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’swatch ... 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.”
