Murdo's War (34 page)

To free his ankles was the work of a few seconds, and scrambling quickly up the rocks, a few swift slashes brought the cords tumbling over Hector’s hands and feet too.

The old man eased his joints and squeezed his numb fingers in the darkness. He coughed convulsively, but a trace of the old spirit showed through his wheezing words.

‘Tie the ends in a knot,’ he gasped, struggling for breath. ‘Wrap them round again in case they come to check. There’s nothing you can do while they’re all here.’

It was as well they did so, for a minute or two later Knut came back up the cave, feeling his way against the wall, his eyes dazzled from the sunshine outside.

‘Ah,’ he said, his torch picking out Murdo who sat dejectedly on the rocks a few feet below Hector. ‘There you are.’ He rolled him back and felt the ropes at his wrists. Murdo strained them tight with all his strength, holding the loose ends in his fists. Knut shone the torch on his ankles. Satisfied, he moved on to Hector. The old man wheezed noisily and closed his eyes. For a moment Knut shone his torch on Hector’s face, then turned away down the cave. ‘You won’t be here much longer,’ he called back over his shoulder. ‘They’ve come for the – ‘ he struck his head a resounding crack on the roof and issued a string of oaths. Rubbing his scalp with one hand, he passed out of sight.

There was a hubbub of voices and the sound of boxes knocking and scraping at the cave mouth. Grunts followed, and a certain amount of scuffling, then slowly the voices and sounds faded into the distance. Murdo strained his ears, but beyond the far murmur of the sea and the cry of a gull there was silence. Swiftly he slipped the ropes from his hands and feet and stood up. The smooth boulders slipped and grated beneath his heels. Hector covered the noise with a fit of coughing, and in a moment Murdo had scrambled down to the carpet of sand.

Heart pounding, he listened – still no sound. Then there was a faint rustle at the mouth of the cave and the sound of a match striking. Slowly he crept to the neck of the inner chamber, and an inch at a time peered around the corner. Framed in the entrance twenty-five yards away, sitting on a box with his back towards him, was Knut. He seemed to be alone. A thin trickle of smoke drifted from his hand. A few paces away his Mauser rifle was propped against the sunlit crag.

Softly Murdo returned to Hector, and in a few whispered words told him what he had seen. The greatcoat and boots were too clumsy for what he now must do. Impatiently he pushed them off. The clammy air of the cave struck chill against his skin and damp vest. He bent and very quietly picked up a heavy rock from the foot of the pile, one that he could carry easily. It was sea-smooth, cold and gritty in his hands. He swallowed and ran a tongue over dry lips. It was hard to control his breathing. Softly he crept forward.

In a moment he was at the turning. Trying not to let his trousers brush against the rock walls, he eased himself through the narrow neck. He was in full view. One slip and the man must see him. Surely he must turn round. Cold sweat trickled down Murdo’s face. Nearer he crept – and nearer. Like a cat he placed his stockinged feet delicately in the sand. Fifteen yards, ten, seven, five. The man flipped the butt of his cigarette away and shifted in his seat. Murdo froze. Surely he must sense him right there behind him. But Knut ran a hand through his fair hair, scratched his beard, and settled down again. For ten seconds Murdo could not move. He wanted to swallow but dare not. Forcing himself, again he inched for- ward. Four yards, three, two. He could almost reach out a hand and touch the dark uniform. There was the purple mark of an old boil on the back of the man’s neck. One yard. He was right behind him. The rock was poised. Murdo’s face was in agony. Could he do it? Yes, he could – he had to! Shutting his eyes, he drove down the stone against the back of the man’s head. There was a sickening crack. Slowly, like a rag doll, Knut slumped from his seat to the wet, foot marked sand. Still, save for one terrible twitching arm, he lay there with the boulder beside his face.

Numbly Murdo looked down at his handiwork. Twice in two days. He wondered whether the man was dead. There was no shadow of movement save in the last shivering of his hand, like a trout after you have struck it against a stone.

‘Murdo!’ Hector’s voice came from behind him. He was clutching a corner of the rock wall for support. ‘Get him back here.’

‘I think I’ve killed him,’ Murdo said.

‘Nonsense! Get him back here.’

Bending, Murdo took the limp figure by the shoulders and dragged him backwards into the shadows of the inner cave.

‘Is he right out of sight?’

‘Yes.’

‘Come on, then.’ Hector began to stumble towards the beach but after a few steps he had to rest. His grey, white-stubbled face ran with perspiration. On his temple the ugly contusion where Carl Voss had struck him with the rifle butt was still swollen and blue.

‘Lean on me,’ Murdo said, and took the old man’s arm over his shoulder. Hector’s imprisonment and bindings had left him so weak that he could hardly stand. Despite every effort he hung heavily around Murdo’s neck and gripped his arm for support. Slowly they made their way past the great stack of cases and along the bottom of the cliffs, away from the dunes. In two minutes they had turned a corner and were out of sight.

Hector stopped, struggling for breath. His chest heaved. ‘It’s no good. I can’t go any faster. You run ahead and get help.’

‘What about you?’

‘Never mind about me!’ Hector’s anger at his own helplessness showed in the sharp words. ‘You’re the only chance we’ve got.’

Murdo realised he was right and nodded.

‘Get me yon fellow’s rifle,’ Hector said. ‘You’ll need all the start you can get. I’ll try to hold them back.’ His gnarled hand gripped a knob of rock for support, the other leaned heavily on his knee. ‘Go on, now – quick!’

For a moment Murdo hesitated, then ran back to the entrance of the cave and grabbed up Knut’s rifle. He was turning away when his eye was caught, and hung for a moment upon a stack of smaller boxes. Ammunition. Hector would want more than a magazine full. A few swift blows with the butt of the rifle and the wood split open. On pulling the planks apart and tearing back the oiled papers, however, he was confronted not by bullets but by long grey cylinders, with red lettering on them and fuse wires at the end. Cursing, he smashed open a second box, and this time it was grenades. Row upon row the criss-crossed little bombs lay stacked like metal eggs, gleaming a dull blue-bronze. They would have to do. Hastily snatching a couple, he thrust them into his trouser pockets and pulled the shattered boxes together.

He had turned to dart away, when suddenly there was a clatter of stones at the corner of the cliff and the sound of returning voices. There was no time to reach Hector with the rifle! Quick as a thought he ran to a small outcrop of rocks opposite the cave mouth, and crouched behind it trembling.

The soldiers came closer and closer. Their voices were casual and easy, he heard the soft crunch of their boots in the wet sand. Even as they approached the mouth of the cave they suspected nothing. Then abruptly, not ten yards away, they stopped and fell silent.

‘Knut?’ A questioning voice rang out. It sounded like Henry

Smith. There was no reply. ‘Knut?’ he called again, louder this time.

Then there was another, quiet voice, the Colonel’s. In the silence that followed Murdo heard running footsteps which diminished up the beach – apparently into the cave. A few seconds later there was a muffled cry, and the man raced out again, calling loudly. Others shouted in reply, and there was a swift scattering of footsteps, right and left along the foot of the cliffs and back into the cave.

Henry Smith was furious. Harsh and loud his voice rang across the sands, directing, confusing, cursing them for incompetence.

Murdo waited to be discovered, but no-one came. Very cau- tiously he ventured to peer from behind his island of rocks.

The Colonel stood quietly at one side of the cave, saying nothing, while Henry Smith stalked up and down, beating his fists against his sides in a passion of disgrace and frustration. Awe- struck, Murdo regarded him. Two men ran across the face of the cliff. Beyond them, far down a sandy inlet where Henry Smith could not yet see him, a soldier in overalls appeared, pulling Hector by the arm. Hector was resisting. A fist was raised and he fell to the ground. Another man emerged from the cave, not quite sure what to do next. Suddenly Henry Smith swung round. He regarded the outcrop behind which Murdo was crouching, and the high stacks twenty yards beyond. Seeing they were unchecked, he began striding down the beach. Murdo pulled his head back, but not quickly enough and the German leader spotted the movement. He called out sharply, and three soldiers came running towards him.

‘I see you!’ he cried aloud in English. ‘Now Knut is dead! You young savage – this time I will kill you!’

Murdo heard the heavy footfalls coming closer. Trembling visibly, he leaped out from his hiding place and levelled the rifle at the German’s chest.

‘Stop!’ he cried. ‘I’ll shoot!’

The soldiers halted, their eyes riveted on the desperate and half- naked youth, with the empty holster at his belt and gleaming rifle in his hands. But Henry Smith kept advancing, feeling inside his coat for the heavy service revolver.

‘I will,’ screamed Murdo. ‘I’ll shoot!’ But the German leader took no notice. Terrified and sick, Murdo pulled the trigger.

It was jammed solid. Nothing happened. It would not work! He flung the rifle to the ground.

Henry Smith laughed.

Murdo dug into his trouser pocket, pulled out one of the grenades, and tore out the pin.

Henry Smith stopped abruptly in his tracks, staring at the live bomb in Murdo’s hand. Then Murdo flung it, and ripping out the second one, hurled it into the crowd of men gathered near the boxes in the cave mouth. Full length he dived for cover.

There was a moment of silence, then a sudden burst of scream- ing and shouting as the men scrambled for shelter. Those who had not seen, came running at the noise.

It was cut off abruptly by a loud bang, and a moment later by the stunning roar of an explosion which made the earth heave, and sent great echoes thundering around the sky. Murdo’s ears nearly burst with the impact of the noise. Huge slabs of rock shivered from the face of the cliff. A massive boulder shattered into fragments on the stack behind him: another embedded itself deeply in the wet sand. Stones were flying all around. A sharp splinter gashed Murdo down the side of the face, and something struck his knee with some force. Then the sand and dust were settling all around him, over his shoulders and trousers and in his eyes. As he stood up he started to cough and spit in the dust and fumes. The cave was no longer to be seen. Huge piles of boulders lay all over the place where the entrance had been, and a cloud of dust hung over it.

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.