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Sunday, 24th and Monday, 25th September
The church was now an enemy target of prime importance. From it’s high tower, commanding an aerial view of the surrounding district, it was being used as an OP to establish targets for the gun batteries of the Light Artillery Regiment and the distant heavy guns of the 2nd Army, which were now within range. Defended by anti-tank guns and mortars, it was to be the scene of continual and intense enemy assault. Oblivious of this, Mrs ter Horst and her children, confined to the cellar, moved among the wounded, with words of comfort and compassion, helping with their dressings and last thing at night, reading a passage from the bible, moving from room to room. Throughout Saturday and Sunday, I lay on the floor, against the wall, in an upstairs room, with badly wounded men occupying every available space, listening to the sounds of immediate battle, which raged at the front and rear of the house. Twice during the two days, the house was shaken by tremendous explosions in the immediate vicinity, with broken glass and plaster falling around us. We wondered how all this was going to end.
On Sunday night we were addressed by a Medical Orderly, sent from Divisional Headquarters, who informed us that the bridge at Arnhem was now in the hands of the British 2nd Army and that the Guards Armoured Division was expected to relieve us early the following morning. Throughout the night we heard spasmodic bursts of machine gun and rifle fire from near and further away.
Tuesday, 26th September
There was no longer the sound of battle in evidence, as daylight filtered through the shattered windows. We waited and wondered, then Mrs ter Horst came in through the door. "I’m afraid that I have news for you", she said, "your comrades were evacuated across the river last night and the house is surrounded by Germans. An officer is waiting outside to speak to someone who is able to walk. I volunteered and emerging from the front door, was confronted by this Officer, who saluted and said in impeccable English, "Your people have withdrawn back to their lines. I congratulate you on your efforts, but you are now our prisoners. Please distribute these gifts". He gave me tins of cigarettes and bars of chocolate, obviously from the containers dropped outside our lines.
Soon afterwards transport arrived and we were taken to the hospital at Apeldoorn. From there, two days later, those who were fit to travel were driven to the railway station en route to Stalag 11B at Fallingbostal.
The End of the Road
Stalag 11B was an unprepossessing collection of wooden huts in a series of compounds, all surrounded by high barbed wire fences, with high towers at each entrance, the armed guards having a clear view of the whole compound area. It was a dark, depressing, autumn night when we arrived and the introduction to our living and sleeping area did nothing to allay our forebodings, that the period leading up to our eventual liberation would be a test of our resolve and fortitude. The camp, not too far removed from Belsen, was already occupied by inmates of various nationalities, Russians, Poles, French and Italians, all in their own separate compounds, all displaying signs of diet deficiency, but none more so that the Russians who, in many cases, seemed little more than living skeletons. Shortly after our arrival, we were visited by representatives of the International Red Cross, who interrogated us taking note of essential details. As time went by we began to send, and receive, a trickle of censored mail and towards Christmas, a limited supply of Red Cross Parcels, shared, one parcel between two people, to supplement our meagre rations of acorn coffee, substitute vegetable soup and black bread. The general air of gloom in the oppressive circumstances was from time to time, relieved by some comic circumstance; such as the instance when a British soldier, not an Airborne type, walked into our hut and asked the question, "Which is the more dangerous? Landing by glider or dropping by parachute?" He departed very fast, having caused a heated altercation that simmered all afternoon.
Medical facilities were almost non-existent, just a limited supply of drugs and bandages made from crepe paper. a consequence being that my wounds became infected and through an inability to exercise, my arm and hand became rigidly fixed in one position. Our humdrum existence was enlivened at Christmas by a camp concert, the highlight of which was a monologue by RSM Lord, a renowned former Grenadier Guard identity, made famous by Stanley Holloway, ‘Sam, pick up thy musket’. After Christmas the British compound was swelled by the addition of American soldiers, captured during the battle for the Ardennes.
The period after Christmas became incredibly cold and one night, after enduring the ordeal of standing in sub-zero temperature, to be counted by the prison guards, I became violently sick, with a high temperature, was diagnosed as having pneumonia and was transferred to the quarters set aside for the sick and seriously wounded.
As winter gave way to spring, more and more prisoners arrived, swelling the available space to the limit of it’s capacity. There were former inmates of East European camps, force marched, ahead of the advancing Russian troops, in dreadful conditions, across Europe, to camps in Western Germany.
Then, one day we heard sounds of distant gunfire and Allied planes began to appear in the sky overhead. Every day from that day on, the sounds of battle became louder. One unforgettable afternoon, a lone fighter plane appeared overhead and did a victory roll. The following morning found the camp abandoned by the German guards and it remained only for our British liberators to arrive to complete our overwhelming sense of freedom.

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