Where Eagles Dare

“The Schloss Adler is inaccessible and impregnable. It would require a battalion of paratroops to take it.”

“Of course,” Christiansen said, “the fact that there's no time to mount a massed paratroop attack has no bearing on the matter.” Christiansen appeared positively cheerful, the proposed operation obviously appealed vastly to him.

Wyatt-Turner gave him the benefit of his icy blue stare then decided to ignore him.

“Secrecy and stealth are the only hope,” he went on. “And you gentlemen are—I trust—secretive and stealthy. You are experts at that and experts at survival behind enemy lines where all of you have spent considerable periods of time, Major Smith, Lieutenant Schaffer and Sergeant Harrod here in their professional capacities, the rest of you in—um—other duties. With the—”

“That was a damned long time ago, sir,” Carraciola interrupted. “At least for Smithy, Thomas, Christiansen and myself. We're out of touch now. We don't know the latest developments in weapons and combat techniques. And God only knows we're out of training. After a couple of years behind a desk it takes me all my time to run fifty yards after a bus.”

“You'll have to get fit fast, won't you?” Wyatt-Turner said coldly. “Besides, what matters most is, that with the exception of Major Smith, you all have an extensive knowledge of Western Europe. You all speak fluent German. You'll find your combat training—on the level you'll be engaged in—as relevant today as it was five years ago. You are men with exceptional records of resourcefulness, ability and ingenuity. If anyone has a chance, you have. You're all volunteers, of course.”

“Of course,” Carraciola echoed, his face carefully deadpan. Then he looked speculatively at Wyatt-Turner. “There is, of course, another way, sir.” He paused, then went on very quietly indeed. “A way with a hundred per cent guarantee of success.”

“Neither Admiral Rolland nor I claim to be infallible,” Wyatt-Turner said slowly. “We have missed an alternative? You have the answer to our problems?”

“Yes. Whistle up a Pathfinder squadron of Lancaster's with 10-ton blockbuster bombs. Do you think anyone in the Schloss Adler would ever talk again?”

“I don't think so.” Admiral Rolland spoke gently and for the first time, moving from the wall-map to join the group. Admiral Rolland always spoke gently. When you wielded the almost incredible range of power that he did, you didn't have to talk loudly to make yourself heard. He was a short, grey-haired man, with a deeply trenched face and an air of immense authority. “No,” he repeated, “I don't think so. Nor do I think that your grasp of the realities of the situation is any match for your total ruthlessness. The captured man, Lieutenant General Carnaby, is an American. If we were to destroy him General Eisenhower would probably launch his Second Front against us instead of against the Germans.” He smiled deprecatingly, as though to remove rebuke from his voice. “There are certain—um—niceties to be observed in our relationship with our Allies. Wouldn't you agree?”

Carraciola didn't agree or disagree. He had, apparently, nothing to say. Neither did anyone else. Colonel Wyatt-Turner cleared his throat.

“That's it then, gentlemen. Ten o'clock tonight at the airfield. No more questions, I take it?”

“Yes, sir, there bloody well is, begging the Colonel's pardon, sir.” Sergeant George Harrod not only sounded heated, he looked it, too. “What's all this about? Why's this geezer so bloody important? Why the hell do we have to risk our necks—”

“That'll do, Sergeant.” Wyatt-Turner's voice was sharp, authoritative. “You know all you require to know—”

“If we're sending a man to what may be his death, Colonel, I think he has the tight to know why,” Admiral Rolland interrupted gently, almost apologetically. “The rest know. He should too. It's painfully simple, Sergeant. General Carnaby is the overall co-ordinator of planning for the exercise known as Operation Overlord—the Second Front. It would be absolutely true to say that he knows more about the Allied preparations for the Second Front than any man alive.”

“He set off last night to meet his opposite numbers in the Middle East,Russia and the Italian Front to co-ordinate final plans for the invasion of Europe. The rendezvous was in Crete—the only meeting point the Russians would accept. They haven't a plane fast enough to out-run the German fighters. The British Mosquito can—but it didn't last night.”

Silence lay heavy in the austere operations room. Harrod rubbed his hand across his eyes, then shook his head slowly, as if to clear it. When he spoke again all the truculence, all the anger had vanished from his voice. His words came very slowly.

“And if the General talks—”

“He'll talk,” Rolland said. The voice was soft, but it carried total conviction. “As Mr. Thomas has just said, they all talk. He won't be able to help himself. A mixture of mescalin and scopolamine.”