Where Eagles Dare

They stood side-by-side in the darkness listening to the sounds of the search, the calling of voices, the hammering of rifle butts on wood, the splintering of yielding doors, the occasional short burst of machine-gun fire where a door, presumably, had failed to yield to more conventional methods of persuasion. The sounds of the approaching search grew very close.

“They're getting warm,” Schaffer murmured.

Schaffer had underestimated the temperature. Just as he finished speaking an unseen hand closed on the outer door handle and rattled the door furiously. Smith and Schaffer moved silently and took up position pressed close against the wall, one on either side of the door.

The rattling ceased. A heavy crashing impact from the outside shook the door on its hinges. A second such impact and the woodwork in the jamb by the lock began to splinter. Two more would do it, Smith thought, two more.

But there were no more.

“Gott in Himmel, Hans!” The voice beyond the door held—or appeared to hold—a mixture of consternation and outrage. “What are you thinking of? Can't you read?”

“Can't I—” The second voice broke off abruptly and when it came again it was in tones of defensive apology. “DAMEN ! Mein Gott! DAMEN !” A pause. “If you, had spent as many years on the Russian Front as I have—” His voice faded as the two men moved away.

“God bless our common Anglo-Saxon heritage,” Schaffer murmured fervently.

“What are you talking about?” Smith demanded. He had released his tense grip on the Schmeisser and realised that the palms of his hands were damp.

“This misplaced sense of decency,” Schaffer explained.

“A far from misplaced and highly developed sense of self-preservation,” Smith said dryly. “Would you like to come searching for a couple of reputed killers, like us, knowing that the first man to find us would probably be cut in half by a burst of machine-gun fire? Put yourself in their position. How do you think those men feel. How would you feel?”

“I'd feel very unhappy,” Schaffer said candidly.

“And so do they. And so they seize on any reasonable excuse not to investigate. Our two friends who have just left have no idea whatsoever whether we're in here or not and, what's more, the last thing they want to do is to find out.”

“Stop making with the old psychology. All that matters is that Schaffer is saved. Saved!”

“If you believe that,” Smith said curtly, “you deserve to end up with a blindfold round your eyes.”

“How's that again?” Schaffer asked apprehensively.

“You and I,” Smith explained patiently, “are not the only people who can put ourselves in the places of the searchers. You can bet your life that the captain can and more than likely the sergeant, too—you saw how quickly he caught on to the damn radio. By and by one or other is going to come by, see this closed and undamaged door, blow his top and insist on a few of his men being offered the chance to earn a posthumous Iron Cross. What I mean is, Schaffer is not yet saved.”

“What do we do, boss?” Schaffer said quietly. “I don't feel so funny any more.”

“We create a diversion. Here are the keys—this one. Put it in the lock and hold it ready to turn. We'll be leaving in a hurry—troops of this calibre can't be fooled for long.”

He dug into his knapsack, fished out a hand-grenade, crossed the cloakroom into the washroom and, in almost total darkness, felt his way across it to where the window at the back should have been, finally located it from the source of a faint wash of light. He pressed his nose against the glass but could see nothing, cursed softly as he realised a washroom window would always certainly be frosted, located the latch and slowly swung the window wide. With infinite caution, a fraction of an inch at a time, he thrust his head slowly through the window.

Nobody blew his head off. There were soldiers immediately to be seen, it was true, soldiers armed and at the ready, but they weren't looking in his direction: there were five of them, spread out in an arc of a circle, perhaps fifteen yards from the station entrance, and every machine-pistol was trained on that entrance. Waiting for the rabbits to bolt, Smith thought.

What was of much more interest was the empty truck parked only feet away from the window where he was: it was the reflected light from its side-lights that had enabled him to locate the window. Hoping that the truck was built along conventional lines, Smith armed the grenade, counted three, lobbed it under the back wheels of the truck and ducked behind the shelter of the washroom wall.