大象传媒

A small group of us sat in the woods, out of sight of the road; unwashed, unshaven, our uniforms covered in a mixture of mud from the ditches and dust from the rubble of the town, and blood from our comrades. Hungry, thirsty and so tired; but too afraid to sleep. We had come from the outskirts of Arnhem the previous night; we had lost count of the days and nights. We had been fighting street by street through the town towards the bridge, only to be pushed back by overwhelming numbers, and the final onslaught left us broken and shattered. What was left of the 3rd Battalion, was probably scattered in small groups like ourselves, wondering what to do next. And although our bodies cried out for rest and sleep, we knew we couldn't stay still.

We wandered aimlessly for a while, hoping to meet up with other groups from the 3rd. Instead, we met a lieutenant from a glider regiment with three men (all he could find of his platoon). He told us the Arnhem bridge had fallen; so there was no point now in pushing into town. He was on his way to Oosterbeck, which was in our hands, and where we were to hold out until the allied armies arrived. We were quite happy to throw in our lot with him; there was no officer among our group, and this one had a map and seemed to know which way to go.

We avoided open country and kept mainly to the hedgerows, following the road to Oosterbeck; lying low as German armoured scout cars, which appeared to be patrolling in twos, passed by. At one road junction, two German patrols met up. The leading cars pulled up side by side in the middle of the junction to have a chat. We were behind the hedge a few yards away. We looked at each other; we could wipe them both out and still stand a good chance with the other two. The lieutenant held up a restraining hand; he was right of course, we weren't looking for a fight at that time. We waited for them to move off, before continuing on our way.

We saw evidence of the many battles that had taken place on the road to Arnhem. Bodies from both sides and many young Dutch resistance fighters. At one crossroads, a horse and cart carrying supplies for us had been ambushed. The cart had taken a direct hit from a mortar bomb. The Dutch driver had been blown across to the other side of the road. The bodies of the accompanying soldiers were scattered around. We noticed that the horse, lying down but still in its shaft, although badly injured, was still alive. God knows how long it had been there suffering. The lieutenant took out his revolver to shoot it, but realised the shot might bring enemy patrols down on us. One of the lads cut its throat.

We eventually arrived at Oosterbeck. I don't know where the lieutenant and his three men went from there, but we reported to the church and became part of the Lonsdale Force, which was a mixture of all companies of the 1st Parachute Brigade under Major Lonsdale. Men in twos and small groups were coming in all the time; making their way out of Arnhem, and from the surrounding countryside. There was a nice feeling of security being in a fixed position with an inner and outer perimeter. We were put to work digging trenches in gardens as part of the inner perimeter. Things were very well organised; we got our water bottles filled and were given a bandolier of rifle ammunition each; but no sign of food.

We were constantly being shelled, but we did manage to get a few hours sleep. Most of the shelling was coming from self-propelled guns that drove to certain positions in range and then shelled us for a time before withdrawing. Some success had been achieved by parties with Piat guns, waiting in ambush and knocking them out. There was one gun that shelled us each morning at day break; its position on the bend of the road outside Oosterbeck had been located. I was detailed to be one of the Piat party.

The patrol set off in the early hours. It was a black night as we went past the outer perimeter on the outskirts of Oosterbeck. As we got nearer to the bend, we searched the houses, not wanting to be surprised by an enemy patrol. As I moved quietly through one house, I thought I heard a noise from behind a cupboard door. I opened it carefully and found a flight of stairs leading to the cellar. There was a dim light at the bottom of the stairs, just round the bend. I decided to shoulder my rifle and go down with my finger through the ring of a hand grenade; that way you can drop the grenade and have four seconds to get back upstairs. Many men have been killed while reloading their rifle.

As I reached the bottom, I found myself in a fairly large room, lit by two candles. A man was in the middle of the room dressed in his shirt and trousers. I took a quick look round. There were two double beds made up on the floor side by side. In one bed were two girls, aged about twelve and fourteen. In the other bed was a woman, obviously their Mother, with large frightened eyes. The man said, "Hello", in good English. I unwound and removed my finger from the ring, and put the grenade back in my pocket; automatically bringing my rifle back across the front of me. "I wondered who was down here", I said. The man seemed very nervous; "My family", he explained, "We have been down here from Tuesday". "We don't like the English", said the younger girl looking at me; and then repeated in case I hadn't heard, "We don't like the English". The older girl whispered hurriedly in her ear; the younger girl corrected herself, "We do like the English". I looked at the man and smiled and he relaxed.

"Would you like an apple?", he suddenly asked, pointing to a heap of apples in the corner. He crossed over and selected one with care, wiping it on his shirt sleeve before handing it to me. I sat down on a wooden chest, my rifle across my knees, to eat the apple. The man asked me what part of England I came from and was impressed when I told him London. A lot of small talk followed. The two girls had crawled to the bottom of their bed. The girls took great interest in the questions and answers. I think they could understand quite a bit. The man was more at ease now, "Are you married?", he asked. "I'm getting married in a couple of weeks", I replied. As I spoke, I realised how weird that sounded and how unreal. The man quietly told his wife, and the girls looked at me with renewed interest. Visions and pictures flashed through my mind and were gone. I was too experienced a soldier to allow my mind to dwell on home and loved ones in the middle of a battle.

He asked, "When will the armies get here?". "Tomorrow", I said with as much confidence as I could muster. "Tomorrow", he repeated without any confidence at all, shaking his head. He asked me if I knew where he could get water; he had been using water from a tank in the house, but now it was near the bottom and too dirty to drink. He said he had been going in search of water when I arrived. I told him not to go out for a while, as there could soon be a lot of firing. I finished my apple and stood up and said, "I must be going, I've got a lot of work to do". This made the man laugh and he repeated it in Dutch to his family. They laughed politely as I went up the stairs. "Thanks for the apple", I called back.

I joined the rest of the patrol at the bend in the road, where we set the Piat gun up and settled down to wait. Just at first light, we heard the sound of a track vehicle and got ready. Round the corner came, not the self propelled gun, but a huge Tiger tank. Across to our right we could see another, with troops of infantry bunched up behind. "It's a Tiger tank", the lieutenant gasped, "Each man for himself; get back and warn them". We all broke and ran.

As if that was a signal, the tanks suddenly started firing their heavy guns. Shells went screaming overhead into buildings on the outskirts of Oosterbeck. I ran like I had never run before; the tanks were firing their machine guns now; strafing the ground. I saw a house looming up; it had been hit by shells but there was a Vickers gun firing from what was left of an upstairs window. Anywhere for shelter, I ran in and upstairs to see if I could help with the Vickers. The chap on the gun said, "It's no good, I'm all used up"; he kicked the gun in exasperation.

The view from the window was frightening. As far as the eye could see, there were Tiger tanks stretched across the horizon; hundreds of troops bunched up behind and more vehicles on the skyline. We both looked at each other and then made a run for the stairs. I got to the front door first and stopped in my tracks. Outside I could see the side of a huge Tiger tank and a squat German soldier standing with his legs apart and with his automatic gun pointing right at me. I put up my hands in the doorway, letting my rifle drop to the floor. He jerked his head towards the side of the house, where two soldiers grabbed me and went through my pockets; taking anything they thought of value, and my last grenade. They missed the cigarette lighter, Dad had given me, but they found my fighting knife in my leg pocket.

Several wounded men came out of the house after me. I went to help them, but was pushed away by a German soldier and taken with another para to where a German officer was lying on a door that had been torn from a house. He looked badly wounded, but was bandaged up, and conscious. They indicated that we should pick up one end of the door and two German soldiers took the other end and led the way. Across what would have been the road, I saw the little Dutch family I had seen earlier in the cellar; coming out of the ruins of their house, accompanied by a German soldier. I was glad they had survived the bombardment. The man was carrying a carrier bag; probably all that remained of their possessions. I looked away, down at the German officer, blood covered the door as it run out from beneath him. The German soldiers in front, didn't know - he was dead. I looked at the tanks and infantry going by and realised Oosterbeck would soon be overrun. Nothing could stop them.

This was when I realised, for me, it was the end, it was over; the days of fighting and killing, running, blazing buildings, mortar bombs, shells bursting in tree tops; crawling among the rubble of streets, lying in ditches; playing hide and seek among the stacks of bricks in the brickyard; all mixed together with the noise and the cries and the stench, and the smell of burning flesh that had been with me since Sicily. And the blood, the fear, the fatigue, the terrible thirst, and the hunger that gnawed at your stomach; and the sights that made you think you could never eat again. No sleep, no rest, driving yourself on and on, as days and nights became one, in the tangled hell that was Arnhem. And now it was over; and we had lost. The 1st Parachute Brigade, that had achieved so much in its short life, now making its last stand at Oosterbeck with the rest of the 1st Airborne Division.

The Red Devils will be remembered for many victories, feats of endurance and courage; from the stony hills of North Africa, to the olive groves and vineyards of Sicily and Italy. But, there is no glory in defeat. The Dutch people will remember us descending from the sky one lovely, peaceful, sunny Sunday afternoon; giving them hope as they turned out to greet us. They supplied us with drinks from buckets of water at the road side, to help us on our way. And then hope faded; seeing their homes destroyed; their young men who came forward to help, killed or maimed - as were the families hiding in cellars or under beds - as their town was devastated by shells and bombs.

All normal life for them ceased, as they tried to eke out the food they had in their houses. No electricity. No water. And the streets of the two towns, and the countryside and woods between, littered with stinking bodies. And for the thousands made homeless, their possessions lost or destroyed; most of them ending up in a refugee camp; their community and way of life may be gone for ever. And all for nothing! I remember thinking, the people of Arnhem will never forgive us; and if Oosterbeck is ever rebuilt, the survivors and their descendants will probably hate us for generations to come.

And I was walking into captivity, carrying a dead German officer on a door; and behind me, the remnants of the brigade; still fighting, but just a few hours away from annihilation. I could hear the tanks firing as they battered their way into the town centre. And up ahead the little Dutch family was being hustled along by a German soldier, over the rubble that was once their town. Is it too late to say sorry? Was anything gained from it all? I got an apple!

漏 Copyright of content contributed to this Archive rests with the author. Find out how you can use this.