Yes, We Love This Land: A Novel of World War Ii

Chapter One 

Dawn broke as ever before that ninth of April, 1940, with a light mist rising above the pristine waters of beautiful Oslo Fiord. Boats bobbed in peaceful accord with gentle waves lapping the shore. The peace-loving people of the Kingdom of Norway went about their business virtually oblivious to the conflict pitting Nazi Germany against France and Great Britain, never imagining they’d be anything more than mere spectators. But this would be a day like none other in the country’s long and mostly uneventful history.

Bernhard Wagner applied shaving cream to his whiskered face, listening through the half-open window to his teenaged sons’ lighthearted banter. The boys were preparing for a day of cross-country skiing north of their quaint little town of Sande, about an hour’s drive from Oslo. It was spring break, and the boys had been planning this trip for weeks. Bernhard recalled his own youthful exuberance when he’d be up long before sunrise for an adventurous day in the high country.

He lifted his razor but stopped mid-stroke to peer into the dimly lit bedroom, where an aged radio squealed with horror, proclaiming Nazi Germany’s surprise invasion of Norway.

His wife, Klara, stared back from beneath a mound of covers. It can’t be, Bernhard. It just can’t be!

The blackguards! growled the suddenly wide eyed Bernhard, slamming his razor into the murky water basin before hurtling a corner of the bed to crank the volume as King Haakon addressed the nation.

His Majesty’s voice was strained and mournful. This morning, Nazi Germany declared war on our blessed country and has bombed many of our coastal towns. German troops have landed on our shores.

Dieter! wailed Klara, bringing quivering hands to her face as she thought of her eldest son manning a coastal battery near Oslo.

Bernhard drew her to his side but never once took his eyes off the radio, as though he might lose the very signal. Ssh, Klara, listen. Dieter will be fine.

King Haakon went on, I ask that the Norwegian people rally to the defense of our beloved kingdom and resist the enemy with every means available. We’ll unite with the English and French to cast the invaders from our shores.

But as Bernhard considered the impassioned plea, he knew that resisting the mighty German war machine was like spitting into a very strong wind. During frequent business trips to his native Germany, he had witnessed the incredible buildup of that nation’s armed forces and knew his adopted country was doomed. He recalled the French and English looking on like spectators as the Nazis squashed Poland, leaving a sinister trail of death and devastation. Yes, this conflict would be over long before the puny Norwegian army and its halfhearted allies could organize, and all that mattered to Bernhard Wagner was that his precious family be spared the fallout.

I must tell the boys, Klara. They’ll soon be packed and heading for the mountains. Bernhard wrapped his wife in a consoling embrace and pecked at her forehead before donning his wool sweater and pants. Forcing a brave face, he said, Everything will be just fine, my dear. You’ll see.

As Bernhard bounded for the back door to apprize Erich and Paul of the German invasion, nineteen-year-old Heidi, the Wagners’ only daughter, ambled into the hallway from her bedroom. What is it, Mama? What’s all the excitement?

Oh, Heidi, it’s awful news, Klara declared, rising unsteadily to embrace her daughter. The Nazis have attacked us, and Dieter is in the very thick of it.

Heidi replied, We are at war? But why? What have we done?

Klara sobbed. That Hitler is a madman. There’s no reason to anything he does.

Bernard and his sons burst into the house. We heard airplanes, probably German, exclaimed the father. We must be on guard. The Nazis bombed Polish civilians without pity. Get dressed, we’ll head for the shelter immediately.

With hearts pounding and minds reeling from the calamitous events breaking upon them, the Wagner family hurled themselves into the hazy half-light of the April morn.

Paul, at sixteen, two years younger than Erich, glanced over his shoulder to observe the faded silhouette of a warplane approaching from the south. Father, look! A plane! he shouted, pointing excitedly into the ashen dawn. The youngster had to admit that at that moment, he felt an all-encompassing thrill running the full length of his spine—far from the horror gripping his family—an adrenalin rush he couldn’t comprehend yet wouldn’t have missed for the world.

Everybody in the car, now! Bernhard bellowed.

Maybe it’s one of ours, screamed Erich, halting to shield his eyes from the sun’s now blinding rays.

Bernhard knew a Stuka dive bomber when he saw one, having been a guest at the prodigious Berlin Air Show the previous summer. It’s German, I tell you. Now get in!

Bernhard turned over the cold, unready engine, rammed the gearshift into reverse, and whispered a prayer as they lumbered down the driveway and then due north along the frost-jacketed avenue, toward Sande’s emergency shelter.

Paul scanned the horizon for German planes, as though he were taking in the grandest spectacle known to man. He was much too fascinated to comprehend the terror that made the others recoil in their seats. He gazed through the rear window as the Stuka leveled off a half-kilometer behind them, preparing to unleash its lethal bullets and bombs. Paul wanted to cry out, but his breath caught in his throat. His eyes were fixed on the cockpit as the war bird descended on them like an eagle falling on its prey. A deafening discharge of machine gun fire echoed aloft, smashing into defenseless structures ahead and causing a shuddering disquiet within the Wagner automobile.

The family looked on in horror as the bomb was released, the detonation shattering the cold, still air as bits and pieces of buildings and trees and earth rocketed skyward.

Sick with grief, Klara bowed her head in her hands, slumping toward her husband at the wheel. Why, Bernhard? Why?

Bernhard put his trembling arm around her and drove on into the heart of town, straight toward the wreckage, which was a mere half block from the bomb shelter. He came to a sudden stop. Paul, take the wheel. You must see your mother and sister to safety in the shelter. He motioned toward the devastation. Erich, come with me.

It was right then that whatever glory, whatever exhilaration, whatever fascination sixteen-year-old Paul Wagner had for this spectacle forever faded, as his star-struck focus fell upon a sight so hideous, so revolting, so nauseating that he could not bear a second look: medical personnel attending to the remains of a very young girl which lay outside the smoldering ruins of the post office. Paul’s eyes shifted to the floor of the idling automobile, shock gripping him like a vice. His breakfast was halfway up his throat. Forever gone now was the precious innocence of his youth.

Paul! shouted his father. Snap out of it, son! You must come take the wheel immediately! We are in grave danger here.

Paul leapt from the back seat and into the front. Was it not a quarter of an hour ago that his deepest concern in the whole world was a bit of a nasty north wind threatening to spoil their day of skiing in the high country? He jarred the gearshift and pressed on to the shelter, now the scene of great confusion as the dazed and terrorized inhabitants of this sleepy little borough clamored for sanctuary from the German bombers.

Slamming to a halt outside the structure, the family raced to the entry, looking back at the devastation inflicted by the Stuka. Klara stopped short to look for her beloved spouse and son, but they were nowhere in sight.

The stairway leading to the underground refuge was cold and clammy, dark and slippery. People milled about in extreme agitation, some weeping, some shouting, some downright hysterical. Paul felt an anger within as he considered his people in such anguish. To his right, he beheld a bloodied young man being carried down the stairs by three others, one the town physician.

Suddenly, the shelter convulsed from another nearby explosion, releasing a suffocating cloud of dust from the walls and ceiling. Paul’s mind was on his father and brother, who were risking their lives to serve others. Without hesitation, he lunged for the stairs, forsaking his mother’s cry. He simply had to help, no matter the outcome.

Paul burst out into the smoke-filled street past an avalanche of refuge-seekers, straining for a glimpse of his loved ones. He spied Erich lifting an elderly woman upon an improvised stretcher—a wooden door blown off one of the local shops. Racing to grasp one end of the door, Paul felt a surge of fulfillment—he was now able to help out rather than hide away like some child in the bunker.

Where’s Dad, Erich?

I lost sight of him back at the post office. We can go back for him once we’ve seen this one to safety.

As they approached the shelter door, Erich called to Klaus Steinhauer, his uncle and father’s boss at the shipyards, racing by with his eldest son, Peter. Uncle Klaus, could you and Peter take this woman to the shelter so we can go back and look for Dad?

Look for your dad? Where the devil is he? asked Steinhauer.

He’s back in the rubble searching for survivors, Paul said. Please, Uncle.

Steinhauer placed two fingers on the woman’s throat to confirm his suspicions, the gray seal of death having settled upon her like a cold, ashen cloud. Well, it looks like you shouldn’t have bothered with dear old Mrs. Lundgren here. But we’ll take her on downstairs anyway.

For the second time this dreadful day, Paul experienced pain and hollowness like he’d never known as he gazed into the glassy eyes of the departed Mrs. Lundgren, a widow and the church organist for as long as he could remember. As the Steinhauers assumed the burden of seeing her downstairs, the Wagner brothers gaped at one another as though they had witnessed the greatest atrocity in human history.

In the next eye blink they were sprinting headlong down the shattered street to risk their very lives to assist anyone in need. The boys heard the whine of the enemy aircraft and looked skyward. A third Stuka was falling out of the sky to deliver another helping of death and destruction to the defenseless little town. The explosion, a mere half-block away, sent them scurrying for cover as shell fragments whistled overhead.

On they went shouting for their father, hurdling over a crumpled wall of Lille-ham’s Grocery Store, over two more innocents covered with groundsheets. The boys caught sight of their father; he was kneeling to clear bricks and rubble from a car blasted half through the town library’s front entry.

Bernhard turned to meet his sons’ look of relief and to shield them from the grisly spectacle within the demolished automobile. There’s nothing we can do for them, boys. Where are your mother and sister?

Back at the shelter, safe and sound, Paul declared with a certain tone of accomplishment. He glanced skyward. Is it over, Dad?

I certainly hope so. I’ll head to the shelter by way of the park. You boys go back the way you came. Keep an eye out for anyone in need.

Erich seized his father’s arm. Papa, what about Dieter?

What about him, son? What do you want me to say? That there’s no chance he could get hurt? That the Nazis treat military personnel with more humanity than civilians? Bernhard took firm hold of Erich’s shoulders. We must be strong and hope for the best. I haven’t stopped praying for your brother since this thing started, and I won’t stop till I’ve heard his voice on the phone telling me he’s all right.

Chapter Two 

Dieter Wagner lay motionless amid the rubble of the command bunker. The explosion—Dieter guessed a satchel charge—had blown a huge hole in the south wall. He looked up to see a trio ofNazi storm troopers, machine guns blazing like bolts of lightning. A comrade to his right collapsed awkwardly, while another jumped up with hands held high. A short burst kicked him off his feet.

Knowing his only chance lay in a fighting withdrawal, Dieter leapt to his feet and embraced his semiautomatic. One invader squealed and fell to his knees. Another responded a half-second too late as Dieter unloaded, bullets smashing into his chest, propelling him into a shell-shattered wall. The third intruder lay dead at the feet of Norwegian Sergeant Gregor Dahl, a blood-spattered trenching tool encased in the man’s skull.

One man and then another from Dieter’s fragmented unit surfaced as Dahl shouted the command to follow him out into the hailstorm of lead and high explosives punishing the once quiet coastal defenses that surrounded the Norwegian capital. Dieter and four other shell-shocked survivors—exactly half the number that began the day dealing out death and dismemberment to the oncoming Nazis—ran forward in compliance, low to the ground as the first rays of golden sunlight struck their faces. A gigantic blast sent them to their bellies, but Dahl spurred them on.

Smoke drifted over the scarred battlefield, cluttered with building debris, overturned vehicles, and the occasional heap of disfigured flesh, reminding Dieter of a painting from the Great War at Oslo’s public library, depicting English infantrymen storming a German trench. He stumbled over a pole and saw at his feet a torn flag of his adopted country.

Sergeant Dahl had unyielding command of Dieter’s mind, but fear governed his heart—a fear he could never have known in his twenty years. Life took on a whole new meaning—so precious as to defy description. How he longed to survive this day!

On they scrambled to regroup and join more of their kind. The man next to Dieter tumbled to the ground and shrieked in agony, clutching his bloodied right thigh. Braving the lead, Dieter backtracked and shouted to a companion for assistance. Each grabbed an arm of the wounded man.

An explosion ahead sent Dahl and two others to the ground as great clumps of earth took to the air. Two of the men would not move again, but the bloodied sergeant struggled to his feet to lead the three survivors to safety.

Dieter’s heart was out of control; sweat ran like rainwater as he labored beneath the unwieldy burden of the injured man, whose anguished howling threatened to rupture Dieter’s left eardrum. Behind him, German troops surged forth, intermittently discharging their weapons. Ahead, he observed the flash of machinegun and small-arms fire, a Norwegian rear guard offering resistance. Caught in a murderous crossfire with forty meters to cover, they’d surely perish.

But with bullets tearing at the earth about them, all four plunged to the sanctuary of a communications trench gallantly manned by a full company of Norwegian militia. A medic relieved Dieter of his burden as the onrushing Germans faded into cover but continued a steady barrage of small-arms fire.

Sergeant Dahl, barked a man bearing captain’s bars on his sleeve, are any of the fortifications holding out?

Gasping for breath, Dahl saluted and wiped blood from his left cheek. Not that I know of, sir. Ours was the last offering opposition.

The captain nodded. They’ll be on us in strength in no time. Listen, Dahl, we’ve been ordered to hold here to allow our main force to escape and regroup inland. You’re now my second in command; the rest have been blown to hell. I’ve got a hundred and fifty men spread thin as toilet paper from here to the beach. This is the only route the Germans can take. We must hold them for awhile.

Yes, sir.

If something happens to me, you’re in command. Understood?

Yes, sir. They’ll not pass here.

Oh, they’ll pass all right. It’s just a question of when. But the more time we can buy our guys to get out and reorganize, the better. The British and French have promised support.

I understand, Captain.

Good. Now take half a dozen men and go anchor the line at the base of the hill. I’ll mind this stretch to the beach. Clear?

Dahl saluted. Clear, sir.

Go.

Dahl turned, pointed to Dieter and five others, and led them at the gallop along the narrow trench toward the rise overlooking the expected killing ground. Dieter glanced right to observe the faded outline of German troops scurrying into position for the coming assault.

Suddenly it seemed the earth would open and swallow them whole as the German artillery and naval guns let loose. A dozen explosions ripped open the trenches and tore huge holes in the lines. Men howled in agony as the explosives rained down. Round after round fell among the dazed defenders, slaughtering and maiming.

The German thrust began as Dieter and the others settled into their positions at the far end of the line. Dozens of gray-shirted men bounded from their concealments to storm the Norwegian position. The man next to Dieter tossed his weapon and fled like a scalded cat. Another followed suit. Others burrowed deeply into their entrenchments, like badgers. Only one—the incomparable Sergeant Dahl—seemed to have any stomach for the fight.

Dieter found himself in a fearful dilemma. Should he run? Should he cower away and await the opportunity to surrender? Surely the battle was lost. What good would it do to relinquish his life for such a hopeless cause? But as he considered Sergeant Dahl bravely blazing away at the oncoming horde, he felt an irresistible urge to rise up and give account of himself. For king and country? For personal honor? Whatever, he had to join the fight.

Steadying his rifle on the lip of the trench, Dieter began firing at the German infantry. To his surprise, one invader and then another stiffened and fell clumsily at the recoil of his weapon. He became a man possessed, pausing only to insert a fresh clip. If only his war-loving little brother, Paul, could see him now!

The Germans repaid with a murderous volley but failed to hit their mark. Glancing over his shoulder, Dieter saw that only he and Sergeant Dahl appeared to be carrying the fight. Dozens of comrades were in full retreat, outstripped only by the captain, who had given the order to stand fast and fight.

Suddenly Sergeant Dahl let out a dull moan and slid down the trench, clutching his bloodied chest. Instinctively, Dieter dropped his weapon as though he’d been struck himself and knelt at his side.

Leave me, Wagner ... I’m done for ... Get out while you ... still have a chance.

I won’t leave you here, Dieter answered. Just lie still.

The will to fight left Dieter as quickly as it had come upon him. With his charismatic commander groaning in the dust, he knew it was time to look for a way out. Tearing the shirt from his back, he removed his undershirt and tied it to his rifle stock, waved it furiously, and called out his surrender in impeccable German.

At once, all firing ceased, and Dieter slowly raised his other arm and climbed uncertainly from his trench. He gazed out at the enemy advancing in a slow, steady walk and then pointed to his sergeant lying at the base of the entrenchment. Injured man. We are in need of a medic, he said.

A German lieutenant strode toward him, a Luger in his hand and a triumphant smile upon his face.

Dieter’s pounding heart filled with hope. These were honorable people—by birth his own people. They’d accept his surrender. They’d do no harm to an unarmed man.

A pistol cracked. Dieter wavered a moment before collapsing to his knees and tumbling to the depths of the trench. His mind instantly filled