September 27, 1944 - On Strøno

From the boat, the group stepped over the slippery rocks and through the moss and heather to the boathouse. Inside, the interpreter informed the Canadians that they were to go up into the attic. One of the Norwegians stood guard outside, and another two set up a ladder into the attic.

The blackout curtain was thoroughly checked before one of the men struck a match and lit an oil lamp on the table. Only then could they really see each other. They smiled and nodded while Evensen passed around cigarettes. They were Norwegian war-time cigarettes, just in case. “Not too bad” commented one of the Canadians after a couple of puffs.

The interpreter in his Brooklyn accent informed the Canadians that the Germans had imposed strict blackout restrictions, and that there were strict punishments for violations any time the Germans spotted even the slightest bit of light at a window. He continued: “Plenty of Germans in this area, you see patrols night and day.”

“We've got the impression that there must be some around,” replied Gordon Biddle with Anglo-Canadian understatement.

The interpreter told them that the island they were on now was about three miles long and half a mile wide. They were briefed on what to do the next few days. The Germans had previously used this area, and a non-commissioned officer still had his quarters here, but he was now on leave in Germany. Enemy sentries were posted close by. On the island across the fjord-arm a few hundred meters away they would be able to see gun emplacements when it became light.

The Canadians could stay in the boathouse at night, but just before daybreak they would have to go up into the woods and not return again until dark set in. A tarp would be provided to protect them from rain and wind. Nils Røttingen made sure they understood the plan and promised that someone would try to come back with food that night, and then the Norwegians left. The Canadians' first long day on Norwegian soil was finally over.

The Islanders took care to set their trolling lines after they left the Canadians at Strøno. They rowed around in shallow water until they landed enough fish to fill a bucket. When they split up and went to their homes, they all agreed that they had been incredibly lucky, especially to not be challenged by the guard on the bridge.

“Maybe they saw us, but cared only about their responsibility,” murmured Jakobsen, referring to the fact that the guards on the bridge were Army, who were responsible for things on land, while the Navy was responsible for anything on the water.

When the Norwegians were gone, the crew looked around. There were two narrow beds against the north and south walls. There was a table and chair in front of a window that faced west. There was a small shelf at each bed with books in Norwegian and German. It was all very simple, but it felt good to finally have a roof over their heads.

They agreed that they were going to try to sleep right away, while one kept guard. They had only a short time to sleep, because it was already well past midnight and they needed to scramble up the mountain before it got too light. Harvey Firestone had not had any sleep since six o'clock in the morning of September 25 , so by now had been awake for 40 hours, but he took the first watch. Two men were on the bunks and the other three lay on the hard floor. Firestone sat in the chair by the window. The oil lamp had been put out, so he opened the blackout curtains. It was still so dark outside that he could not see anything.

Firestone had been in a plane crash before, while operating out of a base in Nova Scotia. Aviators, like sailors, often have some superstitions. It was considered bad luck to have any one other than the crew on board during a flight. On one mission, a British lieutenant had flown with them to evaluate how they worked together as a crew.

They had just taken off when the plane began to have severe problems. Firestone sat by the radio, and when he looked out he could see the starboard wing shaking violently. The engine was flung from its mount. The plane hit the ground with its right wingtip first, caught fire, and tumbled for a hundred meters before it stopped. Two men in the rear of the plane, including the British lieutenant, were able to get out, but the pilot, navigator and Firestone were trapped in the front section because the door was jammed in the twisted fuselage. They tried desperately to open it, but in vain. The plane was engulfed in flames and the heat was unbearable. The gas tanks were filled to the brim because they had been headed out on a long-distance patrol over the Atlantic to hunt submarines, and the plane was loaded with live ammunition and depth-charges. Ammunition started to go off because of the flames and heat. Tracers were whizzing past their heads as they struggled to open the door. They could not reach the escape hatch because it was beyond the wall of flames that surrounded them.

There was little room to get any momentum to push against the door, so they grabbed each other and all kicked it together. It finally popped open on the third attempt. They scrambled out onto the ground and ran as fast as they could towards an ambulance that had stopped about a hundred meters away. Firetrucks were even farther away, because the drivers thought that the depth-charges and fuel tanks would explode. Firestone and the others were almost to the ambulance when they were bowled over by the explosion of the depth charges.

They got back on their feet and looked back to the plane that was now just one big bonfire. The ambulance driver held the door open and shouted for them to jump in so that he could take them to the hospital.

None of the crew were badly injured. Firestone had some bruises, a minor burn on his left arm and hand, and a sore knee that caused him to limp around for a few days. After ten days he was healthy again. The British lieutenant was the most seriously hurt. He was in shock and remembered nothing of the crash. He was patched together in the hospital and then sent home to England.

While Firestone was sitting in the boathouse attic, he thought of everything that had happened in the last day, especially the quiet way the crew had all worked together. On board the plane no one had panicked, even though they all had reason to. He could not believe that they had landed in the tiny open space on the hillside without flipping over. They were incredibly lucky to all be able to walk away from the crash.

He also thought that their trip by rowboat had gone well. He was aware that they could have expected grisly punishment if caught by the Germans. However, maybe things had gone too well. The fact that the Germans had not stopped them made him a little suspicious. Could it be that the apparently helpful Norwegians were in fact Germans or working for the Germans? How else could they have passed right under the noses of at least a couple of guards?

He was troubled by these thoughts, because the women they had met and later the rowers appeared to be honest and good people. He remembered that their escape training instructors had mentioned a trick that German intelligence had often used. The Germans would have collaborators and informers offer to help people escape from occupied territory, gain their trust and learn valuable information from them before turning them in. Firestone hoped that his suspicions were completely unjustified and that their new friends were really what they appeared to be – brave loyal Norwegians who were doing their best to help in the battle against the common enemy.

The minutes passed. He woke Maurice Neil, who took over guard duty. Firestone took his place in the bed and slept like a rock.

Stretching and yawning, the crew left the boathouse a couple of hours later. They went down the stairs and across a small wooden ramp that was set just above the high tide mark. A path led from the bridge along the lake to the right a few yards, then left. Although it had stopped raining, heavy clouds hung over them. They saw a bigger building, more like a barracks. It had windows, and although the rowers had assured them that there was no one in the area, they bent low as they sneaked past the windows before continuing up into the woods.

It was a little after five in the morning and no one was in sight. They felt more confident. They found something that at least resembled a path. Half an hour later they were well into the forest and engulfed among the trees and foliage. They found a spot that they thought would be secure. They tied the tarpaulin to some spruce trees to make a lean-to and curled up under it.

The sky slowly lightened in the east, and between the trees they could see across to the island that the interpreter had mentioned.

The Canadians soon were startled by the sound of guns. The guns seemed quite close and sounded like heavy artillery. The nearby fortress had both anti-aircraft batteries and heavier guns, and the gunners had firing drills in the early morning. Their Wellington would have clearly been visible from the fort when it came inland from the sea, and they had to wonder why the batteries at the fort had not opened fire.

They filled the time with small talk, while studying the landscape around them as far as visibility allowed. It consisted of hills and mountains in the east, south and west, with long ridges of varying height. Now and then they took an energy pill, but hoped that the Norwegians would be able to bring them some food that night, as they had promised. After darkness fell, they sneaked back to the boathouse.