We Fought for Ardnish

by Angus MacDonald

  Kaufmann’s men were there in seconds. They dragged me downstairs, bundled me into the back of a truck and drove me to Sallanches. The men were brutal; they dragged me into the camp, ignored my wounds and immediately started to interrogate me. In our training we had been told at length about what to expect, but nothing could have prepared me. Nothing. It became clear immediately that they assumed I was a French member of the Maquis.

  There was a woman in the interrogation room who sat silently taking notes, betraying no reaction to my screaming. But when she and I were alone she came over to me and wiped my forehead, complimenting me on my bravery. Her sympathy seemed genuine, and I felt she may have been on the side of the allies. I briefly contemplated asking her to get a message out that I was not talking and was alive, but I realised that could be a costly mistake. Why should I trust her?

  Even in my agony I came to acknowledge that the SOE in Britain had been scrupulous in my preparation. Just before deployment I had spent a week at Tempsford, where I was measured and fitted with genuine French clothing and boots made in the Alps, made using worn fabrics and tatty leather. My purse contained French francs and the identity card of a real woman called Françoise Villeneuve, along with a pack of Gauloises cigarettes and a local bus ticket. Even the expensive Canadian fillings in my teeth, put in by a friend of my father’s, had been replaced with terrible French ones. I had had a cyanide pill in the pocket of my coat, but I had been so preoccupied I had stupidly left it behind when I left Marc’s house.

  The Gestapo wanted the names and addresses of my accomplices: who was the leader of the Maquis in the area? Who ordered the assassination? Did the orders come from England? Were there British in the valley? My main protagonist was a pugnacious, heavily-muscled little man. I dreaded being alone with him. He had a truncheon and my wounded arm was its target. I flinched every time he brandished the truncheon near me, and I could tell he enjoyed my fear.

  Holding my head underwater in a bucket was another tactic; I came close to drowning many times. I was tied to a chair and then, his face inches from mine, he would drive the base of the truncheon down on my feet every time I said I didn’t know. My toes became a bloody, broken mess. Then I would be dragged back to my cell.

  After a few days, they must have realised I was not going to talk because they left me alone. They finally sent for a French prison doctor who tried to repair my injuries, but there was only so much he could do. He had no drugs to ease my pain and no food to stave off my hunger.

  That same woman from the interrogation room became my saviour; she brought me morsels of cheese and bread when she could and a heavy coat which helped when I was feverish. I wondered if she could tell I wasn’t French, but of course I daren’t ask, and she certainly wasn’t saying.

  As I lay in the long hours of darkness and solitude I thought of Angus. I regretted leaving him without a glance or a kind farewell. As my mission had loomed closer it had dawned on me that it would probably be the death of me so I had to steel myself. But our time together had been so intimate it was hard to switch off my emotions. I remembered one moment in particular when I knew he was about to kiss me. I had so wanted him to.

  I pictured his bewildered expression as I cut him dead. Angus was a good-looking man, there was no doubt; strong physique, nearly six foot tall, freckled, sunburnt skin and sandy-red hair, and, best of all, that ready smile. I remembered him looking at me intently that last morning – was it really just a few days ago? He must have assumed I had been executed by now. What must he be going through? I fell into a restive sleep with him on my mind.

  There were few Germans in the building; almost all were Alpini. I noticed that there was no respect between the two factions; the Germans constantly bullied the Italians, barking orders and pushing them around. The Italians didn’t fight back, but their resentment was clear. My saviour whispered to me that the kitchen workers often peed in the Germans’ soup. It was my only smile of the week.

  Without any notice, I was taken in a truck to a railway station and then endured a cramped and agonising two-day journey in a goods train full of other prisoners. There was a bucket for our waste, but with my crushed feet I couldn’t get to it. I lay, utterly ashamed, soaked in my own urine. At one point, bread was passed around but I couldn’t make my way through the scrum. Fortunately, an old man with kindly eyes shared half of his crust with me.

  It was well below freezing at night; we huddled against each other for warmth. Two people died. I felt that all humanity had gone. At Camp X we were told that the closer one gets to permanent confinement in a prison or concentration camp the harder it is to escape and the closer you are to death. But escape was beyond me, with my crippled feet and broken arm.

  We finally arrived at Fresnes Prison in Paris. It was a civilian prison, with a German commandant and French staff. It was a relief to be sent to a French prison; I had a chance of survival here, whereas in a German prison or concentration camp my chances of remaining alive would have fallen to zero. It remained vital that my true nationality was not discovered. I prayed that the Canadian military or the Red Cross wouldn’t use my field name to track me down; my cover would be blown immediately. I needed to remain a French internee.

  I was put in a women-only cell, mercifully. The Red Cross delivered parcels and post to some prisoners, though I, of course, received nothing.

  My parents would have received the ‘Missing in action, presumed dead’ letter already. They would be distraught. They hadn’t wanted me to join the army at all. It had been my wish alone. I was sure they would assume I had some kind of administrative role; in any event, they knew it was hush-hush and I’d told them I was based in London. They’d almost certainly never have heard of the SOE. Who had in Canada? It was a secret organisation with only a couple of hundred agents who had been told at the outset that if we were captured the Canadian government would deny any knowledge of us.

  Fresnes was huge, holding thousands of prisoners. I soon discovered that the secret to survival was to lie low, not talk to others, be invisible. Food was sparse and barely edible. My only break was to be there as the weather was beginning to warm up. I was told people actually froze to death in the winter months. There were British and American prisoners, and many members of the Maquis, I was told, but I had no contact with them. The French guards were especially cruel; armed with heavy batons and moving around in groups of three or four, they took pleasure in cornering individuals and thrashing them until their bones broke. Every day people would disappear – to be executed, we could only assume. One of the women whispered to me, ‘I know that guard. He’s from my town, and after the war, believe me, he will die. I have him marked.’

  A nervous, pale-faced lawyer named Alexandre was eventually assigned to me. After hearing my story, he exclaimed thoughtlessly how he was amazed that I hadn’t been shot long before, or shipped to a concentration camp. He wondered whether one of the Italians had done me a favour in Sallanches, perhaps altering the instructions on the paperwork. He told me that the judge would decide whether I lived or died, and he was Vichy. He recommended that I plead guilty and get it over and done with, put my trust in the slim chance of the judge’s leniency.

  But I wanted to fight, make a case for having been blackmailed by the Resistance into killing Kaufmann, to claim that I was coerced. Privately, I feared it was a lost cause, but after having gone through so much I couldn’t simply leave my fate in someone else’s hands without a struggle. Perhaps my case would be delayed – in which scenario my wounds would have a chance to heal. And the tide was turning against the Axis forces . . . I was determined to hang on to hope, however weak my situation appeared to be.

  I had twenty-two hours a day to lie on my wooden bench, consider my position and think of home. At my lowest ebb I found myself thinking about when I was little, when my beloved dog was caught in a trap and had to be shot by my father. As I wept in bed those many years ago my mother had wrapped her arms around me, consoled me with tender words. My
distraught father had ridden to Judique over-night to get another puppy for me to greet at breakfast.

  And, of course, I thought of Donald Angus, my fine Scottish gentleman. Kind and considerate. I saw how Claude and his men had respected and liked him, too. And yet, when I’d told him my father was a doctor, my mother a headmistress, and that I had been to university, I could see that he was overawed. I sensed that he felt somehow inferior – an uneducated farmer. I wished I had made it clear how thoughtful and intelligent I considered him to be and hoped he could tell I knew I wasn’t superior to him.

  My father took people as he found them. I knew he would appreciate Angus’s qualities. Mother would take longer; although charming and outgoing, she took her time getting to know someone properly before forming an opinion of them, but once someone gained her respect, she would be a staunch ally for life.

  I thought of writing a letter to Angus and sending it care of his mother through the Red Cross. It would have to be in French, though. I spent a lot of time considering what I would write. Should I be bold and tell him that I thought about him the whole time, that I wished he had kissed me when we were so close together in Claude’s house? It would be strange to be so forward . . . but, as much as I longed to express my feelings, of course I knew I could not. A letter would be read before it left the prison and my cover would be doubted.

  But, as the weeks passed, my fondness for Angus grew. I’d had little romance in my life, and maybe the solitude and the physical pain I was in drove me towards him as a source of distraction and comfort. Whatever it was, I needed to think that he might love me, that right at that moment he was thinking of me. I wrapped my arms around myself, imagining his embrace.

  There had been a boy at St Xavier, but he had been too showy and arrogant, so I saw him off, and then there was another at Camp X, though that had been quite different. I found myself developing genuine feelings for him. He was handsome and attentive, and I enjoyed the courtship until I discovered to my horror that he was married. I was deeply hurt and furious at his deceit. Since then I had avoided close attachments.

  The other women in my cell were friendly. We looked after each other. They all knew each other well by this point, and so when I arrived they bombarded me with questions: where did I live? Which school did I go to? Are you married? I used to joke with them that they were far more effective interrogators than the Germans. I suspected they knew I wasn’t truly French; I occasionally slipped up and said things that I knew wouldn’t have rung true. But I felt safe with them.

  My toes were healing slowly. Every day I would massage them gently. After a while I could hobble to the canteen, though my right arm still dangled uselessly. The muscles were missing from my biceps but the bone was healing well. I was learning, with difficulty, to do most things with my left hand. I was glad Angus couldn’t see me like this. I was emaciated, crippled, and my hair hadn’t seen soap or a brush since Les Contamines.

  I was informed that my trial date was fixed for the 26th of June – a whole month away.

  Chapter 10

  Angus, the summer of 1943

  As I sat in the dining car of the sleeper rattling across Rannoch Moor I considered my promotion to officer. Until now, my rapport with men from my background was equal, but all this was about to change. I know that I would always be a Highland lad at heart. I had no pretensions and could mix with everyone, from a mess orderly to a general. I wouldn’t want my friends to think I was above them in any way, and even though they might have to salute me on a parade ground in future, it would be with a smile or wink.

  In London I changed trains for Aldershot.

  Because I had risen through the ranks, I was excused the first two months of the officers’ course and so had no need of fitness training, map reading or firearm skills. Just a month of strategy, tactics and planning, tank warfare, knowledge of the Axis forces and of our Royal Navy and Air Force. I was already competent with explosives and climbing, and I passed on some of those skills to the rest of my intake. Of over two hundred new recruits, only a dozen of us had risen through the ranks. We were considerably older than the others, typically in our mid- to late twenties compared with their late teens. We felt like their fathers as we guided these lads, fresh out of school and keen.

  The course was surprisingly behind the times; we were still taught horse riding, and we seasoned men knew that in a trench the only reason officers carry a pistol is to shoot those who don’t advance. A Sten gun was what was needed when faced with the enemy. Hours were spent ‘dressing from the right’, marching up and down in step, and presenting arms. Nothing on how to avoid trench foot, how best to stay dry, and what kit you could take that was not part of army issue, to give some semblance of comfort.

  At that time I had been in the army for only three and a half years, yet the youths of seventeen treated me, at twenty-seven, like a general with a glowing campaign history. I must admit I rather enjoyed it. The Canadian Army was also based in Aldershot and we used to arrange shooting and football competitions against them. I asked a couple of officers if the SOE meant anything to them; they’d never heard of it.

  The night before commissions were awarded there was a big mess night, held in the opulent Great Hall. The room glowed with a hundred candles, the light of which gleamed off the antique silver and decanters. A band of retired soldiers played on the stage as scarlet-uniformed waiters served us platters of trout and pork. The army was always good at pomp and ceremony.

  After dinner, the college commandant made a rousing speech about valour, bravery and loyalty, how the Huns were on the run, and how there was talk at the top of a ‘big push’. Many of the boys were accompanied by their fathers. It saddened me to think that it would in all likelihood be the last time many of them would be together. Junior officers were cannon fodder, there was no doubt about that. They were destined for the trenches in only a few days’ time, to be the first over the top in every offensive, poor souls. Nonetheless I kept my expression impassive as we raised our glasses to toast their success.

  A couple of days later, I was back with the SOE, taking receipt of a splendid, army-issue Enfield motorbike. I then spent an engrossing three weeks, in the best of an English summer, swotting up on arms and explosives development in Hertford and at the Frythe Estate on the outskirts of London. I was in my element testing silencers on Sten guns and weighing up the best uses of limpet mines.

  But the best piece of kit of all was an object that weighed about forty pounds and was fired from the shoulder. Called a PIAT, it was the first hand-held weapon that would completely stop the Panzer tanks that were creating havoc in France. It would hit a pillbox and shards of concrete would kill everyone inside. I was convinced that this could really turn the tide of the war. The continual research and development of arms was quite extraordinary. Hundreds of the cleverest people had been recruited from universities into our factories and were churning out huge quantities to satisfy the demand from not only our own troops but also our Allies.

  From Frythe, I travelled to Baker Street to see if there had been any news of Françoise. ‘I’m afraid we must fear the worst, sir’, I was informed.

  In low spirits, I met my section commander, Geordie, who confirmed that the SOE had had a terrible two months. Several agents had been captured in France, and the Archdeacon circuit members had been arrested with their codes; this had created havoc as the Germans were now using them to send false messages to the Resistance across France. There seemed to be no positive news anywhere within the SOE.

  I dropped in to the church on Spanish Place in Marylebone, said ardent prayers for Françoise, and left a donation and a request for Mass to be said. It was the only thing I could think of to do.

  Michael Gubbins and I met up and decided to have a night out in Piccadilly. I leapt at the chance to take my mind off my misery. First we went to the Regal Fish Shop, and then on to the White Rose pub at Charing Cross for a couple of pints. Afterwards, arriving at the Palais with its soaring do
med ceilings and deep red velvet settees around the walls, we found it crammed with soldiers from all over the world, plus nurses and women from the factories, all dressed in their Sunday best.

  Everyone was exhilarated by the music, the multi-coloured spotlights and the swirling dancers in their flowing skirts and feathers. The band played Glenn Miller, swing and Charleston, finishing with slow numbers for cheek-to-cheek dancing. We danced and smooched with as many pretty girls as we could, before heading outside for a breather and roaring around London on my motorcycle.

  It was daylight when we staggered into bed at the Gubbinses’ house. My head was spinning. Could there be any more of a difference between this high-adrenaline urban whirl and my quiet farming existence on Ardnish?

  For the remainder of that summer I travelled around the various Special Training Schools, training the instructors and never spending more than a week in any one place. I managed to catch the sleeper up to Fort William and see my family for a few days when one of my courses was cancelled at short notice.

  As usual, I received a warm welcome from Mother, Grandmother and Mairi, but they told me that Grandfather had a serious chest infection. The doctor had come to see him and had confined him to bed for a week, telling him to do as he was told or it could turn into pneumonia. Apparently he had sulked for a while but was trying his best to be an obedient patient. He was bored, and not being able to play his chanter frustrated him.

  Grandmother was never the most sympathetic of nurses, so it was Mairi and Mother who looked after him. I sat with him for spells, listening to him coughing up phlegm and struggling to breathe. Usually he was keen to talk; now he just lay there, his complexion a dreadful waxy grey. It dawned on me that this could be the first time Grandmother had confronted the fact that Donald John might die before her.