We Fought for Ardnish

by Angus MacDonald

  After a few days we agreed that I was ready to move. I was well nourished and rested. I had a canvas shoulder bag, a map of France, a sharp kitchen knife, a cigarette lighter, a thin blanket and a waterproof cape. I made a snare using wire and a peg that I planned to set each night for rabbits.

  During my training much time had been spent on learning how to get back to England if one was cut off after a mission. This involved seeking the help of the Maquis and liaising with Baker Street. I could read the stars and use the sun to navigate, to some extent, but I didn’t have money, a false ID, nor a pistol or contacts. To add to my worries, I was worried about how my feet would cope with the journey and whether I could manage with the use of only one arm.

  There was no point in heading towards the coast. It would be swarming with troops and checkpoints, and what chance would I have of encountering a friendly fisherman prepared to take me over? Switzerland was an option, but they were interning Allied personnel rather than helping them get back to Britain. I decided to head towards Spain and, perhaps, ultimately, Gibraltar. Spain was neutral, but increasingly supportive of the Allies now that we seemed to be winning.

  Clementine and I had discussed all the options. There was no chance of taking a train as all passengers were obliged to show ID cards, and neither I nor Clementine had any money for the ticket.

  ‘Do you think you could find someone in the Resistance who could help?’ I asked Clementine.

  ‘And how would I do that!’ She laughed dismissively. ‘I don’t know anyone. I’m so sorry.’

  I had no choice. Walking south seemed to be the only way. My plan was to live like a nocturnal animal, sneaking behind roadside hedges and through woods, avoiding people at all costs, scavenging for food, sleeping in the undergrowth. There were three or four months of summer left before the temperature dropped and the rains began. Crossing the Pyrénées after mid-November would be hazardous because of snow. I had to get to Spain before then.

  Before setting off I finally wrote the letter to Donald Angus that I’d been agonising over for months. I asked Clementine to send it for me.

  ‘There’s a man I treated badly,’ I explained. ‘I want to apologise, to let him know I cared for him. If I live or die, I need him to know what I feel. Please, would you keep it until you know it will get there? Maybe when the war is over you could post it?’

  I thought about it carefully, tearing up two letters before the final one and vowing he would never know what had happened between Kaufmann and me.

  June 1943, from Paris

  My dear Angus,

  I pray this reaches you.

  I know how upset you were when I didn’t say goodbye. Perhaps you will have already forgotten me, thought good riddance – I would understand that.

  But I hope you realise that it was because I was upset at having to leave you so suddenly. I really was trying to protect myself and you. I wanted to come over and hug you, to reassure you, but I didn’t want to break down and cry in front of the others. I believe that you had the same feelings for me as I had for you but, of course, I may never know.

  As a woman I have to be doubly brave. I have had a difficult few months, but I am now much fitter, and with luck I’ll reach safety.

  God bless you, and pray for me as I do for you.

  Françoise

  I sealed and kissed the envelope, scribbled ‘Donald Angus, Ardnish, near Fort William, Scotland’ on it and prayed he would receive it one day.

  The next morning, I hugged Clementine and promised to visit in peacetime. I would probably be dead if it hadn’t been for her brave split-second decision to help me.

  I took the Métro at its busiest time to the terminus at Châtillon–Montrouge. Clementine had assured me that tickets were seldom checked on the underground and there were rarely identity card checks. My plan was to follow the railway line on foot as far as Toulouse. There were soldiers at the station but they didn’t give me a second glance as I shuffled past them in my dowdy clothes, scarf on my head, eyes cast down.

  I had memorised each stage of my journey and my aim for day one was to get as far as the town of Chamarande.

  There was no road parallel to the train track, which was good. I got on well at first, though by midday I was getting cramp in my toes; my feet were simply not used to the exercise. But I limped on, scanning ahead for people. Fortunately there was only an occasional woman hoeing in a field, or leading a cow on a rope; farm workers going about their work and unconcerned about me.

  At nightfall I collapsed, exhausted. I kicked my shoes off. My feet were horribly swollen. I was only twenty miles into a potentially six-hundred-mile journey. I nibbled some cheese and dates which Clementine had given me, but they were supposed to be for emergencies, so I only ate a tiny amount. I had hoped to walk through the night, but my feet needed rest.

  I made myself as comfortable as possible in the hollow of a tree and tried to sleep. The sky was clear, dotted with stars. The South Star would show me the way. I imagined Angus looking at them, too, and felt hot tears welling. I felt miserable, utterly alone.

  When I awoke I decided to walk during daylight. This was a densely wooded area; I should be able to move fairly freely without being seen. If it turned out there were too many inquisitive people around, then I’d revert to my nocturnal plan. I cut a good strong stick to take the weight off my feet and to fend off dogs if necessary. In Camp X, Major Fairbairn had taught us many useful things one could do with a stout stick.

  The railway line was a hundred yards away on my right. Now and again I would see a troop or freight train and was careful to take cover as it passed. I noted what they were carrying: fuel containers, occasionally tanks, even pigs and other livestock going to the front for food.

  My need for food was now urgent. I arrived at the outskirts of Chamarande that evening, a whole day later than I had hoped, but fortunately spotted a garden full of ripe fruit and vegetables, and, seemingly, no dog to alert the owner. I waited for nightfall before climbing the fence and scooping up as much as I could carry: a lettuce, peas, tomatoes and a melon. At a safe distance, I sat down and feasted. I’d tasted no fresh fruit and vegetables since I had been back home in Canada.

  I had hoped my journey would be an intrepid, stealthy trek, but the reality was a slow and agonising hobble, with opportunistic thieving from people who badly needed food themselves. It took me a week to get as far as Orléans.

  One night there was a violent lightning storm and torrential rain. Terrified that the tree I was sheltering under would be struck, I cowered for hours, drenched, frozen and aching all over. I couldn’t imagine anyone more miserable than I was that night.

  Now and again, I would stumble across the odd farmer keen to pass the time of day, but, on seeing me close up – with my matted hair, face and hands ingrained with dirt, ragged clothes and battered shoes – they quickly moved away. Although my night-time progress was slow, it was steady. I followed the railway track, sometimes picking my way across the sleepers, ducking out of sight when trains trundled by.

  I was approaching Vierzon now and the pain in my feet had been increasing. ‘Run through the pain!’ had been our watchword at Camp X during training, but this constant slog, day after day, was pushing me to my physical limit. I sank to my knees beside the train tracks and wept.

  I had a lot of time to think as I walked. Not having company was my idea of hell; I had always needed and enjoyed the stimulation of people and conversation around me. The solitude was difficult for me, and sometimes I would sing to myself just to hear a voice. I constantly thought about what I’d do if I ever made it back to Britain. And would I ever make it home to Canada and my family?

  It wasn’t until Châteauroux, where I had to cross a number of major roads at first light, that I spied a long convoy of German vehicles parked by the roadside while their drivers slept. I should have crept past, but I felt a powerful urge to do something – to fight, to destroy the convoy before it got to the front line and wreaked h
avoc. Everything I had been doing of late had been so cautious, so defensive, that the sight of the enemy triggered a rage in me.

  There was a young, unsuspecting guard on duty, leaning against a tree, smoking, bored. I seized the moment. I drew my knife and crept up to him from behind. With one slash I cut his throat. He gurgled and spluttered quietly as I lowered him into the undergrowth. Then I crawled under the line of vehicles cutting fuel pipes until a cry finally went up. Someone had smelled the fumes. Rolling into the ditch, I slithered away. I had hoped to light the fuel and blow the convoy sky high, but at least I had caused serious disruption.

  I felt energised, elated. When I was sure I wasn’t being pursued, some distance away, I collapsed in a soft thicket, breathing hard, heart racing. ‘Kill or be killed,’ Major Fairbairn had drummed into us. The convoy would be in chaos and there would be little chance of a hunt for me. Did I feel any regret for that young boy’s death? No. I wasn’t just pursuing my own personal freedom, I was helping the war effort.

  I should have known that my euphoria would not last long. The following day, I developed a fever, probably from drinking dirty water from a stream on the outskirts of a small town. I lay immobile for two days, semi-delirious, suffering terrible sweats and weak as a kitten. In my delirium I closed my eyes and dreamed. I was in my bed at home, the house quiet; just the rhythmic hiss of waves breaking on the shore. The door opened. I smiled. I knew it was Angus. I pulled aside the bedclothes to allow him in. His hands explored my body as we kissed. I was hungry for him, as he was for me. And then it changed. Kaufmann’s face was bearing down upon me. I sat bolt upright, drenched in sweat.

  Once, after I recovered from the fever, I was caught thieving by an old man. He cursed me as I made off over his garden fence, pathetically clutching a bunch of carrots. Another time I was pursued by a woman and her dog, but they fled when I turned and screamed at them, brandishing my stick. I probably looked like a madwoman.

  As I trudged south, I realised that if I was going over the Pyrénées I would need to get some proper footwear. Clementine’s shoes were falling apart. I was surviving on raw vegetables, berries, fruit and the occasional rabbit and chicken, but I craved bread and sugar. I knew there would be little to scavenge as autumn approached. I had been travelling for two months and was near Limoges.

  I found myself in the grounds of a tumbledown château and decided to rest. I could see an old man in the grounds, picking up kindling for a fire. I observed him for a while and could tell that life was a struggle for him. My feet were raw and aching. I felt sure there would be some boots here, maybe decent food. And so, at twilight, I walked to the house, stealthily let myself in, and crept towards the sound of voices.

  I turned the door handle. There was a silence as I stepped over the threshold. The old man and his wife, both in their eighties, were sitting like bookends on each side of a fire in a room that appeared to be a library.

  ‘Pardon,’ I said calmly. ‘I mean no harm.’

  The old man rose to his feet and, standing protectively in front of his wife, regarded me. ‘Are you fighting the Boches?’ he asked unexpectedly.

  ‘Well, yes,’ I affirmed. ‘I’m sorry to disturb you . . . I’m hungry . . .’

  His wife stood up, came towards me, and simply said, ‘You’re welcome to our home. Please, join us by the fire.’

  Within minutes I was being treated like their long-lost daughter. The woman, who introduced herself as Florence, then ushered me upstairs and ran me a tepid bath. It was bliss.

  Meanwhile she looked out clothes for me – her daughter’s, she said sadly. I came downstairs happier than I’d been for many months. A modest dinner served on chipped eighteenth-century porcelain and delicious brandy in a crystal glass followed.

  They told me they had a son who had been killed in the Great War, and a daughter whom they hadn’t seen or heard of for five years.

  They urged me to stay the night and I needed no persuasion. I was shown to a huge, dusty bedroom where I collapsed gratefully onto an old four-poster bed with cotton sheets full of moth-holes. There were deep cracks in the plaster on the walls, a windowpane was missing, and there was the scurrying sound of mice, but to me it was heaven. I slept more soundly than I had done in months.

  I was sorry to bid them farewell. I walked off down their elegant tree-lined avenue in a stout pair of comfortable leather boots and felt a surge of gratitude.

  As I approached Toulouse, the weather turned nasty. I felt a stab of anxiety. There had been days and nights of constant wind and rain, and I knew it would be falling as snow on the mountains.

  That evening, I sensed movement nearby and quickly crouched down. Inching forwards, I caught sight of a dozen German soldiers, machine-guns trained down a farm track that led to a railway crossing: an ambush. I slithered back to a spot where I could not be seen. Who were they expecting?

  And, suddenly, there they were. Six heavily armed local men walking towards me. I jumped out, my fingers to my lips. ‘Watch out!’ I hissed in French.

  After explaining the situation, I took the men to the place I’d been hiding shortly before, about twenty yards away from the Germans. The Resistance leader gave the signal and all six unleashed a hail of bullets, killing the Germans instantly. There was great jubilation and patting of backs. The corpses were dragged into the dense woodland and hidden in the undergrowth, weapons appropriated, and I was led back to their village – a hero.

  I told the men an edited version of my story. They were all Maquis, and I quickly realised that helping them and gaining their trust would be a major breakthrough. I spent a couple of days with them, resting, then over the next two weeks I was passed from group to group and helped on my journey south. I was looked after well and treated with respect. My reputation preceded me. Everyone had come to know of my actions and how I’d saved the Maquis’ lives. Yet sometimes I felt an irrational longing to be alone again – to have control.

  The Maquis had really suffered from collaborators, often with devastating consequences. The constant tales of in-fighting and betrayals was taking a toll on me. I longed to get back to Britain and, ultimately, home to Canada. With my injuries, I felt sure I would be discharged from the army, or, at the least, reassigned to wireless or mundane secretarial duties.

  However, my new comrades raised my spirits and urged me to head to Lourdes, then over the mountains to Gavarnie on the border with Spain. From there, they felt sure I would be safe; it was a well-trodden route for fugitives.

  We arrived in Lourdes under cover of darkness. There I was taken to the home of a trusted couple and stayed indoors for a week. The woman started to confide in me. She told me they were Jewish and had changed their name. Most of the people in Lourdes knew their secret but protected them. She told me how the Jews there had been rounded up and disappeared. The awful rumours of death camps. Despite the protection of their townspeople, they sensed that an anti-Jewish feeling was growing and they lived in fear of their door being kicked in at night.

  But on my first day there, she took me to the grotto. Showing my injuries to a priest, I was taken to bathe in the healing waters. Although I was sceptical, something about it comforted me. Donald Angus would surely have approved.

  Chapter 12

  Angus

  I sailed out of Liverpool for Canada on the 30th of January, along with two fellow Scouts, Corporal McKay and Beaton beag. We were part of a convoy, with an arrival date scheduled for a week later. We felt fortunate to be on a destroyer as other convoy ships were much more vulnerable to submarines. Since the introduction of an anti-submarine depth charge called a hedgehog, which had sunk hundreds of U-boats, they were now far more reluctant to engage with a well-defended convoy like ours.

  The trip across was rough. Monstrous waves slammed the boats, and everyone – experienced seamen and passengers alike – suffered terribly from seasickness. The decks were death traps, slick with deep ice that had to be chipped off daily. We were roped to the side railing and,
despite our bulky sou’westers, always came off our four-hour shifts frozen to the bone.

  Two-thirds of the way across, one of the merchant vessels had engine failure and had to be towed; the speed of the convoy dropped from sixteen knots to under ten. This made us even greater sitting ducks. We were only too aware of many instances, early on in the war, of entire convoys of merchant ships being sunk in similar circumstances.

  The Lovat Scouts had been in the Rockies for a few weeks already and had only one more month to serve in Canada. I was delighted to be going out to join them. It was Françoise’s country – albeit the Rockies were almost as far from Chéticamp as Chéticamp was from Scotland – and I longed to see her parents, to share my memories of her, and to let them know she had been loved.

  On our arrival in Halifax, Nova Scotia, I realised that I was probably as close to Françoise’s real life as I was ever likely to get. How far from here was Chéticamp? I quelled an urge to find a map and set off on my own to find the place.

  As it turned out, we were only there for a day. We caught the Canadian Pacific Railway train that went all the way to Vancouver on the west coast. We were to get off in Jasper, where the battalion was stationed. The bunk beds were comfortable and the food was far better than anything on British trains. There was real coffee and generous portions of food, and I even enjoyed a few drams of Scotch that one of the men had bought in Halifax. The troopers spent sixteen hours each night in bed, but I spent most of the time either with my nose pressed against the glass as the train trundled through the flat, agricultural landscape of the prairies, or talking to the other passengers. An elderly Canadian couple even had the Gaelic, despite their entire family having arrived from Scotland three generations ago. They were off to see their daughter, who was married and living in Edmonton. I felt a warm sensation of connection.