Medallion

By Richard Whitten Barnes

In April 1940 Nazi Germany makes a surprise attack on the major ports and airfields of Norway for control of the North Sea and the precious ore deposits of northern Sweden.

The attack is a stunning success, except for the Capitol city. The defense of Oslo stalls the Germans for 24 hours--enough time for the Royal Family, members of the cabinet, and the entire treasury to escape, ultimately to England.

Subsequently, Nazi aggression overruns most of Europe, looting its treasuries and treasures.

Karin Hansen, a young American fresh from a summer of barnstorming and air shows in her uncle's biplane, has joined the British Air Transport Auxiliary--a civilian service organized to free up pilots for the war effort.

She advances from single-engine trainers to sophisticated warplanes, delivering them from factories to strategic RAF airfields.

By chance, her path crosses with that of Arne Solberg, a young Norwegian commando in the employ of the Royal Family-in-exile, who has been charged with rescuing one of Norway's most cherished treasures from being stolen back to Nazi Germany.

MEDALLION is the story of two young lovers, and the treachery of occupied Norway. A story you won't forget.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Wings ePress, Inc.
• Release date: Apr 4, 2023
• ISBN: 9781613093313

Book preview

One

April 1940

England

Karin Hansen woke, aroused by the change of the motors’ pulsing drone. She peered out the window of the C-47 transport at the brown and green patchwork of southern Scotland. The past two weeks of travel had been a hell she could never have anticipated when her military transit request to Britain had been approved.

The copilot poked his head around the corner of the cockpit and shouted over the noise of the Dakota’s twin engines. Fifteen minutes to Ringway! Buckle up!

The dozen passengers fumbled with their gear and found their belts. They were an eclectic collection of mostly military men—officers and ranks of various services. Karin was the only woman—girl, really. She’d recently celebrated her twentieth birthday on a frozen January day at her family farm in northern Iowa. She pulled the webbed strap tight over her lap. The motion served to underscore the finality that what she had set out to do last November was really happening.

The plane landed on the newly paved runway with a soft bump, and taxied to an area where considerable construction was in progress. The passengers, weary and stiff from the five-hour flight from Reykjavik, tumbled out onto the sunny tarmac. Karin followed the others inside to the reception, and discovered she hadn’t a clue about what to do next. All she knew was that she was somewhere in northern England.

You look to be at sixes and sevens. An older officer she’d seen near the front of the plane gave her a fatherly smile.

I’m...I’ve been nominated for training. It’s somewhere called Hatfield.

Oh dear! You’re some ways off, I’m afraid. Come on, I have a lift to Manchester. I’ll get you sorted on a train.

Hatfield Ferry Pool

Hertfordshire England

Be safe then, dearie, the taxi driver said, after the hassle of gaining access through the guard gate, and before speeding off into the moonless night.

Karin watched for a moment before turning to head for a modest building little more than a hut, bearing a simple painted sign barely visible in the darkness: Air Transport Auxiliary, Women’s Branch.

She lugged the suitcase her mother had helped pack, up the few steps to the door and inside where an empty desk glowed under an overhead lamp.

Hello?

Nothing.

Hello? This time louder.

A toilet flushed somewhere in the darkened hallway beyond. Right with you! came a female voice. A woman of about thirty, dressed in dungarees, emerged.

Wouldn’t you know! All night, and the minute I go to the loo... She was a flaming red-head, lips in bright scarlet. Now then, who might you be, love?

Karin gave her name, and proffered the letter of introduction she had been given.

A Yank! Or Canadian, maybe?

Two words and you can tell?

The red-head laughed, continued to study the letter until seeing the signature. Blimey! She stared at Karin with new eyes.

How long have you been traveling, dear?

Karin gave the short version of her torturous trip from Decorah, Iowa, to Boston, to Newfoundland, to Greenland, to Iceland, to Manchester, and on, leaving out the missed connections, cramped accommodations on slow steamers, and endless waiting.

Well, there’s a cot in here you can use for tonight.

Karin wouldn’t remember her head hitting the pillow.

SHE WAS NUDGED AWAKE. Her eyes popped open to an unfamiliar face staring down. Short brown hair framed the attractive, but serious face of a youngish woman in a smart, blue uniform.

There’s still toast and tea left in the canteen. The WC is down the hall. Get yourself together, and be in my office by oh-eight hundred.

Karin processed this for a moment. The face continued to hover over her; one not much older than herself, possibly thirty. The inflection of her speech a lot like the British Royalty in the newsreels. And you are...?

The woman’s lips drew back into a smile. "I could be your commanding officer if you’re as good as that letter says you are. Oh eight hundred! Don’t be late."

She was gone before Karin got her name. She rolled out of the cot to spot a wall clock ticking away. 7:35. She’d have to hurry.

By the time she’d gotten back into her wrinkled travel clothes, visited the lavatory, and got directions to the canteen in the next building, it was close to eight. Just finishing her meal was the red-head from last night, and Karin sat next to her with the tea she’d poured for herself.

Thanks for the use of your cot, she said.

Not to worry. I’m Jan, by the way; Janet Towles. I’m headed home. She began to clear her place.

O...ah, Jan. The commander—where is her office? I’m supposed to be there right now.

Jan directed her, then glanced at her watch. Word of advice: Don’t be late. She’s fair, but a stickler for details.

A VARNISHED WOODEN plaque with the engraved name, P. GOWER, Commander Women’s Branch, identified the office. Karin was met in the outer office by a middle-aged civilian woman.

Hansen? she inquired, then without waiting for a reply, handed Karin a clipboard holding a multi-page document. Fill this out, please. The commander will see you in thirty minutes.

It turned out to be an exhaustive questionnaire, not only about her flying qualifications, but her education, family, language skills, even political preferences. It was a security vetting. She barely finished adding her signature affirming the truth of her statements before being escorted into the inner office.

Karin took a seat, and waited while Gower perused the questionnaire. Long minutes passed. Once again, Karin was surprised at Gower’s youthful, attractive appearance.

It says here you’ve been flying for five years. Even so, that’s a lot of hours you claim to have clocked. You have your flight log?

Yes, uh...Miss... Karin stumbled at the formality while fumbling for the log. I—my uncle and I did a lot of air shows. He’d feature me: the ‘Teenage Stunt Flyer.’

I read about your uncle... flew in the last war. Gower read on. Night navigation as well?

Uncle Pete insisted. We traveled a lot last summer... overnight trips to shows around the states. Every weekend for three months.

What did your family think about all this?

Not thrilled.

"Yet, here you are, just turned twenty, in a war in a foreign country. How thrilled are they about that?"

Karin’s tacit reply was the thin line of a smile.

So tell me: how is it you have this letter from the great Jaquelin Cochran?

"I met her when I was in Chicago with my uncle last summer. She’d just won the Bendix race from Los Angeles to Cleveland the year before. Uncle Pete knew her, and somehow convinced her to meet me. He’d read she’d be in Chicago to accept an award. She’s been my idol for a long time. When England declared war last fall, I wrote her. She had talked about starting a women’s flying service in the U.S.

"She wrote me back right away, but said it would be at least a year, if ever, for something like that to get organized. Then I heard about the ATA allowing women to join the men. That letter means a lot to me, but I couldn’t have made it here without her influence in arranging my transportation."

More long moments passed as Gower continued reading.

I see you have some college.

Two years at Luther College in my home town. They only recently started accepting women. It was a challenge.

You like challenges, do you? Gower read some more. Your uncle owned a Stearman?

A Model 75. He retired from the Army in 1930 and bought it new in thirty-five. The Model 75 was relatively new, with up-to-date instrumentation. Karin supposed Gower knew all that.

What do you know about the Air Transport Auxiliary? the commander asked.

Only what Jackie—Miss Cochran told me: You are an organization that allows civilian flyers to free up military pilots for combat.

We are the Women’s Branch. There are more men; mostly those deemed unable to fly in combat for one reason or another. So far, there are fewer than twenty of us, counting me. I want to discourage you from thinking this is a flying club. It’s hard work, mostly unappreciated. If you come aboard, your life will be rigorous. There are a lot of doubters about our abilities. You would be held to a higher standard than the men.

It was a speech Karin assumed had been said before, but she took it to heart. I’m ready, Miss...

This is a civilian organization, Hansen, but we follow military protocol. You address your superiors as ‘sir’ or ‘ma’am.’ For today, have my assistant get you sorted out with flying gear. I’ll meet you on the flight line at thirteen hundred. The Tiger Moth’s not much different than a Stearman. Let’s see what you’ve got; then we’ll take it from there.

THE MUSTARD-YELLOW de Havilland DH-82A Tiger Moth two-seater approached the runway in a cross-wind, and straightened at the last second for a three point to bounce gently home. Karin taxied the biplane back to the hangar area, and cut the engine exactly where the blocks had been pulled from the wheels a half hour earlier.

The two women deplaned, and walked together to the office, shouldering their parachutes. Karin waited for some comment from her superior, but there was none, save a terse, Find somewhere to stay for tonight. See me in the morning, and we’ll see how you might fit in.

KARIN RETURNED TO THE hut to find three women, two in uniform, one in a flight suit. There were two or three other women in the area. They were pleasant enough, but preoccupied with each other, and going about their business.

Jan walked in, dressed smartly in her uniform. How did your day go, Hansen?

Karin told her how Gower took her up in the Moth to two thousand feet, and without warning, cut the power.

Ha! Standard practice for her! What did you do?

I instinctively pushed the stick forward to regain airspeed, and started the engine.

And she gave you hell.

Karin blinked at Jan’s prescience. Yes! She said she hadn’t given me permission to take over.

Don’t fret. At least you didn’t panic. That’s what she was looking for. Then, what?

Karin told her of going through a rigorous series of maneuvers, the most difficult being a recovery from a full stall. The Moth reacts a little faster than the Stearman, but it was all good. I thought I did well, but got no reaction from her.

The stripe of an officer was displayed at the shoulders of Jan’s uniform. Take it as a compliment if she didn’t give you a lecture.

You look nice, Karin said. Off somewhere?

Don’t you know it, ducks! London, to meet my Charlie.

London! Karin visualized herself in that famous metropolis. Is it near here?

Jan laughed. Fancy it, do you? Well, if I’m right, it will be a while before you have the chance. If it went like you said this afternoon, Pauline will have you booked for a mess of training.

Karin recalled the P in front of Commander Gower’s name. That’s what you call her?

Not to her face, dearie. Jan lifted a soft overnight bag from the floor. Here’s the key to my room in the yellow house across from the main gate. You can stay there ‘till you find a place of your own. I’m gone. Hold the place together for me, ducks. And off she went.

Two

April 1940

Heavy Cruiser Lützow

Oberleutnant Horst von Prohn covered his nose and mouth, but the stench was the least of his misery. The cramped cabin reeked of vomit that fat-assed Kleinschmidt kept retching in the bunk below. The ship, wallowing in the sea abeam, was making its way up the western coast of Denmark towards Oslo. His discomfort was temporary. His situation was not.

Only weeks earlier, things had been different. He was destined for a glorious career. A good student, he had gained enrolment in the Potsdam Kriegsschule, graduating last year with a commission and additional training at Kriegsakademie and the Artillerie Truppen Schule in Berlin.

Excitement was rife among the newly-commissioned officers. Rumors of an impending attack on Belgium and France sounded real. This was Horst’s chance to regain the military pride of the von Prohn family.

Horst was a third-generation Wehrmacht officer. His grandfather had been in both Prussian wars against France and Austria respectively. But his father had commanded a company that had been overrun by the Russians just prior to the Central Powers signing a truce to end the hostilities on the Eastern Front. It was humiliating for the man.

While the family never had strong political attitudes, and was not affiliated with the Nazi Party, Horst believed the war was a boon, his chance to honor his father’s service in the Great War. With a group of a dozen other young lieutenants, he had been sent to Hamburg for assignment as a platoon leader and inevitable combat. Already, some of his classmates were engaged in the Polish campaign. Excited talk was all about a push into France through Belgium.

When they arrived in Hamburg, assignments were made for all except Horst. By some bureaucratic fluke, his orders had been lost. It was a week of waiting around the transient barracks before new orders were cut: his assignment to the staff of Gauleiter Josef Terboven of Essen. It was a terrible shock. A civilian posting!

A gauleiter, literally Territory Leader, was the Nazi Party equivalent of a governor, directly appointed by the Führer. Terboven, a mild appearing bespectacled man, was a committed National Socialist, his roots going back as far as the Munich Beer Hall Putsch in 1923. He was well known as a ruthless tyrant.

Horst was sent to Essen for orientation, where it was revealed he would be part of an operation named Weserübung, the occupation of Norway, slated for the night of April 8. It was not good news to be sent to a neutral country hundreds of miles away from the glories of Germany’s war. He was given a promotion to Oberleutnant, or First Lieutenant, not for merit but because Terboven wanted nothing lower in rank serving under his immediate command.

Horst heard Kleinschmidt moan and stumble out, presumably to the head. The ship seemed to settle down a bit. He finally fell asleep thinking about his classmates gaining glory in a war he was unlikely to see from remote Norway.

SOMETHING WOKE HIM. Possibly a change in the sound of the ship’s engine, or urgent voices in the passageway. He retrieved his shoes from the net strung along the bulkhead, slid down past the sleeping Kleinschmidt, and stepped out of the cabin. A sailor rushed past him and up the ladder to the deck. Horst followed.

He must have missed a call to stations, because the crew was in place manning armament of various types. He made his way forward, noticing the relative calm of the sea. They must be in the Oslofjord. It wouldn’t be long now. The time was just past midnight. They were due in Oslo, per the briefing, by dawn.

What’s happening? he asked a machine gunner who was peering into the darkness.

We just missed being blown to heaven by a torpedo is what I heard.

Horst looked at the frigid blackness of the water and shuddered. He had no desire to go for a swim tonight.

Where are we? he asked.

He was answered by a blinding light followed by a waterspout and the report of a large gun from nearby. The light was quickly extinguished.

The nervous gunner fired into the dark at nothing in particular, getting a remonstration from a superior for his efforts. More shots from shore this time, but the Lützow continued up the fjord at speed, unscathed.

That was the outer defense, Horst heard another say.

Ahead, he could make out the stern of another ship. Either the Blücher or the Emden, he thought, one of the two other large warships loaded with storm troops and equipment for Group Five.

There were six groups like this, all set to attack the major ports of Norway at the same time in concert with the Luftwaffe’s attack on the airfields, and with paratroop landings at strategic locations. The Norwegians were expected to offer little or no opposition.

IT WAS STILL DARK SOMETIME after 0400 when floodlights illuminated Blücher just a half kilometer ahead. At once, explosions appeared on her port side. She’d been hit high in her superstructure. The big cruiser returned fire, but took several more hits, lighting up the night. Horst heard Lützow’s engines rev, and the ship shuddered to a halt.

More explosions on Blücher, and Horst made for the ladder and below, but not before an explosion rocked the ship. He looked back to see the forward gun turret wrenched at an awkward angle, smoke billowing from the hit.

Two more hits—one of them turned out to be below deck somewhere. There was smoke and panic below, but he dared not return on deck while under fire.

By the time he and a terrified Kleinschmidt ventured topside, it was daylight. The ship was moving under its own power. The light cruiser Emden was off their starboard side, apparently undamaged. The Blücher was nowhere to be seen. They were traveling south, back down the fiord!

Kleinschmidt spotted Gauleiter Terboven at the rail toward the stern. He doesn’t look worried.

He never frowns or smiles, Herman, Horst said.

You think he knows what’s going on?

Let’s ask him.

Not me!

Horst knew Kleinschmidt was terrified of Terboven, despite having gotten on the gauleiter’s staff through a family connection.

"Alright, I’ll do it." Horst made his way down the rail to the man with a military cut of blond hair, peering through his spectacles at rocky shoreline that plummeted down into the deep inlet.

"Good morning, Reichskommissar, he said, using the man’s new title. Heil Hitler!" He made the requisite salute.

Terboven turned his attention away from the passing shore. Prohn. What is it? He returned a perfunctory salute.

"Are we retreating, Reichskommissar?"

Retreating! Never. We change plans, only. The troops will off-load soon, and march to Oslo.

Horst knew the Lützow carried several hundred troops, as did the other two cruisers. "I don’t see the Blücher, Reichskommissar."

Too many questions, Prohn. Get your gear ready to disembark. We did not come this far to return without our mission accomplished.

TERBOVEN WAS RIGHT. They unloaded the Lützow’s and Emden’s complements of troops at the small port of Son, about forty-five kilometers south of Oslo. The occupation administration team followed behind the march to the capitol in commandeered trucks and automobiles.

It was on that trip that Horst learned the Blücher, with nearly one thousand crew and soldiers aboard had capsized and sank rapidly, taking almost all to the bottom of the icy Oslofjord.

THE MARCH TO OSLO WAS frustratingly slow. The advance was halted at every side road and village while patrols were sent ahead to secure the area. They arrived at the capitol almost a day late. There was no resistance when the troops