Where Eagles Dare

“I agree with Schaffer,” Carraciola said reasonably. “Let's get as much as we can behind us. What do you think, Olaf ?” This to Christiansen.

“It doesn't matter what Christiansen thinks.” Smith's voice was quiet but cold as the mountain air itself. “Nor you, Carraciola. This isn't a round-table seminar, it's a military operation. Military operations have leaders. Like it or not, Admiral Rolland put me in charge. We stay here tonight. Get the stuff across.”

The five men looked speculatively at one another, then stooped to lift the supplies. There was no longer any question as to who was in charge.

“We pitch the tents right away, boss?” Schaffer asked.

“Yes.” In Schaffer's book, Smith reflected, “boss” was probably a higher mark of respect than either “Major” or “sir”. “Then hot food, hot coffee and a try for London on the radio. Haul that rope down, Christiansen. Come the dawn, we don't want to start giving heart attacks to any binocular-toting characters in the Schloss Adler.”

Christiansen nodded, began to haul on the rope. As the free end rose into the air, Smith gave a shout, jumped towards Christiansen and caught his arm. Christiansen, startled, stopped pulling and looked round.

“Jesus!” Smith drew the back of his hand across his forehead. “That was a dose one.”

“What's up?” Shaffer asked quickly.

“Two of you. Hoist me up. Quickly! Before that damn rope disappears.”

Two of them hoisted him into the air. Smith reached up and caught the dangling end of the rope, dropped to earth, taking the rope with him and then very carefully, very securely, tied it to the other end of the rope.

“Now that you've quite finished—” Torrance-Smythe said politely.

“The radio.” Smith let out a long sigh of relief. “There's only one list of frequencies, call signs and code. Security. And that one list is inside Sergeant Hatred's tunic.”

“Mind if I mop my brow, too, boss?” Schaffer enquired.

“I'll go get it for you if you like,” Christiansen volunteered.

“Thanks. But it's my fault and I'll get it. Besides, I'm the only person here who's done any climbing—or so I believe from Colonel Wyatt-Turner—and I think you'd find that cliff rather more awkward to climb than descend. No hurry. Let's bivouac and eat first.”

“If you can't do better than this, Smithy,” Schaffer said to Torrance-Smythe, “you can have a week's notice. Starting from a week ago.” He scraped the bottom of his metal plate and shuddered. “I was brought up in a Christian home, so I won't tell you what this reminds me of.”

“It's not my fault,” Torrance-Smythe complained. “They packed the wrong size tin-openers.” He stirred the indeterminate-looking goulash in the pot on top of the butane stove and looked hopefully at the men seated in a rough semi-circle in the dimly-lit tent. “Anyone for any more?”

“That's not funny,” Schaffer said severely,

“Wait till you try his coffee,” Smith advised, “and you'll be wondering what you were complaining about.” He rose, poked his head through the door to take a look at the weather, looked inside again. “May take me an hour. But if it's been drifting up there ...”

The seated men, suddenly serious, nodded. If it had been drifting up there it might take Smith a very long time indeed to locate Sergeant Harrod.

“It's a bad night,” Schaffer said. “I'll come and give you a hand.”

“Thanks. No need. I'll haul myself up and lower myself down. A rope round a piton is no elevator, but it'll get me there and back and two are no better than one for that job. But I'll tell you what you can do.” He moved, out and reappeared shortly afterwards carrying the radio which he placed in front of Schaffer. “I don't want to go all the way up there to get the code-book just to find that some hobnailed idiot has fallen over this and given it a heart attack. Guard it with your life, Lieutenant Schaffer.”

“Aye, aye, sir,” Schaffer said solemnly.

With a hammer and a couple of spare pitons hanging from his waist, Smith secured himself to the rope, with double bowline and belt as before, grabbed the free end of the rope and began to haul himself up. Smith's statement to the others that this was a job for a mountaineer seemed hardly accurate for the amount of mountaineering skill required was minimal. It was gruelling physical labour, no more. Most of the time, with his legs almost at right angles to his body, he walked up the vertical cliff face: on the stretch of the overhang, with no assistance for his arms, he twice had to take a turn of the free end of the rope and rest until the strength came back to aching shoulder and forearm muscles: and by the time he finally dragged himself, gasping painfully and sweating like a man in a sauna bath, over the edge of the cliff, exhaustion was very dose indeed. He had overlooked the crippling effect of altitude to a man unaccustomed to it.