TAFELBERG - British · PDF fileTAFELBERG Reg Curtis The Hotel Tafelberg and the Battle of Arnhem BN1 Publishing Sussex House 75 Church Road, Hove, BN3 2BB Telephone: 01273 765 200

TAFELBERG

Reg CurtisThe Hotel Tafelberg

and the Battle of Arnhem

TAFELBERG



BN1 PublishingSussex House

75 Church Road, Hove, BN3 2BBTelephone: 01273 765 200 Fax: 01273 206 680

The author would like to thank the friends who have given kind permission for their photographs, drawings, letters and memories to be reproduced in this book.

Further copies of this book in soft cover format may be ordered direct from the publisher.

Book design: John Jolly

BN1 Publishing

© Reg Curtis 2007 All rights reserved.Published in the United Kingdom 2008.

TafelbergPreface : page IX

Tanno Pieterse MBE

Introduction : page X

Reg Curtis

Chapter One : page 1

Preparation for the Last Battle

Chapter Two : page 8

Action Stations and Away

Chapter Three : page 18

Six Days at the Tafelberg Hotel

Chapter Four : page 28

A German General Inspects

Chapter Five : page 36

Destination Stalag 11 B, Via Apeldoorn

Chapter Six: page 56

The Best Kept Secret of World War II

Visual Memory : page 59

Photographs, Pictures & Documents

We Will Remember Them : page 207

The Men Who Fell

Epilogue : page 214

Julian Brazier TD MP

VI • Reg Curtis Tafelberg • VII

VIII • Reg Curtis Tafelberg • IX

Preface

Reg Curtis

Tanno Pieterse MBE Chairman Lest We Forget Foundation.

This is the most personal story of a man who looked death in the face on many occasions. He does not pretend to be a hero, but we in Holland who wit-nessed that ferocious battle of Arnhem back in September 1944 with our own eyes as citizens, know that Reg Curtis is one of a great many hero’s who fought so brilliantly against overwhelming odds. There were two armoured divisions - with Tiger tanks, the biggest they had - of highly trained and experienced SS soldiers who were recuperating from tough battles in France. Yet these soldiers from the skies suc-ceeded in keeping control of the Arnhem bridge for four days, twice as long as they were ordered to do. And they withstood the German at-tacks in their Oosterbeek perimeter for another 6 days. After the battle there was an orderly retreat, fitting the high standard of these first rate troops. The village of Oosterbeek and the Town of Arnhem were in shambles. Countless field graves marked the places where Airborne soldiers had given their lives for our liberation which was postponed for another 7 months as a result of the lost operation Market Garden. In this witches cauldron, which lasted for ten days in all, the individual soldier had to keep a steady mind and do battle against manifold odds threatening his life all the time. Many books on Arnhem have been written about all sorts of aspects. Very few have been writ-ten, telling the very personal fears and pains all these men had. Mr. Curtis gives the reader insight in some very private thoughts and sufferings. In short it is a tale of a proud man who served his coun-try in admiration of the man who was in Holland our hope in dismal days: Sir Winston Churchill. A story which is a true “Document Hu-main”. Here and there the soldiers’ “language” will not be understood by the reader who has no experience in the army, but insiders will rec-ognise a mate in arms. Well done, Reg.

X • Reg Curtis Tafelberg • XII

Introduction

De Tafelberg Field Hospital 1944

Reg Curtis

This is a story by a veteren of the Battle of Arnhem. code name “Operation Market Garden”, in 1944 It tells of the close cooperation of Dutch and Airborne medical helpers. The Dutch found themselves in most adverse conditions under fire in a forward field hospital in the town of Oosterbeek during the Arnhem operations. The particular hospital was Hotel ‘de Tafelberg’ before the Airborne Landings. It was taken over by a local Dutch Doctor Gerrit van Maanen and his daughter Angie and son Pual, just before the Airborne arrived at Gincall Heath and Wolfhazen. Their aim had been to look after any Dutch civilians caught up in any conflict or refugees passing through and wanting shelter. Things went differnently after the Airborne Landings of the 17th September 1944. Col. Graeme Warrack, of 1st Airborne Division Medical Supply, came to a quick descision to share facilities at the Tafelberg Hotel and use it jointly with Dr Maanen as a field hospital. Originally, before the Airborne Landings, a German, General Model used the hotel as his H.Q. but made a hasty retreat on our landing. The Airborne Landings I landed with my 1st Para. Bn of the 1st Para. Brigade, at 2.45p.m. Sunday September 17th at a place called Wolfha-zen. In my book ‘Churchill’s Volunteer’ I describe events up to when I was wounded in an area near Elizabeth Hospital, opposite a house of Mr Rud-ers at 92 Klingalebeeksweg where the Bn. was shot up by 88 millimetre fire from a brick works across the Rhine. After being hit and made comfortable I spent the night in a local farm and was transported by Jeep to the Tafel-berg in Oosterbeek the next day on Tuesday 19th. On the way we passed the Schoonord Restaurant at the Oosterbeek crossroad where an anti-tank battery of the Royal Artillery were in position firing down the road toward Arnhem. The Jeep swerved into the Tafelberg forecourt and I was carried into the foyer.. There was quite a clatter going on inside and out, with small arms and heavy calibre fire. I thought, “ah well we will have to make the best of it”. The Airbourne medics under Major Guy Rigby-Jones, along with William Roberts of the 16th Para Field Ambulance were kept busy dealing

with all types of wounds from smashed tibia fibia like mine to gunshot wounds to head, stomach or peppered shrapnel like Eric Simpson, Anti-Tank Gunner on the bridge ramparts. There was a German wounded from the 10th Frundensburg Division on a stretcher moaning. I said, “ what’s the matter with you mate? “ He moaned and I added, “ you’ll live cock.” It was just then I had sight of a very young looking nurse. It was Angie can Maanen, just 17 years young, tending to all the wounded. The nurses here were a wonderful team with grit and determination to help beyond their capacity of endurance. Angie’s father, Dr Gerrit van Maanen was so jubilant that he had delivered a baby to one of his Dutch patients on the 17th Spetember. I had a restless night on Tuesday, by Wednesday things hotted up, outside and in the Tafelberg. The place was right in the front line now, with odd bullets and machine fun fire passing through. For safety I was moved to the head of the broad staircase. Thursday and Friday came with no respite. Angie and Ann Pelester, another nurse with Dr Mannen, plodded on relentlessly, it was just sheer, marvellous, devotion to duty. Quite a num-ber of German wounded came to the Tafelberg and were treated in the same manner and respect as any Airbourne or Dutch wounded. There were many Dutch people caught up in the battle wounded and some killed. One Dutch nurse was killed in the Tafelberg named Sister Corry, a sibling of Hank at the Tafelberg. Angie floated by, carefully stepping over and around wounded on the landing where I was. By now I was getting a bit delirious. Airborne med-ics kept coming and going with wounded. It was getting really desperate. The Tafelberg had no water, which was cut off when the place rocked from constant shell fire. The garage at the Tafelberg was absolutely full of corpses. To make matters worse the Germans were getting antagonistic and demanded we were pulled out under threat of blowing the place up. There was a fright when we received a direct hit by shell fire and after the dust settled Angie’s dog, Finn, emerged unhurt from the rubble. Hank Albers, a friend of the Maanen family, sheltered Angie’s brother Paul in his house in Oosterbeek. On the 60th Anniversary of the Battle of Arnhem it was so marvel-lous meeting up with Angie Maanen again and we had many things to talk about. Over the years since Arnhem we have kept in touch. When the Tafelberg fell I was moved to Elisabeth Hospital Arnhem, then on to Julianner Hospital Apeldour, still under the care of Dutch and English medics.

On returning to England via Liverpool I found the temperature bleak but welcome after the mixed variety in N. Africa. The 1st Para Bri-gade were now in closer proximity but still spread out a little. It was now possible to meet up for Inter Battn. football, boxing, exercises and socially by visits to each Battns. place of billet. The 2nd Battn. were stationed at Stoke Rochford Hall, near Grantham in Lincolnshire. Grantham being the centre of the Old Coaching Inns. The 3rd Para Battn. were at Spalding, near which are several ancient Inns, the White Horse, with its bold frontage and thatched roof is the most attractive architecturally, and the White Hart, the oldest, tracing its origin back to 1377. The 13th Century Church of S.S. Mary and Nicholas is very impressive and owes much to the painstaking restoration carried out by Sir Gilbert Scott. The 1st Para Battn. were stationed at Grimthorpe Castle, Bulby Hall and Bourne in Lincolnshire. Its C.O. being Lt/Col P. Cleasby-Thomp-son who succeeded Col. Alistair Pearson, after the Sicily Landings. Alistair a Territorial Army Officer with three D.S.O’s and an M.C. would be missed by the men. After recuperating from sudden Malaria he had contracted in Sicily he went to the 8th Para. Battn. Colonel James Hill who had taken us out to N. Africa was from the Royal Fusiliers and earned the D.S.O and Legion of Honour after being wounded at Gue Hill, he was patched up and went to the 3rd Para. Brigade. Colonel Eric (Dracula) Down our much respected second C.O. who really trained and made soldiers of us, left us to go to the 2nd Para. Brigade and subsequently to 1st Airborne Division Commander up to Christmas 1943. The best part of the 1st Para. Battn. going on Christmas leave was that a handful of men were left behind at Grimthorpe Castle to look after the Battn. gear. I was one of the unlucky or could it have been lucky ones to stay. We had the place to ourselves, with plenty of rations which we all mucked in to prepare and cook. Each Para. entertained his own young lady in the room of his choice at the Castle, with a truck laid on for trips into nearby Bourne, we were sorry to see the return of the Battn. from leave. After which we had another change in command, Colonel Cleasby Thompson was succeeded by Colonel K.T. Darling who stayed with us for a month and was then relieved by Colonel David Dobie from the 3rd Para Battn. A likeable man who informed us that he would train us from ‘A’ to ‘Z’

Chapter One

Preparation for the Last Battle

‘A scholar may be gulled thrice, a solider but once.’

if it was soldiers that we wanted to be, he’d damn well see to it that we proved ourselves worthy to be under his command, he did just that! He trained us from ‘A’ to ‘Z’ and the 1st Battn. proved their salt! We settled down in these new surroundings to hard training, to keep fit physically was the order of the day. With plenty of exercises thrown in, one exercise code name “Mush” involved the newly formed 6th Airborne Division, acting out as the enemy together with some Canadians who were always on the spoil for a fight. Whereupon our Battn. obliged as they did even when not on an exercise, such was the spirit of the inter-Division rivalry. Quite soon all over the country things were working up to a ter-rific pitch in preparation for the second front. Most newcomers were battle hardened prior to joining us as reinforcements they knew what the fight was all about, arguably Hitler was the most destructive individual that Europe has ever produced, in short his aim was world domination to be achieved at any cost! In combating and training to deal with this menace long dreary hours were spent in near combat conditions. After training hard we used to play hard too, many a pint was downed in the pubs of Bourne, the fa-vourite of many of the lads and where Sam Coster and I put a few away, was the ‘Marquis of Granby’. Another place of entertainment was the Corn Exchange Hall, where many a pleasant evening was spent dancing or jiving, there were two halls, one for Modern dancing the other for old time. At pub closing time Paras. would converge on the hall to take their pickings of any spare young ladies, or try to pinch someone else’s if he had half a chance. A so called passion wagon was laid on to pick up some Land Army girls billeted near Peterborough. I found myself along with half a dozen other Paras. escorting the girls back to their billet. Each man thought he had got I made for the night! But Matron was –a - chasing Paras. out of the girls boudoir hell for leather! Being a warm summers evening the Paras. were de-termined to achieve their objective so resorted to light hearted manoeuvers among the bushes till Matron ‘spoilt sport’ put paid to that too, you can’t always win. On the Monday following this particular weekend P.T. was the first parade, everyone was shagged! Some after spending the weekend with a woman/wife/girlfriend, we all smelt a little perfumed, all depends on how close one got, but somebody reeked of cheap perfume, ‘he must have filled his boots’ Wally Boldock remarked. Guv Beech the P.T. instructor raised his light bushy eye-brows and said ‘I’ll teach you lot to come on parade smell-ing like a load of poofs’ with which he started his ranting commands ‘on the spot run’ ‘come on! that will learn-yer’.

1 • Reg Curtis Tafelberg • 2

We were briefed for numerous operations which some how didn’t get off the ground, one such cancellation was near Paris code name TRANS-FIGURATION, another near Cain code-name WILD-OATS, and yet anoth-er involving the Albert Canal code-name COMET. Something big was really in the air, men coming from the old training area of Tatton Park reported seeing thousands of tanks, they said the Park was like a giant tank park. It is interesting to ponder a while on the cost of this war. To move one amoured division one mile it used nearly two tons of petrol, and the cost to Britain of the war as a whole was approximately thirteen and a half million pounds per day, a lot of loose change. Around mid-September 1944, after the cancellation of one opera-tion after the other, being confined to billets then allowed out, but ‘keep your lips sealed’, they said, I stocked up with a few luxuries when I went out to Bourne. We had a canteen in the Castle grounds, but not much hard stuff. I went quite mad and came back with a couple of bottles of ‘Johnny Walker Whisky’ at twenty-three shillings a bottle it nearly broke me, then I thought ‘what the hell’ it might be my last for a while, my friends enjoyed the kick it gave that NAAFI beer! Good thing too, as this was to be the last fling before setting off for the Airdrome at Barkstone Heath, at Grantham. As I checked over my gear which consisted of:- one Gammon bomb, two point 36 hand grenades, combined pick and shovel, Webb equipment with small pack, two ammunition pouches, a canvas banderlear, with point 303 rifle ammo, a water bottle, mess tin, iron ration, emergency chocolate, field dressing, a camouflage net scarf, triangle shape air recognition bright yellow silk scarf which was tied around the neck ready for instant use, one rifle, an ingenious escape outfit comprising of:- a silk map of Europe, a button compass about half inch in diameter, a strong file as big as a nail file……..that was about it, except for a kit bag strapped to the leg and parachute, plus Mae West life jacket in case we finished up in the drink. In all I felt like a well overdue pregnant hippo! I didn’t know where to put anything else but I added a couple of hundred cigarettes and two bars of chocolate and some boiled sweets. I wondered how the rest of the Battn. were going to fare on this hop, I was just getting used to the new faces of the lads who seemed to take to and cooperate quite well with the old hands like Frankie (PANZER) Manser, Bill Silbery, Terry Brace, Dick Bingley, Dolly Gray, Major Perrin Brown, Sid Ox-ley, Guv. Beech with his top hat, Joe McCready, Paddy McCormack, Capt Joe Gardinder and a host of other, sadly Sergt Busty Everett fell ill and died at Bourne. In all the Micks, Geordies, Jocks, Cockneys, Brums, Swede-bash-ers and other foreign elements in general made up to one big happy family.

Charlie Best a PIAT man motioned to Sergt Joe Dimmock ‘could you pass the grenade?’ directing his eyes in the direction of Shirley Temple, ‘I couldn’t even swallow it mate’, Joe remarked so smoothly. It was daylight and we clambered into the T.C.Vs, on the way to the drome, everyone was tense but ready to go come what may huddled in the curtained trucks covered from view for security reasons men, chatted, smoked, and wondered, then someone started humming an old favourite ditty, more joined in the humming, then words added till the air was filled with that refrain; My Brother Sylvest,

That’s my brother Sylvest; Gawt a row of bloody medals on his chest, big chest, E fought forty soldiers in the west, That’s my brother Sylvest.

That’s my brother Sylvest; Gawt a load a bushy air upon is chest, big chest, E can will any woman from the rest, That’s my brother Sylvest.

My brother Sylvest; Can do any turn like the rest, E can jump fight F**K….. Wheel a barrer, push a truck, Turn a double somersault, An whistle with is arse-ole. That’s my brother Sylvest!

At the drome everyone was waiting calmly but with an eagerness to get going, on airfields all over the South and East England men were waiting to be taken by glider or plane and set down at Arnhem in Holland. The ob-jective was to capture and hold the bridge straddling the Rhine at Arnhem. The high ground to the North was to be seized by my 1st Para. Battn. At the moment I feel like a stuffed duck, the battle order is not too bad, but with the addition of parachute oversmock, parachute, and kit-bag strapped to your leg, you feel somewhat overstressed. We waited at the airfield for over two hours, feeling tense but eager to get going before someone decided to cancel the operation. Guv. Beech in his top hat floated by, the Germans will surrender in surprise if he takes that with him!


Amid the roar of engines warming up I heard the order to prepare to emplane, waddling into line we numbered down and emplaned. I was number thirteen, in the ninety-third aircraft, in the third wave to take off and scheduled to drop in Holland at three o Clock, superstitious – no! But it did make me think. I have carried out the procedure emplaning sixty-times before and this was my third action jump. The American C. 47 Dakota Transport plane roared down the run-way. I thought that it would not make it in becoming airborne, but some-how it lifted in time, after the point of no return!! We circled around for an hour manoevuring into a mass formation before setting course for Holland. It was a great sight seeing all those planes, giving one a sense of absolute security and to know that you were not alone on this mission. Being a few thousand feet up in the blue I did not readily recognize the scenery below, anyway my attention was fully occupied by the inspiring sight of all those aircraft. Hundreds of them, I have never seen so many planes in the air at one time. I wondered where the heck all those men and machines came from, it was a far cry from the Dunkirk days when we had no Paras. and lucky to scrape up a few fighter planes. As we approached the south coast I noticed the familiar Thames Estuary and Kentish scenery. We were now passing over my home county of Kent, the coast of which had been Britain’s front door for continental in-vaders from time immemorial, Romans, Saxons, Jutes, all chose this route. Passing over Dover the gateway to England, which lies in the mouth of the steep valley carved in chalk hills by the river Dour. It is an important strong hold against enemy invasion, my gaze wandered toward the ancient market town of Sandwich on the river Stour, where immigrants from the Nether-lands and France in Elizabeth 1st reign brought back a certain revival to the area; for new settlers plied with success their trade in serge, baize and flan-nel, and market gardening. A few miles south I could see the town of Deal, which although having an ancient foundation is essentially a town of mem-ories, at Deal Caesar landed; there Becket returned from exile; Kings and Queens have gathered there and at the Royal Hotel, Nelson was reputed to have courted Lady Hamilton. Behind me lay Canterbury the chief cathedral city of the Kingdom. Signs have been discovered of occupation during the iron age, evidence can be seen by the Roman pavement in Butchery Lane! It was Ethelberts capital at the time of his conversion to Christianity in 597. Augustine founded the Abbey there, which still bears his name, and it was within the walls of the Cathedral that Thomas a Beckett was murdered. Leaving the Kent coast we found ourselves with nothing but the sea to feast our eyes on. Not far off, was the enemy occupied coast of Holland.

✚


It must be realised that a Parachutist’s job is different only in as much as he is transported to battle in a somewhat unusual and hazardous method than the normal low key Infantry man on the line. Although given a task miles behind the enemy lines with the hope that inevitably the main body of the Army will link up with him, his main task when down to earth is the roll of that of an Infantry-man. He may have a tougher mental and physical standard to achieve before becoming a fully efficient Parachutist, and in some quarters of the Military and Government departments they realized that it costs a hell of a lot of money to train. But just let me mention some of the set that did not arrive for the all important scene one. In the way of some equipment which I am sure would have been a deciding factor for quicker and more decisive course of action being taken at Army Corps level. Two, American combat teams known to have been in Arnhem battle with special communications and two radios to operate very high frequency ground to air, was found to be useless, and the Americans unknown and never traced. All wireless communication was useless because of incorrect settings, we seemed to have better wireless com-munication in the desolate foot-hills of North Africa. To top it all 36 Glid-ers were lost with vital supplies, including 22 Jeeps before landing Tommy Atkins luck was a bit thin. Which brings me to think of the origin of the British soldiers nick-name, it goes back to the Duke of Wellington’s time in 1843, when a name was required on a sheet of Army paper administration ‘for the use of…..’ soldiers to sign for their pay, the Duke pondering his thoughts of past deeds remembered a wounded man when he commanded the 33rd Regiment of Foots, saying ‘its alright sir, its all in a days work.’ Then he died, his name was Private Thomas Atkins, the Duke of Wellington made sure that Thomas Atkins name should live forever. Looking out of the DAK door brought me back to reality sharply as the forms of fighter planes, Typoons, Spitfire and Mustangs, weaved be-tween our planes. Hopping over the English Channel tension began to mount in my plane, as we approached land on the other side. I could clearly see the flood-ed area in Holland, the work of the Germans to try and stop or impede the

Chapter Two

Action Stations and Away

‘The devil’s Chaplin is he who preacheth up war.’


advance of our land forces. I was busy admiring the Dutch landscape, when, that old order rang out ‘Action stations!’ ‘hook Up’ ‘Green light on…..’ ‘JUMP’ Being number 13 I had a bit of a wait, not long, I shuffled forward then everything seemed to happen so quickly, I felt a slight pat on my para-chute pack next I found myself tumbling out of the doorway into that famil-iar open void again, my chute once more obediently opened. After a good three point landing I suddenly realised that I was now in enemy occupied territory. Except for occasional machine-gun fire, and, blasting of enemy gun emplacements the landing was unopposed. The whole dropping zone north of Heelsum was packed with Gliders and parachutes discarded, now that the occupants had arrived, everyone soon collected themselves and rendez-vous at their respective points. The time was just after 3pm on Sunday Sep-tember 17th 1944. The 1st Airborne Landings were going reasonably well with prog-ress gathering momentum toward the intended goal. The bridge at Arnhem, the drop zone was like a giant inter-section, with Jeeps calmly bouncing over the plough, gliders were coming in to land like an inter-city air service, sol-diers were collecting equipment from containers, then sprinting off sharply to join up with their respective units earmarked by various coloured smoke canisters. Our 2nd Para Battn. code-name (LION) under Col J.D. Frost, set off along the lower and southerly route, below Oosterbeek , to push on as fast as possible to the bridge. The route 3rd Para Battn. code name (TIGER) under Col. J.A.C. Finch took, was the route directly through Oosterbeek. While my 1st Para Battn. code name (LEOPARD) made for the northernly route above Wolfheze. But unknown to us was a rather formidable forma-tion of German troops just north of the Utrecht-Arnhem road, in the name of the 9th S.S. Panzer-Hohenstaufen DIV under STURMBANNFUHRER (LtCol) WALTER HARZER, linking up with BRIGADEFUHRER (Brig Gen) HARMEL’s 10th S.S. PANZER FRUNDSBERG DIV. facing south to-ward the Arnhem bridge, plus an S.S. Battalion under S.S. MAJOR SEPP KRAFT, in the wooded area between our 1st Para & 3rd Para Battns. Wolf-heze & Oosterbeek respectively. Leaving the drop zone we made our way along a track running alongside a wood situated west of Wolfheze and south of the railway, the end of the track linked up with a road running parallel to the railway. Turn-ing right here, then over the road and onto the railway sidewalk we nosed our way toward Wolfheze Station. Suddenly there was a loud explosion up ahead with sporadic machine-gun fire. Stopping awhile I kept my eyes

peeled on the woods to our right and the railway track running from east to west. We moved on, the leading Coy ‘R’ Coy under Major Timothy met with hit and run jabs from the enemy. Stopping again, mortar bombs start-ing whining and bullets slashed the undergrowth, we pushed on hard, and nearing Wolfheze Station and rail-crossing we came upon a knocked out ack-ack gun, its crew sprawled grotesquely around its perimeter, bomb cra-ters could be seen, buildings were smashed and the Asylum in ruins. Some of the occupants were roaming about in a daze this was the aftermath of our bombing, the prelude to our arrival. The smell of war was beginning to circulate my nostrils, turning left at the road-rail crossing we headed toward the Ede Arnhem Road, ‘R’ Coy still up front became engaged in a fierce battle with armoured cars, mortar and machine–gun fire. It was getting dark now eventually the whole Battn. lay dog-go for a while to try to avoid further detection. Our objective being the high ground north of Arnhem, we lay up in the woods for what seemed hours pushing on occasionally but cautiously at one time, unbeknown to the Germans. We were completely surrounded I could see the vehicles. After a while they left the area and we pressed on. Odd enemy small arms fire helped to smother any noise we may have been making. We came to another sudden halt by more small arms and mortar fire at close range, quick action by the forward Coys quelled the rude awakening, we hadn’t gone all that far but it was rough, tedious going, plodding on in the semi-dark we passed along winding lanes and woods. Then along the south side of the Ede Arn-hem road, which was about five miles from the Arnhem bridge, time and luck seemed to be with us, but not for long. It was quite dark now and keeping cover along avenues of trees off of the road we were suddenly halted by the leading scout just short of the main Ede Arnhem road, just as well too, because up and down that road cruising undecidedly were a large number of German S.P. Guns. Not more than 80 feet away the Battn. lay ‘dog-go’ again and watched this display of German armour, we had not much choice, as to take on this little lot would have been slaughter for us, we were not in a favourable position either. After an uneasy breathtaking hour laying up quietly, but, ready for anything we moved off, groping our way through the thick wooded country in the dark was rather disconcerting and everything was too calm. About 2am there were sounds of battle ahead, it seemed to be com-ing from the area around North-East of Lichtenbeck. On arriving there about 3am we found that the leading companies had met more fierce op-position and suffered heavily. After the area was cleared, for some unknown


reason, the 1st Battn. cancelled its original plan to go for the high ground north of Arnhem and turned south toward Mariendaal and Oosterbeek. At 6am on Monday September 18th 1944, where we were greeted by the Dutch underground movement, they quickly set about showing us the easiest way to the bridge, as that was our main task now along with the 2nd and 3rd Para ‘moving cautiously’ in file and ready for action. Every-thing still seemed a bit too calm, it was now 6:30am. Dawn was breaking and we were moving into a built-up area, then it started. The Germans had been busy over-night, preparing gun emplace-ments, taking up positions at vantage points, posting snipers, concealing tanks and S.P. Guns, German machine-gunners shattered the peace of the early morning. I darted for cover and took up position in a neatly laid out garden of a nearby house, more firing came from the house direction, with a couple of men I went round the back and fired at two Germans in the shrubbery. They must have had their chips, amid the rattle of machine-gun fire S.P. Guns and six barreled mortars. The smoke and battle raged in no time to such a pitch, that I be-came quite accustomed to it, and went about the task as though I was on street fighting training back in England. In an area approx. south of the Elizabeth Hospital in Arnhem, ‘S’ Coy under Major Robert Stark M.C. of our 1st Battn. were having an extremely sticky time, as were ‘T’ Coy under Major Perrin Brown. ‘R’ Coy had already received merciless punishment during Sunday night and the early hours of Monday. It was gone lunch time now but no one had stopped for a snack, funny thing…I wasn’t hungry, too busy I s’pose, to say the least. Movement was rather slow, casualties were mounting incredibly fast, in every direction I could see the motionless forms of our men cut short in their tracks, as we did advance the battle become more heated as the Bridge loomed nearer. At a point south between Den Brink and the Elizabeth Hospital and a factory area near the river, we encountered more heavy machine-gun fire and mortaring with two chaps I did not know, reinforcements I expect. I chased after some Germans in a house, after slinging in a grenade, I dashed through the door to finish off with the Sten and rifle. Looking round for any more customers, we belted to the rear of the house, tripping over a broken fence I went sprawling, as I scrambled up, I heard a close whine, recognized the sound and dived for cover by a low wall. ‘WHAM’ a mortar bomb landed very near, near enough to feel the draught, a number of snipers were taking pot-shots at us, dodging and weaving through gardens and back yards I came to a stop opposite a factory, being held up by heavy mortar and machine-gun fire yet again. I threw myself to the ground, there was absolute

bedlum. The slicing sound of German Soloturn guns, their bullets cutting the air in every direction. The S T O N K – S T O N K of mortar bombs followed by the whine and F r r r r r of the hot strapnel pinging roof tops. It must have been a small piece but a lump sounded like a pea in a drum as it hit my helmet. In the heat of the battle men were shouting curses, lobbing grenades through open doors and windows to follow up with a further shriek of con-tempt for the enemy with the cry of ‘W O …. OH…O…OH…M A H O M E T’. Casualties were really mounting now, there were groans of men who had been hit, motionless Paras, lay in the road, slumped over walls, a pair of feet seen protruding from the gateway of a Dutch garden, one boot was blown off leaving the foot complete, such was the magical phenomenon of war. The German fire power was murderous, I had to think of the best course of action, all I could do was keep an ear alert for the sound of Eng-lish, I had a horrible feeling that my Battn. were being cut to ribbons. Fire was coming from my left behind a row of houses and from the roof tops and windows, and at the same time an S.P. Gun, mortar, and machine gun fire was coming from my front, from the direction of the Elizabeth Hospital. To my right was a factory with the river beyond and a brickworks, a couple of shots came my way very close, ‘the bastard is trying to single me out’, I thought. I made for the factory I heaved into a crouching posi-tion and catapulted forward like an Olympic runner zig-zagging for twenty paces I then hit the ground unceremoniously rolling sideways to dodge those Jerry snipers. I came to a stop with a bump at the corner of the factory across the road. Peering causiously round the corner in the direction of the river I noticed our men charging on, so I slipped round the corner out of the line of fire of the sod who was trying to get me to my left. ‘Maybe fifth Com-munists were busy;’ We knew that in the area working in cooperation and collaborating with the Germans, were quite a number of Dutch National Socialist Party, with a large contingent of Fifth Communists. Although none were caught red handed in the conflict with our troops, the element of sus-picion was there, of the collaborators. On entering the outskirts of Arnhem early in the morning, we were warned by the Dutch under ground movement to be wary of these elements. Taking up position by the factory with my back to the river my time was taken in taking pot shots at Germans who frequently appeared at windows, behind chimney pots, even in trees, the cunning of the German must be ob-served. They were strapped in the trees so when hit, their position would not be given away by falling to the ground. There was quite a battle going on


inside the factory. Men were scrapping like gangsters with grenades. Sten, 45 colt and the fighting knife, the wall of the house opposite received a blast of machine-gun fire which came from behind me. Quite a battle was going on with our men giving all they had got. I was about to move off after a German in the garden of a terraced house on my right when, I felt a sharp pang together with an explosion just beneath me, reeling over and looking down, I noticed the lower part of my right leg in a most unusual position. Blood was oozing out steady and fast, I shouted for help and two Para’s one a Sergt Nobby Hall dashed up and quickly rendered first aid, Nobby shouted everyone was so busy without be-ing lumbered with me, I was placed on a stretcher and carried to a wooden shed a few yards away, the medics cut the boots from the foot of the shat-tered leg. It looked awful, strangely I did not feel much pain, tearing open my field dressing which I have carried for so long in different parts of the world, I never thought that I would become a casualty and have to used it, a quick and thorough job was carried out. Pandemonium was prevailing outside with machine-gun fire echo-ing round the built up area; a mortar bomb landed quite near, the medic simultaneously made himself smaller still keeping a steady hand as a mor-phine injection was miraculously driven home with such unperturbed ac-curacy, he could have been in the safety of a hospital back home. While a medic hunted round for a suitable makeshift splint, a young Dutch girl appeared from nowhere and offered me a welcome cup of water. I was feel-ing cold and clammy now her help was of great comfort. The morphine was taking effect and what pain did start was instantly dismissed for the time being. There was another series of explosions just ahead which was sub-sequent signal by one of the medics to get moving, turning right of the shed I was carried cautiously to the corner of a house adjacent to the road I had only a short while ago come down, now, everyone was scattered in various positions, there were dead Paras. in the road. The sidewalk, and gardens Snipers were busy and our men were bent on winkling them out. There was a thud, a whiz and satanic bark of an exploding shell followed by another and another, all bursting in the roof-tops of houses thirty yards back, the atmosphere was tense, something flashed from an upper window twenty yards down the road, bullets splattered the wall of the building above our heads, the medics set me down and waited for an opportune moment to get across the road. Four Paras. pressed themselves into the wall of the building op-posite, working their way stealthy toward that flash, then at a door under

the window, the leading Para. kicked the door, his theory worked out of the window came a potato-masher, he picked it up and threw it back into the downstairs window which was accompanied by a mills bomb thrown by another Para, there was a rendering explosion followed by the four Paras dashing into the building spraying sten-gun fire in the room and up through the floor boards, a trick, carried out in training. Here it paid dividends a Schmeisser automatic fell from the top window followed by a German S.S. man. At this point the medics grabbed my stretcher and sharply crossed the road, I was more relieved to get out of the line of fire, I reached the safety of a garden wall the other side of the road, when a Jeep with four Paras. decided to run the gauntlet and belted by accelerating and zig-zagging like mad, Brens and Stens blazing. As I lay behind the wall I had a clear view of the battle scene through the demolished gateway I lay helpless as the clatter and confusion of battle went on. The Jeep must have been doing 40mph the drive was fighting with the wheel as he dodged shell bursts and pot holes in the road. The Jeep swerved bouncing round, and over obstacles, hurled round a dead Para spreadeagled in the centre of the road and came to a halt so vigorously that the four occupants were shot out. Unscathered they collected themselves up and disappeared into the brick and concrete jungle, leaving a now hissing jeep with a broken front wheel pinion, a few moments later a volley of mor-tar descended around the Jeep instantaneously enveloping it in flames. After a somewhat noisy and nerve-racking day, I was moved with other wounded to a near by barn, where I spent as fairly easy night thanks to the action of the morphine injection. The following morning, Tuesday Sept 19th 1944 6:30am, all was reasonably quiet in the immediate vicinity, but not far off I could hear the sound of battle. Looking around the barn I tried to see if I knew anyone from my 1st Battn. I didn’t recognise anyone and those I asked what unit they were from just didn’t want to know, they were too preoccupied with their wounds or could not talk at all. Some looked as though they had had a nightmare. Medical orderlies were busy with Jeeps running a shuttle service moving the wounded back to Oosterbeek. My leg was beginning to give me a bit of hell now and movement of any sort was most painful as the lower part was smashed by an explosive bullet. Two medics came up to me and said ‘Your turn next’. Lifting the stretcher they carried me to a waiting Jeep its engine running I was strapped to its bonnet alongside another chap, he forced a grin ‘What’s yours?’ I asked, ‘They got me in the guts’ he said bluntly, I felt sorry for him, Nasty place to cop it, I wondered how all my friends were getting on, ‘Had they


made it to the bridge?’ ‘Were any of them wounded or killed?’ There was certainly a strong possibility. Ray Sheriff of the 3rd Para Battn was hit on the second day, a grenade exploded in his face, shrapnel from the blast cut across his eyes blinding him. Later in the day he was hit for the second time by a bullet in the leg. He was well known with inter-Battn boxing back in England. Our 1st Para boxers being Walker, Jones, ‘Frankie Maser’ heavyweight and Jimmy Metcafe flyweight. It was Ray’s 3rd Para Battn who ambushed the German General Kussin in his Staff car. All occupants, the General and a German motor cycle dispatch rider were killed. The shiny they were notorious for their individuality and aplomb in Africa. They dem-onstrated more skills once more quite early in the battle at Arnhem. More early casualties I heard was the 3rd Para C.O. Lt/Col J.A.C Fitch who was killed, our own 1st Para C.O. Lt/Col David Dobie who was engaging enemy with his mortar was confronted by German armour at Mariendaal, received direct burst of machine-gun fire, which resulted in the loss of his left arm. At the time he was with 1st Battns ‘S’ Coyunder Major Robert Stark M.C. and Andy Millbourne who was engaging the enemy with a Vickers machine-gun in the area of the Elizabeth Hospital, he received a direct hit by enemy mortar shell, severing both hands and resulting in the loss of one eye. 1st Para Medic who was on the spot at the time, rendered every pos-sible first aid under most hazardous conditions. Another friend who joined us at Bulford in 1942 Wally Boldock received a bullet wound in his side penetrating from the front just above the belt, and coming out of his back, as always the bullets point of exit was much larger than entry, he finished up in the house of ‘Mrs Kate ter Horst’ in Oosterbeek which housed more wounded. Word too, was getting round that General Roy Urquhart, the 1st Division Commander was holed up in a house in a road called Zwarteweg on the outskirts of Arnhem, Antoon Derksen, the Dutchman who lived there with his wide Anna, daughter Hermina, and son Jan, must have been misap-prehensive as to the great importance attached to the sudden appearance of the their visitor from England.

✚


‘Tafelberg’ A field hospital under Major Guy Rigby Jones one of two Surgeons with 181 Field Ambulance Medical Team, Between Septem-ber 19th and 24th before finally being taken as a P.O.W. to St Elizabeth Hospital, Apeldoorn Stalag 11.B. After being wounded by a wool factory in the Klingglesbeekweg area south of the St Elizabeth Hospital at 1500 hours on Monday Septem-ber 18th, I spent the night in a farm outbuilding, and being under the influ-ence of the morphine injection when I was first hit I spend a reasonably fair night. At 0700 hours on Tuesday 19th September, I was carried out to a waiting Jeep where four walking wounded were sitting in the back seats. Another stretcher case was already placed on the bonnet of the jeep near-est the windscreen, just my luck being at the nose end of the bonnet, well it was one way to get to a hospital, but we could not get through to the Elizabeth Hospital as German armour blocked all approaches so everyone was strapped safely to the jeep and we started off toward Oosterbeek. A short stocky medic slid into the driver’s seat, ‘hold tight in the back! and don’t worry you two in front on the bonnet we might have a rough ride and will be going a bit fast.’ It is all right for him, but I found it rather disconcerting strapped to the front of that jeep, I had the horrible feeling that I would crash into whatever obstacle happened to suddenly loom up, but the lad managed to miss them all. On route enemy machine gunners decided to open up on us although we were flying the red cross flag. I was worried in case I got hit again, the driver and sitting wounded in the back made themselves as small as possible, the other bloke and I, strapped to the bonnet had to take pot luck! After a fast and bumpy journey the jeep tore through Oosterbeek past divisional H.Q. at the Hartenstein Hotel. Pulling up sharply in the drive of the Tafelberg Hotel a few hundred yards further on. This was to be my home alongside many other wounded for the next six days and nights. Airborne medics quickly unstrapped me and set me down on the floor op-posite the window in the entrance hall. Looking around I saw two wounded Germans laying alongside our airborne men, and Dutch civilians who have been caught up in this battle. ‘Wie geht es ihnen morgen’ the German spat out looking in my direction, ‘What’s he on about’ I asked of an orderly, ‘just

Chapter Three

Six Days at the Tafelberg Hotel


enquiring of your health’, ‘tell him to get knotted!’ I said ‘I am not in the mood for niceties’. The day had been long and uneasy I tried to settle down to some sleep, but the interruption of shelling and mortar fire prevented that. The place must have taken a few knocks, it was an absolute shambles. Except for a bar of chocolate and a mug of tea on arrival at the Tafelberg I have not had anything to eat since leaving England last Sunday, the 17th September. I had an iron ration, a ghastly chocolate which is only eaten in an emergency, and as usual the British Tommy even in these hazardous conditions has managed to brew a cuppa. I longed for daylight to come, I hated nights. It is bad enough meeting angry Germans in battle not in my sleep thank you. The next day Wednesday September 20th I was grateful when I was taken to the operating room, ingeniously rigged up in the kitchen of the ho-tel, work was certainly made very difficult for the medical staff but, under the guidance of Col. G.M. Warrack the A.D.M.S. conditions were overcome for a while, and the Surgeon Major Guy Rigby Jones, operated on my leg as best as could be expected. Captain Michael James, the other surgeon at the Tafelberg was in the entrance hall when a shell landed a few feet from the foot of the stairs, just before I arrived, he was wounded along with his team and became another casualty at the Tafelberg. My treatment completed I was returned to the entrance hall. The din of Battle and bullets splattering the wall of the hotel outside made me glance out I was quite surprised to see a German wandering about he took up a stand position by the door then, began pacing up and down! Things began to warm up again, all sorts of rubbish was flung our way. A Dutch doctor Gerritt van Maanen, moved fast up the stairs, the airborne medics thought it was best to move some of us up to the next floor. A chap named Bannister, and William Roberts of the 16th Para Field Ambulance, hastily picked up my stretcher and hauled me up the wide and littered stair-way, there was a loud CRRRRRUMP outside and debris, plaster and glass fell all around. I looked to see where that one had landed just as the medics got me half way up the stairs, the German I had seen outside a few moments ago was now sprawled out, killed I presume by one of his own mortar bombs. I was set down at the head of the stairs which were about 4 feet 6 ins wide, to my right on the wide landing lay a Glider Pilot, he’d a face and arm injury. Then amide the wounded, covering best part of the wide landing came a walking wounded, our eyes met, ‘Did I know him?’ I hardly knew anyone unless, they were unrecognizable through being clotted up with blood and muck. He said was from ‘R’ Coy 1st Para Battn ‘I got my

lot near Mariendall’ ‘What about your Coy Commander Major Timothy?’ I asked ‘Dunno’ he snapped, he was looking outside and remarked ‘They are getting bloody cheeky their muck slinging’ then up the stairs belted some combat Paras ‘How’s it going out there we asked urgently?’ ‘Not too bad, not too bad, could be better though’ they replied, then they disappeared whence they came. Although my leg was giving me real gip now it was offset by the activity in and around the Tafelberg. A lad was calmly going around brew-ing tea, the medics as ever were doing a grand and very efficient job under appalling adverse conditions. Ann Pelster Caspers, a Dutch nurse one of many at the Tafelberg, glided by with an arm full of sheets, and curtain material for use as ban-dages, they made shift bandages partially hiding a blood stained apron. One became accustomed to the smell of death, together with body odour caused through the lack of washing. A walking wounded, his arm in a sling, ap-proached me with an enquiring look, ‘What unit chum?’ he asked almost in a whisper, ‘1st Para’ I replied amid a shower of dust and smoke, caused by yet another shell which exploded so very near, he winched and withdrew from the direction of the shell blast as the ominous vacuum of warm air was felt. He seemed incoherent as he glanced round the scene of man-made destruction. ‘I just left the bridge’ there was quite a pause, ‘what’s it like there?’ I asked he swung round glaring at me as if the whole war was my fault, his eyes were hard, staring, and red with fatigue. Poor sod he’d been through something bad, I offered him a cigarette, with trembling hand he selected one, it hung limp in his grasp, ‘thanks, I don’t really smoke, but I’ll have one’. ‘Tell me about it’ I said motioning him to squat at my side. ‘It was bloody hell there, tanks belching fire, blokes getting killed right and left, with shit flying all over, the carnage was terrible, and smell of burned body’s was horrible’, he paused a while as a medic passed by with a chap clutch-ing his side, and hobbling on one leg, a bloody congealed bandage wrapped unsightly round the stump where once was a foot, our lad drew hard on his cigarette and coughing like mad he continued ‘there were hordes of the boche, it went on for hours, attacking, shelling, then the bastards started burning us out, my two mates got killed twisted and broken carcasses of our men were strewn everywhere.’ I dunno but I think that I must have been the first person he had spelt out his experiences to. He leaned back against the wall looking a little more at ease. He told me later that it was his first time in action, I thought that he rode it bloody well! The next few days seemed to drag on forever, what with my leg giving me much more pain than the first 24 hours after being hit, maybe the


morphine injection had worn off. The pain was excruciating, like someone making a short sharp jabs with a knife with a blunt serrated edge, mo-mentarily the pain would dispensed, with the thundering crash of a shell landing somewhere downstairs. It sounded much too near for the comfort of the wounded down there, for all the hum ding that’s going on inside the Tafelberg, we might just as well be outside, the fact that so many shells keep landing in, on and around the building plus the occasional burst of machine gun fire spattering the inner walls I should imagine that we must be plonked in the front line or somewhere in no-man land! A flurry of a couple of airborne medics and Anje Maanen and her brother Paul, together with the Dutch nurse Ann Pelster Caspers sudden-ly making a dash down the stairs, was the preliminary to collecting more wounded who had turned up in a couple of jeeps packed with walking wounded from the perimeter area. The Tafelberg already overcrowded could take no more wounded in so, every man fit enough to fight, which included the slightly wounded by which was meant anyone with a flesh wound or injury that did not hinder the use of a fire-arm of some sort, had to get outside. Saturday September 23rd, I am still laying at the head of the broad stairway when there was an added commotion going on down below, ‘those ruddy huns again’ the Glider pilot remarked, as shuffling and German or-ders being rapped out preluded the sudden appearance of S.S. troops dash-ing up the stairs. A sinister looking bod about 20 years old led the way and was coming right at me. I found myself looking straight down the barrel of his Schmeisser automatic. His trigger finger shaking like billy-o I didn’t bat an eye lid. I just did not want to upset him or let that trigger happy bum let rip. He was glaring at me with red beady eyes, ‘Christ this is it’ I had heard of other wounded being shot up. My luck was in, he passed me by and with two other S.S. Wallahs looked around the room leading off of the landing and started to fire out. Col. Graem Warrack dashed up the stairs swearing and rebuking them for firing from a clearly marked red cross building. Discipline took over these S.S. men they looked defiant and sullen, with fingers handling their auto-matics hesitantly they reluctantly obeyed. Pacing up and down, still glaring at everyone, someone remarked ‘Had something sour to eat mate?’ the Ger-man turned quickly and in that guttural foreign sound said ‘nicht verstehen englische’ ‘Nevermind lad nevermind’ our friend cut in. Then for something better to do they started scrounging for ciga-rettes. I had 200 tucked under the blanket and bandage to my leg, try-

ing each man in turn, one came up to me and interrupted my unpleasant thoughts of him ‘Zigaretten?’ ‘No mate’ was my innocent reply or, was I trying to needle him, his piercing pale blue eyes were studying at the half smoked fag in my hand ‘Vot is Dat?’ ‘ooh that is a dog-end’ it seemed to be working, he was getting a bit edgy, ‘Vot is dock ent?’ bloody hell I thought! ‘it’s a doofer mate, doofer-nother-day’ he gave up the ghost, shrugged his shoulders and sloped off. After a very short while the S.S. troops were gone, and our own men were back in charge, it seemed quite strange to have the enemy in the building one minute, and quickly replaced by our own combat men the next. I wondered how the rest of my 1st Para Battn. were doing. Right from the Sunday night of our ‘R Coy’ had a sticky wicket loosing half its men in the ‘De leeran doodle’ area. Forty men of 6 Platoon ‘S Coy’ were killed in two minutes in the Mariendaal area on the approach to Arnhem then in the Den-Brink, Eliza-beth Hospital and factory area of Klinglesbeekweg, where I was hit, the rest of the Battn. were badly mauled. In the Tafelberg the conditions for medical people must have been most exasperating, water and lighting were almost non-existence, but an electrician from Oosterbeek managed to keep the electric and water supply going for a while. The medics had to stop all operations since Wednes-day, because of the pounding the Tafelberg took from shell fire, all medical instruments were buried in deep debris. Across the landing I noticed Atie Schults was doing her best to comfort a rather frustrated young airborne lad, he’d been hit in the gut’s a couple of airborne medics were tending to men who were wounded for a second time after a shell hit the roof of the Tafelberg. Father Benson a Roman Catholic Priest was busy making his rounds and answering urgent calls, one man so constantly needed. Early in the morning things began to get on my wick, what with the continuous din of Battle outside and my leg getting more painful through lack of proper medical attention, I called for a Priest to say a few words of comfort, Father Benson came and put me at ease. Later that same Priest was wounded by tank fire into the Tafelberg, he subsequently died of his wounds and was buried in the grounds of the Elizabeth Hospital. By Sunday September 24th I found the disposition somewhat fright-ening, our men were still doing their damnest, but the Germans were slowly closing in, very slowly mark you. They lost heavily and had to fight like mad to gain every inch of that bloody ground. Out there things seemed to be get-ting hotter still and I was moved again to what was thought might be a safer


spot, just to the other side and along the wide landing area. I was taking in the new scenery about me, it was great to be move for only a few yards I was given a new lease of life. Every bit of floor space was taken up with wounded, with just enough room for the medial people to pick a way through. Suddenly there was an almighty explosion in a room on my right, men already wounded one, twice, were hit again, some were killed. Major John Waddy of the 156 Battn. was wounded again, he started his parachut-ing days in India. Doctor Gerrit van Maanen and his seventeen year old daughter Anje and son Paul, did a wonderful job amid the ruins of this once quiet Hotel Tafelberg, in the battering that the hotel took, two English medics and a Dutch nurse were killed while tending the airborne wounded. Outside the situation I think, was getting a little out of hand, and inside was none too comfortable to say the least. Further enemy reinforcements were mustering around the perim-eter in the form of powerfully armed tanks, with long barreled H.E. and armour-piercing shells from the S.S. Panzer Divisions, which had been a headache to us since the Sunday night of the 17th. The passage where I lay now ran from front to rear and almost had a grandstand view of the battle, through a gaping hole in the wall where once was a window, occasionally an airborne man would break cover to stalk the enemy, the enemy would repeat the process with the multiple ac-companiment of shell burst, tanks barking and machine gun chattering. Amid this mad man-made war, were curses and yelps of pain. I noticed the ominous sound of an approaching tank, I couldn’t see it, but the squeaking of its caterpillar wheels grew ever louder as it trudged and edged nearer. It was an S.P. gun coming at right angles from right to left. It picked its way through the trees, stopping for a spell of a few minutes to feel its way. Its great gun barked out sending a shell across my front to a target unseen by me, there were some Airlanding Anti-tank guns in the vicinity of the Tafel-berg, maybe the S.P. gun was after them, the tank was approximately 150 yards off and was edging in my direction. Stopping periodically and travers-ing the gun turret, the tank straightened up, crept forward to approximately 100 yards then, I went quite cold. The S.P. Gun slewed round and came to rest for what seemed hours instead of minutes, I appeared to be face to face with this awesome looking gun. Its gargantuan barrel pointing right at me, the gun bellowed out, I froze and shut my eyes, I don’t know whether the shell passed through the Tafelberg via the gaping holes already made by shell fire, or very close outside, but I certainly felt the draught as it sailed by.

‘Sod that’, I thought and looked round for someone to move me to a safer place. The medics picked there way carefully between the stretchers and other wounded laying huddled together trying to afford each other protec-tion. The place was an absolute shambles, floor littered with debris, blood and glass, plus the acrid smell of smoke and gun-cotton mingled with the incessant whine and explosion of mortar bombs, together with the shriek and crash of artillery vibrating the very foundations of the Tafelberg. I thought that the building would eventually tumble down. There were piti-ful cries coming from that room, where men were wounded again. A medic came out cradling a form in his arms, the chap could have been dead or, maybe unconscious, he was covered in blood. His arm shattered and hung pathetically by his side, his left leg was bandaged from his first wounding, the medic faltered hesitantly his eyes red, face drawn and dust covered his whole frame crying out with gross fatigue. Bracing himself he picked his way through the forms of the floor. Unwittingly his foot came in contact with an airborne’s hand ‘sorry lad’, ‘sall alright’ was the reply then the man slid off in a coma. Christ I wished I was outside, there was another resound-ing crash of bombs, followed by curses of men having a verbal encounter with the Boche. Perhaps I was better off here, I dunno its bloody awful for everyone, everywhere. A medic came into view, a lonely man among hundreds of wounded we all wanted comfort, help, to be consoled or whatever to get away from the effects of pyrotechnics of war. I tugged at his trousers as he was pass-ing, he stopped instantly, ‘what’s up lad?’ I was shaking and felt a coward bothering him, ‘What’s going on out there?’ I asked almost pleading, he put a hand on my shoulder ‘That’s 30 corpos medium artillery at Nijmegen, the shells are falling close but they are ours’ I breathed a sigh of relief I thought they were Jerry shells. By now, Monday 25th September, the Tafelberg was in absolute shambles hardly anyway to recognize the place as having been an hotel eight days ago. Hundreds of wounded, enemy included, as well as Dutch people caught up in the fight, so many in fact that many wounded were moved to the annex to the Tafelberg across the driveway. The British Airborne medical team under Major Guy Rigby Jones and Captain C.C.M. James were the two Surgeons responsible for the Tafel-berg wounded, this team from 181 Field Ambulance R.A.M.C. together with medics as far as I recall were Bassell Cornell, Stan Briggs, Taffy Phil-lips, George Wardle, and a William Roberts from 16th Para Field Ambu-lance.


Captain James told me that he and his surgical team were in the entrance hall when a shell burst and they were all wounded, the Captain was blown through the double spring doors into the main ward, which was the dining room before the battle when he got up to return to the hall he could see nothing but dust and smoke. At this time I was in comparative safety upstairs. Carrying on he told me that he had to get his own bleeding stopped and to attend to his team members, after he remembers vaguely trying to visit patients upstairs but could not make it for long before su-perficial wounds and through loss of blood he too became one of the many patients. Upstairs I was just beginning to get a little weary of the shell-ing when a Dutch civilian sidled by gingerly picking his was through the wounded, now and then giving an apologetic gesture, ‘Who’s he?’ I asked a medic, ‘That’s Mr Bouwman, he and his family with a ten year old son have been in the cellar since we arrived.’ ‘Good luck to them’, I almost enviously replied in a croak. I could murder a cup of sprog’ someone called out, someone chipped in ‘me too wack, anyone wishing to volunteer to brew up, I’ll have two lumps of sugar’ ‘You’ll be bleedin lucky to get a mug of water if Jerry as anything ter do wiv it’, barked a rather down to earth cockney. All the back chat and frivolity came to a sudden end upon deliverance of another shell landing much too close for comfort. For the life of me I just did not know what the time was when the shelling stopped along with the incessant small arms and machine-gun fire. After the din of the last six days it appeared rather eerie to be so much qui-eter, there was a little spasmodic firing in the distance, a little shelling, but nothing to worry about. This lull in the battle that had been raging and go-ing on for about an hour or so, allowed the wounded to begin to converse more freely. ‘What’s going on?’ someone remarked ‘Gone on strike Jerry?’ another almost shouted, except that he had half his mouth bandaged from a shell splinter wound. ‘Na, Ees packed up as, Jerry un buggered orf’ as a cockney put it. The Glider pilot was a fraction more cautious remarking ‘Crafty sod is the Hun!, he’s gof something up his sleeve’. Then I saw men being car-ried downstairs, with great activity going on outside, but not one of battle, two medics picked me up, both of them were silent and did not look too pleased, ‘Where to now?’ I asked ‘St Elizabeth Hospital in Arnhem’. Outside was a ghastly sight with Airborne and enemy dead still laying where they had fallen. Jeeps were being laiden with the wounded by British and German medical orderlies. Anje Maanen, Ann Pelster Caspers

carried on working to the end trying to make things a little more bearable for the many wounded. A couple of small vans were improvised as make-shift ambulances to transport the wounded. Every possible type of transport was commandeered to get us away from this Hell Hole. There were three of us stretcher cases loaded onto this small open German lorry, it had shal-low sides but enough to prevent us bouncing off in transit and, there was just enough room for five walking wounded. The journey was made more hazardous because of the shell holed and litter strewn road. Thank good-ness the German driver couldn’t go too fast, but he was still rather erratic in negotiating heaps of debris from gutted buildings which had been partially destroyed by shell fire. There were dead British and German littering the road and side walk all the way to the Elizabeth Hospital, plus our own and enemy knocked out equipment, heaped unceremoniously everywhere. We all had shattered bones of some sort on this blasted antiquated lorry, which made us cry out in pain during the rough ride to the hospital. I was more pleased when it came to a standstill at the Elizabeth Hospital in Arnhem.

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I heard the familiar voice of a friend ‘what the hell are you doing on that stretcher? Scrounging a lift?’ I went to answer but nothing came out, it was not his remark, I could not careless, it was that ride from the Tafelberg. Sam was discussing the battle with someone who lumbered through a side-door, a medic I think. The Poles had a rough passage, only 200 got over to us he remarked, the Lonsdale Force has had their hands full too. That was the force formed by Major Dickie Lonsdale of the 11th Para Battn. when things went drastically wrong in the early stages, the force was made of units that were left from the 1st & 4th Para Battn. Fred Radly from the 3rd Para Battn. was in this force along with Sam Coster, and a few other remaining 1st Para Battn. During the fighting at the Hospital there had been running battles in the corridors and hoards of spent cartridge cases could be seen littering the floor and entrance way. Word got round that the whole show was over but, we had certainly left our mark. One in four houses in the battles that raged at Wolfhezen, Oosterbeek, and Arnhem were totally destroyed and most of the remainder uninhabitable. On the day of our arrival September 17th a nation wide railway strike started in Holland and the Germans had reflooded the area south of the bridge during the battle, to try and prevent a link up with us from Nijmegen I began to wonder what had really gone wrong at Arnhem. I only hope that Alan Wood the Daily Express reporter makes it to tell the tale, he was at the Oosterbeek perimeter area along with Stanly Maxted from the BBC. I had been laying on the same stretcher since last Monday week, I eventually found myself in a bed with white sheets, given a good bed, bath and started some sort of diet which consisted of peas-pudding, milk puddings, soups, dark brown bread with butter made from coal, trust the Germans. It was tasteless but edible to finish up with black coffee with no milk or sugar. Many of the fit or fitter type of Airborne bods were nipping over the wall when the Germans were preoccupied they were assisted by the Dutch underground movement who did so much valuable work in this field, risking everything to help our men to escape. Mortar Sergeant Dick Whittingham later wryly remarked ‘we may have lost the battle at Arnhem, but we did come in second’. My thoughts came back to the Elizabeth Hopsital by the drone of ‘brude, brude’ spelt out by the German nun with the infernal blank expres-sion they were only words she uttered as she glided from bed to bed with

Chapter Four

A German General Inspects


her basket of bread. The hospital was now Choc-a-bloc with wounded, I spoke to the man next to me, he didn’t answer he was miles away or did not want to know. He had one leg off the other in plaster, the other side a chap had a leg amputated and flesh wounds to his left arm. ‘If its not a stupid question’ I said, ‘how are you?’ after a while he turned slowly with hoarse voice remarked ‘Except for shrapnel in my arm, a leg missing and a split-ting headache I’m ok, but I suppose I am luck to be alive’ A British Tommy with no Para gear hobbled by, a bloody bandage wrapped round his head, ‘What mob are you then?’ I asked of him, my first thought was of spies in our midst ‘The Dorset’s’ he almost cried it out, ‘my lot were wiped out’. I was more concerned with the loss of my own friends in the 1st Para. ‘Oh, were they’ I said tough luck apparently only two Coys of the Dorest’s from the 43rd Division made it to the 1st Airborne Div Perimeter in Oosterbeek most likely the only outside force who managed to get to us. My leg was giving me hell now, getting worse every hour, medical orderlies were constantly up and down the ward going about their duty tending the wounded. A whispered call to a Medic, ‘Medic help me’, a pass-ing medic would console, or administer any medical treatment within his power or learning, passing on to be called again, and again before disap-pearing through the door. He reappeared again as a stretcher bearer with yet another battered body, along with civilian nurses. These wonderful people were everyone’s absolute comforter. Some of these nurses were quite robust and good looking made some of us ogle, but any other feeling that I might have had given half the chance with a willing party was kept in check by the reminder that some of these fair Damsel were no more than planted Gestapo agents who exercised all their charm, plus showing that little extra cleavage, in an attempt to extract maximum information. To my right rear was a door leading off the main ward to a small corridor where a number of rooms were situated I.E. store and private rooms. In one of these rooms away from the scrutiny of German inquisi-tiveness was Brigadier J.W. Hackett the 4th Para Brigade Commander, he had been badly wounded in Oosterbeek and to mislead the Germans as to his true rank he was posing as a Lance Corporal, which goes to show that Lance Corporals have other uses. The black shrouded Nun glided by once more, I wondered if living under the religious vow of her convent and being German whether it had any bearing on her feelings toward the detestation and predicament of war, it did not seem to show one way or other. If only she could grimace or to partially smile, one might get through. I was brought back to my own discomfort by a sharp pang of a

thousand knives, caused by the throbbing puss filled wound of my leg it was literally the size of a football, I had not been attended to yet and I was get-ting very concerned, I knew that the worst cases had to be seen first. Since I was hit, except for the morphine jabs and comforting words from the medics nothing else prevailed to rid me of this seemingly useless painful leg. The medics came for me I don’t know when exactly, to me night and day was one big nightmare, trying to succour my own individual private agony. Not daring to show any sign of it to my neighbour ‘OK, fellar, we’re going to make you comfortable now, you’ll be fine in not time, you’ll see’ ‘Oh sweet bloody words’ I thought ‘lets get cracking then’ . I don’t know where they took me, to me it was one conglomeration of walls, doors swinging open, the soft sound of nurses and nuns as they whisked by to their next mission of mercy, then the unnecessary clatter of S.S. guards boots, who gloated over the physical discomfort experienced by the wounded, plus the screech of our own artillery shells with the subse-quent ‘cccrump’ as it landed much too near for comfort. A South African Doctor Capt. Lipmann Kessel, was going to see me, he was here along with others of the 1st Airborne Div Medical staff together with Dutch doctors, thank goodness I was not going to have a German butcher. I saw the end result of a German doctors amputation of a man’s foot it was crudely almost guillotined and without anesthetic. I was carried into a large room with numerous medical apparatus everywhere trolleys and tables laden with all sorts of instruments, bandages, field dress-ings, and splints. I was placed on a table, it was hard narrow and about four feet from the ground in the distance I could hear the sound of gunfire coupled with ‘ack-ack’, fire aircraft must have been in the vicinity. The anesthetist was at hand with a needle ready, medics were fe-verishly going about their task for the pending operation, when all hell let loose. I though the place had been hit, with very quick presence of mind a medic threw a blanket over me and placing his body between me and the blast, then a terrific explosion preceded by a mysterious noise like a giant balloon having air released, shattered glass fell in small pieces and slithered all over the operating theatre. Then it was quiet, the blanket was pulled carefully off to reveal yours truly with popping eyes! A quick inspection as-sured the medics I was OK. Apparently a typhoon of the RAF came down low to blaze his rock-ets at some German armour that was on the move in Arnhem, I hope his effort was 100% on target because my operation was put off for another day while the place was cleaned up. My next visit was uninterrupted, I was cleaned up redressed and had my first plaster cast put on. This was the pre-


liminary to weeks of itching and agony. As far as the itching went one could get over that, some of us ingeniously used knifes, forks, spoons, a pencil, or anything long at hand, to push down the side of the cast to locate that awful itch. As far as I was concerned my luck was right out, my cast was from the crutch, encasing the whole leg, except for the toes peeping through, what the blazes could I poke down a cast three feet long! That is the worst thing about being so long legged. It was of help though to a friend of mine in the Grenadier Guards, he lost both legs in action prior to Dunkirk in 1940, he was six feet four inches tall and when it came to being measured for artificial limbs, the fitter asked for various measurements and height. The guardsman faltered at the question of height the fitter repeated ‘height?’ quite nonchalantly but after a while the answer came ‘Five feet 10 inches’. The fitter being an authority on military know-how remarked ‘only just made it for the guards then’ ‘yep’ quipped the guardsman, ‘but a nice comfortable height don’t you think?’ ‘Sure’ said the fitter, so everyone was happy, especially our guardsman who thought that he had been cut down to the ‘right’ size. My expectation of another operation was banished on hearing that we were all going to be moved to a place north of Arnhem, to Apeldoorn there was a lot of coming and going with people collecting their personnel belongings, when I heard a commotion at the ward door entrance, looking up I saw the effeminate S.S. Doctor Captain Skalka waving his gloved hand and gesticulating to our medics, we learnt that a German General was com-ing from Berlin to pay us a visit, ‘how nice’ so everyone was hastily tidied up and bedding arranged ready for inspection. Eventually through the doors at the end of the ward, they suddenly appeared half dozen S.S. officers, uni-forms in various shades of blue, blue-grey, field grey, brown and black. The accoutrement with many insignia were immaculate, with brightly polished boots and in keeping at a passing out parade, but here in the middle of the war for their survival, as well as looking stupid, it was a complete unneces-sary waist of time and energy. But then, who cared, it was their time and energy. Heading the amusing entourage was the visiting General, in a very pale blue uniform with loads of silver braid and complete with monocle. The last time I saw a military man wearing one was before the war, he was a Major Gascogine from my own regiment of Grenadier Guards, so this is Obersturmbannfuehrer W Harzer 9th S.S. Division a big square headed true German you could ever wish to meet was just right to play the part with him Captain Skalka, looking more than ever the type of S.S. officer I have seen in films back home.

Following up the rear, a few paces away from the main party as ever the accompanying sallow faced Geheimestaatspolizei or (Gestapo) one was an Oberscharfuhrer (Colour Sergeant) identifiable by two pips on his left lapel, with an eagle spread and a swastika on the left arm, the other was a Sturman or Lance Corporal with a stripe as in the British Army but with two short parallel stripes on the left lapel and with the usual S.S. flash on the right lapel. Both had that forbidding symbol of hate in the way of an arm band above the left elbow, as red background with narrow black band top and bottom to be completed with a black swastika on a white circle together the black jack booted individuals swaggered with a squeakiness abounding with every tread. The belted gun holsters, shoulder strap, black tie, and peak cap completed the all black uniform presenting to the onlooker for the first time a sinister looking apparition. The gloved left hand resting on the waist and thumb hooked in belt. There was absolute silence at this sudden bizarre entrance. The Gestapo walls were drawn level with my bed when one of the most beautiful Bronce Cheers (Raspberry) I have ever heard vibrated from the far end of the ward whence they had come. The entourage froze momentarily the Generals left eyebrow twitched, Skalka went paler still and looked dead worried, whilst fidgeting with his cuff, the other S.S. officers taken completely unaware looked slightly sheepish not knowing how to take necessary evasive action to the sound of raspberry being blown in the presence of their General. The two Gestapo instinctively put a hand on their gun-holsters, they, were the only ones to turn to the direction of the offend-ing deliver of one, long ripe………raaasssspppbery, I watched the index fin-ger actually undo the holster, making bare the brown plastic cover plate to the handle of a Luger pistol, but even this lout had enough discipline inside his ginger bonse, to tell him not to be fooled by a raspberry from a stalwart British Tommy. At the point terminating the end of the ward they wheeled for the General to carry on his inspection down my side, I fixed my gaze on him till he drew level, he glanced at my Parachute cap badge then at me. He seemed expressionless, the whole of the entourage stopped at the foot of my bed, I had an audience for the very first time I had a close up of a heel clicking German General! I was wearing my first issue red beret, it has been to Africa and Sicily with me and the badge too! ‘Bei welcher Waffe haben sie Gedi-ent?’ (‘What branch of service were you?’), he asked looking me squarely in the eyes, I proudly announced ‘Ich war Fallschimjager’ (‘I was a parachut-ist’), he replied ‘Die Armee Airborne wurde geschlagen vernichtet, Sie der Kriegsgefangene lager’ (‘you are going to a P.O.W. camp’), the translation was offered to me by Captain Derek Ridler, the British Army dental officer,


come anaesthetist, who stepped forward when he must have noticed I did not fully understand this onslaught of German chatter. The General abruptly turned and carried on his way, the remainder with an air of wary aloofness followed while the two, law unto their own Gestapo, gave arrogant icy stares twixt sarcastic sadistic gawp, before de-parting through the doors. Outside they stood around chatting then amid a helluva lot of heelclicking and heil-Hiltering, they dispersed, which was the ultimate signal for various discourteous remarks intermingled with hilari-ous laughter. We had had our entertainment and it was great to exercise the lungs, after so much tension, I think it was the first time that a lot of us had laughed since leaving England on the 17th September.

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It was Tuesday 28th September when German orderlies carried me out on a stretcher, not so carefully as our own medics, going down the stone steps at the Hospital entrance I had to hang on like mad to the sides of the stretcher, otherwise I would have slid off, at the entrance were a number of dilapi-dated small grimy ambulances into which we were put or rather stacked, there was four to an ambulance, I was bunged down below, I don’t know which was the rougher journey. From the Tafelberg to Arnhem or from here to Apeldoorn, there was endless pitching and tossing, bumps and jerks and encountering on the way, and a not so welcome Spitfire bent on doing his own thing. We stopped a while, the German orderlies bugged off till it was over. I was glad I was in a vehicle with a red cross, although by the sound and noise going on out there, they didn’t completely trust the good inten-tions of the particular Germans transporting us to Apeldorn. Unscathed we arrived at the Queen Wilhelmina Cavalry Barracks taken over by the Luftwaffe and guarded by S.S. troops. The Germans must have thought highly of their prisoners to continue to engage S.S. troops as guards. The doctor being Lt/Col Zingelin S.S. My stay here thank goodness was short around one week, it was not exactly a four star hotel, the floors were dirty, iron beds with straw filled bedding, no heating, a meager supply of medical wants and food. Out of the blue our walking wounded and medics got things going and organized, after tough parleying with the Germans, two of our walking wounded acted as orderlies and carried me to a room and placed me on a table, the plaster and dressing was removed at considerable discomfort but was eased by a morphine jab half way through. It was sheer delight to be free of its prison to be able to breath air and rub the dull flesh once more, the final dressing was removed revealing a gaping ghastly inflamed leg, swollen up to the size of a football, it was the first time I had seen it. ‘Jesus, what the blazes can they do with that?’ I asked of an orderly ‘It’ll be as good as new when we’ve finished mate’, ‘I bloody well hope so’, I remarked at which a doctor, or I presume he was the doctor, entered the room, he was a civilian and wearing a white short coat he was accompanied by a Rottenfuhrer of the S.S. Medical Corps, the stench from my wound showed disapproval on the face of the doctor grabbing my big toe with his fingers he slowly raised the leg, it began to bend at the wound below the knee where both tibia and fibia bones were broken, stopping he peered at and around the wound

Chapter Five

Destination Stalag 11 B, Via Apeldoorn


inquisitively, I said ‘do you mind that hurts’ he released his hold of the leg which was about one foot from the hard table top, if fell with a sicken-ing ‘pholp’, instantly he turned to go, looking me in the eyes as he did so I grimaced, I saw a sadistic change in his expression, ‘You bastard, square headed, Shite Hawk!’ I couldn’t care less if he understood the phrase. He but raised an eyebrow with an enquiring look, then departed. I nursed my leg in my own private world of pain, then the medics with that infernal S.S. guard wallah came in, my leg was redressed and re-plastered. I was returned to a room which housed about thirty severe cases, including an R.A.F. chap who had been burnt. I could not converse with him as he was swathed from head to waist in bandages, three holes were left for eyes and mouth. His Air Force boots and trousers were scorched, he may have been on fighters, or possibly on the re-supply run at Arnhem where one supply plane, a Dakota, carried on in flames to the end. Its Pilot Flight Lieutenant D.S.A. Lord was awarded the Victoria Cross his Naviga-tor Flying Officer Henry Arther King being the sole survivor finished up in the Perimeter area in Oosterbeek. One morning there was the usual bustle and German commands being rapped out with ‘Raus, Raus, Englische Soldat’ which was the prelude to yet another move. This time by way of a change I was transported with two other chaps by horse and cart, ‘What on earth is the so called mighty German Reich coming to?’ It was a cold, but pleasant sunny October morn-ing, a few German Infantry were on the move in motorized transport, Dutch people were going about their daily tasks, they looked drawn, bewildered. I had heard reports of a group of Dutch hostages being shot after failure to produce a workforce for the German Military in Apeldoorn. I had no idea of time or date now. I know I left the Elizabeth Hospital in Arnhem around the end of September I glanced at a couple of elderly men, they stopped and stared, wondering who or what we were, we had our dirty torn, bloodstained Airborne smocks on, and laying on stretchers across the cart which had no sides, the lower part of out legs covered with blankets of a low grade German Army issue, much worse and thinner than the lowest grade British Army issue. The cart lumbered on, its solid wheels giving no comfort what so ever to already aching wounds, as it clanked in a pot hole or mounted a raised stone in its path. The two seated German orderlies, one a Schutze (private) the other a Sturman (Lance Corporal) looked as bored and browned off as pigs out of S**t. The journey was short from the Wilhelmina Barracks to the Juliana Hospital perhaps that was the reason for horse transport. Mystay here was going to be the longest, and best as far as medical care goes.

The hospital was staffed by Dutch doctors and nurses, with added help of our own doctors and orderlies, the Germans left us well alone, to fend for our own medical requirements, lesser proficient German doctors attended operation and showed interest in the British doctors skills. We had adequate medical supplies for a while, the Dutch staff and visiting civilians managed to procure such luxuries as soap, toothpaste, and English books mainly fiction. I found these books most valuable for two reasons, one to make me mentally tired so I could try to get some sleep, the other to take my mind off the excruciating pain I was experiencing from that leg, it felt as though it were in an iron boot and someone kept tightening and loosening a handle to it. Someone thought up an idea to apply a gadget called a Kischner wire extension to my leg, as both bones were broken below the knee. The theory was to stretch the leg and try to marry the broken bones in the cor-rect position, under an injection of EVipan a steel bar was shot through the ankle bone, which was to act as an anchor. A steel cable was attached to the anchor and pulley apparatus below the foot of the bed, then weights were added each day to steadily stretch the leg, otherwise I would be left with a two inch shortening, necessitating the use of a club boot at a later date. I did not care for a club foot/boot, whatever. I was beginning to wish that I would like to see the back of this confounded, useless lump, of decaying flesh and bone. My general and local condition regressed consider-ably, and prior to amputation I was at my lowest ebb, so low that I was put on the same par as a hopeless case, cases that were so certain of not lasting being prepared for the worst before the final curtain. I was amputated on November 19th 1944 by Major P Smith almost immediately after the operation I made an amazing quick recovery, I was sit-ting out of bed after a week, the medical orderlies were great and could not do enough for us, from bathing to fetching bed-pans, carrying patients from bed to loo, and back again, soothe the dying or reading a book for those too weak or exhausted to do so for themselves, always on call all hours of the day and night. I wondered whenever did they manage to eat or sleep. I asked one on passing with a bottle in hand, he remarked quite cheerfully ‘oh, we get forty winks now and then! With a snack in between!’ A Polish Para who dropped at Arnhem was opposite me in a corner of the ward he’d been cut up a bit and was having a rough passage. A German Military Clergy of the Catholic order kept calling to say prayers and later to administer the last rights, as he stood there in his dark Olive green uniform, black jack boots, belt, and peak-cap under his arm I could not but notice and thought how


strange, he wore a gun-holster ‘A man of the cloth, with a pistol, in a hospi-tal too, what next!’ I scrutinized his close cropped bull neck, familiar square jaw. It was a good thing that I had recuperated fairly well, the Germans kept shipping us out as soon as they thought we were fit enough to travel. So once more into the breach of transportation I found myself flowing, this time it was by truck to the station at Apeldoorn. We pulled alongside a Red Cross train, I thought that this was great, on entering the train I noticed that we were under the complete care of German Doctors and medical staff, no wonder, the train was full of German wounded, and there happens to be room for a dozen of us amp cases. I counted my blessings, it was a plush train with buxom stern looking nurses floundering up and down, German military medical staff and unarmed guards strutted about with all efficiency displayed to the utmost with the occasional ‘Heil-Hiltering’ to boost their lagging moral. There was a bit of a panic when the R.A.F. decided to pay a visit and a flak-gun set in position alongside coughed out a dozen or so shells in very quick succession. I settled on a top bunk of the coach facing the engine, I received looks of disapproval from most of the Germans accompanied by ‘Englische Fallschirmjager’ a German orderly handed some erzats coffee round, it was begrudgingly handed to me in a beeker, it was unsweet and milkless, well it was a drink, ‘danke’ I said on which the orderly turned thinking I could speak the whole of his untidy language, spilling out some cock-an-bull yarn in German till I quickly rebuked him saying politely and firmly ‘nicht verstehen’ on which he shrugged his shoulders and went. We pulled out of Apeldoorn when it was dark, and the journey was smooth and very comfortable, I got into conversation with a couple of Ger-man Parachutists. I say conversation, neither party could understand the other except names of places, its possible they may have been in Africa, they mentioned names like, Sousse, Tamera, and Bizerta. They showed great enthusiasm when I spoke of Djebelabiod and Tamera Valley, it was here that we encountered Major Witzigs German Parachute Engineers. Even in enemy hands it’s a small world. Daylight came with a German doing his nut shouting ‘spitfire, ach-tung, achtung, Spitfire!’ The R.A.F. were on the ball the train quite cheeky I thought he was having a real close look to make sure that it was a Red Cross train. I could clearly see the pilot goggles, and off white scarf, I felt like giving him as wave as he disappeared behind some pine trees. This was Germany proper now, with snow covered mountains and country-side with Fir trees and log cabins dotted here and there making it all

so picturesque. Nightfall came as we halted at a dismal looking place a small town I think, unceremoniously we were ushered off the train, that is, our party of a dozen airborne wounded, a mixed bag of crutches of all lengths were handed to the leg amputees, mine could have been six inches longer, so luxury was over, this is where we really started to rough it. After being handed over to a new guard who had been waiting for us, the train slid quietly out of the station, the guard beckoned us to follow him, we hobbled, slouched, and limped along this unwelcome stazione der Bahnsteig (station platform). We came to a stop at large double doors, the guard flung open one door, in we went. It was a bare desolate empty room except for a big bucket, just big enough for six gallons of urine which was precisely what it was for. The room was lofty, some twenty feet high around thirty feet square, it was most likely a store or waiting room at one time, there were two elongated windows, eight feet by four feet at waist height, but boarded up from the outside with not so much as a goodnight the guards slammed the door shut! The crash echoing round the room, I gathered we were here for a while so making a recoy for the most comfortable spot I came across a draught free and ideal place for a kip. It was a chimney breast unused but I could just make out where at one time the heat from the fire had discoloured the painted wall. I bagged the corner of the breast which afforded some protection from the cold draught coming under those doors. Spotting some crummy old paper I asked the man to bung up the gap which he did with pleasure. We were all a bit under the weather with the added unpleasantness of an amputation, one lad had an arm and a hand missing, another two arms off, most like myself had one leg off. One lad was the worse for blisters on his one and only foot, thank goodness we had wounded medic with us, he did all he could with the minimal medical supply which included paper bandages. It was not the best of nights on that cold stone floor but somehow I slept. Others were not so fortunate, one chap did not even live to see the rest of the journey! He remained motionless, when we were roused by the guards early next morning, they were not immediately convinced till we told them that he was ‘Kaput’ we’d had nothing nourishing to eat since leaving Holland over thirty hours ago except for erzats coffee, sour tasting dark brown bread with revolting black pudding or sausage meat. At least I had a smoke out of the 200 I had on me when I was hit I managed to save a few, some of the lads either didn’t bring enough or had lost them in action, or to German guards, so they were supplemented with some from the rest of us. The guard clomped in and nabbed a chap to give a hand with the bucket. He motioned our friend toward the edge of the platform making


signs to empty the contents over the line ‘how charming’ I thought but then its one way to get rid of it. A train pulled in, creaking and hissing, carrying mainly civilians with a few military personnel including sailors, so, we must be near a port. It was 8am as we clambered into a carriage to slump on its hard seats which were ply timber perforated for ventilation, it brought a smile to my face, trust the Germans to have perforated seats, they need them the way they sometimes fart! The journey was fatiguing because of the hard seats and my medical condition in general, the awful rocking of the carriage as it went over points, or in passing another train going in the opposite direction was like being in a dodgem car at a fair back home after downing eight pints, only on this ride I had not even smelt the barmaids apron. On and off all day we were shunted in and out of sidings, then our carriage with a guard was shunted into a layby and left for over an hour while the rest of the train went on its allocated route. Eventually a lorry turned up and beckoned us to climb aboard, snow was quite thick as our party of four yanks, and six airborne, were pulled up at what looked like a school in a small town near Munster. Three of the yanks and myself were told to get out, the lorry carried on its way leaving us standing in the crisp snow a voice called ‘Welcome Buddy, come in’ he was a big yank named Marvin Adams from Indiana, US of A. Inside he showed us to a room on the left ‘grab yersel a palliasse an bed an bed down here!’! He motioned opening another door, ‘I’ll do yours bud’ he said looking me up and down. ‘Howdi-yer manage that fellar? Put the best foot forward at the wrong time’ I quickly answered ‘ah well this isn’t the Ritz but we have fun’ he remarked. Wondered what he meant by that! The room was not too bad thirty feet by fifteen feet, a door at each end and five sash windows on one side looking out on to the main street, there was a grimy wash room and toilet. Going through the door I came into the room by an outer room or lobby leading to another room past the en-trance, this room was the dining come recreation room. As we were all cases of severe wounding in various degrees, Boche guards were non-existent, except at night anyway. Being wounded and thick snow outside they were not worried about a mass escape. In the room which was to be my home for 2 weeks were thirty wooden beds with a very mixed bag of occupants. There was Greg Testa from Massachusetts, USA, a number of Italians who had been on our side of the fence fighting, then there was Mack, Eddie, Huff, Joe, and Lloyd all from USA. To my profound pleasure I learnt that two other English Paras were here Jim Crowe M.M. from my 1st Battn. and Sergt Tucker he was

shot in the stomach near the spot where Sergt J.D. Baskerfield was killed in Oosterbeek. Eventually Sergt Tucker went off to an N.C.Os camp. Food here was sparse but regular, here were no Red Cross parcels so, what one had in the way of cigarettes or other luxuries on arrival, one hung on to. I found medical care generous but facilities were poor, aspirin was the strongest drug, and paper bandages were in use, the place began to smell a little high through the lack of proper medical attention. Time was spent mainly watching the German population go about their daily jobs or watch the occasional dog fight between the British and German fighter planes with each national cheering on their respective side. One of the Ger-man guards in his fifties a sort of bod along the lines of our English Home Guard, gave us a tune on his banjo and offered his cigars round. They were the size of a fat cigarette as strong as an African French Army issue ‘YUK!’ The uncouth would describe it as tasting like camel ‘shit’. Sergt Tucker and Jim Crowe, and I talked of old times when lost for a suitable topic through lack of positive happenings of the current situation we talked of a grueling 100 mile march in F.S.M.Q (Field Service Marching Order) from Porlock on Exmoor to Bulford taking in on route Withycombe, Williton, then skirting the Quantock Hills, on to Street, Shepton Mallet, Westbury, Market Lavington, past Stonehenge and finally Bulford. It was in July/Aug 1942 and we had been using live ammunition on the Moor. At Porlock, Tommy Huse and Gdsn Jim Crabtree thought they would see the effect of a live grenade thrown in the village pond, a prank which did not go down very well with the commanding officer Jim Crabtree who was killed in N. Africa whilst serving with ‘T’ Coys ten platoon, Jim Crowe was with him at the time. Then the topic came back as to the fate of our 1st Battn, how many came out of it unscathed, we thought that our adjutant Capt. Nigel Groves was ok up to the Tuesday apparently on that day during the battle the re-mains of our 1st Para ‘T’ Coy under Major Perrin Brown and ‘R’ Coy un-der Major Timothy made a last desperate attempt to shift the enemy by going in with the bavonet in the area near the Pontoon Bridge at Arnhem but German infantry were well consolidated by then with tanks blasting at point blank range at whoever or whatever moved, the 1st Battn. by then were well below any reasonable fight power, approximately thirty-five were counted when it was decided to withdraw to the area of the old church in Oosterbeek where the famous Lonsdale force was formed. It was about this time that I was shifted to the casualty station in the Tafelberg Hotel, being General Model’s H.Q. on our landing. A pass time which was much favoured was the usual card games


any currency was accepted as stake money but the banker had to be a bit of an interpreter and currency exchange expert as well as shrewd diplo-mat, there were twenty-six players of all nationality, Russian, Canadian, American, Italian, Australian, Yugoslavs from Tito’s partisans, Frenchmen, a Dutchman in English uniform, even a Chinese in the uniform of a French-man all sitting quietly together, chatting and smoking instead of scrapping. The Italian asked the big yank Marvin ‘Ha delle sigarette American-Inglesi?’ ‘Naw matt’ was the firm reply, the Italian was admiring a photo which he offered everyone to see, ‘Mia Moglie, Mia Moglie’ (‘my wife’) he said thrusting a battered postcard under my nose ‘oh yeees, very nice’ I said. Eddie from Massachusetts was talking to a Yugoslav. He could speak a little English, I edged my way over on my crutches to the two men, I’d heard a lot of these tough young Partisan fighters, I instinctively put my hand out and he grasped it with his big strong hand with a grip of steel ‘what great deeds had they performed’ I asked myself he spoke in Italian, ‘Miro amico’ (‘my friend’) ‘Hullo’ I said we were then joined by a second Slav he came from Kraljevica in Yugoslavia where Marshal Tito’s H.Q. at a town called Jajce, where they had to contend with the Wolf and Bear, in the rough mountainous terrain as well as fighting Germans making things a little more difficult. Soon after Germany invaded Yugoslavia in 1941 these very men took to the mountains another of Tito’s men was busying himself making a meal of Gavrilovic salami (salami) revolting looking stuff, wedged between two hunks of Hleb or Kruh (bread) which was washed down with some Crna (black coffee) I felt a little weak and my stump was beginning to throb, twixt constant shooting pains, I worked my way back to my bed, on the way, I saw an Italian empty his pockets with care, he’d just returned from town most likely on lacky duty for the Germans ‘Wharr-you-gawt-tharr lad?’ Joe Donahue from out town Pennsylvania enquired ‘Pancetta af-fumicate e due nova’ (‘bacon & eggs’) una bottiglia de buon vino’ (‘bottle of wine’) ‘You crawl arsin Wop’ joked Marvin Adams. The Italian was bit hurt at this remark and protested vigorously, Mac and Joe could speak Italian, apparently he had been on a work party and had barted his cigarettes and chocolate for eggs, bacon and wine. I swapped cigarettes for bread a few times it was quite common practice between P.O.W’s and the Boche some-times men on cookhouse work would return with potatoes which they had lifted hidden in head gear or the seam of the battle dress blouse, one lado fixed himself up with a tight fitting ‘jock strap’ with small bag attached and two potatoes, being frisked one day he jokingly said to the guard ‘mind my balls’ the guard saw the funny side of the remark and our friend got away with it! He nicked pounds of potatoes by the way.

Excitement rose one morning when two Mosquito Bombers of the R.A.F. roared over the roof tops on a hit and run raid most likely. This De Havilland Mosquito fighter Bomber VI, with its two Rolls-Royce Merlin engines and 1,635 H. Power each, was a gem of a plane, very maneuverable and a most formidable fighter bomber of its class. I was getting used to this place when word went round that Jer-ry was moving some of us maybe for repatriation, having only one pin I thought that I stood a good chance to be in on this. Three yanks, two Rus-sians and myself were ushered into a truck early one morning, boarding a passenger train we only traveled a few miles to de-train again, maybe to get another connection for this unknown place. Our guards let us wander a bit so we took advantage of it after being cooped up under one roof for a couple of weeks it was a wonderful feeling of freedom to be able to propel along quite a number of yards unhindered. Another train pulled in and our coach was just beyond the slope of the platform with one leg on crutches it is precarious trying to make it, people in the coach looked at me as it I was some sort of weird apparition but I made it on my Jack in the end. Shunting around then hitching up to another train we rolled once more. It was dusk, cold, and dismal, when someone struck up with Bless them all.

‘Sod ’em all, sod em all The long and the short and the tall Sod all the sergeants and W.O ones Sod all the corporals and their bastard sons For we’re saying goodbye to them all As back to their billets they crawl You’ll get no promotion This side of the ocean So, cheer up me lads, Sod ’em all.’

It seemed we had joined some more British soldiers it was one way of an introduction. I think we all felt a little better after that song, even our guards showed a little animation at breaking away from the usual boring routine it broke the ice a bit anyway. Jogging along for what must have been two hours I then noticed the surrounding scenery of isolated buildings and the occasional log cabin change rapidly to a more congested array of tall buildings, factories and large residential areas, intermingling with quite a spiders web of rail lines, rolling stock increased tenfold, with the fascinating tingle, crash, bang as wagons were shunted into various intersections to await their ultimate journey.


The multifarious shapes silhouetted on the sky-line made an ideal setting for an artists brush and palette that’s if you were artistically inclined. So, this was Bremen. We slowly pulled in and as the train came to a stop, I could hear the familiar sound of doors opening, and hustle and bustle as people made their way along the platform, the same sound one would hear in Lon-don, Manchester or Birmingham, only there was no TOC.H. Y.M.C.A. or snack bar for a nosh up in this dump. It was more like a cascade instead of orderly de-training by our party, in no time we were huddled together, and ushered along what looked like a long wide underground passage-way, a bit like the covered forecourt at Kings Cross Station only not so lofty. German bodies were intermingled to make a silent glum looking loft bent only on getting to their destination on time. For the younger more virile to snatch a few moments bliss! Then back to the Reich machine. The scene before me was all too blunt and ar-tificial, railway officials and porters looked more like visiting high ranking officers instead of servants of the people, they were so curt, and outwardly authoritive. Soldiers and sailors, making for their unknown place of destiny, civilians brushing by were oblivious as to who we were, or our nationality we must have looked a sight but no one noticed, it was as if they were robots with no thought or feelings their faces were blank. Then, it happened, the air raid warning whined out, Civilians as well as military personnel went scurrying along, the military I noticed did not hesitate to shove anyone out of the way in an attempt to reach a place of safety from the on-coming Blitzkrieg they knew only too well the effect of. The air was humming with aircraft they were American Boeing B17 G Fly-ing Fortress’s there were Four Wright R-1820 Cyclone radial engines each 1,200 horse power. Its armament was 13.5 inch Browning machine guns and up to 17,600 lbs of bombs. Its speed was 300 mph at 30,000 feet with a range of 1,850 miles, it was a big bird with a wing span of 103 feet 9.5 inch length 74 feet 4inche, height 19 feet with a crew of ten. One guard quickened his step way ahead of us, periodically turning to beckon us to hurry it up, I entered a small shelter big enough for a hun-dred people, after a lot of shoving and pushing we settled down amid glares and remarks thrown our way. I let it happen but somehow I was pushed and guided into a corner of the shelter away from the door. If a bomb lands too near let the Germans take the blast and cushion any effect on us, I saw a wooden bench was fixed to the wall and just dropped onto it exhausted. Our three guards spread out between us and the main bulk of civilians. The bombing started in earnest and the shelter shook, I could have sworn one landed outside because I felt the draught, a similar experience to the draught

from a shell in N. Africa when I was blown off my feet, that time it was fifty feet away. Everyone was silent, the whine of bombs, droning aircraft and crashing of bombs went on with ever increasing ferocity for a good hour, then it died down to a steady drumming with an occasional distant bomb explosion. People began to chatter, inner fear dispersed and external bra-vado took over, there was a lot of teeth gnashing. Glances would accompany finger pointing in our direction. The crowd were getting restless then a man started pouring words of abuse I’d say a big Frau about forty years old worked her way nearer to us, she was but a couple of feet away, ranting and doing her nut. I felt the moisture of her spittle as she argued with the guards as to the privilege we should have in being allowed to be in the same shelter as the rest of the German people! I gathered that was the crux of the matter. On which a heavy booted foot came out and started propelling my way! I pared firmly with my right hand, the boot brushed ball’s coming to a harmless glancing blow on my left thigh, the guard stood firm restraining the woman and trying to calm everyone down. It was then I noticed a familiar sound in French ‘Anglais Prison-ners, La Guerre’. It was the voice of our guards, they were French men con-scripted into the German Army, Well, you don’t know who your friends are. Anyway they saved my nuts being cracked. The rest of the night was spent in the shelter. We ventured out when the all clear sounded. After being feasted with the usual coffee, bread and black pudding, we were herded yet again to the end of the platform, where we must have waited an hour before the train came in. I couldn’t see much evidence of the previous nights bombings, buildings long past bombed could be seen but deserted maybe they had been after the harbor or factory area. The same type passenger train with hard seats jerked in to a halt. In I piled wondering where to next, the train must’ve been one of those take it easy, stop at every station efforts. On the way I did notice some very big craters each side of the rail-way lines, I counted twenty and they looked fresh, each crater was approxi-mately one hundred yards from the railway, not one was a direct hit on the lines maybe it was the very high altitude bombing coupled with intense ‘ack-ack’ which put them off. By 3pm we arrived at our new home, the guards assured us that we would be well looked after now, with a good bed and ‘Red Cross Par-cels’ that made me feel better, as by now we were all very much under the weather, weak through lack of correct food or medical attention. It must have been another hour, eventually an old army type lorry turned up, it had


solid tyres. I could not have careless at this stage as long as I didn’t have to walk or rather hobble on crutches, it was not a very long way off. Then I saw it, a large P.O.W. camp blotting the landscape. With its eight foot high wire fencing guards platforms sticking up like a sore thumb some twenty feet high, dingy looking huts dotted the interior. The lorry slowed at the gate the senior guard jumped down to go through the preliminary handing over ceremony the lorry jerked into the compound as the big wood and wire gates creaked open. Out we all tumbled, literally I felt absolutely shagged, I was sweating as if I had just come out of a Turkish bath, and my stump was throbbing like mad. I stayed laying on the ground, where I landed. I managed somehow to support myself on one elbow. The rest of the party sat, knelt or some managed to stay on both feet or on one foot with the aid of crutches. I didn’t want a welcoming committee, but I wished that someone would show us where to go, it was ages before one of the guards who was having a chat and laugh with his mate decided to give us the go ahead to move off. ‘In jenner strasse links, rechts’ he shouted pointing with closed hand in the directions we were to go. Our party moved off slowly, wearily. I found myself left behind tried to get up but could not muster enough to make it. So I started crawl-ing, dragging the crutches behind. I went five or six yards it felt like bloody miles, when I heard voices saw two pairs of gatered boots ‘come on me ole mate’ a voice said‘we’ll give you a lift’ on which they lifted me with ease, carried me I don’t know how far I didn’t even get a glimpse of their faces to say thanks. Sinking down on a straw mattress I could not remember much for the next couple of days, they told me I just slept and slept and slept. It was then I learned I was in Stalag XI B. where a large number of Airborne men were. I can only remember one meeting, and how could I forget, it was with R.S.M. Lord of our 3rd Para Battn. his parent regiment being the same as mine, The Grenadier Guards. He was the camp disciplinarian; the Germans did not like him because of his mannerism and first class military bearing, our own men thought twice before offering any back chat! Even as P.O.W. a service man comes under the jurisdiction of military protocol, and is answerable for any breach of military misbehavior he may commit. Some of the more cocky types did not realise this, they had a big shock a-coming with R.S.M. Lord. No matter whether he was correcting a private, addressing a General, or acting with cordial respect to enemy officers, it was those dark piercing eyes that seemed to penetrate to your very inner private thoughts. He certainly put the Germans to shame with the slovenly way they paraded round the camp.

It was not long before I contracted a number of other complaints to add to the already unpleasant conditions in my hut. Lice and bugs were in abundance, nights were worst, the iron stove used to be stoked right up at night, the heat was awful with all doors and windows shut tight. Urine buckets would fill to the brim in no time, making the stench nauseous. A Geordie the far end of the hut made banal remark that the place was worse that the worst home service station, could ever be ‘You must be joking, mite’ a Swede basher, quickly cut in, because of the poor state of my health and appalling hut conditions making it more like a Barracoon. I can’t remember too well the events at Stalag XI B. But in the hospital bay I heard a voice call ‘Reg Curtis me ole cock, what have you been up to?’ Looking up I couldn’t make out who it was, everything was a blur. Anyway, someone knew me here. I went down with dysentery, pleurisy and scarlet-fever together with the amputation which had already caused regression in general health. I did not feel all that good, if I had wanted to die I think I would have, but it did not enter my head. Rumours went round the camp that the Allies were not far off, then I was told that I was going to be repatriated within a few days I was on my way again, ‘Be-Jesus’ I was glad to be away from this Hell Hole. Boarding the familiar old train again, I was just getting acclimatized to the surroundings when there was a terrific ‘W H O O O O O S H’, the train stopped in the middle of nowhere. I could hear the guttural twang of German civilians as they ran hell for leather each side of the train to take cover from what must be our own aircraft somewhere a German shouted ‘Wie geht es Inhen’ looking around the coach I saw that the German guards had vamoosed, rotton bastards left us to it. Looking down the track I saw that it was miles too high for me to jump down with one leg some of our party of eight jumped and took cover some place I secreted my pants I don’t know whether it was fright or the Dysentery which was still in me I thought I best to stay put and shouted to the rest to take cover ‘Hit the deck lads’ no sooner said than done and our friends returned. They were two rocket firing typoons of the R.A.F. I recognized the sound as they got nearer, when with another hair raising ‘W H O O O S H’ instantaneously another ‘W H O O O O S H’ followed by a earslitting explosion the carriage shook so violently I thought we were going to topple over. As always in these attacks it was over in no time, and all peaceful once more. People and guards began to trickle back, the front coach and engine had been hit they told us. We had to wait a couple of hours before some German troops came and shifted the damaged train engine, they must have used some sort of heavy lifting gear, as coach and engine lay neatly by the


side of the track as we rolled by. It was dark when we came upon our last stop, I couldn’t see much, except that it was a small station indicating a small town or village our guards did help us a bit on this occasion by offer-ing a shoulder to lean on in getting out of the carriage which I promptly ac-cepted ‘Der Ausgang der Bahnsteig’ he motioned up the platform, Der Arzt, come this time things were a little more organized it seemed I heard English speaking voices then, a German an English medic with two American med-ics loomed nearer, I thought the Allies must be here. ‘Hiya all’ the Americans called and immediately handed some cigarettes round. The cigarettes were ‘Chesterfields’, I enjoyed that first couple of puffs, the English cigs I did had were all gone, back in Stalag XI. B, someone noticed that I had them whilst I slept. They did not pinch any but reminded me of them when I woke and to the fact that no Red Cross parcels had arrived apparently the Germans were appropriating parcels for their own use empty boxes were clearly seen in the refuse area of the camp. This was a snug little Village called Meisburg 200 miles from St Vith, just the other side of the Belgium border. Sympathetically, these new friends helped us onto a lorry which actually had blanket covered wood seats for added comfort, there were haversacks hanging on the sides, most likely with medical gear as they bore the Red Cross on a white circle, there was even a couple of folded English Army style stretchers these chaps cer-tainly had things running smoothly here. They were very clean in dress and person. I could sense that our new abode was going to be fine. We did not travel far except for the checking in office which was run by a small party of Germans of the Pionner Regt, with a ‘Rottenfurhrer’ in charge of four Schutze I did not see any guards. This was the village Hall being used to house wounded P.O.Ws there were out-houses turned into a cookhouse, a shower with another for general medical stores, the biggest luxury being a flush toilet. There were approximately 40 wounded here, a mixed bag of Eng-lish, French and American with four American and two English orderlies, one walking wounded acted as cook with others able, doing the menial tasks of fetching carrying and general dogs body they did not mind though. I heard a rumbling in the distance ‘Pattons Armoured Division’ I was in-formed by a yank from Ohio ‘They bin-a roamin over the hills, the last few days’. It was early evening the first job was to be cleaned up, we were taken in pairs to the shower, I was asked to remove al personal items from my pockets as they wished to clean and fumigate all clothing ‘don’t worry you’ll get them all back, good as new’ A stocky English medic quipped,

‘Here put this on’, it was a sort of cotton smock which was tied at the back, in my case just long enough to cover the knee, he came in a great big Ameri-can in the same garb, with forearms like tree branches, he lifted me bodily with the ease of Samson himself, mind you I was down from 14 stone to just over eight! a loss of six stone since September 17th 1944. On reaching the shower, his mate Hercules steadied me on my one pin, that was sheer bloody heaven, after being rubbed down and smock donned, Hercules this time carried me back to a most luxuries bed with white sheets. God knows where they scrounged the sheets from, but trust the yanks. Pleasant surprises were not yet over, after English bully beef, poached eggs, German bread, and butter made from coal the butter was pale and saltless, not too bad to the pallet, this was followed by tin pears and cream, to top it all some red cross parcels found their way here before we arrived, so we benefited with what was a generous share of the distribu-tion. There was Chocolate, Cigarettes, Toothpaste, the bulk of parcels con-sisted of tins of sausages, condensed milk, roast beef tin of steak and kidney pudding which was one of the favourites. Dried fruit box of cheese, a packet of Army type biscuits, these were much the same as they were at the begin-ning of the war, except that they are now six ounce packets instead of four ounces. This commodity of food was put into a pool to make up a respect-able dish for everyone taste. ‘Boyo Boy!’ what a feast Cigarettes were much sort after as well as Americans there were English brands, Players, Capstan, used to come in tins of fifty or one ounce of tobacco for the pipe smoker, in civy street a packet of twenty players or Capstan would cost 101/2 old pence, a special duty free forces pack of 124 for 3 shilling and nine pence, but not many of those found their way out here. I spend the next week in comparative luxury after Stalag XI B. Then things began to liven up outside the rumbling in the distance was much nearer now and groups of bedraggled weary looking Germans plodded through the village, the wounded being born by horse and cart. Field-guns were manhandled the luxury of any such motorized transport was afforded to senior officers only who’s only wish was to withdraw in as dignified a manner as possible, leaving the Unteroffitseer to do all the donkey work along with the Schutze to suffer all the humiliation of being seen by his own countrymen. It was a pathetic sight, like a cutting out of the first world war film archives. These must be the ordinary German solider not of the same type like the ‘Waffen S.S.’ who were responsible for the complete destruc-tion of the French village of Ordaour Sur Glane in June 1944 after forcing the inhabitants of 750 into a church then machine-gunning them to death. The Germans said that it was a reprisal for the activities of local Partisans.


Although Allies were becoming very wary of seeing a white flag in a window of a building or a red cross painted on a roof top I am glad that they were not trigger happy, or even the local German armed forces because as dawn approached the throb of motorized transport and tanks, could be heard very near, the squeak of the tanks wheels rubbing the caterpillar track, thirsty for some sort of lubrication edging and shunting into position or the pending advance on the village. The American orderlies were jubilant, ‘they’re da-gone here limey’ ‘The Yanks are here, YIPPEE’ exploded Hank, anyone who could get up and walk, hop, or propel themselves in some way, forgot momentary their wounds and discomfort they peered through cracks in doors through windows, I could not see anything from my window, only the Nazi flag of the local garrison, hanging list less, like the Bosche them-selves. Bill, one of the English medics came dashing in not knowing which way to turn in his excitement. ‘there’s hundreds of tanks out there, bloody hell hundreds of ‘em, Pattons lot they are, righto blighty it won’t be long now’. Tanks of General Pattons Division had encircled the village in the early hours of the morning, they were in a very advantageous position, we were in the valley they on the high ground. Every tank gun had its own selec-tive target with orders to open fire if fired upon. While the tanks played the waiting game with, thank goodness, a non-existing enemy, because the birds had flown, but the Americans did not know this. Meanwhile an American scout car ventured cautiously toward the village. Unmolested it came to the outskirts, scanning the buildings where white flags were protruding no sign of the enemy so the scout car still in view of the tanks on the hill, became bolder and cruised gently into the village. Our make shift hospital with painted Red Cross on the roof must have been in view of the scout car now. All this going on was being shouted by one of the medics out in the pas-sage way for the benefit of those like myself who could not get up to see the show for themselves. The scout car came to an abrupt stop, its occupants clutching their automatics at the ready. They must have spotted someone step carefully into view that person, a medic with red cross arm band was Hank, the American orderly from Ohio he was about 100 yards from the scout car, they stealthy approached each other, Hank not wishing to be mis-taken for a German ruse and the recoy scout car did not want to fall for any old trick! As they drew nearer, chatter became more recognizable, manner-isms more in keeping, till both parties accepted each other as brothers upon which, a wireless call was sent to the tanks on the skyline that everything was ok in no time the village was alive to the rumble of Sherman tanks as

they thundered on through, leaving an acrid smell of oil and exhaust fumes, one or two buildings were clobbered by the leading tanks, when access was not quite wide enough, unfortunately the buildings collapsed like a pack of cards. Thanks to the smooth running efficiency of the American Army Air force I was soon whisked in an ambulance to an air strip somewhere in Germany then enplaned in the type of aircraft I came out in, a Dakota! Only this time I was laying down not sitting. Passing over Belgium we hit a rough storm but landed OK in the south of England to finish up in Basing-stoke Hospital. I would soon be a civilian now, never to know the fate of my friends maybe I might meet up with some in years to come. The causalities in the Arnhem area alone were 800 Airborne killed wounded and missing including Poles, plus 300 Royal Air Force Pilots and crew. 750 Dutch Civilians and underground fighters 3,500 Germans and in the winter of 1944/5 200,000 Dutch died of starvation. A staggering loss of life and appalling human suffering, but to this day in 1979 nobody has come up with a full account of what really happened or went wrong at Arnhem. Not even after a £15 million film entitled ‘A Bridge Too Far’. Bill Fulton 2nd Para was the first man on the Bridge at Arnhem he was there for less thank a minute before he was shot in the leg and had to be dragged off to safety. Cpl Neville Ashley M.M. was at the Bridge until ammunition ran out. His medal was for action in Sicily in 1943. ‘There has been no single performance, by any unit that has more greatly impressed me or more highly excited admiration’. General Eisen-hower 1944 to General Roy Urquhart 1st Airborne Division Commander. It takes impeccable individuality and devotion to ones duty, irre-spective of danger, no matter how great, to be awarded the Victoria Cross, no fewer than five V.C.’s were awarded at Arnhem. They were:-

1. Flight Lieutenant D.S.A. Lord D.F.C Posthumous V.C. of the R.A.F. who flew in supplies to Arnhem, disregarding his own safety.

2. Major Robert Cain, V.C. Glider-borne South Staffords, 3. Lieutenant J.H. Grayburn Posthumous 2nd Parachute Battalion

4. Sergeant J.D. Baskerfield Posthumous V.C. South Staffords, Anti-Tank,

5. Captain L.E. Queripel Posthumous V.C. 10th Parachute Battalion.


Everyone irrespective of rank has exercised their lungs to this song, so here goes for the last time.

No More Solidering For Me ‘When this bleeding war is over, Oh, how happy I shall be, When I get my civvy clothes on, No more solidering for me, No more church parades on Sundays, No more calling of the roll, Not more blancoing equipment, No more saluting for the dole, No more asking for a pass, We can tell Sergant Major, To stick his passes, up his arse!’

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Chapter Six

The Best Kept Secret of World War II

Before I finish my story I would like to relate how I called to see the place of thinking, of that great man and founder of the Commandos and Parachutes Regiment; Mr Winston Churchill. The place is exactly as it was left in those far off days after the 1939 war everything from furniture to paper clips are the original, nothing is duplicated the utmost care is taken in the daily cleaning to ensure that authenticity of contents prevails. So a few years ago I just had to visit the Churchill War Rooms, situated far below ground at the Treasury Chambers, Westminster throughout the war. Mr Christiaan Truter who comes from South Africa, made the guid-ed tour sound so intriguing of what went on in those days. All the rooms I visited had 8”/8” timber pillars of oak, supporting the low ceiling in case of bomb damage. Guards escorted everyone everywhere in those days. Even to the toilet with no exception. No-one knew of the others job or whereabouts. No-one ever asked a question if they did, they found themselves posted to a far off way-out place, sometimes out of the country. You just did your particular maybe laborious job and asked no questions. Such was the state of the best kept secret in the 1939 war days. It started off though three years or more before the war started. Af-ter looking in rooms which once housed typists, and a kitchen I paused at a door inscribed 69B (six/nine B) plus the name. The door had a peep hole five inch square, glass covered and reinforced with half inch wire mesh. Behind the door a sentry was posted, it was only he would allowed anyone in or out with the co-operation of the guard outside in the passages way. Inside this room I sat in a chair, a mahogany grand-father chair, ‘most comfortable’ The table was U-Shape with the ends of the U returning inwards, allowing enough access for the Chiefs of Staff who sat directly opposite me. David Burwash M.C. Ex 1st and 3rd Para Battns, who volunteered for the Paras in 1940, sat to my opposite left, in the chair of the Army Chief of Staff. The table was covered with a complete piece of Navy-Blue material intended for the Metropolitan Police Uniforms of that day, reason being that as the country was in a state of war, that particular material would be hard to come by it would be a shame to cut it up. At each Minister’s place was blotting pad in leather cornered containers, brown utility pencil, glass inkwells, paper clips and ashtrays. In front of me was a 9”/2”/1” deep glass pen tray, with pens and well used ink-stained nibs, an automatic pincer clip-per, a well worn paper knife protruding from its sheath, and a set of three


white _” diameter press buttons, on a 3”/4” block of polished wood these buttons were used to summon my private Secretary wherever he might be. Beyond this but directly in front of my chair, the ‘Red Dispatch Box’ to my right rear in a corner, stood a small table with a black telephone for use by me, attached to the phone was a 6”/6”/6”. Brown bakerlite box, used to scramble all messages, any would-be eaves-dropper would only hear ‘Mumbo-Jumbo’ thus created. To my right on the left of the door that I came in was a clock on the wall, on my left was another on the wall giving the time in America. In each left hand corner of the room was a small table which seated clerks, taking down every word spoken in long hand. The walls were of brick painted over with many coats of pre-war paint, likewise the low ceiling t’was dull and uninteresting lighting was sparse, but bear-able. It was very warm with an odd odour the ventilation was not exactly up to present day standards of endurance but, as it was in the war days. Large maps of the world adorned the walls, with one of Italy facing me large areas of the maps were coloured pink giving one the impression that they might be Communist controlled countries, till you notice Australia and New Zealand are in the pink, you realize then that pink represented Commonwealth Countries. The room is but 25 feet by 25 feet rather cramped and very close little wonder, when it was below sewer level in the basement of a large build-ing in central London. To give a hint where I am, in front of me is a saying printed in black on a card 10”/5” the phrase refers to the words spoken by H.M. Queen Victoria. ‘In this house we never speak of defeat’. Yes! I am in the war-time Cabinet Room of Mr Winston Churchill the Prime Minister of the day. I am sitting in his chair, other visitors with me are sitting at the seats of various Cabinet Ministers A very queer phe-nomenon engulfs me in the wonderment of what things had been planned or discussed in this room a mere handful of men with great thought and wisdom had guided our country and many others to a 100% victory over the common enemy. I also sat at the table in Room 65 A.B. (six/five A.B.) Mr Churchill’s Broadcasting room, map room, come rest-room, the single bed and Army issue blankets he did not approve of, still occupy the room by the door. For security the maps on the wall were always curtained in case of wrong interpretation. Mr Churchill always took a rest at 3pm to wake refreshed by 6pm. The Maps room in 63/B 5. (six/three B5) housed people receiving incoming calls on eight phones, two black, two cream, two red and two green for security each message passed right along the line of phones, to be finally dealt with by an Army Colonel at the head or the table, in the process

the message was scrambled. The room was a mass of military and national information on air-raids troops, raids, naval engagements convoys, small and large operations. I noticed some index-tags in a crude rack, some related to 1st Air-borne Division S.A.S. Units and the DIEP raid, this room was approx. 14 feet by 24 feet in an adjoining room 9 feet by 20 feet was the photographic section of air-raids carried out by the R.A.F. plus reconnaissance. On one wall, the flying bomb and rockets were plotted for security this room was sealed off from the map room in 63/B5. Agents came and went by another guarded door to the photo room, the hob-nail impression from Army per-sonnel boots can be seen imbedded in the concrete floor of the photo room. One of the most secret and smallest rooms was Mr Churchill’s own toilet, in room 63/B. (six/three B.) off of the passage and approx. fifty feet from the Cabinet room I walked in to like a box room it was once a broom cupboard much to the disapproval of a Ministry of Works Cleaner, George Rance, his brooms were installed in a metal locker in the passage his locker is still here and bears his name he was a rather zealous man with anything to do with security so much so that the Treasury Chambers became known as Rance House. Back to the toilet at 63/B, it was 5 feet by 5 feet with a deep shelf at waist height on the right, two higher but more shallow shelves with note paper, pencil, ash tray and one red telephone on the lower shelf. On the wall above the door was a clock 6” diameter by 4” deep made of brass opening the two mahogany panelled doors to my left was a second walk-in cupboard 5 feet by 4 feet which furnished a small table, and a soft fabric upholstered grandfather chain, a space where an Elsan Toilet once stood. The phone was a direct line to President Roosevelt in Washington, USA. Mr Churchill could wait in comfort for his phone call under a complete veil of security in a camouflaged toilet. To this day you need a special pass to get anywhere near the place. My very last room before leaving was where visiting Ministers spent time while waiting to tend to their business, the furniture was of Rose Wood or Mahogany on a curved table was up to date of interest appertain-ing to the last war, opening a book entitled ‘World War Two’ on the Sicily landings, I was pleased to point out to Mr Truter a 6”/5” photo of a train-ing shot of members of my 11th S.A.S. Battn. In the line up to the force was, Harry Bance, Cpl Hutson, Jimmy Metcafe and myself. Mr Churchill certainly carried out his job extremely well. I would like to think that, I did my best alongside other Leopards, Lions and Tigers of the First Parachute Brigade.

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No. 2 Commando 11th S.A.S. 1st Parachute Battalion 1940 - 5. Arnheim 1944 Veterans Club.


The Pioneer Years.


The staircase at De Tafelberg, looking down. 1994 A plaque now in the grounds reads: The Tafelberg, formerly a the hotel, was converted into a field hospital where a number of wounded were aided by doctors, priests and civilians.


The De Tafelberg painting now hangs in Schoonord restaurant, a field dressing centre for the Airborne Medics in Oosterbeek 1944.


The presentation of new colours to the 1st, 2nd and 3rd parachute BNS of theParachute Regiment - 1988. Top picture: the author with H.R.H. Prince Charles.

Below: with Brigadier James Ledger Hill.

The author with Tex Banwell, Standard Bearer (photograph by Ian Kirkness).


Church Service at Bridge After Silent. March 2004. A close encounter with H.R.H. Prince Charles and bodyguards. 1998 Aldershot.


The Schoonord housed wounded and Airborne Medics for the battle duration.


Military currency 2nd World War.


The De Tafleberg after building contractors moved in. 2004.


The author with Anje Van Maanen, De Tafelberg Angel. De Bilderberg Hotel 2004.

Eric Simpson, McAnelly, Dick Bingley, Frank Youny, Reg Curtis. Oosterbeek 1978.

Anje van Maanen as she was in 1945.


The author on the left, with Mr Ruders at 92, Klinglesbeeks Weg, who took in many Airborne wounded in 1944. (photo 1994).

The author with Ray Sheriff 3rd Para. on left, with other Arnhem veterans,Apeldoorn.


Bob Laing 1st Para. with Ann Pelster Caspers and nurse, Arnhem 1985. Macanally 1st Para. 3 Mortars Airborne battle guide after Arnhem on left, at his home in Oosterbeek in 1984.


An early Airborne picture. Map taken into Arnhem by 1st Para Battalion.


3” Mortar Team, H.Q. Company. 1st Parachute Battalion, Italy 1943.


The author’s painting. Remembered from the days of September 1944.

Key to painting.

Photograph by J. Leusden, Zwolle, The Leeren Doedel, S.S. H.Q. where ‘R Coy’ made first major contact with enemy after landing at Wolfheze 1944.

Photograph by J. Leusden, Zwolle. Damaged villas west side of stationweg near the Oosterbeek crossroads. One villa now called the Strijland Hotel.


Photograph by D. Renes. The Aalberg boarding house, Oosterbeek Hoog station is to the left. Note road sign pointing to De Leerne Doedel.

Photograph by H.J. Willink, Railway viaduct at Oosterbeek Laag Rail Station, where 1st Para. Btn. passed under toward the town of Arnhem on 18th Sept. 1944.


The grave of Prof. Lipman Kessel who was laid to rest in Oosterbeek in 1986. The Prof. was one time Captain Lipmann Kessel with the 16th Para. Field.


Presentation of the Battle of Arnhem roll of honour to General Sir John Hackett. In the middle Captain Richard Bingley 1st Para.

Captain Lipmann Kessel and wife, 1984. The Captain was with the Field Ambu-lance at Arnhem in 1944.

Who else but you know who?


Arnhem Breidge held by 2 Para. under Col. John Frost. Drawing by kind permission of the artist.

Third man from front is Sgt. Frank Manser, 1st Para.

Sgt. Jo Dimmock, 1st Para.


Sgt. Jo Dimmock, 1st Para. Regimental Sergeant-Major John C. Lord (right).


M. Stammlager IV B. List of Englishmen who died in Stalag XI 1943 / 45.

De Tafelberg Kitchen, 1980.


Ann Pelster Caspers at the Tafelberg, with her memories. 2002. The author’s painting of the Tafelberg as it was on 19th September 1944.


Ann Pelster Caspers. Nurse at De Tafelberg. 1946. Men of the 1st Battalion The Parachute Regiment.


William of Orange, ‘V.C.’, the pigeon who delivered an urgent message from the Airborne Division at Arnhem to Wing House, London. The Dicken Medal is the pigeons’ equivalent of the Victoria Cross.

Bit of a tight fit from the 1944 era! Arnehm 2004.

H.R.H. Prince Charles with Her Majesty the Queen of the Netherlands, Ooster-beek Cemetery 2004.


Major General A.J. Deane-Drummond CB DSO MC.

Major General A.J. Deane-Drummond with Her MAjesty the Queen of the Neth-erlands and H.R.H Prince Charles, in the middle, Oosterbeek Cemetery 2004.

Photographs by two German official photographers, Wenzel and Jacobson.

A stug 3 from Lower Road near Utreche-Weg.


The final salute from an Airborne soldier in defeat.

With Norman Deller 2 Para. on Arnhem Bridge. The building was enemy ammuni-tion storage blown up by men of 2 Para. in 1944. In the distance is the southern end of the bridge held by the enemy in 1944. Photo: Father Brockhoff, 1965.

Letter to the author from Mr Donald Brooks.


Major Guy Rigby-Jones of the 181 Field Surgical Ambulance in de Tafelberg field hospital in Oosterbeek, being presented with the author’s book ‘Churchill’s Volun-teer’ in 1997. The surgeon was the chief Airborne doctor in charge at De Tafel-berg in September 1944 in collaboration with Dutch doctor Gerritt van Maanen who was the original owner of De Tafelberg as a hospital unit.

St. Elizabeth Hospital, 1986. Second from left, a Dutchman, Tanno J. Pieters who was a stretcher bearer in Arnhem 1944. Author second from right.

Letter to the author from Prof. Lipmann Kessel.


Reg Curtis’s Field Mediacl Card showing details of wound sustained followed by subsequent treatment for Gas Gangrene.

A man for all seasons.


Nazi Flag in the Airborne Museum, Oosterbeek. Home-made dolls being presented to the Administrator of a children’s home, 2001.

Left to right: Captain Robert Stark, Lt. Braylet and Major Ashford of 2nd Para near Beja, N. Africa. Captain Stark went to 1st Para. as Coy. Commander, ‘S.’ Coy.


German parachute troops of the type encountered in Africa, Sicily, Italy and Arn-hem, Holland.

With Floris in the Bilderberg Restaurant 2004.

Left to right: Floris, his mother Myriam, his brother Ewolit and his father who was in the Juliana hospital Apeldoorn the same time that the author was there on 19th Novemeber 1944.

September 1944. Oosterbeek.


Letter to the author from Floris.


Men of th 1st Parachute Battalion missing on Arnhem operation. The operating room where I was amputated below the right knee on November 19th 1944 at the Juliana Hospital in Apeldoorn. Photo. by A.R. Kreling.

A pre-war photograph of the Juliana Hospital by A.R, Kreling of Apeldoorn.


My original mediacl record which was made out by the German medical admin. is now housed in the Airborne Museum at the Hartenstein in Oosterbeek.

St. Elizabeth Hospital before the battle.

A German General inspects at the Elizabeth Hospital after the battle. 2nd Airborne men on right, Capt. D. Rider the anaethetist and Graeme Warrack 1st Div. ADMS.

The Hartenstein Hotel 1st Airborne Div. Headquarters.


Statement by Sgt. Dick Whittingham, mortar Sgt.

Left to right: ‘Dick’ Whittingham, Nobby Clarke and Franl McCormic. Veterans of Africa, Sicily, Italy and Arnhem with 1st Para Btn.

Photo by D.Renes. Stug 111 knocked out by L/Sgt. John Daniel Baskeyfield V.C. of the South Staffordshire Regiment, N.C.O. in charge of a six-pounder anti-tank gun positioned at Acacialaan, close to Sgt. Dick Whittingham’s 3” Mortar.

The Stug photographed from the West by A.M. de Kruiff.


The Angel of Arnhem dies in car acciident.

Opening of Airborne Museum Oosterbeek.

Arnhem letter and below the Airborne Cemetery, Sunday 19 September 1994. From left to right; General Sir John Hackett, Queen Beatrix, Prince Charles, drs J.W.A.M. Verlinden, Burgomaster of Renkum municipality. Photo: Berry de Reus.


Photograh by H.J. Willink. Bridge over railway at Oosterbeek Hoog station. A bailey bridge was put in place in 1945, followed by the present bridge in 1949.

The Jeep No. TK-4676. Veterans with Mrs Kate Ter Horst. War correspondent, typing his story. Aftermath of 3rd Para. Battlion ambush.

Before the Airborne landing in 1944, Room 11 at the De Tafelberg was taken over by the German General in the name of Walter Model. Above the author with Norman Deller 2nd Para. in 1985.


Was a tree lined track in September 1944, near where 1st Para. Battn. laggered at X Approx. 500 yards from ‘R Coy’ position at De Leerens Doubel. German tanks were in position in woods off the Ede Amsterdam main road at X.


House still standing and with same owner as in September 1944 which is approz-imately 100 yards from the S.S.H.Q.

Road bridge at Oosterbeek Hoog Station, was wooden bridge in September 1944.


Operation ‘Market Garden’. The 6th Platoon, 5 company, 1st. Para. September 1944.


Captain Richard Bingley. Aerial photograph of the surroundings of the Rijhotel near Arnhem on September 19th 1944.


Aerial photograph from 20,000 feet showing Arnhem on September 19th 1944 at the height of the battle. Smoke drifts from burning houses near bridge and arounf St.Elizabeth hospital and Museum. The demolished rail bridge can be seen.

A letter from Charles King who flew sorties over Arnhem in 1944.


V.E. Day, the author with Sgt. Eric Simpson. Opening Airborne Museum Oosterbeek.

From left to right: Eric Witherford of 1st Para., Monique, the owner of the Schoonord restaurant and the author in 2004.


Lt. Col, D. Dobie wounded and taken prisoner on Tuesday 19th September 1944. Makeover of the Tafelberg foyer in 1948.

Bob Laing 1st Para. on left with Mrs Bertha Bremen, Sgt. ‘Dick; Whittingham on right and veterans.


Hotel De Tafelberg, plans of rroms and floors. Col. Graeme Warrack, Airborne Mediacl Supplies, at Arnhme with his wife in 1980.


Jimmy Edwards R.A.F. who towed gliders to Arnhem in 1944. Photo. 1980. The author with serving members of the Parachute Regiment at Aitborne Cem-etary in Oosterbeek. Photo. by T.A.V. Brockhoff.

Eric Simpson, Royal Artillery, Frnak Young, General John Frost and the author at the Airborne Museum in 1983. Photo. by T.A.V. Brockhoff.


M. Stammlager IV B. ‘B. Coy H.Q.”


From left to right: Ann’s husband, the author and Ann Pelster Caspers. 1994.

Anje van Maanen at eh Cenotaph in 1946.

Dorwerth Castle, first location for Airborne Museum in 1947.


‘Lucky’ author’s hostess who lived in the house near Arnheim Museum in 1947. Photo taken on visit to an island where Dutch cheese is made. The children and adults favour wearing the Dutch National Costime.

Veterans silent March to Bridge Church service with wreath laying. 1994.


H.R.H. Prince Charles talking to the author. Airborne Cemetary, Oosterbeek 1984. A special invitation.


On guard with a 303c rifle near landing zone with Para. T.A. from Scotland demonstrating the T.A. skills (2004).

A 3” Mortar gun pit with range rod on the left. Soft sand made easy digging.


Nazi flag collected from Belgiium when in the care of American Medics in German hands. The author handed the flag into the Airborne Museum for safe keeping.Housed in the German war display of enemy uniforms of the 1944 era.

An airmail leter sent to the author from England in 1945 which he did not recieve until after he was liberated and returned to Enland in May 1945. The letter had been on a circular tour of Europe.


The fieldgraves of Private C. F. Best and the Reverend B. J. Benson. Field-Marshal Model and officers.


Brigadier Gerald Lathbury. Henk (above right). Henk is from the Hackenberg family.


Geert Beermink and wife Agness from the Hackenberg family. A coridor in the basement of the Elizabeth Hospital facing to the West. A lot of wounded were in the corridor. At the South of the corridor you could see the main Utrechtseweg and to the South-East the Rhine bridge.


The front door in the basement. In this hall there were fights between Airborne and German soldiers. Hand grenades came in resulting in more wounded added to the overcrowded Elizabeth Hospital.

In the hall hangs this painting which depicting the stiff fight.

The room where General Sir John Hackett was placed after being wounded posing as a L/Cpl.


The old operation room of the E. Hospital. During operations bullets often came into the room.

This was a wardrobe with a special use in Sept. 1944. It housed men in a secret room while waiting to escape.


Letter to the author from Anje. De Tafelberg invitation.


Pre-war map of Oosterbeek.

The ‘Doctor’s House’.

The author getting ready to go over the Arnhem Bridge. His nephew, Geoffrey Holland, standing on the left..


The author goig over Arnhem Bridge to a sports complex to be greeted by 10,000 school children and entertainment (16th September 2004).

General John Frost and Lady with the Bergemeester of Renkum, jhr.mr H.G. tot Echten and his Lady. September 1983, Oosterbeek.

Major Tony Hibbert.


No2 Commando 11th S.A.S.


With relics of the Battle of Wolferzen in 1982.

Photo by German Budesarchiv. Spoils of war near the old church.

The door that served as a crib for Major Lonsdale, which is now in the Airborne Museum Hatenstein in Oosterbeek.


Photo by D.J. Jansen. A 17 pounder anti-tank gun positioned in the old church in Oostereek. Facing East.

The same gun photograpned from the East.


Oosterbeek. Collected from L.Z. at Wolfehexe in 1978. Possibly a serial number from a piece of wireless equipment or from the interior of a glider. Any ideas?


Training at RAF Ringway.

The Tragino Aqueduct.

Description of men awarded the Victoria Cross and other awards can be read on page 207 of this book.


The barracks at Apeldoorn whcih was taken over by the German S.S. from the Dutch Military in October 1944.

Veterans of the Polish Parachute Brigade in Airborne Cemetary 2001.

Veterans at Apeldoorn Police Barracks 2001.

With Tex Banwell. Sky Diver, Aldershot 1998.


Left to right: Sherif 2rd Para., Capt. Richard Bingley 1at Para., Sgt. Panzer Manser 1ae Para., Wally Boldcock 1st Para. with the author.

50th Anniversary Special Air Service.

Airborne Museum Hartenstein.

The Burgomaster of Rencum and his Lady with Dame Vera Lyn.


Airborne Cemetary in its early days of construction in 1948.

The Burgomaster of Renkum with Generals Urquhart and Hackett with their wives at the Hartenstein Museum in 1984.

Arrow shows where the author came under sniper fire on the 2nd day.


From King’s Guard, above, 1937 - 1940 .. .. to Mr Churchill’s Volunteer for Special Services 1940.

Many volunteers from all branches of the British Army and Commonwealth came forward with thier wealth of expertise.


Mr Churchill. The Crossroads, Oosterbeek September 1944. Reproduced by kind permission of the artist.


Mr Bourman, the Administrator of St. Elizabeth Hospital Arnhem (2001).

At 14, Mr Boorman sheltered in the cellar of the Tafelberg during the battle. His father was caretaker at the time.

Field Hospital.

With the Chelsea Pensioners at the Sports Complex being greeted by 10,000 school children. Arnhem 2004.


Friends of the Airborne Museum. The Airborne Museum.

The third man from front is Sgt. Frank Manser 1st Para.


The Tafelberg from the front and side in 2004. From Wim and Dorry Elands van den Berg.


Letter from Wim and Dorry Elands van den Berg. A German medical report.


✚

Letter sent to Major Sepp Krafft S.S. after the battle at Arnhem.

Quoted by Prominent PersonalitiesOf These Men

When the 1st, 2nd and 3rd Parachute Battalions were presented with their Colours, it was history in so far as is known, there is no record of three battalions of the same regiment in the British Army receiving their first Colours on the same day from the same hands. After presenting the Colours King George VI spoke a few words ‘I am glad to be here today to present you with your first Colours. I have watched the growth of your Regiment from its earliest days, only a short time has separated your first raid on the Tragino Aqueduct in Italy up to the end of the European War. I am fully confident that you will maintain the high standard which you have already established and that these Colours will always be safe in your hands.’ Alder-shot 1950. North Africa 1943. ‘Now that it is possible to relieve the Parachute Brigade who have for so long a time played a most valuable role in the North, I would like to express my thanks to and admiration for every officer N.C.O. and man for the conspicuously successful part they have taken in recent fighting. They have proved their mastery over the enemy, who have a wholesome respect for this famous Brigade which is best described in their own words for the quote. Red-Devil Unquote.’ From 18th Army Group, General Alexander to 1st Parachute Brigade. ‘My country can never again afford the luxury of another Gen. Montgomery success.’ Bernhard, The Prince of the Netherlands to Corne-lius Ryan author of the Longest Day ‘What manner of men are these who wear the maroon red beret? They have shown themselves to be as tenacious and determined in defence as they are courage in attack. They are in fact, men apart every man an Em-peror. I have a great affection for these men. And on those occasions when I myself wear the maroon beret I regard it as an outward sign of respect to grand fighters and good comrades.’ 1945 Montgomery of Alamein. Field Marshal Colonel Commandant The Parachute Regiment. ‘In attack most daring, in defence most cunning, in endurance most steadfast, they performed a feat of arms which will be remembered and re-counted as long as the virtues of courage and resolution have power to move the hearts of men.’ Winston Churchill 28th September 1944.

Men Who Fell in N. Africa and Sicilyfrom 1st Parachute Battalion

Rank Name Initials Died Grave LocationPTE Webster W 17-11-42 Medjez-El-Bab 12-B-2SGT Barnewall D P 23/27-11-42 Medjez-El-Bab 4-D-12CPL Read J G 23/27-11-42 Medjez-El-Bab 4-D-14PTE Cowley A T 24-11-42 Medjez-El-Bab 4-B-17PTE Higgins J 24-11-42 No Known GraveCAPT Stewart J R C 24-11-42 No Known GravePTE Stirling R 24-11-42 Medjez-El-Bab 4-B-19PTE Watton D A A 24-11-42 Medjez-El-Bab 4-D-11SGT Ellis A E 25-11-42 Medjez-El-Bab 5-E-18PTE Forkin T R 26-11-42 Beja 1-J-5L/CPL Glyde E J 26-11-42 Beja 1-J-6PTE Johnstone G A 26-11-42 Beja 1-J-4L/CPL Jones R W 26-11-42 Beja 1-K-2PTE Painting W J 26-11-42 No Known GravePTE Playfair S 26-11-42 No Known GravePTE Reid M J 26-11-42 No Known GravePTE White H C 26-11-42 No Known GravePTE Slack E 27-11-42 Catania (Sicily) II-D-41L/CPL Bilbey KE 1-12-42 No Known GravePTE Pierce A E 1-12-42 No Known GraveALT Foggarty D F X 2-12-42 No Known GraveL/CPL Nesbitt G E 6-12-42 Medjez-El-Bab 4-D-19PTE Giles Albert W 10-12-42 Dely Ibrahim (Algiers) 3-J-17CPL Murphy Henry 10-12-42 Tabarka 4-E-1SGT Baxter E G 11-12-42 No Known GravePTE Larbey L J 11-12-42 No Known GravePTE Benton H 1-1-43 No Known GraveLT Wandless S (MC) 6-1-43 No Known GravePTE Bainbridge H N (MM) 3-2-43 No Known GraveSGT Campion G 3-2-43 No Known GravePTE Child C L 3-2-43 No Known GraveSGT Dawnay H J 3-2-43 No Known GraveCAPT Engeldow W G V 3-2-43 No Known GravePTE Hodgkinson R W 3-2-43 No Known GraveSGT Jenkinson L 3-2-43 No Known GravePTE Kinseley A J 3-2-43 No Known Grave


1st Parachute Battalion

Rank Name Initials Died Grave LocationPTE Lane K U 3-2-43 No Known GravePTE Latham W E 3-2-43 No Known GravePTE Locke P R 3-2-43 No Known GravePTE Mallinder F P 3-2-43 No Known GraveLT Mellor P E M (MC) 3-2-43 No Known GraveCPL Severn A 3-2-43 No Known GraveSGT Wood S C W 3-2-43 No Known GravePTE Colechin P M 3/5-2-43 No Known GravePTE Slack H 4-2-43 No Known Grave PTE Brant R C 5-2-43 No Known GraveCPL Cable R T 5-2-43 No Known GraveCPL Campion J H 5-2-43 No Known GraveMAJ Conron J S C R 5-2-43 No Known GravePTE Coy J 5-2-43 No Known GravePTE Dempsey J J 5-2-43 No Known GravePTE Dolan P 5-2-43 No Known GravePTE Dorsey H 5-2-43 No Known GraveL/CPL Fisher H R 5-2-43 No Known GravePTE Holroyd F 5-2-43 No Known GravePTE Howes J 5-2-43 Medjez-El-Bab 6-A-3/5PTE Hughes T 5-2-43 No Known GravePTE Hunter T W C 5-2-43 No Known GravePTE Hurst G H 5-2-43 Medjez-El-Bab 10-F-20PTE Kenyon N 5-2-43 No Known GraveLt Lloyd J B 5-2-43 Medjez-El-Bab 10-H-2L/CPL Miller T M 5-2-43 No Known GravePTE Mitchell S 5-2-43 No Known GravePTE Parker E J 5-2-43 No Known GravePTE Sambourne F P 5-2-43 Medjez-El-Bab 10-H-1PTE Shorter C F 5-2-43 Massicault 1 D-2L/CPL Tanner A E 5-2-43 Medjez-El-Bab 6-A-1PTE Thompson E G 5-2-43 No Known GraveSGT Thornton R A W 5-2-43 No Known GravePTE Waters W E 5-2-43 No Known GraveL/CPL Woodruff T E 5-2-43 No Known GraveCPL Worrod D H 5-2-43 No Known GravePTE Short G 11-2-43 Medjez-El-Bab 7-C-3


Rank Name Initials Died Grave LocationPTE Herring W R 19-2-43 Medjez-El-Bab 9-D-12PTE Bowen H L 22-2-43 Massicault III-E-18CPL Bolland D B 26-2-43 Massicault III-L-14PTE Crabtree J G 26-2-43 No Known GravePTE Gordon H 26-2-43 Medjez-El-Bab 2-H-11PTE Williams L 26-2-43 Medjez-El-Bab 10-H-13PTE Conway P 2-3-43 Massicault III-N-7SGT Lake Raymond D 6-3-43 Tabarka 4-B-14L/CPL Bowmer A 8-3-43 Medjez-El-Bab 4-A-6PTE Callaghan D D 8-3-43 No Known GravePTE Chappell Roy 8-3-43 Tabarka 4-B-1SGT Colville J (MM) 8-3-43 Medjez-El-Bab 4-A-7L/CPL Dollin C A D 8-3-43 Medjez-El-Bab 4-C-16PTE Duffy Frederick 8-3-43 Tabarka 4-B-3PTE Gosney R G 8-3-43 No Known GravePTE Hazell D H 8-3-43 No Known GraveCPL Kidman Lewis G 8-3-43 Tabarka 1-C-16CPL Lacey Jefferies 8-3-43 Tabarka 1-E-16PTE Richardson Frank R 8-3-43 Tabarka 1-C-15LT Sinclair I H 8-3-43 No Known GraveCAPT Stevenson R A N 8-3-43 Tabarka 1-E-24CPL Thomas W G 8-3-43 No Known GraveL/CPL Waddell James 8-3-43 Tabarka 1-C-18PTE Wanstell A J 8-3-43 Medjez-El-Bab 4-E-6PTE Mason W 9-3-43 No Known GravePTE Twaddle Norman Tabarka 4-E-6SGT Weaving William E Tabarka 1-A-16PTE Amey Victor 1 0-3-43 Tabarka 3-C-9PTE Francis Frank E Tabarka 2-C-3PTE Litchfield W Medjez-El-Bab 4-A-12PTE Moore J M No Known GravePTE Wilson T No Known GravePTE Ferguson Robert I 11-3-43 Tabarka 3-C-8PTE Johnstone Neil Tabarka 2-C-4PTE Ross James Tabarka 2-C-6LT Wharrier Robert A 12-3-43 Tabarka 4-B-9MAJ Hall John H V (MC) Tabarka 4-B-8



Rank Name Initials Died Grave LocationPTE Bowie A 17-3-43 No Known GravePTE Hewett B N (RAMC) No Known GravePTE Knight J S No Known GraveCPL Cain R J 18-3-43 No Known GraveL/CPL Swift Eric J 20-3-43 Tabarka 3-B-5PTE Gibbs Phillip 23-3-43 Tabarka 4-A-7CPL Newton Sidney R 25-3-43 Bone III-D-17PTE Crabtree J G 26-3-43 No Known GraveSGT Baxter C 28-3-43 No Known GravePTE Billingsley C Beja 2-B-1PTE Brown W Beja 2-H-9PTE Day L G No Known GraveLT Gallagher K No Known GraveCPL Jarrett F E (RAMC) Beja 2-H-8L/CPL McLeod L Beja 2-A-1PTE Reid A J M Beja Joint 2-H-10/11PTE Wood G Beja Grave 2-H-10/11PTE Venn L C No Known GravePTE Wall S No Known GravePTE Crosby Harold P 29-3-43 Tabarka 3-B-17PTE Dobson F No Known GravePTE Hayselden L 30-3-43 No Known GravePTE Hearnden George J Tabarka 1-B-22PTE Mortimer Cecil (RAMC) Tabarka 1-B-24PTE Potter Joseph Tabarka 1-D-1PTE Nuttall Leonard 15-4-43 Bone III-B-3PTE Graham Charles B 25-5-43 La Reunion (Bejaia) E-E-32

Formerly BougieSGT Law Peter J 24-5-43 La Reunion (Bejaia) E-E-31

Formerly BougieL/CPL Fletcher Francis 27-5-43 Dely Ibrahim (Algiers) 4-H-3

1st Battalion The Parachute Regiment who were Killed or who Died of their wounds at Arnhem in 1944

Date Surname First Name Rank Number Age17.09.44 Bune John C. Major 97114 30 Cooper Norman Private 4208293 21 Dougan Robert A. Private 6985006 20 Gordon Oliver Private 4690230 24 Griffiths James Private 1439197 25 Lewis Walter G. L.Corp 1717127 24 Moore William G. Private 2767152 21 Nash Leslie A. Corp 855033 32 Nicholls Cyril C. Private 5628491 27 Towhey John Private 7046990 24 Whitmore Walter T.H. Private 4923272 24 Green Philip J. Private 14002634 2018.09.44 Bailey Thomas Private 14438530 28 Baker Albert E. Private 11408969 23 Boland Alfred H.A. Private 14553603 20 Buchanan Robert Corp 3065436 Cartman John T. Private 4344241 23 Cast Harry Private 4987084 21 Coghlan Edward Private 2933459 24 Curtis Reginald H. Private 6345451 21 Dean Raymond L.A. Private 14368994 20 Dyer Leslie W. Private 14650322 19 Ellis Sidney Private 6974976 38 Fairweather John Private 926019 21 Goulden James R. Private 4973713 32 Harwood Albert Corp 3383864 30 Johnson Edward J. Private 4920618 29 Katiff John B. Private 4032660 24 Knapper James Private 5729130 26 Phillips Geoffrey W. Private 3975654 21 Proud Bertie Private 5113830 28 Smith Cyril E. Private 5832804 31 Summers Harry E. Private 986614 30 Timbrell Ernest W. Private 5676662 29


Date Surname First Name Rank Number Age

Reynolds Alfred Corp 4923611 2419.9.44 Bermingham John Sergt 7012746 Cort Alfred R. Private 4914228 24 Cupples Stephen W. 14641751 19 Dalzell Richard A. Private 5682760 22 Davies Christopher G. Private 7360073 25 Dobrozyski Frank P. Private 1143320 26 Gedney Vivian L.Corp 4803762 22 Kilmartin Michael G. Lieut 217467 Morris Francis Sergt 2692018 36 Taylor George A. Private 5115336 2720.09.44 Blundell George M. Captain 113349 27 Boosey Jack R. L.Corp 6849967 21 Clarke Ellis Private 3457005 24 Curtis Leslie 2Lieut M.M.323542 25 Devlin William J.P. Private 2931426 21 De Leur Herman Sergt 2614295 29 McCarthy George Private 4467565 21 McKenzie James Private 1694398 30 Mackie Arthur Private 4122605 33 McKnight John B. Sergt 3185810 33 Tomlinson Clifford Private 3451005 2221.09.44 Gould Raymond D. Private 14411234 21 Hart George Private 6139388 32 Lenton Albert V. L.Corp 6146440 29 Murray Gordon S. L.Corp 1430259 21 Osborne Albert Corp 6461257 23 Warren Bertie G. Private 14605880 2322.09.44 Clarkson Alastair D. Lieut 251970 22 Donalson Robert D. Private 1475585 24 McGhie David P. L.Corp 3314916 2524.09.44 Clarke Anthony L. Corp 1806655 22 Gordon John G. Private 14435996 19 Preen William A. Private 14349303 2025.09.44 Best Gordon Private 1463210 23 Brown Lawrence L.Corp 5782419 21 Dacey Thomas Private 1518881 24

Date Surname First Name Rank Number Age

Matson George E. Corp 818315 29 Reid Herbert G.D. Sergt 4192009 29 Strachan Fredrick A. Private 7903398 29 Warburton Henry Private 3445991 3126.09.44 Lloyd Anthony B. Corp M.M.4209536 2128.09.44 Best Charles F Private 4343722 2401.10.44 Colewell Thomas W. Private 985999 27 Whiting Frederick J. Corp 6205869 2704.10.44 Dann Alfred V. Private 14344213 3005.10.44 Bainbridge Donald Private 14656170 1907.10.44 Waterworth Geoffrey W. L.Corp 5124422 2105.11.44 Pheasant Cyril Private 14560268 2018.01.45 Tyan Stanley Corp M.M.7265224 2611.04.45 Gear Ronald A.G. Private 5511980 2116.04.45 Evans Gwilym G. Private 4208436 20

We Will Remember Them



Epilogue

Lest We Forget

Julian Brazier TD MP

Epilogue text - 750 words?

TAFELBERG



DVD Video of the Tafelberg

Pilot David Samuel Lord was dropping supplies at Arnhem on Sept. 19 1944 when his aircraft was hit and set alight by enemy fire just minutes from the drop zone. He continued his mission to resupply ground forces and ignored his own safety, having ordered his crew to bale out.