Sergeant Harrod, head craned back at a neck-straining angle, saw the red light turn to green, brought his head down, screwed shut his eyes and, with a convulsive jerk of his arms, launched himself out into the snow and the darkness, not a very expert launching, for instead of jumping out he had stepped out and was already twisting in mid-air as the parachute opened. Schaffer was the next to go, smoothly, cleanly, feet and knees together, then Carraciola followed by Smith.
Smith glanced down below him and his lips tightened. Just dimly visible in the greyness beneath, Harrod, a very erratic human pendulum, was swinging wildly across the sky. The parachute cords were already badly twisted and his clumsily desperate attempts to untwist them resulted only in their becoming more entangled than ever. His left-hand cords were pulled too far down, air was spilling from the parachute, and, still swaying madly, he was side-slipping to his left faster than any man Smith had ever seen side-slip a parachute before. Smith stared after the rapidly disappearing figure and hoped to God that he didn't side-slip his way right over the edge of the precipice.
Grim-faced, he stared upwards to see how the others had fared. Thank God, there was no worry there. Christiansen, Thomas and Smithy all there, so close as to be almost touching, all making perfectly normal descents.
Even before the last of the parachutists, Torrance-Smythe, had cleared the doorway, the sergeant air-gunner was running towards the after end of the fuselage. Swiftly he flung aside a packing-case, dragging a tarpaulin away, reached down and pulled a huddled figure upright. A girl, quite small, with wide dark eyes and delicate features. One would have looked for the figure below to be as petite as the features, but it was enveloped in bulky clothes over which had been drawn a snow-suit. Over the snow-suit she wore a parachute. She was almost numb with cold and cramp but the sergeant had his orders.
“Come on, Miss Ellison.” His arm round her waist, he moved quickly towards the doorway. “Not a second to lose.”
He half led, half carried her there, where an aircraftman was just heaving the second last parachute and container through the doorway. The sergeant snapped the parachute catch on to the wire. Mary Ellison half-turned as if to speak to him, then turned away abruptly and dropped out into the darkness. The last parachute and container followed at once. For a long moment the sergeant stared down into the darkness. Then he rubbed his chin with the palm of his hand, shook his head in disbelief, stepped back and pulled the heavy door to. The Lancaster, its four engines still on reduced power, droned on into the snow and the night. Almost immediately, it was lost to sight and, bare seconds later, the last faint throb of its engines died away in the darkness.
Down there at ground level—if seven thousand feet up on the Weissspitze could be called ground level—the snowfall was comparatively slight compared to that blizzard they'd experienced jumping from the Lancaster but, even so, visibility was almost as bad as it had been up above, for there was a twenty-knot wind blowing and the dry powdery snow was drifting quite heavily. Smith made a swift 360° sweep of his horizon but there was nothing to be seen, nobody to be seen.
With fumbling frozen hands he clumsily extracted a torch and whistle from his tunic. Facing alternately east and west, he bleeped on the whistle and flashed his torch. The first to appear was Thomas, then Schaffer, then, within two minutes altogether, all of the others with the exception of Sergeant Harrod.
“Pile your chutes there and weight them,” Smith ordered. “Yes, bed them deep. Anyone seen Sergeant Harrod?” A shaking of heads. “Nobody? No sight of him at all?”
“Last I saw of him,” Schaffer said, “he was going across my bows like a destroyer in a heavy sea.”
“I saw a bit of that,” Smith nodded. “The shrouds were twisted?”
“Put a corkscrew to shame. But I'd have said there was no danger of the chute collapsing. Not enough time. We were almost on the ground before I lost sight of him.”
“Any idea where he landed, then?”
“Roughly. He'll be all right, Major. A twisted ankle, a bump on the head. Not to worry.”
“Use your torches,” Smith said abruptly. “Spread out. Find him.”
With two men on one side of him, three on the other, all within interlocking distance of their torch beams, Smith searched through the snow, his flash-light raking the ground ahead of him. If he shared Schaffer's optimism about Harrod, his face didn't show it. It was set and grim. Three minutes passed and then came a shout from the right. Smith broke into a run.
Carraciola, it was who had called and was now standing at the farther edge of a wind-swept outcrop of bare rock, his torch shining downwards and slightly ahead. Beyond the rock the ground fell away abruptly to a depth of several feet and in this lee a deep drift had formed. Half-buried in its white depths, Sergeant Harrod lay spread-eagled on his back, his feet almost touching the rock, his face upturned to the falling snow, his eyes open. He did not seem to notice the snow falling on his eyes.
They were all there now, staring down at die motionless man. Smith jumped down into the drift, dropped to his knees, slid an arm under Harrod's shoulders and began to lift him to a sitting position. Harrod's head lolled back like that of a broken rag doll. Smith lowered him back into the snow and felt for the pulse in the throat. Still kneeling, Smith straightened, paused for a moment with bent head then climbed wearily to his feet.
“Dead?” Carraciola asked.
“He's dead. His neck is broken.” Smith's face was without expression. “He must have got caught up in the shrouds and made a bad landing.”
“It happens,” Schaffer said. “I've known it happen.” A long pause, then: “Shall I take the radio, sir?”
Smith nodded. Schaffer dropped to his knees and began to fumble for the buckle of the strap securing the radio to Harrod's back.
Smith said: “Sorry, no, not that way. There's a key around his neck, under his tunic. It fits the lock under the flap of the breast buckle.”
Schaffer located the key, unlocked the buckle after some difficulty, eased the straps off the dead man's shoulders and finally managed to work the radio clear. He rose to his feet, the radio dangling from his hand, and looked at Smith.
“Second thoughts, what's the point. Any fall hard enough to break his neck wouldn't have done the innards of this radio any good.”
Wordlessly, Smith took the radio, set it on the rock, extended the antenna, set the switch to “Transmit”, and cranked the call-up handle. The red tell-tale glowed, showing the transmission circuit to be in order. Smith turned the switch to receive, turned up the volume, moved the tuning knob, listened briefly to some static-laden music, closed up the radio set and handed it back to Schaffer.
“It made a better landing than Sergeant Harrod,” Smith said briefly. “Come on.”
“We bury him, Major?” Carraciola asked.
“No need.” Smith shook his head and gestured with his torch at the drifting snow. “He'll be buried within the hour. Let's find the supplies.”
“Now, for God's sake don't lose your grip!” Thomas said urgently.
“That's the trouble with you Celts,” Schaffer said reprovingly. “No faith in anyone. There is no cause for alarm. Your life is in the safe hands of Schaffer and Christiansen. Not to worry.”
“What else do you think I'm worrying about?”
“If we all start sliding,” Schaffer said encouragingly, “we won't let you go until the last possible minute.”
Thomas gave a last baleful glance over his shoulder and then began to edge himself out over the black lip of the precipice. Schaffer and Christiansen had an ankle apiece, and they in turn were anchored by the others. As far as the beam of Thomas's torch could reach, the cliff stretching down into the darkness was absolutely vertical, black naked rock with the only fissures in sight blocked with ice and with otherwise never a hand- or foot-hold.
“I've seen all I want to,” he said over his shoulder. They pulled him back and he edged his way carefully up to their supply pile before getting to his feet. He prodded the pack with the skis protruding from one end.
“Very handy,” he said morosely. “Oh, very handy for this lot indeed.”
“As steep as that?” Smith asked.
“Vertical. Smooth as glass and: you can't see the bottom. How deep do you reckon it is, Major?”
“Who knows?” Smith shrugged. “We're seven thousand feet up. Maps never give details at this altitude. Break out that nylon.”
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“Well.” Smith moved back from the edge. “That seems to be about it.”
“And if it isn't, hey?” Christiansen asked. “If it's caught on a teensy-weensy ledge a thousand feet above damn all?”
“I'll let you know,” Smith said shortly.
“You measured it off,” Carraciola said. “How deep?”
“Two hundred feet.”
“Eight hundred feet left, eh?” Thomas grinned. “We'll need it all to tie up the garrison of the Schloss Adler.”
No one was amused. Smith said: “I'll need a piton and two walkie-talkies.”
Fifteen feet back from the edge of the cliff they cleared away the snow and hammered an angled piton securely into the bare rock. Smith made a double bowline at one end of the nylon, slipped his legs through the loops, unclasped his belt then fastened it tightly round both himself and the rope and slipped a walkie-talkie over his shoulder. The rope was then passed round the piton and three men, backs to the cliff, wrapped it round their hands and prepared to take the weight. Schaffer stood by with the other walkie-talkie.
Smith checked that there were no sharp or abrasive edges on the cliff-top, wriggled cautiously over and gave the signal to be lowered. The descent itself was simple. As Thomas had said, it was a vertical drop and all he had to do was to fend himself off from the face as the men above paid out the rope. Once only, passing an overhang, he spun wildly in space, but within ten seconds regained contact with the rock face again. Mountaineering made easy, Smith thought. Or it seemed easy: perhaps, he thought wryly, it was as well that he couldn't see what stretched beneath him.
His feet passed through eighteen inches of snow and rested on solid ground. He flashed his torch in a semi-circle, from cliff wall to cliff wall. If it was a ledge, it was a very big one for, as far as his eye and torch could reach, it appeared to be a smooth plateau sloping gently outwards from the cliff!. The cliff wall itself was smooth, unbroken, except for one shallow fissure, a few feet wide, close by to where he stood. He climbed out of the double bowline and made the switch on the walkie-talkie.
“O.K. so far. Haul up the rope. Supplies first, then yourselves.”
The rope snaked upwards into the darkness. Within five minutes all the equipment had been lowered in two separate loads. Christiansen appeared soon afterwards.
“What's all the fuss about this Alpine stuff, then?” he asked cheerfully. “My grandmother could do it.”
“Maybe we should have brought your grandmother along instead,” Smith said sourly. “We're not down yet. Take your torch and find out how big this ledge is and the best way down and for God's sake don't go falling over any precipices.”
Christiansen grinned and moved off. Life was for the living and Christiansen gave the impression of a man thoroughly enjoying himself. While he was away reconnoitring, all the others came down in turn until only Schaffer was left. His plaintive voice came over the walkie-talkie.
“And how am I supposed to get down? Hand over hand for two hundred feet? Frozen hand over frozen hand for two hundred feet on a rope this size? You'd better stand clear. Somebody should have thought of this.”
“Somebody did,” Smith said patiently. “Make sure the rope is still round the piton then kick the other eight hundred feet over the edge.”
“There's always an answer.” Schaffer sounded relieved.
They had just lowered him to the ground when Christiansen returned.
“It's not so bad,” he reported. “There's another cliff ahead of us, maybe fifty yards away, curving around to the east. At least I think it's a cliff. I didn't try to find out how deep or how steep. I'm married. But the plateau falls away gently to the west there. Seems it might go on a fair way. Trees, too. I followed the line of them for two hundred yards.”
“Trees?. At this altitude?”
“Well, no masts for a tall ship. Scrub pine. They'll give shelter, hiding.”
“Fair enough,” Smith nodded. “We'll bivouac there.”
“So close?” The surprised tone in Schaffer's voice showed that he didn't think much of the idea. “Shouldn't we get as far down this mountain as possible tonight, Major?”
“No need. If we start at first light we'll be well below the main tree line by dawn.”
“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.