Murdo's War

by Alan Temperley

  ‘How many cases left now?’ Henry Smith asked him, as they huddled around a projecting corner of the crag out of the wind.

  ‘Six.’

  The leader nodded approvingly, well pleased with the way the work had gone.

  ‘Very good. One crate each and that is the entire cargo. Now we can get on with the boat. We will sink her in deep water where she will never be spotted.’

  Gunner turned enquiring eyes upon him.

  ‘We need to get these cases down to the cave,’ Henry Smith explained, as though to a child. ‘Do you expect us to walk down the middle of the road? And someone might see the boat: do you want the police down here; do you want them to start a search?’

  The last of the cases were soon ashore and the men gathered round the gunwales of the old boat. Breaking waves surged to their shoulders.

  Tied up once more, Murdo watched as the strained command floated on the breeze.

  ‘Right! Lift and – heave!’

  Surprisingly easily, now the weight was out of her, the green timbers lifted and swung; the keel grated shore wards across the weedy rocks.

  ‘Heave!... Again, heave!’

  A figure stumbled and vanished beneath the waves, then reappeared streaming, and immediately resumed his place along the boat’s side.

  In thirty minutes Lobster Boy lay hauled up on a flat rock, clear of all but the highest waves. The last gouts of water spilled from a jagged hole at the bows. All around the planks were split and gaping.

  ‘Can’t do anything about that.’ Gunner, the naval man, shook his head. ‘Might put a patch on that; would keep the water out for a few minutes – but not with a cargo in her, not right the way down to the beach.’

  Henry Smith looked disheartened.

  ‘When we came up from the cave,’ Bjorn said, ‘we passed a bothy. They had two little boats dragged up on the shingle. When it gets dark we could take one of those. It wouldn’t carry all the boxes, though, we’d have to make a couple of trips.’

  ‘You’re sure?’ Bjorn nodded.

  ‘So all is not lost.’ Henry Smith brightened visibly. ‘We have no need of the old boat after all. Come on, Gunner, see what you can do about covering that hole, then we’ll get rid of the wretched thing.’ With canvas and nails Gunner set about his task and in an hour had covered the gaping timbers with a rough but workmanlike patch. The tide was rising and it was not too difficult to launch the boat into the weedy channel which ran alongside. The water seeped in and ran down to the stern. At once Peter took a small zinc bucket and started baling. Then the other Germans took heavy stones from the beach and flung them carelessly down on to the bottom boards. Steadily the old Lobster Boy settled lower in the water.

  ‘Right.’ Henry Smith pointed to the platform of rock beneath the cliffs from which they had consigned Dag’s body to the ocean. ‘We’ll sink her out there. The water’s very deep and we know the current flows straight out to sea.’

  While others made their way across the shore, Gunner took the oars, still lashed along the side thwart, and turned the boat in the channel. Heavily, as he rowed, the Lobster Boy made her way round the broken rocks. As Peter baled, bright streams of water caught the sunlight.

  Soon they were there and Peter climbed ashore. Then Gunner stood and raised the oar like a pile-driver above his head. Once, twice, he drove it down. The little boat lurched, stricken, as the flimsy patch burst wide and the sea gushed in. Then Gunner passed up the oars and hands reached down to pull him on to the rock. With a heel he pushed the boat out from the crag.

  A little apart from the others, guarded by Voss, Murdo and Hector stood together on the shore rocks.

  ‘Forty years I’ve had her. Forty years! The best boat that was ever on these waters.’

  Murdo looked at Hector and saw tears swimming in the old man’s eyes. Silently he remained at Hector’s side, looking at the Lobster Boy.

  The waves splashed up against the planking as Gunner and Arne heaved in boulders passed to them by the others. The little boat lurched like a stricken animal. The sea was almost in the gunwales, and suddenly the waves were over, spilling and spilling into the Lobster Boy. She gave one last heavy lurch, the stern sank, the green bows reared high, then she slipped below the surface, leaving not a trace on the dark-swelling sea.

  The day passed slowly. Sigurd pronounced himself master of the primus. Broaching a case of provisions – most of the food was packed in waterproof containers – he provided a steady supply of hot cocoa and coffee, and twice a mug of soup and some hard biscuits. The men turned their wet clothes this way and that on the cold stones to catch the sun and the wind. The material froze, Peter, the fair young pilot, moulded his trousers and shirt into the shape of a man and stood him against the cliff, which even in such trying circumstances made them laugh.

  Imperceptibly the sun moved behind the cliffs. Blue shadow settled over the beach; the temperature fell, Murdo handed back the warm clothes he was wearing, and put on his own which had been out in the sun all day. It was a difficult as well as a wretched task to thrust his limbs through iron-hard trouser legs and sleeves, and fasten the garments about him.

  Bjorn Larvik and Gunner, each carrying an oar, set off up the snow slope once more, this time to borrow one of the bothy boats that Bjorn had discovered.

  Huddled near the pile of crates beneath the cliff the others waited. The last traces of daylight sank behind the hill, and the long hours of darkness settled over land and sea. One shore light glittered, a tiny pinpoint far across the bay, where someone was not properly observing the blackout restrictions.

  An hour passed. And then another hour. Henry Smith grew restless and sent Arne to look for the two men.

  Wondering what caused the delay, they waited for his return. Murdo tucked his stockinged feet beneath him and pulled the collar of the battledress jacket close about his throat. He watched the thin veils of the northern lights flickering across the sky, white and pale green, like ghostly curtains and searchlights. Perhaps, he thought, if something had gone wrong, Hector and he would have a chance after all. He clenched his fists and flexed the muscles of his legs. He felt much better, strong enough to make a run for it if the chance arose. The hot drinks and food, and the enforced rest, had gone a long way to replace the energy sapped by his immersions in the sea.

  The orange moon arose and swam low and hazy above the bay. They listened, but the soft roar of the waves drowned all other sound. Then at last, suddenly, Murdo spotted a small boat beneath the southern crags, silhouetted against the black and orange sea. He called out and pointed. The men stood, and swiftly Henry Smith made his way down to the shore rocks.

  Carl Voss, whose revolver lay somewhere among the weed at the bottom of the bay, had taken a rifle from one of the cases during the day and filled the magazine. Watchful, now the darkness had returned, he motioned to Murdo and Hector and they descended the beach to join Henry Smith at the water’s edge. The boat swung wide around the wilderness of shore rocks, then approached up the deep gully they had used earlier in the day. They heard the creak of wood and muffled splash of oars, and crossed to meet it.

  ‘What went wrong?’ Henry Smith called as Bjorn pulled close, shipping the oars and reaching for a knob of rock.

  The big man looked up, holding the boat alongside as Gunner clambered out. ‘They were chained up,’ he said. ‘It was easy enough to smash the links, but I was afraid they would hear, so we waited until they all went out. They’re off to the bar, I think. The path leads away from the shore, so they’ll never know. Arne’s gone round to the cave to tell Knut we’ll be coming in an hour or so.’

  Henry Smith nodded. ‘Very good. Well, we’ll get the boat loaded straight away. Gunner and Sigurd can take the first load and –’ he eyed the rifle in Voss’s hands ‘ – Carl and I will take these two and whatever’s left. The rest of you make your own way back to the cave around the shore.’

  It did not take long and soon the little boat was heading out to sea once more,
rounding the cliff on the two mile journey down to Strathy beach.

  Murdo settled himself once more in the shelter of the icy crag. He watched Bjorn and Peter make their way up the snow slope behind the beach and vanish, black silhouettes, over the crest of the headland. Now only Hector and himself, Carl Voss and Henry Smith remained in the cove. He shrugged his neck into his collar, tucked his fists beneath his armpits, and gazed out into the familiar night. The moon had brightened, a few small cumulus clouds had appeared. Beyond the bay, miles away, the inland hills gleamed with snow. He sighed and looked down at his jacket and legs, and thought about nothing.

  In an hour and a half the boat returned, with Arne at the oars. Ten minutes were sufficient to load the last of the boxes and then Hector and Murdo were facing each other on the midship thwarts. Henry Smith sat with his revolver at the stern and Carl Voss and his Mauser rifle in the bow. They were heading out from the shore. Arne waved an arm and set off walking.

  Briefly Murdo wondered about jumping, but it was a forlorn hope. Even if he had made it to the water, it was unlikely that he would be allowed to reach the shore, and it meant leaving Hector to face the wrath of the two armed Germans. Time was running out. Soon they would be captive in the cave, but even so he was not sorry to see the end of that frozen cove, and it was swiftly hidden behind the rising crags. Hector pulled strongly and half an hour later the line of beach was rising to meet them. As they came close three men appeared from the shadows under the cliff and made their way to the water’s edge.

  With a whispering crunch the boat slid to rest on the soft sand and toppled to its side, rocking in the following waves. Hector and Murdo passed the boxes out, watched all the time by Carl Voss, the rifle resting easily in his hand. Then they stepped into the knee-deep water and pulled the boat a few yards up the beach. Bjorn and Gunner, still in the cave, would have to return it to the bothy – and with wire cutters and pliers repair the broken chain – since only they knew exactly how the boat had been lying.

  For a while the five Germans stood beside the little pile of crates, talking among themselves. Then nodding, Carl Voss stepped aside. Knut, the bearded guard, with a duffle coat over his Royal Naval uniform, looked over at Hector and Murdo and said something amusing. Henry Smith laughed. The obvious insult made Murdo flush in the darkness and clench his fists. Then Peter and Sigurd shouldered a case each and the four strolled off up the beach in the direction of the cave.

  The dark barrel of the rifle gleamed as Carl Voss turned to face them.

  ‘All right,’ he said. ‘You know what you have to do. Carry the rest of these cases up to the cave. And make no mistake, if you lay one foot wrong I will put a bullet straight through you.’ He stepped back and motioned towards the crates of arms. ‘Right!’

  Slowly Murdo trudged up the sands behind Hector. The moonlight streamed over the beach like searchlight. The flat sand spread out all around. Soon they would be in the cave – tied up, almost certainly. This was his last chance to make a run for it, and there was no hope. He glanced back at Carl Voss: alert as a cat the man limped behind them. Murdo settled the box more comfortably on his shoulder and pushed the harsh shaggy hair from his eyes. They passed through the high stacks near the cliff, dropped the boxes in the cave mouth and made their way once more down the long beach.

  Fifteen minutes later only four cases remained. Murdo’s arm ached, his shoulder was chafed and sore, but worse was the realisation that two more journeys would lead them into the cave, to an imprisonment from which he could imagine no escape. The thought brought the boy close to desperation. His wet socks, rubbed into holes by the day on the rocks, had gathered sand, which formed hard uncomfortable pads beneath his insteps and toes. He paused at the crates by the sea and pulled them off, shook out the crumbling sand and wrung them as dry as possible. Squinting up as he pushed his feet back into the gritty stretched wool, he noticed a couple of small but quite substantial grey clouds drifting towards the moon. Tugging the socks as comfortable as possible, he picked up a crate and hoisted it to his shoulder.

  They were half way to the cave before Murdo realised the significance of what he had seen. If the beach was dark!… He bit his lip and glanced back again at Carl Voss. The watchful eyes glittered and Voss motioned him on with the rifle.

  ‘I don’t know what you’re thinking of,’ he said, ‘but don’t.’ As they started down the beach again the moon was before them and he was able to observe it more closely. The clouds were moving up, diffusing and joining, but so slowly. Surely they were going to hit the moon, but would they be in time? Murdo’s heart jumped in his throat.

  All too soon they reached the last two cases, now almost lapped by the rising tide.

  ‘Just a minute.’ As he walked Murdo had managed to kick his socks loose. He bent and removed them once more to shake out the sand. Slowly he pulled them on again, and squeezed some drops of water from the bottom of his trouser legs. Seeming to be brisk, but taking his time, he unfastened his jacket and tucked the shirt around his waist. From beneath his brows he glanced up at the clouds. They had united and now formed a single dark grey mass rimmed with white. And it was nearly to the moon, the first billowing waves suffused with moonlight. The shadow moved towards them across the sea and eastern headland. Murdo stood up, set his teeth, and heaved the last long box to his shoulder. The cool courage of the early evening had deserted him. His stomach turned over and he was trembling.

  Slowly they began the final trudge up the beach. They were half way - they were drawing close to the crags. Then the cloud hit the moon. The white searchlight glimmered feebly then vanished, and darkness spread over the beach. On the instant Murdo dropped his box and sprang like a wild cat straight into the German’s stomach. Carl Voss reeled backwards. The rifle went off with a cliff- shattering bang. Murdo struck him with every ounce of power at his disposal, with the pent-up rage of all that Hector and he had recently endured. The German fell. Then Murdo took to his heels and fled away seaward, into the deeper black shadows between the high stacks and the cliff.

  Gasping for air, his nose and lip streaming blood, Voss picked himself up and snapped the bolt once. The boy had vanished, then he saw him, a dark fleeting shape against the sand. He flung the rifle to his shoulder and took careful aim. His finger tightened on the trigger.

  The Road to the Hills

  ‘NO!’ WITH A GREAT roar Hector flung himself at the rifle.

  Crack! The barrel kicked high and the shot whined harmlessly away among the crags. Carl Voss turned on him, his teeth bared, and savagely jerked the butt of the rifle into the old man’s head. There was an ugly thud, his body jerked, and Hector slumped to the ground without a murmur.

  But Murdo had gone. Voss stumbled to the edge of the rock, and as the moon appeared momentarily through a gap in the cloud, saw the boy’s figure flitting along beneath the crag. Again he flung up the rifle. Crack!... Crack! The deafening reports echoed from the cliffs across the bay. Momentarily Murdo stumbled, then flung himself full length on the sand, out of sight behind one of the stacks.

  ‘Stop it, you fool!’ Henry Smith seized the bloody rifle from Voss’s hands and threw it to the ground. ‘Do you want the whole village down here?’ He looked across the moon-bright beach. There was no sign of the boy. He could be anywhere among those rocky pillars and shadowy crags. Then he saw the line of plunging tracks and pointed. ‘Get after him! And no more shooting.’ He turned on the men who had followed him out of the cave. ‘Go on, then! What are you waiting for? Good God, surely a whole squad of German soldiers can handle a young boy!’

  They dashed away along the foot of the cliffs as the moon once more disappeared behind the cloud.

  ‘No, Knut!... Knut!’

  The guard stopped and came back to his leader.

  ‘You see to the old man. Get those boxes put away. I’m going along to see those incompetents don’t make a hash of it a second time.’ He turned and hurried across the beach after the others.

  Murdo had
left the sand behind and in the darkness stumbled on the weedy, sea-washed rocks. He could feel the blood wet down his right leg where the shot had clipped him and torn a groove across the side of his thigh. Already the numbness was wearing off and it hurt fiercely like a poker burn. His stockings gripped well; the soles of his feet, hardened from going barefoot in the summer, held on the barnacles. Twice his path was barred by rocky gullies, but he had crossed them a hundred times and there was no difficulty in descending to the glinting pools and climbing once more to the rocks beyond. As he went he scanned the dark cliff for a suitable place to climb to the headland. He made good speed, and four hundred yards beyond the beach came to the rocky fissure that was in his mind. He scrambled into the black shadows and began to climb.

  He had been up the cleft a dozen times, but always in daylight when there was no need to hurry. Now, as he raced, the stone crumbled beneath his hands, scattering down the cliff to the pool and shore rocks below. Cursing beneath his breath he slowed his pace to take more care and not give his position away. He was still only half way up when the Germans arrived beneath him. He froze, there was a good chance they would not spot him up there. He was right, for they were more intent in catching him up than searching for him, and the leading men went straight past. But their way was barred by the deep inlet, almost impossible to negotiate, and even as he watched, the moon reappeared from the far side of the cloud. He could see them plainly, though the fissure in which he clung remained black, steeped in shadow.

  They paused irresolutely, looking this way and that for a spot where Murdo might have turned off the rocks. Henry Smith looked back, wondering if he could have travelled so far and so quickly without boots. Carl Voss scanned the ledges of the watery gully, and the shore beyond, lest Murdo should have swum across. Sigurd stepped into the mouth of the fissure and peered up, trying to penetrate the darkness. Staring down, Murdo could see him very clearly, the neat figure and handsome face.