Arnhem

by John Nichol

  One of the luckiest crossings was made by Denis Longmate, one of that small band of Dorsets who had made it over from the south bank the night before and not fallen straight into enemy hands. He had got to Oosterbeek and taken up a defensive position inside the perimeter, only to be ordered out in the general evacuation. He’d been very fortunate to survive that first crossing. It seemed tempting providence to make the return trip so soon after. Back down at the river bank, he was climbing into a rescue boat when he slipped and fell in the river. He thought he was a goner. Those on board were pushing off from the side, desperate to get away as the evacuation stretched on towards dawn and the odds of the Germans crashing in to stop it increased. He gripped the side of the boat, ‘hanging on for dear life’, but they were about to leave him struggling – drowning – in the water when a sergeant took charge. ‘We’re not going till you’re on,’ he said, and made the men pull Longmate on board. ‘I was in the water for seconds but it felt like a lifetime. I thought I was going to be left behind, to be shot or taken prisoner. It was such a relief to get on board. I bless that sergeant.’

  On the other side, Longmate was overwhelmed by a sense of desolation. All around him, Airborne were meeting up with mates, reunited, happy to be alive. But there was no sign of any other Dorsets. ‘As I walked down that road away from the river, the very same one I’d come down twenty-four hours earlier, I thought I was the only man of my regiment left. All the rest must have died. There was just me. I went into the old barn where we’d rested up on the way out. Nothing there, not a soul. I felt myself wondering if I was actually dead.’ But he was alive and, as he now discovered, not alone. ‘I got to the building in Driel that had been our company headquarters and went in. There was a glow of candlelight at the bottom of the stairs, faces, and a cheer went up. “It’s Den! Good old Den! Well done!” There were about fifteen of them and though we were tired, cold and wet, we all had one thing in common – we had returned in one piece.’ A Dorset officer, a young lieutenant they all knew, came to address them. He was injured, his arm was in a sling, but he was going back over the river to help complete the evacuation. He asked for volunteers to go with him. No one stepped forward, no one said a word. ‘I don’t blame you,’ he said as he left. ‘You’ve done your bit.’

  But others were going back, among them Robert Talbot Watkins, the Methodist chaplain of 1 Para. He had done much of his work in the battle with the wounded and the dying, particularly at the casualty station in Kate ter Horst’s house. When the evacuation was ordered, Urquhart had instructed – sensibly – that the wounded and the medics attending them would have to stay behind. No stretchers – the same order as there had been in the latter stages at Dunkirk. Nor would those being left behind be told in advance. But, since his casualty station was close to the river – half a mile at most – Watkins argued that the walking wounded should be given a chance as long as they did not slow down the able-bodied. This was agreed. With the evacuation just about to begin, he quietly broke the news to the medics in his casualty station and asked them to choose who should go.

  ‘I specified that they should be men who physically had a chance of making it and who had enough reserves of spirit to be able to endure a trip which I expected to be opposed. They would have to be assembled and ready to move without fuss at 11.30 p.m. on the dot.’ His ‘flock’ were there right on time, standing in the rain, some thirty of them. ‘I was a bit taken aback by many of them. They looked such wrecks. There were even men with chest wounds, unable to hold themselves erect. I explained the plan. They would be divided into two sections, each in the charge of an orderly. They would move down the taped route. They would obey all orders. They would claim no privileges and were to claim no help from fit men or hinder the evacuation of fit men.’ He warned them to expect to encounter fighting and that they might be safer staying where they were rather than trying to leave. ‘I asked if anyone wished not to take the risk, but not one changed his mind.’

  They moved off, each man holding the tail of the smock of the man in front. ‘They were so slow and so weak that it seemed scarcely possible that many of them would get far. They started off in the middle of a column, but their snail’s pace soon put them at the rear. By now the Germans had cottoned on that something was up and were putting down fire and putting up flares, and we had to get flat in the mud. Many of them must have suffered greatly but none complained and none gave up. I do not know how long it was before their turn came for the boats. There were some men on that evacuation beach that night who lost their heads. But not these walking wounded. They kept their discipline, and not a single one of them was lost on that crossing.’ It helped that Watkins’s insistence on the wounded getting no favoured treatment was generally ignored. There were many reports of fit troops standing to one side to let their injured comrades through first, whether they asked or not.

  Now, something remarkable happened. Having brought his party of the lame and the halt over to safety, Watkins decided to go back for more. ‘It was hare-brained,’ he wrote in his memoirs, ‘but I had the daft idea that what had come off once would come off again. I went back to the river and crossed over in a boat, with the notion of getting another lot out of that casualty station.’ He soon saw the error of his ways. ‘All sorts of stuff was flying about the river area, and I realized I was not going to get anyone else out. In fact, it was going to take some doing to get myself out.’ Sunrise found him on the wrong side of the Rhine, along with upwards of 150 other Airborne for whom time had run out. The discipline so evident earlier began to crumble.

  There were unfortunate scenes when a group of Poles from the rearguard arrived late and at a run, dashing out across what they thought was the deserted polder, over the mud flats and straight on board a boat that was pulling in. As it pulled away, they looked back to see fists being shaken at them by angry soldiers who had been lying low, waiting their turn, until the boat arrived and had now been pipped at the post. Now it was every man for himself. Men flung off their clothes and struck out for the far side. One soldier watched, helpless, as ‘more and more heads were swallowed by the river, never to reappear.’ Another saw German machine-gun fire rake the water and felt like crying as splashes from bullets surrounded bobbing heads until a direct hit notched up another dead man. The last boat shoved off at 5.30 in broad daylight and lost almost all its occupants to enemy fire. The order was given to end the evacuation.

  On that far bank, Watkins considered his position. ‘There were other Airbornes scattered about that polder, but it was no time for organized parties. Each man had to take his own chance. I had seen the swiftness of the river and how there were groynes at intervals to retain the banks. I worked my way upstream from groyne to groyne until I reached a reed bed. I lay up in those reeds all day and was lucky.’ There was some movement nearby, which caused Watkins considerable alarm, but it turned out to be a Dutchman, a fellow fugitive. They decided to attempt the crossing together at dusk. The key, the other man advised him, was not to fight the current but go with it. ‘We made our way upstream to under the railway viaduct, stripped off and went in. I never saw the Dutchman again and have no idea whether he made it. I got out some couple of miles downstream and fell in with Canadian sappers, who told me I was mad – and very lucky.’

  The evacuation had been a success – perhaps the best executed of all the military manoeuvres in the Arnhem debacle, given the speed with which it had to be planned and carried out and the appalling conditions. If the Germans had cottoned on earlier, there could have been a bloodbath on that open river bank. The precise numbers who got across were never certain – not least because the tellers counting heads on the south side were hampered by the rain rendering their notes unreadable. Ninety-five men were known to have died that night – shot, mortared or drowned – but between 2,400 and 2,500 were saved. That, though, left many thousands of mainly wounded Airborne still in Oosterbeek and Arnhem and consigned to a captivity they had tried their utmost to avoid.

&nb
sp; 14. Left Behind

  In any fighting retreat, there has to be a rearguard, who risk being overrun or left behind. In the evacuation from Oosterbeek, that precarious role fell to the Polish Brigade, who had crossed over from the south bank two nights earlier and taken up defensive positions at the bottom end of the perimeter. Lieutenant Albert Smaczny was ordered by a retreating British officer, a major, to stay in place with his company of twenty men – all that was left of the thirty-six he had had when he arrived – until 12.30 a.m. at the earliest. He was to withdraw only on specific orders from the major, brought to him by a runner. Smaczny sensibly asked if one of his own men could go ahead with the major now, just to make sure that the message to withdraw got back to him and he and his men would not be left stranded. His request was refused. Not necessary, the major told him as he departed. He would come back for them himself if need be. As he watched the Englishmen slip away into the darkness, Smaczny was not happy that this was going to turn out well. He kept from his men his fear that what they had just been given was ‘a virtual sentence of extermination’.1

  As the hours rolled by and no messenger came, he worried. It was past midnight, and they’d seen the last of the British soldiers pass them en route to the evacuation beach some time ago. But he stuck to his orders, despite knowing that every minute he waited was precious time lost. Eventually, with the first vague hint of light in the sky, he sent out a scout to check on what was happening. The man came on a British command post, deserted except for some wounded and their orderlies, who were staying behind. The rest had left more than two hours ago, he was told. Discovering that, for whatever reason, he and his company had indeed been left in the lurch, Smaczny led them off to the river.2

  As they neared the polder, they heard rifle fire and terrible screaming. Reaching the beach, they were in time to see the last boats leaving. There was now only one way over the water, and the lieutenant told those who felt up to it to swim. He opted to stay with the non-swimmers and those who could not face the dangerous waters. In the early morning light, one of his men saw what happened to bobbing heads out there, caught by the current or by bullets, and decided: ‘I would rather die with a gun in my hand than drown.’ With decisions made and the last of the swimmers either over on the other side or lost, a stillness settled over this reach of the Lower Rhine. The men now marooned on the wrong side, British and Polish alike, settled down where they were, concealed as best they could be on the flat and soggy meadowland. What would happen now? There was firing coming from the woods and from behind the dykes on either side, but the Germans made no attempt to advance or attack. An hour went by. No one moved. Then one British soldier rose to his feet and hung a white rag at the end of his rifle – until a furious sergeant crawled over and ordered him to put it down, ‘or I’ll shoot you’. The sergeant’s action was a defiant gesture, pure Red Devil, but only delayed the inevitable. There was an exchange of fire. More casualties. Not long after, the senior British officer among them accepted that their position was hopeless and ordered the white flag to be raised again. German soldiers stepped from their defensive positions and came forward to disarm and take charge of their prisoners. Smaczny saw a chance of escape and edged his men away and back towards the woods. Two tanks emerged to stand in their way. At bayonet point, the remnants of the Oosterbeek redoubt were marched away, back into the smoking ruins of Oosterbeek and captivity.

  Poles and British stuck together, despite German attempts to isolate the Poles, some of whom they had already taken away and shot. Now an SS officer stopped the column of prisoners and demanded that the Poles step forward. Not a soul moved. The tense silence was broken by a British officer, who called out: ‘Don’t do it. We fought together and we’ll go to prison camp together.’ Another took off his red beret and put it on Smaczny’s head before telling the fuming German officer, ‘There are no Poles here.’

  Such solidarity was a hallmark of the evacuation. Arthur Ayers had his chance to get away, but his headlong dash to the river came to a halt when a freshly wounded man, his face macerated by a mortar, pleaded for help. Ayers knew he was about to blow his chance of escaping, but he couldn’t just turn away. ‘As the man moaned in pain and grasped my arm for support, my mind was made up. “Of course I will help you,” I said.’ Years later, he had no regrets. ‘I didn’t even know what his name was, just that he was one of our men and he was wounded and needed help. I never thought of leaving him and saving myself. The thought didn’t cross my mind. I just did what I believe any reasonable person would do. How can you leave a wounded man? Well, I couldn’t.’ The man, a glider pilot, had managed to stand, and Ayers, knowing that it was imperative to keep moving if they were to reach the river bank and the possibility of boarding a rescue boat, urged him to try walking, though there was still more than a mile to go. ‘He moved one foot forward, then swayed, complaining of giddiness. I steadied him, put his arm around my shoulder and we staggered slowly along, looking like two old pals on their way home after a night on the beer.’

  They came to some houses, now deserted, just as mortar shells started to fall, sending up showers of masonry and timber into the air. Ayers hauled his friend into a building to shelter. ‘The front door opened to my push and I led him into the hall. Leaving him propped up against the wall, I struck a match and started to explore. Down some narrow stairs was a cellar, with a table and chairs and a large mattress. Tins of food and bottles of wine were stacked in a corner, a heart-warming sight. I fetched him down and we sat facing each other. “What’s my face like?” he whispered. “Is it bad?” “No,” I lied, but he didn’t believe me. “I used to be quite good looking,” he sighed. “Never had any trouble getting girlfriends.”’

  Ayers found water and a bowl and began to clean the man’s face. ‘He sat patiently as I carefully washed away the blood, wincing in pain when I touched an open wound. When I had finished, the wounds didn’t look so bad but I realized he needed proper medical attention. I suggested we gave ourselves up to the enemy so he could be taken to hospital, but he wouldn’t hear of it. “Not bloody likely,” he said. I dined on tinned meat and fruit in syrup, washed down with a bottle of wine. He found it too painful to eat, but managed to drink some wine. Then we laid our weary bodies down on the mattress and tried to sleep.’ It was ten thirty the next morning when Ayers woke. ‘My companion seemed to be sleeping soundly, so I left him and went up the stairs. Suddenly I was conscious of activity and voices outside. I peeped through a window to see dozens of German soldiers walking along the road. A large truck pulled up and several men in field-grey uniforms jumped out, automatic weapons at the ready. My heart sank. It looked as though they were going to search the house. But then they formed up and marched off up the road, out of my sight.’ His relief was momentary. This, he realized, was only a reprieve. ‘It could be only a matter of time before the houses would be searched.’

  Ayers scouted the house. He came to a window overlooking trees and a field. ‘I heard shots and then saw half a dozen British paratroopers appear out of the trees, escorted by their captors. I made my way back to the cellar, where I found my companion sitting up. He tried to smile, but the effort was clearly very painful. The wounds on his face looked red and angry. I told him what I had seen and we debated our future. The decision we came to was to stay where we were and take a chance the houses would not be searched. After all, we had food and shelter and, besides, there was a chance that the Second Army would arrive in Arnhem at any moment and we would be relieved.’ That incredible airborne optimism was undimmed even now.

  The two airborne evaders lay in the house through Wednesday and Thursday, dozing mainly, and eating. ‘My companion, who had kept very cheerful during this ordeal, despite the damage to his face, was now able to eat a little solid food. At mid-morning on Friday I made my usual trip upstairs to the window to look out. The road was quiet and deserted, but as I turned away I heard voices. English voices. They were singing “Roll out the Barrel”, and my heart leaped. It had to
be the Second Army. They’d got here at last.’ His joy at the prospect of rescue, of going home, was short-lived. ‘When I returned to the window and looked out I saw a column of dirty, dishevelled but still defiant paratroopers marching along the road, flanked by German soldiers. Some were bareheaded but others still proudly wearing their red berets. They looked very tired but far from disheartened. I watched until they passed out of sight, then returned to the cellar feeling hopeless and abandoned.’

  That afternoon Ayers heard footsteps in the house above and was startled when a figure appeared at the top of the cellar stairs. ‘It was a smartly dressed civilian. He stared down at us, a surprised look on his face, then turning hurriedly he disappeared back through the doorway. Uncertain if he was friend or foe, we decided to leave the house and find shelter elsewhere. We quickly packed the remaining tins of food in my haversack and prepared to leave. But it was too late. As we reached the foot of the stairs, I heard the sound of heavy boots and I looked up to see two German soldiers. ‘They shouted at us and motioned with their rifles. I was a prisoner, something I had never visualized being. Part of me was pleased that my war was finished, though I was sad that I wouldn’t be going home right away. But I presumed I would get there at some point, and perhaps sooner rather than later. We still thought the war would be over pretty shortly.’ As the two men were led away to a jeep, they passed the man dressed in civilian clothes who was standing by the front door. ‘He stared at us with no expression on his face. I stared back.’ They were driven out of Oosterbeek, getting glimpses along the way of the devastation the battle had caused. ‘The few civilians we passed turned and just stared, their expressionless faces showing nothing of the misery they must be feeling. I wondered if they blamed us for all this. Then we pulled into the grounds of the St Elizabeth Hospital on the outskirts of Arnhem, and my wounded companion was taken inside. This was the last I saw of him.’