Airborne

by Robert Radcliffe

  The German is still talking, loudly, and it’s beginning to irritate. Then halfway through a harangue about ration shortages and the illegal use of water, Colonel Arthur Marrable steps forward and holds up his hand.

  ‘Be so kind as to tell the sergeant,’ Marrable says to the nurse, ‘that he will stand to attention when he addresses a senior officer, and also speak respectfully. Furthermore he will do up the top button of his tunic.’

  ‘What?’ Her voice is a terrified whisper.

  ‘Do it, if you please, nurse.’

  She translates, we hold our breath, Marrable takes out his pipe. The German’s eyes widen and blood suffuses his cheeks. He looks fit to explode. But then slowly he reaches up, fastens the top button of his tunic, and brings himself to attention.

  ‘Heil Hitler!’ he shouts, and stamps off.

  ‘Obnoxious lout,’ Marrable mutters. ‘Anyone got a match?’

  *

  The rest of the day, somewhat surreally, continues much as before. German soldiers come and go, their cumbersome presence a repeated reminder that we’re now beaten men. But in other respects the situation improves, particularly for the wounded. For a start the shelling stops, so we’re able to tend to them properly, undisturbed by ear-splitting explosions or falling masonry. We even unblock a few windows to allow in light and fresh air – badly needed now the drains have failed. The orderly staff and Dutch nurses set to work emptying latrine buckets, mopping and cleaning, sweeping and wiping, before an evening meal of sorts is prepared and circulated. An army padre arrives, passing from bed to bed offering solace and encouragement, taking letters, sharing a joke. Later we follow him into the garden for a service for the dead, now duly interred by a burial detail. All the Dutch nurses attend, including the small one. Afterwards we linger for a word.

  ‘What will you do?’ I ask.

  She shrugs. ‘Continue as before. German rule is nothing new for us.’

  ‘It is for me. I don’t think I’ll like it.’

  ‘You learn to adjust. And be patient. And have faith it will end.’

  ‘Yes.’ I hesitate. ‘I’m sorry.’

  She looks up. ‘Sorry?’

  ‘We came here to kick them out, to liberate you. Yet we brought nothing but misery and death. Now we’ll be taken away and you’ll be left with this mess.’ I survey the wrecked garden. ‘We failed you.’

  Her hand touches mine. ‘You tried, Captain. That is all that matters.’

  ‘It’s Daniel.’

  ‘And I am Anna.’

  ‘Right. We should probably go inside. Curfew and that.’

  ‘Yes.’ She turns to go. ‘Do you?’

  ‘Do I what?’

  ‘Have faith it will end?’

  ‘Of course.’

  Inside, the evening ritual is under way: patients settling for the night, last-minute urgencies seen, medication issued, night staff posted. I report to reception, now lit by candle, to learn that Cliff and I are on duty at four so ordered to rest. Quite where is another matter. With the top floor out due to a smashed roof, and our bedroom now crammed with wounded, options for a quiet billet are dwindling.

  Cliff grimaces. ‘It looks like you-know-where!’

  We scrounge a spare stretcher and head to the storeroom, candles in hand.

  ‘You take the table, I’ll take the floor.’

  After a cursory wash with no water, I arrange the stretcher beneath the operating table, remove my boots, gaiters and tie and flop down, sniffing distastefully at the stink of disinfectant, dried blood and my socks. Above me the table squeaks in protest as Cliff stretches out.

  ‘You a regular, Cliff?’ I ask after an interval.

  ‘Suppose I am. Joined in thirty-seven. Could see the way the wind was blowing, knew the army needed doctors, signed up for the RAMC, got posted to the 181st under Marrable, been with them ever since. Tunisia, Sicily, Italy, now this. What about you?’

  ‘No. Not a regular. I only joined up a few months ago. This is my first op.’

  ‘Last one too, by the looks of it.’

  ‘Rather appears that way.’

  ‘What do you think will happen?’

  ‘God knows. I suppose we’ll find out tomorrow.’

  We bid each other goodnight and settle as best we can, but from the creaking of the table I can tell he’s restive.

  ‘You OK, Cliff?’

  ‘Hmm? Sorry, I didn’t mean to disturb you.’

  ‘What’s up?’

  A worried sigh comes from above. ‘Nothing. It’s just…’

  ‘What?’

  ‘The shelling. And the gunfire and all that. I can take it, just about. God knows I’ve seen enough of it over the years.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘But captivity. You know, the whole idea of being locked up, as a prisoner, for months, or maybe years.’

  ‘What about it?’

  ‘It scares me stiff.’

  *

  I’m roused, rudely, by the door flying open and a blast of torchlight in the face.

  ‘Wake up! All officers to reception right away.’

  I force open my eyes, only to find it’s my orderly sergeant bossing me around. As usual. ‘Bowyer, what the hell are you doing? What time is it?’

  ‘Half three. Jerry’s scarpered. We’ve been liberated.’

  ‘What! By 30 Corps?’

  ‘No, by our lads. Marrable’ll explain. He wants you both pronto. Also’ – he lowers his voice – ‘Sykes is gone. Slipped away in the confusion. Can’t say I blame him.’

  We struggle into our mildew-stinking clothes and hurry to reception, where we find Marrable and the others gathering in expectant silence. Outside all is quiet save for the hiss of rain.

  ‘Right, chaps,’ Marrable begins, ‘listen carefully, here’s the gen, hot from HQ. Arnhem’s had it. We’ve pulled out. All remaining troops have been ordered back here to Oosterbeek. There’s a chain-link ferry across the river here; our boys are to form a one-mile perimeter around it, and hold that perimeter until 30 Corps get here.’

  ‘They’re really coming?’

  ‘Pray they do. The Polish Para Brigade is also due, if this rain ever stops. HQ calculates we can hold out here for another day, maybe two with air supplies, but if nobody comes they’re looking at evacuating the entire division across the river. Either way, this bridgehead represents our only means of relief, in or out, so it must be held at all costs.

  ‘Now, the Schoonoord lies on the eastern edge of the perimeter, which is both good and bad news for us. The bad news is we’ll feel the full brunt of enemy attacks coming along the Arnhem–Utrecht road, which are likely to include storm troops, heavy artillery and tanks. Our lads will be trying to stop them, right here around the crossroads. So it’s going to get bloody.’

  Murmurs circle the room; then someone inevitably asks: ‘And the good news?’

  Marrable smiles. ‘… is that our boys have been quietly widening the perimeter during the night, with the result that Jerry has pulled out. We’re free again. For now.’

  More follows about new arrangements for surgery, revised duty rosters, and a complete inventory of all remaining stores. Once the medical matters are in hand, however, the conversation soon returns to military ones.

  ‘So Arnhem Bridge has gone, sir?’

  ‘I’m afraid so. 2nd Battalion held out superbly, but no one could get near them. A radio message was picked up at HQ, “Out of ammo, God save the King,” then nothing more. It is feared barely seventy men are left.’

  ‘Out of seven hundred.’

  A shocked silence follows, then: ‘What of other units?’

  ‘A handful from 10th Battalion got through here in the afternoon. And from 156th. They were defending the rear but got surrounded. Hung on as long as possible, then broke out by bayonet charge through the enemy lines. Eighty or so made it.’

  I have to ask. ‘Is there any word of the 11th sir?’

  ‘Yes, Garland. A Major Lonsdale put together a scratch for
ce from surviving elements of 11th, 1st and 3rd Battalions and is currently holding the southeast corner of the perimeter from a church down the road. Doing a fine job too by all accounts.’

  Major Richard Lonsdale, Dickie to his friends, our first casualty on the drop here, a flak fragment to the hand. I don’t know him well, but his reputation is formidable. Should I try, even at this late stage, to rejoin him? To assume the role I was appointed to, yet abandoned so long ago?

  Marrable reads my thoughts. ‘It’s all right, Garland, Lonsdale has an aid post nearby plus full medical support co-opted from other units. Everyone’s mixed up together now, so I want you to stay here until the whole show’s over.’

  Decision made. It’s almost a relief. I can only nod glumly.

  ‘Scarcely seems possible, sir,’ someone else says. ‘Ten thousand men, a whole division, decimated in just a week.’

  ‘I know. HQ estimates over half have been killed, wounded or captured, with much fighting still to be done.’ He straightens suddenly. ‘Which means, gentlemen, we’re going to be busier than ever, so I want you now to go find sustenance, then clean up, smarten up and be back here ready to start the day at oh six hundred hours. And don’t forget to shave!’

  We disperse, freshen up as best we can, and after another breakfast of brackish tea, report to our various duty stations, eyes anxiously on our watches. Shortly before six, Anna and the other Dutch nurses appear from the cellar where they’ve been sheltering during the night. Despite noble efforts, they look rumpled and weary. As do we all.

  The six o’clock barrage is louder, more ferocious and more sustained than anything we’ve previously experienced – and noticeably nearer. Less the lobbing of heavy shells from far away, more a furious assault by every weapon imaginable from just down the road. Plus our weaponry is now added to the mix, as we reply with mortars, Brens, heavy machine guns and the rest. Shells can literally be heard thrumming up the road outside, in both directions, scything anything in their path. Mortars thump and crash at minimum range, machine guns rattle from many directions at once, and above it all comes the incessant clatter of small-arms fire as Paras shoot back from upstairs windows, round street corners, behind barricades and down dug-outs. It feels as though everyone is just letting fly with everything they’ve got.

  In the Schoonoord the effect is utterly devastating, beyond hell, beyond anything we’ve experienced, and completely incapacitating. Coherent thought is impossible, yet alone useful action, when the barrage first starts; all we can do is throw ourselves to the floor alongside the wounded, clamp our arms over our ears and wait to die. Shattered glass flies, shells punch through walls, dust and smoke choke our lungs, walls quake, floors tremble. I lift my head to the maelstrom briefly and see a patient writhing in agony, blood spurting from a fresh wound to his abdomen. A medic stoops to help him, only to fall dead from a stray bullet. Elsewhere an orderly slumps, his face a mask of blood, while a section of ceiling crashes on to wounded victims nearby. On and on it goes, an insane cacophony, assaulting the senses, violating body and mind. Rigid with terror, I lie there on the floor, willing, praying, begging it to stop.

  Then it does. Or rather it alters. Like an adjustment, as though the players in this nightmare drama are shifting position, or changing tactics, or simply drawing breath. Whatever, the tumult pauses, and as it does so we raise our heads to new sounds: the groaning of wounded, a sob of terror, our own hoarse gasps. And something else, like the grumble of distant motors. We begin to move, instinctively grabbing the pause and filling it with activity, slithering like reptiles from one casualty to the next, then rising to a crouch, finally scuttling about on all fours like monkeys, swabbing, wiping, staunching, bandaging as we go. The pause stretches, the grumbling engine grows louder, and suddenly a fully armed paratrooper runs in, grime-stained, darkly stubbled, heavily laden with grenades, Sten gun and a PIAT anti-tank gun.

  ‘Get the fuck down! Tanks coming up the road!’

  Then he disappears and a moment later the mayhem restarts, shooting all round, thick and furious, but with the added crash of 88-millimetre gunfire as the lead tank’s turret fires, side to side, smashing walls, exploding trees, demolishing vehicles. Slowly the grinding noise creeps nearer, and then comes a bang as the PIAT fires from right outside, followed by a whump as its shell strikes home. A storm of shooting follows, running feet, shouting and the crack of grenades, then a hoarse cheer followed by the roar of enveloping flames. ‘By God, we got it!’

  Ten minutes later the next tank is heard grinding up the road.

  And so it goes, all day, back and forth, winning, losing, fighting, dying. Our presence seems redundant, our efforts at doctoring next to useless. There’s no food that I can recall; we run out of medical basics, so we tip water bottles for the thirsty, sedate the agonized, drag out the dead. Existence becomes about surviving the next tank attack, the next aerial bombardment, the next infantry assault, the next hour. And we do, but inexorably, and despite early success and incredible resistance, the Oosterbeek perimeter, the Cauldron, begins to shrink, as our forces are driven back by the overwhelming weight of enemy. Finally, late in the afternoon, the Germans overtake our position once more, and we fall back into their hands.

  *

  This time it’s for good. As yesterday, an armed detachment enters the hotel, checks everyone for weapons, warns us to behave and leaves. We’re so dazed we can only shrug and carry on. A little later a contingent of German medics arrive under the leadership of a major called Voss. He doesn’t shout, he doesn’t gloat, he isn’t armed, he merely surveys the wrecked hotel in awestruck silence before closeting himself in a corner with Marrable. They talk for a long time while we move slowly around, tending wounds and sweeping up, like pensioners in a trance.

  ‘We’ve arranged for a temporary ceasefire,’ Marrable explains to us in a while, ‘to evacuate the most critically wounded. From both sides.’ We’re gathered back in what’s left of reception, pale, shaken, weary, caked in dust. The ceiling’s down, one wall open to the afternoon sunlight. I spot Cliff gazing out at the clouds, his arm in a sling from a shell splinter. Jack Bowyer has a bandage round his head, Marrable himself a bloody cheek. He looks utterly drained, and old beyond his years, the fight, the wonderful insistence on good form, gone from him. ‘Major Voss here is arranging for transport to arrive in one hour. We’ll need all hands to help with loading. That is all.’

  At dusk the shooting duly dies away, until only sporadic rifle fire is heard, as both adversaries withdraw to rest and eat and lick their wounds for an hour. We begin carrying the wounded outside, preparatory to evacuation, but then an odd thing happens. Six German infantrymen are found in the garden, having set up a firing position there. Marrable tells them they must leave, that armed combatants aren’t allowed on designated medical premises – it’s against the Geneva Convention. Major Voss agrees and backs him up.

  But they refuse. ‘If we walk out of here we’ll be shot,’ one protests.

  ‘No you won’t, there’s a ceasefire.’

  ‘Fuck ceasefire, if the Red Devils spot us they’ll shoot us. Or we’ll shoot them.’

  Voss prevails, promises all will be well and orders them on their way. They slip out of the back gate and run for the road. Immediately a burst of gunfire is heard and they come charging back, red-faced and furious. Voss too is incensed, shouting angrily at Marrable about lies and betrayal.

  Marrable can only nod in agreement. Then he beckons me over.

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘Garland. Some stupid arse of ours down the road is still shooting. Go and find them and tell them to bloody stop, or we won’t be able to evacuate the wounded.’

  ‘Me, sir?’

  ‘Yes you, damn it, you’re an officer, order them to stop if necessary, and be quick about it.’

  This isn’t real, I decide, it’s a dream, and Bowyer will shake me awake any moment. But Bowyer doesn’t come, and with fumbling fingers I find myself making ready. I don a medic’s apr
on over my battledress, so it’s obvious I’m not a combatant, then strap on two Red Cross armbands, one on each arm, for added emphasis. I stuff a Red Cross satchel with random kit and loop it over my shoulder, and I borrow a tin helmet with a large Red Cross painted on it for extra insurance. I still feel I’m walking out to face a firing squad.

  ‘Wait!’ a female voice calls. ‘Take this!’

  She’s found a broom, and tied a Red Cross flag to it. ‘Hold it up high, it will protect you.’ Then she leans up and kisses me on the cheek.

  Daylight is failing as I step through the gate and into the street. Broken glass crunches underfoot and a gust of wind blows drifting smoke; other than that all is deathly quiet. I set off, broomstick high, a nervous hum on my lips. If you were the only girl in the world… It’s like a cowboy film, I feel, the lone survivor walking down the street after the shoot-out, while unseen eyes watch from windows. Except the dead bodies I pass are all real men, and the unseen eyes have real guns and lethal intent.

  I move down the road, passing shattered terrace houses, a burned-out tank and a German half-track lying on its side, four bodies splayed around it like discarded dolls. I start calling, in an idiotic stage whisper, outside one house after the next. ‘Ah, hello? Anyone there? Medic calling.’

  ‘Don’t move,’ a voice growls. I stop beside a low garden wall. ‘Don’t move, don’t turn, don’t do anything, or you’ll give away our position. Face down the road and stop waving that bloody flag.’

  ‘Right.’ I do as instructed.

  ‘Who are you and what do you want?’

  ‘I’m Garland. From the dressing station, at the hotel back there.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘And I’ve come to ask you to cease firing, for an hour, so we can evacuate the wounded.’

  ‘Fuck that, there’s Jerry everywhere. If I see him, I shoot him and he shoots me.’

  Exactly what the Germans said in the garden, I note. ‘Yes, well, you see it’s an order, as it were. From Brigade. I’m here to pass it on, from Brigadier Hackett. I’m sorry.’

  A pause. ‘Do you know how long I’ve held this position?’

  ‘No.’