altogether she made five contacts with Danish fishing boats, handling some twenty tons of badly needed explosives and weapons each time. Compared to the ‘Shetland Bus’ in Norway, this was perhaps a minor operation, but its success should be considered in the light of the fact that no men were lost on any of the contacts, that none of the Danish boats landing the contraband was ever intercepted, and all of the material was put to good use. Perhaps the meetings on the Outer Silver Pit may have given rise to a story that was popular in Esbjerg during the last days of the occupation.
According to that story, a fisherman was sitting on the Esbjerg quay reading a copy of The Times when a Wehrmacht officer strolled past, noticed the newspaper, kept walking, then stopped abruptly, turned, and snarled, ‘Where did you get that newspaper?’
The fisherman was said to be very frightened. ‘Oh, er—you see—’ he tried to explain. ‘I’m a subscriber.’