Out of ammo. God save the King.
Only the Germans heard it.
CHAPTER 15
‘Good luck, Trickey.’
‘You too, sir.’
And with that Gough was gone. He wouldn’t make it. None of them would; Gough, Digby, Hibbert: they’d all be caught within a few hours, as would most of the survivors of Bridge Force, stopped, as Hibbert had predicted, by the wall of Germans between them and Oosterbeek.
An impenetrable wall, Theo had already learned, so instead of trying to cross it he stayed put, waiting alone in the Brigade basement for the wall to come to him. Hours passed, and the sounds of fighting died to silence. He rested a while; rain fell and he drank it from a gutter, scavenged for food, jotted notes in his pad, and rested some more. A while before dawn he awoke to the sounds of approaching boots and murmurs in German.
‘In here.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Yes, this was their HQ.’
‘But there’s no one.’
Then a flashlight beam appeared, scouring the cellar walls. Theo coughed and stood up, and the light blasted in his face.
‘There’s one! Fuck!’
‘Nicht schiessen.’
‘Put your bloody hands up!’
‘They are up. Don’t shoot.’
‘Where are the others?’
‘Gone. There’s only me.’
They dragged him outside, and made him sit in the rubble-strewn street with his hands on his head while they continued searching. Rain still fell. A third man guarded him with a rifle while others searched buildings nearby; ten minutes later the first two returned.
‘Where are they? Die Roten Teufel?’
‘I told you. They’ve all gone.’
‘Then why are you still here?’
‘To speak to your commanding officer.’
‘Ha! That’s a joke!’
‘It’s no joke. Oberführer Harzer. Tell him the British liaison officer he met in Thury on 17 July is here and wishes to speak with him.’
‘You were in Thury?’
‘Yes. With Generalfeldmarschall Rommel. Go and tell him.’
It took another hour. As he waited, a grey dawn broke overhead, slowly revealing the full devastation of the bridge environs. Sprinting head down from one building to the next, he’d not appreciated how extensive it was, how cataclysmic, but now, sitting at gunpoint in the rain-puddled road, he could only stare in amazement. Not one building remained undamaged, and many were either gutted shells or smoking rubble. Fires burned everywhere, trees were blasted to white-limbed skeletons and the street was a cratered waste ground of wrecked vehicles and abandoned equipment. So entire was the destruction it seemed impossible anyone could have survived it. Two days, he mused, watching German soldiers pick cautiously through the debris, 2nd Battalion had been asked to hold out for two days at most. This, he realized wearily, was the morning of the fifth day.
A half-track appeared, grinding in and out of the wreckage towards him, then pulled up. Harzer, scowling, was sitting in the back.
‘Get in.’
Weaving round obstacles, the vehicle then slowly drove, to Theo’s astonishment, up the approach road and straight on to Arnhem Bridge. Though its steel girders and arched span had dominated his subconscious for days, he’d never been closer than a few hundred yards. Now for the first time he was actually upon it, the cause and focus of so much fighting and bloodshed. Wreckage lay everywhere, scattered from the burned-out pillbox, exploded ammunition shed and destroyed vehicles, while a forlorn line of blanket-covered corpses waited to one side. And yet work was already under way returning the bridge to service, with an army bulldozer busy clearing debris, fire teams damping down smouldering embers and engineers checking the structure for damage.
‘Are there explosives?’ Harzer demanded.
‘I have no idea,’ he replied truthfully. ‘But it would seem sensible to check.’
‘Out.’ Harzer’s glare was icy. He too looked exhausted, Theo noted, red-eyed and haggard, almost as bad as Frost, which was some consolation. Fighting for the bridge had evidently been as hard for the Germans. They disembarked the half-track, and Harzer led him to the centre of the span, out of view and earshot.
‘Give me one reason why I shouldn’t arrest you,’ he said, lighting a cigarette. ‘Or better yet, shoot you.’
‘Because of Fall Grün.’
Harzer glanced round. ‘One mention of that will get us both shot.’
‘I know.’
‘No, you don’t. After Stauffenberg there’s paranoia everywhere. And spies.’
‘How is Generalfeldmarschall Rommel?’
‘Alive. Recuperating slowly. I believe we owe you partly for that.’
‘You owe me nothing. Please pass him my respectful good wishes.’ He produced his pad and tore off a page. ‘And this.’
Harzer glanced. ‘Are you out of your mind?’
‘She’s a friend. Maybe he can do something.’
‘You are out of your mind!’
‘Can I go now?’
Harzer looked dazed. ‘What?’
‘We must be clear about our duty. The Generalfeldmarschall taught me that. But more importantly we must be loyal to our beliefs and convictions, and to what we know is right. He said we’re nothing without that.’
‘Very noble but—’
‘I must rejoin my regiment, and fulfil my duty.’
‘And you expect me to just let you?’
‘Yes. It’s the right thing. And he’d want you to.’
‘Jesus.’ Harzer ground out his cigarette. ‘He said you were an intractable bastard.’
*
Moving in daylight meant certain capture or worse, so he stayed at the river’s edge, found a timber pile covered in tarpaulins, crawled underneath and went to sleep. Slowly the long day passed. He heard rats foraging among the wood, patrol boats cruising, engineers at work on the bridge, and the thump of artillery to the west. Occasionally he emerged to survey the scene and check the water level on the shore, but mostly he stayed hidden. During the afternoon rain fell again; the tarpaulin kept him dry but stank of creosote and river mud. Huddled beneath it he gathered planks into a bundle and tied it with wire, ate crumbs scavenged from his pockets, redressed his legs with soiled bandages and waited for dusk to come. When finally it did he had to wait further, until the lapping waves stopped creeping up the shore, paused, then finally began to retreat. Only then, with the current flowing downstream, did he emerge into the darkness, carry his wooden bundle down to the water, and wade quietly in.
The Rhine was cold, wide, and smelled of diesel oil. Gripping his woodpile he paddled out to mid river and allowed himself to be carried, bobbing like a drifting bough, gently downstream. Passing Arnhem he saw fires still burned, painting the townscape with flickering orange shadows, and the tower of the church he’d paused at was gone, but the shelling had stopped and the sounds of shooting died down. He drifted on, the river following a wide loop, and Arnhem was lost from sight, then he rounded a bend and discerned a shadowy obstruction in the darkness ahead. Soon the obstruction grew wide and large like a dam, and he could hear water rushing through it, and he realized it was the collapsed span of the railway bridge, still lying where it had fallen days earlier. He kicked hard to swim round it, regained calmer waters with an effort and resumed drifting. Arnhem’s docks and wharves lay far behind him now; here the riverbanks were grassy, the fields beyond them wide and flat and misty grey in the darkness. Once clear of the rail bridge, he released his bundle and swam quietly to shore, crawling from the water to lie, shivering with cold, on its muddy bank. He remained there a while, ears alert to the slightest sounds. By his estimate he was level with the small church where C Company had rallied after its attack on the rail bridge. The church was a quarter of a mile away across fields; behind him German artillery lay in strength across the river, while in front somewhere their infantry waited in their foxholes and dug-outs, feeding and resting, cle
aning their weapons and counting the hours before attack. But he could hear nothing save the mournful piccolo call of a curlew, so he rose and set off for the church.
The first person he encountered was British, a sentry, slumped asleep at his post.
‘Wake up.’
‘I… Christ, who are you?’
‘Trickey, 2nd Battalion. What’s your name.’
‘Stubbsy. Albert Stubbs, I mean. We heard 2nd Battalion was—’
‘You were asleep, Albert. And there’s Jerry everywhere.’
‘I know, I’m sorry, we’ve been at it so long…’
‘Who’s your CO?’
‘Brigadier Thompson, at least it was, but then he got injured so it was Major Cain. Then he got shot too, so now it’s a Major Dickie somebody of 11th Battalion.’
‘Lonsdale?’
‘That’s him. It’s a scratch force see, there’s us South Staffs lads, some Royal Artillery, a few Borderers and lots of Paras, all mixed up.’
‘Where is he?’
‘In the church. You won’t tell him, will you?’
Theo patted his arm. ‘Rest, Albert, you need it. But don’t sleep.’
He found Lonsdale on a pew having a bloody head wound dressed by an orderly. One arm was in a sling; his other hand too was bandaged.
‘Good Christ alive!’ he exclaimed. ‘It’s…’
‘Trickey, sir, hello.’
‘That’s right! Johnny Frost’s intelligence bod. Where on earth did you spring from? You’re soaking wet.’
‘The river, sir. From Arnhem Bridge. I’m afraid it’s all over there.’
He gave an abbreviated report, outlining events since 2nd Battalion’s arrival on Sunday. Lonsdale, head shaking, listened in awe.
‘Jesus. Poor Johnny. Is he badly hurt?’
‘His legs caught the worst of it. Should I report to General Urquhart?’
‘You could try, but I doubt you’ll get near.’
Lonsdale Force, as it was called, was holding the southeastern corner of the Oosterbeek perimeter, but becoming increasingly isolated as the enemy closed in.
‘We’re also to keep a corridor open to the river,’ Lonsdale confided. ‘In case.’
Theo looked round the church. Shadowy humps on pews and floors indicated Paras trying to sleep, while glowing cigarettes betrayed those unable to. ‘In case?’
‘There’s a brigade of Poles trying to reach us from the other side somewhere. And who knows, 30 Corps may yet turn up, the dozy sods.’ He lowered his voice. ‘But we can’t hold out much longer and Urquhart knows it. There’s talk of trying to evacuate the division across the river.’
‘Should I stay here?’
‘I could dearly use you. Some of these boys are very green.’
A blanket was found, and water and dried rations to chew on, then he sat himself on the steps of the wooden pulpit and waited for the dawn to come. Later he slept, and dreamed he was on a train. He was lying on a cot, something heavy was pressing on his head, and three men were looking down at him wearing unfamiliar uniforms: an American airman, a Royal Navy lieutenant, and an RAF fighter pilot. ‘How is your war?’ the navy officer asked. ‘I’ve found it hard,’ he croaked in reply.
At six precisely he was jerked from reverie by the earsplitting shriek of shells. Moments later the first explosions shook the ground. Fired from across the river, other guns soon joined in, until Oosterbeek was under assault from all sides. Inside the church the lights shivered on their wires, a framed painting crashed to the floor and a fog of dust fell from the ceiling. Pulling on damp boots he hurried out in time to see Lonsdale Force already deploying, with half-dressed men scattering to their positions hefting weapons and ammunition. Southeast, Lonsdale had said, which meant the enemy would come across open fields from the river, along the road Frost had taken into Arnhem, or both. He surveyed the lie, noting the rise of the road, the openness of the fields and the distant remains of the rail bridge; then, as he watched, a line of mortar blasts began stamping across the field towards him, exploding from the earth like giant flowers. Men scattered from their path, except one, who was standing transfixed by the road.
‘Get down!’ He sprinted across, tackling the youth to the ground. They fell heavily; Stubbs threw his rifle aside, kicking and struggling in panic.
‘Albert, stop!’
‘Let me go!’
A final shell exploded in a tree, cleaving it in two as though by axe.
‘Stop. It’s all right.’
‘No!’
‘It’s over, listen, they’ve stopped.’
‘What?’
‘Where’s your firing position?’
‘It’s… it’s in the ditch in the field down there. Where those shells just landed!’
‘Come on, let’s go.’
‘But I can’t! You saw—’
‘You’re safer there. Come on, get your rifle, we’ll go together.’
Gripping the youth’s arm, he rose and led him into the first field, hurried across it, traversed a hedge, crossed a second field, found the ditch and leaped in. Helmeted heads could be seen at intervals along it, as though in a trench, twenty or more, he counted. Stubbs’s section, six South Staffordshires led by a lance corporal, was holding one end. They greeted Stubbs with coarse jokes and insults, eyed Theo suspiciously, then went back to scanning the distant railway.
‘They’ll come from the river.’ Theo pointed. ‘That way.’
‘Bollocks,’ the corporal scoffed. ‘They’ll come from the railway.’
‘Too much open ground. The river’s much closer.’
‘Is that so?’
‘Yes. I was here before.’
The corporal turned. ‘So, Stubbsy, who’s this bloke you’ve brought us then?’
‘He’s from 2nd Battalion. Can’t remember his name.’
‘Well, tell him to fuck off, will you? We don’t need his sort.’
‘Yes, but he—’
‘Back in a minute.’ Theo set off, hurrying down the ditch, bent low, murmuring to the troops as he passed them. ‘Hold your fire, wait for the word, hold your fire, wait for the word…’
‘THERE!’ someone shouted. ‘Movement, on the embankment, see?’
All heads turned. Tiny figures were spreading out along the railway, with others following, pushing what looked like carts and trailers.
‘There they are!’
‘No, it’s a feint. A diversion. Keep covering the river. And you should fix bayonets.’
By the time he returned to Stubbs’s section, the troops on the railway had stopped moving, and appeared simply to be watching.
‘What are they doing?’
Theo peered. ‘I think they’re engineers. Something to do with bridge repairs perhaps…’
‘Mortars!’ A tattoo of rapid thumps sounded from the river. Seconds later a hail of explosions was straddling the ditch.
‘Fuck this!’
Quickly the barrage swelled, shell after shell blasting gouts of earth high in the air. Shrapnel flew; soil and stones pelted them, smoking holes appearing in the ground as though punched by a fist.
‘Fall back!’ someone shouted.
‘No! Keep down, fix your bayonets!’
They stayed, hunching lower in the ditch, showered with dirt and debris, then smoke rounds crashed in, creating a drifting screen that blotted everything from sight.
‘What now, for Christ’s sake?’
‘Hold your positions. Wait for the word!’
Then as suddenly as it began the barrage stopped. An eerie lull followed, silent but for the twitter of larks and hissing shell holes. Seconds ticked, then minutes, and still nothing happened. Smoke obscured everything; then came a glimpse of shadowy movement, and the clicking of kit, and suddenly the enemy was materializing before them like ghosts through mist.
‘NOW! Charge, come on!’
He leaped up, the others following, hesitantly at first, then eagerly, rising like a tide from the ditch, surging forward,
bayonets glinting, and bellowing like bulls. Shots rang out, and the clashing of steel, and confused shouts as both sides joined. Standing in the melee, Theo saw running shadows, two men fighting on the ground, another wielding his rifle like an axe, and a fourth falling from a bullet. And, as he’d seen so often before, the sheer unexpectedness of the rebuff, its fervour and ferocity, were enough to carry the day, and he saw the enemy falter, and hesitate, and panic, until in seconds their attack had foundered and they were running back into the smoke.
*
He found Lonsdale atop the church tower, scanning the scene with binoculars.
‘They’ll try again, no doubt,’ he said.
‘I expect so, sir. But without armour they’re at a disadvantage.’
‘Can we hold them?’
‘A Vickers or two would help. And we’re low on ammunition.’
‘There’s supposed to be air-drops.’ Lonsdale peered at the sky. ‘But the only planes I’ve seen are Jerry ones.’
‘Any word from Division?’
Gunfire echoed from the town direction, both British and German, including the crackle of light weapons and grenades. ‘Rumour is the Panzer Grenadiers are closing in, and if that happens we risk getting cut off. I’ve heard nothing for hours.’
‘Do you want me to get through?’
‘It may come to that.’ Lonsdale paused. ‘There’s something else first.’
An artillery position was under fire along the Arnhem road, and Lonsdale feared for its survival. ‘We’ve a 6-pounder either side of the road, and they’ve been doing a grand job holding Jerry off. But they need ammo, Trickey, and I need info. A Sergeant Baskeyfield’s in charge. Find out what’s happening and tell him to pull back if things get too hot.’
The Bridge Page 25