"Home Fires of the Great War" just a snipit...

Here is a glimps of my book in the writing. This happens in 1916, in the second year of "letters."

A sudden sound has caused me to turn. There on a rock near the edge of the cliff is Alan in full Scotch attire playing his bagpipe. He too seems to be lost in watching the sunset, for only soft notes come from his instrument. Now the notes have become a song, “Amazing grace, how sweet the sound, that saved a wretch like me.” Oh, Emma, I can’t describe the music. It is different somehow from Alan’s usual playing. The notes are full and rich yet have a tender yearning or longing in them as they float out over the water and the village. When I look behind me, I can see the doors of the village houses opening and quietly the people gather to listen and watch. I can see Mama, Edith and Mark on our porch, but not a sound can be heard except the bagpipe and the waves breaking against the rocks. Alan has ended “Amazing Grace” and has begun “Auld Lang Syne.” Emma, I know now what he is doing, he is saying good bye. Good bye to all the people and places he loves, for tomorrow morning he and Finlay leave for war. Will he come back? Will either of them come back? Oh, I pray the Lord would keep them safe, and Papa. Emma, I. . . The notes are breaking! Don’t break now, Alan, keep it strong. There is a step behind me. Mr. McLean has come up to join his son. Nothing is missing from his attire as a scotchman. Kilt, bray, sporran, claymore at his side and bagpipe over his shoulder. With firm even steps he approaches Alan. Shoulder to shoulder they stand. There is no break now in the music. The song ends and is carried away on the evening breeze.
“Aye lad,” Mr. McLean’s voice comes to me in the stillness. “We’ll ne’er be forgettin’ thee, donnae ye ken that?”
“Aye,” Alan’s voice is steady now.
“Then donnae break ye’re mither’s hert wi’ such dreeful songs. Her een are upon ye frae oor hame, an’ it’s sair her hert will be if ye are gang far to war wi’ out singin’ oor favorite hymn. Be ye able to sing?”
There is silence. Alan is gazing out over the water. His shoulders straighten, and he replies, “Aye, wi’ David I am.” He now turns his gaze to the village while a lively march comes from his bagpipe. David and Mrs. McLean are coming out of the village. The others linger and now are turning back to their houses, no doubt thinking that this farewell has become too personal to watch. I had best be going too; the light is fading though it will be a little while before it is completely gone. Alan had just called down to the villagers asking them to please stay. Mr. McLean has begun a melody. Alan’s rich tenor and David’s perfect harmony blend together in “My Ain Countrie.”
“I am far frae my hame, an’ I’m weary aften whiles,
For the langed-for hame-bringin’, an’ my Faither’s welcome smiles.”
Oh, Emma, I couldn’t write the song while they sang it. And I couldn’t describe it either. I could only sit motionless as the music swelled and dipped around me. Thoughts floated through my mind, “Would we ever hear that rich and beautiful voice again? Would Alan ever come back to this “hame” or would he be “gangin’ noo, unto his Saviour’s breast.” I know we will somewhere meet again. If not on earth “flecked wi’ flowers, mony tinted, fresh an’ gay” than in “oor ain countrie.”