‘To be strong everywhere is to be weak everywhere’. The dictum of Sun Tzu and Von Clausewitz was no learned mantra but an instinct with Euan Mackinnon. He chose to fight with forces concentrated on selected points of weakness. When he found none, he rested the troops and gathered his resources for the next assault.
“If everything takes priority, then nothing takes priority,” he repeated on the telephone to a succession of colleagues, each of whom in despatching help had advocated a far wider distribution of personnel in order to calm growing fears in a dozen different communities spread over Lochaber.
At ground level, he had arranged temporary accommodation in the hotels and the community hall at Strontian for the men of Polloch burned out of their bothies. The displaced were found lodging according to a hierarchy of earnings. This placed the planting squad on the floor of the local hall, or Community Centre as it had been re-named to satisfy modern idiom. Oddments of clothing donated by local folk were being collected in a slop chest and a hot meal prepared.
For those volunteers who would shortly arrive from Inverness, Kingussie and Oban, marquees were erected on a rectangle of grass near Strontian’s convenience store.
Leaving at the hutments the logistics ganger with two others in support, Mackinnon led a gaggle of vehicles over the rugged hinterland towards Strontian. The mood of the men became sombre as they loaded up, each of the dispossessed carrying his single suitcase. Silas rode his Enfield in the vanguard, and the good doctor, who had stayed to treat minor burns, whipped them in.
It was evening and upon reaching a bend in the road, the convoy stopped in the half light. Below, a pool of gathering darkness was cut by an arc of gold and red that separated a black ruin to the north and east from mature green forest to the south and west. The beautiful arc fed an immense pall of smoke. Men climbed out of vehicles and formed in little groups at the roadside, staring at distant fire.
Night fell. The men continued to stand along the verge, fascinated by the panorama of fire in the deep glen below. Finally they began to turn away from the scene. Car doors slammed shut and the procession began a slow twisting descent into Strontian.
The door stood open and Ruairidh entered a lit but deserted Community Centre and clumped across the wooden floorboarding. Others trailing in with suitcases reminded him of the refugee scene mandatory in all black and white WW2 propaganda films. “Troop of pathetic refugees – lonely suitcases,” he waved an inclusive arm over the squad. “Tragedy of men made homeless by cruel fate.”
Roland dropped a stylish portmanteau at his feet. He sniffed. “Darlings,” he said sweetly, “you smell like you’ve been smoked”. For the first time since fighting the fire, they examined each other and saw eyes circled in white skin, hands and faces black under harsh electric light. Alex lightly passed a hand over his head and fines of ashen hair floated.
Just then, Mackinnon and Robbie came into the village hall and looked at the squad who were standing in a grimy group staring towards him. They appeared to be amused by something. Christ, Mackinnon thought, look at them. Like a charcoal sketch. The men continued to smile and he realised that he must be similarly blackened.
“Everybody ok?” Mackinnon asked, and the attention of the squad turned inward. Smiles faded. Mackinnon waited.
“All present and correct,” Noel said. “By the way, this is Noel speaking.”
“I must look a perfect fright,” Roland delicately touched his hair. “Good thing that I am a great distance from civilisation.”
“Steady,” Blue said. “But what’s in the pot for dinner? Mine got burnt.”
“There’s a meal on its way,” Mackinnon said, “and sleeping bags. You lot need a shower. The hotel will let us use a couple of empty rooms for an hour or so. I’ll need to fix up something in here tomorrow. There is one gents and one ladies toilet in this Hall. You gentlemen can work that out amongst yourselves, eh, seeing as how you are in such good humour.”
“Does anyone need a doctor?” Robbie queried. “Any medical conditions among you? Don’t like to ask, but just in case…”
The grouped men stared at him.
“Very good,” Mackinnon said, “I’ll get you all a shower and a meal first, then you can bed down for the night. Tomorrow is very likely to be hard going. The crowd from Oban and Inverness are here. The Kingussie men are on their way. Settle in meantime while I fix ablutions for you. I’ll put a shower unit in tomorrow while you’re out.”
Euan Mackinnon and the ganger had left when the Argyll’s relief barman staggered in carrying two boxes of beer.
“Courtesy of Argyll himself,“ he said. “That’s after Mackinnon twisted his arm, of course.”
Fingers hooked around can rings and pulled them back. Beer agitated by clumsy handling squirted into blackened faces and the men laughed and sank down against plasterboarded walls and drank.
“Let’s pool our cash,” Alex suggested, again rubbing at his crisply singed hair. “We are all going to need simple things. Who packed toiletries, stuff like that? I’ve got fifty quid here. Is anybody struggling?”
“I am for one,” Noel said. “Silas, how are you fixed?”
“I can pitch in. I always carry cash for my bike.”
“I never have much left on a Sunday,” Blue rubbed his bearded face and felt burnt hair crush between fingers. “I can only chip in a few quid.”
“I don’t even have that,” George said.
It was agreed to pool and the amount of each contribution was recorded on a notepad Ruairidh pulled from his suitcase. The Argyll van drew up outside and several of the hotel staff appeared with hot meals wrapped in silver foil. The men ate, squatting on the floor. No-one spoke, and canned beer washed the food down. While they ate, sleeping bags were delivered and deposited near the door with extra blankets, towels and soap.
They were each dragging sleeping bags and suitcases to chosen locations along one wall when Mackinnon returned. “All of you take a walk down to the Argyll and have a wash. It’s a nice night and they’re ready for you. They’ll do your laundry so bring a change of clothes. Who knows. Bit of luck and you’ll look better in the morning, eh?”
There was no reply. Each of the squad seemed intent on creating a space for himself. Several opened their suitcases to search for a favourite item. Sleeping bags now lay at intervals along the northern side of the Centre. No-one crossed the floor to unroll his bedding under the opposing wall. Mackinnon turned away to stand at the entrance and gesture.
Two of the local woodcutters manoeuvred a long cardboard box through the hall doorway and dropped it on the floor. The slop chest had arrived. There was no rush to view its contents. Roland first stood hands on hips, then went to the box and rummaged adroitly.
“My God,“ he said. “Look better in the morning? Not wearing these, we won’t. Not to seem ungrateful, but haute couture has moved on from the eighties. I’ll not be looking my best tomorrow. And all these people here from Inverness and Oban. I shall hide in the smoke.”
Mackinnon paused at the doorway, “We won’t be anywhere near the fire tomorrow, so no smoke.” He walked outside.
“Then I shall be exposed,” Roland said thoughtfully when Mackinnon had gone. “How naughty of me.”