Murdo's War

by Alan Temperley

  Henry Smith was very calm. ‘All right, then,’ he said. ‘No talking.’

  With the quarry in sight they needed no encouragement. They forgot their tiredness and aching ankles. Arne shrugged the rifle comfortable on his back.

  The land was levelling out ahead, dropping from the mountain to a rolling plateau of moors. The black figure showed again for a moment against the summit of a low rise.

  Swift and light of stride, a few minutes brought them behind a small hillock, and cautiously they peered over the top, treading very softly. The hillside was empty. Then, over to the left and still far away, further than he had seemed before, a small figure appeared among a tumble of boulders, wending along the foot of a long gully. Arne reached inside his jacket and pulled out a sniper’s telescopic sight. Carefully he clipped it home on top of his rifle. There was a loud ‘click’ as the spring lock snapped shut. He tightened the screws. Henry Smith reached out a hand and took it from him, passing his own in exchange. The rocks sprang forward as he raised the rifle to his shoulder and adjusted the sight. It took a moment to find the figure – then there he was. He seemed to be limping. Slowly he raised the fine cross of the sight until it rested, swaying slightly, on the dark body. But he was too far off, the sight would need adjustment for that degree of accuracy. Reluctantly he let it fall.

  ‘He’s hurt,’ he said factually to Gunner and Arne. ‘He has no idea we are here. So no noise – and watch the rocks down there. This is it.’

  Lips pressed tightly together, flared nostrils snorting slightly in the icy air, he strode forward down the far slope of the hill. Arne and Gunner followed at his heels. The sinister black rifles bumped heavily on their shoulders.

  But the figure kept well ahead and it was nearly half an hour later when, dropping round a shoulder of the moors they suddenly came upon him, standing not four hundred yards off, looking around as if undecided which way to go.

  Henry Smith sank to the ground, motioning the others to do the same.

  ‘Sssh!’ he breathed, his whisper scarcely audible. ‘Get yourselves down.’ Quietly he slipped the rifle from his shoulder. ‘Take a bead on him, just in case. If anything goes wrong, shoot.’ He settled himself on his belly in the snow, right leg in line with his target, and raised the rifle.

  Gunner laid a hand on his sleeve. ‘He’s only a boy. Give him a chance.’

  Henry Smith looked up, his baby face almost cherubic in the moonlight. ‘He’s had enough chances already,’ he said. ‘I’ve lost three men, three vital men. We have ten miles to walk back over the hills to Loch Strathy, and another twelve or fourteen down the road to the village. And now they say it will be a week before the lorries arrive.’ He shook his head. ‘He is too big a risk.’

  Unhappily Gunner looked across at Arne.

  His face long and thin, white hair bristling, Arne gazed coldly back at him. ‘I agree with Heinrich,’ he said shortly. ‘It is the best way now.’

  Helplessly Gunner turned away.

  Henry Smith pulled the rifle into his shoulder and snuggled his cheek against the smooth butt. By now the figure had begun walking again. The dusky silhouette loomed before him in the telescope, stumbling a little with tiredness, feet slipping on the rough ground. Slowly the fine cross of the sight swung up the legs to the waist, and wavered a little. Then it was firm in the middle of the back. His finger tightened on the trigger.

  CRACK! The deafeningly sharp report rang out across the silent moors.

  Before the three men their quarry, without a murmur, flung up his arms and spun clumsily into the snow.

  Henry Smith’s face was grim as he rose and brushed the snow from his front.

  ‘It is all over,’ he said. ‘The best way. Clean and finished.’ Together they walked quietly forward along the line of tracks so recently made by a living man.

  Before them the black figure lay twisted and quite still on the bright carpet. Henry Smith was a couple of paces in the lead. Suddenly he stopped, frozen in his tracks, his eyes wide with horror.

  ‘No!’ he breathed, ‘Oh, dear God!’ and ran forward the last few yards.

  Carl Voss was dead. His head hung heavily on the limp neck as they raised him in the snow. Lumps of snow adhered to his face and throat, and his clothes were covered with it. There was no mark on him, his dark face was quite calm.

  Peter by himself made good speed, and although he could not see Murdo, was sure that he must be gaining on the boy. Up the long slope of the pass he strode, stumbling time and again, wrenching his ankles on the icy rocks below the crags. The stones rattled away into the gully, the moonlight glinted on the ice runs that sheathed the cliff face; the crest rose ahead and the huge vista unfolded below. Murdo’s tumbled tracks continued straight down the far side of the mountain. Apparently he did not know about the road and the hotel.

  Peter quartered the land below as he had been trained to do as a pilot, but it was no use, nothing moved on the smooth slopes. He set off again, almost at a run, slithering and sliding as his rubber shoes failed to secure a grip beneath the powdery snow.

  It was a long descent, and he had nearly reached the bottom when, without really thinking about it, his eyes focussed on a tiny shape ahead. He paused; it was moving, and in the right direction. It might have been a sheep or a deer, but he did not think so. Cheered by the sight, and warming to the chase, he plunged on.

  Reaching the flat he was almost running, jumping the little hollows, driving up the slopes and leaping clumsily down the far sides, the revolver bumping heavily in his pocket. His blood was up, and in the cold air he was hardly even panting as the rough land sped beneath his feet. It was like the cross-country races he had run at school in Aachen before the war.

  His eyes sparkled as he crested a little rise and leaped from a small peat ridge into the hollow behind. But he landed badly, his right foot caught in something beneath the snow and he pitched sideways. There was a sickening ‘snap’.

  For a moment he lay still, shocked. But it did not hurt, and awkwardly he pulled himself round to try to release the foot. It had caught in a little hollow in the peat bank, and felt very queer. For a moment it would not budge, but turning again and using both hands he managed to ease it free. Well, that was that, he thought, and hoping that he had not sprained his ankle, scrambled to his feet. The blinding wave of pain hit him like an electric shock. He cried out aloud and fell forward into the snow. As the pain ebbed he sat up slowly and felt his foot and ankle with trembling fingers. Already the ankle was swelling, and when he tried gingerly to move his foot it only stirred a fraction and flopped over. The agony had ceased the moment he took his weight off it, but already the numbness was wearing off, and a hot pain stirred up in the middle of his foot like a little furnace. Frightened now, he sat back and looked around him. There was no sound, he was quite alone. The pitiless wind blew down the miles of naked hills and chilled the perspiration on his young brow.

  Alone

  MURDO, UNAWARE OF all that was happening, pressed on. For three hours he had seen no sign of his pursuers. When the shot came he stopped in his tracks, frozen, alert as a deer. But it had come from a completely unexpected direction, on the other side of the mountain. He did not know what to make of it. It could even have been a crofter after a stag for the pot. On the other hand – well, he was not going to investigate. Certainly it had been a long way off, and that was comforting.

  As he continued he took a couple of small mouthfuls from the bottle of whisky. He had often heard Hector say that it was a good tonic, but it made his head swim and the taste was so vile that he pushed it back into his battledress blouse and left it there.

  The hours and the miles passed, and it seemed that daylight was never returning when at last a faint greyness in the east proclaimed the approaching dawn. The moon had long vanished behind a rolling front of cloud that now blanketed the whole sky. Visibility had shrunk with the darkness, a mixed blessing, for while it hid him from the Germans, it made holding to an easterly course ver
y difficult. Slowly, imperceptibly, the greyness became a definite light- ening of the sky, and a rosy glow shone dull but encouragingly above the black and white landscape.

  But with the dawn came the full realisation of his tiredness, and it was with a heavy tread that Murdo climbed the small hillock ahead.

  Below him lay Strath Halladale. The rough hillside fell away to a broad saucer-shaped valley. A long loch gleamed icily in the half light, frozen from shore to shore. Beyond it, straight as an arrow, lay the single railway track, with the road running parallel on the far side of the fence. As the crow flies the line was no more than half a mile away, twice that around the southern end of the loch.

  With tired eyes he gazed down the miles of white, seeking the little village of Kinbrace, or indeed any sign of life, but there was none. Beyond the loch the dark outline of a large house rose from a copse of trees, but no smoke drifted from the chimneys, no encouraging light shone through the leafless branches. The glen was deserted. As if to accent its desolation, the sudden wild, long whistle of a train echoed down the valley. Murdo looked up the line, and far away, beyond a bend, saw wisps of white steam curling into the air. The train did not seem to be moving. He screwed up his eyes, trying to make out the details. Only at the little moorland station and level crossing at Forsinard, from what he could recall, was a train likely to stop so far south, but he recognised nothing, though he had been there a dozen times. He could not remember the loch at all. Again the wild scream of the engine pierced the valley. If he could reach the railway line in time he might be able to stop the train!

  Heedless of the weakness in his legs, Murdo plunged diagonally down the side of the hill, stumbling and rolling a dozen times in his headlong haste. The long slope flattened and he forced himself forward across the valley towards the southern end of the loch. The snow lay deep on top of tussocky grass, the most exhausting kind of walking, and though his heart and legs strove he made slow progress. But still there was no sign of the train, hidden around the bend at Forsinard. He dreaded its sudden appearance, racing down the track before him.

  He stopped to listen, and in an instant all thoughts of the train were driven from his mind – for there, between himself and the road south to Kinbrace, a tiny group of figures was dropping from the moors. At the same moment they must have seen him, for they stopped, then abruptly began running down the slope towards him.

  There were three men and they were fully a mile away. Yet Murdo saw that he would never make it around the foot of the loch, they would easily cut him off.

  Again the train whistled, twice. He looked back in a panic of indecision. It was three times as far, well over a mile, to circle around the head of the loch. If the train came now he would never catch it. He looked at the railway line, so near across the ice, and yet so far. If only – he gazed at the ice. It appeared to be thick. Would it support him?

  In two minutes he was at the water’s edge. For a quarter of a mile the grey-white sheet spread to the tussocks of the further shore. Gently he tested it. The ice cracked, and held. Cautiously he inched out. It was taking his weight. With gathering confidence he moved forward until the rough granular ice spread out all around him. Through occasional patches, glass-clear, he could see the tips of a motionless forest of weed feet below. The men were still nearly a mile off. He saw them stop, then something whined off the ice ahead of him and there was the sharp crack of a rifle. The echo ricochetted from the hills at the far side of the strath. There was little chance of them hitting from that range, they must be desperate. The thought gave him slight encouragement. They must be as tired as he was, too, though it was difficult to believe. But there was no time to waste, every second brought them closer. Shuffling, so as not to strain the ice, Murdo made further out.

  Then all at once there was a terrific snap and a splitting, pinging sound all around him. White lines exploded from beneath his feet. He froze, frightened to move. Then carefully he slid a foot backwards and drew the other towards it. The ice held. Again – suddenly the ice gave way, and in an instant he was plunged into the freezing water.

  He was only beneath the surface for a moment, then he was thrashing about among the heavy floes, searching for a support. The cold tightened about his chest like steel bands so that he could scarcely breathe. For half a minute, as he struggled, he was overwhelmed by the old panic and despair, and panted for help from anyone, even the Germans. Then he knew once more that he was alone, there was no-one to help. No sooner was the thought in his mind than his teeth came together and his eyes grew fierce. Bracing himself, he caught hold of a jagged edge of ice. Immediately it broke away, but the next piece he grasped was firmer. He reached up and slid his forearm over the ice, then lying back, caught a foot over the edge further along. Slowly he inched forward, gripping in the granular snow, until he was practically lying on top of the water. Then very gently he pressed down and rolled his stomach over the corner. With no warning the ice collapsed and Murdo disappeared beneath the surface.

  When he came up, the sheet of ice was over his head. Desperately he cast about, and one arm found open water. He hooked an elbow round the edge and pulled himself clear, forcing down the fear. The cold and confusion stopped him from thinking clearly, but he must try again. This time he found a straight side of ice, and using his flotation in the water, eased both arms along the surface, kicking against the floes. Pressing down with his fore- head and finger-tips he hitched forward, trying to put no strain on the edge. Soon he was clear to the waist. With an inward prayer he spread his arms, eased his weight down, and wriggled forward on to his belly and thighs. There was another loud splitting noise, but the ice held, and moments later he had slithered clear of the danger spot.

  The Germans had closed to something over half a mile. The train was in sight, stationary up the track, black smoke belching into the moorland air. Panting and shuddering, Murdo started to run towards it around the head of the loch. The wet trousers clung tight about his legs, his knees were weak and close to buckling. ‘I won’t stop,’ he sobbed to himself. ‘I won’t.’ The sodden black hair fell across his eyes.

  Behind him the Germans were in little better shape. The rifles jerked awkwardly at each stride. Henry Smith had to stop, he could run no further, and leaned his hands on his knees gasping for breath. He waved Arne and Gunner on, but within a hundred yards they had slowed to a panting walk. They were exhausted. In wet boots their feet were numb and badly blistered; the night’s relentless walking had reduced their legs to rubber and knots of aching muscle.

  Murdo passed the head of the loch and was only three hundred yards from the railway track when with a great cloud of steam the train started up again. He forced himself, with the last dregs of his strength, into a poor imitation of a sprint, and hauled himself over the fence to the railway line.

  The train roared past. He waved his arms frantically. At the steamy windows soldiers smiled out at him and waved back.

  It was too much to bear. As the noise of the train faded and the last carriage receded down the track, heading south, he fought the tears of exhaustion and frustration that stung his eyes and mingled with the loch water that trickled down his face.

  Twenty minutes later Murdo was more than a mile down the road and drawing close to the wintry copse and lodge that he had seen from the summit of the hill. The snow squeaked and crunched beneath his feet. There was no traffic, not even the roar of a distant tractor disturbed the soft rush and whine of the wind. The wheel tracks in the ice and snow looked as if they had been there for several days. To his left lay the open hills, to his right the railway line and loch; and half a mile behind, seen time and again as the road twisted, the three Germans followed remorselessly in his track. The leaden clouds shrugged low over the hills. The morning light was dim.

  He hurried along the wall that skirted the stand of trees and turned over a cattle grid between grand ornamental gate-posts. The long drive wound ahead through leafless birches and dark twisted pines. He passed the end of a
line of stables and other out- buildings, all in good repair, then the house was before him, a fine sandstone lodge with a gravelled courtyard. He ran to the big oak doors and thundered on them with his fists.

  ‘Hello! Hello – quick! Quick!’

  His blows boomed in the great hall, and faded into silence.

  ‘Is there anybody there?’

  There was no reply. Then he saw that all the windows stood bare and un-curtained. No tracks save his own, and those of one or two birds and some small animal, disturbed the snowy courtyard.

  Quickly he circled the house, hoping there might be a keeper’s cottage, but there was not. The lodge was completely deserted.

  Briefly Murdo hesitated. He longed to hide, to give up the unrelenting effort and cast himself into the hands of fate. He had tried to the limit of his power, and he had failed; surely he was now entitled to the easy way out. But even as he looked around the buildings he knew that hiding was no use, for they would certainly find him. Then it would have been better, much better, to have given himself up on Strathy beach, or even at the graveyard. So much had happened since that he could expect little mercy. The time of second chances was long past, now they would shoot him on sight. He knew it, and in his mind’s eye he saw the rifle and the finger on the trigger, heard the report, felt the terrible bullet and the black emptiness of falling. The image made him desperate. At that moment the German invasion meant nothing beside his own survival. He did not even think of it. What should he do?

  The sight of his footprints gave him an idea. Since the lodge was deserted and they must know how tired he was, the Germans would expect him to hide. He crossed swiftly to the outbuildings and opened a couple of stable doors, leaving them just ajar. Then he climbed a flight of stone steps to a loft, and descending again ran on to other doors to confuse his tracks. Finally he returned to the lodge itself, peering through the windows. Drawing his jacket sleeve tight, he jerked an elbow through the pane of what appeared to be the dining-room. The glass tinkled to the floor. He reached inside, pushed back the catch, and heaved up the heavy window. A few seconds later he was standing in the room, scattering little lumps of snow on the carpet. It was the work of a moment to push the window down again and press the catch back, hard, trying to make it jam. Then, stamping the snow from his boots and taking great care not to scatter more as he went, he crossed immediately into the fine oak-lined hall.