Where Eagles Dare

Smith smiled again, straightened from his cramped position behind the pilots' seats, left the flight-deck and moved aft into the Lancaster's fuselage. Here in this cold, bleak and forbidding compartment, which resembled nothing so much as an iron tomb, the impression of the Siberian boiler factory was redoubled. The noise level was so high as to be almost intolerable, the cold was intense and metal-ribbed metal walls, dripping with condensation, made no concessions whatsoever to creature comfort. Nor did the six metal-framed canvas seats bolted to the floor, functionalism gone mad. Any attempt to introduce those sadistically designed instruments of torture in H.M. penitentiaries would have caused a national outcry.

Huddled in those six chairs sat six men, probably, Smith reflected, the six most miserable men he'd ever seen. Like himself, each of the six was dressed in the uniform of the German Alpine Corps. Like himself, each man wore two parachutes. All were shivering constantly, stamping their feet and beating their arms, and their frozen breath hung heavy in the ice-chill air. Facing them, along the upper starboard side of the fuselage, ran a taut metal wire which passed over the top of the doorway. On to this wire were clipped snap-catches, wires from which led down to folded parachutes resting on top of an assortment of variously shaped bundles, the contents of only one of which could be identified by the protruding ends of several pairs of skis.

The nearest parachutist, a dark intense man with Latin features, looked up at Smith's arrival. He had never, Smith thought, seen Edward Carraciola look quite so unhappy.

“Well?” Carraciola's voice was just as unhappy as his face. “I'll bet he's no more bloody idea where we are than I have.”

“He does seem to navigate his way across Europe by opening his window and sniffing the air from time to time,” Smith admitted. “But I wouldn't worry—”

He broke off as a sergeant air-gunner entered from the rear, carrying a can of steaming coffee and enamel mugs.

“Neither would I, sir.” The sergeant smiled tolerantly. “The Wing Commander has his little ways. Coffee, gentlemen? Back at base he claims that he reads detective novels all the time and depends upon one of the gunners telling him from time to time where we are.”

Smith cradled frozen hands round the coffee mug. “Do you know where we are?”

“Of course, sir.” He seemed genuinely surprised, then nodded to the metal rungs leading to the upper machine-gun turret. “Just nip up there, sir, and look down to your right.”

Smith lifted an enquiring eyebrow, handed over his mug, climbed the ladder and peered down to his right through the Perspex dome of the turret cupola. For a few seconds only the darkness filled his eyes then gradually, far below and seen dimly through the driving snow, he could make out a ghostly luminescence in the night, a luminescence which gradually resolved itself into a criss-cross pattern of illuminated streets. For a brief moment only Smith's face registered total disbelief then quickly returned to its normal dark stillness.

“Well, well.” He retrieved his coffee. “Somebody should tell them down there. The lights are supposed to be out all over Europe.”

“Not in Switzerland, sir,” the sergeant explained patiently. “That's Basle.”

“Basle?” Smith stared at him. “Basle! Good God, he's gone seventy or eighty miles off course. The flight plan routed us north of Strasbourg.”

“Yes, sir.” The sergeant air-gunner was unabashed. “The Wing Commander says he doesn't understand flight plans.” He grinned, half apologetically. “To tell the truth, sir, this is our milk-run into the Vorarlberg. We fly east along the Swiss frontier, then south of Schaffhausen—”

“But that's over Swiss territory!”

“Is it? On a clear night you can see the lights of Zurich. They say Wing Commander Carpenter has a room permanently reserved for him there in the Baur-au-Lac.”

“What?”

“He says if it's a choice between a prisoner-of-war camp in Germany and internment in Switzerland he knows which side of the frontier he's coming down on ... After that we fly down the Swiss side of Lake Constance, turn east at Lindau, climb to eight thousand to clear the mountains and it's only a hop, skip and jump to the Weissspitze.”

“I see,” Smith said weakly. “But—but don't the Swiss object?”

“Frequently, sir. Their complaints always seem to coincide with the nights we're around those parts. Wing Commander Carpenter claims it's some ill-intentioned Luftwaffe pilot trying to discredit him.”

“What else?” Smith asked, but the sergeant was already on his way to the flight-deck. The Lancaster lurched as it hit an infrequent air pocket, Smith grabbed a rail to steady himself and Lieutenant Morris Schaffer, of the American Office of Strategic Services and Smith's second-in-command, cursed fluently as the better part of a cup of scalding coffee emptied itself over his thigh.