The Cruiser Blücher – 9Th of April 1940 Alf R. Jacobsen DISCLAIMER
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The Cruiser Blücher – 9th of april 1940 Alf R. Jacobsen DISCLAIMER: This is a non-professional translation, done purely for the love of the subject matter. Some strange wording is to be expected, since sentence structure is not always alike in English or Norwegian. I'm also not a military nut after 1500, so some officer ranks, division names and the like may be different than expected because of my perhaps too-literal translation. Any notes of my own will be marked in red. I will drop the foreword, since it probably is of little interest to anyone but Norwegians. I’ll probably bother to translate it if requested at a later time. NOTE: This is the first book in a series of four – The cruiser Blücher(9th of april 1940), the King’s choice (10th of april 1940), Attack at dawn – Narvik 9-10th of april 1940 and Bitter victory – Narvik, 10th of april – 10th of june 1940. I might do more of these if I get the time and there is interest. PROLOGUE Visst Fanden skal der skytes med skarpt! -By the Devil, we will open fire! Oscarsborg, 9th of april 1940 03.58 hours The messenger came running just before 4 o'clock. He was sent by the communications officer with a sharp telephonic request from the main torpedo battery’s central aiming tower on Nordre Kaholmen islet, 500 meters away. The essence was later formulated by the battery commander, Andreas Andersen, in the following manner: «I asked for an absolute order if the approaching vessels were to be torpedoed.» If there is one moment in a human life that stands out truer than the rest, fortress commander Birger Eriksen had his at Oscarsborg this cold spring morning. On its face, it was a simple question, almost one to be answered with a simple yes or no. The way it was presented by an out-of-breath soldier on the hard gravel before the fortress' ramparts, it represented something deeper. It cut to the core of the colonel's life as a man and an officer: Should he, for the first time in the nation's young history, give the order to open fire against an unidentified intruder – with all that entailed of bloody losses on both sides? Should he alone take responsibility for standing up – not only toward a most likely overwhelming, heavily armed and brutal foe, but also against a pasifistic and anti-military tradition that had undermined the will of the defenders both materially and psychologically for 20 years? Twenty minutes earlier, Eriksen had been roused from his chair in the commander's house by a message from Filtvet signal station: «Warships passing the station with lanterns extinguished.» It was just six nautical miles from Filtvet to the gun emplacements on Søndre Kaholmen. Even if the vessels moved slowly through the thick fog, their contours would soon appear in his binoculars. The wait had been nerve-wracking. It was soon over, and it felt like a relief. As he wrote in a report in august 1940: «Full awareness of the situation was only achieved by messages at 03.38 and 03.40 from Filtvet signal station. An attempt to force the Drøbak straits had to be considered likely.» He had stormed out and personally taken command over the main guns – the same way he har done it in 1905 when threat came from elsewhere. At the time he had been a young battery officer, and the three 28-cm cannon had been the pinnacle of artillery of their day. In the glow from the work lamps, they still looked like predators ready to pounce, but that was merely an illusion. They were rather ancient beasts – they had a deadly bite, but were slow and unmanouverable. Like himself they were aged through decades of anti-militaristic propaganda and ever-lessening grants of money. Rock bottom was hit in 1934, when a new defence scheme turned Oscarsborg into a secondary bastion. «One could be tempted to call the fortress a museum», wrote gunnery officer Ragnvald Rækken, who was a tax secretary from Brandbu and had signed up as a neutrality watchman in late february 1940. «The same cannons were in the same place as when I first saw them in 1902. The fortress had a rundown look, and was in and of itself proof of the waning interest the country took in military matters.» If Eriksen looked up, he could see the gaunt sergeant at work at Cannon No. 1. Rækken was 56 years old and had passed middle age, but his fighting spirit was intact. Murmured commands could be heard in the dark. The gun crews groaned over the 90-ton monsters of Krupp steel, working pulleys, levers and wheels like they had done nothing else. That too, was an illusion. Only a handful of the artillerymen could be truly called that. They had trained and knew all the routines. The rest were new blood, cooks and medics that had never heard or seen a cannon been fired – and certainly not in anger. Only minutes left. Would they be able to fire on flesh and blood with deadly intent? Eriksen himself was closing on 65 years old, and would retire in November to a new home in Drøbak with his wife Kristiane and their polio-stricken daughter Borghild. Would he be able to live with the consequences, if he, his crews and their families lived through the coming hours of fear? Where did the line of duty go? Come daylight, there would probably be aerial attacks – in wave after wave. There would be no possibility of manning the open gun positions without risk to life and limb. “The concern, yes – the utmost indefensible part of the fortress’ fighting state, was that no thought was given to protection from airborne bombs.” he later wrote. “For the defence of the gun crews against aerial attack there was never even the slightest monetary grant.” There were direct phone lines between Oscarsborg and the Admiralty staff, but the lines were silent. No proclamation of either war or peace were sent, no order to mobilize, no fiery appeals, no good advice. Those responsible for political and military leadership had abandoned the battlefield. It was bitter, but not unexpected. As most other frontline officers, Eriksen knew what the politicians represented. “Our so-called defence consists of an army without manoeuvres, a navy with no vessels and fortresses with no guns. Our military is not just useless, but a danger. Perhaps the only danger to our country”, The Labour Party had furiously railed in the Storting in 1933. Foreign minister Halvdan Koht said it with more finesse: “If you want peace, prepare for peace.” It was all part of an anti-militaristic streak that had lasted throughout the 1930s and gradually destroyed the morale and fighting spirit of the military officers. “The corps of officers was basically demilitarized” wrote those who studied the physical and mental standard of the military of the 1930s. “The attitude of the government towards even the most minute upgrades to the military, had to give the military chiefs the impression that there was no serious will to defend ourselves in the governing bodies. The defeatist atmosphere was most suitable for depriving the military chiefs of any necessary confidence and security.” It was a grim time, with grim attitudes. Freedom and the honour of the flag was praised in speeches, but some still thought it was better to live in servitude, rather than die standing. Even the neutrality watch regulations were clouded. On the one hand, any intruding vessels were to be stopped with “all possible force”, but not until they were hailed and protested. The main attitude was passive: “There will be no use of force without orders from the commanding admiral, or when under attack”. But there would be no time to consult with the commanding admiral when the vessels appeared off Småskjær reef. Eriksen would have to act on his own, without superior officers backing him up. Could he trust his betters in political positions and the military? Would he face condemnation if he followed his instincts and used live shells? Would they support him if he tried the easy route, and merely fired warning shots? In the icy snow behind the ramparts, there were not only the glories of 1905 which were on Eriksen's mind. He also recalled November of 1914, when the German merchant raider Berlin had snuck past Agdenes fortress at the approach to the Trondheimsfjord. The passivity of the fortress had triggered a political scandal. The commandant had been ridiculed, removed from his position, and sent to languish at Bergenhus. When Eriksen took over command there in 1915, it was to raise the fortress from its earlier disgrace. Should he risk an equivalent disgrace now – after forty years of spotless service? The defences of the Outer Oslofjord had failed, but Oscarsborg was the bottleneck. If he let the intruders pass, the way was open straight to the capital, and an unprepared government. These were grim prospects, and Eriksen only trusted one thing – his sense of duty and loyalty to his country. He stood alone on the wind-tossed ramparts and knew that he only had once choice – no matter the cost. When he turned toward the messenger, his order was crystal clear just like the way it was entered into the communications post logbook: “The torpedo battery will open fire.” Orally, it was even clearer: “By the Devil, we will open fire!” On the command bridge aboard the Blücher, 5000-6000 meters to the south, Rear admiral Oskar Kummetz was totally oblivious to Eriksen’s dilemma.