Harkness – MacGillivray Stories

My name is Alexander MacGillivray, and this is my story.

To my brothers, Hector and John, if you are reading this, it means that I am officially dead. It means that this letter has been found inside my sporran, which I threw away the moment I realised that I was going to die. I didn’t want the enemies to get hold of my letter and read what was written in it in the event that I was captured. If they did, they would make fun of me and laugh at my face for being a sentimentalist, so to speak.

I don’t want to leave this world behind without letting both of you know about my feelings and my thoughts about this senseless war; the war that has taken me away from you, my family.

Now, I am suffering from severe injuries, hiding inside this trench that I discovered as I staggered my way towards enemy lines. I believe that this is a very dangerous place for me to be, even with its parapet and parados. I quickly reached inside my sporran for some paper and a pen so I could write a letter to both of you.

To Hector

Hector, my brother, you are the one I envy most. You have the best of both worlds. You have served our country, and yet you still remain relatively safe from harm and possible death. Just this once, I wish I could be you, safely tucked away at camp, serving nourishment to tired and hungry soldiers. I long for the relative safety of camp, of me polishing my pipe until it gleams.

I long to stand in front of the mirror once again at camp and view myself wearing my kilt. You know I would look so pretty damn good in it, being five feet ten with blue eyes and brown hair. With my quirky moustache and regal build, women have fallen for me over and over again. But because I was preoccupied with the ongoing conflict, I didn’t give them much thought.

I envy you, Hector, because you will have children with your beloved wife, Morag, while I shall perish alone in this hell called Passchendaele without ever having a glimpse of my future children. It seems this is something the good Lord has willed – that I should die alone, with no lover or wife to grieve for my death. I am not a religious man, but they say that the ways of God are mysterious; but why did ‘He’ have to include me in his ‘mysterious ways’? 

I scoffed at you for choosing to remain behind the scenes—a coward, I thought to myself. To me, serving my country means fighting on the front lines, and being a piper is the best way to do that. I have given courage to soldiers who have become afraid of the incessant volley of gunfire shooting over their heads as they hide in trenches surrounded by parapets; inspired some soldiers who are on the brink of death to fire their guns one last time, and take down their enemies.

I have stepped out of trenches and over parapets, tired of hiding, and sounded my pipe to inspire and evoke a sense of heroism from wounded and tired soldiers; soldiers who wished at that very moment that they were home with their wives and children. I have done this for the 16th battalion, where I belong. I have also inspired the 13th battalion by marching over to them, my kilt swinging to my measured beat, sounding my bagpipe the loudest I could.

To John

My brother John, you are a piper like me. I hope you will not suffer the same fate as mine. You are young and still have a full life ahead of you. I know you are also dying to serve our country, but please don’t die in the literal sense. One death in the family because of war is enough. You are a Highlander—a courageous one —because you chose to become a piper.

I was once courageous, like you are now. I was reckless and would always be the first one to volunteer to be in the front line. I was dashing and bold, with a devil-may-care attitude. I was a fool rushing in where angels fear to tread.

I beg of you, John. Don’t be reckless like me and return to our family safe and sound. What good are medals when you are already dead? The government may give you recognition and a little ceremony, but will that bring you back from the dead? Will you be able to hear all their praises from inside the coffin? They will praise and laud you for your achievements, but they will never know the sufferings of a soldier in the battlefield. Soon the government will forget your deeds and will continue to recruit more young soldiers who will eventually suffer the same fate as me. Don’t be a dead hero.

I am so weak now, and I feel I have said enough. I would have wanted to go home to Acharacle and see it one last time, but I know that it is impossible now. My dear brothers, go home after the war and live like you’ve never lived before. Live for me!

The last of my strength I will save to write you a poem. Think of me when you read it. Let your children and your children’s children know about me so that I will not have died in vain.