And what good would that be? he asked himself, suddenly angry, and moved into a parallel swing, changing course, the right-hand edge of his skis biting into the snow.
The mist was thinning now and he glanced over his shoulder and saw that the lead Finn was perhaps forty yards behind, closely followed by another. Gestrin and the other two were a little further back.
Gaillard came out of an S-turn and went down vertically again, knees together, and suddenly, a gust of wind dissolved the remaining shreds of mist in an instant and below was the valley, an awesome sight, the present slope vanishing into infinity fifty yards further on.
Gaillard didn't deviate, but held his course true, skis so close together that they might have been one. At the last possible moment, that edge which meant certain death rushing to meet him, he hurled himself into a left-hand Christie. It came off beautifully and he had a brief impression of the glacier far below as he skirted the ultimate edge.
His pursuers were not so lucky, for behind him the lead Finn went straight over the edge with a terrible cry, his companion following him.
Gaillard, out of the area of immediate danger, started to traverse the lower slope. Above him, Manni Gestrin and his two remaining comrades changed course and went after him.
Canning had a deep cut in his forehead above the right eye of a kind that would require five or six stitches at least. Howard hastily bound a field dressing around it.
'Is he all right?' Birr asked.
'Sure I'm all right,' Canning told him. 'How many of us left?'
'Six Germans and us three. Finebaum upstairs, of course.'
'Not so good.'
He peered out through a spyhole in the door. The remaining half-track had retreated into the tunnel. Nothing moved.
'I'd say they could walk in here any time they choose,' Howard said.
'Then we retreat upstairs, floor by floor, like I told you.'
The half-track nosed out of the mouth of the tunnel and stopped. Its heavy machine gun, Hoffer firing, started to spray the door at the rate of 850 rounds per minute. As Canning and the others went down, the door started to shake to pieces above them.
'This is bad,' the general cried. 'No good staying. Better get up those stairs now while we still have a choice.'
He called to the Germans and they all started to drop back.
Gaillard was incredibly tired. His body ached and his knees hurt. The amazing thing was that he hadn't fallen once, but now, as he went into a right-hand Christie to make for the cover of pine trees, he snarled a ski and took a bad tumble.
He slid for some considerable distance before coming to a halt, winded. His skis were still on and apparently undamaged, which was something. No broken bones in evidence. But God, how tired he was. Hardly enough strength to get up. He turned and saw Gestrin and his two comrades traversing the slope above him, terribly close now.
Suddenly, the earth shook, there was a tremendous rumbling like an underground explosion, and above the Finns the snow seemed to boil up in a great cloud.
Avalanche! Not surprising really, fresh snow falling so late in the season. But already Gaillard was on his feet and dropping straight down the slope, taking that vertical line again, for the only way to beat an avalanche was to stay in front of it — one of the first lessons he'd learned as a boy in the Vosges.
And the trees were not too far away, some sort of protection there. He moved to the right in a wide curve that took him into their shelter within seconds. He halted, turning to glance back.
The avalanche had almost overtaken the Finns. The enormous cloud of white smoke rolled over the one in the rear, enveloped him completely, but Gestrin and the remaining man rode the very edge, managing to turn at the last minute, coming to a halt above the line of trees.
The rumble of the avalanche died away, Gestrin pushed up his goggles, searching for Gaillard whose red anorak gave him away instantly. They started down the slope at once and the Frenchman turned and pushed himself forward and through the trees, every bone aching.
From the shattered great window of the upper dining room Finebaum sniped down and across the yard at the half-track.
'What's happening, Mr Finebaum?' Claudine Chevalier, crouched on the floor, asked him.
'Whatever it is, it ain't good, ma'am. I figure it's time maybe you and me made a move upstairs.'
There was a burst of firing and more of the window shattered above their heads, spraying them with glass. Amazingly, she showed no fear.
'Whatever you say, Mr Finebaum.'
'You're something special,' Finebaum said. 'You know that?'
He took her arm and helped her towards the door, and below in the courtyard the half-track surged forward.
For Gaillard, the sight of the road below was like a shot in the arm, and he dropped towards it with renewed hope, although his pursuers were closer than ever now, Gestrin trailing his companion, a young man called Salmi.
Gaillard glanced over his shoulder, aware that this couldn't go on, that he had been existing on will-power alone for too long. There was one final suicidal chance, and he took it, dropping straight down through the trees like a bullet to the embankment at the side of the road below.
As he hit, he dug in his sticks at precisely the right moment, launching himself into space. The road flashed beneath him, he soared across, landing perfectly in soft snow on the other side, sliding broadside on in a spray of snow. At the last moment, the point of his left ski caught a branch hidden beneath the white blanket. As he crashed heavily to the ground, the ski splintered.
He lay there, winded, and Salmi soared through the air across the road, smashing straight into a pine tree with a terrible cry.
Gaillard sat up. There was no sign of Gestrin. He tore at the frozen bindings of his skis and got them off. When he rose to his feet, he was convinced for a moment that his limbs had ceased to function. He took a hesitant step forward and fell headlong over the embankment, sliding down to the road.
He picked himself up and started to walk, putting one foot in front of the other, a roaring in his ears, and Gestrin slid down the embankment about fifteen yards in front of him. He'd taken off his skis and held his rifle.
'No!' Gaillard said. 'No!'
He turned away, and Gestrin shot him in the right shoulder. Gaillard lay on his back, the roaring in his ears louder, then pushed himself up on one elbow. Gestrin stood, holding the rifle across his chest, and now he started to raise it.
The roaring became the sound of an engine and a Cromwell tank came round the bend in the road. Gestrin swung to face it, raising his rifle. A burst of machine-gun fire hurled him back into a snowdrift at the side of the road.
Gaillard lay there, aware of footsteps approaching, his eyes closed, breathing deeply, hanging on to consciousness. He opened his eyes and saw to his astonishment that the officer leaning over him in a tanksuit wore a kepi.
'Oh, my God,' Gaillard said in his own language. 'Can it be true? You are French?'
'But of course, monsieur.' The officer dropped to one knee. 'My name is Dubois. Captain Henri Dubois of the 2nd French Tank Division. We are at present pushing towards Berchtesgaden. But who are you?'
'Never mind that now,' Gaillard said hoarsely. 'You know Arlberg?'
'The next village, two miles along the road from here.'
'Only two miles?' Gaillard said in wonder. 'I must have been running in circles up there.' He pulled himself up and caught hold of Dubois by the front of his uniform. 'Listen to me, my friend, and listen well for lives depend on it.'
When the half-track started across the courtyard Ritter himself was at the wheel, a dozen Finns packed in behind him. Hoffer at the machine gun. The rest followed behind on foot.