Torrential rain sheeted across RAF Tempsford—Gibraltar Farm. The tin-roofed hangars, disguised as ramshackle farm buildings and barns, reverberated to its incessant drumbeat. Ronneberg and his men stomped about soggily. One thing lifted their spirits: this time, there would be no turning back. They’d hijack the aircraft if they had to, but they were going to make the jump.
The six figures appeared somewhat incongruous: white snow-suits and ski caps, plus white rucksack covers. Even their tommy guns had been painstakingly painted white. Snowmen in a rainlashed British February.
Tronstad gathered the Gunnerside team. He was speaking on behalf of Wilson, and in a sense on behalf of all freedom-loving peoples of the world. ‘For the sake of those who have gone before you and fallen, I urge you to do your best and make the operation a success … trust that your actions will live in history for a hundred years to come … What you do, you do for the Allies and for Norway.’
There was a weighty silence. Ronneberg levelled his gaze at the Professor, his eyes gleaming. ‘You won’t get rid of us that easily.’
It was 16 February, and the moon window had just reopened. It was hard to believe, conditions at Tempsford being as they were, but the weather over the Vidda was supposedly perfect: calm, crisp and clear. Tronstad and Ronneberg fell into step: there was one matter they needed to deal with, prior to departure.
They headed for Squadron Leader Gibson’s office, the pilot who would be flying team Gunnerside in. Gibson indicated a map on the wall, and talked them through the flight plan. Ronneberg heard him out, then asked for one significant modification: if the drop zone marked by Grouse could not be found, Gibson was to release their party anyway.
‘We’ll find our way ourselves on the ground,’ Ronneberg assured him.
Gibson checked with Tronstad. The Professor concurred.
Those who executed the moon flights had immense respect for their charges. While they might risk the lonely and dangerous skies, they were at least likely to return to a warm mess and breakfast. The SOE agents were leaping into the unknown, to spend months on end in hostile territory. It was hard enough to let them jump on a verified drop zone, but near impossible to kick them out when there was no reception party to be seen.
But Squadron Leader Gibson understood. Tonight was different. Tonight, these men would drop, no matter what.
At the apron, Tronstad bade his farewells and wished them luck. Six men mounted up the waiting Halifax, squeezing between steel tubes stuffed with kit, explosives and weaponry. One of those containers was packed with rucksacks, which in turn were crammed with all the kit they would immediately need. Good to go. Others held skis for the six men, plus four replacement sets for the Grouse team.
Another container held fireman’s axes, for hacking apart the telephone switchboard at the Vemork plant. That would be far quicker, easier and quieter than using explosives. And several were jammed with food rations: enough to last the six men ‘130 man days’, and with extra for the Grouse party. These were listed as: ‘Army biscuits; Dehydrated food blocks; Slab Chocolate; Dried fruit (raisins, apricots, figs); Lump sugar; Butter; Salt; Tea, Coffee.’
And of course, there was tobacco. There would be hell to pay if they forgot something for Poulsson to stuff into his beloved pipe.
The aircraft taxied to the end of the runway and turned, nose into the wind. The men waited in silence, the atmosphere febrile, pumped with tension and excitement. So much preparation. So much training, frustration and disappointment. But not tonight. Tonight they were on. They could feel it in the air.
The fuselage began to shake and vibrate, the noise of the four engines rising to a thunderous roar. Finally, the pilot released the brakes, and the bomber accelerated, gathering speed. At the moment of take-off the Gunnerside party felt the mass of the warplane shift from wheels to wings.
They were airborne, and clawing into the grey skies.
The Halifax climbed to 3,000 metres, weaving its way through holes in the cloud cover. It levelled out at that altitude and thundered over the North Sea. As they pushed onwards the clouds disappeared, moonlight glinting off the waves far below—the stretch of ocean that these men had crossed long months ago. Now they were returning to strike a blow for freedom such as none had ever imagined possible.
The warplane crossed Norway’s western coast, distant breakers flashing silvery-white in the moonlight, staying high to avoid the first of the snow-clad peaks. Then, those in the aircraft’s hold felt her descending, as Squadron Leader Gibson steered a course towards a deep valley, one that should hide them from German radar.
The thunder of the Halifax’s Bristol Hercules radial engines echoed across the valley walls. The six men took turns at the aircraft’s small window. Below were the snow-dusted forests, frozen lakes and rivers, and the ice-spangled slopes that they had talked about with such longing back in Britain. Beside inlets and streams upturned boats glistened. A dog chased the aircraft’s moon shadow through a field. At villages and farms faces stared skywards, curious at their passing.
Just prior to midnight the Halifax thundered across the border of the plateau of the Barren Mountains. Squadron Leader Gibson gave the warning: ‘Ten minutes.’ Ronneberg and his men had no idea if their pilot had found the Grouse landing zone or picked up on their reception party’s Eureka signal.
Regardless, they were still going to jump.
As they readied themselves, each man was acutely aware of the risks. Recently, one Linge Company team had dropped onto the Vidda only to land on a partially frozen lake. The ice had broken and all had drowned. As they gathered at the dark slash of the Halifax’s open bomb bay, they tried to blank such fears from their minds.
The six crowded closer. All knew the order of the jump: first Ronneberg; then Hans ‘Chicken’ Storhaug; then the ‘grandfather’, Birger Stromsheim; next cheery Fredrik Kayser; then gentle giant Kasper Idland, and keeping the boldest to last, Knut ‘Bonzo’ Haukelid.
The jump light flashed green. Ronneberg, Storhaug and Stromsheim leapt, their bodies silhouetted for a brief instant against the moonlit snow. Packages containing tommy guns, ammo, skis, a sniper rifle, rations, a sledge and sleeping bags followed. The Halifax executed a graceful turn and came back for a second run. The last of the containers were kicked out of the dark hole, and Kayser and Idland jumped.
Haukelid was just about to follow when he stopped on the very brink: his static line was snagged around the dispatcher’s leg. If he jumped the man would be dragged with him, and both would plummet to an untimely death on the Vidda. Without breathing a word he shoved the dispatcher aside, sending him tumbling into the Halifax’s innards, freed the line, and leapt.
Below him, Haukelid counted sixteen parachutes—seventeen with the one that blossomed in the darkness above his head. Six men. Eleven containers. All floating earthwards suspended beneath a wide skein of silk. And between them enough raw explosive power and warrior spirit to tear the Nazi nuclear programme to shreds.
Some thirty kilometres away four figures had gathered. After their epic sojourn on the Vidda, team Grouse had assumed the countenances of true mountain men: long, unkempt hair; heavy, matted beards; skin weathered and rough-scoured; eyes distant, searching far horizons for reindeer herds. They had endured here for one day short of three months, and tonight they were expecting company.
Earlier that day Haugland had received the ‘crack signal’ from London, the coded message—a three-digit number, 211—that signified the drop was on. But tonight, apart from the faint drone of an aircraft engine, they had detected nothing. The Eureka was powered up, the L-lights were illuminated, but no parachutists emerged from the moonlit skies.
In the early hours they retired to their hut and their sleeping bags. Poulsson gazed wistfully at his pipe. Others rubbed their bellies. Having survived for two months pretty much on reindeer alone, they were desperate for some proper sustenance. Until they could raise London they would have no idea what had befallen the Gunnerside team, not to mention the promised tobacco and food supplies.
At dawn Ronneberg and team reached the deserted hut that they’d spotted. By luck, it lay a mile distant from their drop zone. No one could agree exactly where they had landed. Ronneberg had checked with Haukelid, for Bonzo knew the Vidda better than anyone.
‘Any idea where we are?’
Haukelid had glanced at their flat, snowbound surroundings, and shrugged. ‘We may as well be in China for all I know.’
A strong wind was blowing. One container had been dragged by its parachute a mile across the snow, coming to rest wedged in an ice crevasse. It contained three of their precious rucksacks and sleeping bags. They dug a trench, cached their excess kit, and marked the position with rods driven vertically into the snow.
The only way into the hut was to use axes to prise open the doorframe. By hunting shack standards it was sumptuous: there was a sleeping loft, a kitchen area and a stack of dry birchwood. They got the stove roaring and crawled into their sleeping bags. They needed rest ahead of the trek to the Cousin’s Cabin, to make the rendezvous with team Grouse.
That evening, prior to setting out, Ronneberg had the men check their British Army-issue watches. For whatever reason, perhaps the intense cold, two had stopped working. There was no fixing them and so they were dumped. It was irksome. Ronneberg knew how crucial timekeeping would be when they went to hit the plant. Exact timing would be essential. He had to hope that upon linking up with Grouse, Skinnarland might procure some replacement timepieces locally.
With Ronneberg leading, the six set out eastwards, the direction in which they figured the Cousin’s Cabin had to lie. They were laden down with heavy packs and dragging two sledges each piled with 110 pounds of gear. Barely had they begun the journey when the wind stiffened to their rear. Soon it was blowing fiercely, driving hard needles of snow into their exposed backs.
Visibility was worsening, but they pressed on. After all, this was what they had trained for: to take on and conquer the Vidda. At one point Ronneberg noticed twigs sticking out of the snow. He pulled at one. It didn’t budge. Tree tops. How could there be trees here? They’d figured they must have landed on a frozen lake called the Bjornesfjord. But if they had, how could they be skiing over trees?
He stopped. The others gathered. ‘We have to turn back—’ The last of Ronneberg’s words were torn away by the wind.
He signalled an about turn. Now they were cutting into the teeth of the storm. With one frozen hand Ronneberg gripped his compass, their only guide. The driving snow had obliterated their tracks. With the other, he tried to shield his face, as ice particles tore into his exposed skin. Those long days spent on the hills above Crispie paid dividends now: by a miracle of navigation Ronneberg led his team back to the mystery hut.
They stamped inside. It was still blissfully warm. Frozen limbs began to thaw. Frost had even formed on the inside of their nostrils. Ronneberg had few illusions as to how dire their situation would have become had they missed finding this place of sanctuary.
Having set a sentry rota, Ronneberg reached up and removed a map from the wall. Before it had been framed, the sheet had been well used. By torchlight he pored over its surface. Eventually he found it: one part of the map had been so well fingered it was discoloured and almost worn through. He stared at that point, trying to figure out the name: Lake Skrykken.
The hut had a locked side room. Ronneberg broke it open. Inside was the guestbook. The hut was named Jansbu, and it belonged to a Norwegian ship owner. It was indeed positioned on the shores of Lake Skrykken. That put them a good thirty kilometres from their intended drop zone, and the rendezvous point with team Grouse.
There was nothing any of them could do about it now. Outside, the wind howled and screamed its rage. None of the six had experienced a storm like it. It was as if some maddened beast was tearing at the roof in an effort to get at those sheltering inside. They didn’t doubt anymore what would have happened had they pressed on. Without shelter, they would have perished, claimed by the savagery of the tempest.
They remembered the vital lesson of the Barren Mountain plateau. You didn’t fight the Vidda—at least not if you wanted to survive. There was no option but to lie low and shelter from whatever it might throw at you.
In London, Wilson had received the news with relief: the Halifax crew had filed an upbeat report on Gunnerside’s insertion. ‘Party dropped in accordance with leader’s arrangements with pilot … on frozen lake surface … Exit according to plan and in perfect order. Highly successful, with men in good spirits … All seventeen ’chutes counted … Dummy run made 15 miles to the N.W. after dropping.’
But since then, nothing. Or at least, nothing from Gunnerside. Haugland had sent a message, but that had only confirmed that there was no sign of Ronneberg’s force anywhere. Which left Wilson stumped. Laden with explosives, weaponry, food and survival kit, Ronneberg’s team hadn’t carried a radio. Their intention was to link up with Grouse, at which point Haugland would become the Operation Gunnerside signaller, ably assisted by Skinnarland.
Another day passed and still not a squeak from Gunnerside. Just as had happened with Grouse, Wilson began to fear that they had plunged into the Vidda, only to be swallowed without trace.
For if not, where in the name of God were they?
Ronneberg’s notes on his mission revealed exactly where they were—holed up in the wind-lashed hut beside the shores of Lake Skrykken. ‘The snowstorm still raging with undiminished force … impossible to go outdoors.’ Such was the reality of life on the Vidda: the weather could switch in an instant and no forecast held good for long.
It was day two of Operation Gunnerside, and they were trapped. The storm was all-consuming. Tearing in from the west, the air was laden with moisture from a long passage across the Atlantic. It hit the cold of Norway’s coastal mountains, dumping angry blasts of snow.
Inside the hut it felt as if they were marooned beneath a part-frozen waterfall. Fifty-mile-an-hour gusts thick with snow pounded into the hut’s wooden frame, threatening to pluck it from its foundations and hurl it across the iced-up lake. Outside, visibility was zero. A whiteout.
‘The cabin seemed about to be lifted,’ Ronneberg remarked, even with all six of us, over half a tonne of weight, inside.’
The temperature plummeted to ten below zero. Snow piled against the hut into drifts many feet deep. On the afternoon of the nineteenth, day two of the storm, they cracked open the door to icy blasts. Their surroundings had been transformed. Bizarre snow sculptures rose before them, as if some primordial monsters had risen from the lake and become frozen in time. In between, wind-blasted pans of ice were scoured clear.
‘The same weather,’ Ronneberg noted. ‘Storm and driving snow. We made an attempt to reach the depot to fetch more food … This had to be given up for danger of losing our way.’
The following day, a second attempt was made to reach the cache, but the storm had so altered the terrain that the men were lost in an alien land. On the third attempt a container was found, and a little precious food retrieved.
It was only the shelter of the hut and the warmth of the fire that was keeping them alive. Then the stove began to billow smoke. Something was wrong with the chimney. Ronneberg ventured forth to investigate. He climbed through a churning mass of blasted whiteness, levering himself onto the roof. Every which way he turned the air was dark with snowflakes, some the size of giant moths. Visibility was nil, and from such a height the impression was doubly disorientating.
In every direction everything looked exactly the same. Ronneberg felt as if he were marooned on a flying carpet in a world formed of snow. He gripped the roof with frozen hands, his anchor amidst a frightening sea of freezing, blinding white. He crawled towards the chimney. A brace had been torn away by the wind. By feel alone he tried to reattach it. As he struggled to do so, the wind buffeted him one way and then the other, in some bizarre and fearful tussle with nature.
Finally, the storm won. A blast of unbelievable power lifted Ronneberg up and blew him off the roof. He landed deep in the snow, like some rock thrown from a giant’s hand. He struggled to his knees, but the storm knocked him down again. And again. His greatest fear now was being driven further from the hut. Where was it? He couldn’t see his hand in front of his face, let alone make out that precious wooden sanctuary.
He turned into the cruel, taunting face of the wind and began to crawl. Feeling with his hands like a blind man, his fingers made contact with a frozen wooden upright. His heart skipped with joy: the wall. He was drawn towards the warmth and safety inside, but knew he couldn’t go there. He forced himself to climb back onto the roof, where he finished fixing the chimney, only to be blown off for a second time. Eventually he groped his way back to the hut door.
On the morning of 21 February team Gunnerside awoke to an extraordinary blissful stillness. They cracked the door, to discover a landscape with a dreamlike, Alice in Wonderland quality. They’d never seen anything like it. Everything was snow. The windows of the hut were blinded by snow; its walls were built of snow; the entire structure was roofed over with snow; and giant, wind-sculpted slabs of white lay like stranded icebergs scattered across the frozen lake.
The calm belied Ronneberg’s feelings. He was worried. They’d flown out from Britain five days earlier, and in the interim they’d managed to move barely a mile from their drop zone. Team Grouse would have been in contact with London. They would have no way of knowing that Ronneberg and his men had found shelter, and anyone caught out in such a storm would surely have died.
It was imperative that they make contact with Grouse. Ronneberg ordered his men to gather up their supplies. Speed was of the essence, and they would need to travel relatively light. They would take only enough to ensure that they could survive the coming journey, and wreak havoc on the heavy water plant. By mid afternoon they were ready. Their packs weighed twenty-five kilos, and there was seventy kilos of kit split between the two sledges.
It was as light as they could risk.
Ronneberg was about to give the order to move out, when the most unbelievable thing happened. There on the snow-sculpted lake before the snow-sculpted hut, a figure appeared. He was alone, moving on skis and dragging a sledge behind him. Ronneberg could not have been more surprised had one of the primeval ice forms come to life before his eyes.
It was as if that lone figure had been vomited out of the storm.