Rhanna at War

by Christine Marion Fraser

  ‘You’re lucky.’ Babbie sounded wistful. ‘It must be a good warm feeling to have a father – or a mother – or both. You have one, I have none, yet most people have both and never appreciate the fact.’

  ‘Och, c’mon, Babbie.’ Shona’s voice was gentle. ‘You must have someone . . . surely everyone has someone.’

  ‘No, not everyone. I was lucky, I had an older sister – we were in the orphanage together. She left before me and though she married we always kept in touch. We were always fighting in the orphanage – you know what sisters are – oh, but of course, you don’t – so sorry.’ She paused for a moment then continued slowly. ‘They say that sisters who fight a lot as kids are really very close even while they’re pulling lumps from each other. Well, it’s true, the closeness I mean. We had wonderful times when we grew up, even after Jan got married – then – she died, three years ago now – she was twenty-six. I still miss her so.’

  Shona caught her breath. ‘Oh, dear God, how sad you must be, to have someone you love die so young. How can you bear not having anyone in the world you can call your own?’

  A little smile hovered round Babbie’s lips, and her eyes were very faraway. ‘But I’m not alone, Shona. I have friends. I have you here, I have others scattered everywhere and . . .’ She laughed suddenly. ‘Underneath all my heathen ways I’m really very close to my Maker. I’ll see Jan one day, I know that for sure. It’s quite exciting when you stop to think about it.’

  A little groan from the bed made them both jump. ‘Our young hero is still in the land of the living anyway,’ Babbie said. In seconds she was a cool, efficient little nurse again, whose devotion to her patient seemed to divorce her from everything that went on in the world outside the sickroom, and Shona slipped quietly out of the house to meet Anderson and walk with him up the lonely moon-washed glen to Laigmhor and the people she loved.

  Anton’s brain was swimming. He felt as if he was in a vortex which was spinning him round and round, carrying him in a sickening whirl of motion towards the face of the mountain. He struggled to get away from it, to rise upwards and outwards from the gyrating force that held him, but he hadn’t the strength to struggle, or even to cry out. All he could do was pray silently, ‘Please my God, do not let me die now. I am sorry, I am sorry – for everything.’

  A river was rushing down the face of the mountain. He could see it glinting in a strange heavenly light, some of it was splashing on to his cheeks, but it wasn’t cold like he thought it would be. It was warm, warm and salty . . .

  Salt water did not run down the face of a mountain. He put out his tongue slowly and licked the water . . . only it wasn’t water – it was tears, his tears! Commander Anton Büttger was crying like a baby. ‘Don’t let me die a coward. Oh God! Please don’t let me die a coward!’ he sobbed in a demented torture of mind and body. His head was throbbing and something deep in his belly was burning like the fires of hell. Was that it? Was he dead and already in hell? Was this his punishment for killing all those people he had killed when he was alive? A bubble of sheer terror rose in his throat. ‘Please God not this!’ The thoughts clamoured into his aching head. ‘Let me live a little while longer to let me prove I am worth somewhere better than hell.’

  ‘Please, God!’ he cried aloud, opening his eyes suddenly. But everything was in a mist. The mists of hell! Smoke from the fires? The fires of hell or the fires of burning towns? The haze was lifting a little, his eyes were beginning to focus and he saw that he was in a little room with rose-sprinkled wallpaper, canted ceilings, and a tiny deep window looking out to bronzed hills basking dreamily in the sun. He was back home, in Berlin, in his own bedroom; his mother was downstairs cooking breakfast. The fragrant smell of sizzling bacon drifted up to his nostrils. The door opened and someone came in. He struggled to sit up. ‘Mother! Mother, is that you?’ But it wasn’t his mother, it was a young woman with eyes the colour of emeralds and a halo of hair which made him think of the setting sun. She put out a cool little hand and touched his forehead.

  ‘Are you – an angel?’ he said in some bemusement. ‘Am I in heaven?’

  Babbie smiled and said dryly, ‘An angel? With hair this colour? More a devil I’d say, Mr Büttger?’

  ‘I was never lucky with women,’ he said with a little smile, his eyes still drowsily half-shut. ‘But I can tell . . . you are Scottisch. A Scottisch devil might not be so bad. My mother, she spent a holiday in Scotland once and she tells me, when I am a little boy, the Scottisch, they are kind. Are you kind – Fräulein?’

  ‘You speak English well, Mr Büttger.’ Babbie was struggling to remain aloof. She was looking at the tears glistening through his lashes, at the pale handsome face lying on the pillow. It was a fine face, sharply chiselled, boyish, very delicate in the morning light with faint purple shadows under his eyes. He had come through a night of hell. She had bathed him, talked to him soothingly in the delirium of his nightmares, touched him and all the time she had had to keep reminding herself he was a German, a young man who flew planes and committed himself to killing other young men, young men with boyhood still stamped on their features . . .

  ‘You do not like Germans, Fräulein.’

  The statement caught her unawares. ‘Nonsense,’ she said brusquely. ‘Come now, enough chatter. I want to examine you . . . Oh, it’s all right, Mr Büttger, I am a fully-trained nurse. To me you are just another patient.’

  At that moment he opened his eyes wide and the blue brilliance of them in his white tear-stained face made her catch her breath. They were luminous eyes, and even though he was ill, keen and sharp and clear. She felt as though he could see right into her very soul. Already the sight of his frost-blackened fingers had brought a lump to her throat, and now – those eyes, looking at her with unwavering perceptiveness . . .

  ‘How are you feeling, Mr Büttger?’ she said briskly, trying to hide her confusion.

  ‘A short time ago I thought I was dead – dead in hell . . . When I saw you coming through the door I thought I must be mistaken . . . and I was instead . . . in heaven.’

  ‘I’ll get the doctor to come up and have a look at you,’ she said, tucking his hands back under the blankets.

  ‘Can you tell me first – what happened, where am I . . . and what day it is, Fräulein?’ His voice was cultured, his broken English utterly charming, like little notes of sweet music occasionally touching the wrong chord.

  ‘You hurt yourself when you baled out of your plane and Doctor McLachlan operated on you yesterday. You are in Scotland, on an island in the Hebrides – and today is March the 15th . . . two days after the first attack by German bombers in Clydebank and Glasgow.’

  Babbie was immediately sorry for her last words. Anton had turned his head away from her and was looking unseeingly at the rugged slopes of Sgurr nan Ruadh. One hand came out of the blankets to grip the white counterpane but only two fingers moved, the rest lying immobile, rendered useless by the ravages of frostbite.

  She bit her lip. ‘Are you hungry, Mr Büttger? If you managed to eat something it would do you good.’

  ‘I was, Fräulein,’ he whispered through white lips. ‘When I smelt breakfast frying I felt very hungry. I thought, you see, that I was home in Berlin and my mother was up already preparing the morning meal . . . But I was dreaming – my mother is dead, and so too are the rest of my family. No, Fräulein, I don’t think that I am very hungry any more.’

  ‘I’ll – I’ll see if I can bring you something to tempt your appetite . . .’ She faltered and ran downstairs and into the kitchen where Phebie was at the stove and the rest of the family seated at the table.

  ‘Mr Buttger is awake,’ Babbie reported tonelessly. ‘I think he might eat something if coaxed enough – but his fingers are in a bad way. I fear he may have to lose them after all.’

  ‘I’ll go up and have a look,’ Lachlan said, rising at once and going to the door where Elspeth was hovering, having arrived just in time to hear Babbie’s words.

  �
�Hmph! A fine thing indeed,’ she snorted, outraged, ‘when a German comes into this good home and uses up the rations that are scarce enough as it is!’

  ‘He can have my rations,’ eight-year-old Fiona piped up, her bright eyes flashing in her rosy face. ‘I like Mr Büttger, he’s a very interesting-looking German with all those bandages all over him and eyelashes like butterflies’ wings.’

  ‘And who asked your opinion, Madam?’ Elspeth flashed. Behind her back Fiona made a hideous face. The unlovable old lady was as attached to her as she was to the other McLachlans, but Fiona, being the youngest member of the family, received most of the brunt of her razor-sharp tongue and was forever trying to get her own back. From time to time she played terrible tricks, sometimes contenting herself by just casting spells over Elspeth from the safety of her bedroom, but none of them had ever worked, and in the end the little girl had decided that a toad was a far nicer creature to look at than Elspeth and didn’t deserve the fate of inhabiting Elspeth’s bony frame for the rest of its life.

  ‘I’m saving my butter ration for Mr Büttger,’ Fiona persisted, ‘and for Niall, too, when he gets home. I wish he’d hurry up. I want to show him my frog spawn.’

  At her words Phebie’s eyes filled with tears and the pan of frying bacon wavered before her eyes. Babbie went to her and put an arm round her shoulders. ‘Please, don’t – don’t worry yourself so. It will be all right. He wasn’t spared the war for nothing. There’s a better plan for your son’s life.’

  ‘But – there’s been no news – nothing, and I don’t know how long I can go on,’ Phebie said brokenly, dabbing her eyes with the corner of her apron. A sob of despair broke from her and she rushed out of the kitchen and into the parlour. The picture of the boy Niall was there, on top of the dresser, smiling his beautiful, cherubic smile while the sparkles of mischief exploded from his eyes and brought smiles to the lips of all who looked into them. Phebie ran a tender finger over the glass, tracing the handsome young features she knew so well.

  ‘So that’s Niall,’ Babbie said softly, coming up behind her.

  Phebie nodded, her plump sweet face pink with pride and grief. ‘Ay, my laddie, at fourteen. He’s bigger now but he still does daft things, like pinching buttered scones behind my back and chasing me round the kitchen table . . . and sweeping me up in his arms when he comes home . . . and . . . and . . .’ Her voice faltered and she couldn’t go on.

  Babbie took her into her arms and let her cry against her shoulder. She looked at the picture of fourteen-year-old Niall. Something about the boyish face tugged at her memory but the abrupt arrival of Lachlan in the room startled her back to reality.

  ‘No breakfast for Anton, I’m afraid. Those fingers will have to come off. Today, this morning.’ He strode over and took Phebie from Babbie and into his arms. He stroked her hair tenderly, and over her head his eyes met Babbie’s. ‘You’ve had an exhausting night, Babbie, and could be doing with a good whily to yourself. I canny ask you for any more help. I’ll manage the operation myself . . .’

  Babbie was aghast. ‘And do you think I would stand back twiddling my thumbs and let you carry on, on your own? Oh, no, Lachlan, you’re not getting away with that . . .!’ She paused and gave a little laugh. ‘Just promise me one thing – when this is all over – will you call me Florence Nightingale?’

  His brown eyes flashed for a moment and he put out his free arm. ‘Come into the bosom of the family – Miss Nightingale.’

  Her green eyes smiled, hiding the turmoil of doubts, fears and apprehensions that slid through her mind in a crazily jumbled procession.

  Part Four

  Rhanna

  March 16th 1941

  Chapter Ten

  As Niall watched Portcull coming nearer, specks in the bay resolved into the warm-hearted, familiar folk who had filled his thoughts constantly in the last few days. It was very early on Sunday morning and the scene was even more peaceful than usual because, as Niall knew, most folk were indoors donning Sunday best as they prepared for kirk.

  No ferries travelled to Rhanna on Sundays but he had been lucky to arrive at Oban to find one of the Rhanna fishing trawlers ready to leave with the tide. He had managed to get some sleep in a cramped little cabin below decks but still felt heavy and weary. He hadn’t been able to get word through to his folks that he was on his way home, and his thoughts were full of anxiety as to how they must be feeling. The picture of the Clydebank holocaust was keen on his mind. He couldn’t forget the first night of the raids when his duties as an Air Raid Warden had taken him from horror to horror, and finally into hell on seeing that the place he called ‘home’ in Glasgow was no more. Despite a broken right arm and multiple bruises he had stayed on in the devastated areas of Clydebank to assist the rescue parties and help with the evacuation of the homeless thousands.

  He stood on the deck of the boat and with hungry eyes devoured the serenity of the Hebridean island of his birth. After the chaos of Clydebank it was strange to look at a place where people ambled rather than walked, and never ran if they could possibly avoid it. The morning sparkled in a palette of breath-taking colours: the purple of the mountains thrusting stark peaks into the soft blue sky; on the hill slopes a faint fuzz of light green showing through the tawny patches of winter bracken, contrasting with the darker spires of the tall pines. Skirting the harbour, the cottages stood out like dazzling white sugar lumps, each one sending out fluffy banners of variegated smoke, and below it, a tranquil blue sea lapped the silvered white sands. Niall watched it all come closer, and he sniffed the well-remembered scent of peat fires. Closing his eyes he let the babble of the gulls and the slop of the waves wash over his senses till his heart surged with joy. And in the ecstasy of the moment he imagined Shona would be there to meet him as in days gone by . . . But that was all in the past. He wondered if she was thinking of him now in Aberdeen, wondered if she had heard about the raids and the destruction of his ‘home’ . . .

  As the trawler puffed into the bay, pushing and slapping against the pier, a row of pipe-smoking old men sat on the harbour wall, watching the proceedings with languid interest. Old Joe, perched on a lobster pot, and looking like a snowy-haired gnome with his pipe sending busy little blue-grey clouds into the face of a sea-stained crony, suddenly let out a cry. ‘St Michael be blessed!’ He had spotted Niall coming down the gangplank. ‘It’s young McLachlan back from the bombs!’ he yelled, rushing forward. At old Joe’s signal, Ranald, who divided his time between tarring his boats and reassembling a collection of ancient black bicycles with the intention of hiring them out to unwary summer tourists, threw his tarclogged brush into a sticky tin and rose quickly to run to the pier. Others followed in a hurry, and soon Niall was surrounded by the men, who greeted him eagerly, eyeing his plaster-encased arm with sympathetic interest.

  ‘My, my, you’ve been in the wars right enough, lad,’ old Andrew observed gently.

  A smile lit Niall’s weary face. ‘Ay, but I’m home now for a while. My studies will have to wait for a bit.’

  ‘True enough, son, you wouldny get much on paper wi’ that arm,’ Jim nodded wisely. ‘No’ unless you are amphibious. Some folks are – it means you can do things with both hands the same.’

  Niall laughed and looked round the harbour with hungry eyes. ‘It’s as peaceful as ever. And wonderful to be back. I don’t suppose much has been happening on Rhanna.’

  A clamour of protest followed. At that moment the crew of the trawler, who had been away from Rhanna for several days, joined the gathering and everyone vied with each other to regale the audience with greatly embroidered tales about the crashed German bomber. Canty Tam, always to be had wherever there was a crowd, gazed vacantly but smiled with satisfaction at the goriest details. Old Andrew prodded his pipe into the sky, making exaggerated circles to demonstrate to a young fisherman how the bomber had thundered over the village before its final wild flight to the mountains. There were a few moments of pipe-sucking, thoughtful silence with all eyes
fixed on the upper corries of Ben Machrie where trailing wisps of vapour drifted in and out of high secret places.

  ‘It must have been quite a sight,’ was the eventual general verdict.

  Tam McKinnon nodded seriously. ‘Terrible just,’ he stated lugubriously. His cronies then nodded in sad agreement though, with the exception of Righ, not one of them had witnessed the event. But Righ was fast asleep in the lighthouse cottage and Tam was able to embroider his tale, helped by the bobbing heads and sympathetic ‘Ays’ of the others.

  Canty Tam smiled secretively at the sky, addressing it with a grimace of conviction. ‘And was my mother not after telling me you was all drunk that night?’ he accused the lacy cloudbanks pleasantly. ‘She said to me only that morning while I was supping my porridge, “You keep out o’ Tam McKinnon’s house, my lad, for he is after doin’ things that will bring the Peat Hags on him.”’ He brought his gaze from the sky to grin at a vexed Tam. ‘She told me lots more but there was no need for when the bells were ringin’ I saw you all comin’ out o’ your Headquarters an’ you was drunk! That German airy-plane was already on the island then!’

  There was a howl of derision from the fishermen that brought blushes to the faces of the Home Guard.

  ‘Och, c’mon now, lads,’ Tam soothed earnestly. ‘Surely you are no’ believing that foolish cratur. We might have had one or two wee drinks but needin’ them indeed for we were out all night lookin’ for the Huns!’

  But young Graeme Donald, a grand-nephew of old Annack, smiled with quiet radiance into the salt-washed faces of the other fishermen. ‘Are you hearing that now, lads? Everywhere else whisky is scarcer than virgins and here is our Tam bathing in the stuff. Great-aunt Annack might be a cailleach but, by God! she has some nose on her face for sniffing out the hard stuff! She told me the time was near ripe for Tam’s whisky an’ it’s here, lads! We just arrived in time!’ His words were met with a great whoop of approval that sent the gulls screaming from the harbour walls.