Page 4 of Midnight on the Scottish Shore

4

Scapa Flow Monday, April 7, 1941

Chill air brushed Lachlan’s cheeks in an invigorating way as he stood on the deck of the boom defense vessel in Hoxa Sound, the main inlet to Scapa Flow.

In the brilliant orange of the setting sun, Arthur Goodwin gestured to the men under his command. “We’ve already closed the boom that prevents surface ships from entering the anchorage, as we do each evening. Now our crew is preparing to close the gate in the antisubmarine net, which will seal off the sound for the night.”

“Excellent.” Speaking into the microphone in his hand, BBC correspondent Hugh Collingwood swung to the side. “Let’s listen to the sounds as this vessel tows an arc of floating booms into position. From these booms hang curtains of giant steel nets. Good afternoon, men. Would you please tell our listeners about your duties?”

Lachlan let the reporter pass with the lengths of cord connecting him to his recording machine.

Mr. Collingwood had arrived in the morning to spend a week broadcasting from Scapa Flow. Lieutenant Commander Blake had ordered Lachlan to shepherd the reporter because he didn’t care to do so himself, once again testing Lachlan with the command’s least pleasant duties.

At least Mr. Collingwood was a pleasant guest.

“Good show, men.” Mr. Collingwood crossed the deck toward Lachlan, his hazel eyes alight. “How reassuring it must be for our men in the anchorage to know they can sleep at peace tonight, with the door tightly locked against the enemy. Lieutenant Mackenzie, earlier today you told me what these defenses can do. Would you please share that story?”

Lachlan didn’t care to be interviewed, but it couldn’t be helped. “In the Great War, a German U-boat tried entering this harbor. She was detected by our defenses. Our men on shore activated a controlled minefield and sank the boat.”

“Good show indeed. We have many defenses here at our great northern naval base, isn’t that right?”

“Quite right.” Lachlan had to speak carefully since the Germans could pick up BBC broadcasts across the Channel. But informing the enemy that Scapa was well defended might discourage future attacks.

Mr. Collingwood swept his gaze across the harbor. “Many of those defenses have not been disclosed to this correspondent, nor should they be, and many I have seen I’m not at liberty to discuss on the air. But be assured, dear listeners. Your boys here are protected by the best our Navy, our Army, and our Air Force can provide. This is Hugh Collingwood, broadcasting from our northern base.”

After he signaled to his engineer to stop recording, Mr. Collingwood returned his bright smile to Lachlan. “Was that all right? Did you hear anything that should be cut?”

“No. Thank you.”

“Remember, your commander will review my recordings before I send them to London, and we’ll snip out anything that shouldn’t be broadcast.”

Commander Blake hadn’t given Lachlan any guidelines about what Mr. Collingwood was allowed to broadcast, nor had he mentioned that he’d review the recordings. Did he hope to catch a breach in security to blame on Lachlan?

His mouth drew taut. He was determined Blake would find nothing amiss.

As the vessel rounded the island of Flotta and turned for the pier at Lyness, the breeze picked up.

Mr. Collingwood clamped his fedora over his light brown hair and pointed with his microphone across the harbor. “Say, Lieutenant, any chance I could visit those tall steel towers? I’ve seen them around the country, and no one will tell me what they are.”

“Neither will I.”

Mr. Collingwood chuckled. “I understand, but they do intrigue me. They look rather like radio transmission towers.”

Too close to the truth. The radio direction finding towers at Netherbutton transmitted and received radio waves to locate enemy aircraft. Since RDF was a closely guarded secret, Lachlan gave Mr. Collingwood a bland smile.

Another chuckle from the reporter. “I quite understand. I won’t pry.”

“Even if you did, I’d say nothing.”

“Good chap.” The reporter took his microphone to his recording engineer, Rob Ferguson.

Arthur joined Lachlan at the rails. Although they served in different commands, Lachlan and his new friend were both billeted at Rysa Lodge.

“Thank you for bringing Mr. Collingwood,” Arthur said. “Jolly good sport, and great for morale.”

Indeed, the men were grinning and chatting as they secured their equipment, energized by Mr. Collingwood’s enthusiasm for their work and his interest in their lives.

A conversational skill Lachlan lacked.

“How was your weekend at home?” Arthur rested his forearms on the railing. “Are your parents well?”

Were they? Mother had been as jumpy as a new lamb, and Lachlan had overheard a snippet of a conversation about “when to tell Lachlan.” When he’d asked if something was wrong, his parents answered no—rather too quickly. What if one of them was gravely ill and they were afraid to tell him?

Lachlan refused to pass his worries along to his friend or to lie to him. “They asked when you were coming to visit Creag na Mara again.”

“It may be a while. I’ve been well occupied.” Arthur’s lopsided grin turned north across the harbor toward the town of Kirkwall. “I told you I met a young lady. Did I mention she has a friend who wants to meet you? Pretty little thing, lively and vivacious.”

Lachlan jerked his head to the side, toward the wee islands bristling with gun batteries and to the clouds now tinted purple and pink.

“Nonsense,” Arthur said. “I’ll hear no protests.”

Lachlan rolled his eyes. “I’ll come, but women of the lively and vivacious sort find me dull.”

“More nonsense. She’ll swoon.” Arthur pointed to his upper lip. “That scar makes you look rather dashing and dangerous.”

With a wince, Lachlan rubbed at the scar as if he could rub away Neil’s betrayal.

At least he’d heard nothing about Free Caledonia in the month since he’d returned to Scotland. Perhaps the group had died of starvation. A few weeks before, German bombers had battered the Glasgow area, killing over one thousand in the “Clydeside Blitz.” The shock of the attack had forged solidarity with blitzed England and proven what Lachlan knew all along—it was Scotland’s war too.

“I’ll schedule an evening out with the ladies this week.” Arthur stepped to the side. “Please excuse me. Duty calls.”

Lachlan raised a hand in goodbye.

The boom defense vessel pulled toward the pier at Lyness, the naval headquarters on the island of Hoy, the southwest corner of the anchorage at Scapa Flow. Beyond the pier, nondescript military buildings and huts marched up the gentle hills in the twilight.

After the vessel docked, Lachlan helped Mr. Collingwood and Mr. Ferguson carry the components of the light mobile recording unit ashore and into the waiting staff car.

“A gun battery next, yes?” Mr. Collingwood settled into the passenger seat next to Lachlan.

“Aye, at Scad Head.” Lachlan drove down the blacked-out roads on the base.

“Have you scheduled an air raid for my benefit?” Humor lit up the reporter’s voice.

Lachlan gave him a smile and turned north up the road to the battery. “If only I could. The Germans havnae dared send a major raid in almost a year. The last time they came, they were met by the Scapa Barrage. Every gun on land and in the harbor fired en masse.”

“The Scapa Barrage? Oh, I should very much like to see that.”

“You missed this month’s test of the barrage. And be careful what you wish—”

A keening sound rent the night.

The air raid siren.

“Why, thank you, Lieutenant,” Mr. Collingwood said. “How accommodating of you.”

Lachlan chuckled and shook his head. “I’ll return to base and find a shelter—”

“Heavens, no. I’ve reported on the London Blitz after all. I should like to see our men in action.”

If anything happened to the popular reporter on Lachlan’s watch ... Regardless, his orders were to show Mr. Collingwood Scapa Flow at its best, so he continued up the road.

Mr. Collingwood peered through the windscreen at the darkening sky. “What can you tell me about the defenses at work now?”

“The antiaircraft guns on land will be preparing—hundreds of them—as well as those on our ships in the anchorage.”

“I see the balloon barrage is rising.” Mr. Collingwood pointed to a finned balloon on its wire cable at Pegal Bay, one of many giant silver balloons circling Scapa Flow to force Luftwaffe aircraft to fly higher and bomb less accurately.

“If you havnae noticed, the winds here are terrific. We moor the balloons to concrete blocks or trawlers, but the balloons frequently tear loose and wreak a wee bit of havoc.” Lachlan parked the car near the gun battery at Scad Head.

The air raid siren had fallen silent, and the men unloaded equipment, with Mr. Ferguson remaining in the motorcar to run the recording machine. Mr. Collingwood spooled out cord as they crossed the moorland to the concrete ring surrounding twin six-pounders, manned by Army troops.

“This may be a disappointment,” Lachlan said. “In the past month or so, we’ve had only light raids by day—mostly against coastal shipping. They’ve also hit lighthouses in Pentland Firth and up on Fair Isle.” Thank goodness, the RAF and naval fighters stationed in the Orkneys and in northern Scotland had shot down two Luftwaffe Ju 88s in that time.

“A lack of an air raid doesn’t mean the lack of a story.” Mr. Collingwood’s smile flashed white in the night.

After Lachlan made introductions, Mr. Collingwood stepped down into the gun pit with the crew and fired questions about the men, their work, and their lives.

Lachlan sat on the rim of the gun pit overlooking the silvery waters of Bring Deeps. The softest breeze blew damp and cold, the way he fancied it. Above him, a shy half-moon slipped behind a cloud like a bairn behind his mother’s skirts.

Despite the challenges and frustrations, Lachlan couldn’t imagine anywhere else he’d rather be than Scapa Flow.

After about fifteen minutes, Mr. Collingwood sat beside Lachlan. “The men think the bombers are headed south to Glasgow again. In case they’re wrong, I’d like to remain here until the all clear.”

“Aye.”

“Scapa Flow seems to be quite well defended.”

“Thank you. We do our best, but we can always do more.”

Mr. Collingwood buttoned his coat collar to the neck. “We certainly don’t need to worry about spies infiltrating the base. Even with our BBC credentials, Rob and I need chaperones.”

“Aye.” The Orkneys were restricted to locals and to men in the Forces. To receive a permit, civilians needed to fill out piles of paperwork, provide a compelling reason to visit, and undergo a rigorous screening from the War Office. Spies would never reach the Orkneys on the ferry. But what if a spy landed by parachute or a small vessel?

Mr. Collingwood’s breath whirled white before him. “I’m aware of how the British public perceives Scapa Flow. One of the purposes for my broadcasts this week is to rebuild trust, assure the nation of the security of the Home Fleet.”

“The Royal Oak , aye. A great tragedy. The Royal Navy has a black mark on its record.”

“I’m afraid so.” Mr. Collingwood’s tone dipped low.

Lachlan’s heart dipped even lower. “In my experience, black marks aren’t made with charcoal but with indelible ink.”

A silence grew, heavy and thick, and Mr. Collingwood sighed. “In my experience too.”

Only serious Lachlan Mackenzie could drag the ebullient Hugh Collingwood into melancholy.

“Well then.” Mr. Collingwood’s voice brightened, and he nudged Lachlan with his elbow. “Shall I toss a little bleach on that mark this week?”

“Aye, that would be grand.”

If only it worked for Lachlan’s life as well. No matter what good he did, his black marks remained.