Shot in the Arm

By David Stewart-David

This novel is the story of Malcolm Maclaren, a teenage boy living in the Tweed valley in the 1960s. At school he becomes an expert marksman, and this talents leads to the shooting of a maths master. The man's death is not intended. Is Malcolm guilty of manslaughter, and if so, how should he be punished? The book was written for a young adult rea

• Language: English
• Publisher: David Stewart-David
• Release date: Feb 14, 2024
• ISBN: 9781805414742

Book preview

Prologue

The short figure in military fatigues walked quietly up the track that led to the top of Cryburgh Hill. On his shoulder was a canvas bag, sold as protection for a lacrosse stick. He reached the point where a flat-topped stone gatepost provided an ideal resting point for his rifle. He unzipped the bag, took out the weapon and used his bird-watching binoculars to study the metal sign that carried the message No motor vehicles. Then he made himself comfortable and waited for Slithy Wills, a creature of habit. At 0916 the top of a pork-pie hat edged into the circle of binocular vision. By 0918 the head under the hat was visible. At 0919 the marksman could see the man in the hat approach the metal sign. He took careful aim and gently squeezed the trigger. At the instant of firing the rattle of a magpie caused distraction. The shot aimed at the tin sign hit the old man in the pork-pie hat. It struck him in the arm, above his right elbow. The man staggered for a moment and then was lost to the marksman’s view. The boy who had fired the rifle was filled with sudden dread. The sudden disappearance of the old man was mocked by the unscarred marked metal sign. In a fit of indecisive panic the boy wondered whether he should run at once to see how badly Slithy was hurt. Instead he replaced the rifle in its waterproof covering, then placed the rifle deep into a nearby rabbit hole. After he had hidden the gun he scrambled diagonally down to the bridle path to the place where Slithy’s body had lain hidden from his view. Two people had reached the prone teacher before Malcolm arrived. One was a woman aged aged about fifty, dressed in tweeds.

He must have had a heart attack.

No Elspeth, take a look at the blood on that arm. Surely somebody attacked him.

Chapter 1

St Cuthbert’s Academy was commissioned as a country home by Sir James Stirling in 1873. The building was sufficiently castellated to look as menacing as a Victorian prison, but in fact it had been a public school since the Stirling family met financial ruin at the end of the first world war. The boys who occupied it were from families blessed with money, though few were academically gifted. Malcolm Maclaren was an exception. He was the only son of a lorry driver from the Scottish village of Tweedsford, which was a little upstream from St Cuthbert’s. His mother had been killed in a hit and run accident when the boy was eleven years old. Thinking it was a kindness, the Reverend Hamish Clarendon arranged for the lad to be given a free place at the Academy. Not knowing how to refuse, Malcolm’s father agreed to the arrangement. The fees for a day boy at St Cuthbert’s were greater than Geordie Maclaren’s earnings, so it seemed foolish to decline the offer. One consequence of this well-intentioned business was that Malcolm found himself being interviewed by Mr Ronald Lowes, teacher of geography to the third form.

Maclaren, this morning in geography we were considering the purpose of settlements. I asked you about the economy of St Andrews in the Kingdom of Fife. The correct answer, as I believe you know, is that the town is noted for tourism, for its university, and for the Royal and Ancient Golf Club. The reply you voiced to the class was that `St Andrews is noted for school teachers who put their balls in bunkers.’ I’m quite sure that you, and the rest of the class, know that St Andrews is my home town. What caused you to be so insolent?

Malcom studied Ron Lowes for a moment or two. He was making a judgment about the kindness of the man questioning him.

Being insolent stops me being bullied sir, he said.

Mr. Lowes was clearly surprised by the answer. Could you please explain?

Malcolm continued. I’m short and clumsy and I’m not good at games. I’m the kind of boy the thickies choose to bully, but they don’t torment me much because I make them laugh. Instead they choose to bully frightened kids and feeble schoolmasters. You must surely have seen their antics.

What Malcolm wanted to say was that the academy’s bullies were the kind of people that had secure dens in the world of the privileged; a kingdom where villagers like him were kept in place. He tried to explain. The bullies are rich and often cruel. They are praised by St Cuthbert’s for their prowess at rugby. They are created prefects because of the wealth of their fathers. Malcolm could see that the geography master was biting his lip. For a junior day boy to analyse the behaviour of his seniors was not part of the Academy’s mores, however fair the judgement.

Mr Lowes contiinued his interrogation. Am I to understand that you are insubordinate to masters because it makes the bullies appreciate your wit?

That’s the fact of the matter sir.

Are you insolent to all the masters?

Oh no sir. I’m not cheeky to the sad ones that the bullies choose as targets. I just give lip to the masters who can handle sarcasm. I get beaten by some of them of course, but that’s not frightening. I don’t live in terror of a sudden ambush like poor wee Ralph Drummond, or that Mr Aspen who had a nervous breakdown last term.

Lowes adopted a stern expression. Maclaren, you were downright insolent this morning. As punishment you will write me an essay, to be handed in on Monday straight after prayers. I want 500 words on the subject `Answer not a fool according to his folly.’

Would that be biblical sir?

It would. Look it up in Cruden’s Concordance, which you’ll find in the library.

Yes, sir. May I go now?

Ron Lowes sighed. He had the air of a man who had a secure life imperilled by a thought-provoking conversation with a well-armed village anarchist. He was about to dismiss the boy, when he paused to look at the lad’s feet. Wait a minute Maclaren. You’re a day boy aren’t you?

Yes sir, I said.

Then when you get home be sure to polish your boots.

There’s no boot polish at home sir, could I use some from the armoury ?

Suddenly the geography master looked at Malcolm with different eyes. It had struck him that the boy’s shabby school uniform was second hand and neglected. He knew nothing about his home life but he was making inferences from his appearance. Silently he handed Malcolm the key to the cadet force armoury.

In the jumble of Academy buildings there is an inconspicuous strong room reached by a flight of little used stone steps at the back of the squash courts. There you could find living nostalgia for The Great War, when the prefects of St Cuthbert’s smartly saluted the whisky baron, before leading the village plebs to the trenches in the mud of Flanders, where they might die gloriously for King and country. In this armoury we may see twenty straight racks of Short Lee-Enfield rifles, weapons that had been rescued from a life of action in Flanders fields. In one corner of the armoury is a small glass windowed office where new boots are issued and old ones taken for repair. There too are kept some stout wooden boxes containing rounds of ammunition and several tins of Cherry Blossom polish with half a dozen brushes.

Go now, polish those boots and come back here with the key in fifteen minutes, no more. Whilst you’re polishing, think about the essay.

Yes sir. Thank you sir, and so it was that Maclaren went stomping down the corridor, and up the dark back steps, leaving Mr Lowes in contemplation. It was the boot polish that first gave the boy access to the armoury.

Chapter 2

One Tuesday afternoon in late September Malcom Maclaren found himself standing at ease in the midst of a group of children wearing khaki battle dress. The pupils of St Cuthbert’s Academy were expected to join the cadet force at the age of fourteen, and Malcolm had been conscripted along with twelve other recruits. These boy soldiers were required to practice shooting on the school rifle range, then take the traditional War Office examination known as Certificate A. It had become obvious to the schoolmasters with the role of officers that Malcolm’s ability to march smartly, and then give drill orders to a squad, was below the standard attained by most of the academy’s boys. In the hope of improvement in his coordination, his Certificate A tests had been postponed for three months, In the meantime he was given a chance to demonstrate his skill with a rifle. Malcolm had never seen the academy’s rifle range before his first session of weapons training. He was expecting to find there an arrangement like the Duck Shoot game he had tried when the travelling fair came to Berwick. Instead, the academy’s range required the riflemen to lie down and focus on a target 25 yards away. The sergeant in charge of training was a professional soldier, not a genteel schoolmaster dressed in uniform. The instruction started with ten minutes of warnings about safety. You’ll be given a weapon. When you’re lying down beside it you’ll be given five rounds of ammunition. The .22 rifle you’ll use today has no magazine, so you insert one round into the barrel at a time. When there’s a round in the barrel you point the rifle at the target and nowhere, but nowhere, else. No playing at cowboys and indians. Is that understood?

Yes sergeant.

When you have finished shooting you give the five empty rounds to the instructor. If by chance you haven’t fired all five rounds then you eject the round from the weapon and hand it in with the empty cartridge cases. You’ll see that the round I’ve used to demonstrate is a blank – there’s a brass case but no bullet. When you go on field operations with your usual rifle you’ll be given blank ammunition. On the range you use live ammunition which is quite capable of killing people, even by accident. Is that understood?

Yes sergeant.

Now lie down, make yourself comfortable and look at the target. Each target has a number and the number coincides with your position. Never shoot at some other target. Malcolm takes a .22 rifle and lies down as he has been bidden. He looks at the target through the sights. Five rounds of ammunition are placed in a tin beside him.

Do not load until instructed. Once you have loaded wait for the order to fire. Load.

Malcolm places a round in the barrel.

Fire at will.

Malcolm holds the rifle with a calm steady grip. He aims at the bull. Remembering to squeeze the trigger as instructed, he fires. He can see a tiny tear in the black circle of the bull. He repeats the action four more times. The rifle he finds easy to handle, for it is so much lighter than the Lee Enfield he has to use for parade ground drill. Having loosed five rounds he looks round at the sergeant, who tells him to wait. A few minutes later a voice bellows cease firing. Malcolm puts the five empty cases into the tin, stands up and hands them to the sergeant. After his first shot he cannot be sure that he has hit the bull, but he’s content to wait results.

That Cadet Maclaren should turn out to be a superb marksman was quite unexpected. To ensure that there was neither fluke nor mistake in his first assessment, he was instructed to attend the rifle range a second, time. The tight grouping of bullet holes on his targets were undoubtedly those of a marksman. The school masters who were officers wanted to see what he would do with a heavier weapon, so he was taken one day to the ranges at Coldburn. There he was placed with the academy’s team of elite riflemen. They were target shooting with .303 rifles. On this day Maclaren’s target shooting had a quality of precision that put other members of the shooting team to shame.

Cecil Neath was standing on a touch line in the drizzle, watching the second fifteen in practice. Cecil was a stocky man in his sixties. He had learnt the ways of rugby football almost intravenously in his home town of Llanelli. Now he stood in the dreich rain of the Scottish borders, bellowing encouragement to the muddy players he was watching. As he stood by the rugby field Ron Lowes walked towards him, then stood beside him in silence for a while to watch the players.

Their mauls are good, but their line-out discipline needs work.

Don’t I know it, said Cecil, but most of our rugby players have more brawn than wits.

It’s a matter of skill I want to discuss, said Ron.

Well in that case let’s go into the pavilion. It’s dry there. The two schoolmasters walked companionably along the pitch to the pavilion, and there found a snug corner by the electric fire. It’s about Maclaren.

An interesting character.

Cecil, you’re quite right. He’s interesting, and a headache. The lad is pretty bright, insubordinate, insolent, and on parade he’s prone to get out of step."

So why don’t we quietly invite him to leave the cadets?

Because he’s just been doing his practice stints on the ranges. On the school range with a .22 he was a fine marksman, so we decided to let him loose with a .303 at Coldburn Links. There he was utterly brilliant, far better than anyone in the shooting team, in fact better than young Killin back in ’58.

Cecil started to fiddle with his pipe. So you don’t want to lose him, but you do need to hide him from view.

That’s about the size of it.

Well, if we were dealing with a real soldier in a serious army there would be a simple solution. We’d keep him away from the parade ground and make him a sniper.

Here he could win prizes in marksmanship for the school.

But Ron, as well as being cheeky he’s poor, scruffy, and clumsy. Altogether the kind of kid you’d want to keep hidden from the eyes of wealthy parents.

Cecil Neath sighed a little, and paused for thought. Look, my friend, the fact is that I’m biased. The Royal Air Force conscripted me in 1943. I’d just been offered a place to study languages at Cardiff, although I couldn’t see then how I could afford to be a student. When the RAF demanded my services it seemed like a direction from the gods. I was sent to a training unit to show what I could do. I found myself firing machine guns from the rear turret of a `Lancaster’. That’s how I became a sergeant, without marching on the parade ground. I was lucky enough to survive, and then I went to study at Cardiff. The university college had precious few working class students, but rugby players were welcomed. Being a bit older than most students I didn’t waste my time, and I certainly didn’t have daddy’s money to waste – not like half the kids at St Cuthbert’s.

Ron Lowes had listened patiently to this story of life. Cecil, we don’t have any Lancasters at St Cuthbert’s, what do you think we should do about Maclaren.?

I’d make him the armoury sergeant.

But first he’d need to pass cert A.

We can squeeze him through cert A. We hand-pick a squad that will march smartly whatever Maclaren says. We’ll get him into school early on the day of the drill test to improve his appearance, even if Matron has to iron his kit. Then we tip off the examining sergeant, and buy him a beer when Maclaren passes Cert A.

That sounds like a good plan of action.

Now Ron, there’s one other thing we must do.

Yes?"

Make sure that Freddie Turner thinks that making Maclaren the armoury sergeant is his idea and not ours. Major Freddie Turner was the commanding officer of the cadet force. He had never served in war-time, so he was able blissfully to maintain his obsession with rules and regulations. Cadets and officers often conspired to keep him oblivious to their pragmatic bending of rules.

At 8 o’clock on the morning earmarked for the Cert A examination Malcolm Maclaren arrived at Matron’s office in St Cuthbert’s Academy. He was wearing his school uniform, but was carrying his khaki kit crumpled in a haversack. Mrs Dodds took a look at him. What does your mother say about your appearance?

I’m afraid my mother’s dead, ma’am.

As a middle aged Matron Margaret Dodds exercised her authority by a range of facial expressions and a turn of phrase that ranged from terse to compassionate. As she contemplated Malcolm her expression softened. Go in the sick bay, take your jacket and shirt off and have a good wash. It’s a mercy you don’t yet need to shave. But you do need to brush your hair.

I’m sorry, but I’ve no brush.

You’ll find a clean brush and comb just under the big mirror. When you’ve done with them give them a good rinse under the tap. I’ll get your khaki things ironed and when they’re ready I’ll hand them round the door to you to spare your blushes.

That’s very nice of you, said Malcolm. Fifteen minutes later he emerged from the sick bay. His boots were well polished and his uniform creases were sharp. My, that’s a lot better said Mrs Dodds. Now get yourself to the staff room, and Captain Lowes will tell you what to do. Meanwhile, don’t you dare slouch.

Yes ma’am said Malcolm, You’ve been very kind. He put on his beret, and was tempted to kiss matron in the way he would have kissed his mother, but that wasn’t the kind of thing that was done at St Cuthbert’s, so he smiled, then marched, a little clumsily, down the back corridor towards the staff room. Cecil Neath had heard the stamp of boots on the stairs and opened the door. Come in Maclaren. Mr Lowes is busy making arrangements. He left me to give you orders. What do you know about the Cert A exam?

It has three parts. They test you on drill, then you have to give orders to a squad, then there’s some fieldcraft questions, like using cover, and being aware of the possibility of ambush.

That’s quite correct. Tell me Maclaren, do you know what a sniper is?

Yes sir. He’s a kind of solo rifleman who hides in somewhere with a good field of vision, like a church tower, then picks off enemy soldiers from a distance.

That’s right. If we were in a real war that would be your role. As it is, we’ve got to get you through Cert A. This is how we’re going to do it. You’re going to join number three squad. They’ve been told to follow a simple drill pattern so with luck you’ll get nothing that’s unexpected. Try not to fall over your own feet and try to follow the cadet on your left as closely as you can.

Yes sir.

Then, when it is your turn to drill the squad, make them slope arms, march them towards the steps of the gym, and make sure you halt them before they get there. Once they’ve halted tell them to about turn, then order arms, then stand at ease. But don’t worry if you forget to tell them to stand at ease – they’ve been told exactly what to do even if you get the commands in the wrong order. Yes sir.

About the field craft. Have you read the instruction book and practised the activities?

Yes sir. I’m confident about that part of the exam.

Excellent. I’m pleased to say you look very smart, so you’ll give a good first impression.

Yes sir.

Try not to worry. We want you to pass Cert A because we don’t want your marksmanship to go to waste. Now get to the parade ground and join number 3 squad.

Yes sir.

Good luck.

Thank you sir.

Malcolm comes to attention, salutes, and clumps down the staircase. When he gets to the school’s quadrangle he remembers that he is supposed to think of it as the parade ground, and that number 3 squad are soldiers not schoolboys. He does his best to march smartly to the vacant place in the ranks, then merge with the rest of the squad. At the corner of the parade ground stands Sergeant Hodgkin of the Royal Regiment of Scotland. Under a Glengarry that looks almost frivolous is a man with a lived-in face. To him this is not a day when schoolboys play games, for he has vivid memories of all too many young men killed in Normandy and Korea. Cadet Maclaren!

Sergeant.

Take charge of the squad.

Yes sergeant. Malcolm marches to his place next to Sergeant Hodgkin. He turns, a little clumsily, to face the squad, and clears his throat.

Squad, attention! Slope arms. Squad left turn.

At least he has them facing the correct direction.

Squad, by the left, quick march. Now Malcolm has to remember to stop them in the right place. A little too soon he calls them to a halt, but they halt smartly. Squad about turn. The squad obeys, but in the middle rank something is wrong. All but one of the cadets has about-turned to the right. But Farrier has turned left. He has ended up facing the right direction, but in turning anti-clockwise he has come close to knocking the rifle out of the next man’s grip. Malcolm says Oh shite under his breath. Then he bawls, By the left quick march and the squad returns towards him. When they are close Malcolm shouts at them to halt. His order sounds a little panic stricken, but the squad obey his command. Sergeant Hodgkin looks at Malcolm, to see what he will do next. Malcolm takes a breath. When you about turn, then you always turn clockwise, to your right. If you turn to your left you’ll cause chaos. Remember next time. Then he turns to the sergeant for further instructions.

Tell them to present arms, and after that get them to stand at ease. Malcolm had lost his sense of calm. He starts to stammer the word Squad. Then he takes a breath and in a controlled voice bawls Squad, present arms. To his relief and even surprise, the squad obey his instructions. Squad, slope arms The squad slopes arms. Malcolm now needs them to get the rifles to the ground. He has forgotten the correct words of command, so he cuts a corner. Squad, stand at ease. To his relief the squad orders arms, then relaxes with their rifle butts resting on the ground.

That’ll do, Maclaren.

In his relief Malcolm mistakenly salutes the sergeant, a non-commissioned officer. Sergeant Hodgkin pretends that salute has never happened. Malcolm rejoins the quad. Sergeant Hodgkin brings the platoon to attention then bawls: Squad, dismiss. The squad makes a right turn then march individually over to the corner of the rugby fields where others are waiting their assessment.

Cecil Neath saunters over to the group of cadets. He is wearing a faded pale blue uniform. On it is a row of medal ribbons, and next to that a single slightly frayed wing with the letters `AG’. On his cuffs are incongruously shiny rings showing the rank of pilot officer, given to Flight Sergeant Neath DFC. His promotion to officer rank was achieved by being a schoolmaster required to give orders to the children who are cadets. Malcolm has the presence of mind to salute him. Cecil gives a casual salute in return. Now that wasn’t a real disaster, was it?

Malcolm is distracted by the memory of all the things he did wrong. I thought it was pretty bad sir.

Nonsense. If it had been a real shambles I’d be telling you somewhere more private than this. You did manage to look a bit like a soldier.

Thank you sir.

Casually Cecil Neath walks over to Sergeant Hodgkin. How did they do?

Better than the last Cert A group sir. And when the lad Farrier turned the wrong way Maclaren said something about it. I gave him credit for that. So your sniper has passed without too much bending of the rules. His voice is all right. The bairns that are an embarrassment are those who can’t decide whether they’re a treble or a baritone.

That evening a pass list for Cert A was posted on the cadet force notice board. Malcolm Maclaren’s name was on it.

Morningside College shooting team arrived on November 8th to compete with the best that St Cuthbert’s Academy could offer. The five Morningside cadets were a good deal smarter than the boys from St Cuthbert’s, and had the air of superiority that old money confers. The two teams met in the rifle range at St Cuthbert’s and were allowed to take four practice shots per man. One of the Morningside team was obviously nervous. He had trouble wriggling into in a comfortable position, and he snatched at the rifle’s trigger, making his first two practice shots go wild. The rest of the visitors were calm and collected. The St Cuthbert’s team had three lumping great sons of landowners. They had been shooting crows with shotguns since they were ten years old. They handled their rifles with ease and shot with confidence. The other two team members were Stephen Hope and Malcolm Maclaren. Hope was a cadet sergeant- smart and well organized, the son of a stockbroker. His shooting should have been very good, but his mind was on a girl he’d met the previous week-end, so his concentration was wayward. Malcolm in the rifle range became a kind of steely automaton. His practice shots went to the centre of the bullseye. The competition was organized so that the members of the two teams shot alternately. Sergeant Hodgkin tossed a coin and St Cuthbert’s won. Morningside were invited to shoot first. Each cadet shot four rounds. The first cadet for Morningside produced a respectable group. By the time the third member of each team had taken a turn on the range, Morningside led by a couple of points. The fourth cadet from Morningside was the weakest shot, and his rounds made a line across the target. Then it was the St Cuthbert’s team turn to shoot. Hope’s first shot missed the target altogether. His second shot was top right on the outer ring. His next two shots were accurate, but Morningside were leading. The last man for Morningside shot a tidy group, and their lead looked discouraging. Maclaren had been chosen as the last man for St Cuthbert’s. To win the competition he had to place all four shots in the bull. When his target was brought for checking there were only three bullet-holes evident. Three splendid shots said Sergeant Hodgkin, "but one