Word: norwegians
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Under normal conditions, the Norwegians could outjump most of the rest of the world on one leg. In the first half of the two-part Nordic combined event (jumping and cross-country), they went about proving it. Norway took the first five places. The best mark: a formful, 223-ft. flight by thick-set Simon Slaattvik, who, back home, runs a locomotive on the Norwegian state railways. His jumps gave Slaattvik a good lead in the Nordic, but he still had the rugged, 18-kilometer (11.2-mile) cross-country trek ahead of him. The man he knew he would have...
...winter sport: the individual jumping championships. Forty contestants in all sped down the runway, soared off the lip of the tower and jackknifed forward in the long dive into space. When it was all over, Norway had done it again; six of the first eight places had gone to Norwegians. The champ: a 21-year-old Norwegian farmer, Hans Björnstad, who made jumps of 224 and 223 ft. Sixth place went to former U.S. Amateur Champion Artie Devlin of Lake Placid. His jumps of 220 and 219 ft. were second only to Björnstad...
...certain to become a minor classic of its kind: British Captain Russell Grenfell's The Bismarck Episode, a terse description of the pursuit and destruction of the mighty German battleship in the greatest sea hunt in naval history. Of the books of personal war experiences, two were outstanding: Norwegian Odd Nansen's From Day to Day, a grim report, set down with dignity, of what he saw as a prisoner in various German concentration camps; and Briton F. Spencer Chap man's The Jungle Is Neutral, an expertly written story of his life as a guerrilla soldier...
Coal Mines & Graveyards. Actually he is not. The son of a Norwegian immigrant, he was born on Christmas Day of 1887 in little (pop. 500) San Antonio, N.Mex. His father, August Holver Hilton, parlayed a jug of whisky into the town's general store, livery stable, and eventually a coal mine, which made him one of the richest men in that part of the country...
That night, while the weather lay thick and foul over the Norwegian coast, the control tower at Oslo airport received a garbled message from the DC-3's pilot. Forty-two hours later, after searching parties had scoured the countryside in vain, a lumberjack walking near Oslo Fjord heard the thin cry of a child. He found the wreckage of the DC-3; sitting primly in his seat in the plane's tail, his safety belt fastened, rain-soaked and spattered with oil, was Isaac Allal...