The war was over and the men of Lewis were on their way home to their loved ones, their crofts and their land. The 'Iolaire' sailed at 7.30 pm on 31st December 1918 from the Kyle of Lochalsh and headed for Stornoway, it was a clear windy night that would get much worse. At 1.55 am on 1st January 1919 the 'Iolaire' struck the 'Beasts of Holm' a ropcky out crop only yards from the shore and just outside the harbour entrance, within an hour she had sank beneath the waves. Of the roughly 284 men onboard only 80 would survive, many bodies were never recovered and of the ones that were 9 were laid to rest 'Known unto God' Mnay aboard the 'Iolaire' had survived Antwerep, the Dardanelles, one man had survived 36 hours in the sea after his ship was torpedoed - he swam and eventually reached Algiers then only to die so close to home, when his body was recovered, his hands were in his pockets. Only one man could claim to land at the harbour, he had spent the night clinging to the mast (the only thing above the water) and was picked up by a RN boat the following morning. It would take upto three days for the news to spread around the island.
John Macleod has gone to great lengths in the writing of his book and it does indeed have much Gaelic text and personal interviews with the last of the survivors and those that lost their fathers and older brothers on that fateful night over 90 years ago. The book also deals with the incompitence and callousness of those in charge on shore, the aftermath for the survivors and islanders themselves, the subsiquent enquiry and although we will never know for sure what happened the book paints a very good impression of what probably did happen. It's a tough subject that has been well researched, well written and difficult to put down. 'When I Heard the Bell' is a tribute to those 284 men who sailed on the last voyage of 'Iolaire' and to the people of Lewis.
The Iolaire - Ian Crichton Smith
The green washed over them. I saw them when
the New Year brought them home. It was a day
that orbed the horizon with an enigma.
It seemed that there were masts. It seemed that men
buzzed in the water round them. It seemed that fire
shone in the water which was thin and white
unravelling towards the shore. It seemed that I
touched my fixed hat which seemed to float and then
the sun illuminated fish and naval caps,
names of the vanished ships. In sloppy waves,
in the fat of water, they came floating home
bruising against their island. It is true
a minor error can inflict this death
that star is not responsible. It shone
over the puffy blouse, the flapping blue
trousers, the black boots. The seagulls swam
bonded to the water. Why not man?
The lights were lit last night, the tables creaked
with hoarded food. They willed the ship to port
in the New Year which would erase the old,
its errant voices, its unpractised tones.
Have we done ill, I ask? My sober hat
floated in the water, my fixed body
a simulacrum of the transient waste,
for everything was mobile, planks that swayed,
the keeling ship exploding and the splayed
cold insect bodies. I have seen your church
solid. This is not. The water pours
into the parting timbers where ache
above the globular eyes. The lsack heads turn
ringing the horizon without a sound
with mortal bells, a strange exuberant flower
unknown to our dry churchyards. I look up.
The sky begins to brighten as before,
remorseless amber, and the bruised blue grows
at the erupting edges. I have known you, God,
not as the playful one but as the black
thunderer from the hills. I kneel
and touch this dumb blonde head. My hand is scorched.
Its human quality confuses me.
I have not felt such hair so dear before
not seen such real eyes. I kneel from you.
This water soaks me. I am running with
its tart sharp joy. I am floating here
In my black uniform, I am embraced
by these green ignorant waters. I am calm
The green washed over them. I saw them when
the New Year brought them home. It was a day
that orbed the horizon with an enigma.
It seemed that there were masts. It seemed that men
buzzed in the water round them. It seemed that fire
shone in the water which was thin and white
unravelling towards the shore. It seemed that I
touched my fixed hat which seemed to float and then
the sun illuminated fish and naval caps,
names of the vanished ships. In sloppy waves,
in the fat of water, they came floating home
bruising against their island. It is true
a minor error can inflict this death
that star is not responsible. It shone
over the puffy blouse, the flapping blue
trousers, the black boots. The seagulls swam
bonded to the water. Why not man?
The lights were lit last night, the tables creaked
with hoarded food. They willed the ship to port
in the New Year which would erase the old,
its errant voices, its unpractised tones.
Have we done ill, I ask? My sober hat
floated in the water, my fixed body
a simulacrum of the transient waste,
for everything was mobile, planks that swayed,
the keeling ship exploding and the splayed
cold insect bodies. I have seen your church
solid. This is not. The water pours
into the parting timbers where ache
above the globular eyes. The lsack heads turn
ringing the horizon without a sound
with mortal bells, a strange exuberant flower
unknown to our dry churchyards. I look up.
The sky begins to brighten as before,
remorseless amber, and the bruised blue grows
at the erupting edges. I have known you, God,
not as the playful one but as the black
thunderer from the hills. I kneel
and touch this dumb blonde head. My hand is scorched.
Its human quality confuses me.
I have not felt such hair so dear before
not seen such real eyes. I kneel from you.
This water soaks me. I am running with
its tart sharp joy. I am floating here
In my black uniform, I am embraced
by these green ignorant waters. I am calm