Rhanna at War

by Christine Marion Fraser

  They flew out of the cloud and back into a criss-cross probe of searchlights. The flak was falling short. The crew breathed sighs of relief and Jon Jodl felt the sweat drying under his helmet. ‘Thank you, my God in Heaven,’ he prayed childishly and shut his eyes in gratitude. Another raid, another test of nerves was over for a while.

  Then suddenly the flak from an ack-ack gun on the fringe of the town caught them unexpectedly and a hail of lead peppered the fuselage.

  ‘I couldn’t get her up high enough!’ Zeitler roared in disbelief. ‘You should have dropped those bombs, Anton!’ The burst of incredulity momentarily suspended his reactions and the aircraft staggered along for a few seconds then terrifyingly dropped thirty metres. Zeitler felt his backside rammed down into his seat. The others hit the floor like stones. Shuddering gently, the Heinkel was suspended for a split second in the sky, and Zeitler, using his innate airmanship and the visibility that was left, levelled out and stabilized flight without recourse to instruments. ‘Get up here, Anton, and check the damage!’ Zeitler yelled through the intercom.

  Anton lurched into the cockpit, head down to scan the instrument panels. The lights were gone, several of the needles were dead, others swinging senselessly.

  Jon, detached from the intercom, saw Anton yelling at him and pulled aside his helmet to hear Anton shouting, ‘Watch fuel and oil, take this torch.’

  Zeitler waved a gloved hand at the blind-flying group of instruments in front of him and then squinted out through the windscreen. High above, cirrus blanketed off the moon, and below a bank of mist and low stratus obscured the earth.

  Anton was rapidly checking the instruments and saw that the altimeter, airspeed indicator, artificial horizon and gyro compass were either destroyed or useless. ‘Zeitler, set course 155 degrees!’ he commanded sharply.

  At that moment Zeitler sighted a cloud bank looming ahead and told Jon to shine his torch on the grid-ring of the magnetic compass beside his knee. Silently Jon did as told and squinting down, Zeitler set 155 on it.

  Anton realized he would have to read off height and airspeed to Zeitler from the bomb-aimer’s panel and began to crawl back up towards the cupola, but at that moment Zeitler was blinded by a searchlight’s glare reflecting off the instrument panel. The aircraft entered cloud and Zeitler fiercely hauled the plane into a steep port turn, his eyes glued to the bank-indicator and engine revolution gauges, his sole remaining assurances against complete disorientation and a fatal fall.

  They were still in cloud when the crump of a shell shook the Heinkel violently. Zeitler glanced downwards and saw that the compass light was now gone and that only the needle and grid were faintly visible. Panic gripped him just as they flew out of cloud and into clearer skies and he kicked viciously at the rudder bar. The rear part of the fuselage was being tugged from side to side in a crazy motion and though they all knew that the air was streaming over a damaged rudder, Zeitler continued to drum the useless pedal with his foot. For a long moment nothing happened but Zeitler persevered grimly and eventually managed to get the rudder under control with Anton assisting him to stabilize course and level by use of trim and servo. They flew on through the clouding night sky. Everyone was very quiet, even Zeitler, who could sense the others’ resentment at his putting them all at risk for a few moments of greedy triumph.

  ‘Go back to the bombsight, Jon,’ Anton said quietly. ‘Keep reading height and airspeed to Zeitler through the intercom.’

  They were now down to 950 metres and Anton suspected that they were leaking fuel. ‘Throttle back, Zeitler,’ he ordered. ‘Maintain cruising speed of 250 kilometres an hour.’

  Zeitler didn’t answer. He felt drained, so exhausted that he felt if he shut his eyes just then he would die.

  ‘Ernst,’ Anton said through the intercom, ‘how are things up there with you? Radio intact?’

  ‘Kaput!’ Ernst answered shortly. ‘The aerial! Tell Zeitler he’s a bloody maniac, not fit even to ride a bicycle in a cemetery!’

  But Anton, alarmed by the low readings on the still-intact gauges, made no comment. He checked his map and rapidly wrote up his log sheet. Wind speed and direction he could only estimate, and now one hour from target-area, he marked a reckoned position . . . well into the north of England. Through the intercom, at regular intervals, he heard Jon read to Zeitler. Both exchanged comments on the heavy cloud layer beneath them and simultaneously they spotted a breakaway. Visibility was clear below and the moon slanted its pale beam across the sea. Apprehension flooded Anton’s brain and he checked his map again. He realized that they had crossed the English coast and were now over the North Sea. Alarm made him feel weak. Navigational conjectures flashed through his mind. A westerly gale? Zeitler’s compass course? Compass deviation induced by airframe damage?

  ‘Coastline ahead!’ Jon called through the intercom.

  All of them peered towards it. They were flying at less than 1000 metres and could see plainly the moon-flecked waves breaking surf on land. Anton saw that it curved away to port and starboard . . . An island? But where? There were no such places in the North Sea! He examined the compass closely, shading his torch beam with his bare hand, for the luminous paint in the dial was old and long overdue for renewal.

  That was it! Anton gave a muttered curse and cried, ‘Red on blue, Zeitler! We are heading for the Atlantic . . . been flying reciprocal last hour! No hope of reaching base now . . . Circuit this island, everybody on recce lookout!’ Anton had been briefed and mapped only for the operation over the Clyde and had little idea as to where they were. Zeitler had committed the cardinal error of setting the reciprocal course on his compass which meant he was 180 degrees wrong, and had headed north-westerly instead of south-easterly, but Anton bitterly blamed himself. He should have checked sooner. But there was no time now for self-recrimination.

  The starboard wing was dropping. Anton had released the remaining bombs into the black depths of the sea but even so the Heinkel was losing altitude. The engine could burst into flames at any moment though there couldn’t be much fuel left in either tank because the fuel change-over had been made some time ago.

  ‘Get ready to jump!’ he ordered his crew imperatively.

  ‘On that postage stamp?’ Zeitler squawked.

  ‘All right, we go in the sea then!’

  ‘I prefer to swim in kinder waters,’ Zeitler returned sarcastically.

  Jon swallowed his rising gorge, the thought of the inevitable jump bringing him out in a cold sweat. Anton shoved a tin at him and said kindly, ‘Don’t keep it back, Jon. Airsickness is nothing to be ashamed of. What about Kommodore Vati Mölders? Look at the position he is in despite airsickness.’

  ‘Unlike Mölders I have no ambition to be a pilot, ace or otherwise . . . but, thank you for understanding, Anton.’

  Anton crouched by Zeitler. ‘Take her round once more. The island is split by a range of high mountains but there is a good stretch of open ground just beyond. We must all try and land there.’

  ‘I will stay with her,’ Zeitler said.

  ‘You will bail out, and that is an order!’ Anton snapped. ‘It would be madness to attempt a night landing. Look at those mountains . . .’

  The aircraft gave a sudden downward lurch. When she steadied rather shakily, the starboard wing was dropping dramatically and the exhaust manifold was spitting a rush of bright red flame.

  ‘Try to maintain height, Zeitler,’ Anton said. ‘Ready now! Jon, you go first, get it over with.’

  He accompanied Jon to the hatch. The smell of the red-hot manifold made them splutter. Jon swayed dizzily, looking down to the sickening curve of the watery world below.

  ‘Now, Jon!’ Anton ordered and Jon jumped. The airstream grabbed him and hauled him away from the aircraft. Before he pulled his ripcord the speed of the drop churned his belly. He choked on his vomit and barely had time to get his wind before the pull of his released chute brought him up with a jerk. Now he was floating like a piece of thistledown to the dark
little patch of moor. Ernst had followed close on his heels and was just above but behind him.

  ‘Now you, Zeitler,’ Anton said firmly. ‘I will fly her now.’ He was taking no chances with the dogmatic Nazi whose arrogance had led him to believe he was the master of any situation. Zeitler’s eyes flashed but he unbuckled his straps and went without a word, leaving Anton at the controls.

  Part Three

  Rhanna

  March 13th 1941

  Chapter Five

  Angus McKinnon hurried along the shore path that skirted the harbour. The moon had ridden out from its curtain of cloud to shed a pale brilliant light over the now calm Sound of Rhanna. The horizon seemed a timeless distance away and the great stretches of the Atlantic Ocean lay placid and hauntingly beautiful. The River Fallan rushed down from the mountain corries in mercurial wanderings and the sound of it thundered in Angus’s ears as he crossed the bridge. For a moment he stopped to lean on the rough stone parapet, bowing his head to watch the frothing flurry of river tumbling into the sea.

  ‘Uisge-beatha,’ he murmured softly and smiled benignly at the ‘water of life’. The smell of it was like nectar to his senses. On its journeying it had gathered the crystal-clear air of high mountain places; on its flight across the moorlands it had claimed the tang and tinge of peaty heather roots, which gave it a clear, amber glow and made it an altogether soft, fragrant concoction. A light came into Angus’s eyes and his smile was one of triumph. ‘Lovely Uisge-beatha,’ he addressed the river with approval. ‘Tonight you will be proving you are more than just a pretty sight. I’m goin’ now to be havin’ a taste of you.’

  He lumbered on over the bridge but a sound, other than that of the whispering sea, made him stop again and peer upwards into the sky. Was it his imagination or was that a plane he was hearing? It seemed to him he was always hearing planes these days, and without quite knowing why he felt uneasy. He hated the sound of aeroplanes. They sounded peaceful but he knew that was only an illusion. The war had changed everything. No matter how hard he tried he was haunted by an ever-present sense of guilt, which was made worse by the knowledge that two of his brothers had joined the navy. His supposedly bad back gave him no more than an occasional twinge; the heart murmur discovered during his medical examination did not detract from his easy, peaceful life, yet it and the backache had exempted him from active service. But the general opinion was that he was just lazy.

  ‘The Uisga Hags will get you if the Germans don’t,’ Canty Tam had warned, grinning his aimless grin and staring out to sea as if willing all the water witches of myth and folklore to come leaping out to grab Angus in their evil clutches and carry him off to sea.

  ‘It’s a useless idiot like yourself they’re more likely to be after,’ Angus had answered with confidence. Nevertheless he hastened to pray to St Michael, the guardian of those on land or sea, and he was careful to wear his Celtic cross even if he was only mucking out the byre.

  A little wind ruffled the sea and to one cursed with guilt it was easy to imagine that the sigh of Hag voices rode in on the breeze. Angus shivered, pulled his coat collar closer round his ears, and went quickly on his way. He was making for his father’s wash-house, a place that had been grandly christened ‘the Headquarters’. Here a number of men met once-weekly, widely broadcasting the fact that they were, for all intents and purposes, patriotically keeping fresh all the instruction they had received during the Home Guard training courses.

  He knocked hurriedly on the stout door of the wash-house, and there was the sound of scuffling and loud whispering before the door creaked open. ‘You’re late,’ came Tam McKinnon’s muffled reproach. ‘We have started long ago.’

  ‘Ach, I’m sorry, Father. Wee Colin fell out o’ bed and I had to go for Nurse Biddy. Then she was fetched to go over to Todd’s. Was he here when he was taken bad?’

  ‘Ay, and a terrible job we had carrying him outside, for he was drunk as a lord. In the end we just put him in the wheelbarrow and took him home while Ranald went up for the doctor. How is things with him now?’

  ‘The doctor had him opened up when last I saw him.’ Angus gulped at the memory. ‘He says he just caught the appendix in time.’

  ‘Ach, poor Todd, a shame just,’ Tam said sympathetically. ‘But come away in now, son. It is even better than we thought. Like nectar it is, so easy it goes down.’

  Angus had forgotten Todd. He stood in the doorway of the wash-hoosie like a child on the threshold of Wonderland. A suffocating heat rushed out to meet him coupled with the palpable, overpowering fumes of whisky. ‘I could get drunk just standin’ here,’ he said happily, staring into the little room where flames from a peat oven gleamed warmly on a pot that was set into a corner of the room. A concoction of pipes and tubes sprouted from it in a glorified jumble that would have baffled the casual observer. But the sweating, glassy-eyed assembly in the wash-house had had plenty of time to acquaint themselves with the still and its intricate workings.

  Tam McKinnon had acquired the antiquated machinery in a most unexpected manner. He had been fixing the thatch of a blackhouse at Nigg which was used by blind Annack Gow to keep peat and other fuel, though it wasn’t unknown for her to live in the house during the winter months because she claimed it was cosier than the ‘modern hoosie’. A rummage in the byre for a hammer had revealed the pot still, sitting like a nugget of gold amidst an assortment of farm implements and a pile of cow manure. Excitement choking him, Tam had hastened to Annack with an offer to clear out the accumulated junk in the byre.

  ‘How much will you be wantin’?’ she had barked, peering at him through her thickly-lensed specs. ‘An old body like myself has no money to spare with my man gone and only myself to work the croft.’

  ‘Not a farthing, Annack,’ Tam had choked. ‘Just the odd bit of junk you will never be using. Being a handyman I can make use of some of it.’

  ‘Ay, well, don’t be stealing my dung while you’re about it,’ she had returned suspiciously. ‘I need all I can get for my vegetables . . . and a creel or two of seaweed wouldn’t go wrong either,’ she had ended cunningly.

  Tam’s face had fallen at the thought of gathering seaweed and humping it over the hill to Nigg, but the temptation of the still had been too much and the deal had been made. In the process of clearing the byre he had found all the bits and pieces relating to the still and happily had trundled the lot home on his cart.

  Tam had been already adept at making beer and had enjoyed long years of solitary tippling, but the delicate art of making malt whisky needed several pairs of hands, and he had taken into his confidence those of his cronies whom he considered tight-lipped enough not to give his illicit little game away. With much patient devotion the men had carried out the various stages of the whisky-making process, working willingly, the sting of the task taken away by visions of ever-flowing golden whisky. The most critical stage of the business was fermentation and distillation and the men had taken it in shifts to make sure the temperature of the still was kept constant. Bewildered wives, wondering at their menfolk sneaking off in the middle of the night, had been fobbed off with a variety of excuses and long before Tam’s still was ever to prove its worth many a Rhanna wife had harboured suspicions about the faithfulness of her espoused.

  But that was all in the distant past. The first batch of malt, lying in cool wooden casks carefully prepared by Wullie the Carpenter, was ready to be sampled; perhaps a little too soon for proper maturation, but the men could wait no longer to reap the rewards of their labour. In defiance against superstition they had chosen the thirteenth night of the third month for the tasting ceremony. For weeks they had waited for ‘the night of the Uisge-beatha’. Now it was here. Tam had gone into the cool little closet extension of the wash-hoosie and, with the delicacy normally reserved for the handling of the newborn, had brought forth the first cask of matured malt. Quite unconsciously, every man in the gathering had removed an assortment of headcoverings in a moment of homage to the Uisge-beatha, an
d now they lay about the floor, each in a different stage of inebriation.

  In their midst, propped shoulder to shoulder, sat Kate McKinnon and Annack Gow, a long history of temperamental differences drowned in the happy delirium induced by the Uisge-beatha. Annack’s arrival had caused quite a stir, for she had come on the arm of Tammy Brown, one of the confraternity. It had soon transpired that Annack was neither as senile nor as blind as her demeanour suggested.