Black Cross

McShane’s lips maintained their smile, but his eyes narrowed. “It’s one way of looking at it. That way, no matter how bad things get, you keep some perspective. But I’ll tell you this, man. When the Luftwaffe was pounding London into dust and the RAF lads were dying like flies over the Channel, it wasna any game. Churchill sent us across just to show Britain wasna lyin’ down for Hitler. We got chewed into little pieces. I lost many a mate those first two years. I dinna mind tellin’ you, the day of reckoning is at hand.”

McShane reached out with his boot and rocked a third gas cylinder, which hung from the wire beneath him. “I reckon most are content to wait for the invasion. But we Highlanders are a vindictive lot. To our own detriment sometimes. Smith offered me a chance to hit the bastards where it hurts, so I took it.”

Stern had never thought he would feel empathy for a British soldier, but in that moment he did. “How much do you know about the mission, Sergeant?”

McShane gazed past him to the gray hills. “I know all I need to know. Same as you. Dinna look to know more.” He glanced down to check his spikes for the descent. “You ought to be glad it’s me going. You need all the help ye can get.”

“What do you mean? I can take care of myself.”

“Can you?” McShane chuckled softly. “I hope you can hide yourself better than you hid that bicycle. I found the bloody thing four days ago.”

Stern’s mouth fell open.

“Dinna be worryin’ about that. The colonel doesn’t know. I slipped it back to that crofter’s hut for you.” The Highlander reached down and took hold of the cotter pin holding the third cylinder in place. “You’ll do fine,” he said. “Smith knew what he was doing. You’re the perfect man for your job.”

He yanked the pin from the roller wheel. “And I’m the perfect man for mine. If anyone can hang those cylinders, stow your gear and get out without the Hun any the wiser, it’s the boys from Achnacarry.”

Stern watched the cylinder glide smoothly down the wire. He was glad to know McShane would be preparing the way for him. He didn’t like any of the other instructors much, but after five days of training under them, he had to admit that he’d never met better or tougher soldiers in his life.

The rolling cylinder jumped the crossarm on the second pylon, then settled into a steady run down toward the loch.

“When are you jumping off?” Stern asked. “By my count, it’s time to go.”

“The cylinders from Porton Down are scheduled to arrive in one hour,” McShane said calmly. “My lot shoves off then.”

Stern felt a rush of excitement. “Tonight?”

McShane unclipped his safety belt, slid off the crossarm and dug his spikes into the thick pole beneath it. He looked over at Stern and grinned. “I just wish I was going to be there to see those cylinders land in that camp. It’ll be some show, that. One night only, and no one leaves alive.”

“No one but me and McConnell,” said Stern.

“Right,” McShane added quickly. “That’s what I meant.”

Beyond the Arkaig River where it bent north of the castle, McConnell wearily stuffed his chemistry and German books into a leather bag and started back toward the commando camp. He’d had enough studying, and his stomach was audibly begging for nourishment. To shorten his trip, he turned into a section of forest known as the Mile Dorcha, or Dark Mile. The origin of the name was plain enough. What had once been a forest lane was now a tunnel of overarching trees, with the road itself sunk between high banks covered with deep moss and lichens. It was the kind of place where one half-expected to hear the thunder of hoofbeats as a headless horseman galloped out of the trees.

But it was no horseman that stepped out of the forest to McConnell’s right, causing his heart to momentarily stop. It was a tall man of about sixty, wearing a beautiful kilt, a green beret and scuffed brogues. The gray-eyed stranger stood motionless beside the lane. When McConnell drew near, he lifted his walking staff and raised two fingers in greeting.

“Hello,” said McConnell.

“Fine day for a walk,” the man replied, then fell in beside him.

“Yes, it is,” Mark agreed.

The stranger said nothing else. Strangely, McConnell felt no urge or obligation to speak. The kilted walker seemed in absolute harmony with his surroundings, as if he were as much a part of the landscape as the moss and the crooked trees. In the easy silence, McConnell found himself reflecting on the past week. His time at Achnacarry had been a revelation. The emergency surgery on the riverbank had left him exhilarated, reminding him of what he had given up to work in the labs at Oxford. It had also marked the genesis of a careful friendship between himself and Stern. The taciturn Jew still refused to reveal what kind of training he was doing alone, but whenever McConnell heard the ka-whoom of explosions echoing through the hills, he pictured Stern with his hand on the detonator.

Twice more since the episode at the river, he had managed to surprise Stern. Yesterday, Sergeants McShane and Lewis had trotted up to them carrying a massive ten-foot log on their shoulders. Lewis’s knee was heavily taped, but he was making a great point of showing everyone that Stern had not crippled him. When the two sergeants pretended to pass the log to McConnell, Mark stunned everyone by taking it on his shoulder and marching off across the hill with little apparent strain. He didn’t tell them that during high school he had worked summers at a creosote plant, where with twelve tireless Negroes he had hauled sizzling black poles nine hours a day under the Georgia sun.

And last night, when he and Stern stumbled upon a sergeant giving an outdoor lecture on survival cooking, McConnell had entered Achnacarry folklore. The cook had challenged his audience to guess which animal’s flesh they were eating from his fire. When the stumped French commandos — and Jonas Stern — heard that the roasted delicacy in their mouths was Achnacarry Rat, there was a race to the river to vomit. Only McConnell finished his full portion, explaining that during the Depression he had eaten alligator, possum, nutria, snake, and raccoon. He earned the cook’s eternal friendship by pronouncing Achnacarry Rat superior to nutria, which was a large water rodent of the American Southeast.

Such moments had been rare, though. The uncertainty of their impending mission, and their impatience to get on with it, set them apart from the soldiers at the castle, who knew that their own battles with the Germans would not begin until spring arrived.

“You’re the American, aren’t you?”

McConnell jumped at the sound of the voice. So smooth and silent were the movements of the kilted man beside him that he had almost forgotten his presence.

“The pacifist I’ve been hearing about?”

McConnell glanced over at the weathered face of the stranger in the beret, then looked ahead. At the end of the tunnel of trees, an arch of light glimmered like a great cathedral window. “Yes,” he said. “But I’m afraid you have me at a disadvantage.”

“Sorry. I thought you’d know me by the tartan. I’m Donald Cameron.”

McConnell tried to recover gracefully from the hitch in his stride. “Sir Donald Cameron? Laird of Achnacarry Castle?”

The Highlander smiled. “Aye. A mouthful, isn’t it?” He gazed high into the shadowy treetops as they moved toward the forest’s edge. “Beautiful in the gloaming, eh?”

“Yes, sir. The hills here remind me of some mountains back in my home state.”

“Where would that be?”

“Georgia. Your hills have the same mist, the same wooded slopes as the Appalachian Mountains.”

“I’ve heard of these mountains. A great many Americans come over here, you know. Searching for roots, they say. Quite a few Camerons were pushed off the land during the Clearances, and many went to America. Some to those very mountains of yours.”

The arch of light had grown closer, but it seemed to dim as they approached. “Is that right?” said McConnell. “When I first heard your name, it was a bit of a surprise.”

“Why’s that, lad? Camerons have owned this land for seven hundred years.”

McConnell heard the sound of rushing water. “That’s what I mean. You see, my middle name is Cameron.”