The engine screamed like a wounded animal as Harald Kjempestad pulled the Gloster up from the runway at Fornebu. The wet spring earth vanished beneath him, and in that same moment, the sky opened to war. The Junkers came in low over the fjord, heavy and almost arrogant in their formation. For a brief instant, Harald felt a strange calm. Everything else—fear, doubt, time—fell away. There was only altitude, speed, and sight. He pushed the stick forward, letting the Gloster drop straight in behind the last Ju 52. The distance closed quickly. A short squeeze of the trigger. The machine guns hammered, and suddenly smoke and flames burst from the German aircraft’s right engine. Harald had no time to celebrate. The next one was already in sight. He pulled hard to the left, feeling the G-forces bite into his body, and opened fire again. This time he hit the cockpit. The aircraft jolted violently, plunged, and struck the ground behind the airfield. Then came the Messerschmitt. He heard it before he saw it—a higher, sharper engine note. The bullets followed instantly. The Gloster’s fabric skin tore apart like paper. A blow to the head. A brief, blinding flash. The pain came a moment later. Blood streamed down from his forehead and into his eyes. Not metal, he thought in a moment of clarity. Thank God, not metal. He dived low, almost scraping the treetops. Fornebu slowly emerged through blood and haze. He lined up as best he could. The wheels hit the ground. A crash. A jolt. The right landing gear collapsed instantly. The propeller shattered into splinters. Harald was thrown against his harness. Through one eye, he saw it: a Ford truck with a large fuel tank. He pulled the stick with everything he had, missing it by meters. Then everything went silent. The engine died. Harald sat still as blood dripped onto the instrument panel. Only when he heard a soldier shouting did he realize he had survived.

He woke with the taste of iron in his mouth and the scent of disinfectant in his nostrils. A white ceiling. A moment devoid of memory. Then it all came back in a single, violent jolt. Fornebu. The smoke. The blood. A nurse leaned over him, telling him to lie still. His forehead was cleaned, stitched, tightened. Ten stitches. She said it as if it were a nice, round number. Harald didn’t answer. Instead, he stared at the lamp above him, counting his heartbeats as the needle went in and out of his skin. Later, he suddenly found himself out on the street in Pilestredet, a paper in his hand confirming he was "discharged." No uniform. No orders. Only a light dusting of snow settling on his hair and shoulders, as if spring had changed its mind. It was April 10th. He didn’t know where the night had gone. Perhaps it had vanished along with everything else familiar and safe. He stood perfectly still for a moment and listened. The city had changed. Not quiet—just different. As if Oslo was holding its breath. He understood it now. The battle for the skies over the capital was lost. Not for lack of courage, but because of mathematics. Too few planes. Too few pilots. Too much that was old in a war that had already become modern. He thought of the Germans. The Messerschmitts. Faster. Harder. Metal against canvas. Then the thought emerged, almost defiant. A newspaper article he had read long ago. England. A new machine. Sleek. Elegant. Deadly. Like a bird of prey cast in aluminum. Spitfire. He saw it so clearly he almost had to smile. Himself in the cockpit, the canopy closed, hands on the stick. In front of him: a Rolls-Royce Merlin. Twelve cylinders in V, ready to be unleashed. He could hear it already—the deep, living growl, like a promise of speed and superiority. The exhaust flames striking short and blue upon startup. Then reality snapped back. A horn. Loud. Angry. A green Dodge raced past him, completely overloaded. People squeezed together in the cabin, faces white with fear. Everything was tied down with rope on the roof: pots, chairs, mattresses, suitcases that seemed to contain entire lives. A woman held onto a cage with a hen. A child waved mechanically out the back window, as if it were an excursion. Refugees. Harald felt a weight in his chest he hadn't felt in the air. This he couldn't shoot at. This he couldn't maneuver his way out of. He marched for kilometers, his backpack pressing hard against his shoulders, old boots wet with snow and mud. Somewhere along Ringeriksveien, he suddenly slipped on a patch of ice. His body hit the ground hard. A sharp pain shot through his forehead—the stitches tore like old threads against a rusty hook. He lay for a moment watching the snow dance in the shadow of a birch tree before everything went black. When he woke, he heard a low voice: "Hello there, lad. You look like you've taken a real fall." An elderly couple took him in. Inside their small red log cabin, he was offered a warm meal. The soup was salty and rich, as if made to beat the cold and grief out of the body. Harald ate as if he hadn't seen food in days. The couple spoke quietly, whispering about the war, about how the Germans were now in Hønefoss, about families fleeing—or staying behind to fight. He reached Hønefoss at dawn. The city was not as he remembered it. Streets he had walked as a boy lay empty and broken. He followed the sound of gunfire north to Haugsbygd. There, Norwegian soldiers lay in positions behind stone walls and snowdrifts. A lieutenant looked at him, at the bandage on his forehead, at the way he moved. "Pilot?" he asked curtly. Harald nodded. "Then take what you can get." It wasn't much. A revolver. Six shots. He had never shot at a human being this way before—face to face, on the ground, without speed, without altitude. The Germans came in bursts. Precision. Efficiency. Harald lay flat behind a low earth embankment and felt the ground shake. This was not aerial combat. There were no maneuvers here. No escape route. Just waiting. A German soldier appeared between the trees. Too close. Far too close. Harald didn't have time to think. He raised the revolver and fired. The recoil was brutal. The man vanished behind a snowbank. Somewhere to the left, someone shouted that they had to retreat. As darkness began to fall, he left the positions. Not as a deserter, but as a survivor. He knew now what he had to do. Sweden. The forest east of Hønefoss lay dark and dense. There were no planes there, no formations, no revolvers that mattered. Only long days, cold nights—and a border that, if he reached it, could lead him further. To England. He looked back once toward Haugsbygd. Toward the smoke. Toward the sound of a war already lost here. Then he stepped in among the trees.

He walked for a few hours toward Jevnaker before his body finally demanded a stop. Darkness had settled properly now, and the cold crept up through his boots. When he spotted the barn—a low, crooked building set back from the road—he felt an unexpected surge of relief. The door gave way with a faint creak. Inside was straw. Dry. Warm enough. Harald lay down in the straw and pulled his coat over him. The revolver felt heavy in his pocket, five rounds left. It felt misplaced here, amidst hay and silence. It was useless for hunting, and he knew it. He was starving. His stomach growled, a reminder that war was also physical and mundane. He couldn't shoot his way to a meal. His thoughts drifted, as they always did when his body finally found rest. They slid backward, to last summer. Leave. Hønefoss in the sun. The scent of the river and freshly mown grass. Anna. He had met her down by the Glatved Hotel, almost by chance. They had walked along the river, and it felt as if time had slowed down just for them. But the problem had been clear from the start: she was the bank manager's daughter, and he was the son of a sawmill worker. An ensign, yes—but still only one step above nothing in her father's eyes. A man of the old school. Order, titles, the right connections. "I'll write a letter from Sweden," he thought. They had spoken of engagement in whispers. Now, it seemed like another life. If he survived. Morning was quiet. Harald was awakened by a sound he would never forget: a deep, rhythmic humming. BMW boxer engines. He froze. The sound was followed by the characteristic rattling of metal from a sidecar. Two motorcycles, four German soldiers. He sat up slowly in the straw, his heart hammering. Five rounds. The revolver in his pocket felt almost laughably small against four well-equipped soldiers. He cursed his own ignorance—his tracks leading into the barn were plain to see in the snow. They were likely hunting for the soldiers from the skirmish at Haugsbygd. He had been there. He was alone now. He moved silently toward the darkness of the barn, using the straw as cover. Outside, the engines continued to hum. Shadows of German helmets moved along the walls. The soldiers stopped their bikes. He heard a boot hit the ground, the sound of sand and gravel. Short, mechanical German commands. One soldier stopped right outside the door. Then they moved on. He heard them speaking in low, incomprehensible tones, likely discussing the tracks. The engines started again, and the sound faded into the morning chill. He didn't wait. Crawling toward a small hatch in the back wall, he squeezed through and escaped toward a wooded slope leading to a small lake. He began to walk quickly but carefully along the edge of the forest. The snow was deep, but hard enough to hide his tracks if he stayed close to the trees. The Swedish border was still far away, and the road was full of dangers—patrols, hunger, cold. But for the first time since Fornebu, he felt he had a choice. A goal. A hope. He sank into the snow for a brief moment, took a deep breath, and pushed on. Toward Roa, toward the farms where he might find food and warmth before the true journey to Sweden began.

The sun stood high when he reached Olimbshøgda. The light was sharp, almost merciless. The snow glinted like crushed glass, and every movement felt visible from a great distance. Harald kept to the edge of the woods, walking parallel to the road without showing himself. Here, it was too open. The farms lay scattered but clearly visible, like islands in a sea of white. Noon. That was the most dangerous time to ask for help. People were out working. Windows were open. And the Germans—they also preferred the daylight. He crouched behind a spruce and studied one of the farms down on the plain. Smoke rose from the chimney. Life. Food. Warmth. Everything he needed—and everything he couldn't risk. He felt the hunger twisting in his stomach. It had stopped being a feeling and become a constant state. His hands jumped a little as he took out the revolver and checked the cylinder again. Five shots. Like five empty promises. He put it back. If he used it now, he had already lost. He waited until the afternoon gave way to evening. When the courtyard below grew silent, he finally approached. He knocked gently on the door. It opened a crack, and a young maid froze at the sight of him. With blood dried on his face from the wound on his forehead and his filthy clothes, he was not the man she expected to see. She ran inside and called for the master of the house. A moment later, the farmer stood in the doorway. A sturdy man with a serious face. Harald explained everything: Fornebu, Haugsbygd, the escape toward Sweden. The farmer nodded silently. He had compassion. Harald was given warm soup that tasted of safety, and a place to lie down. For the first time in several days, he allowed himself to dream of Anna and the Spitfire waiting somewhere far away. The next morning, the farmer drove him toward Roa in an old Model T Ford. The car creaked and shook over the bumpy roads, every jolt sending a shock through Harald’s weary body. When they reached the roadside at Roa, the farmer stopped and opened the back of the car. "I hid something for you," he said. Harald stared in confusion. Then he saw it: a gray backpack with large side pockets, a blanket, a canvas sheet—and an old shotgun. A wave of warmth rose through him. For the first time in several days, he felt pure joy mixed with overwhelming gratitude. "This... this is... thank you," he managed to say, his voice hoarse with emotion. The farmer simply nodded. "Use it well. It will help you on the journey ahead." Harald tightened the straps of the pack. He could feel the weight of the cured sausage in the pockets, but also a newfound sense of security. For the first time, the flight toward Sweden felt not just like a desperate struggle, but like an opportunity to survive on his own terms. With a steady gaze, he set off from Roa, the pack heavy on his back, but his heart light.

The realization hit him harder than the morning frost. As Harald stood at the edge of Roa, looking east toward the undulating hills that led to Sweden, he understood the math of his survival. The snow was a white ocean—vast, rotten, and waist-deep. On foot, he was a dead man. He needed skis. And he found them leaning against a wall in Roa—a pair of brand-new Splitkeins, the pride of his hometown, Hønefoss. He took them. He stole them. As he climbed the hills, every rhythmic glide of the wood felt like a betrayal of his officer's oath. "I will make it right," he vowed to the pines. "If I should be so lucky to survive." He pushed himself until his body could give no more. In the gathering twilight, he found a suitable spruce tree. With numb fingers, he hacked off lower branches to create a makeshift bed, a small hut beneath the heavy boughs. As absolute darkness fell, he collapsed into a dreamless sleep, exhausted, with his shotgun loaded and leaning against the trunk within arm's reach. He woke with a start in the gray dawn. A faint sound in the snow nearby. He lay deathly still, ice-cold and with fingers stiff as frozen twigs, listening. Steps. But too quiet for a human. Then he saw them: three deer emerged from the mist fifty meters away. Carefully, he rose to a kneeling position. Handling the weapon was agony with his frozen hands. His eyes fell on a young fawn, and his stomach cramped with the thought of the tender meat. But then he noticed the adult buck—it was limping. His father’s strict upbringing echoed in his mind: when you harvest from nature, take the weak to ensure the forest remains strong. He pulled the trigger. The buck fell instantly. Harald felt a strange mixture of sadness and triumph as he butchered the animal, his hands warming against the entrails. Finally, he would eat well. He built a small, smokeless fire and prepared the heart first. He couldn't bring himself to eat it raw, as tradition dictated, but as the meat sizzled over the flames, the longing for Anna tore at him. She was still back in Hønefoss, waiting in a world that was rapidly disappearing. He ate, his eyes never leaving the treeline. The journey to Sweden was still long, but with a full stomach and the Splitkeins by his side, the pilot was becoming a partisan. The sky above was grayer than yesterday, a heavy lid over the world, but Harald felt a spark of something he hadn't felt since Fornebu: a sense of belonging to the land he was trying to save.

The sound of war reached him long before the river did. It was a chaotic symphony of heavy artillery and the high-pitched scream of Junkers Ju 87s—the dreaded Stukas. As Harald emerged from the forest, the Glomma river appeared as a dark, jagged line through the mist. Ahead lay a bridge, a vital artery that the Norwegian forces were desperately trying to hold. Harald didn't hesitate. He wasn't an infantryman, but he was a pilot, and he knew the geometry of a dive better than anyone on that bridge. He shoved a wounded gunner aside and gripped the handles of a water-cooled Colt M/29. He led the target, pulling the trigger just as a Stuka reached its release point. The stream of 7.92mm rounds stitched through the canopy, and the bomber slammed into the icy waters of the Glomma with a deafening roar. He knew that to stay was to die in a losing battle. To leave was to fight again where it truly mattered. He grabbed his Splitkein skis and signaled to a group of six young men crouching in the slush near the bridgehead. They were city boys, likely from Oslo based on their quick, nervous dialect, looking utterly lost in the smoke. "Move! Now!" Harald shouted. It wasn't a suggestion; it was a command that brooked no argument. They followed him across the bridge, the planks rattling under their boots as the smell of cordite and wet timber filled their lungs. On the eastern bank, they stumbled upon an abandoned Chevrolet truck, its engine still ticking over. The Norwegian unit that owned it was nowhere to be seen, likely retreated or fallen. "In the back! All of you!" Harald ordered. One of the Oslo boys, a lanky lad with grease-stained hands, jumped toward the driver's seat. "I can handle this, sir! I drive for Ringnes Brewery back home. Just finished my training, though most of the beer still goes by horse these days." Harald climbed into the cab beside him. "Then drive like the devil is behind us, Ringnes. Because he is." As the Chevrolet roared to life and began its jolting journey eastward, Harald glanced back at the bridge. He thought of the brewery wagons in Oslo and the quiet life that had vanished. There was likely very little brewing going on in the capital now, he thought grimly. The only thing flowing in the streets of Oslo was gray uniforms. The truck accelerated, the Splitkein skis bouncing against the metal floorboards in the back. They were no longer just refugees; they were a unit. And for the first time, Harald felt the distance to England beginning to shrink, one gear shift at a time.

The rhythmic grinding of the Chevrolet’s gearbox had been the only heartbeat in the frozen silence of the forest. Every time "Ringnes"—the lanky lad from Oslo who had traded brewery wagons for military steering wheels—shifted gears, the metal shrieked in protest. The road east of Elverum was no longer a road; it was a treacherous ribbon of rotting ice and deep mud. "You said you drove for the brewery, Ringnes," Harald barked, bracing himself against the dashboard as the truck bucked over a frozen ridge. "I assume the streets of Oslo aren't quite this... fluid?" "We’ve got cobblestones, sir! They rattle your teeth, but they don’t swallow you whole like this," Kåre grunted, his knuckles white as he fought the wheel. "Out! All of you!" Harald commanded, springing from the cab into the calf-deep slush. "Ringnes, leave it. She’s a beacon for the Luftwaffe as long as we’re on the road." Six confused figures scrambled from the truck bed. Among them was Petter. While the others stared at the wrecked vehicle, Petter was already unstrapping the white Splitkein skis and the six pairs of heavy, tar-scented military planks from the back. "Salvage the rations," Harald ordered. "Take every tin of meat, every biscuit, and every round of ammunition you can carry. Ditch the crates; stuff your pockets. We have seventy kilometers of forest ahead, and we move in two minutes." It was a frantic race against the fading light. The boys from Oslo stuffed their coats with coffee pouches and "Dødmann" tins, casting nervous glances at the treeline. Petter stood at the edge of the ditch, calmly adjusting the leather bindings with practiced fingers. They pushed hard for hours, Petter’s expert pace keeping them moving even as the Oslo boys’ legs turned to lead. By the time the sun dipped below the jagged horizon, they had put nearly ten kilometers between themselves and the abandoned truck. Under a rocky outcrop that shielded them from the biting north wind, Harald signaled a halt. Under Petter’s tutelage, the boys learned the art of survival. They harvested pine boughs for a lean-to and built a radiant heat fire against the rock face, the stone reflecting the warmth back onto their shivering bodies. As the fire crackled, Harald broke the silence. "We might as well know who we’re dying with. I’m Harald. Pilot. And I’m getting to England, with or without you." Petter nodded. "Petter. From Kongsberg. I’ve spent more time in a jump-hill than a living room. I’ll get you across the border, even if your style points wouldn't pass a judge." The driver, who Harald called Ringnes, took the word next. He rubbed a swollen ankle, his face weary in the firelight. "My name is Kåre," he muttered. "I hauled beer for Ringnes until the world went mad on the ninth; now I’m just hauling myself. But at least I’ve got my mates from Blystad with me." He gestured toward Einar, Reidar, and the smooth-talking Gunnar. The four of them had worked side-by-side at Blystad Fabrikker on Sagene, weaving ribbons and belts in the red-brick factory along Sandakerveien. They were textile men, more accustomed to the rhythmic clatter of looms than the haunting silence of the Finnskogen pines. Now, nine days after the invasion, they sat huddled together—a brewery driver and four factory hands, led by a pilot and a ski jumper, all bound for a border they couldn't yet see.

They kept moving through the chilly night, standing guard in shifts. They kept the small fire going, so that the weak radiant heat hit the boys sleeping close together in the pine-bough shelter. Harald slept little, letting his thoughts wander to Anna and the summer back home in Hønefoss. He realized with a heavy certainty that there was a high probability she would meet someone else. Why should she wait for him? The war could drag on for years, and he had little chance of surviving. The thought of Anna in the arms of another—perhaps someone who hadn't fled, someone safe who had stayed behind—felt like a bullet to the chest. He grew despondent, and he was glad the light hadn't come yet, so no one could see his damp eyes. He was their leader, after all, and he didn't want to show weakness. He swallowed hard and stared into the dying embers until the darkness began to give way to a gray, cold morning light creeping through the moss-covered trunks. A thought had been irritating Harald since he met these boys at the Glomma: What was the motivation for this group to leave their homeland in a crisis? He himself, the pilot, was on his way to England to continue the fight. But what about the rest of them? Petter, the ski jumper, at least seemed very capable of resisting the enemy. He lay for a long time considering what to do with his thoughts. He decided he would lead them into the subject. "What happened in Oslo?" he suddenly asked the factory boys. They fell silent, obviously somewhat ill at ease. Harald continued, "I understand the fear, but remember the fatherland, and that the fatherland has need of you. What can you contribute against the enemy?" He received only one blunt answer, and it came from the Kongsberg boy, Petter: "I’m going back! The bastards will feel the Viking blood running in my veins!" The others looked up at Petter and Harald. Something had changed in their eyes. Was there a small spark there? When the sun finally crept over the Swedish pines, they reached a clearing marking the border cairn. The boundary. There were no walls, no fences, just an invisible line between two worlds. They hadn't walked more than a kilometer onto Swedish soil before the sound of a sharp command cut through the air: "Halt! Stanna där ni är!" Six Swedish soldiers appeared. Harald felt the weight of the revolver in his pocket. It reminded him of the battles in Haugsbygd; that was where he had been issued it before everything collapsed. He looked at Kåre and the others, then took out the weapon with three fingers and handed it to the Swedish sergeant, handle first. The old shotgun from the farmer followed. "Jag förstår, löjtnant," the sergeant said upon seeing Harald's rank. "But the rules are clear. You will be taken to a collection point in Torsby for registration. You will get food and warmth." As they were marched away toward the Swedish lines, Harald looked back toward Norway one last time. He was a prisoner now, in a neutral land, but he was alive. And England was still waiting.

The silence in the Småland camp was almost harder to bear than the roar of the Junkers' engines. Once the Swedish authorities realized Harald was a commissioned officer, the group was split. The boys from Oslo and the factory hands were sent to civilian reception centers, but Harald was marched behind the barbed wire of Öreryd. He sat on the edge of a wooden bunk, surrounded by other men in charcoal-gray and green uniforms. Their faces were etched with the heavy shadow of defeat. Harald found a crumpled piece of paper and a pencil stub. He had to write to Anna. "Dearest Anna," he began, his fingers still stained with the grit of the Glomma trenches. "I close my eyes and see you every time the darkness here becomes too thick. I see you when the smoke from the Glomma lies black over the river, and all I can think about is that I must survive—not for my own sake, but to see you again. It wasn't skill that kept me steady when the Stukas dived; it was the thought that I couldn't let it end there. Not before I told you the things I never dared say to your face." He described the endless miles on skis and the gnawing hunger, but then the words became heavier. Harald folded the paper with trembling hands. A hollow ache, sharper than any combat wound, throbbed in his chest. He stood up abruptly and walked out into the cold Swedish evening, needing the shadows to hide his damp eyes from the other internees. *** Three weeks later, the monotony was shattered. "Kjempestad! Letter for you!" the camp commandant barked. Harald retreated to a quiet corner, his heart hammering. The envelope was postmarked Norway. He opened it with shaking hands, and as he read, the world seemed to tilt back onto its axis. Anna knew. Word of the pilot from Fornebu and the stand at Haugsbygd had spread like wildfire across the entire Ringerike district. From the farms in the countryside to the cobblestone streets of Hønefoss, everyone knew his name. He was no longer just the poor sawmill worker’s son; he was a hero. Even her father, the stern bank manager in the city, had been moved by the reports of his courage. But it was her closing words that struck him like a bolt of lightning: "You do not give me my freedom, Harald, for I have already chosen. I will wait for you as long as there is breath in me. And should the unthinkable happen, know this: I shall hold my head high as your widow, and no other man shall ever take your place. You fight for Norway, and I will fight for us here at home." Harald read the lines until the ink blurred. The fear of the unknown journey to England remained, but it was now forged with a coat of mail. He had a reason to survive the Spitfire. He had a reason to come home to the city by the waterfall.