It was the chocolate that had given him away.
Kristiansen—a simple, warm-hearted man of the mountains, certainly no political animal—had decided to give it to some local children. When was the last time any in his native town of Uvdal had had any chocolate? And if the force of gunmen that he had blundered into—whether British or Norwegian, he still wasn’t entirely certain—had been good enough to share some with him, he would do likewise.
But with a dark inevitability the news of a local man bearing gifts of chocolate for the children of Uvdal reached the ears of the Gestapo. Kristiansen was arrested and ‘persuaded’ to talk. And so, bit by bit, he revealed the story of his reindeer-hunting expedition, and of the mystery force of gunmen that he had run into on the Vidda.
His Gestapo interrogators sent a report to their boss, General Rediess. It read: ‘Days before the Vemork incident eight men were seen on skis on Hardangervidda, going towards Rjukan … carrying, amongst other things, sub-machine guns. All had white camouflage clothing on. A hut at Lake Skrykken was broken into … After, the tracks of five pairs of skis and a sledge were seen running from Rjukan and avoiding inhabited areas.’
Rediess flew into Uvdal, followed by Terboven and von Falkenhorst. All of a sudden this small town set to the east of the Vidda had become the nerve centre of their operations. Obviously, the reports in the Swedish media were wrong: no British agents had landed on a frozen lake and taken off again, all in one night. The attack on Vemork had been long in the making, far more enemy agents were involved, and on some level at least it had been masterminded from the Hardangervidda.
The German commanders named the coming initiative Aktion Adler: Operation Eagle. Over 10,000 German troops were drafted in, including Alpine mountaineering specialists, ski patrols, tracker dog units and spotter aircraft crews. By now, rumours abounded of ‘hundreds of British commandos’ hiding out on the Barren Mountain plateau. Von Falkenhorst, Rediess and Terboven were determined to leave no stone unturned. They would hunt down every last one of them.
Fortunately, word was sent to the saboteurs—or at least, those that could be reached. Local farmers skied into the wilderness to issue warnings to Haukelid, Kjelstrup, Haugland and Skinnarland, four men who had just succeeded in radioing their hurried but triumphant message to Wilson.
‘Operation carried out with 100% success. High-concentration plant completely destroyed … The Germans do not appear to know whence the party came or whither they disappeared.’
Wilson telegraphed back to them: ‘Heartiest congratulations on excellent work done. Decision to continue your work approved. Greetings from and to all.’
‘The measure of relief brought … by that brief signal is difficult to imagine’, Wilson would remark of Haugland’s short radio message. ‘The news was flashed to the War Cabinet, the Chiefs of Staff and other interested circles …’
In a 10 March memo marked ‘Most Secret and Urgent’, Wilson reported that ‘Information has been received today … that the high-concentration plant was completely destroyed … I have spoken to Professor Tronstad, who confirms complete destruction would effectively prevent further production of the liquid for a considerable period.’
Churchill read the message to his War Cabinet. Cigar smoke danced in the shadows as those figures gathered around the giant table received his words in absolute silence. For a rare and glorious moment they dared to contemplate some of the most momentous news of the war so far—and not all had gone well for the Allies. Hopefully, Hitler’s nuclear ambitions had just been thwarted.
Tronstad, the brain who had designed and built the heavy water works, believed that they had. He estimated that the SH200 plant would be out of action for eighteen months. Wilson ended his note by pointing out that a number of the saboteurs were heading for Sweden, ‘after a snowstorm had effectively wiped out all tracks connecting them to Vemork’.
It was an entirely positive report, pointing to success on all levels. But still Wilson fretted about those of his saboteurs who had chosen to remain on the Vidda. ‘I worried about them. The audacity of the raid on Vemork must have infuriated the enemy.’
Wilson was right to be worried. Haugland contacted him again, and the tenor of his radio message was much changed. News of Kristiansen’s Uvdal chocolate bungle and its consequences had reached their ears.
‘Dropping place … occupied by Germans. Gunnerside met a reindeer hunter after dropping who was kept under guard … He promised to keep his mouth shut and was given money and food. Everything points to his having notified … the Germans.’
Both the Gunnerside drop zone and the Lake Skrykken Cabin had been overrun by the enemy, and the hunt was very much on. In light of this, the four saboteurs collapsed their base at the Cousin’s Cabin, hid their communications gear in snow caves, and packed up their tents, sleeping bags, food and weaponry. Then they melted into the wasteland of the high Vidda, terrain where no right-minded individual would ever dare to venture.
Camped on the highest peaks amidst the freezing snow and ice fields, they watched as the German patrols flooded in below—obliterating ski tracks they should have followed, shooting at each other by mistake, torching cabins and bombing them from the air, blundering into treacherous terrain, and generally trying to conquer the Vidda.
In attempting to beat the Barren Mountain plateau, the German forces attracted only its very worst predations: their patrols were plagued by frostbite, blood poisoning, starvation, drownings and exhaustion.
But one of the Gunnerside party knew nothing of the massive Razzia sweeping the Hardangervidda. That man was trouble-seeker-cum-escape artist Claus Helberg. Post-Gunnerside, and after linking up with Poulsson, Helberg had gone to ground in Oslo, losing himself in the welcoming anonymity of the city. Now, he was drawn back to the Hardangervidda, for there was work to be done.
Alone, Helberg skied for the Lake Skrykken hut: there were arms and food still buried in the cache there. In doing so, he was unwittingly heading into the epicentre of Aktion Adler—Operation Eagle.
Helberg had spent months living on the Vidda, and he felt glad to have left the crowded confines of Oslo and to be moving into its wild embrace again. He’d been skiing for some fifty kilometres when the Lake Skrykken cabin hove into view. He decided to rest and recuperate there, before paying a visit to the cache. The first signs of trouble were the unlocked door and the wreckage that lay inside. Tables and chair had been upturned, mattresses slashed open, and the contents of cupboards and drawers emptied onto the floor.
For a moment Helberg felt stunned. The Hardangervidda was their territory. This was the raiders’ sanctuary. Never once during his time here had the hated occupiers even been close. But clearly the enemy had been to the cabin, and recently. A worrying thought struck Helberg: maybe they were still here, lurking somewhere nearby? Maybe they were waiting to pounce?
He hurried to the door, running his gaze across the snowy wastes outside. Sure enough, several hundred metres away a group of figures could be seen. There were five of them, grey-uniformed and armed, and they were skiing fast in Helberg’s direction. Armed with only his Colt .45 pistol, Helberg could hardly put up a fight.
As he threw on his skis, not for the first time he regretted leaving his tommy gun behind at Vemork. He’d done so in an effort to prevent local reprisals; to leave a quintessentially British commando signature behind. But as he set off, Helberg wondered if it was about to cost him his life.
It was late afternoon and he set a course due west, into the low sun, which should dazzle his pursuers’ eyes, making him a less easy target. From behind he heard the staccato bark of rifle fire. Bullets snarled past, kicking up angry plumes in the snow.
For a moment Helberg figured he was dead, and he gave thanks at least that he had played his part in destroying the SH200 plant. But as he zigzagged across the snow, the Germans couldn’t seem to get their shots on target. Finally, the gunfire petered out. In the silence that followed, Helberg felt certain they were coming after him.
One glance behind proved him right. He turned back to the way ahead—his only route to safety. It was a mass of unmarked, virgin snow. Presumably the Germans had fresh legs, whereas he had been on the go since early morning. Picking a route through the contours to maximize his speed and advantage, he set to his task.
As he weaved his way through wind-sculpted drifts and past ice-encrusted cliffs, in the back of Helberg’s mind were thoughts of the suicide capsule still secreted in his pocket. The very worst would be for his pursuers to score a lucky hit, disabling him with a shot from one of their rifles in such a way that he would be prevented from killing himself. The fear of being taken alive drove him onwards.
An hour into this life-or-death race three of his pursuers began to falter. One by one they gave up the chase. But two remained and they seemed to keep pace with him, matching ski stroke for ski stroke. Across hills, ridges and sweeping valleys they followed in his tracks. Helberg realized his greatest disadvantage now: he was beating a path of flattened, firmer snow for them to follow.
For sixteen kilometres they pushed onwards, Helberg and his two hunters neck and neck. Then one of them must have suffered a debilitating cramp. One moment he was there, skiing powerfully after him; the next he was gone. It was one-on-one now. A manhunt.
‘He was fresher than me,’ Helberg would remark, ‘and a good skier, too. So the race went on for another hour, maybe two …’
For all that time the distance between the two barely wavered. One moment Helberg would increase his lead on the German; the next that lead would be cut. Eventually Helberg realized that his pursuer could briefly close the gap whenever they descended a slope, but Helberg seemed to regain much of his lead as they climbed hills or ridges. The German was far fresher, of course; indeed, Helberg felt on the verge of exhaustion. But it was clearly a question of technique.
Helberg sought out the highest ground possible, so as to establish a more commanding lead. He scaled ridge after ridge, and sure enough he started inching away from his pursuer. But then he crested a final rise, to discover that only descent beckoned. It was all downhill for a good way now.
‘I started down, pushing off with all my strength,’ Helberg recalled, ‘trying to use every twist or turn to my advantage, but after about a quarter of an hour I could hear his skis and poles behind me. He got closer and yelled “Hands up!” in German.’
Helberg came to a halt, drew his Colt .45 and spun around. The German stopped and stiffened in surprise. He clearly hadn’t expected the man he was hunting to be armed. In his own hand he gripped a Luger, the iconic German pistol. Forty metres separated the two men; the German’s intent had clearly been to take Helberg alive. Now he knew he faced a duel, with himself set on higher ground.
In fact the terrain favoured Helberg. He had the setting sun to his back, so right in the German’s eyes. It would be glinting off the snow and ice, doubly blinding the enemy. For an instant the two adversaries hesitated, each wondering what the other might do. And then Helberg fired. It was a single shot, well aimed, but at such range he knew he had little chance of hitting the man.
The shot was a provocation, designed to infuriate and instil fear.
It did both. Summoned to fight, the German opened up with his Luger. As Helberg’s stomach knotted with tension, the first bullet tore past him. A second whipped by his head. The German fired again and again, two more bullets missing their mark by bare inches. Helberg tried to comfort himself with the thought that the German would be as breathless as he was, weak with fatigue, and with sweat running into his eyes. But even so, being under fire at close range like this felt terrifying.
Should he try to move? Dodge the man’s aim? Before he could decide the German fired again. The fifth bullet tore a path through the air to the side of Helberg’s arm. Had he moved, it might well have got him. Helberg’s finger itched to pull the Colt’s trigger, but he forced himself to hold his fire. He knew that whoever had bullets left after this duel would win. But it took a superhuman effort of will to stand and take the fire, even as his adversary unleashed two more rounds.
The German fired his last shot. It buzzed past Helberg’s head, close enough for him to feel the hot breath of its passing, then struck a rock to the rear, ricocheting with a loud ping. Did the German try to pull his trigger again, only to realize he was out of ammo? Helberg wasn’t sure. But the look on the man’s face spoke volumes. All of a sudden the roles were reversed. The hunter had become the hunted, and he had only one way to flee—uphill.
The German turned and fled. If he could reach the crest of the hill without Helberg catching him he would be free. He knew it and the knowledge seemed to lend him wings. But Helberg was faster. He was following in the German’s tracks now, where he had beaten down the snow. Helberg kept telling himself that he was the better man uphill; he had to get near enough to make his shots count.
The gap kept closing. The sun was setting red on the distant horizon, illuminating the enemy soldier perfectly. The German knew he was losing the race, which made him ever more frantic, and thus less effective over the steep ground. Finally Helberg caught the man just before he reached the summit.
Aiming at the middle of his back—the target that gave most room for error—he fired, repeatedly. ‘He began to stagger and finally stopped,’ Helberg recalled, ‘hanging over his ski sticks like a man on crutches. I turned around and pushed on, to get away before the others came. The sun was setting. It would soon be dark. I was safe, at least for the time being.’
Helberg knew the hunt wasn’t over. The four surviving German soldiers would have kept following their comrade’s ski tracks. Those would lead them to Helberg’s, and they could track him even through the darkness. He must have skied a good eighty kilometres or more, and he was on the verge of collapse. He needed terrain in which to lose his pursuers.
He headed for a nearby lake, Vrajoen. There he could ski across the ice, leaving no trace. The night was clear and still but there was no moon. Perfect for hiding; not so good for navigation. In the thick darkness, Helberg skied over an unseen cliff. One moment he was gliding across firm ground; the next, airborne. He fell for several metres, landing in an agonized heap and rolling further downhill.
When he finally came to a halt he lay in the snow, waiting for the pain. It hit first in his right shoulder, stabbing down the entire length of his arm. A bone had to be broken. When he tried to move that arm, nothing seemed to work properly. He tried to assess his situation dispassionately. He was alone, injured and armed with only a pistol. He could not defend himself against the four who remained of the hunter patrol, or any others that he might encounter. He needed help, and fast. Most of all, he needed a doctor.
He clambered to his feet, relieved that his legs still seemed to work, as did his skis. If he went carefully, he could manage—just—with one ski pole.
Injured and alone, he set out into the darkness.