Murdo's War (33 page)

Without speaking they listened until the end of the broadcast. Then Henry Smith coiled up the aerial, replaced the radio in the boot, and they drove on. Bjorn wound up the window.

Half an hour later the first patch of the North Atlantic appeared, dark blue and still a good way off, between the dappled ridges of the glen. The Colonel murmured a few words to Henry Smith, who half turned his head and spoke to Bjorn.

‘He says you are to get down on the floor,’ Bjorn translated.

‘We will soon be in a village near to your home. There must be no chance that you will be seen.’

There was no arguing. Murdo pushed his muddy clothes out of the way and settled himself on the floor of the car. There was a smell of old cigarette ash and mud. The hard road struck up through the matting and the door handle pressed uncomfortably into his back. ‘No chance of being seen – huh!’ he grumbled under his breath. ‘Fat chance it would be with my luck. Just rotten uncomfortable, that’s all.’ He shifted and wriggled his shoulders, but still the door handle jabbed into his spine. In the cramped space behind the front seats there was no option but to put up with it.

The idea came out of nowhere. Soon they would be in Melvich. Hidden from Henry Smith’s stare in the driving mirror, he glanced up at the soldier beside him. Abstractedly Bjorn gazed out of the side window, watching the countryside pass by. Murdo examined the door handle beyond his big legs, noting which way it opened. The handle at present sticking into his back would turn the same way. Pretending to make himself more comfortable, he drew up his knees and twisted his shoulders a few inches, ready to make a grab for it when the time came.

Unfortunately he could not see out of the window, but a moment later the car swung heavily to the left and accelerated down a slope. Clearly they had just hit the north road, a single track even though it was the principal route of the district. With a rattling jolt they swept on to the Halladale Bridge, and Murdo saw the iron girders flash past above him. ‘Now up the hill again... and to the right,’ he murmured beneath his breath. They were only four miles from Strathy, he knew every turn in the road. Henry Smith accelerated: imperceptibly Murdo nodded – every- one took the straight bit fast. He waited. ‘Slow down at the thirty mile an hour limit... now the sunk bit of road at the drain – there!’ He looked through the opposite window and saw bare tree-tops swish past – they were in the village. He prepared himself, waiting for the power lines. There they were!… ‘Now!’

In one leaping movement he twisted, wrenched the door handle at his back, and tried to fling himself into the road.

‘Help! Help!’

For an instant he saw the crossroads and the Melvich Hotel, then powerful arms plucked him back, a hand of steel clamped over his mouth, and the door slammed shut. He could not move. There had been no-one there, anyway.

Ten minutes later the car drew up at the graveyard gates above Strathy beach. Far across the water the hills of Orkney were blue on the horizon. They descended the dunes to the deserted shore, and on white sand passed through the stacks and outcrops of rock beneath the eastern crags.

The mouth of the cave was piled with boxes and crates. While the Germans lingered in the wintry sunshine, Murdo was led into the chill darkness. Soon Knut was putting the finishing touches to knots that bit painfully into his ankles and wrists.

‘You’ll not get away this time,’ he said viciously, looping the end round yet again and jerking it as tight as it would go. ‘The lorries will be here in a couple of hours.’

Murdo did not speak. After all he had been through he no longer felt frightened. He looked up at the guard’s bowed silhouette, almost invisible outside the circle of torchlight, and kicked his bound feet against the man’s legs as hard as he could, raking his studs across the shin. Knut cried out and stumbled, then replied by hacking his own boot into Murdo’s hip and side – once, twice.

‘Kick me, would you!’ he snarled. ‘You animal!’

‘You’re just like Carl Voss,’ Murdo cried, and spat up at the dark shape. ‘I hope you end up like him, too, with a bullet in you.’ Knut’s boot struck him again with vicious force. Then he bent
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and caught at the ends of rope and pulled them tight. The gold buttons and braid glinted on his naval uniform. His fair hair, snub nose and dark curly beard moved in and out of the shadows. In a minute the work was finished. Taking Murdo by the lapels of his greatcoat, Knut dumped him against the wall of the cave and stood back.

‘Now, let’s see you get out of that,’ he challenged. ‘The old man’s been in here for a week and he hasn’t moved.’ He cleared his throat noisily and moved away down the cave, a lean shape behind the torchlight. For a moment his body blocked out the patch of light that glimmered at the narrow turning, then he was gone.

Murdo stared about him, but the darkness was almost com- plete and he could distinguish nothing.

‘Hector?’ he said.

The only sounds were the drip of water, the soft roar of the sea, and the murmur of men’s voices at the cave mouth.

‘Hector! Are you there?’

This time a long grunt issued from the blackness at the other side of the chamber.

‘Hector, it’s me – Murdo. Are you all right?’

There was a slow, rattling cough and the noise of laboured breathing before the words came.

‘Yes, I’m fine.’ His voice was choked and weak. ‘How are you boy?’

‘I’m all right,’ Murdo said, his own voice strong in comparison. He squirmed across the pile of smooth boulders that blocked the inner end of the cave.

‘What – happened?’

‘Nothing,’ Murdo said, his eyes still unable to penetrate the gloom, though Hector could only have been an arm’s length away. ‘They were after me and then the snow came. We were in the hills. I didn’t see anybody.’

‘Two men dead and one missing… it sounds like a bloodbath. Anyway… you gave them a run for their money.’ The old man’s voice was little more than a wheeze, and broke off into an uncontrollable fit of coughing that left him struggling for breath.

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.