Airborne

by Robert Radcliffe

  He gives us the facts, which are much as Bowyer summarized earlier. The good news is that General Urquhart, who’s in charge of the whole division, has turned up safe, having been stuck in a house surrounded by Germans for two days. Also that 30 Corps is making slow but steady progress towards Arnhem from the south.

  ‘When might they get here, sir?’ someone asks.

  ‘Tomorrow, hopefully, or the next day. Which means we must do everything to conserve supplies.’

  ‘Penicillin’s running low. Morphia too.’

  ‘Yes, I know. However, an air drop is also promised for tomorrow, including medical supplies, which should ease matters considerably.’

  Thus encouraged, we move on to the matter of Operation Market Garden.

  ‘What’s happening in Arnhem, sir? And at the bridge?’

  Marrable glances at the Dutch nurses. He knows his every word will quickly circulate to their friends, relatives and neighbours – the much-put-upon inheritors of this mess. Evidently he decides they have the right to know.

  ‘2nd Battalion is still holding the north end of the bridge, but sorely pressed, and all efforts to reach them have failed. They’re not expected to survive much longer. The rest of the 1st Parachute Brigade has also been badly mauled, as have the 4th Parachute and Airlanding Brigades. High casualties and loss of life have been sustained across the whole division. German reinforcements including tanks and heavy armour are pouring into Arnhem by the hour, such that the situation there is untenable. So the plan now is to stage a phased withdrawal here to Oosterbeek, form a defensive perimeter, and hold out until 30 Corps arrives.’

  ‘Withdraw the whole division?’ someone asks incredulously. ‘All ten thousand?’

  ‘Yes, although it is feared as many as half have already been lost or captured.’

  He pauses to let this sink in. Glances are exchanged and murmurs circle the room. One of the older Dutch nurses is openly weeping.

  ‘But the main objective, sir. Market Garden, the bridge. We’re giving up?’

  ‘It looks that way. The main objective now is to save what’s left of the division. Hold out here in other words, and pray to God that 30 Corps gets here before it’s too late. And that inevitably means hundreds more injured coming our way, so resources will be stretched, and your services in high demand. I ask you all therefore to continue to do your utmost…’

  More follows, including arrangements for the burial of the dead, news of a second dressing station at another hotel, a night rota system for keeping watch, and a typical Marrable plea about maintaining personal tidiness. A while later he leaves us and the meeting dissipates. In need suddenly of fresh air and solitude, I wander out to the rear garden for a cigarette. Beneath a starlit sky, the autumn night is cool and calm, with a faint breeze stirring the leaves overhead. The garden, once trim and tidy, neatly grassed and edged with beds, is now scarred by a sprinkling of shell holes, spoiling its charm like boils on a face.

  In a corner I find the temporary graveyard Marrable mentioned. Twelve new graves have been dug, and filled, including one for the boy from the storeroom. Curious about his name, I bend to read the sticks that burial details use to mark casualties.

  ‘That one,’ a voice says from behind. ‘Fourth one. His name is Web-stair.’

  ‘Ah. Yes, I see now, Webster, thank you.’

  ‘Nineteen years, from a place called Basil-don. Do you know it?’

  ‘Not terribly well. It’s in Essex, I believe, to the east of London.’

  ‘Oh. That is all he told me. Before…’

  ‘Yes.’

  She’s very slight of stature, perhaps five foot, and wearing a too-large man’s jacket over her uniform. She’s tying her head in a scarf.

  ‘You’re leaving?’

  ‘Yes, I must. My father will be expecting me. It’s only two kilometres.’

  ‘Two kilometres? But you can’t! There are Germans everywhere. With guns!’

  ‘Oh yes?’ A bright white smile suddenly appears in the moonlight. ‘Don’t worry, they won’t shoot me.’

  ‘How can you know?’

  ‘Because I’m a nurse. And they don’t shoot nurses.’

  ‘But they might mistake you! No, it’s too dangerous, at least let me come—’

  ‘No.’ She rests a hand on my arm. ‘It will be all right, but not if you come. That would be dangerous.’

  ‘Well… Are you sure?’

  ‘Yes. Please do not worry.’

  ‘Are you coming back tomorrow? I mean, if it’s safe that is.’

  ‘Would you like me to?’

  ‘Well, I – of course, we’re enormously grateful for all your—’

  ‘Then I will.’ She turns to leave, but then pauses. ‘You did all you could. With Web-stair today. It cannot have been easy.’

  Then she’s gone, and I realize I don’t even know her name.

  CHAPTER 4

  Days and nights fuse into a single seamless hell of screaming shells, shattering explosions, blood, death and desecration, punctuated by surreal intervals of nail-biting silence. The passage of time ceases; no world exists save the battered ark of the Schoonoord and its bloody cargo of dead and dying soldiers. Each day Cliff Poutney and I descend to confront the nightmare, threading our way through the mass of groaning bodies to our storeroom abattoir, where we slice and chop and saw like back-street butchers. Each night we repair to the wreckage of our bedroom, there to stare through the missing window at the stars, waiting in shocked silence, bleary with sleeplessness, for the coming of the hated dawn. Unsurprisingly we draw close. I find the shelling unendurable; Cliff calms me with stories of his Dorset home. Meanwhile he talks fearfully of captivity so I sing show tunes and crack bad jokes, until exhaustion overtakes us and we fall into unconsciousness for a few hours. Then six o’clock comes and the whole nightmare cycle begins again.

  I lose track – a week passes, a month, an eternity? One night I’m nudged awake before dawn to stand watch and, leaving Cliff snoring, descend blearily to reception, boots in hand, there to find the radio operator slumped asleep at his post. Failures in radio communications have become a feature of the Market Garden débâcle and suddenly I’m incandescent with rage. But just as I’m about to kick the man awake, I see the fatigue on his face, and the bloody bandage on his knee, and the little crucifix in his hand, and I hesitate. He’s doing his best, I realize, like everyone, in his own way, calling and calling into the ether for help, and never getting a reply.

  I leave him, and tiptoe away along the corridor to check on the wounded. This hour is the quietest of the cycle and I almost relish it. Almost. By now the entire floor of the Schoonoord has injured men lying on it. Most are sleeping, having received morphia to provide a night’s rest and respite from pain. When it wears off, we can expect our services to be in demand, but for now only one or two are awake and in discomfort. I settle them with reassurance and analgesics, then return to reception to wait for the day to begin.

  Which it does, exactly at dawn, with the hated artillery barrage. I have been bracing myself, as I do every day, praying that this day may dawn differently, but with Teutonic precision, at six on the dot comes that shrieking, tearing sound, like tortured souls from hell, followed by an appalling explosion that shakes the poor Schoonoord like a dog with a toy. I grit my teeth, cursing volubly, while the barrage grows, gathering strength like a hurricane, until it is in full flow.

  With further rest impossible, weary staff begin appearing from all directions. Breakfast is tea without sugar or condensed milk as both have run out, as has the water, which now comes from the radiators. Then it’s down to work amid the familiar patterns of the day: the Schoonoord falling to bits round our ears, the nerve-stretching onslaught of the barrage, the stench of cordite, blood, suppuration and sewage, and the never-ending procession of incoming stretchers. If anything more arrive than yesterday, and certainly more dead; by mid-morning we’re stacking new wounded two high using chairs on tables, and a melancholy queue of
fatalities waits in the garden for burial. Walking wounded must find space where they can. Injuries are not just from artillery fire either; many arrive showing evidence of closer combat, as our troops struggle to repel the encroaching enemy. Rifle bullets, hand grenades, one victim arrives having been stabbed by a bayonet. Still the barrage accounts for most, some shells exploding so close that they compound injuries with flying glass and shrapnel, and bombard us with debris and dust. I seem to spend my time in a permanent crouch, crawling on hands and knees between new arrivals, assessing and processing, trying to find places to accommodate them. Jack Bowyer crosses my path occasionally, but we have neither time nor inclination for chit-chat. The little Dutch nurse is also in evidence, and once, after a particularly loud blast which blows the lights, we look up and exchange a vacant stare, like startled rabbits. Later still my batman Sykes appears, bearing boxes of supplies.

  ‘Power’s out,’ he puffs. ‘Water too: the main’s blown.’

  ‘Any chance of repairs?’

  ‘No, they’re buggered for good. Drains too.’

  ‘That’s a pity.’ I glance up at him. ‘What have we there?’

  ‘Last of the morphia. Be right up shit creek when this runs out.’

  ‘Air drops later today, Private. We can hold out till then.’

  ‘Right. Er, did you speak to the old man? You know, about rejoining Battalion?’

  I gesture around. ‘In this! Are you mad? And where would you look for them? 11th Battalion’s gone, don’t you get it?’

  ‘So you’re not going to try?’

  ‘No, Sykes, and neither are you! It’s insane. And we’re needed here.’

  He’s offended, I can see, and maybe I have gone too far. But his attitude irks, and the notion of wandering through bombed-out streets crawling with Germans, searching for a battalion of men that doesn’t exist, is beyond ludicrous. Anyway, I’m too tired and jittery for niceties. He stalks off in a huff. I immediately feel guilty and am about to call after him when there’s a thunderous whoosh overhead. Everyone looks up, a second whoosh, Marrable appears, somebody cheers, Bowyer catches my eye. Aircraft, we realize. Supply drops! And not a moment too soon.

  We charge into the street like over-excited children. No Dakotas are seen, nor parachutes; however, the engine noise persists so we wait, hoping they’re circling back for the drop. I look around. It’s days since I was last out here and it’s a shock. As though Oosterbeek has been struck by an earthquake. Barely a building stands undamaged, few have windows, many are roofless or show gaping holes in walls. One or two are on fire. The streets below are littered with wreckage and debris, burned-out vehicles, fallen telegraph poles, smashed trees, shell craters and mounds of rubble. It’s a scene of utter desolation, yet incredibly men are here, and busy at work all around. Our men. Through drifting smoke, anti-tank guns and other artillery pieces can be seen on junctions and corners; elsewhere machine-gun and mortar positions are dug in behind walls or in doorways. These are the targets of a relentless barrage, yet they’re still manned, still alive, and still shooting back. Up at a window I glimpse figures in khaki. One of them is waving, so I wave back, and he shouts a response.

  ‘GET THE FU—!’

  Whoosh! Engines thunder overhead. I glimpse black crosses on mottled wings and the next instant everyone’s diving for cover and a hail of machine-gun fire is ripping up the road around us.

  ‘Back!’ Marrable shouts. ‘For God’s sake, get back inside!’

  *

  After lunch (half a mug of tinned soup) it’s back to the storeroom with Cliff for the afternoon operating list. Though others have been working here, the place is much as we left it, apart from an absence of running water to wash with and electricity to see with, and rather more bloodstains on the floor. We scrub with Lysol, pump up a primus lamp for lighting and set to work. A succession of casualties follow, exhibiting the usual range of impact and blast wounds to heads, chests, abdomens and extremities, some superficial, many not, some predictable, others a total surprise. We carefully remove one man’s head bandage to find relatively minor blast wounds to his face, but one of his eyeballs lying on his cheek. Upon questioning he tells us he has dizziness and ‘blurred vision’. Examining the organ we find it bloodshot but undamaged, and still attached by the optic nerve and retinal vessels, so having inspected and washed it, we replace it in the ocular cavity and bandage him up.

  Another young patient arrives in a state of high agitation.

  ‘Shot in the bollocks,’ the orderly reports perfunctorily. We all wince.

  ‘Save ’em, Doc!’ the man pleads. ‘For God’s sake, save ’em, I’m getting married next month!’

  We save one, lose the other, repair a badly lacerated scrotal sack, assure the youth his prospects for fatherhood remain favourable, and send him on his way.

  Hours pass. As usual, the task absorbs us so completely that we barely notice the passage of time, or subtle changes to our environment and conditions. Midway through stitching a thigh wound with cat-gut, Cliff breaks off and cocks an ear.

  ‘D’you hear that?’

  ‘Hear what?’

  ‘Voices. Outside. Thought I heard voices. Shouting and that.’

  We duly listen, but nothing is heard, although we do notice less artillery and more small-arms fire.

  Cliff shrugs. ‘Must have imagined it. Who’s next?’

  The next patient is an amputation, a procedure I’ve never carried out and have been secretly dreading. The victim, a corporal of the Royal Engineers, is brought in semi-conscious, rolling his head from side to side and mumbling incoherently. Cliff and I examine his leg, which is grotesquely angled, hanging by sinew and completely shattered below the knee.

  ‘Put him under, Dan, it’ll have to come off.’

  I prepare the anaesthetic, a syringe of sodium pentothal, and, rolling up his sleeve, straighten the arm and swab the fold of his elbow with disinfectant. But the poor man has lost so much blood his veins won’t stand up, and despite repeated insertions of the needle my attempts fail and I’m forced to withdraw.

  ‘Try and make a fist, old chap,’ I murmur in his ear. Slowly his hand closes. Meanwhile Cliff twists a tourniquet around his upper arm until at last a faint line of blue appears beneath the skin. I slide the needle in again, probing further and further, at the same time plucking back lightly on the plunger. Seconds pass. I stop breathing, feel the sweat break on my brow and a pulse banging in my throat. Deeper I probe; then suddenly a cloud of crimson floods the syringe, discolouring the clear anaesthetic. I nod to Cliff who loosens the tourniquet, and slowly advance the plunger, watching until the man’s face slackens and the first deep breaths of unconsciousness overtake him.

  ‘He’s out.’

  ‘Good work. Right, let’s get that leg off.’

  But there’s no saw. We rummage through boxes, poke among trays, search high and low, but find no sign. The all-metal sterile bone saw with detachable blade specially designed for amputation is missing.

  ‘Surely it was here yesterday?’

  ‘I don’t know, I don’t recall seeing it.’

  ‘My God, perhaps it never arrived.’

  ‘Well, we’d better find something, and quick. This leg needs to come off now.’

  ‘I’ll get the orderlies to—’

  ‘Hold on!’ I retrieve my battledress jacket from a hook and begin feeling along its seams. ‘Yes, here it is. Hand me that scalpel.’ A moment later I’m slitting the seam of my battledress and removing a thin package wrapped in greaseproof paper.

  ‘Escape kit! Good thinking, Dan!’

  I unwrap the hacksaw blade, issued to all Paras in case of capture, and drop it in a dish of disinfectant. Along the corridor somewhere a commotion of voices seems to be starting up. Cliff examines the blade. ‘How are we going to use it? With no handle or anything?’

  We clip Spencer Wells forceps to both ends, and then, standing on opposite sides of the table, him holding one end and me the other, we begin
gingerly sawing.

  It works surprisingly well. But then the door crashes open and a fully armed German soldier stamps in.

  ‘Was machen Sie!’ he shouts. Then he sees what we’re doing and goes pale. A second later he exits, slamming the door behind him.

  Cliff and I look at each other. ‘Christ, we’ve been over-run.’

  There’s nothing to do except finish the operation, which goes well, with the leg’s blood vessels ligatured, a skin flap closed over muscular tissue to form a stump, and a cannula added for drainage. Having bandaged the wound, we administer morphia and antibiotic, cover him with a blanket and carry him out to the ward.

  All medical officers are ordered to reception. We gather in an uneasy semi-circle, Marrable at our head. Before us stand four fully armed Germans. With their jackboots and coal-scuttle helmets they look huge and imposing, yet smell, peculiarly, of carbolic soap. Odours aside, their demeanour is hostile. Standing with them, I note with consternation, is the little Dutch nurse.

  The lead German steps forward. ‘Sie sind Gefangene des deutschen Heeres!’

  ‘You are now prisoners of the German army,’ she translates quietly.

  ‘Sie werden Ihre Arbeit im Krankenhaus fortsetzen.’

  ‘You will continue your work at the hospital.’

  ‘Dann werden Sie in Gefangenenlagen transportiert werden.’

  ‘Then you will be transported to prison camps.’

  And that’s that. Checkmate. The end of the game. More follows, including strong warnings about hidden weapons or attempts at escape, both of which will result in severe punishment. We half listen, scarcely able to take it in, yet alone believe it. Half an hour ago we were free men, beleaguered yes, under pressure yes, but free men pursuing a just cause. Now we’re the worthless flotsam of war, irrelevant, subjugated, doomed to incarceration. Cliff looks wretched, his worst fears realized, while a leaden gloom settles in my stomach. We’re not marching to Berlin as victors, we’re beaten men going to prison. For as long as the war lasts.