Flames Over Norway Page 13

  In many respects, the Mureaux aircraft that equipped the observation squadron, with its high parasol-type wing, resembled the PZLs that Kalinski had flown in Poland, although it trundled along at a much more sedate speed under the power of its 650 hp Hispano-Suiza engine. The view from the pilot’s cockpit, which was open to the weather, was awful, but the observer in the rear cockpit had a good field of vision. He was armed with a 7.5 mm machine-gun, and the pilot controlled a similar weapon that fired through the propeller shaft. By the outbreak of war the Mureaux was obsolete, and it was being replaced by more up-to-date types in the French observation squadrons, whose weary cast-offs were assigned to the Poles.

  The unit to which Kalinski was assigned was called the Polish Highland Mountain Brigade. Under French command, it formed part of the Allied Norwegian Expeditionary Force. Only one battalion had been sent to Aandalsnes, together with a British infantry brigade; the bulk of the Polish force was earmarked for a landing at Narvik.

  Kalinski and his observer had flown the Mureaux across the English Channel and then proceeded in “hops” to the Orkneys, from where they had made the long oversea crossing to Aandalsnes, arriving at about the same time as the troops. The trip had not worried the Pole, for the Mureaux had a 600-mile range and its engine was reliable. Kalinski’s two mechanics had crossed over with the main force; giving the aircraft a thorough overhaul before operations began in earnest was their first task.

  It was with considerable envy that Kalinski, on the morning of 16 April, watched a sleek, low-wing monoplane winging towards the lake. It touched down flawlessly and was marshalled into a forest clearing close to the place where his own aircraft was concealed. It was the first Spitfire he had seen, and he wandered over to it, filled with curiosity.

  Armstrong clambered stiffly from the cockpit and slid off the wing, stretching and flexing his aching leg muscles. He nodded amiably at the man who approached and stuck out a hand, introducing himself. Kalinski gave a little bow and did likewise. Armstrong raised an eyebrow.

  “Polish? I didn’t know there were any Poles here. Oh, hell, I don’t suppose you understand a word I’m saying.”

  Kalinski looked a little put out. “On the contrary. You will find that my English is quite passable. I elected to study the language at officer cadet school; most of the others took a course in French.”

  Armstrong grinned. “Sorry, old chap.” He looked around. “Things seem pretty chaotic here, or am I wrong?”

  It was Kalinski’s turn to grin. “Chaotic would be an understatement. But the English squadron arrived only yesterday, and they have been flying defensive patrols from the start. There has not been much time for — how do you say it — works of administration.”

  Armstrong reflected briefly that he had not had much time to prepare himself for this deployment to Norway; but, when Royston had failed to return from his sortie to Bergen, his subordinate had naturally stepped in to carry out the operation. Armstrong could not bring himself to believe that the Wing Commander was gone; somehow, he was left with a strong gut feeling that Royston would show up again, some day.

  The RAF airman who had marshalled Armstrong’s aircraft into its dispersal, and who had temporarily disappeared while the pilot was unstrapping himself, returned with two companions.

  “Your ground crew, sir,” he explained. “They’ll be looking after you all the time.”

  Well, Armstrong thought, at least somebody knew I was coming, which is a start. He exchanged a few words with the men, telling them to have the aircraft refuelled. One of them, who had been eyeing the Spitfire, had a puzzled expression on his face. Armstrong noticed it, and asked what was the matter.

  “I … I was just wondering where the guns are, sir,” the man replied hesitantly, as though fearful of making a fool of himself. Armstrong chuckled.

  “Don’t worry about that — there aren’t any. It’s a photo-reconnaissance aircraft. Incidentally, does anybody know where my photographic processing facilities have been set up?”

  They shook their heads, mystified. All they knew was that they had been told to expect an incoming Spitfire. “Maybe they’ll know in the headquarters building, sir,” one of the men said. He indicated a solid-looking log farmhouse that stood by the lakeside about half a mile away.

  Armstrong nodded. “Right. I’ll take a look. It’s shanks’s pony, I suppose.”

  The airman grinned. “Afraid so, sir. Not so much as a bike to spare around here.”

  Kalinski joined him as he set off to walk to the farmhouse, saying that he had to report in to see if any orders had come through for him. As they trudged on, a pair of Gladiators took off from the airstrip with a crackling roar, the slipstream from their engines kicking up a trail of powdery snow. As soon as they were airborne they went into a climbing turn, heading for the port. Kalinski told Armstrong that two Gladiators were on patrol over Aandalsnes at all times, one pair relieving the other. Armstrong wondered why he hadn’t been intercepted as he flew inland; his route had taken him directly across the town.

  The farmhouse was deserted apart from the farmer’s wife, who was cooking a meal, and an army sergeant who was the duty NCO. He had no idea what had become of the rest of Armstrong’s team either, but he thought that “the Colonel” might know something about it. He was expected back shortly. In the meantime, would Armstrong like something to eat?

  Armstrong confessed that he was famished, and in what seemed only seconds the farmer’s wife had provided him with a bowl of steaming porridge, followed by fish and black bread, the whole washed down by a mug of coffee. The pilot had just cleaned his plate when “the Colonel” arrived.

  Colonel Jack Gough of the Sherwood Foresters, it appeared, was in charge of pretty well everything at the lake the name of which, Armstrong learned, was Lesjaskog — except the actual flying operations.

  “Oh, yes,” he told Armstrong, “I know where your photographic people have got to. Some clot put them in with the landing force that has gone ashore at Namsos, north of Trondheim. There isn’t a hope in hell of getting them down here, I’m afraid, and there isn’t much point in your going up there. But don’t worry — there’s plenty for you to do, believe me. For a start, I want you to go out and find a train for me.”

  Armstrong looked startled. “A train?”

  Gough nodded, placing his cap and swagger stick on a roughly-hewn pinewood table. “Yes. Come over here and have a look.”

  He took Armstrong by the elbow and led him to a large map of southern Norway that was pinned to the wall. First of all, he indicated the railway line that ran through the mountains from Lillehammer to Aandalsnes.

  “It’s somewhere on this stretch of track,” he explained. “The distance is about 150 miles and the wretched thing set off a couple of days ago, so it should have got here by now. It hasn’t, though, and we are very concerned about it. It’s a very important train, you see.”

  Kalinski came forward, a mug of coffee in his hand. “Perhaps I can be of assistance, Colonel?”

  Gough nodded. “Most certainly, Captain. You have my full authority. It will be some time yet before our forces here are sufficiently strong to begin the advance on Trondheim. You will not be needed until then.”

  “May I ask why this train is so important, sir?” Armstrong asked.

  “You may, but I’m afraid I can’t tell you. Not yet, anyway. I can say, though, that if the Germans get their hands on it it will boost their war effort considerably. We must prevent that from happening, at all costs.”

  “How do we know that they haven’t captured it already?” Armstrong wanted to know.

  Gough referred to the map again. “Because their forces are nowhere near the railway line as yet,” he explained. “They are still pushing northwards from Oslo. We know exactly where they are, because the Norwegians still control the telephone system and if the Germans appear in a town or village the local postmaster simply puts in a call to the next one up the road. Our intelligence sources are pretty good
in that respect. Also, the Germans aren’t having it all their own way, even though they have seized five out of six Norwegian divisional headquarters and practically paralyzed the army. It seems that the Norwegians are organizing themselves into fighting units and are opposing the enemy advance; the Norwegian commander in the area, General Ruge, is trying to set up a defensive line anchored on Lillehammer, where he will hold on until we get to him.”

  Kalinski, who had first-hand experience of the speed with which the Germans were capable of breaking through defensive lines, thought that Gough was overly optimistic, but said nothing.

  A sudden roar of engines low overhead made them all jump. The farmer’s wife screamed and dropped a pan. The clatter it made was followed by a terrific thump from somewhere outside.

  Kalinski led the rush out of the building. A column of smoke was beginning to rise from the lake shore a mile or so away. Overhead a Gladiator turned, its engine roaring. The pilot waggled his wings and then circled the lake before approaching to land.

  “He’s got a Jerry!” Gough said excitedly. “Come on — everyone into my car!”

  They piled into the vehicle, which Gough had somehow acquired for use as his personal transport, and went skidding off across the lake towards the column of smoke, now shot with flames at its base. By the time they reached the enemy bomber, a Heinkel 111, it was blazing fiercely. The Heinkel had landed flat on its belly just short of the trees and was crushed. Only the tail fin and rudder, bearing a white-edged black swastika on bottle-green camouflage, remained intact. The whole forward part of the crumpled fuselage, and the wings — except for the outer portions — were being consumed by the flames.

  “I say,” Gough remarked, “what if the blighter’s got bombs on board, and they go off?”

  “I think they would have gone off by now,” Armstrong reassured him. “I think this chap was on a long-range recce, so he’d be carrying a full fuel load rather than bombs. His guns will have been armed, though, so we’d better watch out for exploding ammunition. I suggest we keep well clear.”

  They all retreated a few paces until they were at a respectful distance from the wreck. Even so, the stench of the burning Heinkel still assailed their nostrils; it gave off a strange, sickly smell, something between burnt toast and milk spilt on a hot stove. Armstrong had an unpleasant vision of the German crew’s remains, charring in the flames, but he knew that it was the magnesium used in the alloy of the Heinkel’s construction that produced the stink. However, the knowledge that what was left of the German crew was in there somewhere gave them all cause for thought, and it was not long before they turned away.

  “Well,” Gough remarked as he drove them back to the farmhouse, “we got that one, but there’ll be others, and doubtless they will be carrying bombs. It won’t take much to put paid to the ice on the lake — there are signs of it thawing already. And my airfield defences, apart from the RAF fighters, of course, consist of exactly two machine-guns. It isn’t exactly an encouraging picture.”

  Armstrong was forced to agree with him, especially after one of the mechanics assigned to look after his Spitfire reported to him with the news that there was no chance of obtaining any fuel until the following morning. The supplies already at the lake were jealously hoarded for use by the Gladiator squadron, and reserves had to be brought up from Aandalsnes.

  Being in a state of enforced idleness, Armstrong took the opportunity of learning more of the situation at Aandalsnes. The Poles, he discovered, had the task of defending the lake from which the Gladiators were operating. The lake had been deliberately chosen not because Aandalsnes lacked an airstrip — in fact there was one, although it was very primitive — but because it lay about 20 miles south-east of the town, which meant that the Gladiators would have more time in which to intercept enemy bombers approaching from that direction, intent on bombing the harbour.

  The main task on the ground was to be undertaken by the British 148th Infantry Brigade, which, with only two battalions, was badly under strength. Part of it was to move south-east along the railway line the same line as the one along which the mysterious train was said to be travelling — and secure the town of Dombaas, while the remainder took offensive action against the Germans occupying Trondheim. Colonel Gough also informed Armstrong that a force of about 700 sailors and Royal Marines would be landing at Aandalsnes that night, bringing some naval artillery and anti-aircraft guns with them; their task would be to defend the town and harbour and if necessary provide reinforcements for the troops on the railway line to Dombaas.

  That was as much as Armstrong knew. Had he been aware of the true situation, he would have been a good deal more gloomy than was the case. The entire Allied Norwegian Expedition was fraught with ill-luck. For one thing, the officer appointed to command the forces that were to retake Trondheim collapsed and died of a stroke only hours after being informed of his appointment; for another, the aircraft carrying his successor to Scapa Flow crashed on landing and the replacement general was injured, together with most of his staff. By the time a third commander had been appointed, the tactical picture had changed substantially.

  The officer who eventually took command of the Aandalsnes force, now known as Sickleforce, was Major General Paget. His orders were to co-operate with the Norwegian Army in blocking the northward advance of the German Army, at the same time protecting his left flank and rear against a possible attack by the enemy forces in Trondheim, and from paratroop detachments on his lines of communication. In practice, his area of operations was confined to the railway line that ran along the Gudbrandsdal valley, which stretched from the Romsdal — where Aandalsnes was situated — to Lillehammer.

  There were others who had their eyes on that stretch of line.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Three aircraft droned over the snow-covered Norwegian landscape. They were three-engined Junkers Ju 52 transports, flying in a tight “V” formation. Each carried 15 paratroops.

  The dropping-zone had been well chosen. It was a snow-covered plateau on the northern side of the Gudbrandsdal, not far from a little village called Kvam. Here, the river Laagen, the road and the single-track railway that ran through the valley criss-crossed one another. The river, which turned in its course at this point to run east-west, was split here by an island about half a mile long. On either side the hills sloped sharply upward and were densely wooded with pines.

  The drop, made from a height of 500 feet above ground level, was flawless. Within minutes all 45 paratroops were on the ground, unpacking the canisters that contained their mortars and machine-guns. The only injury was one slightly sprained ankle. As the men assembled for the descent into the valley, the transport aircraft flew off to the south, heading for Fornebu.

  The commander of the paratroop detachment, Major Hahn, consulted his map. The village below the plateau consisted of a few low wooden buildings and could easily be turned into a strong defensive position. Entrenched there, Hahn and his men could block all movement along both road and railway. The English were reported to be landing in strength at Aandalsnes, and their first move would doubtless be to go to the aid of the Norwegians holding out at Lillehammer.

  His orders were to stop them, and to hold Kvam until German reinforcements came up the road. There was something else, too. Somewhere between Kvam and the approaching German forces was a train which the German High Command was desperately anxious to capture, for whatever reason. Hahn could only speculate that it must contain high-ranking members of the Norwegian Government, perhaps even of the royal family, fleeing before the German advance. If the train appeared, Hahn was to stop it and ensure that it went no further.

  Donning snowshoes — he had decided that skis would be an unnecessary encumbrance on this mission — Hahn issued his orders and led his men down through the trees. He told them to spread out and advance with caution, for he knew that Norwegian militia units were operating in the area. The men made little sound as they moved down the slope; dressed in their white winter-ca
mouflage smocks they looked for all the world like phantoms. Little puffs of breath trailed behind them in the frosty air.

  To Hahn’s amazement, the village was deserted. Removing their snowshoes, his men split up into small groups and checked out each house with an easy professionalism born of thorough training, and reported back with the news that they had found nothing. Even the fires were unlit, and the larders were empty of food.

  He summoned his second in command, a young Austrian Leutnant named Maisel, and ordered him to take a patrol westwards for a mile or so along the railway line.

  “And don’t take any risks,” he warned him. “We are not here to stick out our necks unnecessarily. If you run into trouble of any kind, or see anything at all out of place, get back here at once.”

  Maisel nodded and trotted off at the head of half a dozen men. He decided to follow the road that ran parallel with the railway line; it was higher up, and would afford a better view of what might lie ahead. Not a sound except their breathing and the crunch of their boots on the snow disturbed the silence.

  After half a mile or so Maisel called a halt and checked his map against the features that were visible around him. It was a very good map, produced by the Norwegian Ordnance Survey Office, and it showed the most minute detail. What it did not show was a spur line, branching off the main track at this point and disappearing into the trees. The only feature revealed by the document here was a sawmill, nestling in the forest a few hundred yards to the right. Maisel reasoned that the spur line must be a recent feature, specially built to serve the mill. He made up his mind that it was worth investigating.

  In single file, the patrol moved up the slope among the trees, keeping the spur line on the left. It was gloomy among the pines, and the shadows on the path ahead seemed to assume eerie shapes. Maisel felt a shiver run up his spine, then smiled to himself. This was, after all, the land of the trolls that had featured prominently in the fairytales of his childhood.