“I hope our transports are large enough.” Hugh resumed walking, selecting images and impressions that would best convey the raid to his listeners.
At a large official-looking building, civilians cheered as men hauled down the Nazi swastika flag and hoisted the red Norwegian flag with its blue-and-white cross.
More frowning men were escorted out at gunpoint, four well-dressed, middle-aged civilians. The men at the flagpole spat at the prisoners, shouting, “Quisling!”
Quislings—Norwegian traitors who collaborated with the Germans. Hugh edged out of their way, not even honoring them with a glance.
“Have you seen enough, Mr. Collingwood?” Andrews asked.
“I have. The engineers should be ready now.”
They turned back for the wharf. Ahead of them rose three giant oil tanks.
With three mighty booms, the tanks exploded. Whorls of black smoke and orange flame billowed from the tops of the tanks, then flowed in a roaring river of fire down atop the ocean.
Hugh’s breath snagged on memories of the Blitz, of Aleida handing him her gas mask, her green-blue eyes glittering in the firelight, as she protected his life and saved his story.
He grunted and charged forward. She wanted him to forget her, and he’d do his best to obey her wish.
A few dozen commandos rolled barrels of fish oil down the wharf, hacked them open with axes, and shoved them into the sea.
Off to the side, the BBC engineers beckoned. “We’re ready.”
“Thank you.” Hugh took his microphone. When the engineers gave him the thumbs-up, he launched into his introduction.
“This is Hugh Collingwood reporting from high above the Arctic Circle in the Lofoten Islands of Norway. Behind me, you may hear the crackle and roar of flames—flames consuming thousands of gallons of fish oil, never to be used by Hitler’s war machine.”
As he described the details of the raid, the commandos stopped dumping barrels and gathered around Hugh. After Andrews agreed, Hugh interviewed the men. Their excitement and pride would make for an engaging broadcast.
The engineers signaled Hugh. The four-minute recording disc was full, and they needed to start a new one. Whilst they changed discs, Hugh chatted with the commandos.
“Wait till me wife hears me talking to Hugh Collingwood.” A strapping young commando elbowed his mate.
If only Hugh could bottle the bubbling praise and carry it around with him, drink it when his parents badgered and Fletcher ranted and Aleida turned her back on him.
Hugh’s mouth dried out with thirst. He could never drink enough. It would satisfy only briefly. Then the thirst for approval would return, drying out his soul.
“Drink fromthe Living Water.”Hugh could almost hear his tutor George Baldwin’s voice in his head. Drink. And he’d never thirst again.
Hugh gave his head a light shake. He had only to learn how to do so.
These men’s grinning faces would turn to the next amusement the BBC offered, whetherIt’s That Man AgainorHi, Gang!His parents would approve only if he acted as they wanted. And Aleida’s affection had evaporated the instant he’d questioned her plan.
Such praise, such approval was ephemeral, and he mustn’t live for it.
Lieutenant Andrews shepherded the commandos back to their work.
From the town, a stream of men and women approached, smiling and talking and carrying bags. Norwegian patriots, leaving their homeland to fight abroad.
Hugh’s heart swelled as sailors helped them crowd into a landing craft.
Escaping from under the German jackboot to freedom.
His breath froze in the icy air. As much as he and his friends complained about restrictions, they were at least free to complain. Those restrictions existed to protect the public, not to enslave them.
But someone in England wanted greater restriction, greater censorship. Someone willing to kill twice to do so.
In that man’s eyes, Jouveau and Uncle Elliott had committed a capital offense, because careless words killed.
