A Ceiling of Stars
James Carron
Published by James Carron at Smashwords
Copyright 2010 James Carron
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Table of Contents
Chapter 3 – Sanctuary at Strathchailleach
Chapter 4 – At Home in the Hills
Chapter 5 – Surviving Strathchailleach
Chapter 1 – Introduction
I only met James McRory Smith once. It was a meeting in the loosest sense of the word. Between us stood an old wooden door, the latch firmly down, barring entry to the tumbledown cottage he called home. There was no face-to-face contact, no pleasantries swapped, just anonymous confrontation.
On one side of the warped, weather-beaten boards slumped two exhausted hillwalkers seeking refuge, an escape from the hostile elements in the only building for miles around. On the other, there was an angry old man unwilling to surrender his privacy. I remember the moment well. It was late summer, 1992. And it was late at night.
A friend – David – and I set off earlier in the day with the intention of walking from Durness to Sandwood Bay where we planned to pitch our tent in the dunes before hiking back through the hills to Durness. The weather was good as we set off and after crossing the Kyle of Durness on the tiny ferryboat that flits back and forth over this narrow channel during the summer months, we shouldered our heavy packs and headed off along the surfaced track leading ultimately to the lighthouse at Cape Wrath.
A minibus conveys tourists back and forth across this wild and uninhabited country. But we chose to walk, making the most of our short time on the Parph. The road climbs steeply from the ferryman’s cottage, heading north above the shoreline to the old crofts at Achiemore and Daill. Here the route leaves the Kyle and its glorious beaches of golden sand and heads west over a vacant landscape of heather moor concealing little more than a spattering of small lochans and the occasional empty cottage, abandoned to the elements.
With the dust slowly settling behind the departing tourist minibus, we marched into the unknown. Our only guide was the thin strip of potholed tarmac originally constructed in the early 19th century to serve the lighthouse. Prior to the Second World War there was a thriving community living on the Parph. In the 1930s, 35 people lived and worked the land west of the Kyle of Durness. The men were shepherds, employed by two local farms to tend the flocks, and their children attended a small school, once the most remote on the British mainland.
In addition to servicing the lighthouse, the road was a vital lifeline for these secluded families. A weekly lorry run, taking food, fuel and other essentials to the lighthouse keepers dropped off supplies at cottages and crofts along the way. The Durness-based postman who would cycle out with the mail also used the road, three times a week. Now the only regular traffic is the tourist minibus, which we watched fade into the distance.
As we tramped on, the fine weather that encouraged us to don our boots after breakfast was rapidly deteriorating. Banks of dark cloud lumbered in from the sea and after a preliminary smattering of light drizzle they mustered sufficient vigour to send in a full-blown rainstorm.
As much by good fortune as by good meteorological planning, we stumbled upon a derelict cottage at Inshore. Although dilapidated, it still boasted most of its roof and that was enough for us. We snuck in through an open window and shook off the worst of the rain.
Inside, we settled down to make a brew, hoping the weather would pass and allow us to continue on our journey unhindered. We were clearly not the first people to have sought refuge here. Strewn across the floor were the remnants of military ration packs left by soldiers who regularly visit Cape Wrath and the Parph for training exercises.
Anyone who has ever cast an eye over the Ordnance Survey map for this far-flung corner of Scotland will not have failed to notice, emblazoned in bold pink lettering, the words ‘Danger Area’. Thanks to its remote location and absence of a resident population, Cape Wrath has long been used for army, navy and air force activities, involving both our own forces and those from other NATO countries.
The so-called ‘Danger Area’ starts just west of the Kyle of Durness and extends towards the bay at Kervaig and inland to Loch Airigh na Beinne and Loch na Gainmhich. Army exercises regularly take place on the land, while tiny islands – some no bigger than rocks or sea stacks – are subjected to aerial bombardment. For this reason alone, it is probably fair to say this is one of the least visited parts of Britain.
We had, however, decided to visit and after downing our tea, we set off again, wandering out into the last vestiges of the rainstorm. We made good progress and by late afternoon reached Cape Wrath, the most northwesterly tip of the British mainland, and its lighthouse. Built in 1828 by Robert Stevenson using granite quarried at nearby Clash Carnoch, the tower is 20-metres high and stands right on the edge of a sheer cliff that plunges over 120 metres down into the swirling froth of the Atlantic Ocean. A little to the east of the lighthouse, the highest sea cliffs in mainland Britain are to be found.
Prior to the lighthouse’s construction, the cape was a notorious danger point for vessels attempting to enter or leave the Pentland Firth. A crew of six men lived and worked here, operating the light and maintaining the complex. Although accessible by road, some supplies came by sea, with an annual visit by the lighthouse tender vessel, which brought diesel and paraffin oil. The site was manned until March 31, 1998, when the light was automated. It is now remotely monitored from the Northern Lighthouse Board’s offices in Edinburgh.
In 1930, the men stationed at the lighthouse were joined on the cape by the staff of a signal station, constructed by the shipping insurance giant Lloyds of London on a low hill to the south of the complex to keep an eye on shipping. It now lies in ruins while the lighthouse continues to offer a beacon to passing ships.
Our journey took us south from the lighthouse. We were forced to relinquish the security of the single-track road and find our own way across pathless moor. We set a course inland, away from the coastal cliffs. Visibility was good. We knew time was not on our side, but we were prepared to cover the final miles to Sandwood Bay by torchlight if necessary. The going, however, was not so good. The ground beneath our feet rose and fell incessantly. We ducked in and out of gullies, hopped back and forth across streams, fought ankle-trapping heather and squelched anxiously around increasingly expansive – and increasingly moist – mires of marsh and bog.
Progress was slow and the last vestiges of energy soon ebbed from our aching legs. Occasionally we stumbled upon what looked to be a path and spirits soared, only to be dashed when we discovered it was just a short-lived sheep or deer track. With the light fading, we contemplated pitching our tent, but forays for potential campsites in the thick heather were fruitless. So we dug out our torches, set a compass bearing and pressed on, battling to hold a straight line over the topsy-turvy terrain.
We were exhausted and every step forward was a struggle. Tempers quickly frayed. There were arguments about the accuracy of the compass bearing, where exactly we were and why we were not progressing as planned. There were no landmarks to judge our progress by, no visible points of reference we could relate our map to. If ever there was a time to pull together, this was it. But we were drifting apart. Conversation ceased and we plodded on in silence. Sandwood Bay seemed more distant than ever.
But at least it wasn’t raining. There was some small comfort in that fact. We may have been wandering around in the darkness, unsure of where we were and, in these pre-GPS days, with all our hopes pinned on a small plastic device with a wobbly red needle, but at least we were warm and dry. Sadly, however, that was not too last much longer. For the second time that day, a squall of light drizzle heralded the arrival of a rather more robust drenching. The heavens opened, battering us with a potent cocktail of rain and wind. We pulled on waterproof jackets and over-trousers, determined we would not be beaten. But it was devilishly wet and cold. All we could hope for was that the next rise we mounted would reveal Sandwood Bay in all its glory.
Of course, it didn’t. All that happened was the rain continued to fall, the wind continued to whistle and we continued to walk. We were locked into a vicious cycle of hope followed by despair.
Then, to our utter astonishment, we spotted a small wisp of smoke rising into the black night sky. It was so very faint, but it stopped us dead in our tracks. We turned to face one another, seeking confirmation. Did we see smoke, or were we hallucinating? Anxiously we turned our heads and focussed our tired eyes on the horizon ahead. Yes, there was definitely smoke.
With trembling fingers, we consulted our map, scanning the grid squares by torchlight for any mark of habitation. There was a tiny square accompanied by the word ‘Strathchailleach’. Spirits lifted, we lurched forward with renewed fervour, witnessing a spring in our step that had, up until that point, been sadly lacking. A tiny cottage came into view. It was a squat little structure, hugging the ground in the base of the valley below us. There was no light emanating from it, only the steady funnelling of grey smoke. It was an oasis in our desert.
In a second all the pain, anguish and frustration of the night vanished. We walked, jogged and then ran, tearing through the wiry heather towards the little house. One final obstacle presented itself – a fast flowing little river, its current swelled by the night’s rain. But we splashed through the water without a second thought and arrived below the smoking chimney.
We rounded the cottage, passing a dim glow of light struggling to escape from a diminutive window, and paused briefly to catch our breath by the front door. It was an old wooden door, flecked with shards of peeling paint and framed by blocks of lichen-encrusted stone. David lifted a hand to the latch and gently depressed it. He pushed the door, but it failed to yield. It was locked. Our hearts fell in unison.
‘What now?’ David asked, his voice barely audible above the wind.
‘Knock,’ I suggested.
So he did, a light tap at first.
Nothing.
He rapped his knuckles across the wood again, this time more forcefully.
From the bowels of the cottage we heard a loud, almost animal-like roar erupt. Shaken, we took a step back. There was no evidence to suggest this was someone’s home – no car or Land Rover parked up outside. There were no power or telephone cables connected to the cottage. No one could possibly live here beneath the rusty corrugated iron roof, or so we thought.
We were cold, tired and hungry. We knocked again and drew an instant response – angry shouting and swearing. Anxiously we waited to see if the door would open. Would we find ourselves starring down the barrels of a loaded shotgun when all we sought was shelter from the elements?
The tirade of verbal abuse subsided almost as quickly as it had erupted. The door, for its part, stayed firmly shut.
Reluctantly we decided to leave, but before we stepped back into the night, I pressed my face up against the front window from which the light was coming. It was difficult to see much. The pains of glass were small, grubby and encrusted with cobwebs. The room beyond was terribly gloomy. But from within, two beady eyes, framed by a flat cap and a rambling white beard, starred back at me. There was a man in there, and he had an axe in his hand.
I recoiled from the window, grabbed David’s arm and yanked him away from the cottage. We sloshed through reedy marsh, snagging our waterproof trousers on rusty fence wire, before finally hitting solid ground. We walked on, faster than we had done all day. And we didn’t look back until we were well clear of the cottage.
A vague path led us up to Lochan nan Sac and from there we descended to Sandwood Bay. We pitched our tent in the lea of a sand dune and collapsed into our sleeping bags. Before I zipped up the tent door, I took one last look at the ridge above us, squinting through the darkness to see if an angry old man with beady eyes and an axe had pursued us. Thankfully, the coast was clear.
It was noon before we rose the next day. Over breakfast I told David what I had seen through the window. He was alarmed and thankful I had not shared this information with him while we were still out on the moor in the dead of the night. For my part, the fear of what I witnessed subsided in my sleep and I felt a little foolish that I had gone to the extent of checking the ridge before bedding down.
We continued on our way, spending our second night out at Strathan bothy, in Strath Shinary. Unlike Strathchailleach, we found the door open and had the place to ourselves. We endured a cold night on a hard floor after all attempts to find something to burn in the grate proved futile.
The following morning, stiff as boards, we hiked up to the col at the top of the glen and descended to the road, tramping tarmac back to Durness. It was a memorable hike, for many reasons. The one, however, that stuck in my mind was our brief visit to Strathchailleach and the welcome, or rather lack of, that we encountered there. I found it hard to fathom that someone lived there. But the reaction of the occupant and the vehement opposition to our arrival suggested a very protective attitude to the property. It felt as if we were trying to break into someone’s home and they were protecting their little place on this earth come what may.
Back home, the matter briefly rested, occasionally airing itself over a pint with David in the pub, or over a whisky by the fire at another bothy. Then, a few months after our expedition to Sandwood Bay, Strathchailleach came to the fore again. The question playing on my mind was finally answered.
On Sunday, October 11, I settled down to read the day’s newspapers. As I opened my copy of the Sunday Mail, I immediately spotted a familiar face. Starring out at me from page three, under the headline ‘Take a Hike Jimmy!’ was James McRory Smith, billed in the accompanying text as Scotland’s hardiest pensioner. Here was the man with the beady eyes and the axe who met my curious gaze on that stormy night at Strathchailleach.
The story confirmed that he did indeed live as a recluse in the former shepherd’s cottage. The piece concentrated mainly on the lengthy trek James undertook each week to pick up his pension and provisions. He made a round trip of 26 miles, walking out to the Post Office at Balchrick and then heading down the single-track road to Kinlochbervie.
We knew from our own experience that Strathchailleach was not an easy place to reach. Approaching from the north, we spent many hours seeking the cottage out. From the south, the journey is slightly less complex. A track that ultimately degenerates into a rough and ready path runs from Blairmore, on he road between Kinlochbervie and Sheigra, to Sandwood Bay. From there, a route must be carefully picked over open hillside. Historically, there was a pony track to Strathchailleach, but over time this was erased by the encroachment of heather, grass and marsh.
James’ home was indeed remote. It was quite possibly the most remote dwelling on the British mainland and it is fair to say it was the last occupied primitive house in Scotland. There was no mains water, no electricity and no telephone line. So why did he choose to live there, facing such hardship?
There is little doubt that his key reason for settling at Strathchailleach was the solitude afforded by such a secluded spot. Prior to his arrival he spent many years on the road, moving from one labouring job to another and wandering from one part of Scotland to another. He never settled in one place for any length of time. He made no contact with his family and had no close friends. He slept out under the stars and briefly occupied other abandoned dwellings. Indeed, immediately prior to his arrival at Strathchailleach, he spent some time living in one of the abandoned cottages on the Parph we had passed on our walk from the Kyle of Durness to Cape Wrath.
He was frequently referred to as a hermit, both by people who knew him in Kinlochbervie and in occasional articles written about him over the years. The Oxford English Dictionary defines a hermit as a ‘person living in solitude as a religious discipline’ or ‘a reclusive or solitary person’. The word hermit comes from the Greek term ‘eremos’, meaning ‘solitary’.
James – who was often referred to as Sandy – was a solitary man, there is no doubt about that, and he led a reclusive lifestyle. However, there is no evidence to suggest religion played any part in this decision. Although born into a Roman Catholic family, he was not a regular churchgoer and some of his activities over the years were decidedly unholy.
He arrived at Strathchailleach in the early 1960s and lived at the bothy for over three decades, reluctantly vacating the cottage in 1994 when old age and ill-health forced him back into society. His life at Strathchailleach was a simple one, free of the stresses and strains most of us face on a day-to-day basis. He may not have had the luxury of piped water, gas or electricity, but at the same time he did not have to worry about finding the money to pay a mortgage, rent or utility bills. A modest income enabled him to buy food, drink and cigarettes and the surrounding land endowed him with a steady supply of fish, game, firewood and peat.
There was no need for James to get up in the morning to go to work in a factory or office. He was free of the daily grind many of us face. That is not to say he was an idle man. His priorities were just different. He worked hard simply to survive, completing a backbreaking round of daily chores, such as fetching water, cutting peat or gathering driftwood from the coastline and hauling it home across the moor.
James’ way of life belonged to a bygone era. His simple existence was more akin to the 19th century crofters who occupied the land before him. In the outside world consumerism was becoming increasingly rife. Disposable incomes were higher than at any point in history and people were spending increasing amounts of their money on their homes, filling them with the latest electrical and electronic equipment, making their lives easier and more comfortable.
Yet James had no interest in such modern indulgences. The only piece of electrical equipment he owned was a small battery-powered radio. There was no cooker – not even a simple gas stove – at Strathchailleach. He cooked his meals over an open fire and in place of a fridge he stored his perishables in the cool water of a nearby lochan. He never owned a television set, a DVD player or a computer. The only luxuries in his life were whisky, cigarettes, magazines and books, most of which had been discarded by others.
Living alone, James did not have to tailor his plans around family members or friends. Although a reclusive character, he did not shun human company entirely. Some visitors to the bothy remember him as a genial host, enjoying long conversations over a cup of tea or a dram or two of whisky. He interacted with the people of Kinlochbervie and the neighbouring crofting townships and there were friends in the community, people who looked out for him. However, dealings with others tended to be forged on James’ own terms and he lived free of the complexities of a close emotional or physical relationship. There is strong evidence to suggest this is one of the main reasons why he opted to change his life so dramatically.
Delving into his background, it is clear that two of the most significant, life-changing decisions he ever made related to women he was close to. The first involved his mother and the second his wife. It was the latter that set him on the path to Strathchailleach and his life as a recluse.
James’ frugality could hold a lesson for us all. Although it was never his intention to demonstrate an alternative path – he took little interest in what others thought of his lifestyle choices – his simple existence at Strathchailleach shows that human beings can exist, even in this modern age, with few material possessions. At a time when there is increasing concern over our impact on the planet and its finite resources, we could do worse than take a leaf out of his book.
Living without a car, electricity and many of the consumer goods we all take for granted, his carbon footprint was negligible. Although his possessions were few, he made the most of what he did have, creating very little waste. There was nothing in his life that he did not need. Everything he owned was essential to his survival and others left much of it in their wake, from the discarded books he read and re-read to the salvaged wooden fish and fruit boxes he fashioned into furniture. He had no need for a gym membership – walking kept him healthy to the extent that he never once called on the services of a doctor during his time at Strathchailleach.
It is perhaps an extreme example of an environmentally friendly existence, but James was content with it, describing his life as ‘perfect’. How many of us can truly say that about our own lives?
*****
Chapter 2 – The Early Years
James McRory Smith spent over half his life as a recluse, wandering at will from one place to the next until he settled at Strathchailleach. His childhood, however, contrasted sharply with this solitary lifestyle. But there were early clues to the path he would eventually follow.
At 6.30am on March 6, 1925, James was born into a large Roman Catholic family in the ancient burgh of Dumbarton. Already there were six older siblings in the brood – Andrew, Bill, Rita, Nell, Frank and Davy and over subsequent years younger brothers and sisters were to follow – Winnie, Lilly, Lisbeth, John, twins Bobby and June, Sheila and, the youngest, Thomas. There was another sister too, Agnes, but she died in infancy.
In all, 15 children occupied the family home at Sandpoint, a spit of land wedged between the River Clyde and the River Leven. And the house they lived in was by no means large. It was a simple three-bedroom flat, one of four in a block sitting in the shadow of the burgeoning Clyde shipbuilding industry.
His father Andrew Smith was a riveter to trade, working for William Denny & Brothers, the town’s largest employers. His mother Elizabeth (nee McRory) looked after the home and brought the children up. Both Andrew and Elizabeth were born and bred in Dumbarton. They married on April 6, 1914, at Blythwood, Glasgow, and set up home at Sandpoint, where the majority of the men worked at the Denny yard.
Money was tight and discipline was strict. But it was a happy and loving home environment in which James grew up.
‘We were a large family.’ his sister Winnie recalled. ‘The house we lived in was not big so it was difficult to get any time to yourself. There never seemed to be a minute’s peace as there was always something going on. And over the years there were more and more people about as nieces and nephews visited.
‘I remember there were just three bedrooms but one of them was only a small box room so we spent a lot of our time outside, playing in the street or down by the river.
‘Mum spent all her time looking after us. It was a big job, cooking and cleaning and doing all the washing. Everything happened in the kitchen. It was always busy in there.
‘Dad worked at Denny’s and I remember we would often go down to see him, taking a ginger bottle with tea in it for his break. Mum always wrapped it in a jersey to keep the tea warm.
‘There was never much money but we got by. At Christmas dad carved dolls from pegs for the girls and we got an orange and an apple each and colouring books. We were happy with these simple presents,’ she added.
Andrew Smith worked hard to support his family. William Denny & Brothers was, by the 1930s, the leading shipbuilder in Dumbarton, although the firm’s roots can be traced back to 1814 when founder William Denny began building steamships on the banks of the River Clyde at Dumbarton. Following his death, three of his sons set up a company of marine architects, Denny Brothers, in 1844 to design steamers.
They leased Kirk Yard, on the banks of the River Leven, and, a year later, took over Wood Yard, the premises formerly occupied by their late father’s business at Sandpoint. With an initial workforce of just 14 men, the operation quickly prospered and in 1849 William Denny & Brothers was formed. In those early days every aspect of shipbuilding took place on the Clyde, from design through the forging of iron to the construction of the final vessel. There were jobs for local men and an influx of workers from across Scotland and Ireland.
With healthy order books, the company expanded rapidly, acquiring the North Yard, on the River Leven, and enlarging its engineering workshops. In 1867, a new purpose-built yard opened on the River Leven and the arrival of William Denny, grandson of the founder, brought new blood and innovation. A skilled scientist, he pioneered radical technology and methods and was responsible for the creation of the Denny Ship Model Experiment Tank, a ground-breaking test facility that allowed the company to evaluate fresh hull designs in wax model form. Created in 1882 and stretching the length of a football pitch, it was the first commercial ship model testing tank in the world and continues in use to this day.
William Denny & Brothers continued to grow, amalgamating its own businesses and swallowing up smaller yards. At the start of the 20th century, the company was constructing ships of all types for operators around the world. In 1901, it completed the King Edward, the world’s first passenger turbine steamer.
The First World War brought steel shortages and a dip in the shipbuilding market due to over-capacity, but the 1920s saw prosperity return with the company continuing to reap rich rewards from its reputation for research and innovation, particularly in the development of high-pressure turbines that afforded greater speed.
With a growing young family, Andrew Smith was never short of work with a firm often described as one of the most prolific shipbuilders in the world. Young James was raised in a thriving and, thanks to the arrival of navvies from Ireland, increasingly diverse community. It was also a community proud of its historic links, and this would not have been lost on James who, according to his family, always took a keen interest in his surroundings.
One of the most dominant features of the local landscape is Dumbarton Rock – known by locals simply as the Rock – on which sits Dumbarton Castle, a legendary stronghold described by King Henry VIII as the key to the realm. Standing guard over the Firth of Clyde, the twin-pronged volcanic plug lies just across the River Leven from the site of what was then the Smith family home at Sandpoint and could not have failed to capture James’ imagination.
For many local youngsters the Rock itself was a stronger draw than the historic castle perched atop the steep volcanic slopes. The cliffs and crags and the giant boulders at their base offered an exciting outdoor adventure playground for Dumbarton’s youth.
But play was only a part of life for the children of Dumbarton. There was education too and James, like his brothers and sisters, attended St Patrick’s School (now Our Lady & St Patrick’s High School), a short walk from the family home. Boys and girls both attended junior school there but the senior years were separated, boys moving upstairs at St Patrick’s while girls transferred to another building, called Notre Dam.
At school, James’ light coloured hair earned him the nickname ‘Smudge’. An intelligent child, he was more gifted artistically than academically. He was keen on drawing and painting and took an interest in the wildlife and countryside around Dumbarton.
His sister Winnie said, ‘James was very artistic. He was always drawing pictures, even as a wee boy. My dad was like that too. He used to do some beautiful drawings. I think there must have been a real artistic streak running through the family.’
Art was an interest James pursued throughout his life, both during his years on the road and when he finally settled at Strathchailleach. However, as a boy he could not have known where he would ultimately end up, but according to his family there were some early pointers to the life of solitude he latterly craved.
‘James always was a bit of a loner, even as a boy,’ Winnie continued. ‘He was a deep, self-contained person. He was like dad in that respect. They both had great strength of character and were very self-reliant. Maybe it was because James had grown up in a big family where it was very difficult to find peace and quiet. Maybe that was what he was looking for.’
For James and his brothers a career in the Clyde shipyards awaited when they left full time education. In the 1930s, when James was in his teens, the Denny yard had a healthy order book and there were plenty of other yards on the river looking for workers to meet the demand for new ships.
The future looked bright and James may very well have followed in his father’s footsteps, embarking upon an apprenticeship and learning a trade. But then his mother died and the world as he knew it changed forever.
Elizabeth Smith was in her 50th year when she passed away. James was just 17. There was no illness, no warning that something was wrong.
‘In the end I think she was just worn out,’ Winnie said. ‘She brought up a large family and it was very hard work for her.’
The death of Elizabeth was a major turning point for James, who, of all the children, was probably closest to his mother.
‘I think mum’s death hit James hard. He left home a short time after the funeral and it was a few years before he was seen again,’ Winnie added.
Rather than enter the shipyards, James enlisted with the army.
In 1942, Britain was at war with Germany. With his beloved mother laid to rest, 17-year-old James left home and joined the army, following in the footsteps of his older brothers who entered military service, both with the British Army and Royal Navy. There was a proud military tradition in the family; Lance Corporal David McRory and Private William McRory both fought and died in the First World War. The two men received the Military Medal and their sacrifice is commemorated on Dumbarton’s War Memorial, in the town’s Levengrove Park.
Precise information on James’ military service is scarce as official records for World War Two service personnel have not been made public and the records that do exist can only be released to close family. Unfortunately, they are not in possession of the information required to unlock these files.
Occasional references and anecdotal information suggest James served with the Black Watch Regiment. A Sunday Mail report on his life at Strathchailleach, published in 1992, refers to him as an ‘ex-Black Watch soldier’. However, the regimental museum and archive at Balhousie Castle, in Perth, has been unable to confirm whether or not this was the case and contact with veterans has failed to unearth any recollections of a young soldier called James McRory Smith.
His sister Winnie’s initial memory is that James enlisted with the Argyll & Sutherland Highlanders and this is a position supported by the fact that Dumbarton lies within the regiment’s traditional recruiting ground.
Whichever regiment he joined, it is certain, given the date James enlisted, that he served with the 51st (Highland) Infantry Division. The division incorporated, within the 153rd Infantry Brigade, the 5th Battalion Black Watch and, within the 154th Infantry Brigade, the 1st and 7th Battalions of the Black Watch and the 7th Battalion Argyll & Sutherland Highlanders.
The 51st (Highland) Infantry Division began life in 1920 as part of the Territorial Army. In 1939, it was sent to France, joining the British Expeditionary Force where soldiers of the 51st, under the command of the French Army, patrolled a section of the Maignot Line at Metz. In May 1940, the line came under sustained attack from the Germans and the division was forced to pull back. Efforts were made to withdraw the soldiers but on June 12 the 51st was forced to surrender.
All was not, however, lost. Back in Scotland, a new 51st (Highland) Infantry Division was created from the 9th (Highland) Infantry Division and, after training, it was sent to Aldershot in 1942 in preparation for a return to battle. It is this division that James most likely served with.
From Aldershot, the division was sent to North Africa where it came under the command of General Montgomery’s 8th Army. Initially based in Egypt, the 51st fought in the Battle of El Alamein, assisting in the key campaign to drive German and Italian troops out of North Africa.
It is not know whether James fought in North Africa. His family believe his wartime activities were confined to Europe, so while he may not have seen service in Africa there is a good chance he was with the 51st when it moved to Sicily in 1943, joining an allied invasion force that took and held the Italian island.
The division returned to Britain having sustained over 6700 casualties in North Africa and Sicily. Leave, however, was brief and, in June 1944, the 51st was back in action as part of the invasion of Normandy. A number of units landed on the French coast on D-Day and others followed over subsequent days.
From a beachhead near Caen, the 51st pushed on to defeat German troops at Falaise and St Valery-en-Caux, the town where the original 51st (Highland) Infantry Division was forced to surrender in 1940. It was a particularly sweet and celebrated victory.
Battles followed at Le Havre, Calais and Dunkirk as the division moved east into Belgium and Holland, securing strategic ports for allied shipping and creating a safe corridor for troop movements through northern Europe.
In February 1945, the 51st was approaching Germany, spearheading the 1st Canadian Army’s assault on the Rhineland. On March 23, the division’s soldiers set out to establish a bridgehead over the Rhine at Rees and despite two days of heavy and sustained enemy attack this was successfully achieved.
After a brief period of rest, the division started to advance into northern Germany, pushing from Rees up to Bremen. On May 8, 1945, German forces finally surrendered and the 51st (Highland) Infantry Division marched into Berlin. In November 1945, the pipes and drums of the division celebrated victory with a parade in the fallen city’s Olympic Stadium.
The arrival of the division in Berlin ties in with anecdotal evidence that placed James in the city at the end of the war. As a member of the 51st (Highland) Infantry Division, he would have witnessed – and played his part – in much bloody conflict in northern Europe. Battles at Goch and Rees were particularly intense and come VE-Day, the division had sustained over 15,000 casualties. For his part, James survived without any significant injury and evaded capture, unlike his brother Bill, who also fought during the Second World War and was held for many months as a prisoner of war in Japan.
With war over, the 51st (Highland) Infantry Division remained in Germany for a year on occupational duties. James returned to Scotland and made brief contact with his family in Dumbarton before taking work as a scaffolding erector in Glasgow. However, he didn’t settle and a short time later he re-enlisted and returned to Germany.
James would have found a country struggling to recover from the aftermath of war. Concerted allied bombings left cities, industry and infrastructure in ruin. Thousands of people were homeless and hungry and there was a huge influx of refugees from the east.
In August 1945, pending a peace treaty, the occupying forces – Britain, France, America and the Soviet Union – divided the country into four military zones. Britain took charge of the north – the heavily industrialised Ruhr valley, the North Sea coast and the key cities of Cologne, Dortmund, Dusseldorf, Hamburg, Bremen, Kiel and Hanover. It is to this quarter that James returned as part of Britain’s post-war occupational force, the British Army of the Rhine (BAOR). Formed from the 21st Army Group, which played a key role in the original invasion of Germany, the BAOR consisted of various military units with a total strength of 80,000 men, among them James McRory Smith.