The Hornet's Sting (7 page)

Denham and Fleet betrayed no prior knowledge of the installation. If Oxlund’s thick envelope had arrived at the British Legation as intended the previous summer, these officers seemed determined to give the impression that they had not seen it. But Denham had been around long enough to know when he was being told something important. He quickly excused himself, giving the impression that he hoped to contact London for further guidance on what action to take in light of what he had just heard. Tommy barely had time to ask him if he could be put on the next available flight to Britain, so that he could join the RAF and fight the Luftwaffe.

‘Well done on the sea-planes, Flight Lieutenant Sneum,’ said Fleet in his colleague’s absence. ‘We might be able to do something with those. By the way, there’s a Mosquito arriving in Stockholm in the next few days. We should be able to pull a few strings to get you over to Britain on that.’

An elated Sneum felt as though he had almost made it to London already. He chatted for what seemed like hours to Fleet about the situation in Denmark, and what the British might do to undermine the Germans there. Finally they were interrupted by the return of Denham, who was noticeably more intense than before. ‘Look, I’ve got a proposal for you,’ he said.

‘First I have one for you,’ cut in Sneum. ‘There are about twenty Danish pilots, skilled in their jobs, just like me, men who want nothing more than to join the Allied forces and fight the Nazis. There is a large expanse of water at Lake Tissoe, near the west coast of Zealand, where they can be ready for you on any given night. All you have to do is send a message through to one of my people in Denmark. I can give you some names. Lake Tissoe is as big and as easy to recognize as any rendezvous point you could think of. One of your Sunderland flying boats will have no trouble finding it, especially if I coordinate everything.’

‘How could you do that from England?’ asked Fleet.

Tommy didn’t hesitate: ‘If I receive a guarantee in London that the Sunderland will be sent, I’ll volunteer to parachute back into Denmark and prepare my friends for the pick-up.’

Both Englishmen could see that Sneum was deadly serious. ‘We could arrange that for you in theory,’ said Denham cautiously. ‘But maybe you won’t have to parachute into Denmark. Not if you’re already there for us.’

Tommy sensed he was about to be told something he didn’t want to hear. ‘I had hoped you could get me to England,’ he reiterated with as much insistence as he dared show.

But Denham was equally stubborn. ‘This installation of yours on Fanoe may be more important, I’m afraid,’ he explained. ‘We need to understand exactly how these things work. Get as much technical detail as we can.’

‘I don’t see what more I could do,’ replied Sneum.

‘You could take photographs,’ suggested Denham.

Tommy almost laughed. He imagined strolling nonchalantly around the restricted areas like a tourist, taking snaps at will.

‘You could use a little Leica,’ continued Denham calmly. ‘Nothing too conspicuous. And if that works out, you could use a Movikon camera. They take moving pictures.’

Sneum couldn’t believe his ears. Make a film? But he agreed, and at that moment effectively became a British agent. He was well aware that his first assignment was only one step short of a suicide mission, despite Denham’s casual description of what was required. But Thomas Sneum wasn’t the sort to back out of a challenge.

B
Y THE LAST WEEK of March 1941, Tommy Sneum was ready to take Leica and Movikon cameras across to Fanoe on the ferry from Esbjerg. He wore his naval uniform, including a billowing cloak, to make it easier to hide the bulky cameras. As he stood on the ferry deck and took in the crisp spring air, the engines began to rumble in preparation for departure. Then they suddenly stopped, and Tommy stumbled across the most amazing piece of good fortune. Lifted on board at the last moment by crane was what looked like a control cabin for one of the Fanoe radar towers. As it landed with a jolt on the lower deck, its door was flung open to reveal the internal workings in all their glory. So that the ferry could leave without too much delay, the control cabin was secured rather hastily with ropes at an awkward angle. Crucially, the door was left open in the rush. The excitement was still visible in Tommy’s eyes decades later when he said with a smile: ‘I couldn’t believe it. This was too good to be true, and I wasn’t about to miss my chance.’

He peered down from the upper deck at this priceless piece of intelligence then looked around him carefully. No one seemed to have noticed the attention he was paying to the cargo. But there was no time to waste as he reached for his Leica, pointed it at the control cabin and prayed that he had focused correctly. With adrenalin racing through his veins, he snapped three pictures. He winced at every click of the shutter, hoping the stiff sea breezeould carry the sound away before it reached the wrong ears. Holding his nerve, he took a few paces to the right and left, taking more shots from a variety of angles before deciding to quit while he was ahead.

With the Leica tucked safely back inside his cloak, Tommy sat down and tried to make himself as inconspicuous as possible. Combat, he imagined, could scarcely be more exhilarating than this. As he disembarked at Fanoe without so much as a second glance from the Germans waiting to unload their control cabin, he felt as though he had achieved a massive victory in his one-man war. ‘It was one of the most dangerous moments but also one of the most satisfying,’ he observed later.

Encouraged by such a dramatic change in fortune, Sneum was soon ready to take the Leica to the Fanoe installation. Before he set out, he hid the camera under his windcheater jacket, leaving his arms free to carry his shotgun. He thought nothing of risking the wrath of the occupiers by sporting a shotgun again so soon after dispatching the Alsatian. And it was still vital that he had a cover story to explain his presence so close to the installation, so he bagged himself a few rabbits on the open heathland. They made handy props, though Tommy suspected that any guards who remembered him from the previous year might not be easily fooled.

Using the trees and dunes as cover, Sneum observed the routine of the guards as they patrolled the fences that surrounded the installation. The plane-tracking devices were only just inside the perimeter, so in theory they could be photographed without even breaking in. Tommy waited for a window of opportunity. When one guard walked past, there was a gap of a good minute before another came into view, marching from the opposite direction. If that pattern remained consistent, he thought he could get the pictures he wanted; but if there was any unexpected variation in the Germans’ routine, he feared he would be caught with the camera. Thumbscrews, pliers and whips were all favored tools when German interrogators questioned suspected spies. An agent who couldn’t cope with the pain, and revealed his mission to the Nazis, could then expect a firing squad at the end of his ordeal.

Tommy watched the first guard disappear out of sight, and raced forward to take pictures of the huge towers through the fence. Then he reterated in the nick of time, and waited for the next gap in the German patrol. With growing faith in his hit-and-run technique, he photographed the giant contraptions from a variety of angles. But he knew this was a high-risk strategy, and decided it was better to escape with what he had than to look for the perfect picture. Hiding his camera for the last time, he began his reterat. Each step towards safety filled him with elation and relief. By the time he had returned to the Sneum family home in Soenderho, on the southern tip of the island, Tommy couldn’t wait to contact Kaj Oxlund with news of what he had achieved.

In April 1941, Oxlund arranged a hasty business trip to Sweden and took with him scores of superb still pictures of the Fanoe radar installation. He negotiated the border checks unchallenged, and took a night train to Stockholm. Reaching the Strandvagen peninsula, he presented the precious intelligence to a grateful Denham and Fleet at the British Legation. The triumphant return journey, free of all incriminating evidence, was dampened only by the disappointing fact that he had received no guarantee that the British would send a Sunderland to Lake Tissoe to pick up the Danish officers who wished to serve the Allies.

For Tommy Sum, meanwhile, the most dangerous part of his mission still lay ahead. He knew that the next time he trekked north to the Fanoe installation, he would face a stiffer challenge. To use the Leica was one thing; to use the Movikon right under the noses of the Germans would be quite another. And he didn’t think he would succeed without an accomplice to watch his back. He chose a fellow islander and resistance sympathizer known simply as Peter to act as an extra pair of eyes. For speed and mobility, they would travel to the vicinity of the installation on bicycles. The alternative, a long march with the large Movikon bulging under his jacket, would be asking for trouble.

As they set out with their shotguns to kill some more props before they reached the trees and dunes of the north, Sneum began to wonder whether his objective was entirely realistic. To capture the early-warning devices in action, as they rotated and searched the sky for planes, he would need to stay in one position for a considerable length of time. The fir trees which bordered the installation on one side might provide the cover he required, but would they allow him an adequately clear view of the target for effective filming?

Half an hour later Tommy and Peter were approaching the installation when the vast rectangular sensors started to turn slowly in the distance, probably as they followed a friendly Junker or Messerschmitt in the sky. Though the Danes hadn’t yet reached the cover of the trees, this was the moment for which Tommy had waited. On impulse, he decided to abandon his bicycle and begin filming immediately. At least he would have something in the can before he assessed whether it was feasible to film from any nearer. He removed the Movikon from under his windcheater, crept a little closer and turned round to give Peter an encouraging wink before he started up the camera. Crouching low, he then focused the lens. He heard a worrying rattle and then a gentle whirring that signalled the automatic rotation of the reel. Every second seemed to last a lifetime, but he had to hold firm and capture in full the revolving action of the German installation. Suddenly, fifty meters behind him, he heard a frantic scrambling. ‘There’s somebody coming,’ hissed Peter as he dashed for his bike and pedalled away for all he was worth. Sneum stopped filming, turned and tucked the Movikon back inside his jacket. Then he spun round to identify the source of his companion’s anxiety. A German guard, pointing a rifle menacingly, was marching directly towards him from less than a hundred meters away.

Tommy recalled what happened next:

When the German had reterated, Sneum pulled up his trousers and walked briskly back to his bicycle. He pedalled off as nonchalantly as he could, amazed that he was still a free man. The radar installation had been recorded in action, but filming it had almost cost Tommy his life. Had the guard been more experienced and refused to accept his story, there would have been no way out.

Tommy could have quit at this stage, while he was ahead. But he imagined the reaction of Denham and Fleet if he crossed over to Sweden with no more footage. ‘It’s good work, old chap,’ Denham would say. ‘But it isn’t very clear from that distance. Would you mind going back for us and getting in closer?’

Even before he reached Soenderho that night, and registered a familiar, disapproving look from Else, Tommy knew that he would have to return to the installation. ‘I’d chosen this business now and I had to see it through,’ he explained later. This time, however, he would face the threat of the German guards and their dogs alone.