Murdo's War

by Alan Temperley

  His stomach cramped and more than a pint of water came gushing from his mouth.

  For minutes he clung, shuddering, to the peak of rock. A semblance of thought struggled into his mind as the blanket of fear slowly withdrew. Two smaller outcrops spanned the stretch of water between the beach and himself. He could swim to one, and then to the other. He had to get to the shore, and soon. The cold was eating into him; with his returning senses he could feel it now. He could not last there much longer. He kicked off the remaining sea-boot and tugged at his oilskins. They clung about his body but at length came clear and he tossed them aside into the sea. For a minute longer he hung on, waiting for the sea to level, building up his courage. The moment came. With gritting teeth he launched himself into the water, striking out strongly towards the first out- crop. Now the boy had overcome his panic he was in control, his body rising with the surging wave, sinking back into the trough behind. Suddenly his arm struck something soft and yielding, and a dim shape rolled over against his face and chest. With a disgusted cry he thrust the thing from him and swam from it in horror.

  Then the first rock was before him. For a moment he trod water before it, and as the wave lifted him forward, grabbed and clawed for a handhold, his feet trailing in the weed. The wave sank and his body sank with it, his wrists tearing on the barnacles, hip crashing against a little bulge of rock. But he was held, and was again clear of the water, more than a third of the way in towards the beach.

  When he had regained his breath he launched himself once more into the glinting water. The thick trousers clung awkwardly about his legs, his battledress jacket hoisted itself beneath his armpits and hampered his movements. But a minute later he was swimming past the second rock and striking in towards the shore. The waves rose in the shallow water, broke and foamed. A current bore him towards the bottom of the crags thirty yards to his right, and for a moment Murdo felt the under-tow tugging at his feet. He redoubled his efforts and broke clear of it. Eight or ten yards out he reached for the bottom, but the water was still too deep and he sank for a moment, the foam swilling over his head.

  Then the boulders of the beach were beneath his feet. As he tried to stand a wave came and banged him forward off balance, sprawling in the shallow water. He clutched at the smooth rocks, but the retreating wave sucked him back again. Another wave broke over him. As his body lifted he rode the crest and in a moment was dumped unceremoniously higher up the boulders. This time the back-wash was weaker and he crawled forward. The next wave lapped round his body for a moment, then was gone. He tried to stand, make his way clear of the water, but his legs would not support him and he fell back. On hands and knees he crawled a few yards further, then collapsed on his face. And there he lay, in the shadow of the cliff, sprawled among the rocks like so much trash washed up by the high tide.

  Slowly Murdo pulled himself to his knees and stood up. He was very shaky. He leaned a hand against a rocky spur that rose from the boulders a few yards from the cliff. There was a taste of blood in his mouth. He spat, and wiping his lips on a sodden sleeve raised his head and looked wretchedly about him. It was a small rocky inlet. Cliffs rose on either hand and a gentle snow slope, gleaming in the moonlight, rolled up behind to the white moors. The wind, slight in the bay but cruelly cold, blew straight from the sea. Two figures moved slowly over the rocks below the cliff at the far side of the beach, another staggered about in the froth of the waves.

  ‘Hector!’ His voice sounded strangely loud and not like his own voice at all. ‘Over here!’

  He let go of the rock and took a step forward. The figure at the water’s edge looked all around unable to distinguish where the cry was coming from.

  ‘Over here,’ Murdo called again.

  ‘Is it you?’ The old man stumbled across the awkward boulders in the direction of the voice. He had still not seen Murdo in the shadow of the crag.

  ‘Here,’ Murdo said. He stepped out into the moonlight and nearly fell.

  Hector clasped his arms about the boy’s shoulders. ‘God be thanked!’ he cried. There were tears in his voice. ‘You’re not badly hurt?’

  Murdo swallowed and shook his head. It was the first time he had even thought about Hector. Over the old man’s shoulder he saw the two men along the beach joined by a third, who appeared at the foot of the cliff on the far side of the bay.

  ‘The sea was too strong,’ Hector said. ‘You went out into deep water. I saw you go down.’ For a moment he was nearly over- come, then he sniffed hard and pulled himself together. ‘You’re shaking like a leaf, boy. Come on, get walking. Warm yourself up a bit.’

  He took Murdo’s arm across his shoulders and together they moved up the beach, slipping and stumbling on the boulders. It was hopeless, for they kept tripping each other up and moved so slowly that there was no warmth in it. Murdo removed his arm from Hector’s neck. He flapped his arms about his chest and rubbed the thick sodden cloth of his trousers. A little warmth stole into his shoulders but otherwise he remained as cold as ever.

  The Germans crossed the cove towards them. Despite the brightness of the moon, Murdo could not distinguish who each man was until they came close.

  Carl Voss was in the lead, limping slightly from a twisted knee. He walked up to Hector and stopped. Then he struck the old man full force across the side of the head with his fist. It was a terrible blow and Hector reeled to the ground. Shocked, Murdo turned to face Voss himself. He saw the arm swing back and before he could move there was a flash behind his eyes and a loud noise, and he found himself lying on the boulders beside his friend.

  ‘Pigs!’ The German’s boot lashed into Hector’s side. ‘Stupid, stupid pigs!’ Again the boot thudded into the old man.

  Twisting like an eel Murdo grabbed Voss’s foot as he drew it back, and wrenched it round, digging his fingers in. It swung near to his face and he bit savagely into the ankle, as hard as he could. The cloth was in his mouth, the kicking leg dragged him over the rocks till it broke free.

  With an oath, for the struggle had hurt his damaged knee, Carl Voss turned on the boy, and the heavy boot hacked time and again, with sickening force, into his stomach and ribs.

  Then there were raised voices, a scuffle of feet by Murdo’s head, and a man landed heavily on the boulders a dozen feet away. It was Carl Voss.

  Murdo felt an arm round his shoulders. It raised him until he was sitting, coughing, slumped against the cloth of a man’s jacket. Flashes of red and black came and went in the darkness. There were dim voices. Slowly the waves of nausea and dull pain rolled back and he became aware of Hector bending over him.

  ‘You’re all right,’ he said. ‘It’s all right.’

  Murdo pressed his lips together and nodded slightly. Then the man who held him tightened his arm and lifted him to his feet as easily as if he had been a child. Looking round Murdo saw that it was big Bjorn. The German looked down into his face. Murdo saw the tangle of wet blond hair, the blood of a deep scratch down the side of his eye.

  ‘I am sorry,’ Bjorn said. ‘We are not all like that.’ He glanced contemptuously to where Carl Voss was pulling himself to his feet, one hand carefully holding the side of his face. ‘I hope you are not too much hurt.’

  Murdo shook his head and pulled his shoulders from the clasp of Bjorn’s arm.

  ‘I’m all right,’ he said.

  When Bjorn saw how Murdo turned away from him he stood for a moment, then walked across to Henry Smith several yards along the beach. They were joined a minute later by Carl Voss, still feeling the side of his face.

  Slowly Murdo made his way to a rocky outcrop and sat down, sheltered from the wind. As the dizziness passed off he became aware once more of the terrible cold, and the water still draining through his clothes.

  A rattle of stones at the head of the cove made everyone turn. A dark figure was silhouetted against the snowy slope, which he had clearly just descended.

  ‘Gunner?’ Henry Smith called. ‘Ja.’

  Murdo watched the m
an stumble down the beach on the treacherous boulders. As he approached there was a rapid exchange of words in German.

  ‘Nein... nein,’ he said.

  Whatever the three had been saying, Henry Smith was now very angry. He struggled with his life-jacket but the knots had jammed. Leaving it fastened he thrust a hand beneath and pulled the heavy service revolver from inside his coat. He crossed to where Hector was standing and levelled it at his chest from point blank range, linger on the trigger.

  ‘I could shoot you,’ he said. His face was very still, his voice tight, as if he was holding himself in control against his inclination. ‘Right now!’ He pushed the muzzle of the revolver into the old man’s ribs. His breathing grew hard. ‘You would make fools of us! Well, two of my men are missing – Dag and Haakon. They might be dead, You might have killed them. They might be drowning at this very minute! So, we are going to look for them. You and the boy will come with myself and Bjorn Larvik. We will go that way.’ He nodded in the direction of Strathy Point. ‘But you have had your last chance. You tried, and you failed. Any more trouble – any more trouble – and I will shoot the boy.’ He turned to Murdo. ‘Up, on your feet!’ he said roughly.

  As they walked the few yards to the shore at the north end of the beach, staring towards the wave-swept rocks and calling, Murdo could not rid his mind of the soft yielding figure with a moon- white face that had bumped against him in the water. It must have been Haakon, Haakon with the big hands and big features, pre- maturely balding. Now a waterlogged corpse. The thought made him sick, but he said nothing.

  He turned back to the beach, and looked across the cove at Gunner and Carl Voss clambering over the rocks at the far side. Suddenly, forty yards away, a dark shape rolled sluggishly at the edge of a wave, bumped over the stones on the backwash and vanished among the breakers. He pointed. The others turned and Bjorn Larvik started forward, but by the time he reached the spot the body had gone. Heedless of the waves he waded in, peering about him. He saw nothing and moved along a few yards, the water to his thighs. Suddenly he stopped, then bent, feeling for something at his feet. A wave broke over his head and shoulders. As it retreated a dark heavy shape appeared in Bjorn’s hands. He backed to the shore pulling the body behind him. As he came into the shallows Henry Smith joined him and took a grip on the man’s shoulders and limp hanging arm. A minute later they laid him on the boulders well above the reach of the waves. It was Dag, young laughing Dag, with the red hair. He was quite dead.

  Murdo had never seen a dead man before. He looked up at Hector. The old man’s face was impassive.

  For a long time nobody spoke.

  It was Henry Smith who broke the silence. ‘What direction does the current flow here?’ he asked.

  Hector pointed out to sea, beyond Strathy Point.

  Henry Smith followed his arm, looking past the high crag to the rolling swell and dim horizon. Slowly his gaze swept the bay, and he looked up at the stars. Then he looked down, and nodded. Crouching beside the dead man he began to go through his pockets. The blind white face rolled over against the stones as he pulled the twisted clothing this way and that.

  ‘You go along the shore and tell the others, boy,’ Hector said quietly, with a knowing glance in the direction of the snowfield at the back of the beach.

  Henry Smith looked up and carefully placed the revolver on a boulder beside his right hand.

  ‘Bjorn, you’d better go and tell them,’ he said. ‘You two stand over there.’

  By the time Bjorn returned with Carl Voss and Gunner, Henry Smith had finished going through the young soldier’s pockets. His few belongings lay on his sodden handkerchief beside his head. They were pathetic: a box of matches, a packet of cigarettes, a pocket knife, his wrist watch, and a wallet with a little picture of a girl on one side and a middle-aged couple on the other. Murdo watched, every detail burning itself into his memory. Could this awful, dead thing be the same Dag who had laughed and smiled and so merrily played the flute on that first trip to the island? Now the flute was gone. He stared at the wet hair and expressionless face, the stilled white hands fallen between the stones.

  ‘You stay here with me,’ Bjorn said to him.

  Gunner bent and took the body of his dead comrade over his shoulder. Supported by Carl Voss so that he did not fall, he made his way with Henry Smith and Hector around the foot of the cliff. A couple of minutes later the group reappeared in the moonlight on a little rock platform that jutted out above deep water. Gunner laid the body at their feet. The men composed themselves and Henry Smith said a prayer for the dead, though no word of it reached Murdo and Bjorn above the roar of the sea. Then Carl Voss and Gunner bent, took up the body of their friend and swung him far out into the waves, well clear of the rocks. For nearly a minute he floated, borne up by a balloon of air trapped in the wet clothes. Then the air escaped and Dag was gone, sunk into the depths of the Pentland Firth. Nothing remained but the few belongings gathered together at Murdo’s feet. Bjorn tossed the cigarettes into the water, then carefully wrapped the other things in the wet handkerchief and put them in his pocket.

  For an hour, then, they searched up and down the stony cove, and from the flanking cliffs and shores beyond, treacherous beneath the mantle of snow and ice, but there was no sign of Haakon. At length Henry Smith reluctantly admitted there was no more they could do, and the little band of men retreated to a corner of the bay to seek shelter among the rocks and boulders and wait for the morning light. According to Henry Smith’s watch, which had survived the immersion and rough treatment, it was a little before three o’clock in the morning.

  Murdo stripped himself of his trousers, battledress jacket and sweaters and wrung them as dry as possible, then put them back on and huddled beside Hector for warmth. But soon his trousers were stiff with the frost, and the oilskin on Hector’s back might have been pressed out of crumpled tin. Murdo tried to pull the trousers over his frozen feet, but it was hopeless. The cold was terrible, the hours dragged by like an arctic night. The Germans talked quietly among themselves, but between Hector and Murdo it did not seem there was much to say, and for the most part they were silent.

  Some time in the middle of the long night, Bjorn Larvik rose from his comrades and crossed to the two Scots. Without a by- your-leave he seated himself next to Murdo in the shelter of their rock. The boy did not like it and wished to move away, but Hector was on his other side, and he was reluctant to disturb the small pockets of heat he had been nurturing for more than an hour. He remained where he was between the two men, and very soon the warmth of the big German’s body began to steal through to his skin.

  Bjorn rarely spoke, and was so still that he might have been asleep, yet each time Murdo stole a sideways look he was awake, his eyes glinting in the light of the moon.

  ‘Close your eyes,’ the man said. ‘At least try to sleep. The night will pass more quickly.’

  But sleep was impossible. Murdo nursed his damaged finger, which sometimes ached with the cold, and his mind was full of confused thoughts. Larvik was a German, an enemy, one of Hitler’s men, a commando come to overthrow Britain. Yet he liked him, he seemed a good man, very different from Henry Smith and Voss and all the Germans he had imagined and read about. It was a troubling thought, and led on to all kinds of complications. The only fact, after a time, of which he was sure, was that he was glad Bjorn had come across, and wished – though there was no doubt he was a faithful German soldier – that he could have been on their side, to help Hector and himself in their present trouble. He stayed for more than two hours.

  The moon slid imperceptibly around the sky, climbing, then dropping towards the white crown of moorland behind them. A hundred times the darkness over the sea seemed to be lightening, but the sky remained as cram-full of stars as ever. However, a pale light was clearly discernible in the south-east, and slowly the wintry colours, purple and pink and green and yellow, slid into the clean night-washed sky.

  Painfully Henry Smith climbed to his fe
et and stretched his frozen joints. His wispy fair hair, dried through the night, blew in the wind. His spectacles had vanished in the sea and without them his eyes, watery-pale, were almost fish-like. Dark bruise-marks of tiredness beneath them told the strain of the past few days. His eyelashes were blond, almost white, and his eyebrows sparse and thin. He screwed up his eyes and took in the bitter landscape.

  ‘Now then.’ He turned to Hector. ‘Where are we – exactly?’ Hector moved his stiff shoulders. ‘You know as well as I do, Strathy Point.’

  Henry Smith sighed. ‘Exactly,’ he repeated.

  ‘I don’t know,’ Hector said. ‘About half way down the shore I should think. You’ll probably see the beach from the top of one of those headlands there.’

  ‘So. Would this be the place you call the Geo Borbh?’ Completely taken aback, Hector could not keep the surprise

  from his face.

  ‘I see I am right.’ Henry Smith said something to Carl Voss, who passed a stiff, buckled map from the rocks beside him. With some difficulty, for the pages had frozen together, the leader unfolded it and carefully checked their position. Then, slipping on the rocks, he made his way to the edge of the sea and peered across the southern headland towards Strathy beach. His plump figure was small against the backcloth of ocean.

  He returned, smoothing the dishevelled hair across his bald patch.

  ‘Bjorn,’ he said.