A Last Goodbye

by Dee Yates

  ‘You there! Who gave you permission to leave your tent?’

  Josef started at the harsh voice and turned, guessing that the words were a reprimand.

  ‘I was doing no harm,’ he replied in his own language, surmising that the man would not understand what he said. ‘I have been admiring the wonders of creation. What a pity my enemy does not think to do the same.’

  ‘Get back… back to your tent.’ The guard indicated with the point of his rifle. ‘Wait there until you are told to come out.’

  Josef gave a last glance behind him but the magic had gone. Sighing, he lifted the tent flap and stepped into the frowsy atmosphere of sleep. He had been doing no harm. He would do the same tomorrow. Let them shoot him if they had a mind.

  His fellow prisoners were dressing.

  ‘Where have you been, Kessler? Dreaming again, no doubt… or maybe saying prayers to that God of yours.’ It was the squinty-eyed prisoner whom Josef had accidentally collided into the previous day. He was small but stocky. His short hair, tousled from sleep, stuck out in all directions, giving his puffy face and thick neck a thuggish look.

  ‘What is it to you, Vogel? I don’t need your permission to go outside.’

  Vogel stepped up to the younger man, and Josef smelled the stale breath from the face only inches away from his own.

  ‘You need my permission if your behaviour affects us all. Isn’t that right, lads?’ His eyes swept the remaining half-dressed occupants of the tent and there were murmurs of assent.

  ‘There you are. Everyone is in agreement. I heard the enemy reprimanding you just now. I’m telling you, Music Boy, what affects one, affects us all. So don’t go rocking the boat.’ He broke into a cackle at his unintentional reference to their former maritime occupation and turned away to finish dressing.

  Josef swallowed an indignant reply and bent down to tidy his bed. The man was a bully. Better to stay clear of him and avoid trouble in the future.

  But this resolution, easily made, proved difficult to follow. Having breakfasted on a thin salty-flavoured gruel, the entire group of prisoners was lined up in front of their captors. The soldier in charge – at least that was what Josef assumed – stepped forward and began to talk. He was a tall man, slimly built, with a soft moustache. The prisoners looked at one another. Did this fellow expect them to understand? There was a long pause. He spoke again, briefly this time. Another pause… and then a German stepped forward and another… and then Vogel also left the line and joined the other two.

  ‘They want English speakers,’ the man in front of Josef whispered to his neighbour. ‘They need people to translate their orders. I suspect there will be something in it for them… extra food, a more comfortable bed, something of that kind.’ His neighbour smiled ruefully. Josef groaned inwardly, imagining the superiority that Vogel would assume along with the responsibility of translation.

  There were now six men who had admitted their knowledge of the English language. One of them, not Vogel, was given the task of translating what the English officer-in-charge was saying.

  His name, the officer said, was Captain Cameron-Dyet. It was his job to knock the assembled company into shape. Prisoners were not to expect to be idle during their time in Great Britain. While the defeat of the enemy was being concluded, they were to be put to work. That work would be explained later. First though, rules must be put into force for the smooth running of the camp.

  The captain’s voice continued, quieter now and with frequent pauses so that the chosen man had time to interpret what he said and repeat it to the crowd. They were given instructions for collecting water (from the stream running through the valley) and the digging of latrines (a position a short distance from the encampment but within sight of it). A timetable was to be organised for the cooking of meals. Each man would be responsible for cleaning his own dishes and washing his clothes. Supplies would arrive by rail and were to be collected from the station in the village, prisoners chosen for this task were to be supervised by their captors.

  Josef found himself listening to the captain’s voice, rather than that of his translator. He sounded a reasonable man, fair-minded, as much as it was possible to judge. Perhaps it would not be so bad working here. But what on earth had their captors in mind for a workforce of what must be a hundred men or more? Apart from some essential help on the farms of the area – and he supposed the menfolk, like those of his own country, were away fighting – there was nothing else to do.

  16

  Unwanted Intrusion

  Tom’s first letter arrived a month after he had left for the borders to join his battalion. Ellen, pegging out washing, had half an eye on the goings-on at the other side of the valley. The prisoners had been camped there for two weeks now and she had taken to watching their activities after preparing breakfast for her father before he set off into the hills. Anxious at first, her mind was put at rest when they began to assemble each day at first light and march off along the track eastward. Wagons heaped with tools had followed them. Her father said that work on the reservoir was starting and the prisoners were there to do the jobs of the brave lads who had gone to fight. Ellen was glad that Tom was not there to see the work begin, knowing how unhappy he had been with the proposed plans and the loss of his peaceful life in the countryside.

  In the distance she saw Iain Murdie’s cart making its way towards the farm. She stood watching, one arm still raised, clutching the peg with which she had pinioned a sheet. The fabric flapped and slapped around her body and ballooned out as the wind caught it and pulled the line out of Ellen’s grasp. Iain turned off the road and followed the track towards the cottages. Ellen smiled. It would be good to see him. She was lonely. Her father was busier than ever with Tom away, and she had not been able to leave the valley since her husband’s departure.

  ‘A letter,’ he called, waving it above his head.

  ‘Is it from Tom?’ Ellen felt a rush of affection for her absent husband as she came towards the cart.

  ‘How should I know, hen. I’m no’ in the habit of reading other people’s letters. Though judging by the look of it, it’s been through a lot of army hands before it got here.’ He handed it to Ellen.

  Perusing the front of the envelope with a smile, she slipped it into the pocket of her pinafore.

  ‘Are you no’ going to read it?’

  ‘Later,’ she said. ‘Are you in a hurry? Will you no’ stop and have a cup of tea with us?’

  ‘Aye. I’d like that,’ Iain replied without hesitation. ‘Though I must be back at the farm by one. The doctor’s coming.’ He swung his long legs over the side of the cart and climbed down.

  ‘The doctor? Why, what’s happened?’

  ‘It’s my father. He took a turn and my mother had to send for the doctor. He says it’s his heart and he must rest. That’s why I’m here and not making my way to France.’

  ‘Of course,’ gasped Ellen. ‘I’d forgotten you shouldn’t be here at all.’

  ‘They caught me just in time. We were about to embark. I’ve been given a fortnight and then I sail with the next contingent. So I thought I’d come and set eyes on my pretty neighbour!’

  Ellen laughed dismissively. ‘How is your father now?’

  ‘Much better. I’m hoping the doctor will say he can work again. And then I will get off to do what I signed up for. Though at this moment I’m wishing I hadnae’,' he concluded, giving her a wink.

  ‘Aw, Iain. Get away wi’ ye. There’ll be plenty of pretty girls ready and willing when you get back.’

  Netta started to whimper and Ellen turned to the perambulator, which stood in the shade against the back wall of the cottage.

  While Ellen made a pot of tea, Iain nursed the baby, transferring her awkwardly from shoulder to lap, to knee and back to shoulder again, while Netta’s cries rose to alarming proportions.

  ‘She certainly talks more than her father,’ he said with a grateful smile, as Ellen reached out to take her daughter, having placed a mug o
f tea on the table next to him. He leaned over to look at the baby as she quietened in her mother’s arms. ‘But she has a likeness to him, if I’m not mistaken… a very strong likeness.’ He studied Netta’s face – the dark hair, the stubbornness of her tiny jaw. ‘I could almost believe it’s him looking at me. I better behave myself or she might put up a wee fist and punch me.’

  Ellen laughed out loud, Iain’s observation being so uncannily near the mark. It was as if he had known about Tom’s reaction to his previous visit.

  ‘What do you think about all these prisoners?’ Ellen indicated with her head the collection of tents on the other side of the valley.

  ‘Aye, it’s certainly a big camp,’ he replied impartially.

  ‘I’m scared, I don’t mind admitting,’ she went on, ‘having them staying so close to the farm. I’ve taken to locking the door at night. After all, you never know what they might do.’

  ‘You mean if they see a pretty girl like you eyeing them up?’ he joked. ‘Seriously though, I wouldn’t worry too much. Aside from the fact that they’re guarded by our soldiers through the night, I hear they’ve been put to work digging foundations for the new road… and the railway too, if I’m not mistaken. They’ll be too tired at the end of a day’s work to get up to any mischief, that’s for sure. I certainly wouldn’t want to be in their shoes.’

  ‘The railway is being started then?’

  ‘Aye. The work is running well behind time. Dougie Strachan - he's from the Board of Agriculture - keeps us up-to-date, seeing as we will be more effected than most. He says there’ve been a lot of problems, mainly because of the fighting. Money that was promised for the reservoir is being used for the war instead.’ He laughed. ‘Sir Angus has had more headaches than he ever thought possible. He spends most of his time negotiating with the powers that be to get what’s been promised him. I’ve heard he’s been refused building materials and machinery because what’s most important is the supply of arms for the forces. He’s even finding it hard to get hold of second-hand railway materials.’ He paused, taking a gulp of tea, and helped himself to a piece of shortbread. ‘They’ve built several munitions factories north of here, so the demand for extra water is even more urgent. But now Sir Angus can’t get the men to do the work because they’re all going off to fight. That’s why they’ve decided to use the prisoners. I suppose they would rather be busy than locked away doing nothing.’

  ‘Tom’ll no’ like them being here and that’s a fact. He’s upset enough about the plans for the reservoir. Though it will be even worse for yous.’

  ‘Aye. The farm is to be flooded eventually. It’ll be in the path of the reservoir.’

  ‘What will you do then?’

  ‘Father’s been having talks with the Waterworks. There’s plenty of our land that’s outwith the planned flooding, so a new house will have to be built alongside the water.’ He shrugged. ‘They’re upset, my parents, naturally. I’m upset. But I try and tell them that it’ll be a long time in the future, the way things are going. And who knows what will happen before then?’ He looked at Ellen fondly. ‘There’s no point you worrying your pretty head about it either. Though I suppose it might be best for now if you keep the door locked at night.’ He sighed and rose to go. Putting his hands on her shoulders, he looked at her sadly. ‘I’ll miss you, Ellen… more than you think.’

  And then he leaned across the baby and put his lips to Ellen’s, causing Netta to thrash her arms and grumble in protest at the restriction. Turning abruptly, he walked to the door, which they had left open, took a few strides to where the horse was tethered, loosed the rope and jumped into the cart. He set off without a backward glance.

  Ellen stood at the front of the cottage and watched him until he and his wagon were nothing but a speck in the distance. They rounded the bend in the road and were gone.

  Flustered by his boldness, Ellen sat down and unbuttoned the front of her blouse to feed the baby. Once Netta was settled to the breast and suckling contentedly, she pulled out the letter and tore open the envelope. It was dated two weeks previously.

  Dear Ellen,

  I hope this finds you well. We are sailing tomorrow. I am not allowed to tell you our destination.

  I miss you and Netta. Hopefully the war will soon be over and I will be back home with you again. Till then, I trust that you are remembering what I said. Stay on the farm. Don’t do anything unwise. Keep away from other men. These are dangerous times.

  Assuring you of my undying devotion,

  Your husband, Tom.

  The excitement that had accompanied the opening of her letter evaporated somewhat. She tossed the page onto the table in front of her and a breath of wind wafted it onto the stone floor.

  ‘Goodness!’ she addressed her feeding baby. ‘Your father keeps me more of a prisoner than yon men.’ She stared across at the camp and, maybe out of curiosity or maybe an unconscious inclination to flout her husband’s wishes, she decided that she and her little girl would take a walk along the valley to see for themselves all the activity.

  *

  Along the far end of the rutted farm track where it joined the road, tents covered every available fragment of flat land. Canvas slapped noisily in the strengthening wind as Ellen struggled with the perambulator. Now that she was in the middle of the encampment, she felt uncomfortable, almost like an interloper, although she had every right to walk along the road and had done so innumerable times before. It was eerily deserted now. If there were men guarding the tents, they were not in evidence as Ellen and her daughter passed through into the heart of the valley.

  Past the camp, Ellen breathed more easily. The land belonged to her again. Here the wide meanderings of the lethargic river dominated the view. A heron flapped lazily into the air and lumbered over the water in the hopes of a more advantageous fishing spot, while on the hill to her right an unseen curlew bubbled mournfully. They made her forget for a while the unwanted intrusion.

  But not for long. Rounding a bend in the road, she saw in the distance a long string of men intent on their activity, though what that was she could not quite make out. She hesitated, wondering whether to turn back. But the thought of Tom’s letter made her go on. She was not going to be prevented from living the innocent life she had always lived because of the mistaken fears of her husband.

  It was back-breaking work that the prisoners were engaged in, she could see that now. About half of them were digging with shovels and picks at the side of the road. A short distance away and slightly down the slope, the rest were employed with similar implements. They were burrowing into the banking in order to create a wide swathe of flat land parallel to the existing road. Ellen stared with interest at the excavations. Presumably they were preparing for the railway line that Iain had told her about. She paused, afraid to walk through the men working on either side of the road. Her heart began to beat faster and a rising colour crept into her face.

  ‘Just pass on through, miss.’ The words were spoken by a tall uniformed man who appeared to be overseeing the activity of the workmen. ‘They won’t do you any harm. That’s right. Come this way. We’ve no desire to disrupt the normal working of the community.’

  ‘I… I often walk along here with the baby,’ Ellen said, smiling uncertainly. ‘She needs to be out in the afternoon, ken, else she gets bored.’

  ‘Of course she does,’ the tall man smiled. ‘As I said, we don’t want anything to be any different from how it has always been.’

  Ellen nodded her thanks and proceeded to walk the length of the excavations, her face struggling to assume an indifferent expression in the presence of a hundred curious pairs of eyes fixed on her. She was struck by the look on their faces. Many were pale, some looked ill and one or two had troublesome coughs. Although they were curious, no one spoke as she passed. They merely gazed at her, before turning back to their digging.

  Having gone this far, she was obliged to go further, for fear of looking ridiculous if she immediately turned back.
So she walked briskly on until she neared the farm belonging to Iain Murdie’s father. It was a long time since she had seen Iain’s mother who, now that Ellen was married, presumably thought her no longer in need of oversight.

  Margaret Murdie’s welcome was a warm one when she saw that it was Ellen on the doorstep, and she lost no time in sharing her fears about the forthcoming changes to the valley.

  ‘Progress? How can they call it progress when we farming families will be made homeless? It’s all very well for Iain to tell me not to worry. How can I help but worry?’ She took a large handkerchief from the pocket of her pinafore and wiped her eyes. ‘This farmhouse has been in Robert’s family for generations. I don’t want to move into a new house, even if they agree to build it. I like this one. So does Robert. All the worry is making him ill, ken. It’s a sad day when you see everything you’ve worked for disappearing under the water.’ She blew her nose loudly, and abruptly continued, ‘But look at me. I’ve not even offered you a seat. And you’ll take a cup of tea? You’ve called on the right day because I did my baking today, so it’s gey fresh.’

  Ellen smiled. If she remembered rightly, Mrs. Murdie did her baking most days and could always be relied on to produce something mouth-wateringly good.

  ‘Tell me, lassie,’ she said, setting out cups and saucers on the table. ‘Have you heard from your Tom since he went away? Your father must be busy without him. How is he, the poor man?’

  ‘He’s fine, though he is busy, and aye, I had a letter from Tom today. He’s sailed for Europe.’

  ‘The poor soul! I will pray that he returns to you safely, child.’

  Mrs. Murdie's words brought to Ellen a tinge of guilt for her earlier annoyance. Tom was about to embark on an undertaking for which, she suspected, he had no inclination.