Hauptmann Rubensdörffer swiped the sweat from his brow and blinked twice, struggling to clear his vision one more time and steady his breathing. In his ears his heart pounded like a drum as he attempted to recover from the attack that had come out of the blue. With twenty-one planes behind him counting on his leadership, he sought desperately to grapple with the fear and anger that boiled inside him. Hot sweat gathered under his collar, prickled the backs of his hands and trickled between his fingers inside his leather gloves as he gripped the control stick harder with the sheer frustration of it. With great fury he recalled the assurance from the intelligence reports he had studied before take-off that the British squadrons had all been destroyed on this route. But now his own airmen were, hundreds of miles from their air base, deep in enemy territory, and they had barely made it through the last attack, losing their fighter support in the process. His greatest fear was upon him: under his leadership the entire bomber squadron were flying towards London alone and unprotected.
Dramatically unbuckling and yanking back the strap of his leather flying cap, stretched so tightly across his throat it felt as though it would strangle him, he struggled frantically to recall the route he had so meticulously committed to memory, but he felt so rattled that everything just swam in front of his eyes. Trying to shake off his terror and orientate himself, he peered across the stretch of the silver wingtip of his Messerschmitt BF 110 as it bobbed and weaved through the hazy cloud, the glint of the setting sun’s orange glow blinding him as it flashed along the wing like a lighthouse beacon.
Another terrifying thought suddenly gripped him. What if more fighters were waiting for them on the direct route into Kenley? Surely, they would never survive another attack.
"I’m going to take a different route," he barked into his radio to the gunner sitting behind him.
"You think that is wise?" came back the hesitant response. "Why don’t we just drop the bombs and get the hell out of here?"
Rubensdörffer could hear the fear in his gunner’s voice but reasoned if they passed the target and approached from the north they could drop the bombs and clear the target faster.
Undeterred by his counterpart’s concerns, Rubensdörffer leaned heavily on the throttle controls, racing past the target, then banked hard right as the engines shook and whined with the strain. Behind him, the rest of his squadron blindly followed. Diving to a lower altitude, the rush of the accelerated airspeed screeched to a deafening pitch as below them terrified ground crew and personnel ran in a hundred different directions to avoid the attack.
Suddenly, a stream of bullets peppered the side of Rubensdörffer’s Messerschmitt, and behind him his rear gunner swore as he swung his guns to engage the new squadron of British fighters. He banked hard away to avoid the onslaught as a fresh trail of bullets blazed over his cockpit window. A Hurricane tore past, diving down then up and away to engage him again. From the other side, another rally of bullets cracked the window behind him and as he swivelled his head back he gasped in shock: he had lost his rear gunner. The man he had flown with, his friend for five years, was slumped over his gun, very obviously dead.
Filled with bottled-up anger and overwhelming grief at his friend’s death, he wanted more than anything to get away; he had to get away fast. Rubensdörffer knew his bomber squadron couldn’t sustain another attack, especially as he now could see that Spitfires filled the sky and he was completely defenceless. So, making a desperate decision, knowing it was controversial, as there were factories and housing close to the airfield, but not caring, he slammed his hand down on the bomb release. The plane shuddered as the five-hundred-pound explosives were freed from the bomb bay.
All around, his group followed suit, bombs scattering everywhere, missing the intended target of Kenley.
Banking hard away at full throttle, his engines roared. With perspiration now dripping down his face and blurring his eyes completely, he sped towards the Channel, trying to put out of his mind the fact that instead of bombing the Kenley airfield as he had been intending to do he may have just killed innocent civilians. He would explain to his commanders the impossible position he had been in, and of course they would understand, he reasoned.
Suddenly, a deafening explosion slammed into the side of his plane, rocking and rolling it onto its side and he swore as it shook every bone in his body, jarring him practically out of his seat as he cracked his head on the far side window. Fighting to remain conscious, dazed and in shock, he clung on to his control stick more like a life raft than to steer. As his vision cleared he looked down at his control panel to get his bearings as smoke filled his cockpit, choking him, and out of the corner of his eye he could see a ball of fire was engulfing his wing. This was very bad. He thrust the plane into a steep dive, attempting to put out the fire with the updraught. Rubensdörffer felt frantic – he was still deep over British soil and wasn’t sure if he would make it back to the Channel where he could be picked up by a German rescue boat. As he tore towards the ground, his engine screaming its protest, the fire smouldered to a grey ugly cloud and Rubensdörffer heaved back on his control as the plane shook violently. It took all his strength to lift the nose as he skimmed high trees and desperately tried to keep it airborne. Beside him his only good engine whined and spluttered, the imbalance of the hole in his wing bouncing him around wildly as his controls jerked aggressively beneath his grip. As he tried to cling onto his life he prayed furiously, prayed he would make it, make it home to see his family again.
Lizzie Mackenzie inhaled deeply and filled her lungs with the smell of the fresh damp grass and the icy scent of the mountain streams that rippled across the granite rocks. As she closed her eyes and exhaled, she realised this was what she would miss the most, just being out here in the Highlands in her very own world. As a sharp breeze blew across the loch, it swept up the hillside to find her, bringing with it the salty scent of the water; toying with her, it tugged at the mass of red curls piled up beneath her green knitted hat, which finally gave in and broke free to swirl around her face. Pulling wisps of copper strands from her lips and wrapping her arms around herself, Lizzie listened to the familiar sounds of the place she’d come to call home.
Out on the loch, geese were honking one to another, and below her, in the fields, she could hear horses whinnying as they stretched out their golden necks and shook out their shaggy manes. As the wind whistled through the trees and splayed the waving bracken, she relished in the complete peace and spaciousness it afforded her, a timeless tranquillity that she had known all of her life.
Lizzie couldn’t imagine what it was going to be like to live in a big city. She had never been to London. In fact, since arriving from the Isle of Barra five years before, she’d barely left her aunt and uncle’s farm, but when her papers had arrived, they had informed her that she would be at a training site just outside the capital. Her two younger cousins had protested, wanting to go with her, but as her aunt Marion had reminded them, she needed someone left at home and besides, thirteen and fourteen were far too young to join the Women’s Auxiliary Air Force, as Lizzie was doing.
Opening her eyes and looking out across the grey, rippling water, in the sky she spotted an osprey, its cream and brown striped wings extended as it wheeled in long, slow descending spirals searching the loch for prey. Lizzie watched the quiet and graceful way it moved through the sky and thought about her life over the last few years, in the heart of Scotland. She had been fortunate to be staying somewhere with a loving family in a place where she got plenty of fresh air, mountain water, and, of course, there was always food in the home of a farmer. It was a far cry from what she’d expected when her parents had sent her from the island to live with her relatives. But all the better for it.
Alerted by the raised sounds of bleating sheep drifting up from their flock below, her attention was drawn down the hillside. Her uncle had started to round them up for the evening. Lizzie watched the sight she’d viewed what felt like a thousand times, Uncle Hamish surrounded by scores of white, shaggy, long-horned sheep marked with their painted red crosses that identified them as their own, bounding down the hillside for home. Ambling down in his languorous stride, his knotted staff steadying his way, her uncle was wearing his usual flat cap and green plaid jacket that had long started to fray around his neckline and cuffs. But this was his favourite, and even though her aunt had bought him numerous new coats through the years, he still seemed to gravitate to this familiar and comfortable tweed. As he went, he whistled through his teeth and called out to Bob and Chip, the sheepdogs always by his side, communicating in ways that only the three of them understood.
Trudging down the steep hill in her green rubber boots and long wool skirt, her thick coat wrapped around her shoulders, Lizzie made her way towards him. She would be changing into a blue uniform tomorrow night, she thought. Leaving first thing on a 6.00 a.m. train. She would change trains in Glasgow, which would take her across the border and down through England, past big cities she’d only ever heard about, like Manchester and Birmingham, all the way to London.
Lizzie galloped to the bottom field to catch up with her uncle, who had reached the far gate, calling out to him, still far off. The wind whipped up at her back and carried her voice ahead of her to find him. He swivelled around and acknowledged her with a brief wave of his hand, clad in one of the thick black woollen gloves she had knitted for him two winters before.
As she finally joined him at his side, out of breath, he was heaving open the top gate of the lower field, set in the drystone wall he had built with his father many years before. Resting one of his mud-crusted boots on the bottom rung of the gate, he hunched over it as he waited for the dogs, who diligently continued to circle the sheep, steering them towards the entrance as they bleated their displeasure at being herded. As the last of the sheep moved into the lower field, Uncle Hamish pulled the gate shut and took a moment to look down at his niece, a broad smile crinkling his piercing green eyes and spreading across his shiny weather-reddened cheeks.
"Oh, there’s my girl," he said in his usual sing-song Scottish manner. "Are you all ready?"
"I am," she said, fighting with the wind that continued to tug loose strands from under her woollen cap, creating a candy floss of hair that whipped around her face.
"All ready for your adventure in the big city?" he continued, widening his eyes with anticipation. "Though I won’t imagine it will be for long, because if Jerry manages to make it over here, he will be sure to turn around and leave once he sees a Mackenzie waiting for him."
He put his arm around her shoulder and pulled her close for a vigorous side hug as he chuckled to himself. They’d been close since she arrived, the eldest daughter of his twin brother. They’d discovered a shared love of the fields, of the Highlands, and the farming. "I’ll miss you, Lizzie. You have been a great help to me and your aunt. But we’ve all got to do our bit. I’m very proud of you. I’m proud of what you’re doing."
Now side by side, his arm still resting on her shoulders, they strode through the muddy lower field, that sucked at their boots and was already well marked and grooved with the numerous slotted hooves of the sheep and soft pads of their collies. With his heavy silence, Lizzie could tell her uncle was contemplating something. Maybe he was worried about her leaving.
"It won’t be long till I’m back, Uncle Hamish. You wait and see. We’ll get this war sorted out, and I’ll be back to help here on the farm. I won’t be going back to Barra."
He shook his head, as if that wasn’t where his thoughts had been, then taking a moment to answer, he swallowed down emotion before he spoke again, his voice a low rumble. "I was thinking that this will be a nice fresh start for you, Lizzie. A new time in your life."
She swallowed too, realizing what he was referring to. The last five years had not been easy for her, and sometimes she forgot just how much it affected her aunt and uncle and their family too. She followed him through the bottom gate and into the farm courtyard, where the sheep were already gathered around the entrance to their pen, bleating their desire for their dinner. Lizzie helped him usher them in and lift the large grain sacks to feed the sheep, taking a moment to remember.
Thinking back to the time five years before, which had been so difficult. Her cousin, Fiona, was that age now. Just fourteen Lizzie had been when she’d fallen in love with Fergus McGregor. The boy from the next farm on Barra. The whole thing seemed so foolish now as she thought back, but she had been convinced she was in love, and they had been barely children, experimenting, caught up in emerging feelings. But what had started out so innocently for her had changed rapidly for him. Lizzie thought back to how it had all turned so ugly so quickly that night and pushed the unbearable memories away. She had confessed it to her best friend, who instead of supporting her had turned against her and turned many of her other friends against her too. The pain of the rejection had been heartbreaking, and she’d vowed she would never trust a friend in the same way again. Lizzie had never told her parents what had really happened between her and Fergus that night and she never would have, if not for the fact that she’d found out she was pregnant. With both families being devout Catholics, they had got together to discuss it in the cold, unwelcoming, visitors’ parlour as the two of them had sat there staring at their hands, shame-faced. She was unable to look at him without feeling sick and angry.
There had been much toing and froing between both the families, but eventually it had been decided that she would go away to her aunt and uncle’s across the water in the Highlands, have the baby, and give it up for adoption. Everyone had been clear: fourteen was no age to start a family, especially with a baby conceived out of wedlock. Fergus had wanted to finish his schooling and Lizzie had family obligations. It just wasn’t right to saddle her with a young one when she was still a child herself, her father had insisted, his hand resting heavily on her shoulder as tears had streamed down her face.
Lizzie remembered the stony-faced disappointment on her parents’ faces as they had seen her off onto the boat, and how she had cried with the loneliness on the train journey afterwards. Before she found a kinder home with her aunt and uncle, she had been desperate, leaving the only home she had known on the isle in the Outer Hebrides, wondering what was to become of her. And then again, when she gave up the baby. Which was the hardest thing she’d ever done. Harder even than seeing her own parents turn against her when she’d found herself pregnant in the first place. Quickly, she pushed the painful thoughts away from her mind as she felt the reassuring hand of her uncle on her shoulder again.
"Come on, girl, sheep are fed. Let’s get ourselves in for something to eat. We need to get you to bed early tonight if you’re going to make that train in the morning."
She nodded as she walked by his side, across the slate grey cobblestones of the farmyard, and towards the tiny farmhouse that was their home. She sat on a step to pull off her boots and looked out across the Highlands one last time. It had been a grey day, but all at once, the sun broke through the dark clouds as it started to set on the west side of the loch, its rays stretching out across the heathered banks, turning the loch into a sea of molten silver and illuminating the geese still foraging for their food before laying up for the night.
Yes, she would definitely miss this, but she had to admit her uncle was right. This would be a fresh start for her in a place where nobody knew about her past, for even though she’d been whisked away from the isle before she had started to show, there had been stories back home, and even here, as much as she had tried to hide it, people had known. And she’d felt not just the guilt of her decision, but somehow, she’d never been able to let go of the torment of what she had done. And not unlike the sheep in front of her, with their own indelible crosses on their backs, she had also felt marked forever with the pain and the shame.
As she entered the house, the smell of burning peat and the heat from the kitchen range stretched out its fingers to warm her frigid cheeks. Wandering into the kitchen to help her aunt with the stew, she settled her heart to enjoy the last evening that she would spend with her family.
As usual, the house was a hive of activity. Fiona and Margaret were squabbling over a game they were playing.
"She’s cheating again," Fiona was yelling to her mother in the kitchen, one hand firmly on her hip, her face flushed red, as behind her Margaret’s guilty smile only confirmed the situation.
Hamish walked to the cooker and kissed his wife on the back of the neck. "Smells good, girl, smells good."
Her aunt Marion pushed hair from her damp forehead as she pulled fresh bread from the oven and shouted back at the girls. "You two are going to have to grow up now," she remarked sternly. "With Lizzie leaving us you’re are going to have to do more work around here, so you had best try to learn to get on!"
Both Fiona and Margaret tried to plead their case to their father, who just shook his head, smiling, and dropped into his favourite chair by the fire to start reading his paper.
When the whole family finally came together to eat, Lizzie’s gaze lingered around the table. All the people she loved most in the world were right here. It was such a far cry from the home she had come from. She couldn’t imagine ever going back there. As she pulled off chunks of her aunt’s home-made bread and dipped it into the warm, salty stew, she studied them all, trying to capture the scene as a picture within her mind of each one of them. Just like this, gathered talking and eating, sharing and laughing, even of her cousins as they continued to bicker with one another. A picture in her mind she could return to whenever she needed to come home in her heart. Lizzie would remember them just like this. She would miss life on her uncle and aunt’s farm, but new things, bigger things, were waiting for her in the capital. And she couldn’t wait to see what they were.
The next morning Lizzie awoke, as she had so many times before, to the sound of nature outside her window. A loud chevron of geese was making its way across the loch, announcing its presence in a lengthy bellow.
The familiar sound comforted her as she stretched awake, her eyes drawn to the shafts of dusky sunlight that were creeping their fingers beneath her daisy curtains.
Lizzie studied them for a moment; she’d barely paid attention to them for years, but wanted to take in every detail of what was familiar on this final morning before she left Scotland for who knew how long.
The curtains billowed a little as a draught found its way through the cracks in the stones – part and parcel of living in a cottage that had been settling for a hundred years. As the daisies rippled, Lizzie smiled at the thought of her favourite childhood flower. She remembered as if it was yesterday her aunt bent over her ancient sewing machine, pins gripped between her teeth as she’d hemmed them to match a coverlet on Lizzie’s bed. Hoping to make her niece more comfortable in her new home. First to recover and then as an enticement to stay on and finish her last two years of schooling with them. When Lizzie had written to her parents asking to stay longer, her mother and father had not protested. Even though it had been her desire, it had still deeply wounded her how they had rejected her, and she knew in her heart of hearts they were terribly ashamed of her and her secret. In the time she had lived here, her aunt and uncle had never said a bad word about her parents, but there were knowing looks and quiet whispers when she had been out of earshot that had affirmed to her that they knew the difficulties she had left behind her on Barra.
As the smell of bacon cooking wafted up her tiny staircase, her view drifted towards the ceiling. Lizzie studied the sloping roof, painted in delicate lavender-blue, that when the sun bounced off it bathed the whole room in its cool, comforting glow. Her aunt’s mother’s dressing table and tiny wardrobe were across the room, her walls decorated with a couple of childhood paintings she had brought with her and some clumsy cross-stitch pictures she had tackled after arriving. In the far corner, her bookshelf was still filled with some of her favourite Enid Blyton books and on the floor was a rag rug she had made the last year in school. Everything familiar and reassuring. When she had arrived, her uncle had offered her the bigger room. But there was something about the attic room, with the creaking stairway to reach it, and the little door her uncle had to bow his head to get through; all of this made her feel cosy and secure. It may not have been the most significant bedroom, but it was the one that she felt the most comfortable in.
From outside, Bob’s and Chip’s happy barks alerted her to the fact her uncle was on his way to the sheep pen. Swinging her legs out of bed, she moved towards the window, and drawing back the curtains, looked outside. Uncle Hamish was staring out at the loch, as silver shafts of early morning sun rippled across it, bringing it to life. On the banks, fishermen were already making their way down to the edge to prepare for their morning catch.
Slipping on her dressing gown and slippers, she sauntered across her brown linoleum floor, making her way down the creaking stairway into the kitchen. Aunt Marion had already laid the table and had just started cracking eggs into the frying pan when she arrived. Lizzie slipped her arms around her aunt’s ample waist and gave her a hug from behind. The older woman responded by tapping her arm and turning around to smile at her niece.
"Well, this is it, Lizzie. Are you all ready? Is your bag packed?"
Lizzie nodded and made her way to the kitchen table. From there, she could look out of the window and see her uncle, who was starting to open up the sheep pen. He called out to somebody to greet them. The farmer next door. People in Scotland had their farms side by side for generations; this farm had been in Marion’s family since the 1700s. When her uncle Hamish had met and fallen in love with her, he had left Barra to work her farm. First alongside Marion’s father and now alone. And once again, with a shudder, Lizzie remembered that this was one of the reasons she could never go home. As much as she felt a connection with the beauty of the island itself, she couldn’t spend her life so suffocated, knowing that Fergus was just next door. He had tried over the years to put things right between them, writing her long letters after the baby was born. But Lizzie had never been able to move on from the pain and the hurt of that one night and that one experience, and could never imagine going home to face her parents or Fergus.
Her aunt and uncle had never spoken about it outwardly, but she knew deep down they thought about it too. Knowing how hard it would be with both families on Barra living side by side for hundreds of years; neither able to just uproot and move somewhere else. So, with no way of going back, Lizzie would have to do that for herself. She loved her aunt and uncle but now it was time to find her own way.
Going to London to join the Women’s Auxiliary Air Force had been a noble reason for leaving Scotland. No questions needed to be asked, even if her own reasons for leaving were very different. She wanted, of course, to help the war effort. She could have chosen to join the volunteer effort in Scotland. But she had secretly hoped to be posted to London, and she had been. England’s capital city was far enough away for her to get some distance between her and her past, but there was also another incentive, the huge secret she hadn’t even shared with her family.
Her thoughts were suddenly interrupted by her aunt Marion, who placed a breakfast plate down in front of her. Hot crispy bacon, fresh eggs, and her aunt’s home-made bread made her mouth water. As if alerted by the smell, both of her cousins tumbled down the stairs, falling over each other like puppies to enjoy their last breakfast together. As they all ate, the three girls chatted about Lizzie’s new adventure and what it would be like, and one hour later, they found themselves waiting at the tiny train station that would take Lizzie to the central station in Glasgow and then on to London.
As they huddled together on the platform, Lizzie looked at her family, her two red-haired cousins, her crinkled-faced uncle in his town tweed, to see her off, and her kindly aunt, smiling, round and rosy-cheeked. Lizzie was sad to say goodbye. But she also knew she had to do this. This was her chance to get away.
There was also the newspaper clipping folded in her diary, the one she had read and reread so many times, and that had made her hope she would finally have the chance to find her daughter.
Her aunt handed her a wrapped bundle.
"I’ve made you some sandwiches and some eggs in case you get hungry."
"I’ve just finished breakfast!"
"But you have that long journey down to London. You’ll be hungry between now and tonight when they feed you. And who knows what they’re going to feed you in England?"
Lizzie smiled and took the packed lunch.
"Well, this is it," said Hamish. "Our favourite niece going off to win the war for us. We’re very proud of you, Lizzie."
As the train pulled in to the station, he gathered her into his arms, hugging her so tightly she tried not to cry. She would miss her uncle, so different from her father; his quiet presence, their long conversations on the banks of the loch, the sound of him calling to his sheep, and the smell of the fresh outdoors on his farm tweed. She pulled back and hugged her aunt as well. She could hear the tears in her voice.
"Please take care of yourself, Lizzie. We’ll write to you all the time. Keep your head down and make sure you eat properly."
Lizzie nodded, fighting the tears as she grabbed both Fiona and Margaret in her arms and gave them one big squeeze.
Lizzie made her way on board, clutching her grandmother’s carpet bag, the only bag that had been big enough to carry her belongings from Barra and now down to London. She pulled down the window and waved as they all waved back furiously. And as the train whistle blared out its final departing sound, Lizzie felt the tension in her stomach and hoped she was doing the right thing. She took in the family faces one last time, each of them looking at her with so much hope and pride.
"Goodbye," she shouted. "I’ll write as soon as I can."
"Good luck, take care," they shouted back.
Before she knew it, she was gone, leaving Scotland behind; the only place she had known in her whole life.
Diana Downes clutched her new brown leather suitcase by her side and looked up and down the platform of Birmingham New Street station. She’d arrived early, so as not to miss her train, but now she was worried that she might be on the wrong platform, as she was the only one waiting there, except for her mother.
Jessie stood stoically by her daughter’s side, her quiet, gentle presence always reassuring and loving.
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