over the target area, the rope pulling the glider snapped. The glider pilot felt his plane descending. He couldnât see even a few feet in any direction, andâwith no enginesâhad no way to keep the plane in the air for long. The glider slammed into a snowy hillside. Eight men were killed instantly. Of the survivors, four had broken bones; the other five just minor injuries.
Two of the men who were able to walk made it to a nearby farmhouse and convinced the owner to call a doctor. The doctor agreed to come, but, before leaving, alerted the Gestapo of the crash. The Germans arrived to search the plane and crash site. They found weapons, snowshoes, Norwegian currency, radio transmitters, and a map with Vemork circled in blue ink.
The Germans loaded the four badly injured men into a truck. By the accepted rules of war, the British soldiers should have been treated as prisoners of war. Instead, the Germans poisoned them and dropped their bodies into the sea. The other five were taken to a concentration camp and interrogated by the Gestapo. They refused to give more than their name, rank, and service number. German soldiers blindfolded and handcuffed the prisoners and shot them in the head.
The second gliderâs story was similar. It lost its way in the fog and crash-landed, killing several of the crew. The Germans quickly found the wreck, questioned survivors, then shot them and dumped them in a ditch.
The next night Poulssonâs team got the news from London. âThe glider disaster was a hard blow,â he later said. âIt was sad and bitter.â
Thirty-four British soldiers were dead, and nothing had been accomplished. Worse than nothing, because now the Germans knew that the Allies considered Vemork a high-priority target. British intelligence soon learned that German commanders had assigned extra soldiers to guard Vemork, night and day. They had begun placing land mines around the plant.
Meanwhile, the plant continued pumping out heavy water, which was piped into barrels and shipped to Germany. This had to be stopped, no matter the risks. Colonel Wilson contacted the Norwegian volunteers who were still training in Scotland.
He told them: âStand by for a particularly dangerous enterprise.â
QUIET FELLOW
ONE AFTERNOON IN LATE 1942, a dark-haired woman in her mid-thirties rode a bicycle along a country lane near the English town of Banbury. She pulled to the side of the path, got off the bicycle, and leaned it against a tree.
She had not been waiting long when she saw a tall man in a suit approaching. He was about thirty, pale and thin, with glasses. The man and woman exchanged a few words and began walking arm in arm down the lane. âIt was pleasant just to have a conversation with so sensitive and intelligent a comrade and scientist,â the woman later said. âWe spoke of books, films, and current affairs.â
To any viewer, they looked like close friends out for a little stroll. Actually, it was the first time theyâd ever met.
After about half an hour, the man handed the woman an envelope. She climbed back on her bicycle and peddled toward her small cottage in the nearby town of Oxford, where she was known as âMrs. Brewer,â a refugee from Germany and mother of two.
In fact, her name was Ruth Werner, and she was a spy for the KGB. A German-born Communist trained in tradecraft in Moscow, Werner had spent the 1930s working as a Soviet secret agent in China and Switzerland. Sheâd been sent to Britain in 1941, charged with setting up a network of informants and sending useful intelligence to the Soviet Union.
It was illegal in wartime Britain for private citizens to use radio transmitters, so Werner smuggled in transmitter parts by hiding them in her childrenâs stuffed animals and assembled the machine at home. She asked her landlord if she could put an antenna on the roof. It looked just like a regular radio antenna. The landlord had no
Two of the men who were able to walk made it to a nearby farmhouse and convinced the owner to call a doctor. The doctor agreed to come, but, before leaving, alerted the Gestapo of the crash. The Germans arrived to search the plane and crash site. They found weapons, snowshoes, Norwegian currency, radio transmitters, and a map with Vemork circled in blue ink.
The Germans loaded the four badly injured men into a truck. By the accepted rules of war, the British soldiers should have been treated as prisoners of war. Instead, the Germans poisoned them and dropped their bodies into the sea. The other five were taken to a concentration camp and interrogated by the Gestapo. They refused to give more than their name, rank, and service number. German soldiers blindfolded and handcuffed the prisoners and shot them in the head.
The second gliderâs story was similar. It lost its way in the fog and crash-landed, killing several of the crew. The Germans quickly found the wreck, questioned survivors, then shot them and dumped them in a ditch.
The next night Poulssonâs team got the news from London. âThe glider disaster was a hard blow,â he later said. âIt was sad and bitter.â
Thirty-four British soldiers were dead, and nothing had been accomplished. Worse than nothing, because now the Germans knew that the Allies considered Vemork a high-priority target. British intelligence soon learned that German commanders had assigned extra soldiers to guard Vemork, night and day. They had begun placing land mines around the plant.
Meanwhile, the plant continued pumping out heavy water, which was piped into barrels and shipped to Germany. This had to be stopped, no matter the risks. Colonel Wilson contacted the Norwegian volunteers who were still training in Scotland.
He told them: âStand by for a particularly dangerous enterprise.â
QUIET FELLOW
ONE AFTERNOON IN LATE 1942, a dark-haired woman in her mid-thirties rode a bicycle along a country lane near the English town of Banbury. She pulled to the side of the path, got off the bicycle, and leaned it against a tree.
She had not been waiting long when she saw a tall man in a suit approaching. He was about thirty, pale and thin, with glasses. The man and woman exchanged a few words and began walking arm in arm down the lane. âIt was pleasant just to have a conversation with so sensitive and intelligent a comrade and scientist,â the woman later said. âWe spoke of books, films, and current affairs.â
To any viewer, they looked like close friends out for a little stroll. Actually, it was the first time theyâd ever met.
After about half an hour, the man handed the woman an envelope. She climbed back on her bicycle and peddled toward her small cottage in the nearby town of Oxford, where she was known as âMrs. Brewer,â a refugee from Germany and mother of two.
In fact, her name was Ruth Werner, and she was a spy for the KGB. A German-born Communist trained in tradecraft in Moscow, Werner had spent the 1930s working as a Soviet secret agent in China and Switzerland. Sheâd been sent to Britain in 1941, charged with setting up a network of informants and sending useful intelligence to the Soviet Union.
It was illegal in wartime Britain for private citizens to use radio transmitters, so Werner smuggled in transmitter parts by hiding them in her childrenâs stuffed animals and assembled the machine at home. She asked her landlord if she could put an antenna on the roof. It looked just like a regular radio antenna. The landlord had no
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