Majesty King Haakon, I welcome you to our headquarters. Captain Jens Iversen, at your service. I am in charge of security for the king.” His English was precise, clipped, like he was biting off each word as he said it.
“Thank you, Captain,” said Harding. “This is Lieutenant Boyle and Lieutenant Kazimierz. My assistant, Second Officer Daphne Seaton.”
“Pleased to meet you all,” responded Iversen, with a bow to Daphne and the barest trace of an accent twirled around his words, now that his canned speech was over. “My men will show you to your rooms, and then the king requests that you lunch with him at twelve. Baron, the king looks forward to meeting you. Now, you must excuse me. I have to prepare for the exercise tomorrow.” With a nod, he scurried off, evidently a very busy man. Or a very nervous one.
“You’re famous, Kaz. Kings await you.”
“Billy, the aristocracy of Europe is really a very small club. Those of us still free feel the weight of those left behind. It brings us closer together.”
“So tell me, what do I call him?”
“Your Majesty will do nicely,” Daphne chimed in. “Don’t they teach you these things in Boston?”
The enlisted men took Daphne’s and the major’s bags and led us up innumerable stairs, twists and turns and through corridors, until we reached our rooms on the fourth floor. I stashed my bag and we regrouped a few minutes later in Harding’s sitting room. It was a small, pleasant chamber, lace curtains framing the only window, a faint breeze of damp air moving them sluggishly. A couch took up one wall and two upholstered chairs faced it. Doilies and flower vases gave it a grandmotherly air.
“OK, here’s the drill,” Harding lectured, ticking points off on his fingers. “This lunch is a social affair. We make our manners with the king and his folks and keep the conversation light. The briefing on the invasion is set for tomorrow afternoon. For security reasons we are not mentioning the word invasion until then. Got it?” We got it.
“Boyle, I don’t think we made one thing clear about the German agent. The Norwegians don’t know about him. And we’re not going to tell them.”
“Yes, sir.” Old reliable.
There was a knock at the door. Daphne opened it and said, “Major Cosgrove! What a pleasant surprise” in such a way that I could tell it was a surprise and not really a pleasant one.
“Pleased to see you, too, Daphne, my dear.” An overweight, balding, frowning, and very dignified British major in full dress uniform entered the room. He walked stiffly, using a cane with his right hand. His large form was hidden behind a uniform that even I could tell was well tailored. His leather Sam Browne belt gleamed and his drooping mustache was waxed to perfection, the ends flipping up into little tips.
“Now look here, Harding, you should have informed me you were arriving a day early. Trying to get the king’s ear, eh? Who’s this young chap?” He spoke this last pointing his cane at me. I didn’t know what to expect next but somehow I had the presence of mind to get up and offer him my seat.
“I’m Lieutenant Boyle, sir. Please, sit down.”
“Hrrmmph.” He sat himself down and looked at me. His way of saying thanks, maybe.
“Major Charles Cosgrove,” Harding said to me, “represents the British Army chief of staff. He will be presenting Operation Jupiter with us to the Norwegians tomorrow.”
“Bloody awful idea, always has been. Too bad you Yanks talked Winnie into it. Now, Harding, what brings you here a day early?”
“Perhaps I should ask you how many days you’ve been here?”
“Just arrived myself, old boy. Some business with the commando chaps. They’re putting on a show tomorrow out on the heath with the Norwegian Brigade. Blowing things up, lots of fireworks, impress the locals, that sort of thing. Number Ten Commando, since it includes a Norwegian troop, will assault some positions with First Battalion from the
“Thank you, Captain,” said Harding. “This is Lieutenant Boyle and Lieutenant Kazimierz. My assistant, Second Officer Daphne Seaton.”
“Pleased to meet you all,” responded Iversen, with a bow to Daphne and the barest trace of an accent twirled around his words, now that his canned speech was over. “My men will show you to your rooms, and then the king requests that you lunch with him at twelve. Baron, the king looks forward to meeting you. Now, you must excuse me. I have to prepare for the exercise tomorrow.” With a nod, he scurried off, evidently a very busy man. Or a very nervous one.
“You’re famous, Kaz. Kings await you.”
“Billy, the aristocracy of Europe is really a very small club. Those of us still free feel the weight of those left behind. It brings us closer together.”
“So tell me, what do I call him?”
“Your Majesty will do nicely,” Daphne chimed in. “Don’t they teach you these things in Boston?”
The enlisted men took Daphne’s and the major’s bags and led us up innumerable stairs, twists and turns and through corridors, until we reached our rooms on the fourth floor. I stashed my bag and we regrouped a few minutes later in Harding’s sitting room. It was a small, pleasant chamber, lace curtains framing the only window, a faint breeze of damp air moving them sluggishly. A couch took up one wall and two upholstered chairs faced it. Doilies and flower vases gave it a grandmotherly air.
“OK, here’s the drill,” Harding lectured, ticking points off on his fingers. “This lunch is a social affair. We make our manners with the king and his folks and keep the conversation light. The briefing on the invasion is set for tomorrow afternoon. For security reasons we are not mentioning the word invasion until then. Got it?” We got it.
“Boyle, I don’t think we made one thing clear about the German agent. The Norwegians don’t know about him. And we’re not going to tell them.”
“Yes, sir.” Old reliable.
There was a knock at the door. Daphne opened it and said, “Major Cosgrove! What a pleasant surprise” in such a way that I could tell it was a surprise and not really a pleasant one.
“Pleased to see you, too, Daphne, my dear.” An overweight, balding, frowning, and very dignified British major in full dress uniform entered the room. He walked stiffly, using a cane with his right hand. His large form was hidden behind a uniform that even I could tell was well tailored. His leather Sam Browne belt gleamed and his drooping mustache was waxed to perfection, the ends flipping up into little tips.
“Now look here, Harding, you should have informed me you were arriving a day early. Trying to get the king’s ear, eh? Who’s this young chap?” He spoke this last pointing his cane at me. I didn’t know what to expect next but somehow I had the presence of mind to get up and offer him my seat.
“I’m Lieutenant Boyle, sir. Please, sit down.”
“Hrrmmph.” He sat himself down and looked at me. His way of saying thanks, maybe.
“Major Charles Cosgrove,” Harding said to me, “represents the British Army chief of staff. He will be presenting Operation Jupiter with us to the Norwegians tomorrow.”
“Bloody awful idea, always has been. Too bad you Yanks talked Winnie into it. Now, Harding, what brings you here a day early?”
“Perhaps I should ask you how many days you’ve been here?”
“Just arrived myself, old boy. Some business with the commando chaps. They’re putting on a show tomorrow out on the heath with the Norwegian Brigade. Blowing things up, lots of fireworks, impress the locals, that sort of thing. Number Ten Commando, since it includes a Norwegian troop, will assault some positions with First Battalion from the
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