October 11-12, 1944
The wind began to abate after a few hours, and they had a fresh breeze and moderate sea when the Vigra first saw the Norwegian coast late on October 11. “Marstein light” said the navigation officer a he stared at the land with night binoculars, “no vessels in sight.” Larsen was also looking through binoculars, as was the watch on the top bridge. Around midnight, Vigra turned slightly to starboard with all guns manned and sound attenuators engaged.
Marstein light was not lit. During the war, the Germans lit it only on special occasions, such as when heavy cruisers were heading in to Bergen, but it flashed some smaller lights shoreward to assist regular internal boat traffic.
Larsen looked continuously through his binoculars towards the islands. He knew that the German speedboats were much faster than his subchaser. The navigation officer could see the starboard light from a vessel that was further inland to the south, probably a cargo vessel or fishing vessel.
With sailors manning all stations, Vigra wound its way between Store Kalsøy and Horgo, then turned to starboard and slipped between Horgo and Hundvåko. The area was filled with numerous sheer-cliffed islands. There were still no patrol vessels in sight. Vigra headed into the south end of Hundvåko and Følesvåg, towards the planned rendezvous point. Vigra edged in and hove to close to shore, with the engines shut down. If a hostile vessel came by, the Vigra could not be seen except by searchlight.
The crew busied themselves carrying cargo onto shore and hiding the munitions and supplies in a mountain gorge. The skipper hoped that everything was okay with the people who would be delivering the aircrew to the rendezvous. It was always a nervous time, because there was always a risk that the underground group could have been compromised and that they would be met by Germans rather than their intended contacts.
A small motorboat made its way a few fathoms past the Vigra with two men in sou'westers in the stern. They probably had no idea how closely they were watched.
The skipper stepped down on deck. He exchanged a few quiet words with the sailors who manned one of the Oerlikon guns, and they all hoped they would not have to wait too long.
The third day was the same as the preceding ones for the six Canadians and one Norwegian. They sat indoors waiting for the night. They knew very well that they had nothing else to do but wait. They could only hope that nothing had happened to upset the plans. The thought of being there another day and night was not bearable. The only entertainment the Canadians had was to listen to Johannes Jakobsen and his mixture of Norwegian, Portuguese, German and English, and trying to figure out what he was saying.
Suddenly, Østervoll arrived. They had not heard a sound before he knocked on the door. He had a smaller boat this time, and had stopped the engines and rowed in the last few meters. On his way to Kjøpmannsholmen, he had seen several patrol boats.
When he stuck his head into the doorway and nodded to the waiting group, he saw nothing but smiles. He hurried them on board, and they soon on their way. The Canadians didn't know where they were going, and could not see far in the darkness. In a passage between two islands, they were so close to a steep rock that they could have spat on it. They were going full speed at the time.
The boat then slowed, and they caught a glimpse of the outline of a vessel that loomed large in the night.. Østervoll manoeuvred to a ladder that was dropped from the rail amidships. “Land-crabs first,” said the Norwegian with a gallant bow, and the men climbed up on board, with Gordon last of the crew. The sailors on the ship helped pull them on deck.
Larsen welcomed them on board. But the Canadians had expected a British ship, and the hats these sailors were wearing resembled those worn by Germans. But all the nagging misgivings finally disappeared for good when they were taken to the mess where a steward brought the Canadians the best he had to offer – hot tea, coffee, bread and various other dishes.
There were no problems with the language either, because there were several English speakers on board. The steward was very interested in the Canadians' story, and they could tell him in broad terms what had taken place. There was little risk in telling their story, because they still did not know the real names of their helpers or exactly where they had been.
The ship began to vibrate as the powerful engines were started up, and the Vigra set off into the night. Two nautical miles west of Marstein light the sound attenuators were disengaged and the engines given full throttle.
They slowed when a storm hit. The sub-chaser tumbled over mountainous seas. Spray splashed the bridge and beat on the windows. Visibility was minimal and no one could venture outside. “This reminds me of the time you and I took the Arthur through bad weather west of Florø,” Larsen said to the Chief Engineer, who had come up to the bridge. He was referring to a memorable trip in late 1941 when they barely managed to limp back to land in their cutter.
The Canadians tried to sleep in the crew cabin. Almost everyone was seasick. Firestone was the only one who dozed, but not for long. He was roused by a sailor who said that the radio-operator was too sick to man his post, and the skipper had asked if any of the flight crew could operate the radio equipment. Firestone spent a full watch as the ship's radio operator.
The weather lifted in the afternoon and for the first time in weeks the Canadians could see Allied territory as they rounded the north coast of Shetland Island. On October 12, 1944, the Vigra docked at the pier in Scalloway on Shetland Island. The crew of S for Sugar had finally returned from their patrol. But this time they did not land their plane and give the formal “Duty carried out” report to the duty officer.
As soon as the Vigra had docked, a British army captain presented himself to the Canadians as the deputy base commander. He would be in charge of them while they stayed in Shetland. They needed to consider themselves under close arrest, which was technically their situation, but they were assured that it was only a formality until they were cleared by military intelligence. He left them for a short while and returned with two other officers who escorted them to the base hospital, where they could finally take a decent bath.
Afterward, they were examined by a doctor who had been flown in from a nearby RAF base. There were also new clothes for them, and then they sat down around a table laden with food. After their first sit-down meal on land for a long time, the crew gathered in a lounge and were joined by many of the personnel stationed at the base, including crew-members of the sub-chasers.
The deputy commander told the Canadians they would be flown south to London the next morning where they would be debriefed by MI-9. Major Rogers, the base commander, invited the Canadians to send telegrams to their families to assure them they were still alive. The telegrams would be expedited so that they arrived before word of their safe return was made known through official channels.
Major Rogers added that he believed that one of the crew had a message for him, and suggested that the person come to his office the next morning. After breakfast, Harvey Firestone was escorted into Rogers's office. Rogers took the belt Firestone gave him, opened it, and took a look at the contents. He then asked if Firestone had ever heard the term “heavy water.” He had not, and Rogers asked him to remember the phrase, which might have some meaning after the war.
Firestone rejoined his crew-mates, and they were soon on their way to London, but not before the deputy commander had assured them that messages would go out over the BBC over the next few days letting those who had helped them in Norway that they had made it safe and sound back to Britain.
Later, Firestone said that the crew's own part in the success of evading capture by the Germans was limited to the first 14 or 15 hours after the landing. Everything after that was the result of their Norwegian helpers. The result was, to use Magnus Hauge's term, six sacks of potatoes delivered as ordered.
Hjelle and Mowinckel Nilsen and several others of their group were quietly and hopefully gathered round a radio in a cabin in Indregardane. They were like expectant fathers waiting in the corridor outside the delivery room at a hospital. They listened to the numerous coded messages from the BBC and finally they heard:
The wind began to abate after a few hours, and they had a fresh breeze and moderate sea when the Vigra first saw the Norwegian coast late on October 11. “Marstein light” said the navigation officer a he stared at the land with night binoculars, “no vessels in sight.” Larsen was also looking through binoculars, as was the watch on the top bridge. Around midnight, Vigra turned slightly to starboard with all guns manned and sound attenuators engaged.
Marstein light was not lit. During the war, the Germans lit it only on special occasions, such as when heavy cruisers were heading in to Bergen, but it flashed some smaller lights shoreward to assist regular internal boat traffic.
Larsen looked continuously through his binoculars towards the islands. He knew that the German speedboats were much faster than his subchaser. The navigation officer could see the starboard light from a vessel that was further inland to the south, probably a cargo vessel or fishing vessel.
With sailors manning all stations, Vigra wound its way between Store Kalsøy and Horgo, then turned to starboard and slipped between Horgo and Hundvåko. The area was filled with numerous sheer-cliffed islands. There were still no patrol vessels in sight. Vigra headed into the south end of Hundvåko and Følesvåg, towards the planned rendezvous point. Vigra edged in and hove to close to shore, with the engines shut down. If a hostile vessel came by, the Vigra could not be seen except by searchlight.
The crew busied themselves carrying cargo onto shore and hiding the munitions and supplies in a mountain gorge. The skipper hoped that everything was okay with the people who would be delivering the aircrew to the rendezvous. It was always a nervous time, because there was always a risk that the underground group could have been compromised and that they would be met by Germans rather than their intended contacts.
A small motorboat made its way a few fathoms past the Vigra with two men in sou'westers in the stern. They probably had no idea how closely they were watched.
The skipper stepped down on deck. He exchanged a few quiet words with the sailors who manned one of the Oerlikon guns, and they all hoped they would not have to wait too long.
The third day was the same as the preceding ones for the six Canadians and one Norwegian. They sat indoors waiting for the night. They knew very well that they had nothing else to do but wait. They could only hope that nothing had happened to upset the plans. The thought of being there another day and night was not bearable. The only entertainment the Canadians had was to listen to Johannes Jakobsen and his mixture of Norwegian, Portuguese, German and English, and trying to figure out what he was saying.
Suddenly, Østervoll arrived. They had not heard a sound before he knocked on the door. He had a smaller boat this time, and had stopped the engines and rowed in the last few meters. On his way to Kjøpmannsholmen, he had seen several patrol boats.
When he stuck his head into the doorway and nodded to the waiting group, he saw nothing but smiles. He hurried them on board, and they soon on their way. The Canadians didn't know where they were going, and could not see far in the darkness. In a passage between two islands, they were so close to a steep rock that they could have spat on it. They were going full speed at the time.
The boat then slowed, and they caught a glimpse of the outline of a vessel that loomed large in the night.. Østervoll manoeuvred to a ladder that was dropped from the rail amidships. “Land-crabs first,” said the Norwegian with a gallant bow, and the men climbed up on board, with Gordon last of the crew. The sailors on the ship helped pull them on deck.
Larsen welcomed them on board. But the Canadians had expected a British ship, and the hats these sailors were wearing resembled those worn by Germans. But all the nagging misgivings finally disappeared for good when they were taken to the mess where a steward brought the Canadians the best he had to offer – hot tea, coffee, bread and various other dishes.
There were no problems with the language either, because there were several English speakers on board. The steward was very interested in the Canadians' story, and they could tell him in broad terms what had taken place. There was little risk in telling their story, because they still did not know the real names of their helpers or exactly where they had been.
The ship began to vibrate as the powerful engines were started up, and the Vigra set off into the night. Two nautical miles west of Marstein light the sound attenuators were disengaged and the engines given full throttle.
They slowed when a storm hit. The sub-chaser tumbled over mountainous seas. Spray splashed the bridge and beat on the windows. Visibility was minimal and no one could venture outside. “This reminds me of the time you and I took the Arthur through bad weather west of Florø,” Larsen said to the Chief Engineer, who had come up to the bridge. He was referring to a memorable trip in late 1941 when they barely managed to limp back to land in their cutter.
The Canadians tried to sleep in the crew cabin. Almost everyone was seasick. Firestone was the only one who dozed, but not for long. He was roused by a sailor who said that the radio-operator was too sick to man his post, and the skipper had asked if any of the flight crew could operate the radio equipment. Firestone spent a full watch as the ship's radio operator.
The weather lifted in the afternoon and for the first time in weeks the Canadians could see Allied territory as they rounded the north coast of Shetland Island. On October 12, 1944, the Vigra docked at the pier in Scalloway on Shetland Island. The crew of S for Sugar had finally returned from their patrol. But this time they did not land their plane and give the formal “Duty carried out” report to the duty officer.
As soon as the Vigra had docked, a British army captain presented himself to the Canadians as the deputy base commander. He would be in charge of them while they stayed in Shetland. They needed to consider themselves under close arrest, which was technically their situation, but they were assured that it was only a formality until they were cleared by military intelligence. He left them for a short while and returned with two other officers who escorted them to the base hospital, where they could finally take a decent bath.
Afterward, they were examined by a doctor who had been flown in from a nearby RAF base. There were also new clothes for them, and then they sat down around a table laden with food. After their first sit-down meal on land for a long time, the crew gathered in a lounge and were joined by many of the personnel stationed at the base, including crew-members of the sub-chasers.
The deputy commander told the Canadians they would be flown south to London the next morning where they would be debriefed by MI-9. Major Rogers, the base commander, invited the Canadians to send telegrams to their families to assure them they were still alive. The telegrams would be expedited so that they arrived before word of their safe return was made known through official channels.
Major Rogers added that he believed that one of the crew had a message for him, and suggested that the person come to his office the next morning. After breakfast, Harvey Firestone was escorted into Rogers's office. Rogers took the belt Firestone gave him, opened it, and took a look at the contents. He then asked if Firestone had ever heard the term “heavy water.” He had not, and Rogers asked him to remember the phrase, which might have some meaning after the war.
Firestone rejoined his crew-mates, and they were soon on their way to London, but not before the deputy commander had assured them that messages would go out over the BBC over the next few days letting those who had helped them in Norway that they had made it safe and sound back to Britain.
Later, Firestone said that the crew's own part in the success of evading capture by the Germans was limited to the first 14 or 15 hours after the landing. Everything after that was the result of their Norwegian helpers. The result was, to use Magnus Hauge's term, six sacks of potatoes delivered as ordered.
Hjelle and Mowinckel Nilsen and several others of their group were quietly and hopefully gathered round a radio in a cabin in Indregardane. They were like expectant fathers waiting in the corridor outside the delivery room at a hospital. They listened to the numerous coded messages from the BBC and finally they heard:
“Det regner i fjellet. (It is raining in the mountains)”
This message told the Norwegians who had been involved in the rescue effort that the Canadians were safely back in Britain. The next happy moment came when Hjelle reached into the bottom of a bag and pulled out a whole bottle of aquavit, and said: “Grab your glass, Lange Johannes.”
It was an unforgettable day for the relatives of the crew back in Canada. On October 14 they received the official news from the RAF Casualties Officer that all six had returned together safe and sound, but most had already received the telegrams from Shetland.
While the crew had hoped to return to duty, that did not happen. Five of the six returned to Canada and no longer hunted u-boats [A]. The sixth was co-pilot George Death, who remained in England, but only to get married [B].
All six survived the war [C].