We Fought for Ardnish

by Angus MacDonald

  We were met at Jasper station by the adjutant Geoffrey Forrest and taken to Jasper Park Lodge, where the battalion was headquartered.

  Forrest told us that the battalion was away on an exercise on a glacier and wouldn’t be back until tomorrow, so we’d have time to settle in and see what’s what.

  I was just offering my thanks and looking forward to a relaxing start to my stay when he added ominously, ‘Would you join me in my office once you have unpacked?’

  Fifteen minutes later I was facing his desk.

  ‘I’m afraid we’ve had a signal,’ he said. ‘Your grandfather has died.’ He glanced down at a sheet of paper. ‘On the 30th of January, in his sleep.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Angus. I understand he was effectively your father, yes?’

  I nodded.

  ‘Why don’t you go to the supplies department, get your kit and take a walk around?’ he said. ‘Clear your head, get to know your surroundings, and then join us for lunch in the mess in two hours.’

  I was issued with a pair of snowshoes and other Arctic kit, and wrapped up as warmly as I could. Despite the bright sunshine, it must have been minus fifteen degrees outside. I set off at a brisk pace. I was shaken by the news and needed to push myself physically after two weeks of being cooped up.

  It was good to be outside, free, in the gin-clear air. I soon settled into a fast rhythm and my mind filled with recollections of my grandfather. He had been a true Highland gentleman, and was treated as such by all who knew him. He was considerate and intelligent, only spoke when he had something useful to contribute, and had never uttered a curse. My heart ached for my grandmother; he had been her rock, and, despite her being the voluble one, she always had the utmost respect for his views. He was not only a father figure to me – as the adjutant had pointed out – he had also been my mentor.

  I paused at the top of a hill to catch my breath and look out over the town of Jasper. I felt certain that Grandfather’s death would spell the end for my beloved Peanmeanach. After all, with Grandmother being from Glasgow, Mother from Wales and Mairi from the island of Eriskay, they would almost certainly move to Arisaig, where there would be company and all the comforts: electricity, a dry house, a shop, the church. Peanmeanach may have been the loveliest place on earth, but the houses were decrepit and it was four miles along the track to the road – not to mention the outside privy and the constant trips to draw fresh water from the well. Who would choose to live like that these days?

  The funeral would have taken place already, I realised. I could not bear that I was five thousand miles away. I hoped that Father Angus had conducted the service and piped Grandfather to his resting place.

  Forlornly, I made my way back to the Lodge, contemplating what I would say in the letter I would have to write.

  The battalion returned from their mission the following day as expected. The mess hall was full of my old friends and comrades, and the next couple of weeks passed in a merciful whirl of activity. All six hundred men needed explosives training – to be able to attach devices to a bridge or machinery, to handle grenades, and to plant and identify landmines. We were being trained to lead the assault to free Norway when the time came, so the men were acutely aware of the importance of skiing ability, night-time survival out in the open, and camouflage. We had been issued with impressive American clothing and equipment, but the training was brutally hard. My time with the Norwegian troops had really paid off; they were so much more advanced than us when it came to operating in severe winter conditions.

  The Jasper folk had taken the battalion to their hearts. They held a dance every Saturday night, where we taught them Scottish reels and the girls taught us their modern dances. One local woman even taught the men how to ask a girl for a dance: ‘You need to say, can I borrow your frame for this struggle?’ We had card nights in the officers’ mess and a Town versus Scouts ice hockey match. A Jasper man of Scottish descent said he had heard from his grandfather that ice hockey had originated from shinty. When the immigrants arrived, they would play their shinty on the ice and that’s how the sport had developed.

  Sandy Wedderburn, my old mentor, arranged a Regimental Sports Day, with slalom and cross-country skiing, and shooting. There was even an Officers versus Sergeants mass snowball fight, greatly enjoyed by all.

  No two days were alike. I joined the recce troop for two days during a hundred-and-fifty-mile exercise from the icefield chalet at the foot of the Athabasca glacier to Banff and back, on skis. They took a week for the task, travelling at night and carrying all they needed for the trip. It was likely that we would be landed in the north of Norway and would have five hundred miles carrying full kit to get to the larger towns. Fitness and skiing ability were paramount.

  There were several avalanches, one of which, before I arrived, killed a young corporal, Sandy Collie. This was to be our only fatality in Alberta, although others were swept away in avalanches but survived, including Major Sir Jock Brooke. He had been crossing an ice face when it started to go. No one could do anything, and as it sped up he waved goodbye, crying out ‘Good luck!’ He was later dug out, uninjured, a few hundred yards down below.

  Following the death of my grandfather I had more sad news. Michael Gubbins had been killed on a mission in Italy. My first great friend to die. Although we had only been friends for two years, we’d had such great times together: in London partying the night away, and fishing and climbing in the Highlands. At that time I had no more information about how he died.

  That night, I excused myself from dinner in the mess, went to my quarters and wrote down all the wonderful things about him and the times we shared. I didn’t want to forget anything. His death cut a large hole in my life. I then wrote to his parents, celebrating their son and lamenting their loss, promising I would see them as soon as I returned. There were few parents who escaped hearing of the death of a child in this war, it seemed.

  Just before the end of our tour, I went with the pipe band to Vancouver. The city was beautiful, blooming with the arrival of spring, and the band’s performances were received with much enthusiasm.

  On the final evening, I gave a pibroch recital to sixty men in evening dress, most of them in kilts, of the St Andrew’s Society. They clapped politely; for many it must have been their first hearing of the pibroch.

  Later, the pipe major told me an amusing story. On their arrival, when their train drew into Jasper, they decided to follow tradition and play a few tunes to the welcoming committee. On this occasion, hundreds of locals were waiting to greet them in the bitter cold. The pipe band lined up, and, on the word, blew air into the bags and started out on the tune. Except they didn’t. All the drones had frozen so the bags merely gave out a deathly groan. He said it was the funniest thing he had ever heard.

  On the day of our departure we finally received post. I had a letter from Sheena, begging me to come to Cape Breton. She’d heard I had passed through Halifax. There were also letters from Father Angus, talking mostly about Grandfather, and a long one from my mother and grandmother. Along with Mairi, they had found themselves accommodation in Arisaig where they could live together when they decided it was time to move.

  It was comforting to hear the details of my grandfather’s passing. He had died peacefully in the night. Father Angus had come up from Edinburgh and arranged the funeral at Our Lady of the Braes; his burial was with his kinsmen on the isle in the River Ailort alongside my father. There was a good turnout for a man in his eighties.

  Father Angus wrote movingly about Grandfather’s committal: ‘The sun had been out, but a heavy squall suddenly hit as the coffin was being lowered into the grave. Canon John whispered, “That’s more like it,” as the congregation huddled together under the lashing rain. I played “Pibroch of Donald Dhu”, your grandfather’s favourite, at the graveside.’

  In my mind I could hear the tune reverberating across the hills.

  Chapter 13

  Françoise, Lourdes
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  I said a fond farewell to the couple who had looked after me so well and prayed they would be safe. That night I was taken by the Maquis to another safe house at the foothills of the Pyrénées, ready for a 3 a.m. departure from Lourdes. I was joined by two English pilots, Richard and Mike, who had been shot down and rescued by the Maquis. We had to wait there for three days for a guide to be organised. I learned that there was a steady flow of Allied troops being shepherded into Spain over the Pyrénées and we had no choice but to wait our turn.

  I was the only one allowed to venture into the village; my clothing and fluent French were cover enough. My fellow escapees regaled me with stories of the appalling death rate amongst the Royal Air Force. Apparently very few survived even half a dozen sorties, and those who survived being shot down and made it back to England were often airborne again within the week.

  Richard was passionate about his flying, saying that if he survived the war he would set up a flying school. I teased them mercilessly, dubbing them Ravishing Richard and Mad Mike. Both had magnificent moustaches, wore their pilots’ uniform with fleece jackets and smoked pipes – baby-faced caricatures of British pilots, their theory being that they didn’t want to get shot as spies, but rather to be treated as prisoners of war if they were caught. I recounted some of my experiences and subsequent travels to them, which gained their respect.

  We left on the day after Christmas, guided by a sixteen-year-old boy named Henri. He explained to me that we couldn’t take a route through the passes, as that was where the soldiers would be, so he would take us another way. He and the two airmen set off at a tremendous clip, uphill, with me limping along painfully behind. Henri was impatient with me, and the pilots almost as much, until I explained the extent of my injuries. We all apologised to each other, and I tried my hardest to keep up.

  It was only meant to be a journey of two days and a night over the mountains, with a full day’s climb up eight thousand feet before our first night’s rest, but the weather closed in fast and we needed to seek shelter from the galeforce winds. We were ill prepared, with no gloves or scarves and inadequate footwear, and although the men had good warm coats, I had only the flimsy one I had been given at the château. However, my months of sleeping rough and my upbringing in the vicious cold of Cape Breton winters had toughened me up. At times my British companions seemed less able to cope with the conditions.

  We sheltered that night in a blizzard, huddled together in the lee of a rock. We had no skis or snowshoes, and despite making gaiters with rags, our feet were soon soaking, which was especially painful for me. Mike, in particular, seemed to be suffering from the cold. I believe that if the weather hadn’t cleared up and the sun, weak though it was, hadn’t come out early the next morning, he may well have succumbed to hypothermia. His temperature had begun to drop dangerously low during the night. I held him as tightly to me as I could, talking nonsense to him to keep him awake and rubbing his body to keep the circulation going. As for myself, I knew that after all I had been through, there was no way I was going to give up now.

  We were relieved to get moving again in the morning, although almost immediately Henri motioned for us to crouch down as an army patrol skied past along the border, only a couple of hundred feet below us. It was a close shave, and I was impressed by the young lad’s instincts.

  Though hungry and tired, the remainder of our trek was incident-free. We limped slowly down the mountains, out of the snow and into Spain and safety. There was much elation. Mike had warmed up and recovered well, the scare of the previous night forgotten in our relief at having arrived.

  Henri would introduce us to a member of the Spanish Resistance when we arrived, and then head on to Canfranc, where we could get a train to San Sebastian. From there, the British Consul General would arrange for a sea crossing back to Britain. This was by now the standard escape route. At Canfranc we met a hard-faced woman who was to look after us, so we said farewell to Henri. He set off back the way we had come without a backward glance.

  Everything proceeded according to plan. In San Sebastian we were handed over to an efficient English couple, Albert and Margo, who were working for MI9. They put us up in a small hotel. How I loved having a hot bath. Margo trimmed my hair and gave me money to buy some decent clothing. The boys were confined to their room for their own protection, they were so obviously British.

  I wandered the town on my own with my old coat and stick, my head bowed. I looked like a fifty-year-old housewife, going about her shopping. However, with my dyed hair having grown out and with some lipstick on and a fresh skirt and blouse, I felt almost presentable as we joined our hosts for some supper in one of the bedrooms. Ravishing Richard, considerably refreshed by the local wine, became a little too forward with me, so in order to fend him off, I exaggerated my relationship with Angus.

  ‘We’re engaged to be married,’ I announced, relishing the words as I showed off my army-issue ring.

  Margo and Albert congratulated me warmly, and I felt a little ashamed of my deceit. Margo was keen to know more about my fiancé, of course. I realised how embarrassingly little I knew, so I plied her with questions about Spain’s role in the war. She explained that Spain was neutral but swung between supporting the Germans and the British. She warned me that the place was heaving with spies and assassins; we would have to be vigilant at all times.

  It was towards the end of January when we were advised that the weather was right. Suddenly we were given the go-ahead to commence the final part of our journey, so we packed up in the evening and I again found myself offering profuse thanks to brave hosts. We set off in the middle of the night. There was no moon as we made our way stealthily to the harbour. Before long, in the pitch dark, we scrambled aboard a fishing boat, with another dozen escapees, all bound for Torquay.

  It was to be a week-long trip across the Bay of Biscay, which was renowned for being stormy. We had to keep far out to sea to avoid the French coast and the likelihood of German sea patrols, which made the crossing pretty choppy at times. We eked out basic British Army composition rations and trailed fishing lines behind the boat. Margo had given us a sack of oranges, so we ate healthily. There were some fascinating men on board: a Cameron Highlander who had escaped from a POW camp and told me he had met Father Angus, my Angus’s uncle; four pilots including my two companions; another SOE man who had finished his mission and spoke to no one; and a man named Colin, a half-Spanish British spy who had been on some unspecified business in Madrid.

  At last we arrived in Torquay harbour, exhausted from the mental and physical strain of the past few months, but excited. My pilots embraced me. We’d been together for three weeks and had grown genuinely fond of one other. They were headed to Norfolk and would doubtless be flying again within days.

  I was then met by a female captain in uniform who saluted me, somewhat to my surprise. My pilots, watching my departure, looked very impressed as I was whisked into a Daimler. I was told I was off to Bletchley Park for a debriefing and medical. The captain told me Brigadier Gubbins had sent her and his car especially to meet me.

  As I dozed in the back of the luxurious car, I wondered why the brigadier might have done this. I knew all about him and his son from Angus, but I felt sure he wouldn’t have known who I was.

  When I arrived at Bletchley, my section leader gave me a warm reception. ‘You’re quite the hero here, Sophie. Everyone wants to shake your hand. The leader of the Maquis said you were the bravest person he had ever met. Brace yourself! We have quite an itinerary for you, I’m afraid.’

  My first appointment was with the doctor at Bletchley Park who was shocked by the state of my feet. ‘What happened here, young lady?’ he asked. I related my story.

  ‘And then you walked five hundred miles on them?’ he asked. ‘I can hardly believe it.’

  I had both bare feet propped up on a chair, and he was probing them gently, with frequent glances at me. I had no toenails; two of the toes on my right foot had fallen off; and the r
emaining ones were grotesquely mangled. I showed him my arm. There was no muscle at all. He encircled my bicep with his finger and thumb.

  ‘This is the end of the war for you, my dear,’ he said, shaking his head regretfully.

  I could have hugged him. ‘I have to tell you, sir, I’m not sorry.’

  ‘You’ll need to do a full debrief and then we’ll get you on a ship home. First, we’ll take you up to Baker Street and sort things out with the Canadians. Generous pensions, I believe. Make sure they arrange for you to see a specialist in Harley Street before you leave.’

  When I arrived at Baker Street I was astonished to be told that I was to have an interview with Brigadier Gubbins himself. I smartened myself up as best I could.

  Angus had been correct. The brigadier was a delight. ‘Honestly, Sophie,’ he chuckled, ‘we can’t quite believe you’re here with us. We all assumed you were dead.’

  ‘I can barely believe it myself sometimes, sir,’ I replied.

  ‘You’re the person everyone is talking about. Eliminating Kaufmann and then a four-month trek alone across France . . . You’ve more than earned your passage back home to Cape Breton. I gather your father is a doctor. Is that correct?’

  I nodded.

  ‘Excellent. Well, first things first, the Canadian Ambassador has asked us to dine at the embassy tonight. I trust you can make that?’

  That night was one I would never forget. Flickering candles lit the room, hidden from Grosvenor Square by blackout curtains. A dozen of us enjoyed sumptuous food and wine while a pianist quietly played some of my favourite old Canadian waltzes.

  I was seated beside the Ambassador. Before we dined, he told the guests about my mission and then, to my utter astonishment, pinned a Military Cross on my jacket. I was heady with the excitement of the evening, my face flushed with the heat of the room and the wine.