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In the border crossing control room, the Hungarian major wasn’t in the best of moods. He pointed to the map spread across the table and stared at the two Guards who stood to attention before him. Then he spoke.
“Why did you pick the wrong patrol up and bring them back here? I made it as plain as I could you should collect the patrol from the northern sector of the Bozsok road and take them here!” His finger repeatedly stabbed the map.
The skinnier of the two replied, “Sir, I thought you meant the patrol that had come from the north, not the patrol that was going to the north, Sir.”
The major looked at the other man.
“Sir, I was only doing what he told me to do. It’s his fault, Sir.”
The phone rang and the major was called over to it. With the call finished, he turned and said slowly, “Go get the patrol you have just brought back in and get them onto the truck, then wait outside until I come and tell you what to do next. Do not go anywhere without my direct permission.” They both saluted and scuttled away. The phone rang again. The clerk asked some questions then put the handset down before marking the wall map with coloured pins. “Sir, that was another call about the diplomatic cars at the crossing points. We’ve seen –” He was interrupted by the field telephone; the observer in the roof sangar reporting activity on the Austrian side.
“Sir, the British diplomats are back. The black fellow and the girl.”
“I’ll be straight up,” the major returned the handset to its cradle.
On the roof, he observed the two ‘diplomats’ entering and leaving the Austrian post repeatedly then appearing to speak into a radio of some sort. The sound of an approaching helicopter distracted him. He tried to ignore it but when it circled and began to descend he headed for the base car park to see what problems it had in store for him and his men. Dust flew in successive waves across the post forcing the sangar guard to crouch below the sandbags and the major to remove his cap and shield his eyes.