Murdo's War (22 page)

Beyond the scree the way was more difficult, winding along a broad ledge between boulders, with the snow-clad cliffs hanging above, and a rough rock-fall dropping into the gully below. His nailed boots struck occasional sparks, and skidded on the hidden stones. Then his right foot went from beneath him and he fell heavily, raking his damaged thigh against a corner of rock as he twisted to save the bottle in his jacket. The pain was acute, and it was long moments before he could grit himself to rising. A hot blade twisted in the wound. He felt the wetness on his leg as blood trickled past his knee and down into his sock. For some minutes, as he limped on, it seemed as though the ledge was merging into the crag, and he feared he would have to climb again or retrace his steps. Then he rounded a steep buttress, and suddenly the rocks were behind him. A gentle snow slope rose ahead to the crest of the pass. Relieved, but more slowly than before, he pressed his weary legs forward, and equally slowly the huge vista unfolded before him.

Featureless, shadowy, pale, mile upon mile, the moors rolled on ahead. No gleam of light, no sparkle from a lonely window, relieved the cold austerity of the scene. The thin, perishing wind blew through the funnel of the pass into his face.

A hundred times Murdo had pictured Hector’s map, and travelled over the land in his mind’s eye, for he knew the region well. Strath Halladale must be there – but there was no sign of it.

He was lost. A feeling of hopelessness and emptiness welled up within him. He had counted on the strath lying spread before him, or at least being in sight and not too far distant when he reached the top of the pass. Instead he was rewarded with an awe-inspiring revelation of the sheer immensity of the land.

For a minute he gave in. Anything was better than being lost and alone out there. Already the heat of the climb was leaving him and he shivered. He was tired, he wanted a rest, and thought longingly of the glowing fire and his warm bed in Hector’s cottage… Suddenly he was angry with himself. He would not give in – he would never give in! There was only one end to that kind of thinking. Strath Halladale lay to the east, there was no doubt about it. He glanced up at the North Star and took an easterly bearing, noting a long escarpment that must remain ahead. The full moon, dominating the night, would be slightly behind his right shoulder. He flexed the injured thigh. Then, denying the thoughts of despair and fortifying himself with images of the warmth and help that were waiting in Strath Halladale, only a few miles ahead, he pushed forward down the long slope.

Murdo was not the only person to be doubting himself on the moors at that moment. Even as he trudged down the hillside from the pass, Carl Voss and Peter arrived at the end of the loch below and crossed over the ice. Murdo’s tracks led on ahead of them. Voss was sweating and he paused, pressing a hand to his knee, wrenched in the sea and bruised when Murdo struck him with the car. His face was twisted but determined as he gazed up the steep slope ahead. Surely the boy must be somewhere on that face, or in the gully, but he could not see him. He looked across at Peter, the young Luftwaffe pilot, who slowly shook his head in reply, never taking his eyes from the mountainside.

‘He is some walker!’

Carl Voss pressed his lips together and snorted angrily in reply.

‘If it wasn’t for this damned leg!’ He massaged his knee gently and winced as the pain shot through it. ‘We’ll never catch up with him like this. I’m only keeping you back.’ He slung the rifle from his shoulder and pulled a roughly folded map from inside his jacket. Shading a little torch with his hand he studied it carefully, comparing it with the land around them. ‘We are – here.’ His broad finger indicated the narrow space between a chain of blue lochs and the packed brown contours of a hillside. ‘And he has gone up here. Now…’ Thoughtfully he studied Murdo’s course and the lie of the land beyond the mountain. ‘If he has gone over the pass, and it looks as if he has, there are two possibilities. He will either keep straight on east, and in that case he has got a long way to go to – Strath Halladale, or whatever you call it, the God-forsaken place; or else he will see the road below him and drop down to this valley here, in which case he will see –’ he peered closely at the map ‘– the Ben Crocach Hotel. It is only about two miles from the top of the hill there.’ He shifted a little to ease the weight on his aching leg and looked up the steep pass. ‘If I tried to climb that it would take an hour – more. I’d keep you back and that brat would get a bigger lead than ever. He’s far enough ahead already.’ He thought for a moment. ‘The best plan is for you to go after him by yourself. I’m sure you can go faster than he can. I’ll head round the side of the hill and cut him off if he tries to turn back to the hotel.’

The young pilot nodded. ‘All right,’ he said. ‘I’ll be following the tracks, so if you catch him I’ll meet up with you. And if I catch him I’ll fire two shots in the air.’ He lifted a foot and tried to squeeze some life into his frozen toes. In the cave on Strathy beach he had just exchanged his sodden boots for a pair of sandshoes when Murdo escaped. In the hurry and confusion there had been no time to change back.

‘Never mind two shots in the air – two shots in the head. When you catch him, kill him,’ Carl Voss said. ‘No messing about. Just make sure he’s dead, and leave him where he is. No- one will find him out here. If Heinrich hadn’t been so squeamish we’d be back in the cave now.’

‘Mm.’ With some distaste, Peter regarded his dark companion. ‘It must be nice to have everything so simple in your mind, Voss,’ he said. ‘No indecision. Just ‘kill him’, and that’s the problem solved. ‘No messing about’.’

Carl Voss pushed the map into his pocket and slung the rifle over his shoulder. ‘It’s clean,’ he said simply.

‘It’s certainly final,’ Peter observed. ‘I’m afraid it’s not my way, though.’ He looked up at the moon and ran a hand through his fair hair. ‘Well, I’ll be off.’

‘Good luck,’ said Voss, with a dry smile.

Peter did not reply, and moving more swiftly than before, despite his frozen feet, settled down to following the footprints that led straight across the valley floor and up the side of the sweeping mountain ravine.

Carl Voss grunted, alone now, and gritted his teeth to make a further effort. Then, denying himself any respite for the sickening pain that lurched at every footfall, he strode off to the right, heading around the western flank of the mountain.

He kept high, and an hour later the hotel and scattering of outbuildings appeared ahead of him, far below. From what he could distinguish it was a good-sized place, an old lodge, probably used for shooting and fishing in the summer. But no lights were visible now, and there was no sign of the boy on the broad snow slopes above it.

He walked on, drawing closer. Suddenly he stopped. A line of footprints crossed the slope fifty yards ahead – but they were only the tracks of a deer. Then he saw the deer themselves, a herd of about fifty, moving quietly out of a hidden hollow not two hundred yards from the hotel. Clearly the boy was not there, the deer would have run off. There was no point in going down.

He pulled out his torch and studied the map again. Since the boy had not turned back to the hotel, then almost certainly he was heading for Strath Halladale. With his eye he drew a line east from the high pass and saw that it reached the strath near a loch, where there was a lodge. Four miles further south lay the little village of Kinbrace. Certainly he must prevent the boy from reaching there. He projected his own path south-east along the side of the hill, above the road, and saw that it led to a deserted stretch of strath between the village and the loch. If he continued he should be able to cut the boy off. It was a gamble, but there was not much else he could do except go back, and he had not trained for six months with the Alpenkorps to turn back now.

He looked up and ran his eyes carefully along the white crest high above him. Even yet the boy might cross the ridge and try to reach the hotel, or see the black splinters of telephone poles far below, marking the road. But the hillside remained empty, nothing moved. He returned the torch and map to his pockets and walked on, trying to ignore the pain, but gradually going slower despite himself. The weight of the gleaming rifle was a pleasure on his shoulder, the empty mountains were his own terrain. Like a wolf, he limped along the snowy slopes.

A third group of men were on the moors that night.

Leaving Peter and Carl Voss at the bothy, Henry Smith had driven Hector’s rattling car down the track, back through the ford and snow wreaths, towards the village. He had not been going for fifteen minutes when car lights appeared more than a mile ahead, and the two met with dipped headlights, nose to nose on the narrow track. In the car were the last of his men, Arne, Gunner and Knut. Henry Smith was annoyed that Bjorn Larvik, the best countryman of them all, had elected to stay behind to care for the old man, who was still unconscious, and keep watch at the cave. They had all equipped themselves with rifles and ammunition, and set off in a ‘borrowed’ car just in case there should be any trouble. It was the work of a moment to push Hector’s car off the road. Down the steep slope it went, bucking and tumbling over and over, finally crashing into the frozen channel of the stream. Then, with some satisfaction, they all climbed into the borrowed car and drove back to the bothy above Loch Strathy.

They set off immediately in pursuit of Carl Voss and Peter. Knut, with his tiny snub nose and beard, still in uniform and duffle coat, was returning the car. He leaned on top of the door smoking a cigarette, and watched Henry Smith lead Arne and Gunner at a fast pace up the long hillside. Soon they were dots cresting a far rise, and then they were gone. He turned the car in a heavy circle and set off for the village.

The three were only half an hour behind Carl Voss and Peter when they left the bothy, and by the time they arrived at the frozen loch they had cut this to fifteen minutes.

Breathing scarcely more deeply than normal, Henry Smith suddenly came to a halt and stood gazing in surprise at the three sets of footprints. Two led straight ahead towards the high pass, the other turned right around the side of the mountain. Slowly a rising fury took the place of astonishment.

‘The fools! The incompetent fools!’ He pointed. ‘What do they think are doing? Do they think that by going over mountains they will cut him off?’ Trembling, he gnawed at one knuckle. But it was only for a moment that he hesitated. ‘Right! Leave them. We will follow him ourselves. Come. We must hurry!’ He pushed his way past Gunner and strode off to the right. Angrily he crushed his map in a clenched fist, and beat it against his thigh as he walked.

The track led high around the mountain slope. Walking was treacherous, for the snow hid peaty hollows and tussocks of grass, and from time to time they fell. Unused to such haste on rough terrain their ankles ached, but Henry Smith would permit no rest, no respite, and kept pressing on, pressing on. They crossed the line of deer tracks and saw the herd far below, scouring the sheep fields for remnants of hay and oil cake. They saw the hotel, set back on the dappled plain. Left of the hotel, low down in the east, the stars had vanished, blotted out by a slowly advancing bank of cloud.

Suddenly Gunner exclaimed, and touching Henry Smith’s arm, pointed to a tiny dot, slightly below them and half a mile further on. Short-sighted without his glasses, Henry Smith screwed up his eyes and peered across the slope, barely making it out. Even as they watched, it dropped from sight behind a shallow ridge.

Henry Smith was very calm. ‘All right, then,’ he said. ‘No talking.’

With the quarry in sight they needed no encouragement. They forgot their tiredness and aching ankles. Arne shrugged the rifle comfortable on his back.

The land was levelling out ahead, dropping from the mountain to a rolling plateau of moors. The black figure showed again for a moment against the summit of a low rise.

Swift and light of stride, a few minutes brought them behind a small hillock, and cautiously they peered over the top, treading very softly. The hillside was empty. Then, over to the left and still far away, further than he had seemed before, a small figure appeared among a tumble of boulders, wending along the foot of a long gully. Arne reached inside his jacket and pulled out a sniper’s telescopic sight. Carefully he clipped it home on top of his rifle. There was a loud ‘click’ as the spring lock snapped shut. He tightened the screws. Henry Smith reached out a hand and took it from him, passing his own in exchange. The rocks sprang forward as he raised the rifle to his shoulder and adjusted the sight. It took a moment to find the figure – then there he was. He seemed to be limping. Slowly he raised the fine cross of the sight until it rested, swaying slightly, on the dark body. But he was too far off, the sight would need adjustment for that degree of accuracy. Reluctantly he let it fall.

‘He’s hurt,’ he said factually to Gunner and Arne. ‘He has no idea we are here. So no noise – and watch the rocks down there. This is it.’

Lips pressed tightly together, flared nostrils snorting slightly in the icy air, he strode forward down the far slope of the hill. Arne and Gunner followed at his heels. The sinister black rifles bumped heavily on their shoulders.

But the figure kept well ahead and it was nearly half an hour later when, dropping round a shoulder of the moors they suddenly came upon him, standing not four hundred yards off, looking around as if undecided which way to go.

Henry Smith sank to the ground, motioning the others to do the same.

‘Sssh!’ he breathed, his whisper scarcely audible. ‘Get yourselves down.’ Quietly he slipped the rifle from his shoulder. ‘Take a bead on him, just in case. If anything goes wrong, shoot.’ He settled himself on his belly in the snow, right leg in line with his target, and raised the rifle.