passage through. Alistair watched in
anguish as machine guns and rifles were turned upon every living thing trapped
within those jagged nets.
Eventually the fury of the defending fire
slackened. The tak tak tak of heavy machine guns gave way to the sporadic crack
of single rifle shots.
Immobilised by fear, he wondered why he alone
had been spared while all around him was useless sacrifice. He was no more than
ten yards from the wire and could hear the screams and moans of those impaled
Highlanders who were still alive.
Another flare was sent hissing into the air.
As it floated back to earth Alistair could see the faces of friends and
comrades enmeshed in their eviscerating prison.
“Alistair!” Somebody was calling his name
now.
“Alistair! For the love of God, waken up.” It
was Colin’s voice.
Alistair looked blankly at his brother.
“Don’t make a sound, whatever you do,” Colin
whispered. “They haven’t seen us yet.”
“What; the Germans…?”
“SSShhhh! Keep your voice down or they’ll hear
you!”
Alistair was beginning to come to his senses.
They were lying behind an embankment of the Laragain burn. He could hear the
splashing roar of a waterfall to his left; its sound magnified by the mist.
“What are you blethering about?” he asked, in an
agitated whisper.
“Them;” Colin hissed. “ Saigdearan dhearg !”
Alistair gaped stupidly at his brother. “ Saigdearan
dhearg ? Redcoats…?”
The terrible vision they’d seen earlier came
back to him then. Those apparitions were gone. But other images from the past
now filled the glen. Alistair smelt the sweet scent of peat smoke, and saw the
dark bulk of cottages against the lighter grey of the mist. These were no
pathetic ruins, but substantial dwellings topped by thatched roofs. There was
movement too amidst this archaic scene; with utter disbelief, Alistair caught
his first glimpse of the red coats and white gaiters of the saigdearan dearg .
He watched as a small group of soldiers emerged from a cottage beside the burn,
driving an old woman and two children before them. A number of people were
under military guard beside a second cottage. All seemed immobilised by shock.
Alistair could also see two figures lying
prostrate on the ground. The vision was so clear he could make out their tartan
plaids, and the pools of blood in which they lay.
Colin was whispering in his ear, his face
flushed with excitement: “It’s the massacre, Alistair! What should we do? We can’t
just sit here!”
“Himself was right. I thought it was all just
some old cailleach’s tales, but this is real…” Alistair’s voice was a
mixture of fear and wonder, as if he’d found himself in the halls of Valhalla.
A large group of soldiers appeared out of the
mist. At their head was a thickset, brutal-looking individual. Alistair could
see no badges of rank on the man’s tunic, but guessed he was probably a
sergeant. The bulk of the soldiers continued into the mist, heading west. The
sergeant remained behind with a dozen of his men. He growled something at his
troops, and one after another they plunged into the crowd and began to separate
the men from the women and children. An old woman at the front of the group
began to moan like a terrified animal.
“Alistair! We have to do something,” Colin
pleaded. “We can’t just sit here and watch this.”
“What can you and I do?” Alistair hissed in
reply. “These are just images of the past… Turn away if you can’t look…”
A soldier silenced the old woman with the butt
of his musket. She was trampled in the mêlée as the soldiers struggled to tear
the men away from their families. The sergeant waded into the crowd, using
fists and boots to quell the rising hysteria. One by one, six old men and three
youths were bundled into the nearest cottage and a water barrel was dragged in
front of the door. Some of the soldiers looked uneasily at each other, as if
not all had the stomach for this work. Some
anguish as machine guns and rifles were turned upon every living thing trapped
within those jagged nets.
Eventually the fury of the defending fire
slackened. The tak tak tak of heavy machine guns gave way to the sporadic crack
of single rifle shots.
Immobilised by fear, he wondered why he alone
had been spared while all around him was useless sacrifice. He was no more than
ten yards from the wire and could hear the screams and moans of those impaled
Highlanders who were still alive.
Another flare was sent hissing into the air.
As it floated back to earth Alistair could see the faces of friends and
comrades enmeshed in their eviscerating prison.
“Alistair!” Somebody was calling his name
now.
“Alistair! For the love of God, waken up.” It
was Colin’s voice.
Alistair looked blankly at his brother.
“Don’t make a sound, whatever you do,” Colin
whispered. “They haven’t seen us yet.”
“What; the Germans…?”
“SSShhhh! Keep your voice down or they’ll hear
you!”
Alistair was beginning to come to his senses.
They were lying behind an embankment of the Laragain burn. He could hear the
splashing roar of a waterfall to his left; its sound magnified by the mist.
“What are you blethering about?” he asked, in an
agitated whisper.
“Them;” Colin hissed. “ Saigdearan dhearg !”
Alistair gaped stupidly at his brother. “ Saigdearan
dhearg ? Redcoats…?”
The terrible vision they’d seen earlier came
back to him then. Those apparitions were gone. But other images from the past
now filled the glen. Alistair smelt the sweet scent of peat smoke, and saw the
dark bulk of cottages against the lighter grey of the mist. These were no
pathetic ruins, but substantial dwellings topped by thatched roofs. There was
movement too amidst this archaic scene; with utter disbelief, Alistair caught
his first glimpse of the red coats and white gaiters of the saigdearan dearg .
He watched as a small group of soldiers emerged from a cottage beside the burn,
driving an old woman and two children before them. A number of people were
under military guard beside a second cottage. All seemed immobilised by shock.
Alistair could also see two figures lying
prostrate on the ground. The vision was so clear he could make out their tartan
plaids, and the pools of blood in which they lay.
Colin was whispering in his ear, his face
flushed with excitement: “It’s the massacre, Alistair! What should we do? We can’t
just sit here!”
“Himself was right. I thought it was all just
some old cailleach’s tales, but this is real…” Alistair’s voice was a
mixture of fear and wonder, as if he’d found himself in the halls of Valhalla.
A large group of soldiers appeared out of the
mist. At their head was a thickset, brutal-looking individual. Alistair could
see no badges of rank on the man’s tunic, but guessed he was probably a
sergeant. The bulk of the soldiers continued into the mist, heading west. The
sergeant remained behind with a dozen of his men. He growled something at his
troops, and one after another they plunged into the crowd and began to separate
the men from the women and children. An old woman at the front of the group
began to moan like a terrified animal.
“Alistair! We have to do something,” Colin
pleaded. “We can’t just sit here and watch this.”
“What can you and I do?” Alistair hissed in
reply. “These are just images of the past… Turn away if you can’t look…”
A soldier silenced the old woman with the butt
of his musket. She was trampled in the mêlée as the soldiers struggled to tear
the men away from their families. The sergeant waded into the crowd, using
fists and boots to quell the rising hysteria. One by one, six old men and three
youths were bundled into the nearest cottage and a water barrel was dragged in
front of the door. Some of the soldiers looked uneasily at each other, as if
not all had the stomach for this work. Some
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