6-pounders were 1st Airborne’s only field artillery. Flown in by glider, their ammunition came in heavy metal boxes loaded on to hand carts. Theo found the cart and set off, dragging it up the same road 2nd Battalion had used on the first day – quiet, tree-lined, with trim white houses to one side and the distant river to the other. The road sloped upward, bright sunlight now shone overhead, the day was warm and he was soon sweating. Gradually Oosterbeek fell behind, and with it the raucous clatter of battle, punctuated now by a new sound up ahead, the percussive ‘stonk’ of a 6-pounder firing.
He found the guns a quarter of a mile further on. The road became lined with shops and houses, then rose to a crest; the 6-pounders were positioned at the bottom, one in a garden, the other across the road behind a low brick wall. Well sited, they had a commanding field of fire to the top of the road, but there was no infantry support, no machine-gun or mortar emplacements, just the two field guns. As he drew breathlessly near he saw one had the name ‘Hilda’ painted on its barrel.
‘Watch out!’ Two men ran forward and pulled Theo and the cart into cover. As they did so a salvo of bullets tore into the road behind them. ‘Missed us, you bastard!’
Baskeyfield introduced himself. ‘Thanks for coming, we were getting anxious.’
‘Major Lonsdale’s a bit concerned too.’ He looked around. ‘How many are you?’
‘Was seven but two got injured. They’re in the house behind. Me and Billy Balfour are here on Hilda, Terry Smith and his boys over the other side.’
Polite waves were exchanged. ‘Was it snipers that injured your men?’
‘It was a mortar, mounted on a half-track. We blew it to bits. But snipers, yes, there’s a machine gun hidden up the hill somewhere. Long range. It’s OK if you keep your head down. It’s the heavy stuff we’ve to watch out for.’
The heavy stuff appeared a few minutes later. Two tanks, with infantrymen clustered behind in classic fashion. Turning on to the road several hundred yards ahead, they slowly began making their way downhill.
‘Wait for it, Terry!’ A wave came in response. Then the lead tank’s muzzle flashed and a shell smashed into a house nearby, showering them with brick dust and debris.
‘Shoot!’ A thunderous crash as both 6-pounders fired, reloaded with a clang and fired again. Four shells exploded up near the tanks; one seemingly scored a hit, sending smoke and wreckage high into the air. Both tanks lurched to a stop, the men behind crouching hesitantly, but then one fired a second shell which exploded in the road, flinging rock, rubble and white-hot shrapnel in all directions. The sniper joined in, from much closer this time, pouring machine-gun bullets at them. ‘Get down!’ someone roared and Theo dived for cover. Bullets pecked the cobbles around him, a deafening explosion shook the ground, a 6-pounder barked in reply, then came a lull and a hoarse cry: ‘We got the bastard!’
He raised his head. Clouds of dust filled the air; the house behind him was completely blown out, with the entire front wall crumpled to rubble. A thirty-foot poplar had splintered to matchwood ten yards away and a line of telegraph poles hung from their wires, drunkenly askew. Meanwhile, up the hill the lead tank was on fire, oily smoke belching from its turret, and the second was reversing away, with its infantry still huddled behind.
‘Christ, Terry!’
Theo raised himself higher. Hilda’s loader, Balfour, was pointing a bloody arm across the road. The second 6-pounder, wreathed in smoke, was lying on its side, destroyed by a direct hit. Three bodies were scattered about it, none of them moving.
‘I’ll go.’
He leaped across the road, the sniper’s gun spitting bullets at his heels. He made it to cover, but as he reached the crew and knelt at their side, he knew from their shattered bodies they were dead.
‘They’re coming again!’ Baskeyfield shouted.
The second tank was returning, nosing its way past the first, now furiously ablaze. Baskeyfield’s gun fired but missed, and Theo could see he and the injured Balfour were struggling to reload it. Then a shell from the tank screamed in, smashing a nearby shop to rubble. Smoke and dust obscured all vision again. Theo started to cross the road but was stopped by a burst from the sniper. He ducked behind the wrecked gun, hearing bullets pinging from its steel plating. A rifle was propped against the wall, one of the gunner’s. ‘Trickey!’ An urgent cry came from over the road. He picked up the rifle, leaped up, fired three rounds at the sniper’s window and sprinted across. Balfour, staggering, was trying to load Hilda one-handed, while Baskeyfield was crouched behind its sights cranking a wheel. ‘Hurry, lads!’ Theo tore open a tin and fumbled a shell into the breech, Balfour slammed it shut and without waiting hit the firing lever. Hilda barked and debris spurted from a building above the tank. ‘Again, boys, quick as you can!’ Theo groped for another shell, the tank fired again and everything went black.
He came to lying on his back. All sound was gone save for a shrill ringing in his ears. Opening one eye he could see blurry blue sky and watery sunshine above a veil of drifting smoke. Through the other eye he could see nothing, because blood was dribbling into it from a wound on his brow. Much of his body seemed numb; the back of his head throbbed and felt hot and wet with blood.
‘Push, Billy!’
Someone was shouting. Groggily he raised his head.
Hilda was lying askew, thrown bodily sideways by a blast from the tank, which he could see was motionless on the hill. Fighting waves of nausea and giddiness, he staggered to his feet. Jack Baskeyfield, his teeth gritted behind a mask of blood, had his back against the gun’s wheel, and was trying to shoulder it straight by brute force. Billy Balfour, shattered arm hanging limply, was pushing feebly on the barrel with the other.
‘She’s fucked, Jack,’ he was saying.
‘No she ain’t, she can still shoot. Push!’
‘She’s fucked.’
‘Stop saying that! Trickey! Give us a hand before that bastard tank starts again.’
‘She’s fucked,’ Balfour repeated, like a mantra.
Between them they manhandled the gun half straight. But then Balfour, checking his arm, face ashen, sank to the ground in a faint. Baskeyfield too sat wearily down, gasping for breath. Theo gave him water, and did what he could for the mumbling Balfour.
‘I think perhaps you’ve done all you can here, Jack,’ he said to Baskeyfield.
‘You could be right.’
Theo nodded at the tank. ‘They’re waiting for reinforcements, and then they’ll come at you, in strength.’
‘Expect so.’
‘Major Lonsdale wants you to come back. While you still can.’
‘Fair enough.’
Baskeyfield hauled himself to his feet and crunched into the house. A minute later he returned, half carrying an unconscious crewman.
‘Nichols has died,’ he said. ‘This is Ted Fletcher, got hit in the guts.’
They lifted Fletcher on to the hand cart, roused the groaning Balfour and set off. Theo removed the soiled bandages from his legs, tying one round his bleeding head and the other as a tourniquet on Balfour’s arm. Then they crept away towards Oosterbeek, the air silent but for the clatter of cartwheels and the never-ending sounds of far-off fighting. As they went, the pounding in Theo’s head grew worse, as did the ringing in his ears. Then halfway up an incline he heard a rumbling of heavy motors far behind.
‘That’s a Tiger,’ Balfour muttered.
‘They’re bringing in the big guns then,’ Baskeyfield replied wryly.
They walked on, pushing the cart to the crest of the incline, where they paused for breath. Half a mile ahead the squat tower of Lonsdale’s church could be seen poking through trees.
‘Manage from here?’ Baskeyfield went on.
‘What?’
‘I’m going back.’
‘But you can’t…’
‘See Fletcher gets help. It’s all downhill from here, should be a doddle.’
And with that he turned and walked back down the hill.
>
‘Mad fucker,’ Balfour said, watching him go. ‘We all are.’ And without another word he too released the cart and stumbled after his friend.
Theo stared as the two limping figures descended from view. Halfway down, one placed a hand on the shoulder of the other. Not until they were gone from sight did he turn and continue for the church. And long before he made it, pushing the unwieldy cart over rutted cobbles, he heard the unmistakable stonk of a 6-pounder firing.
*
‘Here’s the lists, and here’s my report.’ Lonsdale handed him the sheets. ‘Tell Urquhart we’ll go down fighting if he wants, but without ammo that’ll be soon. Probably within twenty-four hours.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Although I expect it’s the same for everyone.’ He glanced at Theo. ‘You all right, Trickey? You look a bit pasty.’
‘I’m fine, sir.’ Theo fingered the back of his head, still sticky with blood. ‘A little giddy, that’s all.’
‘Well, get it seen to. There’s a dressing station in a hotel up there somewhere.’
‘I will. Soon as I’ve reported to General Urquhart.’
‘And thanks for your help.’
They saluted and he set off, roaming north through gardens and parkland. But within minutes he’d lost his bearings and, overcome with giddiness, had to lean against a tree. Blinding pain was spreading across his head. His neck hurt too, his vision was blurring and he felt nauseous and leaden with fatigue. Struggling onward he realized his left arm was becoming numb. After a while the trees thinned and he came to an avenue of chalet-style houses. Gunfire was nearby now, with hoarse shouts and small-arms fire sounding all round. He ignored it, stumbled through a squeaking gate, and something bee-like thrummed past his ear. ‘Get out of it, you idiot!’ someone shouted, so he pushed through a door into a dim hallway smelling of autumn roses. ‘I will,’ he said. ‘I just need to sit down.’ A door led from the hall, he opened it, hoping for chairs or even a bed. Instead a German soldier gaped at him from a window.
‘Vede a cësa,’ Theo said in Ladin. ‘I’m going home.’
Everything happened slowly. The German, recovering, swung his rifle from the window to the room. Theo, legs buckling, sank to his knees. A shot rang out and the German staggered back, clutching his shoulder. Then the grenade appeared, rolling on to the floor through the open window.
The two men stared at it. Then at each other. Theo managed a shrug.
Then it went off.
*
The rest were fragments, real and remembered, floating by like pages in a book.
A bright flash followed by a long interval of nothing.
Running feet and muttered oaths.
Grandma Ellie cooking strudel.
Another interval of nothing.
Being lifted on to a stretcher.
A girl’s head resting on his chest.
Water trickling between his lips.
Pain and blackness.
Scots boys charging down a lane.
Cold evening air and the shrill shriek of swifts.
‘He’s had it, lads, put him down there.’
Stars glimpsed through clouds.
A camel train in the desert.
A man waving a flag on a broomstick.
His own hand rising, like a puppet’s.
The men on the train.
CHAPTER 16
And so the circle closes. A Dutch nurse spots Theo’s body lying among the dead, and the next morning he and I begin our seven-month journey together. Both a literal journey – Arnhem, Apeldoorn, Fallingbostel, Bergen and finally Ulm – but also a figurative one, in which we exist, adapt and evolve, travelling through life and captivity as interdependent strangers.
Like a spiritual symbiosis.
*
Within forty-eight hours of the Allies arriving in Ulm, I’m on a plane heading for England. Everything happens with dizzying speed. American forces appear in strength throughout that Sunday, including a sizeable medical contingent who take over at the Revier, swiftly sorting and assessing our remaining patients for evacuation. After a slow start, 44th Infantry Division’s advance across Germany has been swift, Ulm is of trivial significance and they aren’t going to linger there, the priority being to cross the Danube and mop up the enemy’s southern flank. The sheer scale and speed of their coming is bewildering after so long, and I find myself entering a state of trance-like awe, like a child at a circus. Allied POWs are to be repatriated right away, and sick ones go to the head of the queue, together with their medics, thus early next morning I find myself assembling on the street outside the Revier beside a fleet of American lorries and ambulances. Our orderlies Fenton and Pugh are coming too, while Erik elects to stay and oversee remaining departures. Parting from him so suddenly, and after so long together, is a poignant moment.
‘Good luck, Daniel my friend,’ he says, clasping my hand.
‘You too. I hope you find your family well and hear good news of your brother.’
‘Thank you.’ He hesitates. ‘Remember “Garland & Henning”?’
‘Of course.’ The grandly labelled package we received from Lucie Rommel, and how we’d joked about setting up in practice together. ‘You know where to find me!’
‘Yes.’ He glances away, and I glimpse the damage five years’ oppression has wrought on his kindly soul. He seems so vulnerable suddenly, so desolate and alone that I want to comfort him. Hug him actually, but that would seem excessive, so I grasp his hand again instead.
‘I could never have done this,’ I say rather belatedly, ‘got through it, I mean, without you. That’s a fact. And it’s also a fact that I’m a cussed bugger and not easy to get on with. So I’d like to thank you – for your patience, your humour, your kindness and your wonderful company these past months.’
There’s one more goodbye and this time hugging is included. Trudi has been waiting patiently to one side, a slight figure lost in all the bustle. I go to her and we cling on for quite a time, while American GIs look on disapprovingly. I don’t care. This isn’t about fraternizing with the enemy, it’s about souls brought together by conflict. There’s so much to say and yet no words come; my earlier reassurances now seem hollow and trite as I realize just how much I shall miss her. We kiss, she sheds tears on my lapel, then, amid much slamming of doors and honking of horns, we take our leave, and I clamber into the cab of the leading truck. The last we see of each other is a cheerless wave through the grimy glass of the windscreen.
We’re driven forty miles to an airfield outside Stuttgart where there’s a delay and we end up camping for a night. The Americans are wonderful hosts and ply us with far more food and drink than we’re accustomed to, consequently the flight home is a sickly blur. I do remember the plane is a Dakota and I deliberately sit in the same position that I flew to Arnhem in – one place from the door – which brings it all back with a noisy jolt. We land a few hours later at RAF Cottesmore, which is barely ten miles from our starting point the previous September, and with that my Arnhem round-trip is complete. Still badly hungover, I mark the occasion by throwing up on the tarmac.
After a few days’ processing we’re finally sent on leave. A welcome period of respite follows at home with my parents, a time of much-needed solitude and reflection during which I sleep a lot, take long walks in the countryside, enjoy home-cooked food and generally revel in my new-found liberty. Then May comes, the war in Europe duly ends and it’s time to make decisions about my future.
11th Battalion no longer exists, I’ve already learned, disbanded after its annihilation at Arnhem, so in effect I’m MO of nothing, which seems appropriate. Various postings are offered, including to airborne units overseas, but I’m done with soldiery and get myself demobbed at the earliest opportunity. My old job at St Thomas’ is available and I slip back into the routine easily enough. But not for long, because my resolve to take up general practice remains firm, so having made the necessary enquiries, I fill in the paperwork and begin the process
of requalification, most of which entails burying my nose in textbooks.
At the same time, which is about six months after returning from Ulm, I take out the diaries, notes and papers written whilst there and begin assembling them into some sort of order. First task is to transcribe them from tiny handwritten scrawl to neatly typed sheets, a painstaking if revelatory process which brings the memories flooding back, and makes good use of Rommel’s magnifying glass, but also prompts me to contact old cohorts to fill in missing gaps. Erik’s memory of events is more reliable than mine and we exchange several letters, one of which tells me of the death of his brother, Doctor Pieter Henning, at the hands of his Japanese captors in Burma. I know how devastating this is to Erik, and how the hope of seeing Pieter again had sustained him through his own captivity. Finding words to express proper sympathy seems impossible.
I also re-establish contact with many key Arnhem connections: Arthur Marrable and Pip Smith of the RAMC, George Lea and Dickie Lonsdale of 11th Battalion, who in turn put me in touch with others who knew Theo. These include Majors Ross and Timothy of 2nd Battalion, Jock Pearson of 1st and 8th Battalions and of course John Frost who writes at length, both of Theo and also rather bitterly of the costly fiasco that was Operation Market Garden, blame for which, somewhat surprisingly, he lays squarely at Boy Browning’s feet.
‘Many factors had a bearing,’ he writes, ‘failed radio communications, DZ too far from the objective, not lifting the whole division on Day One, slow 30 Corps, poor intelligence, unforeseen Panzer divisions, etc., but by far the worst mistake was the lack of priority given to the capture of Nijmegen Bridge.’
General Gavin, it transpires, commander of 82nd US Airborne, was the man tasked with taking Nijmegen Bridge, which is just eight miles south of Arnhem and 30 Corps’s final obstacle before reaching us. But jumping in as planned on Day One, Gavin was suddenly ordered to prioritize his forces on a woodland area nearby called Groesbeek Heights where, coincidentally, Browning was setting up his personal HQ. Thirty-six hours was lost on this pointless diversion, and when attention belatedly returned to Nijmegen Bridge, the Germans were there in strength, Gavin had a terrible time taking it, and by then it was too late anyway – the fate of Frost’s battalion, and arguably the whole of 1st Airborne Division, was sealed.
The Bridge Page 26
