We Fought for Ardnish

by Angus MacDonald

  First to arrive was Donald Cameron, a stooped, elderly man with rosy cheeks and a warm smile. ‘I served in the Scouts with Colonel Willie in the Boer War,’ he said to Andrew, ‘and I was a good friend of Donald John, too.’

  A woman in her eighties told us that she’d left Bohenie, not far from Fort William, when she was a child but had known all about the Cranachans and was related to them through her mother.

  Sophie couldn’t believe what she was hearing.

  ‘I’m saving the best till last,’ teased Sheena. ‘You’ll like her – she’s outrageous!’

  And she wasn’t wrong. A tall, striking woman and her husband arrived. ‘Ah, Donald Angus,’ she said, looking at me closely. ‘I’m Kirsty, formerly Kirsty McAlistair from Glenuig. I knew your father very well.’

  I was spellbound. Despite my grandparents’ openness, secrets about my father were few and far between.

  ‘The best party I ever went to was at Peanmeanach the day your uncle became a priest,’ she said, to my delight. ‘I danced every dance with DP; he was such a wonderful dancer. I was dying for him to kiss me but he didn’t. You look just like him.’ She winked at Sophie, who laughed. I felt myself reddening. ‘I never saw your father again after that night, Angus. We went to Glasgow, then emigrated here after the Great War. It was tragic his dying so young.’

  Kirsty went on to regale us all with tales of clipping the sheep and haymaking in the big field. She had such vivid memories of my father and Sandy and the fun they had had together. ‘I can only remember sunshine, which I know is ridiculous,’ she said. ‘I was in awe of your grandmother; she was amazing with her collies and seemed to manage everything virtually by herself. Oh, and that vegetable garden!’

  I was in my element. To hear reminiscences like this, so far from home, touched me deeply. Perhaps Sophie might be persuaded that to be a farmer’s wife in the middle of nowhere wouldn’t be that bad?

  As we were leaving, Kirsty whispered something in Sophie’s ear. I was desperate to know what she had said, but Sophie wasn’t letting on.

  I woke early the next morning and went into the kitchen. Sheena was preparing breakfast. ‘She’s for keeps, Sheena,’ I told her, ‘but I’m worried. Even if she accepts me, how would she manage at Ardnish? She’s got a degree in engineering, for heaven’s sake! And all that rain in the winter, the lack of money, the loneliness . . . You know what it’s like–’

  ‘She loves you,’ Sheena cut in. ‘She’s not the first smart woman to be lured to the glens by a man – for better or worse, for richer, for poorer, and don’t you forget it!’

  Later that morning, Andrew and I went to the post office to make the call. We had to be back on Tuesday first thing, the Andes would sail that afternoon for Liverpool and then the regiment would travel to Aberdeen to prepare to join the Eighth Army in Italy. Andrew and I cursed as we walked back; we had still been hoping for Norway.

  I would have to report in to Baker Street for a briefing about my assignment and for the first time I wasn’t looking forward to it. I desperately wanted the war to be over so I could be with Sophie.

  As we rode together to the ceilidh that afternoon, Morag asked me for more stories about Ardnish. ‘Tell us about when you were a child there, Angus. Mairi would like that,’ she said, gesturing at her daughter who was sitting wide-eyed beside me in the wagon.

  I didn’t need persuasion. ‘I was an only child, and the only pupil at the school,’ I began. ‘I didn’t mind, though. I’d never known anything different. I had my own teacher three days a week, and he loved languages so I grew to love them. I learned French and Latin as well as being fluent in Gaelic and English.

  ‘I would build sandcastles as high as myself, with Grandfather sitting beside me, telling stories of our family from hundreds of years ago. I trapped rabbits, and once caught a wildcat in my snare; a huge, angry beast. I ran up to the house and Grandfather came up with a sack to put over its head and we carried it over the hill, well away from Grandmother’s hens, and set it free.

  ‘And there was an old man called the Bochan when I was very young. He was rearing a golden eagle chick that had fallen out of its nest. I named it Iolair, which is Gaelic for eagle. The Bochan and I would hunt for mice and tear up scraps of meat for it, and before it was six months old we would watch it soaring above the village. I used to hope it would swoop down to me and perch on my arm. Two years later, she had chicks, on the cliffs at the north side of the peninsula. I climbed all the way down to see them, and later Grandmother told me that my father used to do the same when he was my age.’

  The ceilidh was in full swing when we arrived. You could hear the fiddles, the stamp-stamp-stamp of feet and the clap-clap-clap of dancers’ hands from three hundred yards away. Apart from the fiddlers, there was a pianist and people playing Jew’s harps, mouth organs and even kitchen spoons. Sheena and I borrowed some instruments, and I played a few jigs on the pipes which everyone danced furiously to, and then Sheena and her fiddle joined with the band in playing Strathspeys and reels, with everyone square dancing: arms by the side and those intricate foot movements at which even the largest men seemed adept.

  Morag surprised us by getting up and singing two lovely songs in Gaelic, with people joining in for the choruses.

  The table was laden with food – hams, turkey, chicken and pastries – and with beer, whisky, dark rum and a local moonshine that was consumed in great quantities. My Lord, I thought, the people in Britain would be green with envy seeing a spread like this.

  Sophie was new to all this. All the men wanted to dance with her, and she was like an excited young teenager all evening. I watched with a mixture of pride and envy as she whirled through the reels.

  After everyone had bid farewell, we climbed into the wagon and headed in the first light to a friend of Sheena’s to sleep for a few hours. Sophie confessed that her feet felt as if she’d been walking on broken glass but that it had been the best night of her life.

  We rose late the next morning, knowing that there was to be a Mass at eleven o’clock. After communion Sophie whispered in my ear, ‘I am praying that you’ll return safe to me.’

  ‘I will, my darling, I promise.’

  That evening, Sheena, Morag and I discussed how to tell my grandmother about Morag and wee Mairi, and we all agreed that Father Angus would be the best person to break the news. I promised to take the first opportunity to see him and explain the situation.

  The next morning, the early sun was shining through the window and Sophie’s head was on my shoulder.

  ‘Last night was the first night I didn’t have my nightmares,’ she said. ‘It was because you were there beside me. I can’t tell whether I’m incredibly happy that I have got you back, or completely miserable that you’re leaving! But if you don’t come back to me, I’ll come and find you, I promise.’

  I asked what she would do when I was away. She said that she hoped to teach mathematics at a school in Chéticamp, or maybe in Montreal where she could live with her sister. With conscription and the men away, there was a shortage of mathematics teachers. She said she needed to keep busy, not hang around being miserable at home. ‘I’ll not come to the station to see you off, though,’ she said. ‘I’d only weep buckets and disgrace myself. Instead I’ll take the horses and head off home, try to make it in one go.’

  ‘Don’t expect to hear from me too soon, my love,’ I said sadly, ‘but you know I’ll be thinking of you every day.’

  Chapter 18

  The ship was packed to the gunwales. I surveyed the scene from high up on the deck. Looking at the artillery, tanks and trucks lined up at the docks made me understood the enormous contribution the Canadians were making to help win the war. Designed to take two thousand, this ship had five times that number on board.

  Training continued on board: assembling weapons, press-ups, even an officers’ shooting match with pistols fired at bottles off the stern. However, the men were short of kit; there had been a fire in the stores in Jaspe
r after Andrew and I had left.

  All the talk was of Operation Overlord, the big push that we believed would win the war. As we sailed, D-Day was happening. It was the 6th of June. The officers were not that happy about going to Italy after all their recent training. Everyone wanted to go to Norway, but it was the fifth year of the war and most of the men still hadn’t fired a shot in anger and wanted to do their bit. We were all painfully aware that the other Highland regiments – the Camerons, Seaforths and Gordons – had suffered huge losses while the Lovat Scouts had had it relatively easy.

  After docking at Liverpool, Andrew and I said goodbye. He was desperate to do his bit for the war effort. The Scouts knew what was in store for them, but I didn’t. However, I seemed to have a habit of ending up back with the battalion, so maybe I’d see them again in Italy.

  I checked in at Baker Street where they registered me as fit for operations. I decided to visit the Gubbinses as I hadn’t seen them since Michael had died. Over tea, Mrs Gubbins told me all she knew about her son. ‘You can’t imagine the sadness that the death of one’s child causes until you have experienced it,’ she said, as I searched hopelessly for words of comfort.

  We talked late into the night about Michael and how he had loved the SOE. The colonel had been promoted to brigadier recently and had been working harder than ever since Michael’s death. She hardly saw him these days; he’d not had a day off in four months.

  Within a couple of days I was sent on a four-day wireless course at Belhaven Hill, just south of Edinburgh, and while there I took the opportunity to invite Father Angus to dinner at the North British Hotel.

  ‘I have a surprise for you, Uncle Angus,’ I said. ‘Brace yourself.’

  ‘Very well,’ he said nervously.

  ‘Aunt Sheena has a daughter named Morag, and Morag has a daughter of her own, named Mairi.’

  My uncle was flabbergasted. ‘How on earth are we only finding this out now?’ he asked.

  ‘She didn’t know she was with child when Colin Angus died. She signed up for the boat to Cape Breton and was so seasick she didn’t realise until she was well into the journey. She told me there hasn’t been a moment since then that she hasn’t longed to tell your mother.’

  Father Angus scrutinised my face. ‘Do you think if she didn’t have a priest as a brother she would have told us before now? Did she think I would be so disapproving?’

  I paused slightly too long. ‘I think she felt ashamed. Maybe thirty years ago, with her so young and this sort of thing completely unacceptable . . .’

  ‘Dear God,’ he exclaimed, ‘that’s nothing compared to what I hear in the confessional box. I feel awful. She must have felt so lonely.’

  ‘Might you be going up to Ardnish some time soon, Uncle Angus?’ I asked. ‘Sheena thinks it might help if Grandmother heard the news from you.’

  I told him about Morag having been married for ten years to a Skye man called Calum Beaton, whereupon my uncle banged the table with his fist, his face lighting up.

  ‘No! He came to see me a few months ago. We had a cup of tea and chatted about the Cranachans at Mull River and he seemed to know a lot about Sheena. He was on leave from France and was heading up to Dunvegan to see his grandparents. I wish he’d told me everything then. He mentioned he was married to a girl called Morag, but of course how would I have known? I do remember wondering why he had called on me.’

  *

  Back at Belhaven, I was called to the telephone. I should waste no time. I was going to Peterborough, and a car would take me to Milton Hall. I’d never heard of Milton Hall, a huge stately home with a sea of Nissen huts. I was met by a Colonel Buckmaster.

  A group of soldiers known as the Jedburghs had been selected for a new task when I was in Canada. Whereas the SOE had been clandestine and tasked with the mission of ‘setting Europe ablaze’, in Churchill’s words, the Jedburghs (each of which comprised three men) were to be as open as possible – a highly visible support for the Resistance. We were to wear uniform on this assignment, I was told, whereas in the SOE enormous effort went into ensuring we were convincingly dressed as the locals. I wore my Lovat Scout hat and regular army fatigues. Some even wore kilts.

  I was a month behind the others in my group, who were already in situ in France. I was to replace a Major Channon who had broken his leg badly when parachuting in. Because I was familiar with the Chamonix area and a fluent French speaker, I was the obvious choice for an urgent replacement. I was dropped into occupied France, along with canisters of Sten guns, Lee-Enfield rifles, Mills grenades, anti-tank weapons, as well as tons of explosives, medical supplies, clothing and food.

  Claude, my old friend, was now a Maquis battalion leader. He was accompanied by a dozen men. I was with my Jedburgh team of wireless man Sergeant Bill Thomas and an operative called Leon Ball, who was attached to us from the OSS, the SOE equivalent in the USA. There was a frantic loading up of the supplies into Claude’s rickety old truck before the Germans could arrive at the drop-off point and then we sped off into the relative safety of the forest above Les Contamines.

  The men were living in tents in the forest and were grateful for the American ration packs. Their food had been running short and they couldn’t believe their eyes when they unpacked real coffee and chocolate.

  When I asked Claude how Marie was, his face clouded over and he hissed, ‘She was killed last year. Driving my car. They fired at her as she approached a checkpoint. After me, of course, the bastards.’

  ‘I am so sorry Claude,’ I said, distressed by the news, but he shrugged and said nothing further.

  To raise his spirits, I told him the good news about Sophie – how I’d found her in Canada only a few weeks ago and that I was intent on marrying her. ‘You’ll be my best man,’ I declared, ‘and then we’ll go to Ardnish and repopulate it all by ourselves!’

  Together, over the following week, we drilled Claude’s three-hundred-strong outfit until it functioned like a military unit. We appointed ex-policemen and soldiers as sergeants, and started a programme of arms and explosives training and tactics for engagements with the enemy.

  I relished being in the Alps that summer. The meadows were full of flowers and there were beautiful, ice-cold rivers to swim in. If we hadn’t been working from dawn to dusk I would have loved to have gone climbing. I thought about Sophie all the time, how she would appreciate the scenery and the fresh air. I didn’t even know if she had chosen to stay with her parents or move to Montreal.

  Colonel Buckmaster had told us that a key aim was to prevent the widely dispersed German troops from moving together to build divisions or armies. Claude’s superior, Henri Baud, who commanded the Chamonix battalion, had reported that the troops in Chamonix were planning to move down towards Bourg-Saint-Maurice. We agreed that the best strategy would be to trap the Germans by repeating the successful landslide of the previous year. However, because we had more men this time, we would set up an ambush so that when the Germans inevitably sent soldiers down to investigate, we would be ready for them, too.

  Claude drove his truck with the explosives to Vaudagne and forty of us went over the mountain, only this time it was during the night with not a flake of snow. There was much less reconnaissance necessary since it had been done before and the explosives were in position in under twenty-four hours. I set the charges and then left Leon to push the plunger at six in the morning, by which time the rest of us would be down the mountain in readiness to carry out the ambush.

  At dawn the mountain erupted, with rocks falling closer to us than we had anticipated. Two armoured cars came charging down the road. As they pulled up at the rockfall I shot them with the anti-tank launcher. Immediately the Resistance rushed forward, crowding around the vehicles, desperate to kill the Germans despite my furious yelling at them to back off. At that moment, another armoured car hurtled around the corner and a hail of bullets killed three of our men.

  It was a deadly lesson in discipline for the survivors.

 
; Leon Ball was a great character – a lover of pranks and high-risk sorties. He had discovered that a guesthouse in Les Contamines, which was used as a German outpost, was manned overnight by only half a dozen men. He crept into the guards’ room, shot the man on duty with his pistol, stole the Mercedes staff car from their garage – resplendent with flag and Gestapo pass – and drove it back to the barn in Vaudagne. I couldn’t help but admire his audacity and I was pleased to see how this one act of bravery inspired the others.

  Every two or three days we would set ourselves goals: blowing railway tracks, pylons and bridges, as well as ambushing trucks and staff cars. The local roads soon emptied of Germans as they holed up in their camps. We controlled the roads, making sure that there was no direct confrontation with troops but harrying them, then slipping away.

  Leon had a long-range rifle and positioned himself in the forest, six hundred yards away from the Hotel de la Paix where the Gestapo were based in Chamonix. He shot a German or two each day until they learned not to come out of the building. Another hotel, the Majestic, was used by the Germans for the injured and sick, mostly military, and so Leon concentrated his fire on the other building.

  Then came a stalemate as we waited for the regular Allied troops on Operation Anvil to arrive. However, it didn’t stop the Germans strafing us from their aircraft. They carried out a bombing raid on Les Contamines, which I suppose was unsurprising as it was now a hotbed of resistance.

  Sensing the end of the war coming and that there wouldn’t be many other opportunities, Claude and Henri decided we should throw a party for the battalion. It was kept a secret from the men until the day. Dead wood was dragged into a clearing to make a bonfire, a precious bullock was butchered, and I set to organising a makeshift Highland games.

  While the meat was cooking we had inter-platoon competitions, tossing the caber, shot-putting, a tug-of-war and a hill race. The French loved every minute of it. I was sorry not to have my bagpipes with me to complete the event. Some wine and brandy had been liberated from a long-forgotten, dusty old cellar and inevitably everyone got drunk.