Murdo's War Read Online Free PDF

Wrath echoed across the moors. He knew some of the men who sailed in these ships, and this touched him more, especially with his deep love of the sea: also Hector had told him something of his own years as a coxwain in the Royal Navy during the First World War.
    But for Murdo the single great tragedy of the war was that it took his father away from the village and left him homeless – homeless and rootless – that at least was how it had felt, despite their aunt’s care. Apart from that, and the absence of nearly all the youger men from the district, the war meant simply the stopping of comics and ice cream and sweets, and the curtains that had to be kept tightly closed at night.
    But the men in the bar listened raptly. Murdo looked at their faces, the serious faces of men too old to do the fighting, who had done their bit twenty-five years earlier, and whose sons and grandsons now fought in their place. Among them was a young soldier, Billy, home on convalescent leave. His tank had been blown up in the desert, and he was newly out of hospital, burned and suffering from shell-shock. Heedless of the regulations he lounged at the bar in an old sheep-stained jacket. At the end of the bar the stranger, less intent on the radio than the local men, stood waiting for his drink. He looked like a business man, plump, with a middle-aged baby face and gold-rimmed glasses. Idly Murdo regarded him.
    The broadcast ended and life began again in the bar-room. The landlord pulled some half-pints of beer, a whisky bottle appeared and the men talked. It was all about the war – bombings in Glasgow, letters from their sons in the forces, the possibility of invasion.
    ‘For God’s sake give it a break, will you! Talk about something else.’
    Billy’s voice cut through the bar-room talk like a knife. For a moment there was an embarrassed silence.
    ‘I’m sorry.’ He was trembling, the scar tissue was livid against his brown skin.
    ‘That’s all right, boy,’ said old Danny.
    Slowly the talk began again and turned to cars and work and local aquaintances, all the daily things men talk about when they are together.
    Murdo sipped a glass of shandy, which was all Hector would allow him. He tipped the damp bag of salt into a packet of crisps, an unaccustomed treat.
    Hector was on the point of leaving. He waited for Murdo to finish his drink and tossed back the last inch of beer in his own glass, then began buttoning his jacket against the night air. Murdo buckled the battledress across his stomach. Bidding goodnight to the company, they made their way to the door.
    They had hardly reached it, however, when the stranger crossed the room and addressed himself to Hector.
    ‘Mr Gunn?’ Hector nodded.
    ‘I wonder if I could have a few words with you.’
    Hector looked at him for a long moment, his old weather-beaten face expressing nothing.
    ‘What about?’ he said.
    The stranger looked towards a table in the far corner of the room. ‘Perhaps we could sit down,’ he suggested.
    ‘All right.’
    Somewhat diffidently the stranger led the way to a plain varnished table. Hector seated himself with his back to the wall and Murdo sat beside him, the unfinished bag of crisps in his hand. The stranger pulled in a rickety chair opposite.
    ‘I suppose I should introduce myself,’ he said hesitantly. ‘My name’s Smith, Henry Smith.’ The English accent and rather high- pitched voice sounded strange and forced after the low, soft speech of the Highlanders.
    Hector said nothing, but sat waiting for him to continue.
    ‘I’ve been up in Sutherland for a day or two now, staying at the inn here.’ He paused for a moment. ‘It’s a lovely spot.’
    ‘Aye.’
    ‘Well, it’s partly a holiday, but I’m mixing business with pleasure, and I’ve been trying to find a man who can help me with a bit of – well, business.’
    Murdo belched and made a face. The whisky and shandy were playing havoc with his insides. Hector regarded him keenly for a