Airborne

by Robert Radcliffe

  And as I do so, war happens.

  A little puff of soot-black smoke appears behind one of the following Dakotas, then another, and another, and a moment later I hear a faint popping sound. A second after that there’s a monstrous crash and our aircraft bucks, hard, like a bus hitting a pothole. It is sudden, violent and terrifying, I feel the Dakota tilt, sense the pilots struggling with it, smell burning and taste cordite. A mist of smoke fills the fuselage. I’m certain we’re on fire and crashing, and without realizing it begin to rise from my seat, a single thought in my head. Get out. Now. But before I can move a hand pulls me firmly back down. It belongs to the man on my left, Crawford, the battalion intelligence officer. ‘Steady, Dan.’ He grins. ‘Just a little flak.’

  The next ten minutes are the worst in my life. A cacophony of explosions outside, accompanied by a crashing of shrapnel on the hull, as though we’re being attacked with hammers, and all the while the poor Dakota jerks and heaves about the sky, engines roaring, like a doomed bull. The noise and the motion are appalling, the urge to escape uncontrollable; staring round in wide-eyed panic all I can do is cling to the frame of my seat and pray. Even my steel-nerved colleagues are affected, I note, which makes it worse, hunched into their seats with heads down, teeth gritted or, as in Bowyer’s case, eyes tightly shut. Through a window above his head I can see the starboard wing; it has a gaping hole in it and a furiously fluttering mess of wire and metal where an aileron used to be, and something black and liquid is leaking from the engine. Beyond it the sky is thickly pocked with dark balls of exploding flak. A flash catches my eye and I watch in horror as a Dakota bursts into flames, drops away and spirals towards the ground, while another is slipping back from the pack, trailing smoke. Then with a crash another shell bursts close by ours, and stars of daylight appear through holes in the roof. Then a blessed shout: ‘Stand by!’

  It’s the dispatcher, at last. Quickly we stand, only to be immediately thrown down again as the Dakota bucks in another burst. ‘Fuck this!’ someone shouts. We regain our feet, secure our helmets, fumble our parachute static lines on to the overhead wire, check them with a tug, check the harness of the man in front, check the huge kitbags strapped to our thighs, the haversacks on our chests and, in the case of the combatants, the weapons and ammunition festooned about their bodies. Another crash of shrapnel: the Dakota lurches and we all lean towards the rear, pressing instinctively for the doorway. There’s no question now, no bravado; every one of us wants out, and badly. Colonel Lea’s in the doorway, hands gripping either side, legs braced like a sprinter, his eyes on the lights, ready to fling himself out. ‘Hold firm back there!’ he commands angrily as we press behind. Second in the queue is his batman, then I’m number three, followed by Bowyer and Crawford, and then the rest. I’m so desperate to get out, so close to panic, that I almost push past them. Almost.

  But suddenly it’s green light on, and away we go, charging through the door like lemmings off a cliff. Lea goes, his batman goes, I follow so close my boots are inches above his head. Then it’s the buffeting slipstream, the momentary dread plummet, then the wondrous tug on my shoulders, the crackle of unfurling cotton and the jerk of the harness as the chute bursts open.

  The relief is instant and euphoric, like waking from a nightmare, like deliverance from evil. I was in hell; now I’m out, I’m alive, and drifting gently to earth. Above and behind the rumble of aircraft engines recedes, as too the crump of anti-aircraft fire, while all around dozens, scores, hundreds of parachutes fill the sky. It’s an awe-inspiring spectacle and in my gratitude and relief I want to shout aloud for joy, but there’s no time for joy, there’s war to be fought and the battleground is fast approaching. Fumbling at my waist I unfasten the strap holding my kitbag to my leg and lower it until it dangles twenty feet below. Beyond it, the ground appears heath-like and partially obscured by smoke. Then I hear a new sound, the crackle of small arms, and looking down see brown earth spurt up and outward like a flowering tulip. ‘Shelling!’ someone shouts, away to my left. ‘Watch out, boys, they’re shelling the DZ!’

  There’s nothing I can do: the drop zone is rushing up, and I’m oscillating wildly back and forth like a child on a swing. I reach up and heave on shrouds to try and check the motion, preparing, legs together, knees bent, as best I can for impact. My last thought, as the ground hurtles up at me, is to try and catch the swing as it comes forward, then all might be well. But I hit the ground in full back swing, land badly, crack my head a stunning blow, and have the knockout completed by the haversack on my chest smashing me in the face.

  Time passes: it seems long but is probably minutes at most. The first thing I am aware of is blinking up at a milky sky, now devoid of aircraft or flak, while being dragged slowly across the ground on my back. Feebly I bash at the parachute release on my chest with a fist, but it’s no use, so I struggle to my feet, still pulled by the chute which billows in the breeze like a sail, until finally, exhausted and dazed, the release opens and I’m freed.

  I sink breathlessly to my knees to take stock. The back of my head throbs damnably, and my mouth and nose are pouring blood from the haversack blow. I summon a handkerchief, probing a chipped molar with my tongue, and start mopping and dabbing, all the while looking around for the others. But incredibly I see no others. Not a one. I’m alone, in the wide open, behind enemy lines. Nor can I see the landmarks we were briefed on: the factory to the north, the forest to the east, the roads and tracks. Panic rises again; hundreds of us are here in the vicinity – thousands – surely I should see someone? For a moment I wonder if I’ve dragged clear out of the DZ, but then I glimpse another parachute nearby, its occupant gone, and with my head gradually clearing, common sense prevails. I’m not alone, and I haven’t dragged more than a few yards, so it must be the terrain. Get oriented, our instructors drilled endlessly, as soon as you’re down get oriented and head for the rendezvous. Fast. I clamber to my feet. The ground around me is uneven and thickly tussocked, thus concealing anyone lying or crouching on it; it’s also masked by drifting smoke from signal flares and fires in the scrub. I hear the distant crackle of small-arms fire and the whump of a mortar and remember, belatedly, that I’m in a war zone and people here want to kill me. My need to urinate is insistent and I even begin hastily divesting myself of kit, but then there’s a zipping noise in the grass beside me and I realize it’s a high-velocity bullet, missing me by feet. The bladder must wait. I fumble at a pocket and produce the compass we all carry. Southeast, the briefing said, rendezvous at a wooded area in the southeast corner of the DZ. I raise myself higher and set off at the run. A moment later I’m crashing heavily to the ground once more, felled by the kitbag still attached to my leg. Winded, cursing and bloody, I can only laugh.

  A mere fifteen minutes later, military order, as is the wondrous way with the Paras, has been fully restored. We may arrive in some disarray, someone famously said, but once arrived we don’t fuck about. How true. Breathless and sweating I reach the rendezvous, kitbag on shoulder, to find Colonel Lea and his staff calmly manning a temporary HQ beneath the trees. Maps on trestle tables, radio operators twiddling knobs, runners bearing messages; there are even mugs of tea appearing. And men, everywhere, converging on the area from all directions, joshing and cracking jokes as if on a Sunday jaunt. Without fuss they begin forming up into 11th Battalion’s four companies, then their individual platoons and sections. NCOs bark orders and people move at the double; everywhere I see bustle and organization. Jeeps are arriving, dropped aboard gliders together with motorcycles, bicycles and trailers of weapons, ammunition and supplies. Even the sporadic shooting heard earlier has died away, and off to one side I spot a forlorn gaggle of German soldiers, hands on heads, being guarded by a Sten-gun-toting corporal. It’s the first time I’ve ever seen the enemy close up, and I’m not impressed.

  ‘Captain Garland?’

  A tap on the shoulder and I turn to find Sergeant Bowyer, and my batman Sykes, and others from my medical team. ‘T
here you are, sir. Hello, been in the wars have you?’ Bowyer cackles, to all-round mirth. Yet I detect relief, for although he may not have huge respect for his officer, he’d prefer not to lose him. High time, I decide, fingering my blood-caked face, to pull my socks up.

  ‘Got separated on the DZ, Sergeant. Is everyone here?’

  ‘Just about. Three or four still to come. Jeep’s arrived and much of the supplies. Just waiting on the rest of it and we’re all set.’

  ‘Good. Any casualties?’

  ‘Just one sir, so far. The colonel’s number two, Major Lonsdale, caught a bit of shrapnel on his hand. I’ve already dressed it. Do you want me to look at your nose?’

  ‘That won’t be necessary. Double-check the inventory, if you please, get everyone into their sections, and be ready to move in five minutes.’

  I wander a few yards into the trees to finally relieve my bursting bladder, gulp greedily from my water bottle, and then dribble some on to my handkerchief to clean up my face. By the time I return I feel calm and in control. Around the clearing Colonel Lea and his team are packing up.

  He smiles. ‘All set, Doc?’

  ‘All set, sir.’

  And with that, 11th Battalion moves off.

  *

  We set off along a sandy track towards Arnhem, which is some five miles away. Our job, as part of 1st Airborne Division, is to take and secure the bridge over the Rhine at Arnhem, so that the heavily armoured 30 Corps, which is motoring up from the south, can cross it, storm into Germany and effectively end the war. This ambitious plan, put together by Monty himself, is called Operation Market Garden and the first wave of Paras, including John Frost’s 2nd Battalion, landed here yesterday and managed to reach the bridge. But now he’s having a hard time holding it, so we in 11th Battalion are to reinforce him. Speed, Colonel Lea tells us, is of the absolute essence, and we must reach the bridge before nightfall.

  After a while the sandy track becomes more paved, and a railway line comes in from our right. We keep to the north side of this; then we cross over and immediately enter a small village where, pleasingly, the population has turned out in support. Cheers and applause greet us, and we self-consciously fall into marching step, straightening our backs and swinging our arms as flowers are thrown, children wave flags, dogs yap at our heels and pretty girls bestow kisses on our cheeks. Many older inhabitants are movingly affected, openly weeping, scarcely daring to believe the five-year nightmare is over. One old man steps forward and clasps my hand, squeezing it fervently and nodding in wordless gratitude. Not knowing his language, I can only pat his hand and nod back.

  No sooner do we enter the village than we leave it again and peace descends, leaving only the sounds of birdsong, boots on tarmac and the grinding of gears from the medics’ Jeep following behind. The afternoon is pleasant and warm, with shafts of dappled sunlight piercing the autumn canopy and the scent of dog rose and river meadow rising from the Lower Rhine, occasionally visible off to our right. Locals still appear, smiling and waving flags, and every now and then a battalion motorcyclist speeds by, chivvying stragglers and checking the column, which is now spread out over a mile or more. Then after another hour, just as we’re approaching some neat-looking suburbs, and with my watch showing 5 p.m., the column comes to a halt. As it does so, I think I hear the rumble of very distant artillery.

  Primus and hexamine stoves appear, mess tins come to the boil, tea brews, cigarettes light, and banter banters, for the great British Tommy needs no instruction in taking a break. I gather with my section around our Jeep, which as well as carrying up to four stretchers also transports our supplies and baggage. Sykes hands me tea, Bowyer a cigarette, and bending over the bonnet I break out a map and take stock.

  By my estimate, we’ve arrived at an Arnhem suburb called Oosterbeek, which is still a good two miles west of our objective at the bridge area. At the speed we’re going it’ll be nightfall before we get there, which could be problematic. Right now we’re still moving in battalion formation, that’s four companies of roughly two hundred men each. The likelihood is, as we draw nearer the objective, Colonel Lea will split the battalion and send the four companies in by different routes. Right now, up at the head of the column, small advance parties are already probing carefully forward, identifying possible routes, and checking houses, garages and street corners for signs of trouble. The battalion follows in company order, with the main medical section bringing up the rear. Each company has its own orderlies and stretcher-bearers equipped with field dressings and basic first-aid equipment. Should anyone get injured, they will do what they can on the spot, before sending the casualty rearward to us. Being at the back means we don’t have to retrace our steps to help anyone. Also, as and when battle is joined, we’re ideally placed to set up an aid post, from where we can properly stabilize casualties before sending them rearward once more to a dressing station. These are like temporary hospitals, under canvas or in requisitioned buildings, and manned by field ambulance staff complete with nurses, surgical teams and operating facilities. This rearward-moving system for casualties – front line to aid post to dressing station – is well established and works successfully. Usually.

  All too soon whistles blow and the column moves off. But noticeably more slowly, and carefully. Within minutes we’re treading lightly into Oosterbeek: neat rows of incredibly tidy houses with spotless paintwork and pretty gardens. Smiling residents still appear, but more guardedly, standing in a porch, or at a curtained window, perhaps at their garden gate but no further, knowing that danger lies ahead. And although we’ve seen or heard no sign of the enemy since the DZ, an instinctive wariness also comes over the men around me, who spread themselves into two files, one on either side of the road, and move cautiously, constantly scanning left and right, high and low, their weapons at the ready. They know this is ideal ambush territory, and with the rumble of distant gunfire growing unmistakably louder, they can sense the enemy nearing. We gradually advance in this fashion: forward for a few minutes, then all stop, at which point the men dart into gardens to squat behind walls, or go prone in a ditch, ready and watchful, until we move on again. Through the trees to our right the river grows more visible; rounding a bend we see the iron girders of a rail bridge, one of yesterday’s secondary objectives. But the bridge has been blown, with the central span lying drunkenly in the current. Which just leaves the road bridge, presently in the hands of an embattled 2nd Battalion.

  A while after this, just as dusk is falling, word comes down that we’re halting for the night.

  *

  My second day of war begins early. Having passed a cold, uncomfortable and mostly sleepless night in a hip-scrape in some Dutch person’s garden, I am roused from restless slumber by my batman Sykes bearing tea.

  ‘Bless you, Private,’ I croak, ‘you’re a Godsend. Did you have a good night?’

  ‘Mustn’t grumble.’ Sykes grins toothily. ‘Found a mattress and blankets in a shed round the back.’

  Mattress, blankets, shed. Shelter and comfort, in other words, while I’m lying in a flower bed picking petunias out of my hair. That’s the difference between the seasoned regular and temporary volunteer.

  ‘Good for you,’ I say graciously. I haul myself upright. ‘Any gen?’

  Gen. News, information, gossip, rumour: together with tea the army runs on it.

  ‘More of the same,’ Sykes replies. ‘Column moves off in half an hour.’

  Out in the road I see sleepy soldiers in various stages of preparedness. ‘Any enemy activity in the night?’

  ‘Plenty up at the bridge by the sound of it. Not much round here.’ He grins again. ‘Too early for the dozy buggers!’

  ‘Early?’

  ‘We’ll see. Here, Captain, pass me your oatmeal and I’ll fix breakfast.’

  I rise, breakfast, ablute, shave (officers must maintain standards), check on the team, the vehicle and the equipment, then wander up and down the column for a while, until the whistles blow and we set off
forwards once more. The weather is more overcast than yesterday, and noticeably chillier; I wear my camouflage jumping smock over my battledress, which in turn is over vest, shirt and tie, and yet the night’s chill lingers in my limbs. This mainly because our pace is so slow. Barely a crawl in fact, a few yards and stop, another few yards and stop again. By mid-morning we’ve covered perhaps half a mile. This cautious progress is frustrating, but understandable, for there are distinct signs of battle from the head of the column, with sporadic small-arms fire clearly audible, along with the rattle of machine guns and the occasional crump of a mortar. Self-evidently, the plan to relieve 2nd Battalion at the bridge is slipping badly behind schedule.

  And then around mid-morning we receive our first casualties. Two men borne in on stretchers, one with a straight-through thigh wound, the other shot in the abdomen, which looks more complicated. Both are conscious but in pain. The section swings into action, orderlies break out supplies, Sykes fills out cards, while Bowyer checks on treatment so far received. I kneel next to each man and make a more thorough examination. Both will require surgery, so both will need transport to the dressing station which, we have learned, has been established back down the road in Oosterbeek. Satisfied their bleeding is under control and conditions stable, I re-dress the wounds and give each a shot of morphia.

  ‘Not too serious, is it?’ one mumbles as I finish.

  ‘Not at all, old chum. Up and about in no time.’

  ‘Thanks, Doc.’

  ‘So, it’s getting a bit lively, is it,’ I venture, ‘up at the sharp end?’

  ‘Snipers mainly, and a couple of machine-gun nests. It’s all these houses and alleys and so on: Jerry’s got too much cover.’