Murdo's War

by Alan Temperley

  When he had finished he felt inside the young German’s jacket, and removed the heavy service revolver from the holster at his waist. The magazine was full. Feeling through his pockets in case he carried any other weapon with him, Murdo came upon twelve more rounds of ammunition lying loose. The only other items of interest were a map, a wrist watch, and the greater part of a large bar of milk chocolate. He laid them on one side and replaced the other odds and ends in his pocket – a handkerchief, a comb, an assortment of small British coins, and a nicely marked pebble from the beach.

  The young man still showed no sign of coming round. It was cold in the hall. Taking him again by the front of the jacket, Murdo dragged him into the living room and laid him on the old length of carpet beside the fire. Five minutes later he groaned and began to stir. His eyes flickered open. Murdo rolled up his own jacket and sweater and placed them under the German’s head.

  The interminable hours of darkness drew on. A rattling, gusty rain set in and the wind roared about the house, making the windows shake and the doors tug against their fastenings. The barn door slammed back and forward, so loud and insistent that at length Murdo had to go out through the pelting rain to tie it shut again. Half a dozen sheep, which had been feeding on the hay and oil cake, burst past him through the black doorway and ran away bleating. Throughout the night they gathered for shelter in the lean-to, their coughing and low notes comforting and familiar sounds in the darkness. It was cold, and Murdo kept the fire stacked high with wood and peat. The wind sucked the flames up the chimney so that the sparks flew and little flames at the back burned green and blue.

  Murdo stuck one of the old candle stubs on a piece of wood and pored over the map. He was, so far as he could tell, at a cottage named Dalgarbh, and the mountain which rose above was called Sgorach. Below it the glen wound six miles through descending moorland to the east coast, reaching the sea at Berriedale. Just above the shore, where the river was crossed by the road, it was joined by the stream he had followed from Duncan Beg’s cottage beyond the mountains. He traced them down with a black forefinger. Clearly, he thought, ‘Operation Flood-Tide’ could not yet have swung into action, for if it had they would not still be searching for him. All he had to do, once daylight came, was follow the river down to Berriedale, then telephone the police. As he travelled through the trees on the southern slope of the glen he must keep his eyes open, for when the young German beside him did not turn up, they would be sure to send out a search party. He broke off two more squares of milk chocolate, put one into the German’s mouth and ate the other himself. It tasted much better than the mutton.

  The watch Murdo had taken from the prisoner’s wrist made the night drag by even more slowly. He tried to sleep, but was quite unable to do so. After what seemed hours of restless tossing and turning, another consultation of the watch revealed that its tormenting fingers had crawled forward no more than thirty minutes. At nine o’clock it felt like midnight, and at midnight it felt like four o’clock in the morning. Repeatedly he put the watch to his ear to make sure it had not stopped. He tried to talk to the German, but the heavy young man had nothing to say and either glowered back or ignored him, nursing his sore head and his self-contempt at having been knocked senseless and taken prisoner by a boy. Too late he saw that the end joint of the third finger on the boy’s right hand was missing.

  The heavy revolver fascinated Murdo. Time and again he broke it open, ejecting and replacing the cartridges, drawing beads on marks on the wall and imaginary pursuers. He spread the map and traced his track, so far as he was able, from the bothy at Loch Strathy to his present shelter at Dalgarbh. He read advertisements and recipes and scraps of the romantic stories in what remained of the old People’s Friend Annual, leaning forward to get the light of the fire, for there were only enough candle stubs to last a couple of hours. He closed his eyes and dozed fitfully. He grilled some more of the mutton and offered a slice to the German, who refused to eat it and looked on disgusted as Murdo chewed his way around the edge of a smoke-blackened cutlet.

  At last the fourteen hours of murky night passed by, and going to the window for the twentieth time, Murdo perceived a definite lightening of the landscape outside. He could distinguish the black shape of the barn and see a dim outline of hills against the sky. It was seven o’clock.

  Low in spirits, but relieved that the night was over and at last he was able to take some action, he began to prepare for his departure. He buckled the heavy revolver about his waist and pulled his sweater over the top. He put on his battledress jacket and boots, and laid the things he was to carry on the window sill – map, pocket knife, a handful of cartridges, a couple of slabs of cooked mutton, and the remains of the chocolate.

  Kneeling then, he struck one of the two remaining matches and examined the young German’s head. There was little to see, for the wound was in his hair and he pulled his head away as Murdo’s fingers touched him. A long trickle of blood down the side of his neck had dried during the night. There was nothing Murdo could do.

  The match burned low and nipped his fingers. He threw it into the fire and turned his attention to the prisoner’s bonds. Unwrapping the last of the cord from the joints of mutton, he put another turn around his wrists and ankles. After that he rolled the man in a length of rick netting and tied down the end with tags of mesh. Finally he threaded a piece of old rope through his legs and arms, knotted it in the mesh, and with a multitude of tight knots secured it to the thick shaft of the hob at the side of the fire.

  ‘Are you sure you don’t want me to run away?’ the German said ironically.

  Murdo smiled. He remembered a rusty old basin in the barn. Filling it at the sheep trough, he carried it carefully into the house and poured the water on the fire. There was a fierce dying hiss and clouds of steam and ash puffed out into the room. He repeated the performance until he was sure the fire was completely extinguished.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, ‘you might be a bit cold. But you could have burned through the ropes or cut them on the window glass.’ His apology did not help the young German’s feelings. He gave Murdo a single glance, eyes full of self-reproach and disappointment, then turned his face to the wall.

  Without the flicker of firelight the room was dark, and Murdo drew back the curtains to get the benefit of the faint dawn light. Roughly he scoured the bowl at the sheep trough, then filled it with clean water and carried it into the living room. He laid a piece of cooked mutton beside it on a corner of the hearth. Then he filled his pockets with the items from the window ledge, and was ready to leave.

  ‘As soon as I can, I’ll tell someone you’re here,’ he said. There was no reply.

  Feeling miserable and guilty, Murdo shrugged, then turned away into the empty hall. A moment later he passed out into the cold wet gloom of the morning, and pulled the front door shut behind him.

  The deluge during the night had cleared away much of the snow, and sodden patches of black loomed among the white, dappling the hillsides and broad floor of the glen. The wind had died down and it looked as though the rain, which already had eased to an intermittent drizzle, would soon stop altogether. The dark clouds were lifting and pale channels, like water among pack ice, were opening in the east above the North Sea.

  From beyond the barn and sheds came a deep roaring as the brimming river poured over the salmon breaks. Murdo trudged towards it through the slush and flood and soon stood on the brink. The water raced by, earth-dark and glinting in the light from the sky. The weight of the current was in the middle, but at the edges the water lapped over the bank and flowed away across the lower pastures. Acres were under water, and downstream a great flood spread three quarters of the way across the valley. Murdo regarded the clots and rafts of foam as they sped past. The broken bridge upon which he had relied to make his crossing flipped and lurched dangerously, as the hanging planks snicked the crest of the current not six inches below.

  Irresolutely he paused, but yet again there seemed no choice. H
e could not risk going down the near side of the valley, for a search party must certainly be sent out before long, and there was no shelter or protection. If he crossed, on the other hand, the river in full spate was the best protection for which he could ask.

  The wooden spars were rotten and slippery, and he stood with his feet on the wire cables at either side. Slowly he edged along, holding tightly to the hand lines. With his weight the bridge gave a little, and dropped until the middle planks dipped clear below the mid-stream current. The whole structure leaped dangerously and snapped back and forth. Murdo locked his hands on the ropes and felt forward with his feet until he was actually walking into the water. Icy with melting snow, the current bore powerfully against his calves and swelled above his knees, tearing at him in the half-darkness. Murdo hung on, forcing his legs against it and managing to keep the instep of his boots hooked over the cables. The wires sank deeper, then began to rise, and in two or three minutes he was past the worst part. Momentarily he relaxed – too soon. Instantly his feet were gone from beneath him, his legs trailed in the current. But he had tight hold of the hand lines, and ignoring the pain in his split palm managed to struggle along, hand over hand. Then the cables were above water once more, he regained his feet – he was over! With a tremendous feeling of relief, exhilaration overcoming his weakness, Murdo stood panting on the riverbank.

  Briefly he examined his bleeding hand, then reaching into his trouser pocket for the knife, turned his attention to the bridge. The original cables were of wire, now rusted and ragged with age, but the upstream suspension cable had recently been replaced and was of rope. That, at least, he could cut, and in a few moments he had sliced through the tough fibres. As the last strands snapped the rope flew out and the flimsy footbridge slipped sidelong into the racing current, throwing up a great curling wave in the middle of the river. With some satisfaction Murdo regarded it, then turned to the wires. Clearly he could not sever them, but the lashings were of twine. He crouched beside a heavy iron ground pin and sawed at the ancient coils. Inch by inch they fell apart and he peeled them from the rusty end of the wire. With his heel he kicked at the rigid stub and slowly it bent back. But it was hopeless, no matter how he kicked and tugged he would never be able to unbend the half hitches; even with a hammer and marline spike it would have been difficult. With a sigh he picked the knife from the ground and stepped back. It was fortunate that he did so, for he had not considered the tremendous power of the current, bearing full against the catwalk, all borne by the second suspension cable. Suddenly the rotting post beside him snapped under the strain. There was a loud crack, a jerk, a flying tumble of ropes, and it was away. In the slow wintry dawn the destroyed bridge jumped and flapped in the brimming river, held by a single wire.

  Murdo folded the knife shut and set his face from the flood. Conscious that pursuers might see his footprints from the further bank, he trod a line of plunging steps through a patch of snow, as if he was heading towards the south-western hills. Reaching a stretch of pools and boggy grass, however, he turned back and carefully made his way east along the bottom rim of the glen, towards the trees that lined the escarpment.

  The way was unpleasant among the gnarled and mossy branches of the birch trees. They were saturated and spilled showers of heavy drops upon his head and shoulders. Sometimes, too, a little snow remained, that landed with a slap and slid down his neck and sleeve. Underfoot the snow was deep in places, and the wet ground made the going heavy. He was sodden to the top of his legs and his feet were very cold.

  To make up for these discomforts, however, the trees, even though they were sparse in some parts and naked of leaves, gave excellent cover. Higher in spirits than he had been for a long time, Murdo pulled a slab of smoky mutton from his jacket pocket, picked away some khaki fluff, and began to chew it as he went along. It was good to feel the strength coming back into his legs, and the cool air was sweet to breathe. The revolver hung heavy at his belt, and he pulled up his sweater to feel again the sharp bulk of the butt in his hand. It made him feel tough, like a soldier; then he wondered if he would ever dare to use it.

  Time passed, daylight grew, the clouds opened to admit a promising morning, and he made good progress. Occasionally a white hare or some rabbits and birds darted away as he disturbed their feeding. A herd of fifteen hind, alarmed, raised their slim heads to regard his passage. Stamping uneasily they turned and swept off in a stream, running and springing, down through the trees, and up the further slope. Murdo paused to watch them go. They were beautiful. Suddenly they checked, swerved, and streamed back down the hillside, vanishing into the trees further down the glen. There on the road, where he had not seen them before, were two men. Their voices now came to him across the valley. Relying on the trees to mask him, though soon he could see them plainly, Murdo froze where he was. Slowly they passed on up the track and finally disappeared behind a clump of fir trees.

  If they were looking for the young German they had two or three miles to go before they even reached the cottage, and then the same back again. That gave him well over an hour’s lead, and they had to cross the river and follow his trail on top of that. Nevertheless, there was no time to be lost, and he pressed on as quickly as the woods would allow.

  An hour and a half later, when the hands of the German’s wrist watch showed the time to be just after eleven o’clock, a large grey roof appeared through a gap in the trees on the far side of the glen. Hot and panting from his exertions, Murdo climbed to a vantage point and examined it closely. It was a huge, stone-built lodge surrounded by a high wall. Cheerful lights shone in the windows and smoke curled from the chimneys. This time the owners were at home. As he watched, a young girl came running round the end of the house pursued by a puppy, and disappeared in the front door.

  Carefully he checked up and down the glen, then slithered through the trees to the foot of the wood. Where there was a house there should be a bridge, he thought, and a few minutes later spotted a sturdy wooden structure over a little gorge a hundred yards downstream. The road was still clear. Quickly he ducked out of the trees, slid down the bank, hurried across the bridge, and scrambled up the far slope.

  Danger had made him cautious and at the top of the bank he paused, raising his head very carefully to survey the road ahead. It was empty. He was just preparing to make a run for the lodge entrance when two soldiers – of all things two British soldiers – came walking briskly through the gates and turned away down the road.

  ‘Hey!’ He leaped to his feet. ‘Hey, stop!’

  The soldiers paused and looked back. Murdo scrambled over the edge of the bank. Knees half buckling as he ran, he hurried down the stony track to where they stood. In a matter of seconds he was beside them, and with a hand knotted in one of the soldiers’ sleeves was pouring out his tale, incoherent, stumbling over the words, his face ill and eager and desperate.

  Astonished, the two soldiers regarded him. At length the taller and senior of the two, a corporal, cut him off and pulled his arm free from Murdo’s grip.

  ‘All right!’ he said, half laughing and half concerned. ‘All right! We’re on our way down to Berriedale this minute. You can tell it all to the Colonel.’

  They were on foot, and the three set off together down the road. The second soldier felt in his breast pocket for a packet of cigarettes and lit up. He remembered he had some chocolate, and unbuttoning the flap again, rummaged inside to produce at length a crumpled half bar of Cadbury’s Milk. He passed it over.

  ‘Go on,’ he said. ‘Take it.’

  Unenthusiastically Murdo popped the battered squares into his mouth. Suddenly he felt very tired. He didn’t feel like talking. For so long he had looked forward to that moment, and now it had come he just wanted to be left alone, to sleep. There was too much to explain. He had carried the burden, let somebody else take it now.

  In twenty minutes they reached the crest of the slope above the shore. Beneath them the North Sea was blue-grey and flecked with white horses. Throu
gh the tree tops, where the narrow coast road crossed two stone bridges, Murdo could see a scattering of army cars and trucks. A few men stood about, chatting in small groups, smoking and gazing at the twin torrents that gushed from the hills to converge in a tumult fifty yards below. Briefly he paused to take in the scene, and a shiver of relief ran down into his legs. The nightmare, the flight, the pursuit – it was all over.

  A few minutes’ descent through the wood, and the three emerged between the grey stone bridges at the shore. A dozen heads swept in their direction. Men shifted, as if glad of the diversion, and watched them with interest.

  A man of distinguished appearance was leaning on the parapet of the southern bridge studying a map.

  The taller of the two soldiers addressed him as they drew close.

  ‘Colonel,’ he called.

  The man looked up, then turned from his map and regarded with attention the little group that approached him. His cap was in his hand, his silver hair stirred a little in the breeze.

  Murdo hurried forward. Anxious to get his tale told, he had eyes for no-one but the Colonel. But something in the attitude of one man, half seen, stopped him dead in his tracks. The blood drained from his cheeks. Spinning round, he found himself staring straight into the face of big Bjorn Larvik. Beside him stood Arne, the half-albino, pink-eyed and alert.

  It hit Murdo like an electric shock, and he reeled visibly.

  Not five yards away, Henry Smith, dressed in the uniform of a British officer, relaxed and broke into a broad smile. Other men were smiling too. One stepped forward and took him by the arm.

  In an instant Murdo burst from him and dashed away across the second bridge – but men were coming towards him from the far side.

  He was trapped, completely.