Murdo's War

by Alan Temperley

  ‘Aye; the kettle’s boiling,’ Murdo said.

  ‘You know which room it is, do you?’ Hector asked. ‘The one on the right at the top of the stairs. Along at the end of the landing.’

  Murdo nodded.

  ‘Go along with you, then. There’s no point you staying up half the night. Take a candle with you, we’ll need the lamps here.’

  ‘Goodnight, then.’ Murdo blinked sleepily in the firelight, hoping he was not over-doing it.

  ‘Sleep well.’

  A scatter of voices came from the Norwegians.

  ‘He’s a good boy, that.’ Peter’s words followed him into the cold hall. Hector’s reply was lost as he closed the door and padded barefoot through the living room into the kitchen. He turned off the Calor gas, and hitching the blanket securely about his waist, poured the water, still boiling, into a blue rubber hot water bottle. He would need light on the beach. He tipped a dozen matches into the palm of his hand and left the box on the table.

  Two minutes later he had the bottle in Donald’s bed and was trailing the heels of a pair of slippers, several sizes too large for him, across the lino and rugs of the cold bedroom. He set the candle on top of the chest of drawers and sat on the bed, bouncing so that they would hear it creaking in the room below. For a while he waited, feeling vaguely dissatisfied with his plan. What if they should come up and find him gone? He thought for a moment, then pulled off his vest, which had survived the worst of his soaking but was still a bit damp on the back. It could be a sign of his innocence. He carried it downstairs to the crowded sitting room.

  The men had glasses now and Murdo could smell whisky in the air as he opened the door. The bottle, already threequarters empty, stood on the carpet at the side of Hector’s chair. There was plenty more where that came from. If they were going to be drinking heavily, as it seemed, all the better for him.

  ‘It’s still damp.’ Murdo hung his vest over the back of a chair. ‘I’ll just leave it here, the other room’s full up.’

  A minute later he was back upstairs. Very quietly he pulled open the door of Donald’s wardrobe. The scent of old tobacco wafted out at him. Other people’s clothes always seemed so strange. He hunted through the hangers until he found what he wanted, a pair of really old trousers and a jacket and coat. Then he went to the chest of drawers and searched for a shirt and sweaters and socks. The drawers were stiff and it was hard to open them without making a noise. The last of the things he wanted were in the very bottom drawer. Gently he eased it shut. As he worked he could hear the voices drifting up from downstairs.

  It was the work of only a couple of minutes to dress himself in the unfamiliar garments. Donald’s thick shirt reached to his knees. The trousers were much too big, and he was unable to find braces or a belt. He pulled the laces from Donald’s Sunday shoes and knotted them about his waist. The trousers were still too long, so he tucked the bottoms into the ankles of his socks. Then he was ready, clad like a tramp. He dropped the matches into his pocket, thought for a moment, and once more lay on the bed, shifting his weight until the frame creaked, so that they must hear him below. Then very quietly he climbed down and stuffed the blanket he had been wearing and a pillow beneath the covers to make it look as though he was sleeping.

  Five minutes later, having checked that everything was as he wanted it, Murdo drew a deep breath to steady his nerves, and blew out the candle. Then, his heart still pounding, he crossed to the door and eased it open. It was very dark. A chink of light shone through the crack of the sitting room door below. The next moment he had tiptoed on to the landing and pulled the bedroom door shut behind him.

  Their voices came very distinctly to him now, drifting up the black well of the staircase. They were louder, the whisky was having its effect. He paused, leaning over the bannisters. Already his eyes were becoming accustomed to the darkness and he could distinguish the outline of the front door, the staircase leading down. He crossed the landing, then breathlessly – pressing against the wall and holding hard to the bannisters to lessen his weight, stepping at the edges of the treads lest they should creak – as cautiously as a cat he crept downstairs. Near the bottom a board cracked and he froze, but no-one came. A moment later he had reached the hall. Now they were just on the other side of the door beside him. A button of his coat clicked against the bottom of the bannisters. Like a shadow he flitted through into the fire-lit living room, picked up his sea-boots from the side of the hearth, and carried them into the kitchen.

  So far so good. But this was the most dangerous part. Did Donald keep his windows in good repair? Murdo pushed the kitchen door wide to give him what light there was. For a moment he listened, then quietly climbed up and knelt on the draining board beside the sink. Biting his lip, he carefully forced the catch back, took hold of the heavy little sash window, and pulled up. It did not move. He pulled again, harder. Still it stuck. He shifted slightly to get a better grip and pulled with some force. Suddenly the window shot up and jammed his fingers. The wind burst in, whirling snowflakes across the kitchen and billowing the curtains wildly. He smothered them in his arms and grabbed at a packet of washing powder that was toppling towards the floor. Alarmed, he listened, straining his ears and nursing his fingers, waiting for the noise of doors and running feet. But no sounds came from the further room save a sudden burst of laughter, hard to hear above the roaring of the gale outside.

  The faster he was gone the better. Carefully Murdo replaced the washing powder on the shelf where the wind would not blow it down again, and pushed the curtains wide. Then he tossed his boots out into the night, ducked his head, and scrambled through the window after them, head-first like an eel, taking the weight on his hands then tumbling into the snow, head and shoulders buried in a drift. In a moment he was on his feet, reaching back inside to mop up the snowflakes on the draining board and pull the curtains straight. Then swiftly and quietly he pulled the window down behind him.

  He could not find his boots for a moment, for they were buried in the snowdrift. But he unearthed them, tipped the snow out, brushed what snow he could from his socks and pushed his feet in. It was bitterly cold. Too late he realised that he had not brought a hat or gloves with him. Already his fingers were aching. Fumbling, he fastened the button of Donald’s coat at his neck and pulled the collar up. Then plunging his hands deeply into the coat pockets and screwing up his eyes against the stinging snowflakes, he set his back to the village and trudged out on to the open hillside.

  The wind buffeted Murdo in the darkness. His face ached and the driving blizzard caked his front with snow. Coming to a great black gap in the hillside, he thought he had reached the inlet already, but a few more steps revealed nothing but space, wind and darkness. He scrambled back and traversed a huge buttress of rock. His foot struck a boulder and he fell full length. Cursing under his breath, Murdo picked himself up and fought on.

  Two minutes later the ground fell away again and the roar of the sea mingled with the wind from the black emptiness below. This was the right gully. Soon Murdo was feeling his way down the treacherous path a step at a time, steadying himself against the rock face as he descended. It was a relief to be out of the force of the wind. The tide had retreated, but the sea sounded far more violent that it had been two and a half hours earlier. The huge, rolling waves poured into the neck of the sheltered cove and broke with a thunder that filled the air.

  Murdo crossed the snowy shore to the stack of cases, feeling for the knot where Carl Voss had tied the rope around the canvas. It was tight and covered with snow. He brushed the flakes from his hands and blew on his fingers, then walked down to the Lobster Boy. Clambering aboard, he pulled open the stern locker and felt for the lantern that had been doused by the sea. He shook it – there was still plenty of oil. Pulling it open he crouched in the stern and fumbled for a match in his coat pocket. It was not easy to find anything to strike it on, for the tool-box was oily and most things were wet. There was a file, however, and after rubbing it dry against
the leg of Donald’s trousers, his third match ignited. Huddled in the locker doorway he held it to the lantern. The wick spluttered, but it caught, and after giving off a deal of smoke that half blackened the glass, settled down to a steady flame.

  He shut the stern locker and scrambled for’ard. The boat was a mess. He kicked aside a tangle of ropes and pulled open the bows locker. Clumsy with freezing fingers, he laid his hands upon everything but what he wanted: bits of canvas, lengths of rope, bottles, tins, a Stillson wrench, the sea-anchor. But at length his hand fell on the long, smooth shaft of marline spike, and lying beside it a hammer. He pulled them out.

  Walking back to the cases he wished the lantern was not so bright. He sheltered his eyes from it and stared up the winding track, listening.

  Before he untied the knot Murdo examined it: he would have to re-tie it the same way. Fortunately it was a simple reef knot with a couple of half hitches. He shrouded the lantern behind a fold of the tarpaulin and got busy. It was easy, once he had seen it, despite the frozen ropes, for as Hector often told him, ‘the right knot never jams’. The lashings fell slack. He pulled back the stiff, snow-covered canvas and trampled it into a corner where it would not blow around.

  Which case should he open? Murdo picked up the lantern and looked at them. One of the longish ones, perhaps. Again he hid the lantern as well as he was able and dragged one of the cases into the snow at his feet. For a moment he hesitated, looking fearfully through the blizzard in the direction of the track. Then his mind was made up. He had come so far, he would finish the job! He reached to the top of a flat rock for the marline spike and hammer.

  The spike lifted the staples easily, and once the staples were out the wire bands slipped over the ends of the case. Then he was hammering the flattened tip of the spike under the end of one of the boards, being careful not to split the wood. It was simple. The silvery nails slipped out. He laid them carefully beside the staples and lifted a board clear. He removed the board next to it. Despite the blizzard and the cold, a hot shiver of apprehension passed through him.

  He set the marline spike and hammer on top of the planks in the snow and pulled out the lantern.

  The contents of the crate were covered, wrapped in brown wax-paper. Gingerly he pulled some of the wrappings open. The paper fluttered in the wind. The light glimmered on metal. He picked the lantern up and held it high so that its beam fell full into the open crate.

  ‘Oh no! Oh God!’ The appalled cry burst from his lips and he sprang to his feet. ‘Guns!’

  The dark, sleek shapes gleamed below him in the lamplight. He stood the lantern in the snow and carefully lifted one from the box. It was a beautiful weapon, a ·303, lovely to hold. He turned the rifle on its side and ran a hand over the oiled metal and glossy stock. He saw a name stamped into the blue steel beneath the breech and felt it with a finger. Then he crouched and held it to the light.

  ‘M-a-u-s-e-r.’ He spelled the letters out under his breath. ‘Mauser. Mauser!… German!’

  Heedless now, he dropped the rifle on top of the open crate. Already the inside was white with snow. Turning again to the pile, he dragged down one of the small heavy boxes. It was much more difficult to open, but he was reckless. A few rough blows and wrenches snapped the steel band. Hammering the marline spike under one of the boards he forced it up. From end to end it split down the grain of the wood. He pulled the pieces apart and flung them to the ground, then tore back the waxed paper. Row upon row of glinting brass and steel cartridges shone from the dark recess.

  ‘Ammunition!’ Murdo’s heart leaped and he recoiled before it. His shoulders bumped into something soft and he spun round wildly. A hand of steel shot out and clamped like a vice on the throat of his coat, half throttling him.

  ‘That’s right – bullets!’ The voice was harsh.

  A powerful light suddenly sprang out of the darkness, dazzling him. Murdo screwed his eyes up against it, twisting and struggling against the hand that held him so tightly. The light flashed towards him and something struck him violently across the side of the head.

  ‘Keep still!’

  His head ringing, Murdo could dimly make out a black figure before him. The light shifted and he found himself looking straight into the face of Carl Voss.

  ‘So now you know,’ he said roughly. ‘Bullets! And explosives! And guns!’

  ‘Operation Flood-Tide’

  THE HAND THAT held Murdo by the throat thrust him back violently, so that he stumbled and fell against the sharp corner of the pile of crates. In an instant he was on his feet, but Carl Voss already had a heavy service revolver levelled at his chest. The torchlight gleamed along its wicked barrel.

  ‘So now you know,’ Voss repeated, his voice quieter. ‘You young fool, what good do you suppose your meddling is going to do you now? Who do you think you are to set yourself up against us – against the might of the German Reich? An ignorant Scotch boy and his whisky-smuggling friend!’

  Murdo remained silent, hypnotised by the revolver.

  ‘I should shoot you now,’ Voss mused, his voice cutting through the roar of the storm. ‘It would save a lot of trouble.’ His lips came together and his nostrils flared as he considered the idea for a moment. Almost with reluctance he shook his head. ‘No. We might need you yet.’ He sighed, then gestured with the revolver towards the pile of crates. ‘Come on! Get them put away. Then we’ll see what ‘Henry’ wants to do with you.’

  Murdo bent, horribly aware of the gun at his back, and began repacking the shavings and brown paper into the box of ammunition. He laid the splintered boards across the top and hammered them down as well as he was able. The broken steel band nodded in the wind. Glancing up at Carl Voss, Murdo saw that the revolver had fallen to his side.

  He lifted the heavy cartridge box into place and turned to the case of rifles. Carefully he wrapped the waxed paper around the Mauser ·303 and set it back in its slot. He laid the boards on top and hammered them home. From the corner of his eye he saw Carl Voss shrug his shoulders against the snow; he was cold. The revolver still hung at his side. Shaking with fear, Murdo reached across casually for the heavy steel marline spike as if to lever the bands back into place. Then suddenly, acting before he had time to think about it, he whipped round, flung the metal spike with all his strength into the shins of the man behind, and dived to one side.

  There was a loud cry of pain and a deafening bang. A bullet ripped past his shoulder and thudded into the boxes. Like a cat Murdo leaped at the lantern. A violent kick smashed the glass and extinguished it. He flung himself headlong into the snow. There was another shot. In a split second he had regained his feet and was scrambling behind the stack. Keeping it between himself and Carl Voss’s torch, he raced behind the boat and disappeared into the darkness.

  Gasping with the pain in his shinbone, Voss struggled to regain possession of himself. It took a few moments. Then he limped around the corner of the pile of boxes. The light from his torch flooded through the falling snow. He turned it on the cliff face, illuminating every cranny where Murdo might be hiding or attempting to climb. The boy had not made a break across the open shore, of that he was certain. He was somewhere down that black tail of crag at the edge of the beach, hidden at the moment from his torchlight.

  Murdo reached the rocks by the sea. There was no shelter, no way up. Without pausing, he plunged into the turbulent waves and waded out along the foot of the crag, seeking a way over the rocky spur to the hidden shore beyond. It was a sheer buttress, yet the ragged crest rose no more than twenty or thirty feet above him. The water swirled about his thighs, then a wave surged in more than head-high, lifting him from his feet.

  It sank, and he was standing waist-deep. He scarcely noticed the clutching chill of the water. Still there was no way up. He panted and held against the crag for support. Another wave surged past, throwing him backwards. In the following trough he found bottom again and looked up. In the dark and stormy confusion a black streak four or five yards ahead looked
like a cranny. Pressing his hands against the rock and barnacles, feeling no pain as his fingertips tore against the sharp white shells, Murdo fought his way through the sea.

  He reached the spot. His groping fingers caught a good hold above head height, his scrabbling sea-boot found a support. A heave, and he was half out of the water. Another crevice, another foot-hold. Spreadeagled against the rock face, the leaping waves now reached only to his knees. Twisting his head to look, he saw the light of the torch slowly moving down to the water’s edge. It flashed up as Voss searched the darkness above him. Murdo turned his face away and reached for another hold.

  He was fifteen feet above the water when the ledges ran out. Desperately he cast about, scrabbling now with his left hand, now with his right, scraping his rubber boots along the rock, but there was no cleft, no protruberance, no hold at all. Below, the light of Carl Voss swept across the sea as though he suspected Murdo might be trying to creep past him in the waves. Slowly it moved back and along the seething foot of the crag, then up.

  He did not see Murdo at first, dark and wet as a seal, pressed into the spray-swept buttress. Murdo hid his face against the rock wall, so that the whiteness should not give him away. Twice the light passed over him, but the third time it moved more slowly, and returned, and stayed.

  Voss was taking no chances. He waded into the sea himself, keeping back from the crag so he had a clear view.

  ‘All right!’ he shouted, his voice harsh and loud above the storm. ‘Come down!’

  Murdo looked at the leaping waves below him and wondered for an instant, about jumping, but Carl Voss was too close, and in those clinging clothes he would never have made it in such a sea.

  ‘I will count. If you are not down by the time I reach five, I will shoot you dead. Now! One…’

  Murdo reached down with his foot and began climbing. Two minutes later, wide-eyed and shivering with fear and the beating he had taken in the sea, he stood once more on the beach. Carl Voss stepped up to him, and Murdo reeled full length as a savage blow struck him above the ear. Suddenly he was frightened no longer. He pulled himself to his knees and looked up, eyes blazing in the torchlight.