Where Eagles Dare Part 6

"The abominable snowman.'

The smile left Smith's face as quickly as it had come. He turned his attention to Harrod's code-book and spent about ten minutes in memorising call-up signals and wave-frequencies and writing a message out in code. Before he had finished Schaffer had turned into his sleeping bag, leaving Torrance-Smythe on watch. Smith folded the message, tucked it in a pocket, rose, took the radio and a rubber ground-sheet to protect it from the snow.

'I'm going to move out a bit,' he said to Torrance-Smythe, 'Reception is lousy among trees. Besides, I don't want to wake everyone up. Won't be long.'

Two hundred yards from the tent, after having stopped twice and changed direction twice, Smith knelt with his back--and the rubber ground-sheet--to the drifting snow. He extended a fourteen feet telescopic aerial, adjusted a preselected call-up and cranked a handle. Four times he cranked the handle and on the fifth he got results. Someone was keeping a very close radio watch indeed.

'This is Danny Boy,' the set speaker crackled. The signal was faint and intermittent, but just comprehensible. 'Danny Boy replying to you. Over.'

Smith spoke into the mouth microphone. "This is Broadsword. Can I speak to Father Machree or Mother Machree? Over.'

'Sorry. Unavailable. Over.'

'Code,' Smith said. 'Over.'

'Ready.'

Smith extracted the paper from his pocket and shone his torch on it. There were two lines containing meaningless jumbles of letters and, below that, the plain language translation, which read: 'SAFE LANDING HARROD DEAD WEATHER FINE PLEASE AWAIT MESSAGE O8OO G.M.T. Smith read off the corresponding code figures and finished off: 'Have that delivered to Father Machree by 0700. Without fail.'

Torrance-Smythe looked up at Smith's return.

'Back already?' Surprise in his voice. 'You got through?'

'Not a chance,' Smith said disgustedly. 'Too many b.l.o.o.d.y mountains around.'

'Didn't try for very long, did you?'

'Two and a half minutes.' It was Smith's turn to look surprised. 'Surely you know that's the safe maximum?'

'You think there may be radio monitoring stations hereabouts?'

'Oh, no, not at all.' Smith's voice was heavy with sarcasm. 'You wouldn't expect to find radio monitors in the Schloss Adler, would you now?'

"Well, now.' Torrance-Smythe smiled tiredly. 'I believe someone did mention it was the southern H.Q. of the German Secret Service. Sorry, Major. It's not that I'm growing old, though there's that, too. It's just that what pa.s.ses for my mind is so gummed up by cold and lack of sleep that I think it's stopped altogether.'

Smith pulled off his boots and snow-suit, climbed into his sleeping bag and pulled the radio close to him.

'Then it's time you had some sleep. My explosives expert is going to be no good to me if he can't tell a detonator from a door-k.n.o.b. Go on. Turn in. I'll keep watch.'

'But we had arranged--'

'Arguments, arguments,' Smith sighed. 'Insubordination on every hand.' He smiled. 'Straight up, Smithy, I'm wide awake. I know I won't sleep tonight."

One downright lie, Smith thought, and one statement of incontrovertible truth. He wasn't wide awake, he was physically and mentally exhausted and on the slightest relaxation of will-power oblivion would have overtaken him in seconds. But that he wouldn't sleep that night was beyond doubt: no power on earth would have let him sleep that night but, in the circ.u.mstances, it was perhaps wiser not to say so to Torrance-Smythe.

The pre-dawn greyness was in the sky. Smith and his men had broken camp. Tent and sleeping bags were stored away and the cooking utensils--after a very sketchy breakfast scarcely deserving of the name--were being thrust into haversacks. There was no conversation, none at all: it wasn't a morning for speaking. All of them, Smith thought, looked more drawn, more exhausted, than they had done three hours ago: he wondered how he himself, who had had no sleep at all, must look. It was as well, he reflected, that mirrors were not part of their commando equipment. He looked at his watch.

'We'll leave in ten minutes,' he announced. 'Should give us plenty of time to be down in the tree line before sun-up. a.s.suming there are no more cliffs. Back in a moment. Visibility is improving and I think I'll go recce along the cliff edge. With any luck, maybe I can see the best way down.'

'And if you haven't any luck?' Carraciola asked sourly.

'We've still that thousand feet of nylon rope,' Smith -said shortly.

He pulled on his snow-suit and left, angling off in the direction of the cliff. As'' soon as he was beyond the belt of the scrub pines and out of sight of the camp he changed direction uphill and broke into a run.

A single eye appeared under a lifted corner of snow-covered canvas as Mary Ellison heard the soft crunch of running footsteps in the snow. She heard the first two bars of a tuneless whistling of 'Lorelei', unzipped her sleeping bag and sat up. Smith was standing above her.

'Not already!' she said protestingly.

'Yes already. Come on. Up!'

'I haven't slept a wink.'

'Neither have I. I've been watching that d.a.m.ned radio all night--and watching to check that no somnambulists took a stroll in this direction.'

'You kept awake. You did that for me?'

'I kept awake. We're off. Start in five minutes. Leave your tent and kit-bag here, you won't be requiring them again. Take some food, something to drink, that's all. And for G.o.d's sake, don't get too close to us.' He glanced at his watch. 'We'll stop at 7 a.m. Check your watch. Exactly 7 a.m. And don't b.u.mp into us.'

'What do you think I am?' But Smith didn't tell her what he thought she was. He had already gone.

A thousand feet farther down the side of the Weissspitze the trees were something worth calling trees, towering conifers that soared sixty and seventy feet up into the sky. Into the dear sky, for the snow had stopped falling now. It was dawn.

The slope of the Weissspitze was still very steep, perhaps one in four or five. Smith, with his five men strung out behind him in single file, slipped and stumbled almost constantly: but the deep snow, Smith reflected, at least cushioned their frequent falls and as a mode of progress it was a d.a.m.n sight preferable to shinning down vertical cliff-faces on an impossibly thin clothes-line. The curses of his bruised companions were almost continuous but serious complaints were marked by their total absence : there was no danger, they were making excellent time and they were now completely hidden in the deep belt of pines.

Two hundred yards behind them Mary Ellison carefully picked her way down the tracks made by the men below her. She slipped and fell only very occasionally for, unlike the men, she was carrying no over-balancing gear on her back. Nor had she any fear of being observed, of coming too close to Smith and the others : in still, frosty air on a mountain sound carries with a preternatural clarity and from the sound of the voices farther down the slope she could judge her distance from them to a nicety. For the twentieth time she looked at her watch : it was twenty minutes to seven.

Some time later, for much more than the twentieth time, Smith checked his watch again. It was exactly 7 o'clock. The dawn had gone and the light of full day-time filtered down through the snow-bent boughs of the conifers. Smith stopped and held up his hand, waiting until the other five had caught up with him.

'We must be half-way down now.' He shrugged off the heavy pack on his back and lowered it gratefully into the snow. "I think it's time we had a look at the scenery.'

They piled their gear and moved off to their right. Within a minute the pines started to thin out and at a signal from Smith they all dropped to hands and knees and crawled forward the last few yards towards the edge of the belt of pines. Smith carried a telescope in his hand: Christiansen and Thomas both wore binoculars. Zeiss binoculars. Admiral Holland had left nothing to chance. Beyond the last of the pines a mound of snow obstructed their view of the valley below. Shrouded from top to toe, in the all-enveloping white of their snow-smocks, they completed the last few feet on their elbows and knees.

What lay below them was something out of a fairy tale, an impossibly beautiful scene from an impossibly beautiful fairy tale, a fairy tale set aeons back in the never-never land of the age of dreams, a kindlier land, a n.o.bler land than man had ever known since first he had set his hand against his brother. A land that never was, Smith thought, a land that never was : but there it lay before them, the golden land that never was, the home of that most dreaded organisation in the entire world, the German Gestapo. The impeccable incongruity of it all, Smith reflected, pa.s.sed all belief.

The valley was bowl-shaped, open to the north, hemmed in by steeply rising hills to the east and' west, closed off by the towering bulk of the Weissspitze to the south.

A scene of fantastic beauty. Nine thousand, seven hundred and ten feet in height, the second highest mountain in Germany, the Weissspitze soared up menacingly like another north wall of the Eiger, its dazzling whiteness caught in the morning sun, its starkly lovely outline sharply etched against the now cloudless blue of the sky. High up near the cone-shaped summit could be seen the line of black rock marking the cliff Smith and his men had descended during the night with, just below it, a much greater cliff-face on the plateau above which they had spent the night

Directly opposite where they lay, and almost exactly on the same level, was the Schloss Adler itself. The castle of the eagle had been aptly named, an impregnable fortress, an inaccessible eyrie set between mountain and sky.

Just below the spot where the steep-sided slopes of the Weissspitze began to flatten out northwards into the head of the valley, a geological freak, known as a volcanic plug, jutted two hundred vertical feet up into the sparkling, ice-cold air. It was on this that the Schloss Adler had been built. The northern, western and eastern sides of this volcanic plug were sheer, perpendicular walls of rock, walls that swept up smoothly, without intermission or break into the structure of the castle itself: from where they lay, it was impossible to say where the one ended and the other began. To the south, a steeply-sloping ridgeback connected the plug to the equally sloping ramparts of the Weissspitze.

The castle itself was another dream, the dream of the apotheosis of medievalism. This dream, Smith was aware, was as illusory as the golden age of its setting. It wasn't medieval at all, it had been built as late as the mid-nineteenth century to the express order of one of the madder of the Bavarian monarchs who had suffered from a comprehensive list of delusions, of which grandeur had not been the least. But, delusions or not, he had had, as the deluded so often have--to the dismay and consternation of their allegedly saner brethren--impeccable taste. The castle was perfect for the valley, the valley for the castle. Any other combination would have been inconceivable.

The Schloss Adler was built in the form of a hollow square. It was towered, battlemented and crenellated, its most imposing aspects, two perfectly circular towers, the one to the east higher than that to the west, facing down the valley towards the north. Two smaller, but still magnificent towers, lay at the southern corners, facing the looming bulk of the Weissspitze. From where Smith lay, at some slight level above that of the castle, he could just see into the open square in its middle, outside access to which was obtained by a pair of huge iron gates at the rear. The sun had not yet climbed sufficiently high above the eastern hills for its rays to strike the castle directly, but, for all that, its incredibly white walls gleamed and glittered as if made of the most iridescent marble.

Below the soaring northern ramparts of the castle the valley fell away steeply to the Blau See, beautiful pine-fringed jewel of a lake of the deepest and most sparkling blue, a colour which with the green of the pines, the white dazzle of the.snow and the brilliant, lighter blue of the sky above formed a combination of breath-taking loveliness. Impossibly lovely, Smith thought, a completely faithful colour reproduction of the scene would have had everybody shouting 'fake'.