They missed.

The car came from the narrow street and swung in a curve to smash the rear end against the wall so close that brick-dust stung my face as I threw myself clear and fell, rolling at once to get my prone body in line with the car feet first in case they risked the sound of a shot. None came. I heard the diminishing exhaust-note and the strange wailing of the girl. I got up and found her in an odd crouch against the wall, shivering and staring at the distant car. I hadn't troubled to get the number: it would have false plates.

I called in German: "Are you hurt?"

There was no telling what she was saying; it sounded like soft cursing; she stared after the car; she didn't even hear me. There was no snow on her coat; she hadn't fallen. A great gouge ran along the wall and brickdust and chippings coloured the snow.

No one had come up. You heard it all the time in this weather, cars coming unstuck. This one had slid of course or it would have been dead on target, to pin me and drag me along the wall like a paintbrush dipped in red. The operation needed judgment but was easier than it looked. I'd done it with sandbags in training, because we were required to know the mechanics of it in case we were ever the target. It went: get up speed as far away as feasible, then slip the clutch with the gear still in low and go in silently, freewheeling until you're lined up at ten or fifteen degrees with the wall and a few yards to the rear of target. Then clutch in and gun up hard to get the back end round in a power-slide that brings the target between the rear wing and the wall. Keep the foot down and get clear.

I'd burst four sandbags out of five. It wasn't the training that saved me, but the snow.