‘Well, there are mines just south of us in Inverness, so there’s plenty of coal and it’s cheap. At home we have a stove that heats everything, including the food. The farmers make hay in the summer and all the animals live in a barn over the winter. My mother never has less than three months of supplies in the store, but vegetables are pretty scarce come the spring. We salt and freeze fish and meat and pickle vegetables. There’s been electricity in Inverness for a few years now, thanks to the mine, although it only got to us last summer. Father has a telephone for work. It’s a party line; three long rings gets the doctor . . .’
‘Pardon?’ I asked, baffled.
‘A party line – we share our telephone line with other people. Madame Dubois at the exchange knows of every ailment in the area – she listens in to the calls.’
‘We should recruit her,’ I remarked.
‘Our summers are perfect. July is the best. That’s when you should visit your aunt. We have a great beach.’
‘Maybe we could go fishing.’
‘Only if you do it properly,’ she warned.
I had a warm glow inside now.
‘It must be tiresome being stuck inside for months over the winter,’ I said.
‘Not really,’ she replied. ‘Everyone is involved with hockey in some way or other, and my family loves skiing, and there’s deer hunting for the men. It’s never boring.’
By this time we were sitting very close together. I could almost feel her breath on my face, smell her . . . just a few inches more and I could be kissing her . . .
There was a noise at the door, and we straightened up as Marie bustled in.
Later, Françoise and Marie went for a walk and Claude did some chores in the yard. I wanted to be alone and build up a good sweat, so I set to hauling boxes of munitions from the crypt of the church and separating them into packs that could be carried in rucksacks.
That afternoon I gave a lesson in demolition to four of the Maquis. There were Jean-Philippe and Colette, who had got married just before the war started. Jean-Philippe had been sent to Germany but had recently escaped. Only two days before, the Alpini had come looking for him and he had just managed to get out of his house in time. Then there was Charles, the trusty lieutenant of Claude, and a middle-aged woman, Marie-Thérèse, a friend of Colette, whose husband had been shot in an ambush down in the valley a year before.
The Maquis were to be left with a large quantity of explosives after my departure, so I taught them three basic procedures: bringing down a single object, such as a telephone or electricity pole, onto a road; derailing a train; and putting a delayed explosive in a room or vehicle. These operations involved what were known as time-pencils with timings set by colour, for example red for thirty minutes and blue for twenty-four hours. They were also to be left with a box of incendiary devices designed to burn vehicles, houses or aircraft. My pupils were fast learners and seemed to relish their lessons. In turn, they would have the job of teaching all the other Resistance fighters in the area.
As dusk fell, we all gathered together in the kitchen.
Françoise got to her feet and began speaking rapidly in French. ‘The name of this operation is Tulip and my field name is Françoise.’
I wondered if I had heard her correctly. ‘Please,’ I begged, ‘slow down.’
She gave me a weak smile and started again, repeating that her field name was Françoise.
‘Tomorrow we have a mission that is crucial to this region. We have information that Colonel Kaufmann has arrived in Nice with a dozen men to review the Alpinis’ progress. He’ll then visit the aluminium factory in Chedde. There appear to be plans to base an SS battalion there. Kaufmann is notorious for his brutality, responsible for thousands of people being sent to labour camps, and his reprisals are savage. We also know that some locals have turned into collaborators through fear so we must be vigilant about who we trust. London has decided that the colonel must be eliminated and I will be leading the assassination mission.’
My heart lurched.
‘Kaufmann is based at le Grand Hôtel Michollin in Sallanches and we have learned that he frequents the hot baths in a brothel in Saint-Gervais-les-Bains. A courier has informed us that our target may visit the baths tomorrow night. Claude is lending us his car to go down at five in the morning. We have organised with the madam that I will be secreted inside. Each time he visits he insists upon a new girl. Tomorrow, that will be me.’
A gasp went around the room, but Françoise continued. ‘He will arrive heavily guarded – at least three vehicles.’
She continued with the detailed briefing, but my mind was racing and I could feel myself breaking into a cold sweat. Her field name was Françoise? I had assumed, naïvely, that it was her real name; that she trusted me. How foolish I had been. I was just one of her pawns in the great game. I could barely bring myself to think of this planned encounter with Kaufmann. It was only a few minutes ago that we had seemed to be best of friends, laughing at each other’s stories. Had she juped me? Was I merely a professional colleague, a piece in a hellishly complicated jigsaw, or, and this was what I preferred to believe, was she trying to protect both of us by pushing me away? Whatever the truth was, I felt sick to my stomach.
The mood in the room was subdued. Everyone knew how dangerous the operation was, and they also knew that the woman speaking would be highly vulnerable. Kaufmann was a brute, a monster. And, were she to succeed, the inevitable reprisals would be unimaginable.
‘What is our role?’ Claude asked, indicating himself and me.
‘You have no role, my friends. You have your own mission to focus on.’ Her tone was curt and brooked no argument.
Claude shrugged. ‘Well, you have Charles, my number two. He’ll serve you well.’
My eyes burned into her, willing her to look at me. She refused to acknowledge my presence. She was purposely avoiding me now. Although I’d only known her for a few days, I felt protective towards her. I wanted to take her aside, talk about this plan, suggest alternative strategies, but she was utterly focused.
The briefing was over. Claude was rearranging the chairs for supper. ‘We must eat, friends. It may be a long time until you get the chance again.’
At that point, Françoise left the room. We could all hear her retching outside. No one uttered a word.
I was in turmoil. I desperately wanted to hold her to me, to comfort her, but she kept her distance. Even when we all lay down to sleep on the floor, she pushed her way between the two women.
*
The next morning everyone was up early. The atmosphere was tense. Claude took charge of briefing his four compatriots and handed out weapons: a rifle and Sten gun for each of the men, a pistol for Françoise and a Mills grenade for everyone. ‘Pull out the pin and drop them in the accompanying vehicles as you go past, as soon as you hear a shot or explosion from inside the building. Men, find places you can hide with a view of the entrance. When Françoise starts the action, shoot as many soldiers as you can, starting with those nearest the building. Then make your way back here and make sure I know you’re back. We’ll need to contact London.’
Claude embraced everyone, then shook their hands and wished them luck. Françoise had already left. I had watched her climb into the back of the truck, head up, staring into the distance. I had called her name as the vehicle moved off down the track but there was no glance backwards.
I went to the back of the farmhouse to get some privacy, listening to the truck rumbling into the night. I fell to my knees, closed my eyes and prayed.
‘My dear Lord, please treasure Françoise as if she were your only child, keep her safe and return her to me. My God, today is the moment in my life more than any other that I need your help, and I beg you to protect this brave woman.’
I crossed myself.
She was gone.
Claude and I now had an agonising day and night to wait for news. We sat, wordless, in the kitchen, him smoking incessantly, looking around the empt
y spaces that had contained Françoise and the four Maquis. Now, it was just us. I shivered and flipped up my collar. I must have been looking miserable as Claude pulled his chair over beside mine and put an arm around my shoulder. ‘We know how you feel about Françoise, my friend,’ he said. ‘Don’t worry. She is a strong woman.’
I was surprised that my feelings had been so obvious, but I was not reassured by his words. The odds were poor. A lone female assassin and four untrained French farmers – brave though they undoubtedly were – were no match for highly trained German soldiers. I couldn’t bring myself to respond.
Claude got to his feet, snapping his fingers. ‘Come, Angus. We have work to do.’
Soon, he and I were absorbed over a map and drawings, discussing what needed to be done in our own sortie. We had a week to do it.
‘Claude,’ I asked, ‘did you ever hear of Reinhard Heydrich?’
‘I did, about a year ago, but never heard the full story. What do you know?’
‘He was head of the secret police in Prague, brutal to the local population, known as “the man with the iron heart”. Two SOE-trained agents, Kubiŝ and Gabĉík, both trained at Arisaig, were given the mission to kill him – Operation Anthropoid.
‘They were parachuted in and lived in hiding for a while. They set up an ambush on a hairpin bend where they knew his car would have to slow down. He fought back, but died a week later.
‘The repercussions were swift. Thirteen thousand people were arrested, imprisoned or deported. Some time later the villages of Lidice and Ležáky were identified as having been involved and there was a massacre.’
Claude knew why I was telling him this. ‘We must clear the village after Françoise’s mission,’ he declared.
‘Yes,’ I replied, ‘and if she or her support team are captured then we must leave immediately. They will be tortured and likely to reveal our whereabouts. Fortunately, we haven’t shared too much information.’
Claude wondered whether the villagers should be encouraged to leave right away, but we decided against it. We couldn’t be certain that Kaufmann would go to the baths; the whole mission might need to be aborted.
‘I think we’ll have enough time afterwards,’ I said.
Claude banged his hand on the table. ‘I will have the place empty within hours if that’s what it takes.’
At midday Claude left to meet up with some partisans who were hiding out in the valley, and I found myself alone in the empty house with a feeling of impending disaster. Françoise and her team would be finalising their positions now. She would have met the madam, seen her quarters, and hidden her weapons. She was bound to know that Kaufmann’s men would check the room before he was shown upstairs. Would they be suspicious of this new girl? Was the madam trustworthy? Did she have the support she needed? How would she escape?
I paced the room. I could think of nothing else but Françoise.
Chapter 5
It was a hellish waiting game. I couldn’t relax until I heard that Françoise was safe. I could hear rain drumming on the roof and went outside for a look. The snow on the ground was now slush and water was running down the track. Would this give our team some cover? I wondered.
Marie came in and desultorily cleaned the living area. I asked about her children; she told me the bare minimum. They were down in the valley now, grown up. There wasn’t a living to be made up here in the mountains.
The situation was so unnatural; she knew who I was but not what I was there to do. Claude, quite rightly, had kept her out of the discussions, for her own protection. We simply had to trust one another.
Claude came back. There was no need to ask if he’d heard anything; a single shake of his head said it all. The suspense was unbearable. Dinner was a bowl of soup, our appetites diminished. It would be about now that the action would start. Sleep would be impossible.
‘Can you play le nain jaune?’ asked Claude. ‘No? We’ll teach you won’t we, Marie?’
After the game, which none of us enjoyed, Marie retired to bed. It seemed Claude never slept; he always retired after me.
‘You’re a piper, Angus, aren’t you? Tell me about that,’ he encouraged as he poured me a brandy.
I was desperate to divert my thoughts from Françoise and so I began my story. ‘My family are well-known pipers in Scotland. We and the MacCrimmons are probably the best known. The MacCrimmons were pipers for the Chief of the Macleods and we piped for the Lords of the Isles, the Clanranald chiefs.’
‘Like royalty, yes?’
‘Well, there was a rivalry between the two clans. The MacDonalds on the island of Eigg, which you can see from my village, had a fondness for Macleod lassies, and the time I am going to tell you about, they had taken the chief’s daughter. The Macleod men sailed upon Eigg in their galleys in heavy snow, but their approach had been spotted. The MacDonalds hid in a cave behind a waterfall. The invaders couldn’t find them and set sail again, but an impetuous lad came out of the hiding place and was seen, silhouetted against the snow. The Macleods turned back, landed, and followed the footprints to the cave. The MacDonalds were trapped. The Macleods stacked piles of heather and wood against the entrance and put light to it, forcing the MacDonalds to come running out, where they were put to the sword.
‘The Macleods claimed later that it was only just, as we had killed many of their folk at church once, at the north end of Skye.’
Claude looked a little taken aback. ‘When did this happen?’
‘Let me see . . . it must have been about ten years ago now.’ My face was grave as I spoke.
My host was shocked, before looking at my expression and seeing that I was grinning. ‘No, Claude, don’t worry! It was three hundred and fifty years ago!’
Claude thumped the table with his hand and wiped away tears of laughter from his face.
The story somehow forged a bond between us. We relaxed a little. ‘Anyway,’ I went on, ‘you asked about the pipes. The Piob Mhor, the Great Highland bagpipes – my first love, my passion.’
‘Why so?’
‘Since before 1715 our family have played the pipes – and always with the same set. We have played them at Culloden, Gallipoli and a great many other battles before that. Ardnish had famous piping brothers called the Georges – George and Sandy MacDonald – who we were related to. My grandfather might well be playing those same pipes at the moment, back in the village.’
Claude said, ‘We have these pipes in France, too, in Brittany.’
‘Really?’ I replied, rather dismissively. ‘When I was a boy,’ I continued, ‘my grandfather would never spend less than an hour a day teaching me; he felt it vital to continue the tradition. “Fewer and fewer men are playing the pibroch,” he would say. “We need to carry the torch. And I want you to compete at the Northern Meeting one day. You’ll be the only one apart from the Georges in the family to do so.” ’
‘The Northern Meeting?’
‘It’s the most prestigious gathering in the Scottish piping calendar. I played in Fort William at a competition and was heard by the great John MacDonald of Inverness who put me forward to compete. Apparently, few were chosen. As you can imagine, aged nineteen, and full of enthusiasm, practising for this consumed all my spare time. My grandfather knew who the judges were going to be, and the pibrochs he thought would be set were “Lament For Padraig Og” and “An Daorach Bheag”. He also selected three marches, three Strathspeys and three reels for them to choose from. Grandfather’s thing was pibroch, though. He used to say that if there was nobility in piping, then pibroch would be king.’
‘I would like to meet this man some day,’ Claude said. ‘I think I would like him.’
‘I know he would like you, too,’ I agreed. ‘So, the time came. It was early September, and Grandfather and I caught the train first to Fort William, and then on to Fort Augustus, followed by the steamer up Loch Ness to the sea lock of the Caledonian Canal. Then it was a walk to the Northern Meeting Halls, me dressed in full Clanranald piper�
��s uniform, with a dirk, a horsehair sporran, the green kilt and gleaming buckled shoes all retrieved from their special place in an old seaman’s chest under my mother’s bed.
‘My heart was pounding when my name was called, but I stepped up to the stage with all the courage I could muster. Well, I made a mess of the Strathspey so I missed out on the prizes there, but then, to my delight, I won the Highland Society of London gold medal for the pibroch – the top piping prize in the world.’
‘Pardon?’ Claude exclaimed. ‘The world?’
I nodded with as much modesty as I could muster. ‘There was a full report in The Times of London and coverage in every Scottish newspaper as well as abroad, I’m told. My mother has a box of the press cuttings . . .’
And then there was a sudden noise outside. The door was flung open. There stood three of Claude’s comrades: Colette, Marie-Thérèse and Charles, frightened and bedraggled. I looked over their shoulders into the wet night – no Françoise.
‘Where are Françoise and Jean-Philippe?’ Claude asked as he ushered them indoors.
‘Jean-Philippe is dead – shot – and we don’t know about Françoise,’ replied Marie-Thérèse bluntly.
They slumped in front of the fire. Colette covered her tear-stained face with her hands.
‘What do you mean, you don’t know about Françoise?’ I shouted at them. ‘Where the hell is she?’
Claude put his hand on my shoulder. ‘Steady, Angus. Let’s hear what our friends have to say. And remember, Colette,’ he gestured to her, ‘has just seen her husband die.’
Colette began sobbing uncontrollably, bringing me to my senses.
‘Please forgive me, Colette,’ I said, and moved to comfort her, but Marie, who had joined us, waved me away.
‘Make yourself useful and put some coffee on,’ she snapped at me as she gathered Colette into her arms. I did as I was told.
We Fought for Ardnish Page 8