Françoise must have heard the catch in my voice because her hand rested on my shoulder briefly while I collected myself.
‘We got on to discussing how the farm would be run, then Grandfather took charge. He reminded my grandmother that in wartime farming was always done by the women and that she could run the farm blindfolded, and that my dog worked better for her than it did for me! He suggested that they ask John Mackellaig’s daughter from Glenfinnan, or Islay Mackenzie from Morar, to help out during the busiest times; the girls would be glad of the money.’
Françoise spoke up. ‘It’s old men who start wars, and then the boys get drawn into the excitement, but it’s the women who are left with little children, loneliness and a struggle to make ends meet.’ She was flushed and animated; Marie nodded in agreement.
There was an awkward silence, which I eventually broke. ‘I suggested that my grandparents should sell the cattle at the end of the summer and concentrate on the sheep as they’re far less work. But they loved our Highland cattle – who wouldn’t? They’re so beautiful to look at, with their three-foot-long horns, shaggy red hair and fringes over their eyes, and they’re so well suited to the terrain – immune to the rain and able to find grazing on the roughest ground. But they’re wild beasts and hard work, so it made sense to let them go, unfortunately. It’s tough for my family. They’re now living in a protected zone, with training exercises going on all around, lots of shooting and explosives and strange goings-on at night. They need a pass even to go to Fort William.’
‘So you joined the Lovat Scouts?’ Claude prompted.
‘Yes, I joined the regiment in Leicestershire in April 1940. We all went through full cavalry training with horses, just in time to see the horses taken away from us as the War Office finally recognised that cavalry charges against machine guns and tanks were utterly ineffective.’
‘Thank goodness,’ said Françoise. ‘I’ve read some terrible things about the suffering of horses in battle.’
‘The Lovat Scouts are made up of stalkers and ghillies and other Highland men, with the lairds as the officers; we’re a good-humoured lot, of about seven hundred. We have a vital role as spotters and snipers, greatly respected. Anyhow, immediately after I joined, the Germans invaded Norway and we were convinced that was where we would be sent. But to everyone’s surprise we were sent to Glasgow to the docks and put on ships bound for the Faroe Islands, near Iceland. It was a baptism of fire for me. Endless patrols, guard duties, fitness and arms practice interspersed with occasional shooting at German planes that would strafe the towns. I threw my heart into everything and was made a corporal within months.’
‘I’m not surprised,’ said Claude.
‘Oh, I must tell you this story. Many of the soldiers only had the Gaelic, scarcely a word of English. The correct challenge by a sentry was “Halt”, followed by “Who goes there?” One Hebridean soldier, hearing footsteps approach, shouted “Halt” as he had learned, but then there was a long pause, followed by “Who am I?” The sergeant major was heard to bellow, “I don’t know, but I’ll damned soon find out!’”
It was good to hear my companions’ laughter. Outside, the weather had taken a turn for the worse. Marie brewed fresh coffee, and I went on with my story.
‘I was sent back to the mainland twice on courses. My grandfather’s friend Colonel Willie’s son was in the same company and he made sure that all the opportunities for advancement came my way. It was about eighteen months ago that he sent for me and told me of an opportunity that might appeal to me. He explained that the War Office had put together a separate unit, all very hush-hush, to infiltrate German territories, help the Resistance, that sort of thing. They were looking for the fittest, bravest and most intelligent soldiers, and to my surprise, they thought I would be up for it.
‘Of course, I jumped at the chance. I was flattered and excited. You see, many of us in the Lovat Scouts had resented being sent to the Faroe Islands. We saw ourselves as a leading reconnaissance unit and wanted to be in the thick of it, rather than defending a distant little island. I definitely agreed with that thinking. I was told that Lord Lovat was running the new team, and that was enough for me.
‘Before the month was out, the team of six had been assembled and briefed, and we were on our way to Stodham Park where we were put through an assessment. Two of us were then sent on to the training course at Inverailort and Roshven, which was right across the loch from home.’
‘That must have been wonderful,’ Françoise said. ‘To be posted home, even if only for a while.’
‘The crash course in French was the biggest challenge for me, I confess. Fourteen hours a day and so many technical terms. We learned things like how to hold a time-pencil in one hand, set the delay for ten minutes, thirty minutes, twelve or twenty-four hours, and how copper chloride corrodes the iron thread, which holds a striker held under pressure by a spring . . . It went on and on and we knew that accuracy was vital. Just imagine if the detonation went off on the railway depot in ten minutes when you were still in the compound – rather than half a day distant as you thought you had planned . . .’
‘It sounds as though you were happy, though, despite the challenges,’ Marie said.
‘Oh yes. The early years of the war were pretty pleasant actually. I even danced with the Queen.’
‘Tell us more!’ Françoise implored.
‘It was after training at Inverailort and before I got my orders. I had three weeks to spare so I went back to the Scouts, who were guarding the Queen at Balmoral. I was a sergeant by then, so I was asked to lead the grouse-beating line for King George and his family. It was exhausting, but we had tremendous weather and the heather was in full bloom.’
‘Did the Queen shoot?’ asked Marie.
‘No! But we were asked to attend the annual Ghillies’ Ball, which was held in a beautiful room in Balmoral, covered in stags’ antlers. Her Majesty danced the Dashing White Sergeant with two of us sergeants. She found that most amusing: “Two dashing white sergeants!” she said.’
‘What is a ghillie?’ Claude asked.
‘Ghillie means boy, and the guide on a salmon river or a pony boy is called a ghillie. Oh, and I must tell you this: the King, who has a terrible stammer, said to me, “Wh-wh-what’s your name?’ I replied, “Gillies, your Majesty.” To which he said, “I asked your name, m-m-man, not what you do!” ’
I had my audience spellbound by this time. The fire was crackling and our faces were glowing from the brandy.
‘The morning after the ball, I was asked if I could take some men across to help shoot some deer. The army was very short of rations and it was a task perfectly suited to the Scouts. We had to take half a dozen men, plus twenty ponies, from Balmoral to Newtonmore for a week, and I hand-picked my men with care.
‘We took lodgings for a night at Cluanie House, normally where the Macpherson chief lived, and were to be joined by Ewan Ormiston, an old army friend of my father’s and five of his men, all Lovat Scouts who had served in the Great War and whose sons were serving now. Ormiston and I were old friends, so I telephoned in advance to find out who was with him. After he told me, I said we should maybe get the fathers and sons together as a surprise. Ormiston thought this a great plan. He told me he had Archie Mackenzie from Gairloch, Tommy Addison from Rannoch, Hector MacQuarrie from Gaick, Ewan Matheson from Tulloch and big Jock the Fish from Ullapool. It was an easy task for me to get their sons released from the battalion for this job.
‘Well, when we turned up at the Balavil Hotel and walked into the bar, you should have seen how pleased the fathers and sons were to see each other! It brings a tear to my eyes just telling you all about it.’
‘What a wonderful thing to do,’ Marie smiled. ‘I wish I’d seen their faces!’
‘It was marvellous, I must say. After some drinks in the bar, including the appearance of some illicit whisky, we had our dinner – venison, of course. Ewan told me he had a contract to supply eight thousand head of deer eac
h year for army rations and so, allowing for some severe weather and avoiding the calving season, he had to shoot thirty-two beasts a day. He had three teams out a day somewhere or other, with trucks to transport the carcasses and men to get them ready for butchering. Then the carcasses would be shipped off to Dewhurst’s, the butchers in Edinburgh where they would be prepared for bully beef and canned or whatever. As well as army rations, the best cuts were sold to the public for a fair price, as fortunately venison wasn’t rationed, unlike other meat. Our deer were for ration packs, he assured me.
‘For the next few days we saw the Highlands at their best. Cheerful father-and-son stalking teams setting off with half a dozen ponies led by local women. The men were in army fatigues or tweed, Tam o’Shanters or deer-stalkers on their heads, dragging ropes and telescopes over one shoulder and a rifle over the other. I was proud of them; as fine a group of men couldn’t be found in the whole of Scotland.
‘The heather was deep and glorious, and the sun shone every minute of the week. The men worked hard, often covering twenty miles in a day as deer were far scarcer than they had been before the war. At the end of the week, we had our two hundred beasts. They were prepared in a Nissen hut which had been converted into a larder behind Ewan’s butcher shop in Newtonmore, then loaded onto a goods train carriage. Everyone involved was delighted.’
I began to suspect that this story was less interesting to my audience than it would be to fellow Highlanders, but it was a great pleasure for me to recount. It was comforting, calling up images of home and of dear friends.
‘I should stop talking,’ I volunteered. ‘I’ll have you all asleep.’
‘Not at all,’ Françoise said.
‘This place . . . Inverailort,’ Claude said, stumbling over the pronunciation. ‘I am curious about it. Was it built as a training centre?’
‘Goodness, no. Inverailort is a castle near my home. In fact, all three of the big houses around Ardnish were requisitioned for military training – Inverailort, Roshven and Arisaig. It happened all over the country. Apparently, the army just pitched up and took possession of Inverailort when the owner, Mrs Cameron-Head, was in London. The house contents were sent in trucks to Fort William, but one truck spilled and much was broken, to her fury. She has passed away since, poor thing.
‘The Blackburns at Roshven were moved out to a house on the estate and Miss Astley Nicholson of Arisaig went to live with her sister.’
‘Must have been quite a change for everyone,’ said Françoise.
‘Inverailort is the sabotage school now, known as “the big house” by the men. I teach them about explosives and the best way to infiltrate airbases, how to set explosives on planes and escape before they go off. Sometimes they explode when the planes are in the air. We have agents from many countries on the course: Poles, Czechs and French, too. I show the men – and some women as well now – how to disable a power station with just a rucksack of Nobel 808 that can be moulded around a structure. That’s the stuff in the containers that was parachuted in here last week. Plastic explosive.
‘Roshven House is five miles west of Inverailort and is now a commando training camp used for sea training. I spent a week there, training with mini submarines, canoes, practising beach landings. And all so close to home.’
Ardnish. I could picture it so clearly in my mind as I continued.
‘I was given a week’s leave from training at Inverailort and so of course I decided to spend it with my family at Peanmeanach, to take them by surprise. They thought I was still in the Faroes. It was a lovely day when I set off for home, baking hot, so I stripped to my underwear and swam across Loch Ailort from Roshven. My mother told me later she thought she saw something in the water, so she got my grandfather’s old telescope and, well, suffice it to say that by the time I stepped onto the sand I was surrounded. My grandfather was up outside the house with his pipes, playing the “Pibroch of Donald Dhu” as a jig. It was a magical moment, one I’ll always treasure.’
‘Does your family get caught up in the war, like we do?’ Marie asked.
‘Well, we don’t get bombed or anything, but Grandmother was telling me of the hirl and birl around Ardnish when I was home last. They were forewarned, but it was still quite unsettling, especially the first time. Apparently Peanmeanach is part of a challenge for the soldiers from Inverailort. They have to seize the village, and their enemies are the various locals – you know, the Home Guard?
‘She told me that at two o’clock in the morning in the early days of the war, there was a knock on the door. It was John Alex Fraser, a retired butcher from Morar. He said, “I’m just warning you there’ll be a bit of a battle on for the next wee while.” So, they sat in the living room with their tea, and boats come onto the beach, flares going up, machine guns firing, explosives, men shouting, and the dog barking as if the end of the world was upon them all. Anyway, an hour later, the boats were off again, John Alex put his head around the door and announced that our side had won and he was off to bed. Of course, no one could get back to sleep; the dog kept pacing around whining, the farm animals had white eyes and they couldn’t settle them for days.
‘The funny thing was that my aunt Mairi didn’t wake until the battle was full on and she was up in her nightie, running around outside convinced that the Germans had invaded.’
Everyone was in fits of laughter.
‘She thought Ardnish was where the great invasion would start!’ I said. ‘Later, I asked a couple of the signals instructors if they would set up a wireless aerial at Peanmeanach, so they could get the BBC. They had a link with the Roshven House mast and completed the job in no time. It was enormously popular; Aunt Mairi and the family spent hours listening to the Home Service and Forces Radio, with my mother and grandmother waltzing around at breakfast to Vera Lynn. Mother loved telling people about the wireless. We must have been the only civilians in Lochaber to get it.’
The embers of the fire were burning themselves out. I felt as though I had been talking for hours.
Françoise turned to Claude. ‘Why do Italian soldiers patrol the Alps, rather than German?’
‘Ah,’ Claude said, ‘just as France have the Chasseurs Alpins, the Italians have their own mountain troops. They are stationed just over the mountains in Courmayeur. We don’t mind having them. Many are related to people living on this side of the mountain, and they don’t bother us as long as we don’t bother them.’
‘For now,’ I said. ‘But the Germans see this area as a hotbed of Resistance fighters who destroy factories, train tracks and power stations while the Alpini do nothing. It must change, I’m afraid. The Germans will take control and then you will really experience the war.’
There was a long silence, which Claude eventually broke. ‘You are depressing me too much, my friends, so I’m off to my bed. Someone has to get up to milk the cows at five.’
‘I’ll help you in the morning, Claude,’ I replied. ‘Goodnight.’
Marie left with Claude and I was alone with Françoise. ‘It’s a big day for you tomorrow,’ I said quietly. ‘Do you want to talk about it?’
She yawned expansively and shook her head. ‘I’m too tired,’ she replied. ‘Thank you for your wonderful stories but it’s too late for any more. Goodnight, Donald Angus.’
I kept my gaze on the dying fire as she climbed onto her mattress and pulled the covers over herself. It was only when I heard her breathing grow slow and regular that I, too, turned in. I lay there thinking about Françoise. I was falling for her. I didn’t get any feeling it was reciprocated, though. As well as we got on, I sensed a distance between us, that she didn’t want to become too intimate.
‘Goodnight, Françoise,’ I whispered.
Chapter 4
I woke early, with Françoise still on my mind. She was only two feet away; I could hear her deep regular breathing. This time tomorrow she would be gone and I still felt that I knew so little about her. She wore a wedding ring, but was she actually married? She hadn’t
mentioned a man, but then, I’d done all the talking. Would she really be an SOE agent if she was married?
She coughed.
I steeled myself to ask her. ‘Françoise, you wear a wedding ring.’
‘I do,’ she replied sleepily.
‘Tell me about your husband.’
She laughed. ‘I’m not married! It’s to throw people off the scent, so they don’t think of me as someone they can make a pass at. All the female SOE agents wear them, hadn’t you noticed?’
I laughed – relief, really. ‘Well, it worked with me,’ I replied, smiling deep within.
It was just as well she couldn’t see my face; the game would have been up.
Shortly after, I heard my French friend let himself out. I got up, ready for my role as milkmaid, and was with him a minute later. Soon we were sitting with our heads pressed against the warm flanks of the placid cows, with the regular swish-swish of milk jetting into the wooden buckets. We discussed in low voices our plans for the next two days and Françoise’s mission.
‘I have people in mind, my friend,’ Claude murmured. ‘After coffee, I will go and find them.’
I nodded.
‘Marie and I enjoyed your stories last night,’ he said. ‘So, you don’t have a family of your own, Angus?’
‘Just my mother. My father died in the Great War. I never met him,’ I replied.
‘No wife? No lover?’ he tried again.
‘No.’
‘How did your father die?’
It was strangely comforting to recount the tale of my father’s life and death again, though I kept it brief. ‘My poor mother,’ I concluded. ‘Everything was looking so hopeful, then suddenly – no longer.’
‘My God,’ said Claude, crossing himself, ‘what a sad story.’
After we finished the milking, Claude took away the pails and I sat in the barn. In the week I’d had at Ardnish, I’d visited my father’s grave with my mother and grandparents. My uncle Owen went, too. He was a blacksmith and fisherman in Mallaig now, and as fishing was a reserved occupation he was excused National Service. We decided to travel the same route as my father’s coffin would have done, hefted on eight men’s shoulders; the Bodach on his gelding.
We Fought for Ardnish Page 6