 If
you walk west from Inverailort Castle along the shore of the
loch you pass a small island where, about 1745, Prince Charles
Stuart, remembered as Bonnie Prince Charlie, grandson of the
Old Pretender, is supposed to have dropped anchor while hiding
from the English.
Both
the Loch and the Castle take their names from the River Ailort
which flows into the sea and opens up to one of Britain’s
loveliest prospects – the Inner Hebrides. Eigg is the most
dominant island. Its shape is pleasing, having the appearance
of some animal lying in the sea and having, near the southern
end, the Sgurr – a tall, narrow peak.
In
1940-41 Dunkirk was not the only evacuation of the continent
taking place. We had been flushed out of Norway, simultaneously,
at Narvik, though the Germans had suffered heavy losses, both
on land and at sea.
Britain
did not just sit back and lick her wounds. The troops from
Norway were brought round to the west of Scotland and some
of them arrived at Lochailort, whither I was posted. Many
things changed; new methods of training were invented and
a whole new concept of attack was developed.
As
a result of experiments there were several accidents. One
was very sad: a sergeant volunteered to swim across the river
carrying a full pack on his back. As the tide was flowing
the river was in spate and very deep. The sergeant jumped
in and immediately sank. Some hours later his body was recovered
from the middle of the loch.
 Lochailort
In
the winter of 1941 a soldier of No. 10 Commando tried to
lead a loaded mule along the icy top of a whale-backed mountain.
Both man and mule slid about a thousand feet to be dashed onto
huge rocks.
Some
innovations, however, were advantageous. It was here that string
vests were first tried out, it having been thought that little
cells of warm air saved more energy than heavy textiles. This
idea came from a naval officer, Commander Murray Levick, who
was in charge of such experiments. He once chose two men of
equal physique to investigate the effect of salt. One man was
deprived of all salt for a week while the others ate normally.
Wearing full pack they ran up a steep mountain slope to the
limit of their endurance. The desalinated soldier collapsed
much sooner than the other.
All
kinds of subtle weapons appeared; suntan cream which frosted
enemy windscreens (for the Serbian partisans in Yugoslavia);
booby trap pens which exploded when the cap was unscrewed;
explosive horse manure to leave on the road; and it was found
that sugar, poured into the petrol tank, gummed up the valves
and cylinders of an enemy truck.
At
first these units were named Special Service Battalions (SSBs),
but due to this being Lovat territory and Lord Lovat being
on the staff as fieldcraft instructor, the word Commando was
brought back from the Afrikaans “Kommando” in honour of Lord
Lovat’s grandfather, who distinguished himself in the Boer
War.
Commandos
changed the whole concept of war. The hypothesis was that
a group of three or four men, given special training in unorthodox
methods, could cause more havoc than a whole regiment. The
saving in manpower would be terrific, and this theory has
been shown to be true many times since. Hitler became furious
at the damage inflicted on German installations and property;
and he sent out an order that any commando soldier captured
would be shot immediately.
In
the 1940s the path from Lochailort towards Ardnamurchan was
a mere sheep track. Visiting the area in 1972 I was surprised
to see a metalled road which had been built for tourists.
Somehow I felt resentful – it took away all the quiet mystery
from my memory. It was as though vandals had slashed a lovely
painting.
With
a friend, Alan Briggs from Leeds, I used to walk the two miles
west to a croft at Roshven. The McCrae family, with whom we
were friendly, had two sons, Farquhar and Urquhart. They all
spoke the old language, Gaelic, and always seemed uncomfortable
with English conversation. Gaelic is a gentle sounding tongue
and a pleasure to hear, suited to the quiet nature of these
people. The family lived from a flock of sheep and fish which
we found plentiful and easy to catch. Mackerel almost jump
into your boat. For fuel they used peat. Their language seems
to have faded out since those years, though some die-hards
try to keep it alive.
We
were returning one evening at dusk when we arrived at a cleft
in the hillside caused by a small burn. In the poor light
we could not see clearly and we stopped, not wishing to fall
into the babbling burn. We listened; a rustling sound could
be heard. “Only a sheep”, said Alan . But a number of sheep
suddenly became men who pinned us down to the heather. It
seems we both decided to die fighting and lashed out with
our army boots. As the Germans now controlled the whole of
Norway we’d always feared that they might come round to West
Scotland, and we believed this had happened. What a relief!
They turned out to be a Commando on an exercise and they thought
we were a decoy from their “enemy”. The next morning a major
limped into the orderly room and snarled: “Who was down by
Roshven at 10 pm last night? Alan and I stood up. “One
of you nearly broke my bloody leg.” Before he left he added,
good naturedly, “Glad you’re on our side.”
Late
in 1942 a few Americans arrived, then left. The Royal Navy
took over the whole area and I was put on a reinforcement
draft for North Africa. Goodbye to Britain!
Glenfinnan
We
arrived in Scotland at Lochailort where we took temporary billets
in a grim grey stone house known as Inverailort Castle, which
was owned by the Cameron-Head family. The whole building had been
newly furnished for army purposes and I was allocated a large
desk upstairs in the front bay window from where I could see across
the valley. There was also a typewriter and a Gestetner duplicator.
At this stage I took a good look as far as I could into the future
and reasoned as follows: Dale, you'll never be a soldier and this
war could go on for ages. If you get your feet under the table
here you might dodge all the muck and bullets AND SERVE your country
better. I took much time learning to type and also getting to
know the skill of printing from a (duplicator; I soon became in
great demand to all and sundry and some people seemed to think
I was a real secretary and asked me to take down dictation. There
was no promotion, which kept me happy.
We
had to make do with toiletry arrangements and I managed to shave
standing at my desk each day. One morning, as it was coming light
a German bomber flew past at eye level from west to east; we guessed
he was after the aluminium works at Fort William, 28 miles inland.
No damage was done -near miss!
Officers
began to arrive for the first course of Commando training; the
name of our unit was Special Training Centre {STC). The northern
part of Scotland north of the line from Fort William to Inverness
was now forbidden territory to all except residents, so without
a special pass you stayed out. One new arrival was Lord Fraser
of Lovat; he had been appointed Fieldcraft instructor. He was
a very handsome man with a dignified bearing and stood out in
the Lovat Scouts uniform on the castle lawn at daybreak holding
the shepherd's crook he always carried and looking like Britannia.
I little realised at that time that he was to become a brilliant
soldier, with many victories over the Germans in a raid on Dieppe,
and also on D-Day when we invaded France.
Commandant
(Lt Col Howard), instructors and staff in 1942
Lord
Lovat was installed in a small bedroom at the back of the castle
where I was sent as his aide with paper work. I sat with him for
six months typing and printing copies of the programmes he outlined;
these were handed out to the instructors on the courses, and I
always tried to make them neat and clear. There was never any
conversation; he was by nature taciturn and I was a conscript.
I often had the feeling that he found working class people beyond
his comprehension! He was certainly no Philistine, as I discovered
when I came to read his memoirs, which I found very entertaining.
On two occasions there was a shortage of signals personnel for
a Commando exercise out in the islands and on Skye. As I was looked
upon as a very adaptable goon I stood in as signaller. I had a
one-hour practise run on a crash course and received a nebulous
notion of what was required. It seemed that I was to be part of
the judges' team, and we set off to the Kyle of Lochalsh. I carried
an R Toc radio weighing 35 lb (radio telephony) along with a major
and a captain up to the heights above Broadford Bay, Skye. Our
view of the coast road was perfect, and then I found myself alone.
With groundsheet and blankets I spent the night there and awoke
to find that someone was trying to call me. I spent a few seconds
finding the right frequency and a voice asked what I could see.
I hesitated and then asked if this might be a breach of security,
but at that instant a column of motorcyclists drove along the
coast road below. Go ahead, I was told, so I reported this activity.
This being Sunday morning I was again left alone to tune in to
the Gaelic service from the local church in Portree.
"Always
obey the LAST order" we were taught, which I had done, so I was
fireproof. I never found out who got into trouble over this, for
it seemed that one Commando had been listening in to the information
I'd given and beaten the other. In spite of this I was again given
a similar job.
For
some time there had been a mystery man on a motor bike visiting
the camp almost daily. I often talked to him and learned his name
was Humphrey Searle, but never discovered his function. Only
recently I learned from the Internet that he became a famous composer and writer and is now a well known personality.
He was a likeable and entertaining character.
A
very good friend with great talent was Billy Murrel, who produced
wonderful original music on the piano. He also had a wide repertoire
of Sussex songs, which he could play and sing for hours; these
were extremely witty and comical and on Fridays and Saturdays
kept everyone entertained. Everyone loved Bill; he had twinkling
brown eyes, enormous feet, a pointed nose and a talent which would
find a ready market today. I used to play the violin to his accompaniment.
He also had a saxophone which he longed to play, but in the absence
of another pianist was reluctant. Luckily a Londoner arrived one
day who played well and out came the sax. The P.R.I. (President
of the Regimental Institute - an officer responsible for entertainment)
was delighted to find the group already functioning and asked
if he could help. Billy had been teaching me to play his sax and
asked if we could have one for me. It arrived at once and I now
only doubled on the violin. This opened up new prospects and we
were invited to play at Mallaig for a dance. We were surprised
on arrival to be shown into a boathouse which was open to the
water at one end. This was the dance hall! The place was lit by
oil lamps which gave only a feeble light and the dance got under
way.
Soon
there was a party of Cameron Highlanders on the floor, kilts twirling
naughtily and uttering the wild whoops brought on by alcohol.
There came a crescendo in their excitement and eventually one
of them fell from the end of the boathouse into the Atlantic.
The others, eager to display their Spartan toughness, leapt into
the icy water after him, but after being hauled out were glad
to be led into the local cottages to dry out and get warm. Mallaig
is a small fishing village, and the people were friendly and kind.
While there I sampled a few prawns for the first time in my life.
 These
weekly dances became a regular feature of our life, and made a
change from the week-end trip into Fort William where there was
little entertainment - just one street of shops and a pleasant
walk in Glen Nevis. A number of interesting people came on courses.
I well remember a Major Clapton, a big lumbering fellow. We had
printed forms to be filled in by newly arrived officers. One part
needed details of qualifications. The major read out: "Qualifications?”
and he wrote "Fuckall!" David Niven, film actor, who was also
a regular soldier, took a course.
Winston
Churchill's son Randolph came, promptly got the mess barman drunk
and went home the next day. The son of Sir Roger Keyes did the
course. He was later killed in Libya in an attack on General Rommel's
HQ.
We
had an RSM (Regimental Sergeant Major) who had arrived as a Lance
Corporal and became an instant RSM. We found this irregular and
suspected chicanery. After the war David Niven wrote a book called
The Moon’s a Balloon, and from this I learned that they
had been regular officers together in India until Royal had assaulted
his C.O. and been cashiered. They stayed together at Lochailort.
Later, in Belgium, Royal was a pilot in a glider; he died there.
There
were many wide boys in the War. An exciting event took place in
1941. Around the coast we had an Observer Corps. At dusk one evening
we had a phone call from an observer at Arisaig, seven miles north,
who reported that a plane had landed and taken off again several
times on the beach. Its handling seemed erratic, so we kept a
lookout. Obviously lost, this plane soon came swooping over our
camp with a powerful headlamp shining down to inspect the terrain.
Now, our camp had a military aspect, having Nissan huts on the
only dry land available and 'lines' (roads) between them. The
rest of the valley was bogs, but this was apparently not seen
from the air, as this plane - an Albacore of the Fleet Air Arm
- came down to a messy landing, ending up like a scorpion about
to sting, tail high in the air. There was the sound of breaking
bottles and liquor came dripping from the aircraft. In wellies
we helped the two crew out; they were clearly pissed. They were
arrested and locked in the guard room. It seemed that they’d been
bringing home-distilled whisky from the Hebrides illegally. The
Navy despatched their engineers to dismantle the plane and transport
it away. I wonder what happened to the whisky that was saved?
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Copyright
© 2002 Ernest Dale. All rights reserved
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Ernest
Dale's full wartime memoirs, including the story of that
mistype, can be seen on the internet by clicking
here.
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