Murdo's War

by Alan Temperley

  Murdo was alarmed. ‘Have you been lying here all this time?’ he said.

  ‘Aye,’ said Hector. ‘I’m a tough old nut. Don’t worry yourself, I’m not as easy to finish off as all that.’

  ‘Have you had any food?’ Murdo pictured the slabs of smoky mutton that apart from a few squares of chocolate were all he had eaten in the past five days.

  ‘Oh, aye – dribs and drabs, you know. Yon Bjorn fellow was very good... while he was here, but I haven’t seen him for a few days. And the others brought a bit. I’m not very hungry.’

  After a while Murdo said, ‘Has nobody in the village missed us?’

  ‘No, he’s been very clever, that Mr Smith. Still at the inn – large as life. Put it out that we were staying a few days at Donald’s house in Clerkhill… Took our ration books and told them in the shop that the old Ford was iced up. And the Clerkhill people think… we’re back in the village. With the bad weather nobody’s thought anything about it.’

  ‘But it’s eight days now.’

  ‘It wouldn’t be the first time I’ve... been away without telling everybody where I’m going. You know that yourself.’

  It was cold and damp on the rocks, and despite his thick coat Murdo felt the chill creeping into his bones. He twisted and gazed up at the shelf where they had stacked the crates of guns and ammunition. The shadows were impenetrably black.

  ‘Did they move it all down the cave?’ he said.

  ‘What?’

  ‘The guns and that.’

  ‘I think so. It took them a long time, anyway.’ Again Hector struggled for breath. ‘All down there in the cave mouth, is it?’

  ‘Uh-huh. They’re waiting for the lorries now.’

  ‘What day is it?’

  ‘Friday.’

  ‘Well, the balloon goes up tomorrow… All over the country.’

  ‘What – ‘Flood-Tide’?’

  ‘Aye, Saturday. Try to catch us on the hop... Sunday would suit them better, with everyone off their guard... but all the prisoners will be in camp then.’

  Murdo listened to the low drone of speech at the entance to the cave, and a man’s sudden laughter.

  ‘Is yon Colonel chap still with them?’ Hector said.

  ‘Yes – well he was when I came down,’ Murdo replied. ‘Who is he?’

  There was a thick chuckle beside him. ‘They’ve been fair worried about you, boy. I’ll tell you who he is. Colonel von Kramm, leader… of the whole shebang.’

  ‘What, the whole operation?’ Murdo was astonished.

  ‘That’s right. Hitler’s big hope. The leader of the German invasion – in a cave on Strathy beach!’

  ‘He came up because of me?’

  ‘He did. From what I can make out… everything was going well with the other groups, they were all straining at the leash… but you were missing.’ Hector’s voice was growing weaker. ‘He was so disgusted with our Mr Smith… that he came up to take charge himself.’

  ‘And I walked right into his trap,’ Murdo said disconsolately.

  ‘It looks like it.’

  Again they were silent. Murdo’s mind went back over his run. He remembered the old shepherd at Corriebreck.

  ‘Do you know a fellow called Duncan Beg?’ he said.

  ‘Up by Kinbrace? Aye.’ But Hector was not interested. ‘Why?’

  ‘I’ll tell you about it later,’ Murdo said.

  Time dragged by. In Murdo’s side the pain of Knut’s final kick had quietened to a dull ache. To have done so much, and be defeated now! He writhed his hands at his back, but the knots were too firmly tied. He strained and tugged. The ropes burned and slipped a fraction, but whether it was with sweat or blister marks, Murdo did not know.

  He remembered the knife in his trouser pocket.

  ‘Hector,’ he whispered. ‘I’ve got Dad’s knife here. Can you reach it?’

  He wriggled close until the old fisherman’s hands were at his hip, but Hector was bound too tightly and his fingers were numb with the days of captivity. It was all he could do to pull the great- coat back. The trouser pocket was wet and stretched tight, the knife well down against Murdo’s thigh.

  If he could not use the knife, Murdo thought, perhaps he could chafe through the rope against a rock. The boulders on the cave floor were round and worn smooth by the sea, but the walls were rougher. He scrambled down to the sand and fumbled along the invisible rock for a place where he could get a good rub at the ropes on his wrists. There was no sharp edge, nevertheless he picked a rough corner, and kneeling awkwardly began sawing his wrists up and down behind his back. The rock caught his bones and scraped against his skin. The position was so twisted that even before a minute was up he had to straighten to ease the cramp in his back and shoulders.

  Suddenly there was the chatter of louder voices and laughter at the cave mouth. It sounded as though new men had arrived. The lorries must have come. Leaving the sawing, Murdo humped himself down the cave with his legs, keeping his head ducked in case he struck it on a projecting rock. Soon he could see through the narrow neck towards the entrance. Most of the men were hidden from his sight, but beneath an overhanging buttress he could see one figure in army overalls, and the legs of two more. The man in overalls pulled off his cap and sat down with his back to the cave wall. Someone handed him a tin mug, then an arm appeared, filling the mug from a large enamel teapot.

  Murdo scrambled back up the cave. There was no time to rub the rope through against a rock. Was it not possible to get the knife out somehow? Then there might be a chance to run for it while the Germans were carrying the cases up the dunes. He pushed his hip against a protruberance of rock, but everything – knife, pocket, trousers and greatcoat – moved up and down in one lump. Frustrated, he gnawed his bottom lip. From a sea of con- fused ideas, two rose uppermost. Even though his feet were tied, if he could push down his trousers he might manage to take the pocket in his teeth and shake the knife out. Or, if he could prop himself upside down, it might drop out of its own accord.

  At least it was worth trying. He wormed across to a fairly straight stretch of rock, turned on his back and shuffled close in. Then he propped his feet high against the black wall, and with a great effort jerked them a few inches higher. But it was no good that way, with his arms tied he could not get his feet high enough. He let himself fall heavily to the sand.

  When he made a second attempt he lay alongside the wall, and rolling backwards swung his feet high. At the top of the arc he caught his heels against the rock, then hitched and shuffled higher and higher, until it seemed that his bound arms must dislocate with the strain. At length, propped nearly upright on the back of his neck, he arched his body straight. The skirts of the greatcoat fell about his face. The knife slipped a little in his trouser pocket. He shook him- self slightly and it slipped some more, then stuck. Two, three times he jerked his hips. Suddenly, with no warning, the knife fell free and landed in the sand beside his ear with a little thud.

  Murdo slumped sideways and lay for a moment while the ache ebbed from his shoulders and bruised ribs. Then sitting up, he scrabbled behind his back for the knife. The sand was wet and hard from the last tide, and almost at once his fingers fell upon the smooth warm haft. The spring was stiff, but it opened under the force of his big thumb nail, and a few moments of awkward sawing brought the ropes falling slack over his hands. With relief he rubbed his chafed wrists and brought the blood tingling into the tips of his fingers.

  To free his ankles was the work of a few seconds, and scrambling quickly up the rocks, a few swift slashes brought the cords tumbling over Hector’s hands and feet too.

  The old man eased his joints and squeezed his numb fingers in the darkness. He coughed convulsively, but a trace of the old spirit showed through his wheezing words.

  ‘Tie the ends in a knot,’ he gasped, struggling for breath. ‘Wrap them round again in case they come to check. There’s nothing you can do while they’re all here.’

  It was as well they did s
o, for a minute or two later Knut came back up the cave, feeling his way against the wall, his eyes dazzled from the sunshine outside.

  ‘Ah,’ he said, his torch picking out Murdo who sat dejectedly on the rocks a few feet below Hector. ‘There you are.’ He rolled him back and felt the ropes at his wrists. Murdo strained them tight with all his strength, holding the loose ends in his fists. Knut shone the torch on his ankles. Satisfied, he moved on to Hector. The old man wheezed noisily and closed his eyes. For a moment Knut shone his torch on Hector’s face, then turned away down the cave. ‘You won’t be here much longer,’ he called back over his shoulder. ‘They’ve come for the – ‘ he struck his head a resounding crack on the roof and issued a string of oaths. Rubbing his scalp with one hand, he passed out of sight.

  There was a hubbub of voices and the sound of boxes knocking and scraping at the cave mouth. Grunts followed, and a certain amount of scuffling, then slowly the voices and sounds faded into the distance. Murdo strained his ears, but beyond the far murmur of the sea and the cry of a gull there was silence. Swiftly he slipped the ropes from his hands and feet and stood up. The smooth boulders slipped and grated beneath his heels. Hector covered the noise with a fit of coughing, and in a moment Murdo had scrambled down to the carpet of sand.

  Heart pounding, he listened – still no sound. Then there was a faint rustle at the mouth of the cave and the sound of a match striking. Slowly he crept to the neck of the inner chamber, and an inch at a time peered around the corner. Framed in the entrance twenty-five yards away, sitting on a box with his back towards him, was Knut. He seemed to be alone. A thin trickle of smoke drifted from his hand. A few paces away his Mauser rifle was propped against the sunlit crag.

  Softly Murdo returned to Hector, and in a few whispered words told him what he had seen. The greatcoat and boots were too clumsy for what he now must do. Impatiently he pushed them off. The clammy air of the cave struck chill against his skin and damp vest. He bent and very quietly picked up a heavy rock from the foot of the pile, one that he could carry easily. It was sea-smooth, cold and gritty in his hands. He swallowed and ran a tongue over dry lips. It was hard to control his breathing. Softly he crept forward.

  In a moment he was at the turning. Trying not to let his trousers brush against the rock walls, he eased himself through the narrow neck. He was in full view. One slip and the man must see him. Surely he must turn round. Cold sweat trickled down Murdo’s face. Nearer he crept – and nearer. Like a cat he placed his stockinged feet delicately in the sand. Fifteen yards, ten, seven, five. The man flipped the butt of his cigarette away and shifted in his seat. Murdo froze. Surely he must sense him right there behind him. But Knut ran a hand through his fair hair, scratched his beard, and settled down again. For ten seconds Murdo could not move. He wanted to swallow but dare not. Forcing himself, again he inched for- ward. Four yards, three, two. He could almost reach out a hand and touch the dark uniform. There was the purple mark of an old boil on the back of the man’s neck. One yard. He was right behind him. The rock was poised. Murdo’s face was in agony. Could he do it? Yes, he could – he had to! Shutting his eyes, he drove down the stone against the back of the man’s head. There was a sickening crack. Slowly, like a rag doll, Knut slumped from his seat to the wet, foot marked sand. Still, save for one terrible twitching arm, he lay there with the boulder beside his face.

  Numbly Murdo looked down at his handiwork. Twice in two days. He wondered whether the man was dead. There was no shadow of movement save in the last shivering of his hand, like a trout after you have struck it against a stone.

  ‘Murdo!’ Hector’s voice came from behind him. He was clutching a corner of the rock wall for support. ‘Get him back here.’

  ‘I think I’ve killed him,’ Murdo said.

  ‘Nonsense! Get him back here.’

  Bending, Murdo took the limp figure by the shoulders and dragged him backwards into the shadows of the inner cave.

  ‘Is he right out of sight?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Come on, then.’ Hector began to stumble towards the beach but after a few steps he had to rest. His grey, white-stubbled face ran with perspiration. On his temple the ugly contusion where Carl Voss had struck him with the rifle butt was still swollen and blue.

  ‘Lean on me,’ Murdo said, and took the old man’s arm over his shoulder. Hector’s imprisonment and bindings had left him so weak that he could hardly stand. Despite every effort he hung heavily around Murdo’s neck and gripped his arm for support. Slowly they made their way past the great stack of cases and along the bottom of the cliffs, away from the dunes. In two minutes they had turned a corner and were out of sight.

  Hector stopped, struggling for breath. His chest heaved. ‘It’s no good. I can’t go any faster. You run ahead and get help.’

  ‘What about you?’

  ‘Never mind about me!’ Hector’s anger at his own helplessness showed in the sharp words. ‘You’re the only chance we’ve got.’

  Murdo realised he was right and nodded.

  ‘Get me yon fellow’s rifle,’ Hector said. ‘You’ll need all the start you can get. I’ll try to hold them back.’ His gnarled hand gripped a knob of rock for support, the other leaned heavily on his knee. ‘Go on, now – quick!’

  For a moment Murdo hesitated, then ran back to the entrance of the cave and grabbed up Knut’s rifle. He was turning away when his eye was caught, and hung for a moment upon a stack of smaller boxes. Ammunition. Hector would want more than a magazine full. A few swift blows with the butt of the rifle and the wood split open. On pulling the planks apart and tearing back the oiled papers, however, he was confronted not by bullets but by long grey cylinders, with red lettering on them and fuse wires at the end. Cursing, he smashed open a second box, and this time it was grenades. Row upon row the criss-crossed little bombs lay stacked like metal eggs, gleaming a dull blue-bronze. They would have to do. Hastily snatching a couple, he thrust them into his trouser pockets and pulled the shattered boxes together.

  He had turned to dart away, when suddenly there was a clatter of stones at the corner of the cliff and the sound of returning voices. There was no time to reach Hector with the rifle! Quick as a thought he ran to a small outcrop of rocks opposite the cave mouth, and crouched behind it trembling.

  The soldiers came closer and closer. Their voices were casual and easy, he heard the soft crunch of their boots in the wet sand. Even as they approached the mouth of the cave they suspected nothing. Then abruptly, not ten yards away, they stopped and fell silent.

  ‘Knut?’ A questioning voice rang out. It sounded like Henry

  Smith. There was no reply. ‘Knut?’ he called again, louder this time.

  Then there was another, quiet voice, the Colonel’s. In the silence that followed Murdo heard running footsteps which diminished up the beach – apparently into the cave. A few seconds later there was a muffled cry, and the man raced out again, calling loudly. Others shouted in reply, and there was a swift scattering of footsteps, right and left along the foot of the cliffs and back into the cave.

  Henry Smith was furious. Harsh and loud his voice rang across the sands, directing, confusing, cursing them for incompetence.

  Murdo waited to be discovered, but no-one came. Very cau- tiously he ventured to peer from behind his island of rocks.

  The Colonel stood quietly at one side of the cave, saying nothing, while Henry Smith stalked up and down, beating his fists against his sides in a passion of disgrace and frustration. Awe- struck, Murdo regarded him. Two men ran across the face of the cliff. Beyond them, far down a sandy inlet where Henry Smith could not yet see him, a soldier in overalls appeared, pulling Hector by the arm. Hector was resisting. A fist was raised and he fell to the ground. Another man emerged from the cave, not quite sure what to do next. Suddenly Henry Smith swung round. He regarded the outcrop behind which Murdo was crouching, and the high stacks twenty yards beyond. Seeing they were unchecked, he began striding down the beach. Murdo pu
lled his head back, but not quickly enough and the German leader spotted the movement. He called out sharply, and three soldiers came running towards him.

  ‘I see you!’ he cried aloud in English. ‘Now Knut is dead! You young savage – this time I will kill you!’

  Murdo heard the heavy footfalls coming closer. Trembling visibly, he leaped out from his hiding place and levelled the rifle at the German’s chest.

  ‘Stop!’ he cried. ‘I’ll shoot!’

  The soldiers halted, their eyes riveted on the desperate and half- naked youth, with the empty holster at his belt and gleaming rifle in his hands. But Henry Smith kept advancing, feeling inside his coat for the heavy service revolver.

  ‘I will,’ screamed Murdo. ‘I’ll shoot!’ But the German leader took no notice. Terrified and sick, Murdo pulled the trigger.

  It was jammed solid. Nothing happened. It would not work! He flung the rifle to the ground.

  Henry Smith laughed.

  Murdo dug into his trouser pocket, pulled out one of the grenades, and tore out the pin.

  Henry Smith stopped abruptly in his tracks, staring at the live bomb in Murdo’s hand. Then Murdo flung it, and ripping out the second one, hurled it into the crowd of men gathered near the boxes in the cave mouth. Full length he dived for cover.

  There was a moment of silence, then a sudden burst of scream- ing and shouting as the men scrambled for shelter. Those who had not seen, came running at the noise.

  It was cut off abruptly by a loud bang, and a moment later by the stunning roar of an explosion which made the earth heave, and sent great echoes thundering around the sky. Murdo’s ears nearly burst with the impact of the noise. Huge slabs of rock shivered from the face of the cliff. A massive boulder shattered into fragments on the stack behind him: another embedded itself deeply in the wet sand. Stones were flying all around. A sharp splinter gashed Murdo down the side of the face, and something struck his knee with some force. Then the sand and dust were settling all around him, over his shoulders and trousers and in his eyes. As he stood up he started to cough and spit in the dust and fumes. The cave was no longer to be seen. Huge piles of boulders lay all over the place where the entrance had been, and a cloud of dust hung over it.