It was 20 September 1942—a Sunday—when Black prepared to lead his force on the attack. They’d been in Norway for four days, the last two of which had entailed a deeply frustrating delay. The previous night Black had been forced to call off the assault owing to unexpected activity on the Glomfjord. A well-lit ship had been moving up the water, making for the power station.
Black and his men had no idea what the craft was doing or who its occupants were, but maintaining the element of surprise was absolutely critical to the success of their mission. Running into a shipload of German troops wasn’t part of the plan. Black had been forced to order his men to retrace their steps into the hills.
They hadn’t even made the refuge of their camp before the weather had turned. The wind had moaned and biting rain had sheeted down from a suddenly leaden sky, soaking them to the skin and blinding them to their surroundings. And so they’d endured a sodden and freezing twenty-four hours, before tonight’s attempt at the target.
Prior to setting out, Black assembled his men. ‘We must do it tonight,’ he told them. ‘Our rations are gone. To wait any longer without food or rest will only weaken us. If for some reason we’re held up tonight, we must do it tomorrow in daylight, even if we have to shoot our way through.’
The knowledge that they were going in regardless was strangely liberating. It blew away the tension and the frustration, which had been building all through that sodden day. All were relieved that, come what may, it would soon be over. They were too wet and cold to face another night’s cheerless delay.
The dozen men slipped down from the darkened heights, approaching the cluster of workers’ huts that lay on the shores of Lake Fykan. As they went to edge past, a door opened, spilling light across the flat, wind-blasted terrain. The raiders dropped silently to the ground, keeping their faces pressed into the icy earth, as the distinctive form of a German soldier stepped outside.
Only one amongst them readied his weapon. It was Houghton, and his Sten now had the stubby form of a silencer threaded onto the barrel. Their Colt .45 pistols were useless at anything other than close range. It was Houghton’s job to take out any would-be challengers noiselessly.
Apparently the German couldn’t see or hear anything suspicious. With a final sniff at the sodden chill of the air he turned back to the warmth inside. Houghton lowered the Sten, and moments later a dozen figures flitted past the lighted windows of the hut and were lost in the far shadows.
To the rear of the huts the pipelines ran past the hump of land separating Lake Fykan from Glomfjord itself, which lay several hundred feet downslope. And there, almost directly below Black and his men, in the crook of land lying at the very end of the inlet, was the power station. From their vantage point the throbbing of the turbines reverberated in their ears.
Black crouched, pulling his men close. He eyed O’Brien. ‘We’ll leave you here,’ he whispered.
O’Brien nodded. He’d taken on the role of blowing up the pipelines, along with Chudley—now fully recovered from his plunge into the crevasse—and his good friend, Curtis, the erstwhile accountant.
‘Watch for my signal,’ Black added, ‘but don’t expect it. You know when to start your fuses.’
‘Yes, sir.’
Black reminded O’Brien that they would rendezvous at this point once the attack was done, from where they would make their getaway. Without another word he and his team of eight slipped over the lip of land as silent as wraiths and were gone.
O’Brien turned in the opposite direction, and with Chudley and Curtis on his heel he began to climb. They reached a point just below a sharp junction in the pipelines and settled to their task. Here the pipes, when ruptured, would be pointing directly at the power station—like two massive gun barrels.
From their rucksacks they removed their ‘daisy-chain’ charges, each a string of chunks of Nobel 808—the saboteur’s explosive of choice. Dirty brown in colour and with a distinctive almond-like smell, Nobel 808 could be cut, stretched, jumped on and even shot at, and still it wouldn’t explode. But trigger a small charge embedded within it and … kaboom.
While Chudley stood watch, Curtis and O’Brien worked to thread the first daisy-chain charge under the nearest pipeline, bringing it back around to encircle it. They could feel the pressure within the thrumming steel sarcophagus as the water thundered through at massive speed. Upon detonation, the charge would blow a section of the pipe, which would cause the water to spew out with incredible force, doing untold damage to all that lay in its path.
When he had fixed a charge to encircle both pipes, O’Brien attached the thirty-minute fuses. Then he and Curtis rejoined Chudley on watch.
‘See anything?’ O’Brien whispered.
‘Nope,’ Chudley replied, through a mouthful of chewing gum. ‘Nothing at all.’
They crouched together at the side of the pipelines.
‘I could do with a pint,’ Chudley remarked, rubbing his hands together in the cold. ‘I could drain a barrel full.’
O’Brien smiled. ‘Yeah. So could I. Two barrels.’
He glanced at his watch. It had just turned midnight. Down below, Black and his men would be getting busy.
Leaving the main body of his force secreted at the base of the steps that ran along the pipelines, Black had executed a stealthy, three-sixty-degree recce of the plant. The building towered above, utterly dark—blacked out, to hide it from Allied bombers—yet reverberating with a hidden force.
On the far side there was an eerie rumbling and gurgling, as the discharge pipes drained the lake water driving the turbines into the dark and swirling fjord. Having satisfied himself there were no guards in the immediate vicinity of their entry point, Black returned to his waiting men.
‘Right, come on,’ he whispered, jerking a thumb over his shoulder at the ghostly silhouette.
At the far end of the giant building construction work was under way; the Germans were extending the plant to provide extra power for the aluminium factory. The works were sheeted over by a heavy tarpaulin, and Black was certain that would be their best entry point.
One by one he and his men slipped through the canvas sheet, finding a latticework of scaffolding inside, plus a makeshift wall of heavy wooden boarding. As Houghton stood ready with his Sten, Black’s men heaved on one of the boards, forcing an opening just wide enough for the first figure to wriggle through. The others followed, until only Makeham and Abram—the two keenest Scouts amongst them—remained outside, as guards.
Inside, Black and his men darted behind the cover provided by a stack of wooden packing cases. Each was emblazoned with the distinctive form of a Nazi swastika—it was new machinery to be installed in the plant. Peering around, Black could see along the entire length of the turbine hall. It was brilliantly lit, stretching before them a good thirty metres, and towering above like a vast and echoing cathedral.
As if to enhance the church-like feel of the place, along the sea edge ran eight enormous arched windows, and at the far end rose the pinnacled tower. Along the centre of the hall lay the massive forms of three turbines, each a good four times the height of an average man.
The sheer scale of the place was breathtaking, but Black’s attention was drawn to the far end, where the tower rose above the hall: behind a long window was the plant’s control room. Inside Black could see a group of German soldiers, along with what had to be Norwegian plant workers.
Black slid back into cover. The piercing whine of the turbines seemed to drill into his head. He knew from the briefings that only three or four Germans patrolled the power plant. Normally, one was stationed at a sentry box at the rear, another at the jetty out front, with a third and fourth inside the plant itself.
Black checked his watch. It was turning midnight. A change of shift had to be under way. Sure enough, the party of soldiers in the control room went their separate ways. After descending the spiral staircase to ground level, they headed for the door to the tunnel, which in turn led beneath the mountain to nearby Glomfjord village. If there was any trouble, it was from that direction that reinforcements would come, for the Germans had a garrison of several hundred billeted there.
Black and his men would have to place and detonate their charges before the alarm could be raised and those troops came rushing to investigate. The tunnel was the key, and Black had a plan in mind to ensure that no Germans made it through. He waited until there was just the one figure—the Norwegian plant manager—remaining in the control room, then signalled his men to move.
Using the generators as cover, they darted down the length of the building. The machines were so massive that their bulk shielded the intruders from the plant manager’s view. They reached the third turbine, from where the door leading to the spiral staircase was just a few strides away. Above them, the plant manager was still fixated on his panel of switches and dials.
Black led the final dash, flattening himself beside the doorway, his men doing likewise. They were now invisible to the control room, for the instrument panel prevented anyone from getting close to the window and peering vertically downwards. The seven men took a moment to catch their breath. Months of intensive training and planning had led up to this point, and they didn’t want to mess up now.
Black eased the door open, sweeping the space inside with his Colt. Finding it deserted, he stole across to the staircase, his men close on his heels. To their left was a small doorway, which Black knew led to the entrance to the tunnel. It was there that the nearest German sentries would be standing watch.
Silently, they stole up the spiral staircase, Granlund now at their head. He stepped into the control room. The lone form of the manager was hunched over his control panels, seemingly oblivious to the saboteur’s presence. But then he must have sensed something.
He turned, spying the wild, unshaven figures now standing before him, each brandishing a heavy-looking pistol. For the briefest of instants—and despite the exhaustive preparations—Granlund was at a loss for words. What exactly was he supposed to say to his fellow countryman—and very possibly a good patriot—suffering, like so many others, under the Nazi occupation?
Finally, he broke the silence. ‘Well, we’re here,’ he announced in Norwegian. ‘We are going to blow up the station and the water pipes.’
The seated figure blanched. His mouth opened and closed soundlessly. Finally he managed to splutter: ‘Blow up the station … But what about us?’
Granlund explained their intention was to tie up the Norwegian plant workers.
The controller gasped. ‘You mean to kill us? To drown us?’
‘No, no. We need you out of harm’s way, that’s all. You’ll be safe once you’re through the tunnel.’
Granlund ordered the man to make a call on the plant’s phone system. ‘Telephone every Norwegian in the building and tell them to come to this room, right away. Go on, now. Hurry!’
His hands visibly shaking, the controller did as he was ordered. Shortly, three figures—Norwegian workers—entered, to be given a similar talking-to by Granlund. Meanwhile, Houghton and several others dashed back to fetch the explosives.
As Granlund led the shocked Norwegian workers down the staircase, he glanced into the generator hall. Already he could see figures crouched beneath the first of the massive turbines, fixing the charges of Nobel 808 to those places where the machinery was most vulnerable.
Granlund ushered the workers towards the doorway leading to the tunnel. No sooner were they through it than the Norwegian spied a German sentry. Before he could react Granlund opened fire, drilling the guard with several shots from his Colt. But a second grey-uniformed figure, who was standing at the tunnel entrance, turned and sprinted away.
A short distance down the tunnel there was a bend and, before Granlund could react, the sentry had dashed around it. It had been an impossible shot for the Colt in any case, Granlund told himself. But the guard would be sure to raise the alarm. There was an emergency buzzer at the village end, just inside the tunnel entrance, which was linked directly to German headquarters. They needed to put their tunnel-blocking plan into action, and urgently.
Granlund gestured towards where the German guard had fled, exhorting the Norwegian workers to follow as fast as humanly possible. The tunnel would be blown up, he warned, so they needed to run like the wind. With a clatter of boots on concrete, the workers were gone.
Outside the darkened plant the roar of the turbines and the gurgle of the escaping water had served to mask Granlund’s gunshots. The German sentry stationed at the wharf and the one at the guard hut had heard nothing untoward. But inside, the tension had ratcheted up several levels.
Once Granlund had warned Black of the German sentry’s escape, the Canadian captain had dashed the length of the generator hall, urging the demolition parties to greater speed. On a floor above the power station he discovered a long corridor, with rooms leading off to either side. Inside were more Norwegian workers—some with their families—and even a Swiss engineer.
Doors were dragged open, and the sleep-befuddled occupants ordered to flee down the tunnel. From all directions phones started ringing, as concerned parties in Glomfjord village called to check what on earth was happening. Black ordered the phones ripped from their sockets. The last thing he needed was someone talking, and revealing the diminutive size of his raiding party.
As the last of the figures fled down the tunnel, one dragging a heavy suitcase after her, the distinctive form of Fred Trigg—Londoner and amateur boxer—followed. In his hands he grasped a cylindrical grey device: a smoke canister. When Trigg reckoned he was midway between the plant and the village, he set the canister on its flat base on the tunnel’s floor.
Crouching, he pulled the pin and let the retainer clip spring free, at which moment the canister began to pump out a thick greyish-black smoke. On an open field of battle the smokescreen it created would last no more than three minutes. But in the stagnant confines of the tunnel it should linger for hours.
Unable to carry the weight of explosives needed to blow up the underground passageway, as well as the plant and pipelines, this had been judged the next best option. The cloud of acrid smoke, coupled with the fearful reports that would even now be reaching German ears, should put anyone off using the tunnel.
At least that was what Black and his men were banking on.
At the far end of the tunnel the first German soldiers entered. Warned by cries that ‘British saboteurs’ were about to blow up the power station, they’d rushed to investigate. But they moved cautiously, and they made it no further than the first, choking clouds of smoke, before hurrying back the way they’d come and punching the alarm button.
In the turbine hall the saboteurs were feverishly busy. Sweating and breathless from exertion, Houghton and his team had threaded a set of charges around each of the pieces of giant machinery.
Fresh from checking that all civilians had been evacuated, Black strode in. ‘Get your timer pencils going!’ he barked.
Houghton needed no second urging. The ‘timer pencil’ fuses—each the shape and length of an average pencil, and made from brass with a collapsible copper cap—were designed to give the saboteurs just long enough to finish their work and to make a getaway.
Houghton and his sabotage team placed theirs in pairs, just in case one malfunctioned. They were set to a ten-minute delay—the absolute minimum. Figures hurried down the line of charges, crushing the copper caps to trigger the fuses, before turning for the doorway through which they had made their entry into the plant.
Black ordered everyone but himself up to the rendezvous point at the pipelines. He would round up Abram and Makeham, the two men on watch, and ensure that no Germans made it through the tunnel. In theory, if the enemy rushed the building they still had time to rip out the timer pencils and prevent the explosions.
Houghton and his saboteurs were just about to leave when their gaze fell upon the wooden crates of equipment, freshly painted swastikas on their sides. They had a few chunks of Nobel 808 remaining, and they figured they had time. It took just ninety seconds to attach those charges to the crates, after which Houghton led his team in a mad dash towards the heights that reared above.
Black meanwhile had rejoined Abram and Makeham, his two sentries. ‘See anything?’ he whispered.
‘No, sir, not a thing,’ came the reply.
Black led them past the end of the building, into the shadows at the base of the mountain. There they watched and waited, eyes on the tunnel and weapons at the ready.
Some 200 metres above them, O’Brien and his team crouched at the pipelines, straining their eyes. If they caught the distinctive flash of a torch beam cutting through the darkness, it would be Black signalling that something had gone wrong with the main sabotage effort. If that happened, O’Brien had orders to blow his charges, no matter what.
He was to do so, even though the resulting avalanche of water and debris would bury his fellow raiders alive.