We Fought for Ardnish Read online

  Angus MacDonald has lived all his life in the Scottish Highlands. He served in the local regiment, the Queen’s Own Highlanders, before building a financial publishing company that was sold in 2007. He now has businesses in recycling, renewables and education, and runs the Moidart Trust, a charitable organisation that helps people to develop companies in the West Highlands.

  Praise for Ardnish Was Home,

  the prequel to We Fought for Ardnish

  ‘A genuine portrait of a time gone forever . . . a very good read’

  Rosamunde Pilcher

  ‘A fast-paced narrative with deeply likeable characters . . . far more than yet another wartime love story . . . impossible to put down’

  Scottish Field, Book of the month

  ‘Extraordinary. I closed the book with the strong feeling of the importance of kinship, the need to nurture one another, and the power of love. It will enter your soul’

  Scots Magazine

  ‘A tragic tale . . . captivating’

  Press and Journal, Book of the Week

  ‘Burns with love for his country . . . [MacDonald’s] plain, easy-going style takes on a natural engaging momentum’

  The National

  ‘What a combination of events to conceive and carefully meld into a fascinating novel . . . the descriptions of life, landscape, struggle and deep feelings are beautifully observed’

  Lochaber Life

  ‘An evocative book opening a window on a way of life as it was, a century ago, in Ardnish, in the West Highlands . . . a compelling account of peace and war’

  Women Together

  ‘Makes for compelling reading and is much more than just a wartime love story . . . a brilliant read that will remain with you long after you finish the last page’

  The Braes

  We Fought

  for Ardnish

  ANGUS MACDONALD

  First published in 2018 by

  Birlinn Limited

  West Newington House

  10 Newington Road

  Edinburgh

  EH9 1QS

  www.birlinn.co.uk

  Copyright © Angus MacDonald 2018

  The moral right of Angus MacDonald to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form without the express written permission of the publisher.

  ISBN: 978 0 85790 994 7

  British Library Cataloguing-in-Publication Data

  A catalogue record for this book is

  available from the British Library

  Typeset by Hewer Text UK Ltd, Edinburgh

  Printed and bound by Clays Ltd, St Ives Plc

  To my wonderful siblings: Peeps, Mairi,

  Jane and Charlotte, who have been so

  supportive of my writing endeavours

  Author’s Note

  We Fought for Ardnish is the sequel to Ardnish Was Home. In it we follow the life of Donald Angus Gillies, from the Ardnish peninsula in the West Highlands, as he joins the Lovat Scouts and then the Special Operation Executive (SOE). My grandfather, Andrew MacDonald, commanded the Lovat Scouts during the Second World War, as his father did in the First World War. Both men feature as contemporaries and friends of Donald Angus and his father in these books. I also bring in Cape Breton in Canada as the home of Donald Angus’s fellow SOE agent Françoise, where many Highlanders emigrated to – including my cousins – in the nineteenth century. Combining the hard rural way of life in the 1940s with the most fascinating military links of the Scottish west coast at that time has been a delight to write about.

  I would like to thank Alison Rae at Birlinn, Erica Munro and Jo-Anne MacDonald for their editing. Also Pierre Dupraz, Hugh Cheape and Lynn Philip Hodgson, as well as many others who helped me with my research.

  Ardnish

  Prologue

  I knew my father had died in a terrible accident – the knowledge had always been buried deep within me – but I had never really discussed it with my mother. She would break down in tears when he was mentioned, and even as a boy, I had no wish to distress her.

  But one winter’s night, as the icy Atlantic blast rattled the windowpanes of our croft, the story finally emerged. I must have been eight or nine at the time.

  We were lying together on the box bed gazing into the peat fire. I could feel the warmth of her body beside me and somehow I knew that she was ready. She was the first to speak.

  ‘Well, Donald Angus, I think it’s time I told you about when I first arrived at Ardnish. I was so upset after what had happened to your father, I couldn’t take anything in on the train journey. There was so much beauty all around that I knew he had loved so dearly. He would have pointed out every hill and hamlet and told me a story of each of them. He had the brightest, twinkling eyes and a constant smile, and I could imagine him there on the train with me chattering away.

  ‘When your uncle Owen and I finally reached Lochailort, we were told to go down to the inn and that the landlady would see us straight. I was six months’ pregnant with you and not very nimble to say the least. We had these heavy suitcases and your father’s bagpipes. The landlady said the walk would be too much, so Mrs Cameron Head lent us a couple of men and a boat. The landlady was keen to find out all about us and finally she asked me the question I had been dreading: where was your father?

  ‘I burst into tears and everything just poured out. I remember she put her arm around me and told me they’d been wondering whether something was wrong. Your grandparents, Mairi and your uncle Angus had all been there to meet the train a few days before, when we were meant to arrive. It was a long row up the loch in a biting cold wind and I was so nervous about meeting the family. Anyway, I managed to hold myself together as the boatmen helped me over the side when we arrived – it was Archie and Calum from Inverailort, you know them. Owen and the dog were over the bow into the sea and he passed our bags to Grandfather.

  ‘Your grandmother knew something was wrong. I could tell from her expression. She looked at me so keenly; her eyes seemed to penetrate my soul. She asked where your father was, and I knew she was willing me to say he’d be here tomorrow but of course . . .’

  Mother fell silent for a moment. I could feel my heart pounding under the blanket.

  ‘My legs gave way and I dropped to the sand, crying all over again. Then I turned to your grandmother and told her that her son was dead. It was the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do in my life.’

  ‘But how did it happen?’ I asked, longing for, yet dreading, the truth. I could scarcely breathe.

  ‘He was knocked over by a tram,’ my mother whispered, ‘in Glasgow. His eyesight was so poor from his injury and he was rushing, and it was just . . . a horrible accident. We were on our way to Ardnish, the war was over, I was expecting you, and I thought we were the luckiest couple in the world, and then . . .’

  ‘Oh, Mother . . .’ I began, but I didn’t have the words to comfort her.

  ‘It was all over in seconds,’ she said, a tear falling from her face onto my hand. ‘Such a waste.’

  ‘He was our hero,’ I announced proudly, tears pricking my eyes for this man I had never known.

  Mother looked at me and nodded, managing a half-smile. ‘Your grandmother fell to the ground and held me so tightly. I remember my whole body shaking with grief. I was weeping and weeping, clawing at the sand. Others from the village came running down to see what the commotion was. They helped me up the beach to the house, sat me in the sun outside the door and brought me a cup of sweet tea with a drop of whisky in it. Your grandfather said it would help me relax.

  ‘It
wasn’t until the next day that I told your grandparents everything about the accident. It’s the only time I’ve seen Donald John angry. He was shouting with rage about the unfairness of it all. “My boy survived being captured and tortured in the hell of Gallipoli!” he was yelling. I remember his face red with fury and the injustice of it all.’

  I pulled the quilt up to my neck to get more comfortable. The rain was still hammering against the windows and the light from the kerosene lamp was flickering in the draught.

  ‘The first few days at Ardnish, I was made to feel so welcome by the whole community. I felt straight away as though I was part of this extended family. People brought shawls, a blanket for the bed, a dress that might fit me, piles of food, venison stew, scones, but, most of all, they gave me their time and their care. The Gaelic was difficult at first, of course. Your father had taught me a few words during our long journey from Gallipoli to Malta, and everyone kindly tried to speak English, but they couldn’t help lapsing into Gaelic. It took me a good year to become fluent.’

  I desperately wanted to hear more about my father. ‘What happened next?’ I couldn’t bring myself to say more but Mother seemed to understand.

  ‘Father Angus, your uncle, went to Lochailort to make arrangements for the funeral. He collected the body from the train and took it to the church. I’m afraid I can barely remember the funeral.’

  I could sense my mother’s grief overwhelming her and cast around for an easier question. ‘And then . . . I was born?’

  This made her smile. ‘There hadn’t been a baby born here since your father, and that was over twenty years before, so your arrival caused great excitement.’

  ‘He never saw me.’

  It was some time before she spoke. ‘No, but you look just like him. The same lovely red hair and freckles, a nose that turns up a bit and a beautiful smile.’ She fought back tears. ‘He was the kindest man you could ever meet. He cared for everyone, whether it was the stubborn old donkey that carried him on our journey, or looking after me when I was so sick. He couldn’t do enough to help. He got that from your grandfather.’

  ‘I wish I’d known him,’ I whispered.

  ‘I do, too. But now it’s time for sleep, dearest boy,’ she said.

  ‘But, Mother . . .’ I didn’t want our talk ever to end.

  ‘School tomorrow,’ she insisted. ‘Say your prayers, and sleep tight.’

  *

  So that was that. My father, Donald Peter Gillies, known as DP to everyone, had been a soldier in the Lovat Scouts in Gallipoli and was appointed personal piper to the commanding officer, Colonel Willie MacDonald, my godfather. DP had been sent on a mission with Sandy, his great childhood friend from the village, to shoot a senior Turkish officer. The mission was accomplished, but both men were captured and tortured, and poor Sandy had died. My father was rescued by his regiment but was in a bad way, with a bullet in his shoulder and a serious eye injury which meant the remainder of his short life was endured with very poor sight.

  After the mission in Gallipoli with Sandy, my father had been brought to the medical station on the beach where my mother was working as a nurse. She cared for him day and night and listened to his tales about his childhood in Ardnish. One day it became clear that the regiment was going to have to leave them behind as my father was unable to travel, and so they found themselves cut off behind enemy lines. These tales of how the pair, alongside my mother’s great friend and fellow nurse Prissie, made their way back to safety enthralled me.

  I understood why my father’s death had been so painful. My parents had endured unimaginable dangers, fallen in love, married, and wanted nothing more than to get to Ardnish where they could begin peaceful married life in my father’s beloved Peanmeanach village. Instead, my mother journeyed here alone, a stranger, and gave birth to me in the place my father loved above all others. It was almost too much to bear.

  Ardnish was an ageing community, apart from my mother, her close friend Mairi and me. The next youngest was my grandmother Morag, an old woman though strong as an ox. It was difficult to get the essential things done: repairing the thatch on the roofs, clearing drains so the vast field behind the village didn’t revert to a bog, managing the horse and plough, cutting the peat, chopping fire-wood. The chores were endless.

  Peanmeanach sits a hundred yards back from the crescent-shaped shore. The smooth machair, full of flowers in the spring, was perfect for playing on, and a sparkling burn, ideal for damming, flowed down to the salt waters of Loch Ailort. Beyond, the high hills of An Stac and Roshven loomed over the village. If you looked to the west you would see Goat Island in the foreground and beyond that, the small isles of Muck, Eigg and Rum. Yet, despite this idyllic setting, there was often fireside talk, especially on a bad winter’s night, about whether we should all just move to Arisaig and leave Peanmeanach to crumble. But although their heads knew the sense of the idea, their hearts told them otherwise. My mother and grandparents would be the last to leave. They knew my father had loved the place more than anything and would only have left in a coffin. Maybe Peanmeanach was their memorial to him.

  The Ardnish peninsula was the best playground that any boy could wish for, and the adults were always on hand to help me make a catapult, dam a burn, or tie a fishing fly. Aged eight, I was allowed to ride over to Slioch on one of the smaller Highland ponies to help the Bochan stack wood or clean his house. It was school three days a week, and chores you wouldn’t believe, carrying water to housebound old Eilidh, and cutting wood and peat for her and our grandparents. In the evenings I would fall into bed, dead tired from all the exertion.

  Aunt Mairi was like a second mother to me. She would tell me of the mischief her son Sandy and DP had got up to. ‘When they were your age, Donald Angus, they were the scourge of the village, always in trouble. They made a den in the cave at Slioch and stayed for two nights without letting on what they were off to do. Everyone was hunting high and low, fearing they were drowned. Another time they hid from the teacher, poor man. Your father got a good skelping that day from your grandfather, that’s for sure.’

  ‘Grandfather hit him?’ I was astonished.

  ‘He had a leather two-tonged strap called a tawse that the boys would get walloped with. “Six of the best” he would cry as the boys pulled down their breeks. He will still have it somewhere. I’m telling you, Donald Angus, he must be getting soft in his old age that you haven’t felt it.’

  I resolved never to ask Grandfather about this for fear of rekindling his enthusiasm for skelping.

  I was the pet of the village, made welcome in every house. A jam-covered scone or other tasty treat would always be found for me with a whispered ‘Don’t tell your mother’. Daffie, Mum’s old collie, was never far from me, and half of every scone or bannock I got was his. When I was a baby, Daffie would creep into my cot and sleep beside me, taking up three-quarters of the space. Mother said I would cry incessantly if she shooed him out. Daffie and I shared a bed until he died.

  Uncle Owen was my mother’s wee brother, but also my best friend in those early years despite our ten-year age gap. He had had a rocky start in life, brought up in Wales by a mother who cared little for his welfare and too young to escape, as my mother had been able to do.

  On the way back from Malta to Ardnish, my parents had spent a few days with Mother’s mother in the Valleys. They realised Owen wasn’t flourishing so they took him north with them. Never had a young lad been happier in the Highlands, utterly content in his own company. It had been the making of him. People found him a wee bit shy at first and it soon became clear that he was not one for school. Our teacher would be beside himself with frustration as Owen couldn’t recite the times table or Latin tenses, despite hours of repetition. But give him a saddle to mend or a tree to cut down and he would work all hours until it was done, and done perfectly. ‘Stick to things you’re good at and avoid what you struggle with. You can’t make a square peg fit a round hole,’ Grandfather would say. ‘Learn a trade
, laddie, and it’ll feed you.’

  And learn a trade he did. He’d always been good with horses and now worked for a blacksmith in Mallaig. He helped to make the beautiful gates at Inverailort Castle, and if the car at Arisaig House broke down, everyone knew that our Owen would stand the best chance of getting it going again.

  Grandfather had pushed him gently away from Ardnish, not long after he left school. I remember the night well. Grandfather, Owen and I were sitting at the table. We had just finished our supper.

  It was a difficult conversation, not only because Owen had declared that he never wanted to leave, but, aged eighteen, he was the only fit and strong man left on the peninsula. Every man’s job was given to him, and he worked hard and willingly. Grandfather knew that sending him away would only accelerate the slow death of Peanmeanach.

  Grandmother and Mother sat by the fire, pretending to be concentrating on their darning, but in reality listening to every word.

  ‘Owen,’ Grandfather began, ‘God knows you are important to us, but you must do what is right for yourself. You need to get a trade and see a bit of life away from here. You can always come back in a few years, maybe with a wife of your own, having saved a bit of money.’

  You could have heard a pin drop.

  The women stayed silent; I think they knew the truth in my grandfather’s words. I opened my mouth to make a suggestion, but my mother snapped, ‘Don’t!’ in such a sharp tone that I realised the gravity of the moment and buttoned my lip.

  Grandfather nursed his glass of whisky and puffed on his pipe. ‘Go and work with Angie MacLellan in Arisaig,’ he said. ‘He’s getting on a bit, and working with horses and machinery is a young man’s job. He might not think he needs a hand, but he does. He’ll pay you a pittance to start with, but within a year you’ll be making good money.’

  And so it was arranged. Not long after, he and Owen headed off to Arisaig. It was an arduous journey for Grandfather. He had fought with the Lovat Scots in the Boer War and lost a leg. His wooden leg was awkward to manoeuvre. They journeyed with two ponies, as Grandfather had a lengthy shopping list of provisions for the winter.