“I’ll do it.”
Fletcher took a step back and rubbed his hand over his mouth. Then he sighed. “You’d report on the scene again, but honestly it’s what you do best. No live broadcasts, mind you. You’d send your recordings and ring me with your notes. I will not have another Morris-Little affair.”
Hugh raised both hands, splayed wide. “I’ll never do that again, sir.”
With his mouth set hard, Fletcher stared him down. “I’m still looking for a new man.”
“I know.” Hugh shoved out the words.
Fletcher darted behind his desk and flipped through papers. “In the meantime, we need to send you to Scapa Flow tonight.”
“The naval base? Tonight?”
“Go home.” Fletcher jerked his head to the side. “Pack a bag with your warmest clothes—that’s all I can tell you—then go to Croydon Airfield. I’ll arrange your flight. Then I’ll ring our office in Aberdeen. They’ve already sent a light mobile recording unit to Scapa Flow for this—this event. You’ll find out the details when you land. Now, go.”
“Yes, sir. Thank you.” Hugh bolted out the door and down the corridor.
He had a chance to breathe life into his career, and he’d grab it.
SVOLVÆR, LOFOTENISLANDS, NORWAY
TUESDAY, MARCH4, 1941
Freezing Arctic air invigorated Hugh as the landing craft plowed through calm waters toward shore.
Norway! What a thrill to report on the first large-scale Allied commando raid. Hugh tightened the scarf around his neck, thankful he’d packed his thickest jumper and his wellies.
His landing craft, the last to shore, carried Hugh, a photographer and crew from the Crown Film Unit, and two BBC engineers with the components of the light mobile recording unit.
The craft streamed past fishing boats, and the Norwegian fishermen cheered. Hugh waved back. Nazi Germany had occupied Norway for almost a year, but this morning five hundred British commandos and fifty-two Norwegian soldiers were raiding the Lofoten Islands, home of fish oil factories vital to the German war industry as a source of glycerin for explosives.
Hugh had barely arrived in time to participate. His military plane had flown from Croydon Airfield to RAF Grimsetter in the Orkney Islands, a car had sped him to the naval base at Scapa Flow, and a motor launch had shuttled him to the transport HMSQueen Emmaonly minutes before the midnight departure of the fleet.
The next few days at sea, Hugh had been briefed on the raid—and what he was allowed and not allowed to broadcast. He’d taken careful note.
Under clear and sunny skies, the Lofoten Islands jutted from the sea, craggy black rock draped thick with snow. Seagulls swooped overhead as if rejoicing to see the Allies tweak their noses at Herr Hitler.
The only gunfire Hugh had heard came from British vessels sinking German cargo ships. Apparently no German troops had opposed the commandos.
The landing craft scraped up onto the rocky shore. Sailors lowered the bow ramp, which splashed in a few inches of water.
Hugh helped the BBC engineers carry the recording machine, amplifier, power supply unit, batteries, microphone, and cables ashore and to a level spot on the wooden wharf.
Then he turned to Lieutenant Andrews, the Army officer assigned to him. “Whilst they set up the equipment, would you care to chaperone me around town?”
Thank goodness Andrews had a sense of humor, and the lieutenant swept his arm in a grand gesture toward the fishing village. “After you.”
Hugh tramped down a snowy street between wood-frame buildings of red, white, and green. British commandos in helmets and earth-brown battledress strolled past grinning civilians. Soldiers with Tommy guns guarded a larger building, and other soldiers escorted out two scowling men in long black leather SS coats.
Hugh would interview neither prisoners nor civilians. After the commandos left, German troops would return, and any Norwegians heard on the BBC would be in grave danger.
His foot slipped in the snow, and he caught himself against a bright red wall.
Around the corner, a road led back down to the harbor. At the end of the road, an explosion ripped out, and a factory shattered into a flurry of matchsticks and dust.
Commandos cheered, and Hugh smiled. After so many British defeats and setbacks, how good to see a victory.
On a loudspeaker, a man made an announcement in Norwegian. Lieutenant Andrews tipped his freckled face toward the sound. “We’re inviting Norwegians to come to Britain with us and fight for the Allied cause.”
