September 27-30, 1944 - The Search Continues
One day became two days and the Germans were no closer to finding the Canadians. Einar Evensen listened carefully to all the rumours that were going around and concluded that the secret of the Canadians' location remained safe – none of the rumours revealed any knowledge other than the fact that the Canadians had headed down the hill from the crash site.
Members of the resistance did not have to search hard to keep track of the Germans' search efforts. The Germans combed the countryside with troops and the seas with boats, but the search remained mostly around Søre Neset. Evensen was not overly religious, but when the Germans did not seem interested in either his home island of Bjørnarøy or Strøno, he began to wonder if Someone was taking care of things.
It was not just the local soldiers from Fortress Os who participated in the search. All available German manpower in the Bergen peninsula had been recruited for the search. At its peak, the search involved several thousand Germans.
During the daytime, Gordon Biddle and his crew managed as best they could. They spent long stretches of time out in the forest, but did not stray too far from the lean-to. They could not keep completely dry, because the tarpaulin was old and worn out. Despite this, their morale remained high. They watched the patrol boats nose their way around the small islands. They saw signal lights, but no boat showed any interest in the island they were on. They watched screaming seagulls that circled over the water and dove down to the surface to catch fish in their bills.
Jakobsen and Einar Evensen rowed out from Bjørnarøy that afternoon with some food that Pernille Evensen had prepared. There was a low cloud cover, but no rain. Kristian went with them down to the dock. He didn't ask about what his son and his friend were doing, just wished them a good trip. They rowed out from Bjørnarøy, past Vedholmen, and through the strait between Røttingen and Strøno.
As they neared Strøno, they started rowing in circles, with two trolling lines set. Now and then they glanced towards the boathouse where they had left the Canadians and to the hills beyond. They didn't see any signs of life, but knew the Canadians were there somewhere.
In the distance, they saw a patrol boat round Røttingen from the south and plow through the waves towards them. The patrol boat slowed, swung aound the rowboat, and then stopped a few fathoms away. A sailor looked down on the rowers from the deck of the patrol boat. The fish they had caught lay in a tub in the stern of the boat. Both the rowers gave a half-military salute as a friendly greeting. The sailor nodded back, and then said something to an officer who had stuck his head out through an open window on the bridge. The patrol boat sped back up and headed back out into the sound towards Vedholmen.
A half hour later, two small guard boats headed south on the east side of Strøno, both with a small cannon on the bow and smaller guns in the rear. They didn't pay any attention to the rowers, but maintained their speed and disappeared towards Bjørnafjord.
In the twilight, the rowers continued to catch pollack, and an hour later it finally got dark enough for them to venture onto Strøno. They moored the boat a few hundred yards from the boathouse. At the boathouse, they gave the pre-arranged signal – four knocks, a pause, then four more knocks – before they went inside. They climbed up the ladder, opened the hatch, and Jakobsen gave a quiet “Hello.” The Canadians had blown out the lamp, but now lit it again.
“Welcome,” said a relieved Gordon Biddle. The visitors did not stay long. They delivered lunch and a handful of cigarettes before returning to the rowboat and heading home.
The Norwegians talked about what they would do if the aircrew were arrested and taken for interrogation by the Gestapo. They knew the risk. For several years, nearby Ulven was a transit camp, with a constant stream of prisoners through it. Prisoners included the inhabitants of Televåg, the unfortunate town that was razed to the ground by order of Reichscommissioner Josef Terboven, and Norwegians caught trying to flee to England. After questioning and torture at Ulven, many were sent east by train and then shipped south to concentration camps on the continent.
The crew followed the routine of going up into the mountains before daybreak and then back down after it became dark. They drank water from dripping leaves and a small creek. Although they Norwegians had given them some food, it was not enough, so they continued to use the supplements from their emergency packs.
They had nothing to do but to make sure that they remained invisible to the world. The highlights of their days were the trips up and down the hills. They continued to hear the morning artillery practice and other artillery during the day. When they saw freighters passing through the fjord and the occasional passenger ship, they tried to guess the length of the boat and the speed they were making.
They squeezed together in their little shelter when it rained, and when the rain stopped they got up and stretched their legs. To avoid dwelling on their current perilous situation, they talked about other things. They had been given a small English-Norwegian dictionary and looked up words and phrases, wondered how the words were pronounced and what were those marks on the multisyllable words.
They told each other stories they knew about other flight-crews who had been forced to land in occupied territory. Some had been caught, but some crew members had made their made their often adventuresome way back to England. Now they themselves were behind enemy lines. They all agreed that they had to stay free as long as possible, even if the situation appeared helpless. Captain Biddle set an example by remaining positive about their chances. They were in the hands of knowledgeable local people, he emphasized, and they would find a solution.
Development on the various fronts of the war contributed to their attitude. Although they had had no news since the crash, they knew that the Soviets were advancing on Germany from the east in a line from Estonia in the north to Greece in the south, and that the Allies were advancing from the west. However, they know it would take many hard and long battles before Germany would be defeated. They had long since ceased to doubt who would win the war, but they all wanted to get safely back to England and a new Wellington. And of course they all wanted to take part in the final celebration.
It was not easy living so close together every hour of the day, especially under these trying conditions. If one of them stumbled in the dark when returning in the evening and made a noise, the others would tell him to be quiet. But in a moment, all was forgotten and they remained good friends.
One mid-day they watched a gunboat approach over the fjord and appear to turn directly towards them. They could see people on the bridge examining the area with binoculars. Biddle said that they would have to move further up into the woods, but as soon as he said it, the boat turned again, and headed slowly but steadily away. The next day, the same thing happened again.
Before going to bed at night, they talked about their home towns and wondered if they would every see Canada again. They kept their practice of having one man on guard at all times while the others slept. But no one got uninterrupted sleep. They would lay awake a long time listening for the sounds of someone approaching or of a patrol boat heading in towards the boathouse. Sometimes they heard the distant sounds of aircraft and the staccato sounds of anti-aircraft fire somewhere on the coast.
Regardless of what they did to pass time, the days seemed infinitely long. The temperature hovered a few degrees above freezing, and one rain shower did not stop before the next one started. They shivered and froze under the tarpaulin. As they did on the first day on the run, they sat close together to keep warm.
Although morale was good, they were not always sure about the food that was brought to them. Among other things, one of the Islanders one night brought some smoked and salted tuna that in war-time was a pure delicacy for fishermen and farmers on the Norwegian coast, but the Canadians were taken aback when they opened the package and saw what looked like raw fish, and their hosts lacked the language skills to explain. It was good nourishment, but the Canadians found it too hard and salty to be edible. Neil cut a slice of the tuna and greased his boots with it. Aviator boots were not designed for walking in the west Norwegian woods in the fall.
Transporting food supplies was risky. The rowers could be checked by the Germans at any time and could not carry more food than would be justified by a long fishing trip. Evensen and Jakobsen delivered food and drink, and sometimes a pinch of tobacco. While they rowed they berated themselves for never having taken the trouble to learn English. Communication in the boathouse involved pointing and mime, but they were able to make the Canadians understand that they were trying to establish radio contact with England. “Radio” and “sender” were words that all understood.
One night Norwegian-American Nils Røttingen arrived along with Magnus Røttingen, so communication was much improved. After a long and colourful discourse on what he thought of Adolf Hitler's invading army, Nils told the Canadians about all the rumours that were circulating about them, each one more imaginative than the next. A very religious woman was saying that the crew had been taken alive directly to heaven. A second and more down to earth rumour was that they had been picked up by a submarine. Even a German officer agreed that must be so, since they couldn't be found anywhere in the area. They had to smile, before becoming serious again. Nils Røttingen had much to tell, and gloated like a kid over the daily bombing raid on the Germans. The Canadians asked about the other boathouses in the area and the large building nearby. They were told that the Germans had used them up until a couple of months ago.
There was a change in the routine on Saturday, September 30, four days after the crash. A very tall Norwegian appeared with the Islanders, dressed in work pants, rubber boots, and a salt-stained cap. “Going well?” he asked in English, and introduced himself with a cover-name. Lange Johannes naturally became Long John. The name was familiar to the Canadians – Long John was the name of a Scotch whiskey brand. The men shook hands and introduced themselves, but the Norwegians all used cover-names.
“I have my look-outs around the area,” Long John informed them. He told them that the Germans were now combing the island that they were now on and that he had cycled past one column after another on the mainland. The airmen therefore needed to be moved to a safer location further east, and they had to leave tomorrow. Another boat-ride was obviously another risk, but it was one they would have to take because it would be far more dangerous to stay on the island.
Long John did not give any details about himself, but the Canadians realized that he had spent time in England. He talked familiarly about Trafalgar Square and Leicester Street as if he were a cockney. With his cap at an angle over his eyebrows, he had a commanding presence that radiated calm. The crew's spirits were raised by his presence.
He told them that he had seen them fly overhead on the morning of the crash, and they filled him in the details of their stormy flight, from the first sparks from the starboard engine, through the jettisoning of all unneeded equipment, to the landing on the hillside. They were still amazed that they had survived the landing relatively unscathed. They could thank this man, they said, pointing to their Captain, but Gordon Biddle did not want to hear any more talk about it.
Long John told them they had to shave their mustaches and beards before they set out the next day so that they would look like as much like local islanders as possible. “See you later”, he said as he saluted with a finger to his cap.
The barbering was a tedious affair, especially for Ken Graham and Maurice Neil, who were proud of their facial hair. The razor was pretty dull, and they had only cold water and no soap. It was something of a stretch to think that they would appear to be local young people, because people who spend their days fishing or farming didn't go around in air force uniforms. On the other hand, the uniforms were kept on in case they were caught in the hope that they would be treated as prisoners of war.
They did not know the fate of the seven crew members of MTB 345.
One day became two days and the Germans were no closer to finding the Canadians. Einar Evensen listened carefully to all the rumours that were going around and concluded that the secret of the Canadians' location remained safe – none of the rumours revealed any knowledge other than the fact that the Canadians had headed down the hill from the crash site.
Members of the resistance did not have to search hard to keep track of the Germans' search efforts. The Germans combed the countryside with troops and the seas with boats, but the search remained mostly around Søre Neset. Evensen was not overly religious, but when the Germans did not seem interested in either his home island of Bjørnarøy or Strøno, he began to wonder if Someone was taking care of things.
It was not just the local soldiers from Fortress Os who participated in the search. All available German manpower in the Bergen peninsula had been recruited for the search. At its peak, the search involved several thousand Germans.
During the daytime, Gordon Biddle and his crew managed as best they could. They spent long stretches of time out in the forest, but did not stray too far from the lean-to. They could not keep completely dry, because the tarpaulin was old and worn out. Despite this, their morale remained high. They watched the patrol boats nose their way around the small islands. They saw signal lights, but no boat showed any interest in the island they were on. They watched screaming seagulls that circled over the water and dove down to the surface to catch fish in their bills.
Jakobsen and Einar Evensen rowed out from Bjørnarøy that afternoon with some food that Pernille Evensen had prepared. There was a low cloud cover, but no rain. Kristian went with them down to the dock. He didn't ask about what his son and his friend were doing, just wished them a good trip. They rowed out from Bjørnarøy, past Vedholmen, and through the strait between Røttingen and Strøno.
As they neared Strøno, they started rowing in circles, with two trolling lines set. Now and then they glanced towards the boathouse where they had left the Canadians and to the hills beyond. They didn't see any signs of life, but knew the Canadians were there somewhere.
In the distance, they saw a patrol boat round Røttingen from the south and plow through the waves towards them. The patrol boat slowed, swung aound the rowboat, and then stopped a few fathoms away. A sailor looked down on the rowers from the deck of the patrol boat. The fish they had caught lay in a tub in the stern of the boat. Both the rowers gave a half-military salute as a friendly greeting. The sailor nodded back, and then said something to an officer who had stuck his head out through an open window on the bridge. The patrol boat sped back up and headed back out into the sound towards Vedholmen.
A half hour later, two small guard boats headed south on the east side of Strøno, both with a small cannon on the bow and smaller guns in the rear. They didn't pay any attention to the rowers, but maintained their speed and disappeared towards Bjørnafjord.
In the twilight, the rowers continued to catch pollack, and an hour later it finally got dark enough for them to venture onto Strøno. They moored the boat a few hundred yards from the boathouse. At the boathouse, they gave the pre-arranged signal – four knocks, a pause, then four more knocks – before they went inside. They climbed up the ladder, opened the hatch, and Jakobsen gave a quiet “Hello.” The Canadians had blown out the lamp, but now lit it again.
“Welcome,” said a relieved Gordon Biddle. The visitors did not stay long. They delivered lunch and a handful of cigarettes before returning to the rowboat and heading home.
The Norwegians talked about what they would do if the aircrew were arrested and taken for interrogation by the Gestapo. They knew the risk. For several years, nearby Ulven was a transit camp, with a constant stream of prisoners through it. Prisoners included the inhabitants of Televåg, the unfortunate town that was razed to the ground by order of Reichscommissioner Josef Terboven, and Norwegians caught trying to flee to England. After questioning and torture at Ulven, many were sent east by train and then shipped south to concentration camps on the continent.
The crew followed the routine of going up into the mountains before daybreak and then back down after it became dark. They drank water from dripping leaves and a small creek. Although they Norwegians had given them some food, it was not enough, so they continued to use the supplements from their emergency packs.
They had nothing to do but to make sure that they remained invisible to the world. The highlights of their days were the trips up and down the hills. They continued to hear the morning artillery practice and other artillery during the day. When they saw freighters passing through the fjord and the occasional passenger ship, they tried to guess the length of the boat and the speed they were making.
They squeezed together in their little shelter when it rained, and when the rain stopped they got up and stretched their legs. To avoid dwelling on their current perilous situation, they talked about other things. They had been given a small English-Norwegian dictionary and looked up words and phrases, wondered how the words were pronounced and what were those marks on the multisyllable words.
They told each other stories they knew about other flight-crews who had been forced to land in occupied territory. Some had been caught, but some crew members had made their made their often adventuresome way back to England. Now they themselves were behind enemy lines. They all agreed that they had to stay free as long as possible, even if the situation appeared helpless. Captain Biddle set an example by remaining positive about their chances. They were in the hands of knowledgeable local people, he emphasized, and they would find a solution.
Development on the various fronts of the war contributed to their attitude. Although they had had no news since the crash, they knew that the Soviets were advancing on Germany from the east in a line from Estonia in the north to Greece in the south, and that the Allies were advancing from the west. However, they know it would take many hard and long battles before Germany would be defeated. They had long since ceased to doubt who would win the war, but they all wanted to get safely back to England and a new Wellington. And of course they all wanted to take part in the final celebration.
It was not easy living so close together every hour of the day, especially under these trying conditions. If one of them stumbled in the dark when returning in the evening and made a noise, the others would tell him to be quiet. But in a moment, all was forgotten and they remained good friends.
One mid-day they watched a gunboat approach over the fjord and appear to turn directly towards them. They could see people on the bridge examining the area with binoculars. Biddle said that they would have to move further up into the woods, but as soon as he said it, the boat turned again, and headed slowly but steadily away. The next day, the same thing happened again.
Before going to bed at night, they talked about their home towns and wondered if they would every see Canada again. They kept their practice of having one man on guard at all times while the others slept. But no one got uninterrupted sleep. They would lay awake a long time listening for the sounds of someone approaching or of a patrol boat heading in towards the boathouse. Sometimes they heard the distant sounds of aircraft and the staccato sounds of anti-aircraft fire somewhere on the coast.
Regardless of what they did to pass time, the days seemed infinitely long. The temperature hovered a few degrees above freezing, and one rain shower did not stop before the next one started. They shivered and froze under the tarpaulin. As they did on the first day on the run, they sat close together to keep warm.
Although morale was good, they were not always sure about the food that was brought to them. Among other things, one of the Islanders one night brought some smoked and salted tuna that in war-time was a pure delicacy for fishermen and farmers on the Norwegian coast, but the Canadians were taken aback when they opened the package and saw what looked like raw fish, and their hosts lacked the language skills to explain. It was good nourishment, but the Canadians found it too hard and salty to be edible. Neil cut a slice of the tuna and greased his boots with it. Aviator boots were not designed for walking in the west Norwegian woods in the fall.
Transporting food supplies was risky. The rowers could be checked by the Germans at any time and could not carry more food than would be justified by a long fishing trip. Evensen and Jakobsen delivered food and drink, and sometimes a pinch of tobacco. While they rowed they berated themselves for never having taken the trouble to learn English. Communication in the boathouse involved pointing and mime, but they were able to make the Canadians understand that they were trying to establish radio contact with England. “Radio” and “sender” were words that all understood.
One night Norwegian-American Nils Røttingen arrived along with Magnus Røttingen, so communication was much improved. After a long and colourful discourse on what he thought of Adolf Hitler's invading army, Nils told the Canadians about all the rumours that were circulating about them, each one more imaginative than the next. A very religious woman was saying that the crew had been taken alive directly to heaven. A second and more down to earth rumour was that they had been picked up by a submarine. Even a German officer agreed that must be so, since they couldn't be found anywhere in the area. They had to smile, before becoming serious again. Nils Røttingen had much to tell, and gloated like a kid over the daily bombing raid on the Germans. The Canadians asked about the other boathouses in the area and the large building nearby. They were told that the Germans had used them up until a couple of months ago.
There was a change in the routine on Saturday, September 30, four days after the crash. A very tall Norwegian appeared with the Islanders, dressed in work pants, rubber boots, and a salt-stained cap. “Going well?” he asked in English, and introduced himself with a cover-name. Lange Johannes naturally became Long John. The name was familiar to the Canadians – Long John was the name of a Scotch whiskey brand. The men shook hands and introduced themselves, but the Norwegians all used cover-names.
“I have my look-outs around the area,” Long John informed them. He told them that the Germans were now combing the island that they were now on and that he had cycled past one column after another on the mainland. The airmen therefore needed to be moved to a safer location further east, and they had to leave tomorrow. Another boat-ride was obviously another risk, but it was one they would have to take because it would be far more dangerous to stay on the island.
Long John did not give any details about himself, but the Canadians realized that he had spent time in England. He talked familiarly about Trafalgar Square and Leicester Street as if he were a cockney. With his cap at an angle over his eyebrows, he had a commanding presence that radiated calm. The crew's spirits were raised by his presence.
He told them that he had seen them fly overhead on the morning of the crash, and they filled him in the details of their stormy flight, from the first sparks from the starboard engine, through the jettisoning of all unneeded equipment, to the landing on the hillside. They were still amazed that they had survived the landing relatively unscathed. They could thank this man, they said, pointing to their Captain, but Gordon Biddle did not want to hear any more talk about it.
Long John told them they had to shave their mustaches and beards before they set out the next day so that they would look like as much like local islanders as possible. “See you later”, he said as he saluted with a finger to his cap.
The barbering was a tedious affair, especially for Ken Graham and Maurice Neil, who were proud of their facial hair. The razor was pretty dull, and they had only cold water and no soap. It was something of a stretch to think that they would appear to be local young people, because people who spend their days fishing or farming didn't go around in air force uniforms. On the other hand, the uniforms were kept on in case they were caught in the hope that they would be treated as prisoners of war.
They did not know the fate of the seven crew members of MTB 345.