Murdo's War

by Alan Temperley

  The beach seemed deserted, save for himself, and there was absolute silence. Then, as he looked around the rocks, he began to see the bodies of the men, and bits of wood from the gun cases. Murdo’s head fell forward, and he sank to his knees, sobbing helplessly.

  For a long time he knelt there, staring half blindly at the scene of total destruction. The figures of the men lay twisted and broken on the sand, and there was no sign of movement save in the slowly clearing dust and an occasional boulder that fell from the smoking, shattered cliffs.

  Henry Smith, strangely immaculate in his British officer’s uniform, lay five yards distant, where he had been tossed by the blast of the explosion. He was quite unmarked and might have been asleep, had it not been for his awful stillness and the unnatural angle of one arm. The outflung hand that had so recently grasped a revolver was empty – trailing and limp. A plain gold ring shone dully on his wedding finger. The sparse hair was blown back, betraying his balding crown. His pale blue eyes, un-spectacled, were opened in mild surprise, but the lids did not move. His mouth, for ever, was closed.

  At last Murdo’s sobs, the catharsis of so much effort and distress, subsided, and he became aware of a voice.

  ‘The rifle, boy! The rifle!’

  He looked round, dazed. Hector was stumbling towards him across the sand.

  ‘Murdo!’ His voice was urgent. ‘Give me the rifle! Can’t you see? He’s getting away.’

  Slowly Murdo turned his head and looked in the other direction. Far across the beach two figures were hurrying towards the dunes. One, silver-haired, leaned heavily on a taller man’s shoulder. His leg was trailing. Something tickled Murdo’s jaw. Thoughtlessly he brushed it away with his hand and his hand was scarlet. Heavily he pulled himself to his feet and picked up the discarded weapon.

  ‘It’s broken,’ he said flatly, as Hector came past the outcrop where he had hidden and took it from his hand.

  His chest heaving with effort, Hector steadied himself against a little crest of rock and checked the muzzle and breech of the rifle. It was loaded and clean save for a few grains of sand which he brushed off with his hand. The safety catch was still on – Murdo had forgotten to check it. He pressed it back with a horny thumb, settled his left elbow comfortably in a rocky niche, and raised the splintered butt to his shoulder. The wind ruffled his white hair. He held his breath. The barrel never wavered as it swung to cover the fleeting figures. Then it was still. His forefinger tightened a fraction on the trigger. A vicious crack split the air, the muzzle jerked up, there was a puff of smoke. Away across the beach the limping figure of Colonel von Kramm spun round as if he had been kicked, and pitched headlong to the sand. But he was not dead, for they saw him raise an arm and wave the other on. It was big Bjorn Larvik. For a moment he paused, but the Colonel waved him on again. There was a faint sound of voices on the wind. Then Bjorn turned and ran straight up a long bank of sand, and the next instant had flitted from sight among the grass of the dunes.

  Hector sank against the rock and pushed the rifle towards Murdo. ‘You get along there and... keep an eye on him. I can’t move very fast.’

  Still half dazed, Murdo ran along the sands. The necessity for action helped to clear his mind, and in a minute he was beside the injured Colonel. The man lay on his side and was obviously in great pain. His face was grey and covered with perspiration as he fought to master himself. One leg was twisted oddly in front of him, the other, where Hector had shot him, was dark with blood. An arm was hidden beneath his body, and as Murdo looked along the beach towards Hector, from the corner of his eye he saw the Colonel scrabbling furtively in the sand. He looked round and at once the Colonel was still, gazing frankly back at him from a pair of fine, pain-filled eyes. Anxiously Murdo scanned the line of dunes, wondering how many Germans had remained at the lorries. Momentarily the figure of Bjorn appeared against the skyline, a second man joined him and they dropped from sight. Again from the corner of his eye he saw that secret scrabbling movement of the Colonel’s hidden arm.

  A minute later Hector hobbled up, gasping for breath. He took the rifle from Murdo and sat on the sand a yard or two above the German officer.

  ‘Are you hurt anywhere,’ he wheezed at length, ‘apart from your legs.’

  The Colonel managed a sardonic smile. ‘Just my legs,’ he said. ‘It is enough.’

  Hector nodded with relief. ‘We’ll get a doctor to you as soon as we can.’

  Murdo pointed towards the dunes. ‘What about up there? There are two of them anyway. There might be more.’

  As if in answer to his words, there came the roar of a lorry from the graveyard gates.

  Again the Colonel smiled. ‘They are away.’

  ‘We’ll catch them soon enough now,’ Hector said.

  The Colonel inclined his head slightly. ‘You might catch one of them, but I would not count on adding Larvik to your collection.’ He bit back an involuntary cry at a sudden spasm of pain, and eased his body slightly with his arms.

  Murdo watched him for a moment, then crouched beside Hector. ‘I think he’s hidden something in the sand,’ he murmured. ‘Underneath him.’

  The Colonel caught their quick glances and understood. ‘My revolver is stuck,’ he said too quickly. ‘It does not fit this British holster.’ The words rang false. He laughed ironically and his hand fumbled once more.

  ‘Leave it.’ Hector’s voice was a thick growl. He coughed. ‘Take it from him, Murdo.’

  Murdo leaned across the Colonel’s body and turned back the skirts of his greatcoat. The revolver, as he had said, was on his hip and half pressed into the sand. Awkwardly he tugged it free.

  ‘Now!’ Hector pulled himself up and motioned with the rifle. ‘Shift over.’

  ‘I can’t move,’ the Colonel said.

  ‘I don’t believe you.’

  The Colonel lay where he was and looked down the beach.

  ‘Come on!’ Hector sighed patiently. ‘Look, the boy can drag you away if necessary. That would really hurt. Now shift over.’

  Slowly Colonel von Kramm eased himself across the sand. His legs, bloody and twisted, dragged after him. He closed his eyes and clenched his teeth to fight back the savage waves of pain.

  ‘Now look in the sand, Murdo,’ Hector said.

  Murdo laid the heavy revolver behind him, then knelt where the Colonel had been lying and scratched his fingers through the damp sand. It was hard below the surface, save in one small area. He dug down, and almost at once his fingertips encountered a solid object, only four or five inches below the surface. He felt around the edge and pulled it out. It was a wallet, a fat leather wallet full of papers.

  ‘Have a look through it,’ Hector said.

  Murdo pulled out a sheaf of the sandy documents and folded them open. They were detailed official papers, but written in German throughout and he could not read a word. They seemed impor- tant, however, many with a red stamp across the top. He held the sheaf against the back of the wallet and quickly thumbed through the remainder. They were similarly incomprehensible. He shrugged. Hector held out a hand and he passed them over.

  Slowly the old fisherman looked through them. His forehead wrinkled with concentration. Again Murdo saw the small beads of perspiration gathering on his face. Hector coughed quietly, his lungs were completely choked.

  At length he looked up and saw the expression on Murdo’s face.

  ‘There’s no need to look at me like that,’ he said. ‘You’ll have me thinking I’m for an early grave. I’ve already told you... it takes more than a couple of foreigners and a few nights without my bed to get rid of me.’ He held up the wallet and shook it slowly and significantly in Murdo’s direction. ‘This is more important. What do you think these papers are?’

  Sometimes Murdo was painfully aware of his ignorance. He half looked away. ‘Plans or something, I suppose,’ he said.

  Hector chuckled thickly. ‘Aye, that’s you. ‘Plans or something’! It’s more than that, boy. If I’m right –
and I think I am – this wallet contains the details of the whole affair. You know, ‘Operation –’ what was it he called it?’

  ‘Flood-Tide’,’ Murdo said.

  ‘Aye, that’s it. ‘Operation Flood-Tide’.’

  ‘What? For the whole – ?’

  ‘I think so. Look.’ Murdo crossed beside him and Hector ran a gnarled forefinger down several of the papers. ‘I don’t know where these places are, but you know the counties. See, in English – Northumberland, Lincolnshire, Cornwall, Cardigan, Wigtown, Argyll. And look – Strathy, Sutherland. It’s all the places they’re bringing the arms ashore. And those figures underneath, that must be the numbers of men and rifles and explosives and that. Here – ‘ he ruffled over half a dozen pages and pointed six words typed in capitals at the bottom of a sheet. ‘Es flutet, es flutet, es flutet’. ‘Remember that – in Donald’s cottage?’

  ‘Es flutet – the tide is flooding!’ Murdo cried. ‘Three times – the code signal!’

  ‘That’s it, boy. You’ve got it. The lot – addresses, arms, all the details of the German invasion – in this little bundle here.’ He put the papers back in the wallet and tossed it lightly on the sand.

  For a moment there was silence, Colonel von Kramm looked away. Though his face was impassive, his proud shoulders drooped dejectedly.

  ‘Come on, get yourself up to that village as quickly as you can,’ Hector said. ‘We want the police – or better still the army – down here. You know what to do.’ He pointed to the wallet. ‘You better take that with you. Just in case. Hide it on the way up if you see any trouble.’

  Murdo pushed the wallet with some difficulty into his pocket and picked up the Colonel’s revolver. As he bent, two thick drops of blood fell from his chin and splashed in red streaks down his bare shoulder and arm. He put a hand to the side of his face. It was sticky. Gingerly he touched the gash down his temple and cheek and winced as his fingertips encountered the open wound.

  ‘You’ll need half a dozen stitches in that,’ Hector said. ‘It’s a bit of a mess, but it’s almost stopped bleeding.’

  At the thought of the stitches a faint sickness passed through Murdo. He tried to put it from his mind.

  ‘I’ll be as quick as I can,’ he said.

  As he turned towards the steep sandbank Colonel von Kramm called softly, ‘No – one minute.’ Murdo paused and looked back.

  ‘I have heard from Bjorn Larvik of your adventures,’ the Colonel said. ‘In the sea and on the moors. You are a brave boy. I congratulate you.’ He smiled thinly. ‘It is a pity you are not German.’

  Murdo looked down with embarrassment, then his black eye caught those of the German officer. ‘I hope your legs will be all right,’ he said.

  The Colonel looked from Hector to Murdo and down at his own bloodied trousers. ‘We are a strange trio, bleeding and coughing on this deserted beach. But thank you. I hope so too.’ He inclined his head, he had said all he wished.

  The Colonel’s words revolved in Murdo’s mind as he turned once more and scrambled up the shifting sand to the edge of the dunes. At the top he paused for a moment and looked down at the two men: Colonel von Kramm propped on his hands and gazing towards the sea, Hector like a rock on the seashore, the rifle rest- ing easily across his knees.

  The occasion lent Murdo strength. Clutching the heavy revolver in his right hand he half ran up the dunes, climbing through the high banks of marram grass. Soon he was at the top. Cautiously he rounded the stone wall of the graveyard. An army truck stood empty at the gate, but there was no sign of any soldiers. Bjorn and his comrade had taken the truck containing the first load of rifles and ammunition. Now they would be armed. From his vantage point above the dunes and river Murdo scanned the land below. It seemed deserted. Then far away on the river bank he saw a group of men from the village hurrying towards the beach.

  A few minutes later he staggered into the first house, where only two weeks previously – though it seemed a lifetime before – he and Hector had delivered two bottles of whisky to the old crofter. The windows had been blown in by the force of the explosion. Willie and Meggan stared at him in shocked silence as he gasped out what had happened. They had been down the road when the explosion came, and even as Murdo arrived Willie was on the point of going down to the cliffs to investigate. Now the old man grabbed his twelve-bore and filled a pocket with cartridges. His daughter hurried off to alert the neighbours while Murdo ran on towards the village.

  His nervous energy was running out as he descended the steep hill to the crossroads – over which he had skidded in Hector’s old Ford – and turned from the stony track. Far down the narrow main road two figures, a man and a boy, were walking towards him from the bridge. Murdo stopped and looked hard. A long shout reached his ears and they began to run. A lump came into Murdo’s throat. When he tried to shout in return his voice broke and would not come. Waving his arms he broke into a poor imitation of a run down the road towards them. It was, of all people, his father with his brother Lachlan.

  In a minute they were together. Deeply disturbed, Sandy Mackay regarded his son. With a soft oath he took off his jacket and put it around the boy’s shoulders. Murdo pushed his arms into the sleeves and pulled it close, still warm from his father’s back. Quickly he panted out the main facts of his story, and tugged the wallet from his trouser pocket. His father paid him the compliment of wasting no time on personal details. Briefly he ruffled through the pages and asked a few terse questions. Then he despatched Lachlan to half a dozen houses, with the message that the men were to make their way to the beach with whatever weapons they possessed, keeping their eyes open for strangers or unknown soldiers moving about the dunes. Lachlan nodded briefly, glanced once more at his older brother, then climbed the dyke and raced away towards the first cottage as fast as his legs would carry him. Murdo and his father set off up the road towards the nearest telephone, at the manse.

  Sandy Mackay was still young, in his mid thirties, fair as his name and with a disconcertingly straight gaze. Separated from his regiment, he had been one of the last to escape from the Dunkirk beaches: as a sergeant in North Africa, he had seen his full share of desert fighting. He recognised the deep exhaustion and trouble of his son.

  ‘You’ll have to get that cut seen to,’ he said. ‘You look done in.’ He was right. Murdo was nearly finished. His face was haggard

  and pale with strain. His eyes glittered fiercely beneath the black, shaggy hair. Mud from the river still clung to him. With his exertions the gash had reopened and thick blood oozed down the side of his face. He realised that he was limping. Now the responsibility was being lifted from him, he could hardly make his feet go where he wanted.

  ‘I’m all right,’ he answered, and forced his legs to keep pace with his father up the road.

  ‘This is a fine homecoming,’ his father said. ‘I manage to work two days’ leave before we’re posted south – travel up with Donald and Lachlan – arrive in the village and nobody has seen you or Hector for ten days.’ With pride he regarded the stained and bloody figure of his son, and put an arm about his shoulders. The boy had grown in the months since he was last home. The down was dark on his upper lip. ‘I want to hear all about it, in your own good time. But likely you’ll have to tell the military first.’

  Warm with relief and homecoming, Murdo ran a hand around his father’s waist, then moved away, for they were not demonstrative. Side by side they continued up the road.

  In less than five minutes they were at the manse. Murdo’s Aunt Winifred stood aside in horror as her brother and his son stepped past her into the gleaming hallway. Sandy laid down the wallet and lifted the telephone from the hook.

  While he dialled Murdo looked for a seat upon which he could collapse, but one chair was highly polished rosewood and so flimsy that he dared not rest his weight upon it, and the other covered with striped regency satin. He crossed to the stairs and slumped in a long- familiar position on the second tread.

  Brief
ly his eyes closed, then he sat up and opened them again. His aunt regarded him anxiously, not in the least disapproving, even though he cut such a disreputable, gipsy figure in her beautiful house. He smiled up and nervously she smiled back, putting a hand to the cameo at her throat.

  ‘You sit there,’ she said. ‘I’ll fetch the medicine chest.’ Through the open doorway Murdo could see beyond a clump

  of stiffly nodding whins to Strathy Water, winding like a silver ribbon from the southern hills where so much had happened. His gaze moved across the hall and down to his trouser legs and feet, filthy toes protruding from his socks. He felt at his wet pocket for the bulge of the knife. In that strange yet so familiar setting his adventure began to take on the elements of a dream.

  But his father was speaking to Army Headquarters. ‘Is that Intelligence?’ he said. ‘Get me the adjutant, please. It’s important.’ He stroked a fair moustache while he waited. ‘Hello... Yes, good afternoon, sir. This is Sergeant Mackay, Sergeant Sandy Mackay – of the Second Battalion, the Sea forth Highlanders.’ He looked round at Murdo. ‘It’s rather a long story. I’m speaking from Strathy.’ He paused, thoughtfully considering the face of the youth who regarded him from the foot of the stairs. ‘Look, you’d better speak to my son. Just a minute.’ He held the receiver towards Murdo.

  For a moment surprised, then appreciating the significance of his father’s gesture, Murdo rose and crossed the hall with as firm a step as he could manage. He was not accustomed to using the telephone: by nature not a talkative boy, he did not handle it well.

  ‘Hello,’ he said, more gruff than the occasion warranted. ‘Is that the army?’

  He held the receiver close, his brow wrinkled with concentra- tion. His fierce reflection confronted him from a gilt mirror above the hall table.