At about 10.45 in the evening of Saturday 10 May 1941, David McLean, head ploughman of Floors Farm, near Eaglesham, south of Glasgow, heard the drone of an aeroplane overhead. McLean, a bachelor in his mid-forties, lived in a single-storey cottage facing the farmhouse. He was about to get into bed. His widowed mother and his sister Sophia slept in the other bedroom.
McLean was used to aircraft, because the RAF trained their pilots nearby; they had a flight-path that brought them from the airport at Irvine up to Renfrew and then down over Eaglesham to Dungavel, ten miles to the south. Dungavel Hill served as a landmark before they returned to Irvine. But tonight there was something unfamiliar in what he could hear, a different resonance in the engine-note. While he was listening, the sound altered, as if one of the engines had cut out. Then it stopped altogether.
A few seconds later, he heard a muted impact, perhaps a mile away. The earth under the house gave a perceptible tremor.
David McLean put out the light and pulled aside the blackout at the window. The full moon glowed pinkly through a light mist, and he could see over the garden, beyond the stone wall, to the fields and the dark hills. All looked as usual until a movement caught his eye, the shimmer of moonlight on something large and white drifting from the sky.
He knocked on the wall of his mother’s room and called out that he had seen a parachute and was going outside to investigate. He pulled on his trousers, tucked the nightshirt inside and reached for his boots.
The parachutist was on the ground grappling with his harness when David McLean got to him. The billowing silk was tugging at the man, jerking him across the grass until he managed to disengage it.
‘Who are you?’ McLean called across to him. ‘British or German?’
‘I am a German officer. Hauptmann Horn, from Munich.’
From across the fields came a flash and a roar as the fuel ignited in the crashed aircraft. The German officer turned to watch.
‘Was there anyone with you in the plane?’
‘No, I am the only one.’
David McLean looked at the face picked out by the flames. This was not a young man, as the British pilots usually were. He had the stronger features of middle age, eyes set deep under thick dark brows, fine, wide mouth over a resolute jaw. He turned away from the blaze and attempted to stand, but his right leg would not support him. He toppled off balance and practically fell into McLean’s arms.
‘My leg … very painful.’
‘You’d better come into the cottage. Are you armed? Do you have a gun?’
The parachutist shook his head, and lifted his free hand away from the side of his black leather flying-suit, inviting McLean to search him.
‘All right. Can you walk if I help you?’
They hobbled as far as the gate, and rested there a moment. The German glanced back to where his parachute lay, still rippling and flapping. ‘I would like to take that with me.’
To McLean, it was a reasonable request. The thing had saved the man’s life. ‘I’ll get it if you promise not to go away.’
The German gave a faint smile. With one good leg, he could not have got far from the gatepost.
McLean gathered the parachute and came back with it bundled under his arm. Then he heard a voice from the farm buildings.
‘What’s going on out there? Who is that?’ It was William Craig, who lived in the farmhouse.
‘It’s me – Davey,’ McLean called back. ‘A German has come down. Would you go and fetch a soldier from across the road, Mr Craig?’
‘A German?’ A pause; then, in the same even tone, ‘Aye, I’ll do that.’
By good fortune, several of the Royal Signals Regiment were billeted at Eaglesham House, almost opposite the farm. Their work was secret, and they looked more like university men than soldiers, but they were certainly better equipped than a ploughman to deal with a prisoner of war.
The German was considerably taller than McLean. They made their way unsteadily up the path to the door of the cottage, where Mrs Annie McLean stood watching in dressing gown and slippers.
‘Is it a Jerry?’ she asked her son.
‘Aye.’
‘Och, what a life!’
‘Aye.’
‘Well, dinna stand out there. Bring him in and I’ll make some tea.’
Inside the whitewashed living-room, David McLean dumped the parachute on the flagstone floor and helped the injured pilot into the single leather armchair. The man heaved a great appreciative sigh and eased his injured leg into a more comfortable position. He was wearing fur-lined suede leather flying-boots, easily the most elegant boots that McLean had ever seen.
‘What did you say your name is?’
‘Horn. Hauptmann Alfred Horn. I must see the Duke of Hamilton at Dungavel House. It is very important.’
‘You want to see the Duke of Hamilton?’
‘Would you take me to him?’
McLean grinned and prodded his own chest with his finger. ‘Me, take you up to Dungavel to see the Duke?’
‘If you please.’
‘Get away with you, man.’
But Hauptmann Horn was very persistent. He repeated the request. Apparently he believed there was nothing to stop the head ploughman of Floors Farm from rousing the premier Duke of Scotland from his sleep and introducing him to an enemy pilot.
Mrs McLean brought in the tea. Hauptmann Horn thanked her, and said he would prefer a glass of water. He unzipped the front of his flying-suit. Underneath, he was wearing the grey-blue worsted tunic of an officer in the Luftwaffe. He felt in an inside pocket and took out some photographs.
‘My son. And my wife.’
David McLean glanced at them and handed them to his mother as she returned. ‘His son and his wife.’
Hauptmann Horn took the water and drank it without taking a breath.
‘Bonny,’ said Mrs McLean as she handed back the snaps.
Someone tapped lightly on the door. McLean opened it and admitted two boyish soldiers in battledress. One of them, who wore steel-rimmed glasses, cleared his throat and said, ‘We were told …’ His words trailed away at the spectacle of the Luftwaffe pilot sprawled in the armchair with a glass mug in his hand.
McLean exchanged a glance with his mother. If this was the best the Army could send, he was not much impressed. He had scarcely admitted them and closed the door when there was more urgent knocking.
This time he opened the door to two of his neighbours who had been alerted to the emergency. Mr Williamson was the special constable. He wore a black steel helmet with the word POLICE painted on it in white lettering. His companion was Mr Clark, who was in the khaki helmet and uniform of the Home Guard. Clark was more than equal to the occasion. There was a whiff of Scotch whisky on the air. He said with authority, ‘Hands up!’
Everyone looked at Clark and saw a large First World War revolver in his hand. They all half-raised their hands, even the soldiers, who then lowered them coyly.
‘Is this the prisoner?’ demanded Clark, gesturing dangerously with the gun.
‘Aye.’
Turning to one of the soldiers, he said, ‘We have a clear duty here. We must put him under close arrest.’
The soldiers looked uncomfortable.
‘Is there anywhere suitable across the road?’ asked Clark.
They shook their heads.
The prisoner spoke up: ‘Take me to Dungavel House.’
Clark raised the revolver higher. ‘Nobody asked you.’
David McLean explained, ‘He keeps asking for the Duke of Hamilton.’
Clark ignored that. ‘If the regular Army has nowhere suitable to confine the prisoner, we’ll have him in the Home Guard hut at Busby.’
‘I am a German officer.’
‘On your feet!’
‘He’s injured his leg.’
‘I don’t propose to march him there. Mr Williamson is the owner of a motor car.’
Presently, the prisoner emerged from the McLeans’ cottage supported by the soldiers, with Clark behind, pointing the revolver. Williamson opened the rear door of his small car. Before getting in, the prisoner turned towards McLean and his mother, thanked them, and dipped his head in a formal bow. Clark got into the back seat beside the prisoner and the car moved off into the night.