Where Eagles Dare

“Roughly. He'll be all right, Major. A twisted ankle, a bump on the head. Not to worry.”

“Use your torches,” Smith said abruptly. “Spread out. Find him.”

With two men on one side of him, three on the other, all within interlocking distance of their torch beams, Smith searched through the snow, his flash-light raking the ground ahead of him. If he shared Schaffer's optimism about Harrod, his face didn't show it. It was set and grim. Three minutes passed and then came a shout from the right. Smith broke into a run.

Carraciola, it was who had called and was now standing at the farther edge of a wind-swept outcrop of bare rock, his torch shining downwards and slightly ahead. Beyond the rock the ground fell away abruptly to a depth of several feet and in this lee a deep drift had formed. Half-buried in its white depths, Sergeant Harrod lay spread-eagled on his back, his feet almost touching the rock, his face upturned to the falling snow, his eyes open. He did not seem to notice the snow falling on his eyes.

They were all there now, staring down at die motionless man. Smith jumped down into the drift, dropped to his knees, slid an arm under Harrod's shoulders and began to lift him to a sitting position. Harrod's head lolled back like that of a broken rag doll. Smith lowered him back into the snow and felt for the pulse in the throat. Still kneeling, Smith straightened, paused for a moment with bent head then climbed wearily to his feet.

“Dead?” Carraciola asked.

“He's dead. His neck is broken.” Smith's face was without expression. “He must have got caught up in the shrouds and made a bad landing.”

“It happens,” Schaffer said. “I've known it happen.” A long pause, then: “Shall I take the radio, sir?”

Smith nodded. Schaffer dropped to his knees and began to fumble for the buckle of the strap securing the radio to Harrod's back.

Smith said: “Sorry, no, not that way. There's a key around his neck, under his tunic. It fits the lock under the flap of the breast buckle.”

Schaffer located the key, unlocked the buckle after some difficulty, eased the straps off the dead man's shoulders and finally managed to work the radio clear. He rose to his feet, the radio dangling from his hand, and looked at Smith.

“Second thoughts, what's the point. Any fall hard enough to break his neck wouldn't have done the innards of this radio any good.”

Wordlessly, Smith took the radio, set it on the rock, extended the antenna, set the switch to “Transmit”, and cranked the call-up handle. The red tell-tale glowed, showing the transmission circuit to be in order. Smith turned the switch to receive, turned up the volume, moved the tuning knob, listened briefly to some static-laden music, closed up the radio set and handed it back to Schaffer.

“It made a better landing than Sergeant Harrod,” Smith said briefly. “Come on.”

“We bury him, Major?” Carraciola asked.

“No need.” Smith shook his head and gestured with his torch at the drifting snow. “He'll be buried within the hour. Let's find the supplies.”

“Now, for God's sake don't lose your grip!” Thomas said urgently.

“That's the trouble with you Celts,” Schaffer said reprovingly. “No faith in anyone. There is no cause for alarm. Your life is in the safe hands of Schaffer and Christiansen. Not to worry.”

“What else do you think I'm worrying about?”

“If we all start sliding,” Schaffer said encouragingly, “we won't let you go until the last possible minute.”

Thomas gave a last baleful glance over his shoulder and then began to edge himself out over the black lip of the precipice. Schaffer and Christiansen had an ankle apiece, and they in turn were anchored by the others. As far as the beam of Thomas's torch could reach, the cliff stretching down into the darkness was absolutely vertical, black naked rock with the only fissures in sight blocked with ice and with otherwise never a hand- or foot-hold.

“I've seen all I want to,” he said over his shoulder. They pulled him back and he edged his way carefully up to their supply pile before getting to his feet. He prodded the pack with the skis protruding from one end.

“Very handy,” he said morosely. “Oh, very handy for this lot indeed.”

“As steep as that?” Smith asked.

“Vertical. Smooth as glass and: you can't see the bottom. How deep do you reckon it is, Major?”

“Who knows?” Smith shrugged. “We're seven thousand feet up. Maps never give details at this altitude. Break out that nylon.”