Open Writing

1934-1936

As the memories flooded back, washing over her in their familiarity, she became aware that her father’s direction had been thwarted at every turn.

Three years had now passed since his move to the Hill of Nigg, and Coatbridge was enjoying his school years. He excelled at football and was popular with his peers. Football was his passion. He played for the Seaside Swifts, and the name of this team encompassed to him what a football player should be able to do. He had watched these birds demonstrating their ability many times along the coast in the summertime, and been astonished and thrilled at their fabulous displays of flight. Playing for the Swifts was his attempt to emulate that movement – the beautiful, controlled, unexpected swerving, veering, rushing and the stalling.

Friendships and games filled the long winter nights. As time went by, he demonstrated a natural talent for drawing, and his parents began to wonder if perhaps there was a future in architecture for him.

He became busier and busier as he matured. It had never occurred to him as a young teenager that his father might not know very much about crofting. He had always believed, as a child does, in his father’s ability. He had fought in the Boer War, after all, and then served in the Police Force for many years. These occupations, however, did not have much to do with crofting. As Coatbridge watched the various, and occasionally hilarious attempts to become organised, and the constant fight to maintain order in the chaos, he realised that perhaps his father’s notion of crofting was more romantic than practical. It fell to Coatbridge to ask around his friends when there were various problems which his father was unaware could even happen, such as the time when the hens laid eggs with no shells! That was a shock, but it was reassuring to discover that it was simply caused by poor diet.

When he wasn’t at school or playing football, or studying he did his best to help his father. When there was some time to escape, he loved to go over the hill above his home. Here, with a wonderful view of the surrounding landscape, was a steep drop down to the sea. This was what he enjoyed. The view was not of tremendous importance here; his interests lay in another direction. From the top of the cliffs a steep path wound down the hillside. Half way down this track, there were the massive tunnels known as the King’s Caves. Without brothers or sisters, his imagination ran riot in this place: exploring, wondering if plans and plots had been hatched here– who might have hidden, taken shelter or smuggled?

By the time he was ready to enter fifth year, he had lost count of the number of miles he had cycled. It really did not seem that important: it was simply something that was done every day, like walking to school. It was only on the really cold, wet and windy mornings that it could be miserable. He knew every bit of the road by now, along with its various travellers. There were moments of sheer grandeur.

Due to the Northerly location there were few daylight hours in winter, so in December and January both his daily journeys were done in darkness. Coming home from school on a cold winter’s night could be something quite extraordinary. His one dynamo bulb lighted his way. There were no streetlights here, and there were very few houses to shed even the faintest glow of a gas lamp once he had left the Royal Burgh of Tain where his school was located.

The darkness was all encompassing. If the sky was clear, the velvety blackness completely enveloped him. The stars poured their brightness through little pinpricks in the ethereal canopy. They seemed so bright: their majesty was awe-inspiring. He had studied the constellations now, and knew how to find the North star, but these clear nights always held a mystery and wonder for him. He remembered how, as a twelve-year-old, this ride had worried him; how his lack of confidence in these strange surroundings affected him. He could have laughed aloud at the memory of the apprehensions and ignorance of the boy he had once been. On nights such as these, he could feel quite uplifted, even knowing that he had to face further work when he went home.

There was another development too. He had nurtured a longing for a particular girl, Helen, for several months. She was very attractive and from a very prominent and wealthy family, so a daunting prospect coming from his background. However, he became aware that a schoolmate was paying her undue interest. This settled the matter. He was quite convinced that he was every bit as good as Hamish. He realised quite quickly that if he wanted this girl, he would have to compete for her.

Throughout the year, the tussle went on between the lads, but eventually Coatbridge prevailed.

The surrounding countryside offered up many meeting places and hobbies for the young couple. The Hill of Nigg provided cycling and fishing and football for the lads. The nearby Hill of Fearn, where Helen lived, was much more suited to leisure pursuits, with a local loch and the sea very near by. There were many spots to be alone or meet friends. They became very much an item, and although she knew he had to go on to University, she agreed to wait for him. His plan was always to return.

It was important that he was conscientious with his studies, because of the system being used in Scotland: at that time, if you failed one subject, you failed them all. As his family constantly emphasised that he would be the first member of the family to be in a position to apply for University, a great deal rested on his shoulders. The examinations loomed large, and then suddenly, they were upon him.

Day after day, he rode to the school to reproduce what had been learnt over the years of his six chosen subjects – and then there was the long wait during the summer months to ascertain how he had performed. He was fairly confident, and Helen was a great support. When the results came through, to his overwhelming disappointment, he had failed in one subject – Maths. This meant that no other pass counted.

If he wanted to achieve his ambition, it would all have to be done again. There was dismay in the family to an extent that would be unbelievable today. To leave secondary school after six years without a qualification was not an option.

His father was getting older. He obviously would appreciate Coatbridge being independent as quickly as possible. After some consultation with his teachers, it became clear that he had done so well in his remaining subjects that it would have been folly not to pursue that final subject. So much had been invested in his future, that he would be letting his parents down if he did not go back to school the following year, and attempt all six subjects again.

What was not obvious to him, nor could it have been in his moment of despair, was just how much that one failure was going to cost him. The extra year he had to do was obvious – but because of the lost year, his architecture would still be unfinished at the start of the Second World War. With his architecture unfinished, he was to be at the mercy of the University, and their rules to regain access. It was also going to affect the girl he hoped to marry. However, all that was in the future. His problems were more immediate.

Biting the bullet, he remounted his bike, and went back for that final year.

This was his last chance to succeed. He spent every spare hour during the week thoroughly revising every area of his subjects. Gradually, it became very much easier, and although he was still apprehensive as he went to re-sit his Highers, he was more confident than the previous year. His work paid off, and he passed easily. The relief was enormous.

As he had applied for Strathclyde University and been accepted, the family decided to move south again. Crofting had been interesting, but, under the circumstances, it was hard work for little profit.
He went to University a much more mature young man than an education in his home town would have left him. Although it was hard work and long hours, he was an interested and willing student, and achieved excellent results, having learnt the secret of studying at an early age. And, of course, he always had Helen to look forward to on the holidays – and somewhere meaningful to revisit, and catch up with friends.

Another Name, Another Place
1936-1942

Time hurtled by in this new academic environment. He was happy with his topic of study, and it came to him relatively naturally. It seemed to him that he had just found his way around, although in truth he had completed three years when war broke out. He could not have known to what extent this event would change his life forever.

He was called up, and expressed his preference to join the Seaforth Highlanders, the regiment that had origins in his much loved Rosshire. Of his training he had told her very little. Perhaps Alastair Borthwick, a journalist and a serving officer, who had fought alongside all the men, explain the reason best. He was asked to capture the adventures of the 51st Highlanders in his book “Battalion”, before they all de-mobbed and went their separate ways. His description of these early days is worth repeating:

“No Territorial battalion really wants to be reminded of those first dreadful days when all was chaos, when a pay parade occupied the concerted efforts of every officer for days on end, when we trained with wooden mortars and imaginary brens, and Sergeant instructors learned Lesson Two on the Rifle while they taught Lesson One. …Let us say simply that the battalion was mobilised at Golspie in Sutherland on September 1st 1939, and by dint of bitter training, extended over nearly three years, had been transformed from a collection of well-meaning civilians into a fighting unit……”

It was in this setting that he was given his second nickname –Wee Robbie. Big Robbie was a full 4 inches taller than him at 6 feet 5 inches, and came from Skye. He was a gentle, soft-spoken giant, with brown eyes that shimmered with intelligence, who shared Wee Robbie’s love of Scotland and natural sensitivity. They became firm friends, and laterally, as the war developed, inseparable.

As the training progressed, more was demanded of them. This suddenly crystallised when Wee Robbie was ordered one day to lead the platoon off the parade ground. It began to dawn on him what leadership was going to involve. There were men who were going to obey him, and to follow him. He was almost surprised when everybody did exactly as he commanded on the LEFT TURN! And QUICK MARCH!

The change in status from student to soldier at least meant that he could start to repay his parents from his small salary. This was of great importance to him, as his father was now almost sixty-five years of age, and there was no old age pension available at that time. People looked to the younger generation to assist in their old age.

So, month after month, he became used to being shouted at by a strutting sergeant major. He learned and relearned discipline and soldiering. He learned what always to do and what never to do.
He became hardened to what was going to be faced.

And so these years passed, with episodes of leave punctuating his training and experiences.

His first battle, of course, had to be a baptism by fire. El Alamein was to be his first time in the line.

Many and various were the feelings that swirled within him. Excitement at the new continent of Africa: pride in his country; fear for the outcome: a desire to show bravery: acute anxiety about the unknown…it was all a bit mixed up. He carried the rank of Second Lieutenant, and wore his uniform of the 51st Seaforth Highland Division with pride.

The full scale of the difficulty of waging war in this country revealed itself, one problem at a time.

Here was baking heat, flies in their millions, and the problem of a scarcity of the water ration which had to fulfil a multiplicity of tasks.

Here it was discovered that a man was lost after three hundred yards in the dark, unless he had a compass. Without one, he started going round in circles before he reached the one hundred-yard mark.

New instruments such as the sun compass were introduced. These were very simple and worked in reverse from a sundial – you pointed it at the time, and it’s shadow gave you the direction. Obviously, though, they could only be used during the day, so a compass was still required.

Here, if a weapon was going to be of any use, it was important not to oil it.

All the practices that had gone before were as naught.

Digging a trench in Scotland or England in the mud or dirt was not his favourite pastime, but fairly easy. It was almost impossible to make any impression in the limestone of the desert that had just a thin covering of sand.

The sand itself was a nightmare and infiltrated everywhere. At the end of a windy day, it was quite possible not to recognise his best friend, because all that was visible through the sand mask which was plastered to everyone’s faces because of the sweat, were two little eyeholes. Sand was in his food, in his clothes, in his drink, and the heat was unbearable. He could quite easily fry an egg on the bonnet of his jeep during the day – it was freezing cold at night.

The waiting for the start of hostilities was unbearable.

On the October night when the battle was scheduled to start, the tension was palpable. You could have heard a pin drop. Sounds carried very easily at night in the desert, and whispering had taken the place of any conversation. So when there was a sudden “rat-a-tat-tat”, the soldiers tensed in apprehension. Wee Robbie crawled as silently as possible out to find the cause of this noise, and found that a squaddie was relieving himself on the sand!

The silence otherwise was oppressive; everyone was ready for action. The waiting was, literally, full of dread.

At zero hour, the whole horizon was noiselessly lit up in varying shades of pink, before the huge percussion of all the guns of the Eighth Army pervaded the silence. It was similar to a thunderstorm with the lightening flashes preceding the thunder. There were other sounds – machine gun fire, shells whining overhead and lastly the skirl of the pipes. Wee Robbie watched these pipers in awe, as they tramped, totally unarmed, towards the enemy, giving the troops the thumbs up as they went.

Eventually they could be seen no more through the dust and the sand and the smoke of gunfire.

It was here that Wee Robbie learned the difference between plans and action. Plans were very neat and tidy things, which had a distinct purpose, and showed exactly where he and his soldiers would be the following day. Action was slightly different.

The minute the guns started firing, there was sand everywhere. This meant that there was almost zero visibility, and that advancing in larger units –according to the plan - was impossible. If you could see one man on either side of you, you proceeded forward into the maelstrom. Even then, it was very, very difficult. The desert was totally featureless – like a vast ocean. There were no landmarks that could be relied upon.

He had never imagined such a barrage. How could he describe it to someone who had never been through one? There were many distractions to his concentration, not least of which was the constant noise of gunfire that went on day and night and could be heard 40 miles away. It was painful. The illuminated skies above screamed in their agony.

Montgomery had claimed it would take the eighth army ten days to break through. His accuracy was impressive.

Wee Robbie emerged on the last day of fighting, as the sole surviving officer of his company. Of this fact he was unaware. He did not, at this point in time, even know who had won the battle, such was the complete and total confusion

The fighting might have been over, but there were dozens of men emerging from their “doovers”(an Australian term for trench which the Scots picked up) and were generally trying to find their units again. Eventually, Wee Robbie had come across eighty-five men, and he attempted to lead them back to headquarters around two miles distant, with the assistance of his all-important compass. When he reached base, he was astonished to discover that out of this number only seventeen men remained. (Five of these were not from his company, which had boasted 100 men before the battle.) The remaining sixty-eight men were never seen again.

Despite the knowledge that he had done his best, he found the loss of these fellow soldiers, after the battle, vexing and unbelievable.

Had they not trusted in his ability as a very junior officer, to get them back?

Had they been confused by a mirage, and wandered off on another tack?

Had they simply become separated and got lost?

No matter how much he pondered these questions, there was no answer.

The company strength therefore after the battle was down to twelve men and Wee Robbie.

****

She wondered, remembering his anecdotes, if this was a similar point she was at now? Nothing was clear.

She was trying to look after Peter in the Community, or “Community Care”, as it was called, but it felt as if she were trying to wage a war single-handed.

It was a daily grind simply to keep going, and challenging beyond belief. It would certainly have been much easier to say, "I give up!"

However, like her father, she believed that only your best will do, and if you are trying to act responsibly, to be loyal, to be dependable, and nobody helps you, it is perhaps that they do not know what is required.

How many problems could there be?

Nobody had been issued with the map and the compass?

Maybe these items have been mislaid?

Maybe someone made off with the route map?

The plan was familiar, but action was a new idea?

Someone else would do it and demonstrate the correct way, the pitfalls, the dangers and the differing circumstances?

The mistakes that can be made had to be known and recognised so that future hazards could be avoided?

There is no leader to tell them the time frame?

She was as puzzled as her father had been at the loss of all these men.
It didn’t matter how much she fretted, there appeared to be no easy answers.

****

The Making of the Man

Peter was a natural leader.

He had been a handful as a child. Realising early on that he was not as physically strong as his peers were, he developed organisational strengths.

He was ten when he phoned the Gas Board and instructed them to come and install a Bunsen burner in his “laboratory”. He was furious when his mother tried to send them away, remonstrating in all seriousness that a laboratory without a Bunsen burner was no laboratory at all. As he had been encouraged along scientific lines, this argument held sway. The Gas Men were allowed to install the supply.

Peter was the one who saw that the potential shortcut between the house and the front drive. This could be easily achieved by digging through the house wall, he believed. Unable to do such strenuous work himself, he explained the “escape hatch” plan to his friends, who thought this a very exciting and daring scheme. It was only at this stage, once he had full support, that he gathered all his friends together in the basement and ordered them to “put their backs into it”!

They were unaware until this point that they had sanctioned such action, but there was no going back. The outcome was that he was the first to use this “tunnel”. Unfortunately, his timing was not the best, and his mother was astonished when he popped up in the middle of the driveway as she came home from shopping!

He was totally fascinated by the army as a child and wanted nothing more than to join the R.E.M.E. Despite being aware that his physical condition would make this impossible, he always wanted to push at the boundaries of what could be done. He put himself forward for the Army Cadets.
This was difficult. There was no reasoning with him on application – he was sure he could do it.
Eventually, it was decided to accept him, and show him the difficulties. When it came to target practice, he was handed a Lee Enfield .33 and told to hit the deck and fire. Hitting the deck was not a problem. However, as his disability affected his shoulder muscles more acutely, no matter how hard he tried he could not lift the weapon. Moreover, he couldn't get off the deck.

This was embarrassment and humiliation in the extreme. However, out of his remaining pride, he refused to accept help to get to his feet again.

The officer in charge said: “It’s really not on, is it, sonny?”

Peter finally understood the limits that were going to be placed on him, and that he was not going to be able to run around and play football or rugby like the others for much longer.

He was determined that he would not end up in a wheelchair, and believed that if he worked hard enough he could keep his legs going. What else could he do to keep fit?

He considered the problem. Eventually, at thirteen he decided to take on a paper round in tenement buildings. This meant climbing a large number stairs, with a heavy load of papers. That would help, wouldn’t it?

So, early in the morning before school, he put himself through his paces. He followed that Charles Atlas motto: Nobody was going to throw sand in this weakling’s face!

In these ways, and by those actions, did this man develop ideas that were going to shape his future.
It was a fight that was to continue his whole life – without plan or map or compass- or any idea of the strength of the opposition.