Murdo's War (14 page)

‘Peter will do it,’ Carl Voss said harshly. ‘Peter, put the kettle on; make us a hot drink.’

Peter picked up a torch and went out of the room, slamming the door behind him.

Sigurd tapped Murdo on the shoulder and nodded towards the room where their clothes were drying.

‘Come,’ he said quietly.

Murdo made a space for himself by the fire and stripped off Donald’s sodden clothes. Briefly he rubbed himself dry on the towel they had all been using, then crouched by the flames with a blanket over his back, getting warmed through.

When the worst of the chill had gone, he removed Carl Voss’s trousers from the back of a chair and dropped them in a wet heap in the coldest part of the room, then arranged his own clothes in the full heat of the fire. Peter came from the kitchen and handed him a mug of steaming tea. Murdo sniffed at a run in his nose and nodded thanks. Holding it in both hands, he took a drink. It was nearly boiling but good and sweet. A thick trail of condensed milk ran down the side of the mug.

He stayed where he was, soaking up the heat, until his chest was scorched red and he had to pull the ends of the blanket over his legs because they were burning. Then he wrapped the blanket around himself and went back to the other room, accompanied by Sigurd.

Henry Smith lit a cigarette and lay back in his armchair, musing for a moment.

‘You see, they know me at the hotel now. So I shall simply stay on for a few days until the lorries come. If you and young Mr Mackay there, decided not to co-operate, I might even pass a little of the time attending your funerals. ‘So sad,’ I shall say. ‘Yes, I went out fishing with him a couple of times. He was a great character… And the boy – a tragedy! He was so young!’ And we will have a few of those terrible whiskies to speed you on your way. Then, when the lorries come, we load them up and your ‘Norwegians’ will vanish. I shall pay my bill and depart. Two days later – ‘Operation Flood-Tide’.’

Murdo looked at Hector. His weatherbeaten face was shadowed by wretched thoughts. The pipe had gone out and had scattered grey ash over his lap. Murdo pulled the blanket closely about his legs and sat by his armchair at the edge of the hearth.

‘Yes, ‘Operation Flood-Tide’,’ Henry Smith continued. ‘You see, these are not the only guns, these are not the only explosives that are being landed on your British shores. You think your coasts are well protected. Well, so they are – against an armoured landing. But everywhere, from the north of Scotland to Land’s End, there are places, like here, where people who know the area can find a corner to slip in quietly, and no-one any the wiser: silly old men, like yourself, who can be bought with a story and a handful of pound notes. So, we are not the only people smuggling arms ashore in a quiet corner of the British coast. There are more than a dozen groups like ourselves.’

Hector nodded. ‘And how do you plan to bring in the men to use them? You’ve got enough guns there to equip a small army. Parachute drop? The Spitfires would have your planes out of the sky before you reached the coast.’

Carl Voss chuckled, saying nothing.

‘You’re not going to try to smuggle that number of men in?’ Hector said. ‘You’d never get away with it.’

‘We could have had ten thousand men on Island Roan, for all you knew,’ Henry Smith said. ‘But no, we’re not going to smuggle them in.’

Hector looked from one man to the other. They were both smiling. Even Sigurd could not prevent a little grin from lightening his frown of disapproval.

‘That’s the whole beauty of it,’ Henry Smith said at length.

‘We don’t need to bring in any men at all. They are here already.’ Hector’s complete bewilderment made Carl Voss chuckle aloud.

‘Heinrich!’ Sigurd touched their leader on the arm and leaned across. He spoke earnestly, shaking his head. Henry Smith ignored him.

‘Sigurd, here, thinks we should tell you no more,’ he said to Hector. ‘But I want to tell you. I want you to know who you are dealing with. I want you to
know,
as you ferry our Mauser rifles across to the mainland, exactly what you are doing.’ He pulled himself up in his chair and leaned forward.

‘You see, when we Germans take prisoners of war we are sensible. We lock them up in prisoner of war camps and put guards on the fences. But you British! No, you are incredible. You send them out to work with a lot of old farm labourers and roadmen. German soldiers! You drive them about on tractors and carts. You say: ‘You are a prisoner of war, Fritz. We could lock you up, but it would not be very nice. Now wouldn’t you prefer to work on a farm in the good fresh air? A farmer’s wife will give you your lunch – she might even have a pretty daughter. Or would you rather dig an old lady’s allotment? But you must promise to come back at night for your tea. You won’t run away, will you? Scout’s honour? You madmen, do you think we are school children? It is war, not kindergarten.’ He paused.

‘You begin to understand? We already have our army. The men are here. Tens of thousands of German soldiers, sworn to the service of the Fatherland – spread all across Britain, every day working on your farms and roads. Italian prisoners too; they are our allies. And we have the plans to mobilize them. We have the leaders: we have the guns! ‘Operation Flood-Tide’, that is what we call it. ‘Es flutet, es flutet, es flutet’ – the tide is flooding!

‘On that day when the call comes from Berlin, we will mobilize our soldiers, supply them with arms, lead them against your key installations; your radio stations, telephone networks, power stations. We will storm your armouries, blow up your bridges and railway lines. And who have you to deal with them when the army is on the south coast awaiting the invasion? The Home Guard, a lot of old men.’ He laughed, and reached for another cigarette.

‘So, your government has a choice. They leave us alone, and we bring the country to a standstill: or they withdraw your troops and aircraft from the Channel ports to fight us – and we invade from France. You have heard the news, the build-up of forces along the French and Belgian coasts. Not just men, you realise: aircraft, warships, tanks, artillery. It is as simple as that – the troops of the Reich come flooding in. Where will your fat Winston Churchill and your stuttering king be then?’

Hector was silent.

‘So you see,’ Henry Smith went on, ‘we are not playing. We have too much to lose. If you give us any trouble, we will shoot you: the boy first, just in case you feel in a self-sacrificing mood.’ He looked at Murdo, wrapped in his blanket, black hair dishevelled and face flushed with the heat of the fire. ‘One more young life – it does not matter.’

Carl Voss reached for the revolver he had tossed on the dresser and broke it open, ejecting the two spent cartridge cases to the floor. He replaced them from a box in his rucksack, and snapped the weapon shut again.

‘It really is a pity you did not leave them well alone,’ Henry Smith observed almost sadly to Murdo. ‘It was all going so well. I was getting what I wanted: your friend was being well paid. A satisfactory arrangement on both sides.’

‘A pity for you,’ Murdo said.

The German shrugged. ‘A pity,’ he said.

Carl Voss wiped a few drops of water from his revolver and polished it with the oil from his fingers, fondling it and smoothing the metal until it gleamed. Henry Smith sat somewhat apart, withdrawn into his own thoughts, staring into the fading heart of the fire. Murdo stretched a hand to the bucket and threw on the last scraps of black peat before it got too low. Hector reached down for a nearly full whisky bottle and poured himself a big tot.

The old grandfather clock ticked loudly in the corner. It was nearly midnight.

Murdo shivered suddenly and drew in closer to the fire. The movement disturbed Henry Smith. He glanced at his watch and rose from the armchair. He looked tired, and there were deep, hard lines around his mouth that Murdo had never noticed before.

‘Well, I am going to bed,’ he said, turning to the boy, ‘since you, apparently, do not want it. Much better if you had stayed there. Still...’ he stretched. ‘The storm sounds as though it will continue for a long time yet, so I suggest we all get some sleep. You two stay at the side of the fire. Carl will keep an eye on you, I have no doubt.’ He turned to the others. ‘Everyone takes a turn – an hour about. And watch them well!’

The noise of the storm reached a crescendo, tearing and roaring around the windows. A big blue puff of peat smoke belched out into the room.

The door closed behind him and they heard his footsteps climbing the stairs.

Sigurd took up the whisky bottle and poured drinks for the four

Germans. Soon they were once more engaged in quiet conversation.

For a while Hector watched them, then he sighed and reached down the side of the chair for his tobacco tin.

‘How did they know I’d gone?’ Murdo asked, as Hector leaned forward and knocked out his dottle on the edge of the hearth.

‘Yon fellow.’ Hector indicated Carl Voss with a glance. ‘When you went out the window the curtain got snagged on a corner of the shelf, and the ledge was wet where the snow had blown in. We heard him running upstairs – and that was that.’

‘I didn’t make a very good job of it,’ Murdo said.

‘You did fine,’ Hector reassured him, squeezing his arm and looking at the bruise on his cheek-bone. It had darkened and spread; the skin around his blood-shot eye was turning black.

‘You’re going to have a shiner.’ Briefly he smiled, then dropped his voice. ‘But I’ll tell you what.’ He looked across at the Germans, who were still talking among themselves. ‘You’ve got to try and get away. Any chance you get. Forget about me, I can’t run the way you can. I’ll hold them back if it’s possible. But get to a telephone and let the police know. Dial 999, tell them everything. If you pass any houses on the way, let the people know; spread the word. So far as...’

Carl Voss had seen them whispering and was watching closely. The others fell silent.

For a while they sat. Murdo yawned and rubbed his eyes with the back of his hand. He winced as his knuckles struck the bruise. Gently he explored it with his finger-tips.

Hector regarded the boy’s brown, work-roughened hand, and the rounded end of his finger where the joint was missing. Murdo’s face was pale. ‘Why not try to get some sleep,’ he said. ‘Find yourself another blanket and settle down there by the fire. Here!’ He reached behind his back and pulled out a cushion.

Peter, the young pilot, was watching them and overheard Hector’s words. He was only five or six years older than Murdo himself. His brother, back in Aachen, was just about the same age. He left the room and came back with another blanket which he tossed down, masking the gesture with gruffness.

‘Thanks,’ Murdo said.

Then, while Hector poured himself yet another tot of whisky and lay back in his armchair, he curled up on the floor beside the fire with his head on the cushion. For a long time he lay awake thinking and listening. He was no wide-eyed innocent, but the extent of the German scheme had caught him unprepared. Hitherto untouched by the reality of the war, it was a cruel awakening. The Germans were real and all around him, no longer mere words on the radio and photographs in the
Picture Post.
Enemy soldiers, whom his father and friends were fighting, were among them in Clerkhill and Strathy. All that he knew was being threatened. The thought made him angry and his eyes glittered in the firelight. As he lay there he determined to do anything in his power to stop them.

WHEN MURDO WOKE
up it was coming daylight and the Germans were passing to and fro through the hall with mugs of coffee and bowls of porridge. Their clothes had dried and once more they were warmly clad. Carl Voss was without his trousers, which to his fury he had found chill and sodden in the corner where Murdo had dropped them the evening before. With bare legs he mounted the stairs to seek a pair of Donald’s in the bedroom.

It was a wild cold dawn. Murdo clutched a blanket about himself and went to the window. He rubbed the melting ice from a pane and peered out. The snow had ceased during the night and the wind had abated, though still it rattled the windows from time to time and moaned in the chimney. Across the hillside white swathes, caught in gusts, swept up and vanished into the air. Closer at hand the flakes swirled in mad fragmentary dances, then fell softly into the pattern of ridges. At the bottom of the walls the drifts lay deep, the fence posts and the side of the stone barn were plastered white. It was freezing hard. A gull swooped low, its wings juddering, then caught the wind and whirled away out of sight.

The blanket was warm, and wrapping it tightly about himself, Murdo went outside to the toilet at the end of the house, for there was no bathroom. The snow was icy on his feet, and the wind bitter. Behind him, right at his heels, Carl Voss strolled casually with his hand inside his jacket holding the revolver. Only one neighbour’s cottage was to be seen from this position, and the curtains were still closed. Murdo was glad when they got back into the house.

A large saucepan of porridge, still a quarter full, stood on the Calor gas ring in Donald’s kitchen. The man who had made it was not very experienced, for the grey mess was lumpy and thick. Murdo lit the gas beneath it, so that the porridge was at least hot, and squashed out some lumps against the side of the pan. With a good sprinkling of salt and a cup of tea it made a fair breakfast.