NARVIK 1940
"The Town with the Gun"
by Konrad Sundlo – February 1955
(Edited and somewhat abridged by Harald Sundlo, October 2000)
(English version shortened by Claude Code - please use Norwgian version for completeness)
Introduction
Narvik was neither a fortress nor a fortified position.
The Eidsivating Military Court of Appeal stated in its judgement of 13 May 1947 — a judgement subsequently upheld by the Supreme Court on 5 October 1948:
"The court is unanimously of the opinion that the town of Narvik was not a fortress or a fortified place, even though there were a number of more or less permanently prepared positions within the town area; 2 blockhouses and trench positions with garrisons. Narvik must be regarded as an open town, and the surrender must be regarded as having taken place in open terrain."
Before the 9th of April
I. "Fortress Narvik"
Narvik lies in inner Ofoten, on the westernmost tip of the peninsula between Rombakken to the north and Beisfjord to the south, and encompasses the entire point. The town area is bounded to the north, west, and south by the sea, and to the east by a wild range of mountains that extends eastward from Fagernes Mountain (1,270 m), at the town's eastern edge, all the way to the Swedish border.
The town is approximately 2 km from west to east, somewhat less from north to south.
First impressions are said to be decisive, and my first impression of Narvik and its people was absolutely excellent. When my wife and I came in along the fjord in the summer of 1933 to settle in Narvik, Ofoten lay in the most glorious sunshine. And as if this were not welcome enough, the widely celebrated aviatrix Gidsken Jakobsen had seen fit to take a turn in the air on precisely that day. High overhead she came thundering towards us, gazing down with what one interpreted as benign condescension upon the wretched creatures crawling along in a coastal steamer.
At the quay we were met by the regiment's second-in-command, my old friend Major Olav Five, with his wife. Outside the regimental office the entire remaining staff had fallen in, and so the reception of the new regimental commander was conducted with every formality.
The following day we went out to look at the town, and the contrast with Tromsø — where I had lived for the previous three years as a garrison major — was striking. Narvik is a young town, only about fifty years old, planned and built as a shipping port for the mighty Kiruna-Luossavaara company, whereas the other towns of northern Norway have grown up as best they could from their origins as boathouses at the water's edge. In Tromsø, in my time, there were centuries-old sheds along the main street. One sees no such thing in Narvik. Regarded as a town, Narvik is a clear first among the towns of the northern regions of our country.
And then there were the people: also first.
One thing that struck me on my very first walk through Narvik was that the girls were so pretty and the men so well-made. I had seen plenty of handsome and well-built people in Tromsø and the other towns of northern Norway, but there the type was so uneven. There one found giants of six or seven feet and small Lapp types who waddled about on bent and crooked matchstick legs; fine girls of Norwegian type and Mongolian-featured children with round heads and slant eyes. The people of Tromsø and further north were so mixed. Narvik was something quite different.
As commanding officer of Infantry Regiment No. 15 "North Hålogaland," I was also commander of the defences of inner Ofoten — that is to say, the area from and including Liland to the Swedish border. This was a great deal to get to know, but I managed in the years I was in Narvik to get around to all of it.
One of the first things I looked for was whether there were any fortifications in the area. Narvik was a major shipping port. It was said that nowhere in the world was there a saltwater harbour that shipped more ore than Narvik — the only port with greater traffic being a freshwater port, a shipping point on the great lakes in the USA.
Since Narvik was such a significant economic factor, I had every reason to expect that busy fortress-builders had been at work in inner Ofoten. And indeed they had — in the landscape east of Narvik, near Sildvik railway station, where there were said to be a couple of forts facing Sweden. I resolved to inspect them as soon as I had settled in, and one day in the summer of 1933 I said to my regimental quartermaster, Captain Østvik: "There are supposed to be some forts near Sildvik. What's the situation with them? Is the regiment responsible for them, or how does it stand?"
"Everything at Sildvik is under the Fortress Artillery, which has appointed a garrisoning quartermaster out there," said Østvik.
"We must go and pay our respects," I said. "I think we'll set off tomorrow."
And we did.
Some weeks earlier, Major Five and I had been on a journey along the border, and when we came home by way of Sildvik we had passed the so-called forts. But we had not been able to enter them, not having brought the keys.
This time I would get in, for I brought the regimental quartermaster, who was a man who had keys. Moreover, in the few weeks I had been commander of the defences, I had discovered that Captain Østvik was the man who knew everything. Colonels, majors, and adjutants came and went, departing for milder climes after short stays in northern Norway, but Captain Østvik and the two quartermasters, Lieutenants Blix and Storjord, did not change. They were the solid and steadfast material that maintained continuity between the regiment's past and its present.
And so I took Captain Østvik with me and arrived at Sildvik railway station, where we greeted Station Master Grenersen. There was some conversation, keys were found, and half an hour later we stood in the Northern Fort, which lies a few hundred metres east of Sildvik station, quite close to the railway line.
The fort did indeed face Sweden. Since it lay low in relation to the "enemy" positions, it had been provided with a "shell-proof" roof. We found ourselves a stick and poked at the roof. We poked holes in the roof.
If Captain Østvik had been the lancet type, his remarks would have been apposite, if not perhaps polished. Instead he said simply: "This doesn't look good, Colonel. If cows or horses get up on the roof, they'll go straight through and create considerable liability for the state. Something absolutely must be done here."
We then went to the Southern Fort.
It lay an hour's walk further up the mountain, high up near Sildvikvatnet, and it was cold up there. This fort was supposed to be the stronger of the two, having been designed to house a cannon that could fire across the lake.
But the cannon was not there.
"Where is the cannon, Captain Østvik?"
"It arrives at mobilisation."
"And how do we get it up here, without a road?"
"The intention is to erect struts and build a cableway. The colonel may have noticed that there were quite a few steel cables in the Northern Fort?"
"A cableway! Do you believe it's possible to haul a cannon up here by cableway with untrained men? In the course of a few weeks one might perhaps manage it, but in a few days, and perhaps in the middle of winter? What do you think, Captain Østvik? Do you think it can be done?"
"God only knows!" said Captain Østvik.
When we stood saying our farewells to Grenersen, an idea occurred to us: might we not make use of him? Grenersen walked past the forts every single week, as it was his job, for meteorological purposes, to take certain measurements near Sildvikvatnet. He was a former non-commissioned officer, a man of orderly habits and sound character, and so we said: "Now listen here, Grenersen. You live right next door to these forts and these buildings and depots. Can't you help us? Can't you take a stroll around them once a week and check that the forts are still there — that no one has stolen them? If you can do that, we'll give you a small remuneration, and we shall save the state the considerable expense of a garrisoning quartermaster."
Grenersen was quite willing.
And so on returning to Narvik, I sat down at my desk and sent a letter to the division — whose commander at the time was Major General Harald Johannessen — proposing that the Sildvik fortifications be taken from the Fortress Artillery and placed under the regiment. The Fortress Artillery had demonstrated in practice that it was not the right administrator, whereas the regiment would put its shoulder to the wheel and sort things out. If the regiment could be given access to the funds that the Fortress Artillery had had at its disposal, there would soon be a proper fortress.
The division agreed.
But the Ministry — which some have called "The Troll" — naturally had to show who was in charge. The Sildvik fortifications were indeed transferred to the regiment, but it received nothing like the funds that the Fortress Artillery had enjoyed — in particular not the considerable sum saved by the disappearance of the garrisoning quartermaster. It would have been reasonable for the regiment to have been able to make use of that sum also, at least for a time, until the worst deficiencies had been remedied. But no. Not a word of it.
No matter. I made do without — for I had Captain Østvik, and he was given a free hand.
And the infantryman, the quartermaster, and the "non-combatant" Captain Østvik did what the specialist Fortress Artillery had not done: he rebuilt the Sildvik forts to a serviceable condition. The Northern Fort received a solid roof that could bear both cows and horses. Both forts were cleaned up, and when the war came, there was a driveable road up to the Northern Fort — a road we had intended to extend all the way to the Southern Fort, to which we would eventually have to convey the unknown cannon that was to arrive from somewhere upon mobilisation.
There was, however, one thing we could not put right, and that was the positioning of the fortifications. They still faced east, running virtually across the railway line with the northern flank supported by the fjord. This was wrong. The fortifications should have been built in galleries on the north side of Rombaksboten, with their front facing west and protecting the inner fjord against attack from the sea. But that would have required an entirely fresh fortification project of considerable cost — and the state of the national finances, and the political will, made such expenditure impossible to contemplate.
When I had finished my study of the Sildvik fortifications, I began to look for the fortifications that were supposed to defend Narvik against attack from the west — from the sea. But I could not find a single one. There were none. The world's largest ore shipping port lay entirely open to attack from the sea.
II. The Military Significance of the Narvik Position
With the growing influence that war industry output has come to exercise, one may say with some confidence that Narvik's military significance has steadily increased. The ore shipped from Narvik will in any circumstances play such a role that one must — to a greater extent than previously — reckon with the likelihood that one power group will seek to obtain the ore, while the opposing group will seek to prevent this. Narvik will thus be drawn into any European conflict, whether Norway is a party to that conflict or not.
Whatever importance one attaches to certain visits that had recently been made to the area, it must be clear to all that our country, in a given situation, might be compelled to defend Narvik's neutrality. And for the performance of this task, one stood in practical terms without means. As matters now stand, Narvik could be attacked without any possibility of resistance.
The town might be attacked by:
- aerial bombardment, or
- from the sea.
An attack from the east could — at first — only come from Sweden and may be considered rather unlikely.
As regards (1): Narvik has no air defence. At mobilisation, an air defence for Elvegårdsmoen is to be established, consisting of six Colt machine-guns with the barest minimum of crew. But for Narvik there is nothing. I put this matter to the division, in writing, on several occasions.
As regards (2): The Ramsund naval installation has been placed in reserve. The approach to Narvik is thus open from the sea. None of the regiment's officers has had an opportunity to inspect this installation, but among civilians one hears various expressions of astonishment that it does not provide more effective security.
Since my confidence in the authorities' will to defend was only middling — and that is being generous — I sent the following proposal to the division on 29 October 1936:
"Regarding Narvik's air defence... it might perhaps be advisable to make the Ore Company interested in Narvik obtaining a modern air defence. It is, after all, primarily the Ore Company's expensive installations that would be the target of an aerial bombardment..."
Some may recoil at reading this. I am proposing that the Swedish Ore Company be persuaded to pay for military air defence for a Norwegian town — a proposal that amounts to a scandal and a declaration of bankruptcy for a free and independent Norway. But the situation was frankly desperate. I thought it was a matter of finding means where one could, but the proposal was not taken up. Nothing was done.
Since neither coastal batteries nor air defence materialised, I continued to write to the division, including this letter of 17 March 1937:
"Neutrality Defence for the Ofoten Position and Narvik — Introductory remarks: During a European war, the forced ore export taking place from Narvik will undoubtedly be one of the factors to which attention will be directed, and given the enormous significance of this raw material for war industry, one can readily imagine that one party will seek to obtain it while the other seeks to prevent its export. Narvik will thus necessarily be drawn into the conflict, irrespective of whether Norway is a belligerent..."
I went on to set out the requirements for neutrality defence in detail — coastal artillery, mine barriers, air defence — and what it would cost to provide them. None of it was provided.
III. The Dismantling that Made 1940 Possible
As will be seen, I had stated in plain terms that Narvik could not be defended with the means at my disposal. That the Germans could occupy the town so easily on the 9th of April 1940 therefore came as no surprise to me — though it certainly came as a surprise to the Norwegian nation, which had believed in its political leaders' assurances that peace was assured and that defence expenditure was unnecessary.
The Labour Party's disarmament programme, as it worked for through many years, read as follows: the National Service Act of 19 July 1910, with subsequent amendments, to be repealed; all fortification works to be closed; all materiel for army and navy freed by disarmament to be transferred to other public purposes; the savings thus effected to be used for social purposes.
This programme was pursued with diligence. The backbone of the army — several thousand permanent NCOs — was eliminated. Likewise the permanent officer corps was reduced. Officers were ultimately paid to apply for discharge. In the seven years I was regimental commander in Narvik, I never once saw my regiment. It was never called in for exercises. When I later told German officers this during the occupation, they stared at me in astonishment: "Never in for exercises? Is that possible?"
Major Alf Mjøen, chairman of the military committee, wrote on 16 August 1945:
"In the four years from 1933 to 1937, the Storting sabotaged the very foundation of the new army reorganisation — namely obtaining exercises. Although the army reorganisation had been adopted by the Storting in 1933, 60-day recruit schools were maintained for 2 years, then 72-day schools for 2 years, and only in the fifth year were 84-day recruit schools introduced..."
Nygaardsvold was an honourable man. He believed that disarmament would bring peace to his country, and can be criticised only for misjudgement. The bourgeois parties, who believed that the country's defence must be strengthened but nevertheless allowed it to decay, were in a more difficult position. They held the majority in the Storting in all those years, and did nothing.
With this equipment, with this mentality, Norway met the war in 1940. It went badly. Terribly badly. It was a pure scandal. And then, when the smoke had cleared, things went as they usually do after military defeats: the officers were blamed. They had been incompetent, cowardly, treasonous, insufficiently energetic — everything that politicians need them to have been in order that the politicians themselves need not examine their own consciences.
IV. The Seaward Front
There is something called the Ramsund fortifications. Ramsund is a sound that runs from the outer Ofotfjord northward to the coastal route past Harstad. The fortifications were designed to block traffic on the coastal route — but not to prevent an enemy from forcing entry through the Ofotfjord to Narvik.
On 8 April 1940, the Ramsund naval depot had a guard force of two men. The three 15 cm guns that were to have been mounted at the southern entrance to Ramsund to block the Ofotfjord had, in March 1940, been sent to Bergen.
Ramsund was not under me as commander of the defences of inner Ofoten — it lay too far to the west. I nevertheless considered it correct to investigate the state of the fortifications more closely, and so I visited them in the autumn of 1939. What I found was consistent with the general picture.
In a letter dated 26 November 1952, the War Historical Department of the General Staff wrote to me about these fortifications, confirming: that two 10.3 cm older guns on the north side of Tjeldøya existed; that the three 15 cm guns intended to guard the southern entrance had been sent to Bergen in March 1940; and that Ramsund was therefore incapable of preventing the German fleet from entering the Ofotfjord.
The division had proposed the establishment of a battery to defend the Ofotfjord, and the Inspector General and the commander of Coastal Artillery set out the plan in a letter of 15 March 1940 to the Commander of the Navy. The proposal was for a battery of three 12 cm guns — but the letter concluded: "If the state authorities find..." The deep pessimism in those words, born of experience, speaks for itself. The Admiral was fully aware that a government hostile to defence would not build any battery in the Ofoten. Nor was one built.
V. The Narvik Garrison
As a commander without a fortress, I sat in Narvik and pondered how best to use the troop strength the division would place at my disposal upon mobilisation: one infantry battalion and one gun of calibre 7.5 cm. I knew what a battalion was in those days — not much. But I also knew what a 7.5 cm gun was: a fine thing, capable of inflicting serious damage on an attacker, provided the attacker was considerate enough to arrive without fleet support.
The gun stood as it should, well greased and in good order, mounted on a railway flatcar fitted with steel walls about a metre high that could be raised and lowered to provide some cover for the gun crew. It also had a small shield.
We admired it greatly.
It was placed on a railway car so that it could be quickly transported down to Narvik. It stood in a shed, from which a short length of track ran to the main line. One day, however, Chief Engineer Vik of the railway came by and said: "Look here, Colonel. This spur is an obstacle to operations. I need it removed." And removed it was. From that point on, one would have needed to carry the gun to the main line — perhaps not an insuperable difficulty, but an additional one.
In any effective defence system there is something called the backbone, and in Narvik the 7.5 cm gun was the backbone. What a backbone. With it, the commander was expected to repel all hostile attacks. If a fleet came into the fjord with hostile intent, the commander was expected to open fire. If enemy troops attempted to land, the commander was to prevent it. With one gun on a railway car.
But Narvik was the town with the gun. The only one, the incomparable one. And so when I was compelled to surrender the town on the 9th of April, a howl went up across the country: "What? Were you not supposed to defend the town? Was that not your order?" It availed nothing what I said. Ten German destroyers had come in, and two Norwegian armoured ships, the Norge and the Eidsvoll, had been torpedoed and sunk. I had one gun.
In my years as regimental commander I had three different divisional commanders. The first was Major General Harald Johannessen: a man without a single drop of civilian blood in his veins. One could therefore be certain of having a superior who would listen to arguments about military matters and who understood what one was talking about. He was a first-class divisional commander and we got on excellently.
After General Johannessen came Major General Carl Erichsen: one of the few Norwegian officers who took a public stand in the defence debate and argued for the armed forces in both speech and writing. A divisional commander who knew that he would achieve more through sympathetic co-operation with his subordinates than by imposing his will by force. Also excellent.
After General Erichsen came, in the spring of 1939, Major General Carl Fleischer: a highly capable man, but inflexible in his relations with subordinates. My impression is that he found it difficult to change a position once formed, even when a subordinate had demonstrated ever so clearly that the divisional commander was mistaken. A good officer in many respects, but not an easy man to serve under.
In the summer of 1933, when I arrived in Narvik, ore shipments were not particularly large — rarely more than four or five ore steamers in the harbour at once. But it grew. By the summer of 1939 the harbour was crowded with ships from every nation, their guns now mounted and aimed at the sky. I counted the British ships alone on one occasion and estimated that their combined crews amounted to roughly a thousand men, carrying twenty or thirty guns. One wondered, not unreasonably, at the contrast between this assembly of armed foreign shipping and the military preparations for the defence of the port itself.
German, British, and French representatives visited me officially in Narvik. One summer's day, probably in 1939, the "big men" from Germany arrived: directors of this and that, and the tallest of them — a man of two metres or more — confided in me that he was a historian by training. He seemed to find me interesting. I found it somewhat more difficult to find him interesting.
The British vice-consul, the Norwegian Aagaard, was a personal friend of mine. In the autumn of 1939, both the British and German vice-consulates in Narvik were taken over by specially sent individuals from their respective countries. Neither the British Empire nor the Third Reich could entrust these posts to foreigners. So important was Narvik.
The German vice-consul Wussow introduced himself and told me he had come from Manchuria. The British replacement was an authentic Englishman. Both presented their credentials with due formality. I received them with due formality.
One summer, I believe in 1935, I received a letter from my friend Editor Jacobsen in Moss, informing me that a German writer named Vitalis Pantenburg wished to visit Elvegårdsmoen. Permission was given by the appropriate authority in Oslo. Pantenburg came, was shown around, and departed. Later, under the legal proceedings against me, this episode was raised as evidence that I had co-operated with German spies. The Commander-in-Chief investigated the matter and found that the regulations governing foreign visits to exercise grounds had been complied with; his letter of 19 November 1937, signed by Birger Ljungberg, stated explicitly that the regulations had not been breached. This did not prevent the legend from persisting.
I also became acquainted with Colonel Hahr, commanding officer of Swedish Infantry Regiment No. 19 in Boden. We had got to know each other through correspondence — he had suggested that neighbouring regimental commanders ought to know each other better, and I had agreed. The great event in our acquaintance was Colonel Hahr's success in getting the Narvik officers to participate in a shooting competition in Kiruna. We Norwegian officers were, it must be said, not natural pistol champions, and the Swedish hosts were extremely gracious about this. Two grand dinners at the Ore Company's expense, good company, and a tolerably dignified performance in the field — all perfectly innocent. In due course this entirely normal neighbourly contact became, in certain circles, evidence that I had been in regular contact with German officers who came to Elvegårdsmoen to study our secret weapons. One observes, without excessive surprise, that the capacity of certain of one's countrymen for creative history is not easily exhausted.
VI. The Storm Clouds Gather – We Prepare
When the world war had become an established fact, certain security measures were taken in this country. The defence was strengthened. Thus the backbone of Narvik's defences was stiffened in the autumn of 1939 by the provision of two additional guns. Two whole guns, in addition to the one I already had. About these last two guns, it may be mentioned that an artillery officer came from Harstad one day and announced that he was to conduct a test-firing of the cannon — all three of them. Nothing stingy here. The entire artillery park was transported and placed in position near Sildvik railway station, where it fired at the mountain on the other side of Rombaksboten. The people of Narvik, who are fond of fresh air and wide travel, discovered in due course that two "field guns" had appeared above the town and hurried to inspect them. Coming back down, they were indignant: "Field guns! Good God! They're nothing but rubbish!" And so they were. Before much time had passed, two of the three guns were sent away to other fronts. I was not provided with any better guns in their place.
Just after the New Year of 1940, other troops also arrived in Narvik: a machine-cannon battery (anti-aircraft battery) of four guns, calibre 3 cm. This battery caused a sensation in the town. "Guns that fire straight up into the air? We've never seen that before," people said. Nor had I, for that matter.
It goes without saying that finding accommodation in a small town for all these military units was not easy. More difficult still were the approximately 120 horses of the Trøndelag battalion — where on earth was one to put them? In the end they were stabled in the Ore Company's machine hall, which was kind of the company.
On the 13th of January 1940, Infantry Battalion I/IR 13 arrived at Narvik. I was at the harbour to receive them. These were the men from my "home regiment" — the regiment that recruited soldiers from my father's home district of Skogn near Levanger, and which I had served with for fifteen years as lieutenant and captain. And now as colonel I was greeting them. These were fine men from inner Trøndelag, Fosen, and Namdal.
The battalion also had some formidable competition in the form of its horses — Narvik had never seen so many fine animals at one time. Major Spjeldnes, the battalion commander, had his right arm in a sling. "When we were in mobilisation at Steinkjer, I slipped on ice and broke it," he explained in response to my enquiry. "But it doesn't trouble me, and in any case it'll be better soon."
The battalion did not remain long in Narvik — proper exercises were not possible there. It moved to Elvegårdsmoen on the 3rd of February 1940.
Both the major and I were pleased at the excellent training the battalion would now receive. We were pleased prematurely. We had not reckoned with the fact that it turned out to be a terrible winter for snow, and that there was neither electric light nor running water at the camp. In all the seven years I had been regimental commander I had not managed to get these basic facilities installed — not for lack of effort.
On 17 February I received from the division the telegram: "General situation tense and unclear. Transfer not more than one company and one machine-gun platoon to Narvik. Readiness for coup attempt regardless of nationality." I immediately gave Major Spjeldnes orders to send a garrison to Narvik.
On 18 January, Captain Langlo's company and a machine-gun platoon had come to Narvik as a garrison — at the division's instruction. In my opinion it was most unfortunate to break up the battalion in this way. But the division was firm, and so it was done.
I began now to wonder who was actually responsible for the defence of Narvik. Was it I? Was it the division? Or someone still higher? I had demanded coastal fortifications out in the fjord: result, nothing. I had said it would be impossible to defend Narvik against a fleet if I were not given the means. Nothing. A reconnaissance for a warning line in the west had been carried out and reported; the division had never issued orders to activate it. Twelve empty signal boxes had arrived, one for each signal post — but no soldiers to man them, and no order to call them up.
Of the regiment's "war stock" of skis, there were 16 pairs. Sixteen. These had in the autumn of 1939 been issued to the 3rd Company, sent to Finnmark for neutrality duty. I telegraphed to the appropriate authorities in Oslo and asked for a thousand pairs of skis at once — for obvious reasons. The reply was that one could not be issued more than one's establishment permitted. The establishment was 16 pairs. And so it was.
On 7 March 1940, Divisional Commander Fleischer paid a visit to Narvik, and we went at once to Framnesryggen, where the position for a company was now nearly completed. "But this looks quite good!" said the general. He was satisfied because he had obtained his position on the western side of town.
When we came to the "armour gun," which stood practically in the extension of Framnesryggen and right at the water's edge, the general and I stood discussing the question of whether it was correctly positioned. In order not to be silhouetted against the sky, the railway car with the gun had been driven forward so far that the gun itself was partly in the open. We argued the case for some time and agreed that the gun, as a general proposition, should be pulled back a metre or two. Whether this was ever done, I cannot now say.
I had always held the view that the main infantry force should not be placed on the western side of town — not on Framnesryggen and further out that way. "The danger comes from outside," I said repeatedly. "The ships that may attack us will come from outside. We must therefore orientate our main defence eastward, to meet them as they enter the inner fjord." General Fleischer drew the opposite conclusion from the same premise: the danger comes from outside, he said, therefore we must place our main force on the outermost point — Framnesryggen. I never persuaded him otherwise.
The armoured ships Norge and Eidsvoll arrived in Narvik in the first days of April. Their captains, Commander-Captains Askim and Willoch, came to see me on Saturday the 6th of April and reported their arrival. They were something rather different from the gun on the railway car. I expressed my appreciation accordingly.
My defence plan was clear: the main infantry strength was not to be placed on the western side of town. If a fleet came in from outside, I wanted the main force further in — to meet it after it had been forced through the bottleneck of the fjord, to make any landing as costly as possible. This plan was consistently at odds with what the division wanted.
The 9th of April
After the New Year, the international thunderstorm continued to roll across the world. In Norway we had the "Altmark affair" in February, and in the first days of April things began to stir in Narvik too — for a nephew of Mr Winston Churchill arrived in the city and paid his respects to Commander-Captain Askim and to me. He had apparently been in Sweden for some time and spoke some Swedish. Given what I now know, I understand that he had been sent to Narvik to observe the forthcoming great events when the Allies secured the ore-shipping town for themselves.
On 9 September 1939, Mr Churchill had moved in his government for the stopping of German ore traffic along the Norwegian coast by laying a minefield in Norwegian territorial waters. On 12 March 1940 it had been decided to carry out a landing on the 20th of March at Narvik, Trondheim, Bergen, and Stavanger. On 14 March this was postponed. What had eventually been decided at the Supreme War Council's meeting in London on 28 March, and subsequently at the British Cabinet meeting on 3 April, was: that while mining Norwegian waters might provoke a sharp German response, a British brigade and a French force would be sent to Narvik to clear the harbour and advance to the Swedish border. Other forces were to be sent to Stavanger, Bergen, and Trondheim. The great statesman, in short, reasoned as follows: "My country comes before all else. British interests come before Norwegian interests." And it was his nephew who came to Narvik to observe and report on the forthcoming great events.
On the 8th of April, just after Churchill's nephew had left, Commander-Captain Askim telephoned: "There is serious news, Colonel. I have just received a communication from the Admiralty Staff. I have been told it must not be passed on, but I feel I cannot keep it from you." He then told me that fifty German naval vessels had passed northward through the Danish straits. This was serious news indeed.
I should note that I speak of "the Division" at Harstad, but this is not entirely precise. Divisional Commander Major General Carl Fleischer was not in Harstad on the 8th and 9th of April — he was, with his chief of staff, travelling to eastern Finnmark on an inspection. The Division's operations were in the hands of deputies.
Askim's call led me immediately to summon Captain Langlo to my office: "Things don't look good, Langlo." I told him what I had learned from Askim. "Is this information not supposed to be shared?" asked Captain Langlo. "His exact words were that he had been told not to pass it on," I said, "but he felt he couldn't keep it from me. In any case, it's come to the point where we must begin to act." I gave Langlo orders for full alert status at the garrison in Narvik.
I then contacted my garrison major Omdal: "There may be something going on here, Omdal. Let me tell you what Commander-Captain Askim has reported." He heard the news. "You must call in the staff. We may need everyone now." "There are not many to call in," I said. "Lieutenants Mølster and Haakvik are on a course at Elverum." I would have considered it wise to have all officers present. But there it was. No order had been received from the division authorising the call-up of officers and men.
At 20:00 the divisional office rang again. This time it was serious: a German naval force was marching northward along the coast, apparently heading for Narvik. It could be expected in the Ofotfjord around midnight, possibly at 22:00.
The division had now ordered — against my protest — that the whole of Major Spjeldnes' battalion be brought over to Narvik. I rang Major Spjeldnes: "The general has decided your whole battalion is to come to Narvik. Set out at once, but don't bring the horses. I'll arrange a ferry across Rombakken."
I also gave orders to the machine-cannon battery to open fire on German aircraft. I want to note this: on the evening before, I had given the battery orders to fire on German — specifically German — aircraft. I had no orders from the division to fire on Germans. Those orders came only later, but I had given them of my own initiative, as I considered it necessary.
At the regimental office the day always began with the commander of the 7.5 cm gun appearing and reporting: "All well at the armour gun!" This was fixed routine. Every morning he came, and every morning I was informed that the gun stood where it should: with its muzzle out toward the fjord and all in order. Until the morning of the 9th of April.
At about 2 o'clock in the morning of the 9th of April, Major Spjeldnes arrived — soaking wet. He had with him his adjutant, Lieutenant Pauss, and the commander of the machine-gun company, Captain Brønstad. "Here we are," said Spjeldnes. "Wet through. What's going on?" He was told. His machine-gun company had already arrived. The other companies were coming across by ferry at hourly intervals — the ferry taking an hour for the round trip across Rombakken.
Then Captain Dalsvee, Langlo's deputy, arrived and reported that he had sent 20 men to Øyjord to receive a battery that was on its way from Bardu by the division's orders. A battery ordered out on the 8th of April. It did not arrive.
We sat and talked and waited for the next company. Then the telephone rang. It was Harstad: "Rauer and Bolærne in combat with foreign naval forces." "Who are they fighting?" asked Spjeldnes. "I don't know," I said. "The divisional office said nothing about that." The operations officer's notes in Harstad later confirmed this was received at 01:50.
By 3 o'clock everyone had gone. Only I and my orderly, Bjerkan from Levanger, remained. I assumed we had a busy day ahead of us and wanted to spare the others a night watch. The divisional office did not answer its telephone. It emerged later that all had gone. Following orders from the General Staff, the duty had been handed over to Captain Finn Knudsen, who had taken himself to the Grand Hotel. One records this without further comment.
The division was perfectly within its rights when all its men left the office during the night — but it is somewhat unfortunate that Harstad central was not well informed of the change, since not only I but also the 3rd Naval Defence Command in Tromsø had been trying to reach the office in vain.
At 03:37 the divisional office reached me with the important message that foreign warships were entering the Ofotfjord. I immediately rang Major Spjeldnes and Major Omdal: "The Germans are coming into the Ofotfjord. We must assume these are Germans, though the division has not said so. Best to be on the safe side and be in position." I gave the battalion orders to fire on the Germans. "But how should we proceed?" asked Spjeldnes. "The safety zones must be observed." "To hell with safety zones," I said. "We are at war, and the men must go in position."
I want to state clearly: I had given the machine-cannon battery orders to fire on German aircraft the night before. I now gave the battalion orders to fire on the Germans. But I had still not received orders from the division to fire on the Germans. Those orders came later. I acted on my own judgement.
At about 5 o'clock I went out into the yard to check the weather. It was still snowing heavily. Then I heard a tremendous explosion out in the fjord somewhere. It shook me to the core. I stood there for a moment, then thought: that must be one of the armoured ships. And it was: the Eidsvoll had been torpedoed. Some time later the Norge was also sunk.
The blockhouse garrison at Framnes saw the sinking clearly. Lieutenant Wesche, commander of the Framnes blockhouse, stated in court that the Eidsvoll lay only a few hundred metres from the blockhouse and he could see clearly how the sinking occurred. He was aware that this was war. Nevertheless, he did not fire on the German destroyers, as he believed it was not his place to do so without orders from above. Sergeant Sand, in position down at the quay, similarly received orders to take position — which he did — but held fire.
At the 7.5 cm gun, the gun commander was a man named Eriksen, a private who had served as a field artillerist with the American forces in the First World War and had been selected as commander for that reason. In his account of 23 September 1940 he states that he had received no orders to fire as the German ships came in, and that in any case no target presented itself, as the destroyers were not visible in the snowstorm. The gun, the great gun, the backbone of Narvik's defences — did not fire.
It takes time to acquire the mentality of war. One does not achieve it merely by putting on a uniform. It requires a thorough change in one's thinking and one's reflexes. The men of the garrison had been on neutrality duty for almost three months. Every last one of them knew they were there to prevent a foreign power from landing on Norwegian soil. But the mental leap from preventing a landing to shooting at real ships with real men — that leap, on the morning of the 9th of April, had not yet been made.
No one should criticise Battalion I of IR 13 for not having acquired the mentality of war by the morning of the 9th of April 1940. They were good soldiers and good men, and the failure was not theirs.
As for what happened when the Germans appeared: while I was observing what Major Spjeldnes was doing, a soldier came and said that a German officer wished to speak with me. "You come with me," I told Spjeldnes. "It may be useful to have two of us." We went, and a hundred steps further along the street, in front of the lodge hall, we encountered a German officer. He informed me that a German naval force had entered Narvik, that German troops were now in the town, and asked that the Norwegian garrison lay down its arms.
I used this half-hour to go the 150 metres up to the regimental office and telephone Harstad. It might have been of interest to hear what was actually happening elsewhere. The divisional office did not answer. I returned to Major Spjeldnes. The German units had not slackened their pace, and the Norwegian battalion was not getting into any kind of order.
I thought bitterly: previously there was never any question of giving me a free hand and full responsibility to do what I judged best. But now — now, having been placed in an impossible situation by the division's stubbornness and disastrous dispositions — now I had the free hand. The freedom and the responsibility at the same moment when they had been made meaningless by the circumstances.
This time my walk was not long. Barely a hundred metres down from the regimental headquarters I met another group of German officers, and with them the German consul in Narvik, Dr Wussow. Round about stood German infantrymen with machine pistols ready. The consul said: "Colonel Sundlo, General Dietl is waiting for you. He asks you to come."
General Dietl waited. The women who had come out onto the street stood with their hands over their stomachs and waited. And Narvik's children, who had turned out in numbers for this performance of all performances, picked their noses and waited.
I bowed to the facts.
"I surrender Narvik."
After the 9th of April
At the surrender of Narvik, all military personnel had become prisoners of war. But the Germans were not, at first, watching the situation very carefully, and a considerable number of officers and men managed to get out of town — some in civilian clothes they had obtained. The ferries ran on schedule well into the day of the 9th of April, and many escaped by that means.
Remaining with me in the regimental headquarters were my adjutant, Captain Hjalmar Eriksen, and subsequently others who came to see me and were then not permitted to leave. From Elvegårdsmoen came several officers, among them Captain Rambech. A strange collection, held in the house under German guard with a post at each wall of the building.
The following day, Wednesday the 10th of April, the British arrived.
I was standing in the morning looking at all the wrecks in the harbour when suddenly a destroyer appeared from beneath the Framnes headland. Long and black, with a large H and a number painted on the side, it glided slowly along the ore loading facility — which was now empty of ore ships — and then disappeared round the point. It was a British destroyer, come to reconnoitre.
Then came Saturday the 13th of April — a fine, sunny day. In the morning the town was shaken by some tremendous explosions, and when I looked down into the harbour all the German destroyers were gone. They had fled — never to return — all ten of them having either sunk or been driven ashore in Herjangen and Rombaksfjord in the second naval battle of Narvik. The British warships had arrived in force.
After the 13th of April no more British naval forces came into Narvik while I was there. General Dietl's forces settled in undisturbed and worked like ants. The fortunes of war were now distinctly against the Germans in Narvik, and yet they were not attacked from the south — a strategic oversight that astonished me then and has continued to astonish me since. There is a large, easily traversable plateau extending from Skjomen to Bjørnfjell — had the Allies landed in Skjomen, they could have cut off Dietl entirely. This was never done.
I once spoke with General Dietl about the operations in Ofoten during the occupation, and said: "The General was fortunate in his operations in northern Norway." "How so?" "You were attacked incorrectly," I said. "The Allies pushed forward from the north and west, when they should have sent strong forces across the plateau from Skjomen in the south. You would have been finished." General Dietl smiled. "Yes," he said, "I was lucky."
Meanwhile, at the regimental headquarters, the guard was changed after the naval battle of the 13th. Previously it had consisted of mountain troops, but now came about fifteen naval ratings. Their commander, an "Obermaat," told me they had been on the destroyer Erik Giese, which had sunk in the Strommen, the narrow entrance to Rombaksfjord. They had come ashore and been assigned to guard duty. One of the sailors was from Thüringen — a thoroughly decent fellow.
On the 23rd of April I saw the Norwegian prisoners of war fall in in the school yard and march across the square towards the railway station. They did not return. That evening the Obermaat said: "General Dietl is evacuating Narvik. Tomorrow evening at 21:00 we will march out of the town and up along the railway line. All prisoners are to go with us."
My wife and I had skis and rucksacks, and I also pulled a sledge with some clothes and food. The Germans had no skis. It was snowing, but with occasional clearings — and these clearings we did not love, for out in Rombakken lay British destroyers engaging in target practice against anything that moved on the ice. We moved carefully from cover to cover.
At Strømsnes there was a larger German posting and we were given coffee there. A kind Narvik man secured us access to an empty house, where we froze through the night — the house was without fuel, and outside it was at least fifteen degrees of frost.
Early the next morning we trudged on to Sildvik. Not so bad for us — for we had skis. But the German soldiers had none, and every step was a battle through deep snow. They struggled on with remarkable determination.
Spring was coming now. Rain had set in — wet and grey. I wrote to General Dietl and asked whether my wife might be allowed to cross the mountain to Beisfjord, from where she could make her way to Ballangen, where our children were staying. The general agreed, and two sailors were assigned to escort us.
We went slowly and pleasantly up the slopes on the path across to Beisfjorden. We Norwegians took care not to push the pace — the one sailor was genuinely poor on skis and had no breath left over for conversation. When we reached the first hut we met a cheerful man from Beisfjord, had a cup of coffee, and left my wife there.
On the return journey we picked up the two coffee-drinkers, and at Sildvik we ate dinner. "Dinner, Herr Oberst!" said the sailor from Thüringen. "We are going in here!"
The excursion to Beisfjord provided material for the rumour-mongers. It was said that my wife had met a young girl on the path and had taken her boots, leaving the girl weeping in the snow. It was also said that I had been to Beisfjorden with General Dietl and had explained to him how best to defend his position against Allied attack. And it was said — solemnly reported in writing by a customs official in Narvik to his superiors — that on the morning of the 9th of April I had treated General Dietl to breakfast at my house before the German ships arrived. What had got into my countrymen? Had they entirely lost their reason?
Some time after the Beisfjord excursion, we prisoners were moved up to Bjørnfjell. The Germans had repaired a steam locomotive and cleared sufficient snow from the tracks, and we travelled by train to Norddalsbrua. The British destroyer lay in position out in Rombakken engaging in target practice, and we sincerely hoped it would not take an interest in the train.
On 28 May, the Norwegians and their Allies had taken Narvik. But not many days later they withdrew. The great powers had decided to abandon Norway in favour of more important theatres of war. A foggy, rain-heavy afternoon, one of the naval ratings came running and said that Narvik had been evacuated — the English had gone. And not long after, we came back down.
Communiqué
On the 12th of April the division had seen fit to publish the following in the press:
"In connection with the many rumours circulating about the fighting in Narvik, the 6th Division reports: Colonel Sundlo was ordered as commander of the Ofoten sector, including Narvik, and had among other duties the obligation to prevent the landing of foreign troops. On the evening of the 8th of April, the division ordered troops from Elvegårdsmoen to move across to Narvik. Other units were ordered to Elvegårdsmoen but did not arrive owing to snow difficulties. The last troops had just crossed over to Narvik when the Germans attacked the Norwegian armoured ships and immediately began landing troops. Colonel Sundlo began at once to negotiate for a ceasefire and withdrew the troops to Framneset. The Germans occupied the area across the town, so that the Norwegian troops were surrounded between the Germans and the sea. The Divisional Commander, who was in eastern Finnmark, was telephoned about the situation and gave Colonel Sundlo's deputy, Major Omdal, orders to arrest Colonel Sundlo, gather as much of the forces as possible, and break through. The arrest of Colonel Sundlo did not succeed. But the breakthrough was carried out decisively. The major then immediately took up a position across the Ofoten railway, to prevent the Germans from advancing further. There were certain units that the major could not reach and which were presumably taken prisoner by the Germans."
After the occupation I received confirmation that General Fleischer had had nothing to do with this communiqué; he stated to Captain Langlo at Bardu: "I have never thought or said that Colonel Sundlo was a traitor. I have never sent out any communiqué." Whether it was therefore an officer at divisional headquarters who sent it, acting on his own authority, is a question I leave to others. The communiqué was published. Its effects lasted for years.
Conclusion
It lies outside the scope of this account to provide a critique of the military operations in inner Ofoten. But certain things must be said.
When General Dietl in the naval battle of the 13th of April had lost all his warships and faced the possibility of an Allied landing supported by large naval forces, his position appeared hopeless. But the Allied attack did not come from the south. General Dietl was attacked from the north and west — but not from the south. This has always puzzled me.
The coastal town of Narvik could only be defended against attack by a hostile fleet by means of advanced fortifications. This is why there are fortification works in the outer Oslofjord to defend Oslo, Kvarven for Bergen, and Agdenes to cover Trondheim. And when these installations existed, Oslo, Bergen, and Trondheim could put up at least some resistance. But Narvik had nothing of the sort.
As for "the town with the gun" — all, like the courts of law, will be aware that it could not be defended against the German attack. It should therefore have been declared an open town and evacuated. But Narvik was not declared an open town. The garrison was not ordered away to fighting positions outside the town — only when the Germans were already ashore, and when it was then far too late, did such an order come from the division. The garrison was given the order to defend its position, and one single, inadequately armed, insufficiently trained company attempted to carry out this order.
One is compelled to ask: what was the point of this order? The answer must be that the order was merely consistent with everything else that was insane on the 9th of April. The order was no worse than the government's order for resistance to the fatherland, given by a government — and by the party from which it had sprung — that had for years opposed the reconstruction of our army and navy and had reduced them to a condition where serious resistance was impossible. Norway was the only country that during those critical years had reduced rather than increased its armed forces. And then the bill came due.
After the occupation, events in Narvik were examined in legal proceedings before the Eidsivating Military Court of Appeal. The judgement that fell on 13 May 1947, and was upheld by the Supreme Court on 5 October 1948, went unanimously to acquittal on the charge of treason. From the grounds of the judgement, this may be of interest:
"The accused's disposition of his forces for battle during the night may be criticised, but the situation was so confused and the difficulties so great owing to the weather and the weakness of the forces relative to the extent of the area, that the court does not assume that a more resolute effort to organise resistance would have yielded any result... the court does not find it proven that the accused, in the surrender, acted in a manner which in the circumstances gave the enemy essentially greater advantages than a resistance of brief duration and limited effect would have done."
Narvik was not a fortress. The town with the gun had one gun. And one gun, on a railway car, is not a fortress.