There was one ugly incident. Two Communists became a little too belligerent, and a fight nearly broke out. Claude was across in a second with his pistol, declaring he would shoot the next person who made a move or said a word on the subject.
I was surprised at Claude’s heavy-handed approach and spoke with him later.
‘Communism will be the biggest threat in France after the war,’ he told me. ‘They’re recruiting already and beating up those who don’t support them.’
‘It’s the same amongst the Italian Resistance fighters – the Garibaldi Fascists versus the Communists. At the moment they’re united in fighting the Germans, but after the war, well, who knows?’
Claude said bitterly, ‘Nobody will be in control. That’s the problem.’
The following day I received word that the Americans were only fifty miles away. I was determined to take the surrender of the German troops in Chamonix before they arrived. We knew that the Gestapo had moved into the Majestic and armed the patients with weapons – we could see rifles poking through the shutters. Claude made contact with a hospital orderly and gave her a letter, written in English, to give to the captain, informing him that if he surrendered there would be no deaths and everyone would be treated fairly according to the Geneva Convention. If he was prepared to discuss this, he was to raise a white flag.
The hotel was surrounded. All three hundred Maquis from Les Contamines, Saint-Gervais and Chamonix were there, with only the odd shot being fired from each side. We had no idea how long they could hold out, but on the morning of the fifth day, a sheet was waved from a top-floor window.
Cautiously, we approached the hotel. We had heard that Jean Bulle, the legendary leader of another Maquis battalion in the region, had gone into Albertville with a white flag of truce to encourage the Germans to surrender. He was then made to kneel in the town square and was shot in the back of the head.
I was with Leon in his confiscated staff car, now bedecked with a makeshift Union Jack. Leon and I were in full uniform and ready for our rendezvous.
The German captain agreed to surrender and lay down arms as long as the camp was put under my control and not handed over to the partisans. A letter to this effect was signed by us. The Germans, understandably, feared that the Maquis would seek swift retribution.
Everyone who could walk was ushered out of the building, then we searched it thoroughly and took photographs. We listed those captured then did a sweep of all the other hotels that had been commandeered, collecting guns and ammunition as we went.
Within an hour or two of the surrender, the word had spread and the front of the hospital was crowded with hundreds of locals staring at the prisoners and revelling in the humiliation of the occupying force.
An assortment of cars and trucks draped with the French tricolour had arrived from Megève, hooting their horns in the places where the soldiers had surrendered. People who had been hiding in the hills for the last couple of years slowly emerged.
The celebrations went on until late that night. Everyone was kissing each other, and my hand grew weary from the constant, vigorous handshakes. My Jedburgh group were treated like heroes, having tumblers of wine and delicacies thrust into their hands. Two days later, the Americans arrived on foot and took command, having had to clamber over our rockfall at Chedde to reach the town.
It seemed on the surface that everyone in the town was celebrating, but there remained a deep resentment against locals who had turned traitor. One of the things we had not been taught in the SOE was how to handle this situation, and so we were unprepared for what came next. The Maquis had a good idea which locals had been collaborating with the Germans, and morning after morning, my team and I would see men and women lying dead in the street or hanging from balconies. The women had their hair shaved off and were then paraded in the streets to much abuse. Claude’s men vigorously denied involvement, but I was certain that it was they who had been carrying out the executions. During my first visit in April 1943 there had been few Vs painted on buildings in support of the Resistance; now they were everywhere.
As Claude and I shared some wine late one night, swapping more and more unlikely stories and promising eternal friendship, I decided this was the moment to tackle him about the reprisals.
‘You are a Christian, my friend. Murder is a serious sin . . .’ I began. He nodded, but his eyes narrowed. ‘. . . and yet unarmed men and women are being murdered without a trial and in breach of the Geneva Convention.’
Claude’s bonhomie vanished. ‘These are the people who got my wife killed!’ he spat. ‘Arranged for entire families to be taken off to concentration camps!’
He was shaking with rage and I decided to drop the subject. This was an emotionally charged argument I could not win. I sensed there would be scores settled for decades across France.
The war here was over, but it continued in Italy and Belgium. We were in touch with London every day. We learned that the Americans were leaving troops in France and we Jedburghs were to be called back to London. Before we left, the Americans asked us to clear the landslide that we had caused. It took us two days of back-breaking effort, a hundred men passing stone after stone from hand to hand.
A flight was arranged for us from Chambéry at the end of August. Thereafter I would be debriefed at Baker Street.
Claude volunteered to drive us in the staff car. He was annoyed, though, because the American major had told him he had to hand back the car after we had been dropped off at the airport. I volunteered to collect Claude’s truck from Vaudagne and follow Claude, Sergeant Thomas and Leon.
‘Be careful, Angus,’ Claude warned. ‘It’s a steep road with tight corners, so you’ll need to make sure you use the gears to slow down.’
Chapter 19
‘Angus, are you all right? Hold him up and I’ll give him some water.’
I could hear voices. There were lights. And then unbearable pain hit.
‘You’ve been unconscious for two days. Your leg’s shattered and you have a head injury.’
‘Angus, it’s me, Leon. Claude’s here, too. You’ve had an accident.’
‘Accident?’ I mumbled.
‘Can you remember what happened? You crashed the truck. You missed the corner and went off the edge of the road. It must have rolled a few times, it’s completely crushed. It was stopped by a tree and there was gasoline pouring out of the tank. You’re lucky it didn’t roll another few hundred feet and explode. A woman in Vautagne heard the noise and came and found you. We’re in her house now. Here she is . . . Michelle.’
Such bright lights. Noise. A thumping pain in my head.
Claude’s voice: ‘Angus, my friend, we still need to get to Chambéry for the pick-up, so we’ll leave tomorrow and I’ll drive you. When you get back to London, Leon will get a doctor to look at you. Do you understand?’
I nodded. And then fell into a deep sleep.
The next thing I remember was being helped into a coat, propped up on the edge of a bed.
‘Hey, Angus, Leon here!’
I held out my hand and tried to stand up.
‘No, no! Don’t move. Your leg’s strapped up but you won’t be able to put any weight on it. Claude’s ready in the car. You’re going to London, my friend. You’re going to be out of action for some time.’
‘Home?’ I said.
‘Absolutely. Let’s go.’
I was helped into a huge car and made comfortable in the back seat. It felt as if I was in that car forever. I was so hot and my leg was aching.
We arrived at an airfield teeming with people.
‘Who are all these people?’ I asked Leon.
He turned to me. ‘Most of them are SOE from all over the east of France.’
‘What?’
‘You trained a lot of them. They’ll be getting the same flight as you so you’ll be surrounded by friends.’
I scanned the faces, hoping to see someone, something familiar. I was helped from the car. People crowded round, s
haking my hand, shouting my name, but I felt too woozy and disorientated to make sense of it all.
Leon called out to them: ‘Please, keep back. Captain Gillies has had a serious accident. He’s got a broken leg and concussion. Give him some space.’
Claude draped an arm around my shoulder. His face was kind, full of affection. Were those tears in his eyes?
‘Farewell, Angus, and don’t forget, I’m going to be your best man when you marry that woman of yours.’ He kissed me on each cheek and gave me a tight hug, before turning to go.
Leon sat by my side on the flight. I dozed all the way. When the plane arrived at Northolt, a man came up to us and saluted.
‘Brigadier,’ said Leon, ‘this is–’
‘I know exactly who this is,’ the brigadier replied, shaking my hand. ‘Captain Gillies is coming with me. Don’t worry, he’s in safe hands.’
‘There’s one more thing,’ Leon said. ‘Our Resistance commander was adamant that a woman named Françoise should be told about Angus. But we had no idea who she was or how to get hold of her.’
The brigadier smiled at me and turned to Leon. ‘Angus is a close friend of the family and I know Françoise, too. I’ll look after everything, I promise. Gubbins is the name.’
‘Thank you,’ said Leon, saluting.
I was taken to King Edward VII Hospital for Officers in Knightsbridge where Brigadier Gubbins and his wife visited me daily. We reminisced about times we had shared and talked fondly of Michael.
The first afternoon of my hospital stay Mrs Gubbins was by the bed, reading an article in the Express aloud to me, when there was a noise at the door. The nurse, a fellow Scot, Catherine McColl, straightened up nervously as Matron marched in.
‘Matron Jones!’ Mrs Gubbins cried. ‘How lovely to see you. Angus, Matron Jones is the senior nurse in this hospital and is responsible for your care.’
Matron Jones looked up from her clipboard and did a double-take. ‘Donald Angus!’ she exclaimed with a delighted look on her face. ‘What on earth are you doing here?’ She sat on the edge of my bed and looked affectionately at me. ‘I’m Prissie, your godmother. You remember me, don’t you? Your mother is my best friend.’
‘Prissie! Of course I remember. It’s lovely to see a familiar face.’
I related the story of the accident as best I could. Prissie left to do some background checks and organise some X-rays, and it was agreed that the brigadier would come to the hospital in the evening and they would decide if I could be moved.
Later, the Gubbinses and Prissie gathered around my bed. Despite heavy sedation, I did my utmost to keep up with their conversation.
Prissie, never one to withhold her opinion, took a firm stance: ‘He needs to get home to recuperate as soon as possible. It’s going to be six months at least for that femur to heal and I don’t think this is the best environment for him. He’ll need a few days post-surgery to recover, but he’ll manage with crutches and plenty of painkillers. I’ve spoken to his American friend, Leon, and he’s prepared to help Angus onto the sleeper to Fort William. He needs to go to Arisaig House in any case. When he reaches there, soldiers from Inverailort Castle will see Angus safely to Ardnish.’
‘Wonderful, Matron Jones,’ said Mrs Gubbins. Everyone nodded and smiled in agreement.
‘Now, Angus,’ the brigadier said, ‘you must rest. You’ll need all your strength for the operation and then the journey home.’
I was overjoyed at the thought of recovering at home.
Chapter 20
Leon helped me down from the train. Some men were waiting there to take me on to Peanmeanach.
Getting into the boat had been awkward and painful, but I enjoyed the trip, feeling more alert than I had done in days.
As the boat rounded the point, I saw the familiar semi-circle of tiny thatched cottages ranged around beautiful Peanmeanach Bay. I leant over the bow, waving with excitement. I saw a door open. A woman emerged and began running excitedly to the shore. I could just about make out her features.
She stopped in her tracks, hand at her mouth. Then she began dancing up and down, shouting, ‘Angus, Angus!’
As soon as I got off the boat, helped by the soldiers, and hobbled up the beach she came to me and wrapped her arms around me. ‘You’re home now, Angus. Safe and sound.’
The family were shocked by my injury but I reassured them that it should be healed within a few months and that it was unlikely I’d go back to active service. This, naturally, pleased my mother.
I grew stronger by the day, and a week or so later, after a delicious supper of herring in oatmeal, we sat by the fire and basked in the warmth of each other’s company. The conversation and stories flowed, like they always did.
‘What do you think of my new boat, Donald Angus?’ asked grandmother.
I smiled. ‘She’s a fine wee boat. What happened to the old one?’
‘There was a tremendous storm and she was swept off the beach never to be seen again. We decided we had enough money to get a new boat, so Grandfather and I set off for Arisaig to meet Ian MacMillan, a man who had a reputation as a good boat-builder. And here she is! Thirteen foot, pointed at each end, a foureen, so either two or four can row her. Larch planks, an ash frame and oak stanches for the oars to pull against. We chose the colours, too – the red trim and blue band across the top.
‘It was a great occasion, and we all wanted to be involved in her return, so Peter Blackburn, Morag, Mairi and I headed up a few weeks later to collect her. We named her after the boat owned by John MacEachan of Roshven, who traded arms and brandy along the west coast a hundred and fifty years ago. As we rowed her home, Peter told us the story of the original Little Katie. Do you want to hear it?’
‘Of course,’ I replied.
‘Well, MacEachan was a smuggler who lived in Clanranald’s original house at Roshven. Little Katie had a crew of three and they would “obtain” whatever people wanted, up and down the west coast, from the French. The goods were kept hidden behind a small island near Ardnish, out of sight from anywhere apart from Laggan itself. After the Rebellion times were hard. The English troops raided constantly, and the bagpipes and tartan were banned. MacEachan was said to have been a charming man with a huge character and wit – it was said that he had a woman in every port up and down the coast.’
‘A proper rogue!’ I laughed.
‘If Clanranald or any of the lairds wanted some good French burgundy, then MacEachan was the man to provide it. He would meet Locheil’s man at Loch Nevis and they would load up a couple of horses with cases of wine and take it over to Achnacarry, or they would be guests of Macleod at Dunvegan, having dinner and staying the night in the castle. Macleod said that he loved having MacEachan around but he always made sure his daughters were locked up before he extended an invitation.
‘MacEachan was said to have been the man who got his hands on the French king’s lost gold and that is why he was so rich, but your grandfather insisted that this was not so; it was still to be found.
‘King Louis of France apparently sent gold across to help pay for the Rebellion, but it arrived late and was said to have been buried on an island on Loch Eilt. Those islands are deep in heather and have tall Scots pine trees on them, and what’s more, it could be buried on any one of three or four islands. There are other rumours that it’s actually on Goat Island. But your father swore that the French frigate that sank in Loch na Uamh had the treasure on it.
‘There was one man in Arisaig whom MacEachan had angered. He was said to have told the English garrison at Fort William about the French privateers who would sail up to meet MacEachan and unload brandy, guns and other contraband. The man from Arisaig died in his bed one night, killed by a sword. Soldiers were sent to Roshven to arrest MacEachan for the crime, but he’d had word they were coming and fled to the isle of Eriskay, where he boarded a ship bound for Canada. He settled there and had a family. Ironically, MacEachan himself was murdered in Canada, although I don’t know the deta
ils.’
‘Probably caught with someone’s wife,’ I said, grinning.
Mother laughed. ‘Anyhow, that’s the history behind Little Katie for you. We were so proud when we brought her home. It was a four-hour journey. Your grandfather had cut some roundwood and we collected a pile of seaweed so we could pull her ashore with so little manpower. I had cleaned out an old noost in the machair and we hauled her into it. It makes a great shelter against the storms.’
‘Noost,’ I repeated. ‘I love the word.’
‘It sounds like a cross between nest and roost. Quite appropriate, really.’
*
One day I reached under my bed and pulled out the box that contained my belongings. My shabby working clothes and Sunday best and, wrapped in tissue a beautiful tweed kilt jacket. I tried it on; it was a perfect fit.
‘Miss Charlotte’s thank-you gift, she came by with it.’ Mother had slipped into my room unnoticed.
Mother smiled and sat down beside me. ‘You did an amazing thing. Arisaig House burning down and you one of the men who ran to help. It was only she and her sister in the house at the time apart from two servants who didn’t survive the blaze. They were on the fourth floor and had no way out. But when you got there you were able to save Miss Charlotte’s dog who had been locked in a room, and you helped to move out a lot of the furniture and paintings. It was a brave thing you did, Angus.
‘Miss Charlotte never got over it. She’d had a rough time of it already – her parents dead, her oldest brother mentally afflicted and her two other brothers killed in the Great War. But this jacket was her way of saying thank you. I suggested that I spin some tweed in her estate colours and she could get it turned into a jacket at MacLellans in the Fort. And there you have it.’
‘It means a lot to me,’ I said, taking off the jacket and replacing it carefully in the box. I wondered at what occasion I could possibly wear such a special garment.
We Fought for Ardnish Page 21
