Airborne
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AIRBORNE
Robert Radcliffe
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About this Book
About the Author
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About Airborne
17 September 1944: the Allies launch the largest airborne offensive in history, delivering 36,000 troops by parachute and glider to the Dutch-German Border. In what will become known as the Battle of Arnhem, half of them will be casualties of war. Among their number is Theo Trickey, a young paratrooper so dreadfully injured he is not expected to survive.
Under the care of Medical Officer Captain Daniel Garland, Trickey is shipped to Germany as a Prisoner of War. As Garland slowly nurses him back to health, he discovers that there’s much that is unusual about Trickey, starting with a chance meeting he had with Erwin Rommel before the War…
Airborne is the first in an unforgettable trilogy that tells the story of a young soldier, of a new regiment and how, together, they altered the course of a war.
For my Father
Contents
Cover
Welcome Page
About Airborne
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Preview
About Robert Radcliffe
Also by Robert Radcliffe
An Invitation from the Publisher
Copyright
CHAPTER 1
The first time I ever have a proper conversation with Theo Trickey, as opposed to listening to his fevered ramblings, it is ironically about Erwin Rommel.
By early 1945 we’re prisoners in Ulm, which is an attractive small city on the Danube, surrounded by hills and forests, down in southernmost Germany. Ulm’s two claims to fame are Albert Einstein, who was born there, and its cathedral, which boasts the tallest church tower in the world. Climb its seven hundred steps, and on a clear day you can see the Alps glinting to the south. We’re based at a POW hospital near the city centre, me as senior Allied MO, Theo as one of my patients, and by now we’ve been together, shunted round Germany like itinerant tramps, for four months, since our capture at the Battle of Arnhem in September 1944. Of the many places we’ve visited on our wanderings, Ulm is one of the more pleasant. Or was before the bombings started.
Apart from my duties at the hospital, I service three or four satellite camps where I tend to sick or injured prisoners, and run twice-weekly outpatient clinics. By now many of my patients are German civilians, who are courteous, mildly wary of my British uniform but not hostile. Indeed they are grateful for whatever medical succour I can provide, which, with supplies limited, is often pitifully little. In the months since my capture I have made strides with their language, such that I can converse with them reasonably. They speak mostly of lost menfolk, their fears for their children and the daily struggle for food.
One day some time in mid-January, I’m halfway into my morning ward round at the hospital when I hear boots, and turn to see two German officers approaching. Both are majors, dressed in the field grey of the army, immaculate in shiny boots, gloves, peaked caps, medals, the lot. Somewhat startled, I rise to meet them.
‘We are seeking Captain Garland,’ one says in clear English.
‘Er, well, yes, that’d be me.’
They look me up and down. Wearing a grubby collarless shirt, with rolled-up sleeves and surgeon’s apron, apparently I’m not quite what they’re expecting. ‘You are Garland, the senior Allied medical officer for this municipality?’
‘Yes, I suppose so.’
‘Then we request that you accompany us.’
‘Accompany you?’ Startled turns into concerned. Am I being arrested? Is this about the British bombings? Have I angered Commandant Vorst once too often? Has he found the secret memoir I’m writing? Or my stockpile of pipe tobacco, or private letters?
‘Yes, Herr Doctor. To visit a patient. Nearby. An important dignitary.’
‘An important… But why doesn’t he just call his own doctor?’
‘For reasons of discretion firstly,’ the major goes on. ‘Secondly because you are the senior Allied medical officer. And thirdly because you are recommended.’
‘I am?’
‘Yes. Also, it is not he. The patient is a lady.’
A VIP, and a lady, presumably civilian: it could be worse, and at least I’m not being arrested. I smarten myself up, don my French army greatcoat and red beret, gather a medical bag and descend to the street with the two majors. Outside a car waits at the kerb, engine idling. The air is thick and cold; fresh snow has fallen, draping the rubble and grime like a clean new blanket. We board the car and set off, passing a burned-out tram, queues of townsfolk hunched outside food shops and parties of Russian prisoners in rags clearing debris from bombing raids. Above the snow-laden rooftops the cathedral pokes defiantly skyward; so far it has escaped destruction but the surrounding damage is considerable, with whole districts demolished. Casualties, I have learned, are heavy, and I see more than one body at the roadside.
Soon we are leaving the city, heading west, and then almost immediately entering a wealthy suburb with leafy avenues lined with imposing-looking residences. ‘Herrlingen’, the sign says. We pass two or three houses; then we crunch into a driveway and pull up before a large house with gabled roof and half-timbered façade. The front door opens and a butler steps out, greeting me with a wordless nod. Leaving the two majors in the hall, I follow him up a carpeted staircase to the first floor and along a corridor to a door. He taps and gestures for me to enter.
‘Good morning, Herr Doctor, we are very grateful that you have come.’
My host is a schoolboy of about fifteen. Although clearly a youth, he is wearing the uniform of a Luftwaffe cadet. He is of medium height and build for his age, handsome-faced with a flinty grey gaze. There is something familiar about him, in the gaze and in the angle of his jawline, and the slight cleft of his chin. I glance around; we are alone in a lady’s salon, like a sitting room. On a table by the window stand family photographs in silver frames. One, of an officer dressed in the uniform of a field marshal, is instantly recognizable.
‘My name is Manfred Rommel,’ the youth continues. ‘I am son of Generalfeldmarschall Erwin Rommel. It is his wife, I mean his widow, my mother, who we have asking you to visit.’
‘I see. May I ask her name?’
‘Frau Lucie Rommel. She is in the next room. Shall we proceed?’
‘Just a minute.’
‘Yes?’
‘You – I mean, the general, his family, live here in Ulm?’
‘That is correct. This is our home for a few years. My father is buried in the churchyard.’
I think back: a newspaper glimpsed in a waiting room, two or three months ago, Bergen it was, at Inge Brandt’s hospital. Front-page photographs of a lavish state funeral. The Hero Has Fallen, the headline read.
‘And who are the two officers downstairs?’
‘Loyal associates of my father’s. And trusted friends of the family.’
‘Trusted?’
His gaze wavers. ‘These are most troubled times, Herr Doctor. For us, and for the Fatherland. Can we visit my mother now?’
‘Of course.’
He turns to a door. ‘I am sorry but she speaks no English. I will interpret.’
‘I understand. Can you tell me what is the problem?’
*
The bedroom is dark and airless, heavy with the scent of rose water. The curtains are firmly shut and only one small table-light burns. A large bed with a canopy stands against a wall bearing a wooden crucifix; a slight figure lies motionless beneath the covers.
‘Mama? Mama, it is me. I have brought the British doctor.’
I speak enough German to follow this. And also her response. ‘No doctor.’
‘But, Mama, we agreed you would see this man, who is a renowned expert in matters of the mind. And the heart.’
This I half understand, and then don’t understand at all. In any case, having attended dozens of German patients with or without interpreters, I feel it necessary for Herr Doctor to take the initiative.
‘Please reassure your mother of my best intentions, and tell her I will try to help.’
He translates; there is no response.
‘Now inform her that as a matter of procedure, I must make an examination of her physical condition first. For this I require the curtains to be opened, for the light.’
He translates, his voice imploring, but still nothing, so I rise, draw back the curtains and throw open a window.
‘Das ist besser, nicht?’
The woman is in her forties, with angular features and shoulder-length prematurely grey hair. She submits to my examination passively; with Manfred’s help I assist her to a sitting position, listen to her heart and lungs, take her temperature, pulse and blood pressure, check her ears, pupils, reflexes and oral mucosa. I find no significant abnormality except that she is underweight and listless, moving for me as though a mannequin, and staring sightlessly at the wall throughout. As I progress through the examination I find, despite her lack of symptoms, that I am becoming uneasy. Eventually I allow her back on to the pillow, where she lies gazing at the ceiling.
‘How long has she been like this?’
‘A few weeks.’
‘Since your father died.’
‘Yes. She refuses food; nor will she accept medication.’
‘They were devoted?’
‘Completely. They are married thirty years, you know. He writes letters every day he is away, hundreds she has keeping, and he never forget our birthdays or anniversaries and always telephoning and sending presents and flowers.’
Manfred’s voice is becoming strained, the child struggling hard to be the man. And as I study his mother’s face, once pretty, now pinched and limp, she looks up at me, and a single tear runs down her cheek to the pillow. Then she crushes her eyes shut and turns away.
‘Manfred. I need a few minutes alone with your mother.’
‘But—’
‘It’s quite all right, she is safe. You should take a little time for yourself.’
‘Yes, but the interpreting…’
‘I believe we understand one another.’
He leaves and we are alone. Peace descends, broken only by the patient’s soft breathing and the ticking of a clock on the mantel. I wait at her side, watching the snow fall silently beyond the window and searching, in any language, for something helpful to say. Words are such primitive tools, I reflect, so blunt and unfeeling. So inadequate.
‘Frau Rommel?’
Her back remains turned.
Tentatively I reach out to her shoulder. ‘Lucie?’
Still nothing. I lean closer. ‘Ihre Mann. Was sagt er?’
The grammar’s wrong – What does your man say? – but it’s enough and I feel her tremble beneath my hand like a frightened animal. Seconds more and she’s convulsed with sobbing.
‘Good. Das ist gut, Lucie. Be strong, meine Frau, that’s what he says. Be strong for our son. Für Manfred.’
Gently I turn her, and lift her, until she’s crying more easily, less violently. The door opens and Manfred’s worried face appears; I beckon to him. He comes to the bed, his own eyes tearful, and takes his sobbing mother in his arms.
A few minutes later I return downstairs. ‘She should not be left alone for any period, nor allowed to decline in bed,’ I tell the majors. ‘She must take nourishment and exercise and interest in her surroundings, and especially her son. He is the key.’
‘He is attached to an anti-aircraft battery in Munich.’
‘Then he should seek compassionate leave.’
‘Will she recover?’
‘She can be helped if she chooses.’
‘Will you visit again?’
I hesitate. ‘If she requests it.’
They escort me to the car. ‘Our driver will return you to Ulm, Herr Doctor.’
‘Thank you.’
They exchange glances. ‘His loyalty to his country is beyond question.’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘The field marshal. When the war is over, the world should know, history should know, that his loyalty to his country was beyond question.’
*
And that’s what I recount to Theo Trickey.
I return to the hospital, partake of the usual cabbage soup lunch, supplement it with hoarded Red Cross prunes, fill my pipe and write up my notes – including the extraordinary events of the morning. Then I head upstairs to complete the morning’s abandoned ward round, finishing as usual at the bed of Theo Trickey.
‘Hello, Private, and how are we this afternoon?’ I enquire, studying his chart. No response comes, nor do I expect one, because Theo has been largely comatose since he was found with severe head wounds amid the wreckage of Arnhem. In fact I only know his first name from a letter in his pocket. I chat to him out of habit, and because we’ve been together so long.
‘Well, the temperature’s down a little, I see, which is good. Perhaps that swelling on the brain’s reducing at last.’ I check his pulse, still thready though possibly firmer, enter it on the chart, and then begin carefully unwinding the bandage on his head.
‘You will not believe what happened today.’ And I proceed to tell him: the two majors, the drive in the car, the house, the butler, young Manfred and finally my encounter with his mother.
‘Rommel’s wife, Theo, can you believe that? The Desert Fox himself!’
‘Lucie.’
I freeze. It’s barely a whisper, more an exhalation, like a sigh. ‘Theo?’
‘Lucie.’
‘Good God, you’re awake! Don’t move. Orderly!’
‘Water.’
I grab the cup at his bedside, and carefully lift his head. He swallows, nodding, then sinks back on to the mattress.
‘Dead?’ he whispers again.
‘Private, don’t talk. Here, drink again, slowly now.’
‘Is he dead?’
He’s talking about Rommel. ‘Yes, well, yes, he is.’
He nods. ‘They killed him. Said they would.’
‘He said that? Private, are you telling me you knew Erwin Rommel?’
His eyes flutter shut.
‘He was my mentore.’
CHAPTER 2
Some might consider it ironic that an army medical officer’s first taste of blood in the field of battle should be his own. I’ll leave that to the pundits and philosophers. What to me is unquestionably ironic, however, is that after years of prevaricating, months of training, weeks of waiting and hours of frantic preparation, my operational service with the army lasts precisely eight days.
Which is quite enough.
*
My first direct encounter with war comes at 1.30 p.m. on Monday 18 September 1944. I am seated in the thunderously noisy interior of a Douglas Dakota aircraft, flying over the board-flat fields of Holland, which glisten in the afternoon sun because the Germans have flooded them to deter landings. I can observe this because I am positioned near the gaping doorway of the Dakota, the door itself having been removed, so am afforded a wide if draughty view of the countryside below, as well as some of the hundreds of other Dakotas flying across Holland with us.
Inside mine sit twenty men, facing each other in two rows down each flank of the
fuselage, their expressions ranging from bored, to amused, to focused, to pensive. Some chat and crack jokes, some doze, a couple read newspapers, many smoke. Two are playing chess with a pocket set. Heavily equipped and dressed for action, all are experienced, battle-hardened veterans of this unique form of warfare, and know exactly what to do, and how to do it, effectively and efficiently.
Except one.
‘All right, Doc?’
The man on my right nudges me. He is closest to the door, in the number-one jumping position, and rightly so for he is our leader, Lieutenant Colonel George Lea. He commands 11th Parachute Battalion, which is comprised of some eight hundred men, for whom I am the newly assigned medical officer. We are currently on our way, in the company of four other battalions, to meet up with six more battalions who flew here yesterday. In other words, a total of something like ten thousand men, an entire division, with more still to come, descending upon a picturesque little city in Holland.
‘Fine, thank you, sir.’ I force an anaemic smile. ‘Just be glad when, you know…’
‘Yes, shouldn’t be long now.’ He turns back to the doorway, closely studying the geography unfurling two thousand feet below, then points, and away in the distance I glimpse the curling glint of a river, which means we must be getting close. Above Lea’s head are mounted two lights, one red, one green. These will dictate our egress from the Dakota and are thus magnetically compelling, but right now both remain stubbornly off, so I turn away and try to ignore them, together with the growing knots of tension in my stomach and bladder. Across the fuselage my orderly sergeant, Bowyer, amused no doubt by my discomfiture, catches my eye and winks. I disregard this insubordination and glance once more towards the front of the Dakota, where an American airman wearing baseball cap and headphones stands chewing gum. Despite his modest rank and nonchalant demeanour this man has been closely monitored ever since he appeared from the cockpit five minutes ago, for he is our dispatcher, the flight crewman who will preside over our departure. And after weeks of tense waiting, no fewer than sixteen cancelled missions, and an unwelcome extra delay this morning due to fog, we’d all very much like him to get on with it. Especially me. But presently he’s blowing a bubble with his gum and studying his fingernails, so with departure clearly some time away I turn back to the gaping doorway and the view beyond.