The Nationalist Read Free

detail while the white plastic suits of the medical team looked to piece together the course of events. Evidence was logged. The wounded were treated. The dead lay where they fell.
    “It might just have been the one guy,” Arbogast said.
    “You don’t believe that any more than I do. I’ve spoken to the comms team about the shooting. I don’t think we’ll get too much attention on that right now. The main focus will be on the explosion. The reporters are suggesting we’ve got the guy already which gives us a little bit of leeway, but that won’t last for long. The reporter’s seen the footage and despite what we asked her I’m 100% certain we’ll be getting a call sometime soon.”
    Arbogast’s mobile was ringing. He looked down at the handset. It was his friend Sandy Stirrit, calling from the BBC.
    “I’m busy, Sandy.”
    “We’ve been sent a video.”
    “And?”
    “It’s from the bomber – says his name was Jock Smith – a Black Watch World War 2 veteran. He’s 87.”
    “Have you watched it?”
    “Yes, but it’s not happy viewing.”
    “You can’t use it. You know that.”
    “We will use it. We’re not the only ones that have been sent it. It’s on YouTube John – I’ll send you the link.”
    Hanging up, John Arbogast looked to his boss, “It looks like the cat’s already out of the bag.”

4
     
     
    Jock Smith was looking off camera when the video started. He nodded to someone in the background, before staring directly down the lens.
    Arbogast pointed at the screen, “He’s got company, who’s working the camera?”
    “—listen,” Norrie Smith said, cutting him off, “let’s see what he wants.”
    Jock wore a light green, ragged tweed jacket and his now well known Glengarry bonnet. The background was dominated by a large Union Flag, which contrasted against the Saltire badge on his jacket. He had a thin face which was framed by a large, bushy beard which was speckled white and brown, while a large moustache hung low, covering his mouth. He had a long nose which drooped below his nostrils. Arbogast thought he looked a lot like a Samuel Peploe painting he’d seen in Kelvingrove – Old Duff. Jock started to talk.
    “It gives me no pleasure to be speaking to you today, knowing that I have now died for my cause. As a young man I fought for my country. I believed the Empire was worth fighting for – I believed we had to defeat the Nazis. I believed I would die for my comrades. At Monte Cassino I watched as my best friend died in a crater, filled with his own blood. My division was decimated in the cause of capturing a monastery. In the end the German’s left it to us. They just walked out. After breaking through the Gustav line, came Normandy, Holland, and then Japan. I couldn’t leave the army and ended up in Palestine. In all of these places we brought death in the name of democracy. When the bomb dropped on Nagasaki I was merely glad it had come to an end. But it’s not over. It never is. How many men have you watched die? Maybe your father on his deathbed, or a road accident? But death will still be unusual for you. I see death wherever I go; the faces of friends screaming as they bled to death – if they were lucky perhaps they got a shot of morphine. More often than not there wasn’t enough to go round. But still we thought it was worth it. We conquered and the allies won. Or so we thought. At home the rhetoric was loud. Don’t mention the war they say. Why not if it’s all we have? For the millions that died for peace I have sat and watched the slow collapse of the British Empire, of the capitulation of our government to a European power we once fought against, in pursuit of our famous victory. What the Germans failed to do during the war they have succeeded in through peace. Worse still, we voted for it; and now we will die for it. We are facing an enemy within and I cannot stand by and watch the forces of nationalism grow strong in my Scottish homeland. My actions