Sic Transit Gloria Mundi

"Thus passes the worldly glory"

Two identity discs belonging to a British World War II dive-bomber pilot are uncovered in a partially collapsed German bunker located near Bergen, Norway. The pilot's plane was presumed lost in 1944, crashing into the cold North Sea, hundreds of kilometers to the north. A British Fleet Commander, the great-grandson of the pilot, travels to Norway to investigate, uncovering intertwined stories of heroism and romance.

This story was written for the Oggbashan Memorial Event 2024. Ogg was a long-time Literotica writer, an enthusiastic presence on the forums, and heroism is a common theme among his almost 500 stories. Both Ogg and his father served in the British Admiralty, the department of government overseeing the Royal Navy. To honour both, this story features an air operation conducted by the Royal Navy's Fleet Air Arm.

This is a story of heroism and bravery, and thus the sex scenes take a while to develop. Set during World War II, some tragedy and violent acts are described. The story is fiction, as are the main characters, however, many events described are real, and the author has attempted to portray them as accurately as possible. Any similarity to real people is purely coincidental.

This story is set in current times, but looks back on an earlier story written in a diary. To help readers differentiate, the diary readings are in italics.

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Present Day. Tromsø, Norway

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Having finished cleaning up my breakfast dishes, I was surprised when my cell phone rang. It was a call from my 78-year-old grandmother. I feared something might be wrong.

"Hello, Eira! There are two soldiers here at my house. Can you come over right away?"

I asked, "Did they say what they want?"

"Something about information regarding my mother."

"Sure, Mormor, I'll be right over."

My mind wandered between curiosity and concern as I made the ten-minute drive to my grandmother's house. My grandmother was slender and in good health, very active, and mentally alert. She has proven herself able to manage this type of thing by herself. When I arrived, I went inside. A captain in the Norwegian Air Force and a Wing Commander in the British Royal Air Force stood and introduced themselves. They both appeared to be in their early forties, a little older than me.

Wing Commander Trevor Bramwell said he was in Tromsø for a ceremony at the Commonwealth Cemetery, the most northerly of all Commonwealth cemeteries, and the resting place of merchantmen, sailors, and pilots who died in the Arctic during World War II. Captain Torstein Berge is with a helicopter squadron of the Maritime Helicopter Wing of the 139 Air Wing based at the Bardufoss Flystasjon, about an hour south of Tromsø.

I joined my grandmother on the sofa, and Captain Berge spoke. "Two young men were exploring an old German bunker near the harbor area in Bergen. After clearing away some rubble, they made a tunnel that continued on the other side of the opening. Crawling through, they discovered four rooms, and inside one was an old suitcase. We believe the suitcase has remained buried and untouched since late 1944, when Bergen was hit several times by Allied bombers."

He looked at my grandmother and continued. "After matching identity papers found inside the suitcase against government records, we believe the suitcase may have once belonged to Sanna Syverstad, your mother." He opened his briefcase, pulled out a small plastic bag, and handed it to my grandmother. "Here are the identity papers, a small amount of money, and two pieces of jewelry. The rest of the contents could not be salvaged."

I wondered why two military officers would come to Tromsø for something as simple as this. I questioned, "Thank you. But why come all the way north merely to deliver these things?"

"An excellent question," chirped the British officer. "Hidden inside a concealed compartment in the suitcase were a pair of identity discs from a pilot in the Fleet Air Arm of the Royal Navy. He participated in an attack near Alta on the German battleship, Tirpitz, in April 1944. On the way back to his aircraft carrier, his squadron was under radio silence to prevent the Germans from locating the five aircraft carriers. Out over the North Sea, another pilot noticed a vapour trail behind his plane, likely from the fuel tank being hit by flak. The pilot turned back towards land but was presumed to have run out of fuel and crashed into the North Sea. Therein lies the mystery. How did his identity discs end up in a suitcase, inside a German bunker, hundreds of kilometers to the south? I must state my personal interest in this case, because the pilot was Lieutenant Aubrey Martin, my great-grandfather."

Wing Commander Bramwell continued, "After discovering the identity discs, we now believe the pilot reached land and crashed somewhere along the coast in northern Norway. My family would like to recover the remains and return them to England for proper burial. But to do that, we must first solve the mystery of the suitcase. Would you have any family stories from the war, photographs, or other records you would be willing to share?"

Mormor said, "We kept a box of my mother Sanna's things. I haven't looked at them for many, many years. Let me get the box." My grandmother left and quickly returned with a small wooden box, then opened it. "Look! Here is my mother's marriage license from 1939. That year, she married Dagfinn Syverstad, from Alesund. She also kept some identity papers from the war for her and her husband."

"I saw samples of similar papers at the Resistance Museum in Oslo," said the British officer.

Mormor said, "Here is an old book. I think it was my mother's diary."

"May I see it?" asked the Wing Commander.

My grandmother handed him the book and he flipped through the pages. "It looks like a diary. I'm guessing, but the date on the first page looks like April 1940, the month the Germans invaded Norway, and the last page ends in June 1945, a month after Germany surrendered. But the diary is written in Norwegian. Might one of you be willing to translate it?"

Captain Berge said, "Translating five years of a personal diary might take quite a while. I have other duties waiting for me back at Bardufoss. I'll drive up tomorrow morning, Trevor, pick you up at your hotel, and take you to the airport for your flight back to London. Call me if you need help with anything else."

I offered my services, "There is no need for you to drive 100 kilometers just to take him to the airport. I have an auto, and could drop him off."

"Thank you," replied Captain Berge. "I'll show myself out." He nodded, then left.

The British officer handed the diary to my grandmother who suggested, "Eira, your eyes are better than mine. Would you mind?"

She passed the diary to me and I opened it. After skimming a few pages I announced, "It looks like the entries are marked by month, rather than specific days. Some months have general information, while others have multiple events from different days. Many sections are just a few lines or fragments of simple thoughts. A few have longer text."

My grandmother said proudly, "It sounds like you know the Germans invaded Norway in 1940, but what you may not know is that after Oslo fell, King Haakon VII and the rest of the Norwegian government came right here to Tromsø. They stayed for several weeks before escaping to London. The war years were difficult for the people of Norway, but we made those years even more difficult for the Germans!"

Wing Commander Bramwell suggested, "If you will, perhaps we can skip the first few years. I'm interested in events starting in 1944."

I turned the pages quickly. "Here it is, January 1944."

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January 1944

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My husband Dagfinn and I have heard rumors of more active resistance to the Germans. Dagfinn talked with close friends and discovered they were members of the Resistance. They said there is a clandestine ferry service of ships leaving from Bergen and going to Scotland, called the Shetland Bus. They move agents, wireless sets, and military supplies to Norway, and transport messages, refugees, and downed pilots back to England. However, the Resistance needed to find smaller fishing boats to move people and supplies covertly along the coast. Dagfinn agreed to take our fishing boat to Bergen to see if he could help. While he was away, he told me to keep our shortwave radio and my diary hidden so the Germans would not find them.

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February 1944

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There was a knock on my door. When I opened it, I saw one of Dagfinn's friends, a local Resistance leader. He told me three Resistance members were watching in Bergen when Dagfinn's boat docked. As planned, two British agents walked out to the boat, but the Germans were waiting and began firing their machine pistols. Both agents were killed, but Dagfinn managed to jump into the water. Several German soldiers rushed to the end of the dock and began firing into the water. Dagfinn never came up. I have written this, so I remember, but I am devastated and can write no more.

I am back. I always thought danger was just a lingering presence, something to be feared but never seen. Like the icy draugr, the undead Norse beings, with their pale white skin and glowing blue eyes, as they stare at you from the misty darkness of the deep forests. But with the Germans in Norway, danger is not a myth. Rather, safety is. What am I to do now? Should I mourn the death of Dagfinn? Or cling to the hope that he somehow escaped and will return to me? I am stuck in the middle, torn between hope and despair. There are no remains for a proper burial. No way for me to say my final farewell. This unending war is so terrible. How many others across the globe are like me? My greatest fear is that my Dagfinn is gone, forever.

"That's wrong!" shouted my grandmother. Dagfinn is my father. There is a photograph of him on the wall, taken in 1946. Something must be wrong with the diary."

The British officer said, "Ah yes, the fog of war. During wartime, many things were unclear. There are many stories of soldiers and airmen who were presumed dead, but then returned after the war. Being a fisherman, Dagfinn was probably a good swimmer. He may have escaped, or been captured by the Gestapo, or perhaps the witnesses identified the wrong man."

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March 1944

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Lonely days and cold, empty nights without Dagfinn. Another gloomy twilight approaches, casting long shadows on my walls. I sit alone by the fireplace, with only dying embers left to warm me. Everything is quiet, so I close my eyes. All of my thoughts and feelings are turned into mere whispers. Memories and images of Dagfinn come to me, but I am unable to reach out and touch them. They slowly drift past then quickly vanish, like an angel passing through my room.

A Resistance leader stopped by and offered me his condolences. Dagfinn had planned to take two agents from Bergen and drop them off near Alesund, his hometown, where he knew the waters well. Afterward, he was to remain in northern Norway instead of making the long run to Bergen and become part of a shuttle of local fishing boats covering the region. He told me the Resistance in Bergen discovered an informer, which is why the Germans were there watching the docks. I began crying. Not only were the Norwegian people fighting a lonely battle against the Germans, but now, we also had to fight ourselves.

I have no other income, so I started working part-time at the fish plant. Food is scarce. I tried selling my furniture, dishes, and jewelry, but there were no buyers because no one had any money. I trade what I can for ration tickets, but what good are they if none of the markets have any bread or butter to sell?

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April 1944

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I hate the Germans more than ever and refuse to sit idle! I contacted a Resistance member who knew Dagfinn. I can speak German, Norwegian, and English, and I have a shortwave radio. I offered to listen to the BBC newscasts from London and translate them into Norwegian. Others have been doing so with broadcasts from Sweden. This allows the people of Norway to get reliable news rather than German propaganda. The Resistance in Tromsø has started publishing an underground newspaper. We want people to know what is happening inside and outside our country. The mere act of passing a newspaper to a friend is a passive form of resistance, and keeps us united, with everyone doing their part to resist the Germans.

"April is the month of my great-grandfather's raid," said the British officer. "Is there nothing more?"

"No. That's all," I replied.

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May 1944

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Resistance leaders told me London was desperate for information on German activities in Norway. The leaders asked me if I would help gather information from German soldiers. London especially wants to know about German ship and troop movements. The leaders said I was young, attractive, and spoke the German language well. Also, Germans do not often suspect women to be members of the Resistance. I am to talk with German soldiers here in Tromsø and act friendly. They warned me not to seduce them, to remain in public places, and never to be alone with them. I began to seek out German soldiers I saw in town and discovered that many were lonely, ordinary men, hoping to go home one day to their loved ones. The Germans rarely get to interact with Norwegians, since part of our passive resistance is to avoid them. The soldiers are willing to talk, and I listen to them. Afterward, I pass the information to my contact in the Resistance, who passes it on to local Resistance leaders. Then, a wireless radio operator hiding here in Tromsø transmits that information to London.

I paused as Wing Commander Bramwell said, "Wireless operators were in constant danger of discovery by German radio detection finders. The British set up a branch called the Special Operations Executive, or SOE, to train agents to go into German-held countries as wireless operators. They were the link between London and field operatives, passing information back and forth. It was extremely dangerous, but many wireless operators working behind enemy lines were women. In France, they rarely lasted more than two months before being captured. Despite knowing this, the women still went."

My neighbors see me with the Germans, and every day I fear they will accuse me of being a Quisling, a supporter of the false government of Vidkun Quisling, or worse, a collaborator with the Germans. Everyone in Tromsø, even people I know, are shunning me. I have become a victim of the 'Ice Front', where Norwegians avoid public contact with the Germans and do not speak with them. The cold and hostile feelings towards the Germans are to make them feel unwelcome. I never thought I would experience the Ice Front myself. Resistance leaders offered to stand up for me, but I refused. If they spoke, and the Germans learned what I was doing, it would be the end.

As I thought about what I just read, I said, "That is real heroism. It is one thing to stand up for a lone act of courage, but quite another to risk your life every day, while every friend you once knew turns against you."

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Present Day - Tromsø, Norway

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My grandmother added, "My mother encouraged me to learn English when I was young. She told me before the war many Norwegians spoke German. But after the occupation, there were strong anti-German feelings. Few were willing to speak the language. But right now, it is time for lunch. Let me fix you two something." She got up and went into the kitchen.

Wing Commander Bramwell looked my way, "When you are not translating eighty-year-old diaries, what else do you do to keep busy? And please, call me Trevor."

"Not much, Trevor. Two years ago, my husband died in an explosion on an offshore oil rig. I received a generous settlement, and they provided me with a pension covering his salary. I don't need to work, but idleness is not as great a thing as it seems. I want to find something interesting to do. Tromsø has always been a fishing town, and I am considering investing in a boat."

Trevor said, "I'm sorry to hear about your husband. During university, I spent summers working on a fishing boat, sailing out of northern Scotland. We spent time in the North Sea. Even in summer, it got pretty rough at times. It was challenging work, but the pay was good. It sounds like your great-grandmother led quite an interesting life. I'm afraid my great-grandmother never kept a diary, so all I have are bits and pieces passed down from generation to generation. My great-grandmother's war story is that she met my great-grandfather, Aubrey, and they had a quick war-time affair. She wanted to get married, but he wanted to wait until after the war before committing. One day in 1944, he went off on his bombing mission but never came back. He never knew it, but he left my great-grandmother with child. That child was my grandfather. After the war, she remarried, had three more children, and lived a full and happy life."

"Lunch is served!" called out my grandmother. We enjoyed open-face sandwiches with salmon or ham, cheese, and butter.

"Norway is a beautiful country," said Trevor. "Captain Berge took me to the Resistance Museum in Oslo and showed me around the city. The scenery just traveling around your country is incredible. The combination of mountains and fjords is like nothing I've ever seen. I have almost 20 years in the RAF and hope to reach my full 25. After I retire, I would like to get married and settle down somewhere. I have always felt that military life is hard on both partners and when I finally find the right woman, I want to devote 110% to her."

"We like it here," smiled my grandmother. "I was born and raised here in Tromsø. It is a special place, with special people, in a special country."

"But it is really far north," said Trevor. "What's it like in winter?"

I chimed in, "It's cold and dark and positively wonderful. It's my favorite time of year. There are so many things to do in winter, beyond looking at the Northern Lights. Tromsø is the Gateway to the Arctic. There are few places like it left on earth."

After lunch, I resumed reading the diary.

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June 1944

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A BBC broadcast announced the Allies invaded France at a place called Normandy. There is fierce fighting. I pray for the soldiers and their success. Things have not changed here in Norway. The Germans still hold a tight grip on my country.

There was a knock on my door late one night and I feared the worst. When I opened the door, I saw my Resistance contact, along with three other men. I invited them in to avoid prying eyes. My contact told me one of the men was a British pilot who crashed in northern Norway after an air raid on a German battleship.

"That's him!" shouted an excited Trevor. "My great-grandfather! Aubrey was alive! He didn't crash in the North Sea! And now we have established the connection with your great-grandmother." He bowed his head, resting it in one of his hands. I can only imagine the emotions he was feeling right now, so I waited for him to look up again. "Please continue," he said.

One of the men said he was a fisherman in his village of Oksfjord. One morning, he saw a plane crash along the shoreline. When he reached the crash, he found the severely injured pilot along with two dead crewmen. He hid the plane as best he could with fishing nets and tree branches, and took the pilot to his village. He asked us never to tell the Germans about this, for fear they would take vengeance like they did at Telavåg. There, the locals hid two British agents, but an informer leaked that information to the Gestapo. When the Gestapo moved in to arrest the British agents, two of the Gestapo officers were killed. The Germans dynamited every house, imprisoned all the women, and sent the men off to labor camps. The people of Oksfjord cared for the British pilot as best they could, but he did not speak Norwegian, and there were no doctors in Oksfjord.