Shadow Of The Wolf

by Michael Parker

  "See?" he said, waving his hand with a flourish. "Nothing.”

  "When did you get through last?" Billy asked.

  "This morning. I had trouble raising them but Reevel said they'd been storm damaged. He couldn't talk for long. He said Marker Mace would be working on it."

  The situation was not uncommon, but all the same it was frustrating for Billy. He put the mug down. "Do you have a boat?"

  The old man pushed the microphone away. "I've got the Dancer out of the water. Shouldn't take you long to get it ready. You’ve sailed her before, Billy. You'll need provisions though, just in case."

  "I can pay," Billy assured him. "Do you have fuel?"

  Kyle laughed. "There's a war here too, young Billy. If the Dancer has any fuel on board it will be in the tank."

  "I'll sail her in," Billy declared. "It can be tricky sometimes, but I’ve done it before. The sea looks fine," he commented, glancing out of the window. "With the glass rising I should get a fair passage. Where's the Dancer?" he asked, looking out towards the harbour.

  Kyle knew Billy was impatient to be away. He pointed at the door. "I keep her in the shed at the top of the ramp. Let me know if you need any help. You can use the winch though to let her down."

  Billy thanked him went off to get the small boat out of the shed as Kyle produced some flares and waterproofs.

  The sun was high when Billy hoisted the sail and threw a cheery wave to Kyle Luke. The old man waved back and returned to the warmth of his cluttered office, content to watch Billy and the Dancer from the window as the tiny craft edged its way out of the harbour entrance and into the North Atlantic.

  Billy lifted his face to the wind and put the helm down. With the wind blowing from the south-west he set a quartering course and relaxed. There were a few, scudding clouds about, but the sky was relatively clear and the sea moderate. He felt amazingly content and at peace in a world that was tearing itself apart. If the Royal Navy did not appear to hinder his progress, he reckoned he could make North Cape Island by dusk. Meanwhile he was his own boss; just him and the sea and the sound of the wind as it filled the sails.

  The island hove into view low on the horizon, bathed in the splendour of a setting sun. The western flank of Blue Whale Mountain reflected the orange glow from its craggy walls. It shone like a beacon. Around its southern flank the orange mellowed into softer shades of indigo and violet until the eastern slopes could only be seen as a black silhouette. Billy revelled in its magnificence and his heart lifted at the prospect of seeing his mother and the lovely Ailie again, even if it was only to be a brief visit. Then at last the south headland signalled its presence in a fine display of foaming surf. He set a finer course for the small cove along the eastern side of the island.

  Putting the helm down, Billy felt the spindrift flying into him as he luffed into the wind, bringing the Dancer round towards the small cove. He intended to beach the small craft rather than edge round the coast to the old whaling harbour. The Dancer leaned heavily as she ran before the veering wind. He tied the helm and close reefed part of the mainsail, bearing down on the kicking rope to hold the boom. Then he went back to the helm and untied it. The Dancer responded to the reduced windage and stiffened. Suddenly the wind dropped as he rounded the lee of the cliff and he close-reefed the remainder of the sail.

  The Dancer rattled her forefoot on the stony beach and Billy jumped from her with a painter in his hand. The boat had barely time to dig in to the shingle when Billy pulled hard on the rope attached to the painter. The dinghy slipped forward and beached. He secured it and reached into the thwarts for his kitbag.

  At that moment Billy heard voices. He glanced back over his shoulder but could see no-one. The sounds came from the top of the cliff. From time to time they were lost in the wind that spilled over the edge. There was something discordant about the voices, something that lacked the sibilant harmony of an islander's burr.

  He waited, frozen in the action of reaching for his kitbag until the voices were more distinct. As the voices became clearer to him, he found himself refusing to believe what he could hear. He straightened, lifting his head and cocking it to one side. His mouth fell open in horror. There was little doubt: the voices were German!

  He wasted no time and walked hurriedly away from the boat, trying not to make too much noise as his boots pressed on to the shingle beach. He had no idea what he was going to do; he just wanted to get himself nearer the foot of the cliff and out of sight. Suddenly one of the voices rose in pitch, talking excitedly. They, whoever they were had seen the Dancer. Billy pressed himself into the foot of the cliff and listened in stupefied amazement.

  His mind could not immediately grasp that they were German voices because it was so inconceivable that Germans could actually be treading the soil of his home. But as the reality settled in he sensed the danger. He knew that within the next few minutes, those men would be on the beach and they would see him. He had to think clearly and he knew he would have to be very, very careful.

  As he searched around for somewhere to conceal himself he heard them reach the top of the cliff. They had seen the Dancer which was about fifty feet from Billy's position, and were climbing down the cliff path towards it. He figured that if they were concentrating on the boat he would have just one chance to move quickly along the bottom of the cliff to a safer place.

  There was very little cover, so he ran to the point where the cliff formed a narrow vee as it turned back on itself, forming the other side of the cove. He tucked himself into a corner and crouched as low as his big frame would allow him. He knew that he should lie flat, but he wanted to see what was happening.

  He saw two men come off the path and walked across to the boat. They held machine pistols in their hands and glanced left and right as they walked. They stopped beside the Dancer and looked at it as though it was some explosive device that had been washed ashore. Then one of them spoke.

  Billy's knowledge of German had once been good. He had learned it from the whalemen of Mullach Bay. He had also learned some Norwegian but his knowledge of that tongue was limited now. He strained his ears to catch the words but only managed to understand a few. The word 'Hauptsturmführer' was mentioned. Billy understood that clearly. Then one man put his hand on the shoulder of the other, said something and started back towards the cliff path.

  It was the calm, assured way in which the two Germans had conducted themselves which made Billy realise they had nothing to fear. If that was the case it meant they had to be in control of the island. His body seemed to give beneath the crushing impact of an invisible force. He couldn't believe it was true, but knew there would have to be a logical explanation, and it was what it meant that worried him. It was frightening too. He had to get away from the cove and get to his cottage, but until the man guarding the Dancer left, there was no way Billy could leave the debatable safety of his hiding place. It was only the dusk and cliff shadows that afforded him any real cover.

  The German suddenly moved, making a small turn with his body. Billy realised painfully that he had seen the kitbag. He cursed his folly in leaving it on the bottom boards. The man pulled the kitbag from the dinghy and emptied its contents on to the beach. He crouched on one knee and began sifting through them. Billy was indignantly furious and wanted to run across the small strip to beat the man senseless. But common sense prevailed: until the man made a definite move, there was little Billy could do.

  The sky began to darken as rain clouds began rolling over the island. Billy felt the first spots of rain against his face. The wind turned and shifted and he could feel the freshening breeze whipping along the edge of the cliff. He knew the failing light might help him but there was little guarantee of success. What persuaded him to gamble was the fact that the man's comrade would probably return with others. They would search and probably find him. He would be finished.

  The sea rolled on to the beach to break in quiet, gentle wavelets. He glanced unconsciously at the water and an idea came into his m
ind. He knew it wouldn’t be long before the strengthening wind whipped the wavelets into crashing rollers, and the thought of what he was planning to do made him feel quite cold. He looked back at the German who was completely absorbed in sifting through the contents of the kitbag. Billy knew his chance would not come again; he had to act now. He crawled on his belly from the narrow wedge of shingle on which he had been hiding and slid down the beach into the water without making a sound.

  He felt its chill immediately. It took his breath away but he ignored the discomfort and submerged himself completely. Once he was beneath the surface he clawed at the stony bottom to draw his massive frame down. He took care not to move his legs because he was afraid of breaking the surface with a giveaway splash.

  He pulled carefully at the stones until he felt his lungs were about to demand air with a force that would draw in vast gulps of water to drown him. He fought down a desperate urge to push hard to the surface, but allowed himself to float gently upwards. He broke the water without a sound. Turning carefully he was relieved to see he had swum about thirty yards from the beach. He could still make out the figure of the German bent over the kitbag. Closing his legs together and bringing him arms down by his sides, Billy sunk beneath the surface. He swam away from the cove, heading round a small headland to a beach he often visited with his mother. There was a track leading from the beach to his cottage. He swam easily beneath the water, surfacing occasionally to get his bearings. When he had rounded the small headland he swam normally, stroking boldly towards the beach. Although Billy knew he had escaped from the immediate danger he still could not risk being seen, so he left the water as he had entered it, crawling on his belly.

  He was about to stand up and let the sea water cascade from his clothing when he saw another figure. This one sat beside what looked like a rubber dinghy. He was about one hundred yards from Billy's position and paying little attention to what was going on around him. His back was half turned and he seemed to be quite content to look anywhere but in Billy's direction. Over his shoulder was slung a machine gun.

  By now the rainclouds had almost covered the island and were well into the southern sky. The rain lashed down angled by a rising wind which was beginning to whip the sea into angry, white tops. Billy felt completely wretched. It would have been suicidal to attempt an attack on the armed German. His own physical and mental state precluded it. All he could hope to do now was to reach the sanctuary of his own cottage without being seen. He hauled himself up the cliff path and began the lonely journey to the place he had always known as home.

  THREE

  Schafer split the nineteen men under his command into three sections as they began their operation on the island. He led one group of eight men while his Truppführer, Kretschmer, led the second group of seven. Brennecke, the lieutenant, remained behind in the Reevel Anderson’s house with two other storm troopers in support.

  The operation to round up the island community was conducted with swift Teutonic thoroughness. Although working in poor light, and on opposite sides of the small hamlet, they entered each house in turn and tied and gagged the bewildered occupants. The few homes that were locked were opened unwittingly in response to a quiet, urgent knocking on the doors. Few of the islanders had been awake when the storm troopers invaded their privacy, which led to a great deal of confusion and played into Schafer’s hands admirably. As he expected it would.

  The list Reevel and Maura had prepared for him had contained sixty names. Schafer knew they would almost certainly all be largely old people or youngsters. Any man or woman of fighting age would probably be enrolled in one of the armed services or some essential wartime occupation on the mainland. Those that were not would be medically unfit. Against Schafer's highly trained and armed group the islanders would prove no opposition. Within an hour of commencing the round up, the islanders, except for Maura and Reevel Anderson were all huddled together in the cold, draughty schoolroom.

  The old school building, constructed with local stone from the island proved ideal for Schafer. Its high windows, probably built that way to let in maximum light while offering minimum distraction to the children, meant there was no chance of escape by any of the more agile among the dishevelled group.

  It had two doors, both very stout. One was at the front end of the school and opened directly into the classroom, while the other was set into an outer wall in a narrow corridor. It opened on to a small vegetable garden. In the small corridor was a door leading to a cupboard-like office and washroom. There was also a sash cord window with a large single pane in the outer wall. Schafer had the rear door locked and nailed shut. The windows in the corridor and washroom were also tightly secured. After satisfying himself that the schoolhouse was secure he turned his attention to the people who were still bound and gagged.

  Schafer had removed the outer clothes he had been wearing when he came ashore. Now he was dressed in the dark blue uniform of a Kriegsmarine Sturmabteilung Offizier. The brown shirt and tie were a chilling reminder of the Nazis' surge to power in pre-war Germany.

  "Which of you is Callum Macdonald?" he asked. Instinctively the islanders looked in the direction of an elderly man. He was sitting beside a young girl. Although their hands were tied, they held each other tightly.

  The old man pulled his hands from the girl's grasp and stood up. He held himself in dignified defiance. Schafer nodded to one of the guards who moved swiftly. He pulled Callum's gag from his mouth and stood beside him.

  "Herr Macdonald," Schafer begun. "At this moment the man you call Anderson and the woman you call Lucas are under guard at Anderson's house. It was they who made out the list of your names and indicated which of these dwellings were your homes." He made an abstract gesture with his hand. "They were advised that subsequent to this gathering here, a search would be made of the island and all buildings at first light. Anyone found in those buildings will be shot." He held the list up. "As Herr Anderson is representative of the office of Procurator Fiscal and is at this moment under guard, it is through you that I will issue all orders and instructions. You and your people will reciprocate. From this moment all conversations will be in English. Anyone conversing in the Gaelic will be punished severely. You will address me as Hauptsturmführer. Your cooperation in all these matters will leave you unharmed. We intend to vacate this island as quickly as possible. You will now check this list. If there are any names missing you will say so immediately." He walked over to Callum and handed him the list.

  Callum took it in his tethered hands and studied it carefully. After some minutes he looked up at Schafer. "It is correct," he said. "May I ask what is the meaning of this diabolical outrage?"

  Schafer took the paper from him and said, without expression, "No, you may not." He nodded at the storm trooper who slipped the gag back on Callum and pushed him to his seat.

  Schafer resumed his position in front of the blackboard. "I will be placing two men inside this room. They will have orders to shoot anyone who attempts to leave. When I return I will ensure that you are all afforded a little more comfort." He came to attention, clicking his heels together. Then he raised his hand in a Nazi salute. "Heil Hitler!"

  *

  Schafer stood beside Maura Lucas's cottage as the dark sky began to lighten and thought about Ziegel's coded signal. It had been sent from this island two days after he had changed places with Ziegel on the submarine. His admiration for the man was unquestioning, knowing that he had succeeded in swimming ashore in conditions that would have taxed the fittest of men and the strongest of swimmers. But from that moment there had been nothing: no signal and no request to be picked up. It meant that something had happened to the lieutenant, and now the German high command had put the highest priority on finding out what had happened to Ziegel and more importantly, what had happened to the secret plans of Britain’s centimetric radar.

  Below him, spread out in dull, vague shapes was the whaling station in Mullach Bay. It was quiet and inactive. Dead. He had studied
aerial reconnaissance photographs of this miserable, forlorn island so many times that he felt he had come to know it as much as his own home and as much as the whalers who once breathed life into it.

  Ziegel had known this place. He had known the people intimately. And he had returned! ‘The shepherd's crook is safe.’ The signal had declared his success in reaching the island. It was like a clarion trumpet call. It was safe, but where was it?

  "Where are you Ziegel?" he muttered under his breath. "Where the hell are you?"

  Kretschmer moved beside him. He was impatient to begin the search. "It will soon be light sir," he said unnecessarily, glancing at his commanding officer. The men were all dressed in black except Schafer who still' had his uniform on. He acknowledged Kretschmer with a swift movement of his head. He wanted the search to begin too; well before the sun came up.

  He lit a cigarette, drawing smoke deep in to his lungs. "The search must be thorough, Truppführer," he said to Kretschmer. "We must find Ziegel." He let the smoke out through his nose. "And all weapons and boats must be destroyed." He drew on the cigarette again, but this time the smoke drifted from his mouth. Then it stopped and he cocked his head to one side, concentrating on a new sound that disturbed the morning tranquillity. "Do you hear that?" he asked Kretschmer as he listened to the distant noise.

  Kretschmer tipped his head to one side. The sound was harsh but distant, like a steady roar: rhythmic and insistent. It faded and gradually disappeared. The dawn closed in on them and wrapped them in silence. "A freak wind sir," Kretschmer suggested and arched his eyebrows.

  Schafer looked down at the smoke drifting up from his cigarette. "If Leutnant Ziegel is alive he will show himself. We will not have to look for him." He lifted his head. "The men must be aware of that, Kretschmer."

  "They are sir."

  Schafer nodded. "Yes, of course." He dropped the cigarette to the soft ground and stubbed it out beneath his boot. "We shall make our presence loud and clear as we search. If the Leutnant is hiding he will soon know we are here." He looked at his watch. "We will rendezvous at the schoolhouse in two hours." He dipped his head sharply as Kretschmer clicked his heels together and then signalled for his men to follow.