Before
the briefing for the Arnhem attack, to be quite frank, I had
never heard
of it's name. We had already been briefed
for sixteen different "Ops", none of which came off and, in actual fact,
we had received a briefing for Arnhem a week or so prior to this
one. That, like it's
predecessors, had been cancelled. Our nerves by the time of the second briefing were
fairly shaky.
.
However,
we had become so accustomed to these plans failing to materialise
that we made bets as to whether or not we would drop. My
bets
made on the
previously planned jobs cost me quite a bit of money. When
we really did drop at Arnhem, no-one will be surprised to learn
that I
was still on the losing side.
Sunday,
September 17th, 1944. The Anniversary date of another great
epic,
the "Battle of Britain". My head a little fuzzy from the
night before-
when, with the usual good humour of my battalion, we had grasped
our pints
and sung until we were hoarse, a host of parachute songs,
including "Three
Cheers for the Next Man to Die" - I paraded in full battle
regalia. Chutes
had been in our possession for a few days. They didn't receive
anything
like the treatment we had shown them on our first jumps at the
training
school. Bundled into a corner of the tent were jumping-bags,
chutes,
rifles and equipment of every description.Our
briefings for the battle of Arnhem had been long and even the most
insignificant
details were fairly fresh in our memories. I can't remember the actual briefings now, but I do recall that we studied maps, sand-tables
and aerial photographs until we felt as if we were almost natives
of the
town and surrounding districts of Arnhem. We tested each other's knowledge
by asking numerous questions on the terrain, etc., upon which
we
were shortly to descend.
I
was with the machine-gun platoon, with our guns strapped to our
legs and
led No. 1 section aboard the C47. Being No 1, my part of the gun
was
the tripod; No.2 carried the gun whilst No. 3 and the remaining
numbers,
the ammunition. What with our personal arms, rations and amass
of other kit, the whole bunch of us must have looked like over-
burdened
Christmas trees. Believe me, we felt like it too . Even to reach
for
a cigarette was an effort.
Just
before we took off, the C.O. came around, followed by a tea wagon,
wishing us all good luck and good hunting The engines burst into life
and
rose to a deafening crescendo; the whole plane quivered -
I too - as the pilot fully opened the throttle. Slowly the huge,
bird- like
creature taxied onto the runway. Then, with the engines roaring
like
mad, we raced up the tarmac. With a slight shake of it's body, it
shook
the dust of dear old Blighty and home from it's wheels. We were airborne
and on our way to keep a date with an old friend of 1 Para.
Sitting
next to me on the plane was our second-in-command and his batman. Nerves, one will always find, play peculiar tricks on their
victims. Some must whistle or sing: others prefer talking
incessantly:
whilst most of us just remain silent. This was the case
with
me, mainly because I couldn't trust myself to speak. One remark
that
the second-in-command's batman passed to me will, I think, always remain
most vividly in my memory. One or two were trying to get a song going, but I'm afraid that their well-intended efforts were having
quite
the opposite effect from the one they desired. It was during one
of
these futile attempts to rock the plane from stem to stern with
full throated
singing that Johnnie - the batman - remarked; "Silly
b......s, singing
their heads off now and by tea-time those self same heads may
be
rolling in the dust!" Unfortunately his
words - spoken a
little prematurely
- became reality and, before that day was out, his blood,
along
with that of the second-in-commands, seeped into the sandy
earth
where they had fallen.
Roughly
two hours after taking the air, we were flying over Belgium,
where
our own troops were at deadly grips with the enemy. The sun was
shining
brilliantly and the scene below looked so peaceful How could
one
possibly have foreseen the massacre that was, within a few moments
from now, to begin on it's first chapter My thoughts of home
and
friends were cruelly chased from my mind as the red light flashed
on and
the yell came of "Action Stations". We had American
pilots, who, quite
differently from our own boys, gave us about a twenty minute
run-in. This, I think, is pretty hard on the nerves. I was jumping No. 3
and
in consequence, quite near to the door. "There's the
bridge", the shout
went up. None of us had much time to admire the peaceful
panorama
that Arnhem still as yet presented.
The
green light winked on. With a yell that would have frightened the
life out
of my mother, I jumped for the back of No. 2. A turmoil of green,
blue
and white spun before my eyes as I fell earthwards. A flapping
above
me caused me to look up. Over my chute were a few thrown rigging
lines.
I made to jettison my jumping bag, which would have lightened the
load
on my partially closed chute. The bag would not part company with
me
and with a thud I hit the DZ.
As
I rolled I noticed that I was quite near to the trees which
surrounded the "Dropping Zone". My first thought was to make a dash for
their cover,
when an explosion rent the air. Looking up I saw a column of
black smoke
quickly rising. I scrambled out of my harness and enveloping
canopy.
Jock and Bill, my No's 2 and 3, were the first up to me. A bugle
sounded
the "Fall In". Cautiously we approached the Battalion
rendezvous.
The
first to greet us was Frankie Walton. He had already commenced
"brewing up", though having only reached the rendezvous a few minutes
earlier.
"Got the tea, Geordie ?" he flung at me, without raising
his eyes. To
my dismay and undying shame, I remembered that in my hurried
departure
from my chute, I had left the respirator haversack lying
crammed
full with tea and sugar. My comrades, with awe-stricken faces, listened
to my guilty confession. My last syllable had barely left my
mouth,
when with one accord they shouted: "Bloody well go and get it then". Sheepishly I turned and retraced my steps. I hadn't gone far
when a
burst of machine-gun fire made me dive for cover. Hot lead raised
raised spouts
in the sandy earth around me. I wormed deeper into the ground,
cursing
like mad at my present predicament having arisen from my failure
to
remember the tea. Tea, the most important thing to the British
Tommy.
I swore that if I got away from those deadly, annihilating
bullets, I
would never drink tea again.
An
eternity seemed to pass. How the hell I was to get out was just
beyond
bothering point. Each time I made a move I only brought another
burst
whizzing past my ears. My revolver was no good against this kind
of gun;
besides my antagonists were beyond it's range. Taking all in all,
I was
doomed if I lay there and almost sure to be cut in half if I made
a run
for it. Another burst was suddenly answered from my left. Without
wishing
or waiting to see who or what this other gun was firing at, I made
a
mad rush back to the rendezvous. Nothing hit me. I doubt whether
the bullets
could have caught up with me.
There
was no time, nor could I have explained, had my pals still been
awaiting
the dry tea, to make excuses for my long delay. During my absence,
orders had been received for each machine-gun section to report
to it's respective Company. I was, however, greeted by the Platoon
Sergeant, "Where the hell have you been ?" "N.A.A.F.I.
break, Sergeant".
Grabbing the tripod, I quickly made off through the woods before
he could answer.
The
1st Battalion consisted of four Companies,
"H.Q.","R", "S' and "T".My
section always landed with "R", the Irish Company,
"T", was the
Welsh and "S", the Jocks. "H.Q" was made up of
supporting platoons, such
as intelligence, Mortar, P.I.A.T. and the gunners. I reached
"R' Company,
just as they were preparing to move. As we fell in behind and
the
scouts went out, I was given a brief picture of our intended
advance
towards the bridge. Firstly, "R" was to capture a small
station
called at a place called Wolfheze, about three miles from Arnhem.
As we skirted the DZ, I noticed scores of Dutch civilians busily
engaged
in folding and carrying our chutes away.
About
four-thirty p.m., having met very weak opposition at the station,
we were
pushing on towards the bridge, the main objective. Moving upthis
road, the whole scene reminded me of a scheme back in England.
Suddenly
the scene changed. Machine guns began their deadly chatter.
Shells
began to burst amongst us. Yells and whistles filled the air.
I
noticed before I hugged the ground that one of the enemy guns was
about
two hundred yards in front and to our left flank. My Officer asked
if I had seen anything and when I pointed out this gun to him,
ordered my gun section into action. Grasping the tripod, I ran
across
the road, diving headlong into a very convenient ditch. Cautiously
I raised my head, quickly searching for a likely and natural
position
for my gun. Before having completed my look round, No. 2 landed
on
top of me. "You bloody awkward elephant", I began to
curse, then stopped.
A burst of fire was spraying the ditch. Quickly I told No. 2 to
keep
down, whilst I made for some bushes and not to move until I
shouted
for him. Crawling - Indian style - and cursing furiously at the
grenades
and other implements of war hanging from my belt and digging
into
my flesh, I made for my selected position. Sweat began to pour
down my
face in miniature rivulets and to run into my eyes, making them
smart like
mad. Twenty yards is not a long way to crawl, but dressed as I was
it
was killing. Especially when I had to drag a 56lb. tripod behind
me.
Finally I reached my position and slowly spreadeagled the tripod
legs. Then, raising it slightly to the required height for a low-
mounting,
I clamped the legs tight. Shuffling round I yelled for No. 2.
Slowly
he approached and, as he did so I ordered No. 3 to get near
enough
to supply us with ammunition. At last, after what seemed an age,
No.
2 reached my side and mounted the gun. Taking careful aim I let
my
first burst at Arnhem go streaming targetwards. Instantly a
more
deadly fire was returned. The very blades of grass were being
"R"Company
had swung in front of me and were just going into their final
charge:
I raised my gun and gave them overhead fire.
By
the time this mopping-up had been completed, dusk had fallen. The
Mortar
Platoon were taking up positions and began pumping bombs over
our heads.
Frankie
and I noticed one of our boys still lying in the centre of these
cross-roads. Making a slight detour and checking over a log-man's
cabin, we cautiously approached the still form. Just before
we reached him, two R.A.M.C. chaps appeared, as if from nowhere
; turning him over, they quickly removed his dog-tags. We knew
we were no use now and quietly withdrew.
Night
fell with a deluge of rain. The fighting in these woods was
becoming
fierce and even more fierce as the night wore on.
Groans
and shrieks of pain filled the air. Everywhere we turned or
moved,
we were swept with a withering fire. Dead lay all around; wounded
were crying for water. As best we could, we attended to the
wounded,
at the same time pumping everything we had into a determined
and
reckless foe. Time and time again they over-ran our positions
and
had to be driven out with the bayonet. During this fighting my gun
was
never out of action and to touch it's metal body was only to
invite severe
burns. One of the famous German Tiger Tank breed played merry
hell
with us until one of our lads maimed it with a PIAT bomb. Then it
still
carried on shelling us. Methodically it began to seek my gun out.
Shells
burst among us, as though they were smelling out their game.
Something
hit my gun and she jammed. Try as I might, I couldn't get it
firing again. Snatching a rifle from the grasp of a fallen
comrade, I dived
into the undergrowth and sought my Platoon Commander. "Get
the
gun out"' he ordered, "then get ready to move".
Later
that night we withdrew, smarting under our failure to dislodge the
foe;
then we flanked and charged again. Back once more, our numbers
sorely
depleted, we fell to our knees in utter exhaustion.
A
mere handful of us staggered into Oosterbeek the next morning. It
was here
, whilst running the gauntlet of Tiger Tanks, etc, that a few of
us
met Tina Bobeldijk. There, standing amongst apple and pear trees,
we must have been a motley looking crew. Williams my special
friend,
a real good-looking chap, prepared to make a date. We expected
relief from the 2nd Army on the Monday night - or Tuesday morning,
at the latest. Hence my mate's early moves.
This
beautiful little town came in for some of the bitterest fighting
of this
phase of the war. Oosterbeek would be about three miles from the
centre
of Arnhem; in fact one might say that Oosterbeek was a suburban
area
of Arnhem. A church standing just off the main road
proved to be an ideal sniper's nest. To try to pass it was only to
invite
sudden death. Pass it we must, so a group of us got together
and
started plastering it's windows and doors with everything we could
muster.
This did keep the enemy's heads down and a little later they
ceased
to exist.
Monday
night saw Williams and I trying to get the barrel out of our gun.
It
wouldn't budge. "Peggy", as I had named it, had fired
it's last shot.
This operation took place in a boat-house down by the river.
Jerry
had surrounded this particular area and without any more
ado was giving us hell. Orders were given for us to remain there
until
help was sent. Some of the lads decided to make a run for it;
they
left. Williams, a few others and myself having decided to wait,
all agreed
that we would not be taken prisoner. Therefore we marshalled the
civilians
- who incidentally had just fed us on some beautiful tender
meat
- into the cellar.
How
long Jerry pumped lead into our hut, I've no idea, but I do know
that had
he come any closer he would have received a warm reception. Just
as we
were contemplating a dash for liberty, a loud banging sounded
on the door. "It's Jerry !", was the whisper. Then to
our
utter relief a voice said, "Are you the gunners ?" This
Officer,
though badly wounded in the leg, had returned for us.Stealthily
we approached the jeep, piling our guns and ammunition into
it's
small but able structure. To a burst of further machine - gun fire
we
were off to rejoin the Battalion.
The
following days were nightmarish. Back and forth, up and down that
road,
until I knew every inch of the way. One of my trips toward the
bridge
was made after Williams had left me sleeping against a wall.
The
jeep and trailer which had pulled us out , moved off without me .
Imagine
how I felt on coming too.
It
was here that I ran into Tucker, the Mortar Platoon Sergeant. A
braver
man I've never met. Tucker and I went up the road with a couple
of revolvers between us. Not once, and the place was seething and
humming
with flying lead, did I see Tucker duck his head. He was a typical
Cockney and I don't think he knew the meaning of fear.
We
got parted on the following morning, I fell in with Williams and
company, to push ahead with the Gunners again.
Back
towards Oosterbeek. It was here that I was asked to take a gun in
and try to cover the bridge. Strapping the gun to the jeep, I
asked for volunteers to go with me. Dobrozyski
- at whose house I had been but a fortnight before and where I met
his charming wife and mother - was the first to step forward. I
groaned inwardly; I didn't want him. After all he was a married
man. However, he waved aside all my protests, so, joined by him as
my N0. 2, Sergeant Birmingham and Williams, we set off to have
another go at ousting the 'Ally Man'.
Before
I climbed into that jeep a strange, if somewhat uncanny, feeling
came over me. Even as I took the traversing handles of the Vickers
between my long fingers, I knew my uneasiness was not due to
fatigue or battle nerves. Had I been just scared, or even jumpy,
this would have disappeared on my gripping the gun.
With
a jerk that flung me on to the road, the driver pulled up.
"Over
there, lads ! Get your gun in quick".
I
moved forward through this garden, just above the river bank, yet
sufficiently high to give me a fairly good 'arc'. To my left lay
the bridge; immediately in front a small but prominent copse
dominated the landscape. My orders were, Strafe the wood, where
Jerry was massing for a final push. Sergeant Birmingham took the
Bren gun and took up a position to my left, whilst Dobrozyski and
I prepared the Vickers, No.3 crawled in behind. I remember
Williams rushing a gun into line a little to my right. What was
afoot I couldn't be sure. Whatever it was, judging by my sudden
company, our withdrawal wasn't imminent.
Fred
White, the platoon range-finder, had himself perched on a balcony
overlooking the whole field. My request for ranges was quickly
given, whereupon I opened up along the whole of the wood. My fire
must have proved unhealthy because the dull thud and whining rush
of shells and mortars began to change the aspect and beauty of our
little garden. How long they kept bursting amongst us I can't
recall. It seemed as if a thousand devils were raging in our
midst. Death reared it's ugly head on all sides of us. Infantry -
German SS - were trying to rush us.
"God,
this can't go on for ever !"
At
the same time, "Let the dirty bastards have it", I heard
myself shouting.
A
flash. That is the only way for me to describe it. Just before, I
think I remember Dobrozyski saying something about tanks. I
remember saying something about bloody tramcars - then stars. How
long I lay there I can't rightly say. My first recollections were
of trying to open my eyes and raise myself up.
Strange
how my hands feel. No pain, yet my hands feel as if they were far
away.
"O.K.,
Andy !", faintly penetrated my numbed brain, "O.K., old
son, you're just scratched".
"Where's
'Dob'. ? Where's 'Brum' ?"
"They're
both dead", the answer came.
Webmaster's
note !
Andy
was taken the following morning to St. Joseph's Hospital,
Apeldoorn, after having been hit once again, in the face, by a
burst from a machine gun bullet, resulting in the loss of an eye.
The German surgeons who subsequently operated on him, amputated
both his hands. Eventually, he was transferred to Stalag 11B, a
German POW camp at Fallingbostal in Western Germany and
eventually, after three months in captivity, he was repatriated.
On
February 25th, 1946, after having adjusted painfully, to using his
new artificial limbs, having convinced the mining authorities that
he was capable of following in his deceased father's footsteps and
working as a coalminer, he reported for a training course at
Ashington, about thirty miles from his hometown. After his initial
training, where he passed his final exam with flying colours,
despite his enormous handicap he finally reported for work as an
underground engine-driver at a local coalmine, the same mine where
his father had worked before him.
However,
although the spirit was willing, the physical effort demanded of
him, because of his handicap, proved too great and constantly
recurring back pain forced his early retirement from his chosen
field of endeavour.
After
many heartbreaking and fruitless efforts to find suitable
employment, including the consideration the offer of a coalmining
job in Australia, the result of articles, stressing his
misfortune, appearing in both UK and overseas newspapers, he
obtained a situation, to which he was admirably suited; that of a
Pensions Officer, working for the Ministry of Pensions, until his
eventual retirement. . The above account has been copied, almost
verbatim, from Andrew Milbourne's Autobiography, "Lease of
Life", published by Museum Press Limited, in 1947.
