Teenie
12. TOMORROW I’LL BE SOBER
Argyllshire, 1 September 1939
Most of the older generation in Scotland remember the 1 of September 1939. Just two days before the outbreak of war and with the rather inconsequential code name “Clive”, came the order for the mobilisation of the 8 Battalion Argyll and Sutherland Highlanders and with them many other reserve regiments across the United Kingdom. It was a Friday and it seemed appropriate that these “weekend” soldiers should start their expedition at the weekend. Ian Black was one of those called up along with other Barcaldine Territorials, Duncan Ferguson, Shonan MacDonald, Farquar MacNeil, and Alistair Campbell. From the MacKenzie family in Benderloch, Kenny went into the Gordon Highlanders and Calum went first to the Argylls as a Territorial then with his telephone experience changed to the Royal Corp of Signals. From further north sister Katy’s husband Gillies went into the Seaforth Highlanders. The family were about to wave goodbye to four of their menfolk and that is how it was for most Highland families. That is how it has been for many centuries. They were not young lads, all of them over thirty years of age, but they were reservists so they went before the first wave of conscription.
But don’t imagine they were prepared in any way for war. They were not soldiers. Some still didn’t have uniforms and some had never handled a rifle. Even Kenny MacKenzie, with nearly twenty years experience, was a piper, not a fighting soldier. Nothing much had really changed since the “Gathering of the Clans” for the Jacobite Rebellion. And yet in this motley bunch of foresters, gardeners, shepherds and farmers one thing had changed over the years. Campbells, MacDonalds and Stewarts now marched together, side by side, as British soldiers.
The 8 Argylls, “C” Company assembled in the Drill Hall in Drumvargie Terrace in Oban. The full regiment was supposed to assemble in Dunoon, South Argyll on Sunday the 3 but 76 men of the battalion had to come from the Island of Mull and they had to wait 24 hours while MacBrayne’s Steamship Company observed God’s holy day. The Oban men were sent back home for Friday night, an opportunity to say some farewells to family and friends and an equally fond “beannachd leat” to the “Lochnell Arms” bar in North Connel. It all had an air of “Dad’s Army” farce.
Ian went home to Barcaldine to see his aunt and then visited Baravullin to see Christina one more time before leaving. Their friendship had grown in the last few months. She wasn’t at home when he arrived but was at the peat moss gathering in the slabs of peat that had dried in the summer months and was taking them to the barn at the side of the house. Her young cousin, Nicky, was helping her load the barrow that Ian had fixed the summer before. Nicky waved when he saw Ian approach and Teenie put down the heavy barrow. She was wearing an oversize pair of her brother’s wellington boots and her hair was tied back with an old headscarf. Despite her dishevelled state she was pleased to see him again before he went away. He took over the barrow and wheeled it towards the house.
Teenie kicked off the wellingtons and went to wash her hands and make some tea. Sounds of harsh voices were coming from the sitting room – two men arguing - mostly in Gaelic – father and son. Donald, the father was obviously unhappy that Kenny had signed up so quickly to go away, but it wasn’t sadness at his eldest son going off to war. He wanted Kenny to stay and help tend the croft. But the last year or so had not been easy since he came back from Jamaica. The eldest son was a free spirit, willing to buckle down to army discipline but not to jump at the command of his father. Things would be better all round if he were away again and besides it was time to try his hand at real soldiering, to lay aside the bagpipes and fight a few battles. He had signed on with the Gordons and was going to Inverurie the next day. Poor Jessie, the mother was crying. She thought her eldest and dearest son had come home to stay. He didn’t have to go – he had done his share – he was thirty-five years old – time to stay home from the wars. But she was luckier than many, two sons going to war and two staying home. George and Iain were married with young families and were not in the Territorial Army so they would not be called. George would have liked to be going too but Annie convinced him he was too old. Although he didn’t like to admit it, a childhood illness had left him unfit for military service.
As Ian Black and Teenie entered the sitting room Kenny kissed his mother on the cheek, threw a kit bag on his shoulder and walked out. At the door he turned toward his father.
“Goodbye, Father,” he said and marched away.
Young Nicky stayed out of the way in the kitchen waiting for the kettle to boil. He buttered some scones and then called Teenie when the kettle was ready. They sat sombrely with their tea and scones while a tenseness hung in the room. Nobody spoke until the lad suggested that Teenie get out the accordion and play some tunes but she declined. It didn’t seem appropriate.
There was a shuffle at the door and in came Calum, singing his head off, his uniform unbuttoned with his kit bag in one hand and a whisky bottle in the other.
“Ian Black! I thought you had gone to France. Here have a drink! But leave some for the bodach, Eh, old man you’ll want a drink too. Won’t you?” he asked his father and reeled over, still clutching the bottle, sat down on his sister’s knee and put an arm round her neck.
“Come on Teenie! Smile, smile, smile!”
“Pack up your troubles in your old kit bag
And smile, smile, smile!”
He slurred the words of the old wartime song.
“Teenie, why don’t you go and get the accordion?”
“Because you’re sitting on top of me.” She pushed him off and went to the room for the accordion.
“You play it,” she said, taking the whisky from him, “It’ll stop you drinking any more.” She went to fetch two glasses for Ian and her father.
As a general rule alcohol dulls the senses but with a Highlander and his music it fires the spirit. Calum stood up straight as a rod and gave them a selection of pipe march tunes while around the room several feet tapped the floor in time. Soon the chill had left the room and Baravullin enjoyed the last family ceilidh it would see for many years. Ian didn’t have his fiddle but he sang a couple of songs accompanied by Teenie on harmonica. Then Calum announced it was time to go so with a few kisses, some mother’s hugs and father’s handshakes the two soldiers set off back to Oban. At the door Ian stopped for a last moment with Christina.
“Will you do something for me when I’m away? Will you go and see my father any time you’re in Oban? He’s in the Highland Rest Home not keeping too well.”
“All right’” agreed Teenie.
A quick hug, a brief kiss and the two soldiers marched away, kitbags across their shoulders.
“Take care, boys,” Teenie whispered to herself as her brother and boyfriend strode down the lane.
They didn’t say much on the road to the station, each silently taking his leave of this pleasant landscape, the soft moors and fields rolling down to the bay. This flat wooded heath-land wedged between mountains, the heather shining bright purple and the bracken already turned gold by the summer sun. A land to come home to.
Needless to say the trip back to military service involved a visit to the bar in North Connel, a few drinks and another farewell to old friends. They missed the last train and had to cross the bridge on foot hoping to catch the late train from Glasgow. Luck was on their side – it had been delayed a few minutes by some sheep on the track. Calum and Ian jumped on, hauling their kit bags behind them. As they pushed their way into a compartment Calum’s foot caught the foot of a rather prim lady sitting next to the door.
“You’re drunk!” she said scornfully.
Calum steadied himself and turned slowly to face the aggressor.
“Yes, my dear, I’m drunk,” he concurred, “and you’re an ugly old cow.”
He tottered a little as he continued.
“And in the morning I’ll be sober, and you’ll still be an ugly old cow. Come on Ian!” He threw his kit bag up to his shoulder and went off
in search of another compartment.
In Oban they sobered a little as they climbed the hill to the drill hall. Tomorrow they would be sober. On Sunday 3 of September Neville Chamberlain addressed the nation by radio. While MacBrayne’s considered it inappropriate to sail ships on God’s day the British government saw no harm in declaring war. A sobering thought indeed, more so had they known that around the world this act of righteous indignation was about to cost some fifty million lives. Nevertheless all the “Terriers” now knew that the weekend games were over. This was for real!
Calum MacKenzie
13. SOLDIERS OF THE KING
Scotland-England-France, September 1939 to May 1940
On Monday 4th September, with MacBrayne’s steamers back in service and Britain waking up to the prospect of war, the “Muileachs” crossed over and the other lads marched down from the Drill Hall to the station. From there by train to Whistlefield, an old station on the West Highland line, and then with a short trip in army trucks the 8 Argylls began to assemble in the West of Scotland Convalescent Home in Dunoon. It is not clear what happened to the patients who had previously occupied the hospital but military matters took precedence. The battalion totalled some thousand men, “A” company from Kintyre in the south, “B” from Mid-Argyll and Islay, “C” from Oban, Lorne and Mull, and “D” from Dunoon and the east towards Glasgow. Commanding these men were 34 officers led by Lt-Col G.C. Campbell. Seven of the officers were Campbells as one might expect in Argyll but there were also two Stewarts and even one MacDonald. Only two were regular soldiers, the Quartermaster Captain H.G. Campbell and the Adjutant Captain A. Campbell.
This raggle-taggle bunch of untrained, ill-equipped men had to prepare in just a few short months for front-line combat. With half the men still in civilian clothes and broomsticks for rifles the training and platoon formation started immediately. Most of the men from Barcaldine and Ballachulish, including Ian Black, had been among the first to join the Territorial Army so they had kilts and dress jackets. Many others had to parade in their best Sunday suits with felt hat or tweed cap. At this point rifles were not available for general issue and they took turns learning to shoot on the rifle range while the remainder were square bashing in a make shift parade ground or out on route marches across the hills behind Dunoon.
Their only measure of dignity came from the Pipe Band, one of the best in Scotland under the Pipe Major Nicol MacCalum. The motley bunch of men didn’t look like a Highland regiment but with a pipe band ringing in their ears they could at least feel like one especially when at the end of September they sailed to Gourock to catch a train south to the training camps at Aldershot and Maida Barracks. They had one month more to wait before everyone was fully kitted out in battledress uniform. A decision had been taken that throughout the Scottish regiments the kilt would cease to be in service due to its impracticality in modern warfare. At first this was considered an English imposition but as serious training got under way it was quickly accepted as just common sense. Besides it was Campbell tartan so most from North Argyll were secretly pleased.
From October to Christmas they drilled, marched and learned “the arts of war”. The battalion was reshuffled substantially as men’s fitness, or lack of it, became obvious. About one hundred dropped out for lighter duties and a large group were sectioned off to form the base of another battalion. Men were selected for special duties according to any abilities and skills they had. At this point Ian and Calum parted company as the latter was transferred to the Royal Corps of Signals. Six years would pass before they met again, but their friendship would endure, six years and many more.
A Headquarter Company was formed to take charge of stores, distribution, administration and catering with Captain John Kenneth in charge. “A” Company had Captain John MacDonald, “B” Company had Major Frank Ingham-Clark, and “D” Company was under Captain Paul Stress. Ian Black’s commander in “C” Company was John Inglis, recently made up from Lieutenant. He fussed a lot cajoling his band of hill-folk, trying to make them into soldiers although he himself was still learning too and earned the nickname “Aunty Inglis”. Ian’s platoon commander was Bruce Cheape one of the youngest Lieutenants at that time. With the reductions and reshuffling of personnel a lot of lads from Central Scotland were brought into the battalion so that as they began to mould into a fighting unit, more than half of this “Highland” force were in fact Lowlanders.
There was another very young officer whose function was not clear so he took it upon himself to sharpen up attention on night patrol duty. His habit was to creep up quietly on the unsuspecting soldier and take away his rifle. The poor culprit then received punishment duties. It had happened a few times so when it was Ian’s turn he was prepared. He was patrolling the perimeter fence one cold foggy night and sensed more than heard someone creeping up from behind. He resisted the temptation to turn too soon and waited till the officer was just behind. He swung round on his back heel and called the requisite “Halt. Who goes there?” In doing so he brought his rifle round sharply and his bayonet removed the lapel of his officers coat.
“Well, well…Jolly good… Good Heavens,” stuttered the officer. “The Jerries aren’t going to catch you sleeping. Are they? What? Yes. Jolly good!”
Ian expected a serious reprimand but never heard any more of the incident nor of any more unsuspecting soldiers getting “jankers” for losing their rifles.
Christmas arrived and the battalion was served Christmas dinner by the officers and then everyone was sent home on leave for ten days to enjoy a last New Year in Scotland before real active service. By now each soldier had a uniform that fitted, more or less, and a Lee Enfield rifle of the type used in WW1, complete with bayonet. Live ammunition was still not on general issue. But when they arrived back in Argyll they looked and felt a little less like “Dad’s Army”.
But their state of preparedness was critically weak. Their crash-training programme was based on old methods of war and they were going to forestall Hitler’s new “blitzkrieg” conquering style. Apart from rifles and grenades each company had several Bren machine guns mounted on tracked vehicles but they were slow to arrive during training so the operators had little time to prepare. With the turn of the year command of the battalion changed from Lt. Col. George Campbell to Lt.Col. D. J. Grant. All of the regiments were torn apart and reformed in this way as high command struggled desperately to mould together this rapidly deployed force with an adequate mix of experience. On the 18 of January they had a last opportunity to wear the kilt as they stood in the perishing cold wind to be inspected by the King. Afterwards the kilts were taken into store, even from the pipers. Two weeks later they climbed aboard two trains heading for Southampton to sail for Le Havre.
Next day, when they arrived in France, there was no hero’s welcome. France and her troops were even less prepared for this war that they had reluctantly declared back in September, than were the British. The weather was bitterly cold and so was the reception. They arrived at 10.30 in the morning and they waited all day for a train to take them to their first billet near Bolbec, twenty miles away. The last few miles were on foot with full pack and greatcoat through rain, slush and snow to spend their first night in an old barn. The guides were not too sure of the way so there were a couple of “about turns” along the way.
After a week of digging latrines they bundled into two trains of cattle trucks with straw on the floor and six cold, hard hours later they arrived at Sainghin near Lille. Here they were more welcome. The accommodation was better and the local people friendly. The weather improved and there was some opportunity for training and for the officers to get a feel for the task of commanding a unit. In place of the cold barn they now occupied the local school. Duty rosters were put in place and when off-duty the Highlanders converged, naturally, on the two local bars.
No Dewars or Glen Grant on sale here but the wine and cognac were good and the French beer better than the tea back at the billet. Their small army pay went a
long way when converted into Francs and this ensured a warm welcome from the landlord. Some futile attempts were made by the Sergeant Major to control the drinking binges but the daytime routine was boring and at night there was nothing else to do. One night, in response to a challenge, Ian tried a shot from every bottle along the shelf of the bar. Severe vomiting saved him from alcohol poisoning and next morning saw a very sick man on parade.
A few days later they had an afternoon free. A group of lads went into the village to find some real food. The field kitchen meals were soup, bully-beef and dog biscuits. With the typical mix of English, Gaelic, hand gestures and “s’il vous plait” they managed to buy some fruit, cakes and some nice French chocolate. Shonan MacDonald decided that he would like some real steak so they found a “boucherie”. The girl behind the counter had no idea what he wanted. Hand gestures only confounded the situation more. Shonan got down on his knees, stuck two fingers out the top of his head and said “Moo, moo, moo,” and then started the actions of milking a cow. The poor girl thought he was looking for some strange sex adventures and went screaming off to find her father. Just at that moment Colonel Grant went by and witnessed the commotion.
He strode into the shop, whacked Shonan across the backside with his cane and snapped, “What in God’s name are you doing soldier? Have you any idea how stupid you look? We’re trying to impress these people that we’ve come to help them win a war. Tidy yourself up man and get back to barracks.”
The afternoon shopping trip was over. Shonan never got his steak.
Across the Bridge Page 8