Page 5 of Midnight on the Scottish Shore

5

West of Scotland Friday, April 11, 1941

Today was truly Good Friday, because today Cilla would be free.

She sat on a bunk in the aft torpedo room of the German U-boat, and she drummed her fingers on the frame. When she’d boarded the submarine in Hamburg, some of the crew had leered at her, but not for long. Throughout the journey, Hauptmann Kraus had watched over her like a kindly uncle.

Traveling under the sea had been quite the adventure, but an uneventful one. Only after the U-boat landed Cilla in the United Kingdom would they start hunting Allied ships. If only she could prevent that.

She had her own priority—freedom. If nothing else, freedom from the stink of diesel fuel and unwashed men. Freedom from the cramped quarters and the unnerving sensations of being underwater, hunted by British ships and aircraft, and sleeping with an unarmed torpedo only inches from her face.

Kraus stepped through the round hatch into the torpedo room. He smiled at Cilla, but his smile twitched. “We’ve reached the coordinates. We’re waiting for full dark to surface. Are you ready?”

“Very much so, Herr Hauptmann.” More than he’d ever know.

He sat beside her and opened a map she knew well. “I want to review our plan one last time.”

Anything to reassure him. She tapped the map of Scotland. “I’m landing here at this pretty little beach.” A perfect place to escape.

“Yes. You’ll have a full moon, which will rise before the sun sets. It’s cloudy, but visibility is good. The winds are higher than we’d like, but the sea is slight. Conditions are expected to worsen in the next few days, so you must land tonight.”

“Good.” She smiled at her handler. “I can’t wait to start my work.”

He pursed his lips. “First, you must land safely. The winds should help push you to shore. Remember to aim for this beach. Do not go to the north around this knob of land.”

“Dunnet Head.” Cilla tapped the feature on the map. “You said a military post is there. I’ll avoid it.”

“Yes.” Kraus ran a stumpy finger along the waters to the north of Dunnet Head. “Pentland Firth is famous for its dangerous waters. You must land at Dunnet Beach. It’s close to the town of Thurso, where you’ll find a job as a barmaid.”

Cilla raised a conspiratorial smile. “Because drunken men talk.”

“Especially to pretty girls.” The fatherly twinkle in his eyes faded. “But you must never drink yourself. You must keep your wits at all times. Tell me your cover story.”

For the last time, Cilla recited it. Never again. She had her own story and her own plan.

Kraus wiped his upper lip and pointed to Cilla’s gear on the bunk across from her. “Three cases—a suitcase with your clothes and personal items, a waterproof case with your radio transmitter and receiver set, and a small waterproof case with your pistol. You have binoculars, and you have cash and your identity papers in your pocket, ja?”

“Ja.” Cilla patted the pocket of her black overcoat. “As soon as I land, I knife my raft and bury it. I find someplace to hide overnight. In the morning, I go to Thurso.”

“Very good. Yes, that’s the plan.”

That was Cilla’s plan too. But when she arrived in Thurso, she’d use the cash to buy a rail ticket. She’d given the Abwehr a false name and address for her aunt. When she disappeared from Hauptmann Kraus’s sight tonight, the other Abwehr agents would look for her in the wrong place.

Kraus’s forehead furrowed, and he wiped his upper lip again.

His concern for her was sweet, and she patted his forearm. “Please don’t worry. You’ve trained me well, and I’m a strong rower. I’ll be fine.”

His eyebrows bunched together. “After tonight, I’m sure you will be.”

What if tonight didn’t go well? What if she was lost at sea? Or captured whilst landing?

A shiver ran through her, but she shook it off.

On Easter Day, she’d celebrate with Tante Margriet and Uncle James in Buckinghamshire. In freedom.

****

Near Brough, Scotland

Lachlan buckled on his kilt in the Mackenzie tartan—deep blue and green with thin lines of white and red. Whilst serving in the Navy, he could wear a kilt only at home, so wear it he would.

Effie sat by his side, her pointed brown muzzle lifted to Lachlan.

He squatted, pressed his forehead to the collie’s, and threaded his fingers into her long white ruff. “Dinnae fash yourself. You’re the only lass for me.” The double date with Arthur Goodwin had gone as expected. Arthur’s girlfriend, Irene Drever, had brought her effervescent friend, Annie, who had been taken by Lachlan—then bored by him within half an hour.

Effie bumped him with her nose as if reminding him of the time.

“Aye, lass.” Lachlan stood and slipped on his uniform jacket. Wearing the jacket with the kilt violated regulations, but regulations didn’t apply when home alone with family. And Lachlan took as much pride in his uniform as his tartan.

He knotted his necktie. The past week shepherding Hugh Collingwood had gone far better than the double date. Hugh seemed thrilled with the stories he’d recorded, including one from a merchant ship in a coastal convoy, which had been attacked by a Luftwaffe Fw 200. Thank goodness the naval armed guard had scared off the bomber.

When Lieutenant Commander Blake reviewed the recording discs, he’d praised Hugh. No censorship had been needed, and Scapa Flow shone. Fair praise for the BBC correspondent, well earned.

However, Blake hadn’t even glanced Lachlan’s way to acknowledge his role in illuminating the guidelines and in steering the reporter from forbidden topics and toward stories that showed the base at its best.

Lachlan was on probation. He always would be.

But this weekend he was home at Creag na Mara with his parents and Effie, and he’d celebrate Easter at Dunnet Parish Church and enjoy roast lamb and tatties.

“Come along, Effie.” Lachlan opened his bedroom door and followed his dog down the stairs.

The Mackenzies weren’t lairds but had earned their money. Father had bought the bonny estate when Lachlan was five years old.

Sounds arose from downstairs. Two sailors from the RDF station at Dunnet Head were billeted at Creag na Mara, but Mother said they were on duty tonight. Had she been mistaken?

Inside the drawing room, a sandy-haired man in full kilt regalia stood pouring himself a whiskey.

Lachlan’s step halted. His heart. “Neil.”

His younger brother turned, scanned Lachlan from head to toe, and his upper lip curled in disgust.

A haze built in Lachlan’s head, crackling on the edges into flame. “What are you doing here?”

“I live here.” Neil raised his tumbler.

“You’re supposed to be in jail.”

“As you see, I no longer am.” Neil beckoned with his fingers to the dog. “Come here, Effie.”

Effie stayed by Lachlan’s side. She’d always been a good judge of character.

“What did you do now?” Heat hardened Lachlan’s voice. “Did you escape from jail?”

“Lads!” Father rushed into the room, his kilt swinging around his knees, his blue eyes large. “Please remember your mother and keep the peace.”

Lachlan fought to keep his voice calm. “Why is he not in jail?”

“That’s my doing.” Father stretched his big hands wide and made a patting motion. “They agreed to release him if I hired him at Mackenzie Salvage to do war work.”

Neil smirked and swirled his whiskey. “I tell myself it has nothing to do with the English War, only clearing the seas for Scottish fishermen.”

Flames licked at Lachlan’s vision, and he couldn’t look at that smug face. He turned to his father. “You didnae tell me he’d be here. How not?”

Mother entered the room in a white dress with a tartan sash. “Because we knew you wouldnae come.”

“Aye, I wouldnae.”

Mother tucked her arm in Father’s. “You are both our beloved sons. Somehow you need to forgive each other.”

Neil would never forgive Lachlan. When Neil was fifteen, he began sneaking out of the Royal Naval College to drink. For months, Neil had purchased Lachlan’s silence by appealing to family loyalty.

Then Neil had stolen a car, smashed it into a cottage, fled, and let a local lad be arrested for his crime. At that point, loyalty to justice prevailed, and Lachlan had told the police. Neil had been warned, fined—and expelled.

For that, Neil had exacted his revenge.

Lachlan pulled in a deep, burning breath and cut his gaze to his brother. “I understand your silence means no apology will be coming my way this evening.”

“Apologize?” Neil sipped his whiskey. “Apologize for my proudest moment?”

Fire curled Lachlan’s fists, fueled his tongue for battle.

“Lads!” Father’s voice slammed into Lachlan. “I will have none of that in my home. You will behave like gentlemen, for your mother’s sake.”

Silver had dimmed Mother’s red hair, but nothing dimmed the love in her brown eyes. The grief.

“Aye, I will.” Lachlan nodded to his parents. “As the Good Book says, ‘If it be possible, as much as lieth in you, live peaceably with all men.’”

As much as depended on him. And only for the sake of his mother and father.